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theonottsbxtch · 2 months ago

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MARNE LA VALLEE | MV1

an: so everybody look at @luvstappen and BLAME HER FOR THIS PAINFUL ANGST. kidding, this is something that will discuss some very sensitive topics and is based off a film i recently watched called vermiglio. please read the warnings before reading this. i had a lot of fun attempting to write this in the style of a cold film, i hope you guys like this as much as i loved writing it.

wc: 10k

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS: Mentions of war, death, suicide, murder, childloss? please tread with caution when reading.

THE WAR HAD MADE GHOSTS of men long before their bodies were laid to rest. Max knew this well. He had seen it in the trenches, in the hollowed eyes of soldiers who spoke in murmurs of home but carried death in their pockets. He had seen it in the streets of his own country, where hunger and fear clung to the air like fog. He had felt it in himself, that slow erosion of self, until he was no more than a name in a ledger, a rifle in trembling hands.

So he ran.

The border was not easy to cross, but desperation is its own kind of compass. He walked where roads would betray him, hid in barns where the straw was damp and the air thick with rot. He slept little, ate less. It was not death he feared, it was capture, the weight of another man’s orders pressing against his back, the certainty that the next bullet would be his own.

And then, the village.

It was small, forgotten, crouched in the hills of Le Grand Est called Marne La Vallee where the war was a distant, bitter echo. There were soldiers, but few. There was hardship, but it had not yet hollowed out the land. Smoke curled from chimneys. Bread still cooled on windowsills. It was a place that had learned to survive, not by fighting, but by waiting.

She found him first. Or perhaps he found her. A moment, a glance, a silent understanding. The village did not ask questions, nor did she.

It was enough. For now, it was enough.

Charles was the first to welcome him in.

It was not kindness, not entirely, there was a wariness in his gaze, a careful assessment in the way he looked Max over, as if measuring whether he could be trusted. But Charles knew war. He had fought in it, had carried it home in his bones, had felt it unravel him from the inside until they’d sent him back, useless to the cause. His hands still shook when he held a cup of tea too long. His knee still stiffened in the cold. He knew what war did to a man.

And so he let Max stay.

Arthur was different.

Arthur had wanted to fight. He had watched men go off to war with their heads held high, had watched them march into something greater than themselves, and he had burned with the need to stand among them. But he had been too young. Too young to enlist, too young to do his part. Instead, he had been left behind to mend fences and stack firewood, to listen to wireless reports and write letters to boys who would never write back.

Now, he looked at Max with something colder than contempt.

A deserter. A coward.

He did not say it outright, not in those first days, but Max could feel it in the way Arthur’s gaze lingered too long, in the way his jaw tightened when he entered a room. Charles would speak to Max with quiet acceptance, a nod towards a seat by the fire, a mumbled instruction on where to find work. But Arthur? Arthur would let the silence stretch, would make a show of stacking wood in the yard with twice the force necessary, would scoff under his breath whenever Max turned away.

Still, the village did not send him off.

There was work to be done, and Max had hands enough to do it. He fixed shutters that had been rattled loose by winter winds, patched roofs before the rains came, carried sacks of flour to and from the mill without complaint. The old men who sat outside the bakery in the morning watched him with quiet curiosity; the women at the well spoke in hushed voices, glancing his way, assessing.

He knew what they saw. A foreigner, a man without a country, a man who had walked away from a war that had not yet walked away from him.

But she did not look at him like that.

She did not ask him why he had left, nor what he had left behind. She did not probe at the wounds he had carefully bound. Instead, she let him exist in the quiet spaces between things. When he passed her in the fields, she would smile. When she brought water to the men working, she would set a cup down beside him without a word. And when, one evening, Charles invited him to sit at their table, she did not flinch, did not look away, did not question why a man like him should be given a place among them.

Arthur, however, did.

"You’ve seen no trenches," Arthur said that night, the words slipping from his mouth like something bitter. "You’ve never fired a shot."

Charles exhaled sharply, setting his knife down. "That’s enough."

But Arthur did not stop. He leaned forward, fingers curled around the edge of the table, eyes burning. "Did you even try?"

Max did not answer.

He had learned, long ago, that there were no right words. No defence he could give that would not be spat back at him. He had tried once, had spoken of the men he had seen with their bodies torn apart, of the cold, of the hunger, of the way the fear had made his hands useless on the rifle. He had spoken of the moment he had realised he could not do it, could not march to a death that was not his own, could not fight for a cause that felt as distant as the stars.

And yet, to men like Arthur, there was no excuse.

Cowardice had no poetry to it.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then Charles reached for his glass, took a slow sip, and spoke without looking up.

"You don’t know what war is, Arthur. You think you do. But you don’t."

Arthur’s throat worked, his knuckles white against the wood. He pushed back from the table without another word, chair scraping against the floor, and left the room.

Max did not move.

She did not look at him with pity. She did not look at him with judgment.

She simply passed him the bread.

The days folded into one another, each passing like the slow turn of a page. Max worked where hands were needed, mending, lifting, carrying. He moved through the village as a man untethered, neither fully belonging nor entirely cast out. Charles treated him as one of their own, offering him work where he could, speaking to him in the steady, measured tones of a man who had seen too much to care for past grievances. Arthur remained distant, his contempt quiet but unwavering.

And she watched.

It was not a watchfulness of suspicion, nor one of curiosity. It was something quieter, something that did not press or pry. She passed him in the fields, nodded to him when he carried grain from the mill, handed him bread and water without ceremony. They spoke little at first. But when they did, it was in French, hers slow and careful, his rough and uneven.

"Tu n’es pas d’ici," she remarked once, not as a question but as a truth. You’re not from here.

"Non."

She did not ask where home was. Perhaps she knew better than to ask a man who no longer had one.

It was Charles who first noticed. "You speak it well," he said one evening, as they worked side by side repairing a fence post. "Better than most who pass through."

Max nodded. "I learnt young."

"And yet, you don’t write it."

The words were said simply, without malice, but Max still felt them land like something sharp-edged.

The realisation had come quietly, as all things did in small villages where news travelled fast. The baker’s wife had frowned when he hesitated over the chalkboard list of rations. The old priest had watched him too long when he signed his name with careful, deliberate strokes, each letter slow, uncertain. And Charles, observant as ever, had noticed the way Max never reached for a newspaper, the way he did not write down numbers when counting grain, the way his silence stretched a little too long whenever someone pointed to a letter, expecting recognition.

She had noticed too.

It was her father’s school that took in men like him. Grown men who had spent their lives in fields instead of classrooms, who had worked with their hands instead of books. The village saw no shame in it. After all, the war had stolen more than lives; it had stolen time, stolen youth, stolen the years where learning had been a luxury few could afford.

Still, when Charles first suggested it, Max hesitated.

It was one thing to be a deserter. It was another to be a fool.

"Come if you want," Charles said with a shrug. "Don’t if you don’t."

It was a choice left in the air between them, one Max let sit for days.

Then, one evening, he found himself at the threshold of the school, hands curling into fists at his sides. The room was dimly lit, warm despite the chill outside, the low murmur of voices filling the space. Other men sat hunched over desks, brows furrowed, chalk dust settling over rough hands. And at the front of the room stood her father, spectacles perched at the end of his nose, patience carved into his very stance.

She was there too, stacking books at the back of the room, moving with the quiet ease of someone who belonged in such a place. She glanced up when she saw him, and something unreadable flickered in her gaze. But she did not question why he was there.

She only nodded.

And so he stayed.

The lessons were slow. The letters did not come easily to him, twisting and blurring on the page, refusing to settle into meaning. But she was there in the evenings, sitting near enough that he could hear the scratch of her pen against paper, the murmur of her voice as she recited passages under her breath. When he struggled, her father guided him with quiet patience, tracing letters with a steady hand, never once letting frustration slip into his tone.

One evening, as the others filed out, Max remained behind, frowning at a page of words that refused to yield. She approached, glancing at the paper.

"C’est difficile?" You find it difficult?

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Toujours." Always

A pause. Then, she reached for his chalk, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. She wrote a word slowly, deliberately.

"Espoir."

Hope.

She tapped the page lightly. "C’est un bon mot à apprendre." It’s a good word to learn.

He looked at her then, and something settled between them, not a shift, not yet, but the quiet understanding of two people who did not need words to fill the space between them.

The days stretched into weeks, and still, Max stayed.

Autumn thickened into winter, the air sharp with frost, the village settling into the quiet rhythm of survival. Wood was stacked high against the cold. Bread was made in careful measure. And at night, in the dim light of the schoolhouse, Max traced letters onto paper, his fingers stiff and unsteady, his breath curling in the chill of the room.

She was there more often now.

She did not hover, nor offer help unasked, but he felt her presence like something steady, something sure. Sometimes, when the lesson was done and the others had gone, she would remain behind, tidying books, straightening chairs. And sometimes, when neither of them spoke, it did not feel like silence at all.

It was on one such evening, when the lamps burned low and the snow had begun to fall in slow, drifting flakes, that he found her beside him at the desk, her sleeves pushed to her elbows, ink staining her fingertips.

"You’re improving," she said, glancing at the words he had written.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Not fast enough."

She picked up the chalk, tapping it against the wood. "Then don’t rush."

There was something about the way she said it. Steady. Certain. As though she knew him well enough to understand that patience did not come easily to him.

He did not answer. Instead, he let his gaze linger on her hands, on the curve of her wrist, the delicate smudge of graphite along her knuckles. She noticed, of course. She always noticed. But she did not look away.

The space between them had narrowed, almost imperceptibly.

She was close enough that he could see the flecks of ink on her skin, the way her breath caught, just slightly, when he lifted his gaze to hers. He had seen war, had seen death, had seen the way the world could collapse in a moment. But this, this was something different.

A risk of another kind.

He moved first. Or perhaps she did. A breath. A shift. A closing of space. And then, before thought could intervene, before hesitation could creep in, he pressed his lips to hers.

It was not urgent. Not desperate. It was slow, deliberate, as though neither of them quite believed they had reached this moment. Her fingers curled, just slightly, against the desk. His hand found the edge of the chair, steadying himself against the sudden, impossible certainty of her.

And when they pulled apart, there was no rush to speak. No need to fill the quiet.

She only touched her fingers lightly to his, her thumb brushing over the calloused ridge of his knuckle, and in that touch, he understood.

They were married in the spring.

It was a small ceremony, the kind that did not require grand declarations or elaborate arrangements. The village gathered in quiet understanding, some watching with knowing smiles, others with wary curiosity. Charles clapped Max on the back with a gruff nod, his approval unspoken but present all the same. Arthur stood stiffly at the back, arms folded, eyes dark with something Max could not quite place, but he did not object. Not aloud.

When she took his hands in hers, when vows were spoken in soft, steady voices, Max did not think of the past, nor of the war that had shaped him.

He thought only of her.

The days moved forward, indifferent to the weight of war.

Max worked as he always had, his hands shaping the world into something steady. Fixing shutters that rattled in the wind, mending the fences that winter had broken, stacking wood for the months ahead. The village still stood in the shadow of the war, but here, in the quiet rhythm of daily life, there was something that felt like peace.

She was at the heart of it.

Their marriage was not one of grand gestures or endless declarations. It was built in small moments—the brush of her hand against his as she passed him a bowl at supper, the way her head rested against his shoulder when sleep found her, the unspoken understanding that tethered them together. It was not a love that demanded to be seen. It was a love that simply was.

And now, it was growing.

She told him on a morning where the birds chirped in the trees beside the house, her hands curled around a cup of tea, the warmth chasing away the cold. She did not say the words at first, only reached for his hand and placed it gently over the curve of her stomach, a touch so light it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.

But he understood.

The breath left him all at once. He had not expected it—not now, not yet—but the weight of it settled in his chest, something fragile and terrifying and impossibly real.

He had not known what it was to belong somewhere, not truly. But here, in this quiet moment, with her beneath his hands and their child growing between them, he thought perhaps he did.

The war lingered still.

Men returned home in pieces. Some missing limbs, others missing something far worse. News came in whispers, names passed from mouth to mouth, a tally of those who would not be coming back. But in the village, life carried on. It had to. The cows still needed milking, the fields still needed tending. The earth did not stop for grief.

Max continued his lessons in the evenings. He was improving now, the letters less foreign beneath his fingers, the words coming with greater ease. When he wrote, she watched, sometimes offering corrections, sometimes only smiling to herself, as if pleased by the quiet determination that kept him at his desk.

Her father still oversaw the lessons, but now he looked at Max differently. Less like an outsider, more like something known. And yet, there was something else beneath it.

Something Max did not understand.

Not until he heard the conversation.

It was late, the schoolhouse quiet but for the faint rustling of papers. Max had stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air, when he heard them—her father and Charles, their voices low, serious.

"He should go back," her father was saying.

Max stilled.

"You think he would leave her now?" Charles’s voice was wary.

"He must," her father said. "His mother will believe him dead. He has a duty to her, if nothing else." A pause. "And perhaps, then he can come back to her."

Max did not move.

"Do you think he would?" Charles asked.

Her father sighed. "I don’t know."

The words settled, heavy and uncertain.

And then, before Max could think to step back, the door opened behind him.

She stood there, her breath caught in her throat, one hand resting against the curve of her stomach, her expression unreadable.

She had heard.

The war was ending.

And now, for the first time, the question hung between them. When it was over, would he leave?

The day he left, the air was thick with the weight of something unspoken.

Summer had begun to break through the last of spring’s cold hold, the frost fully retreating from the fields, the earth softening beneath cautious footsteps. Life stirred in the village—buds on trees, the hum of bees, the slow return of warmth. And yet, for her, the world felt caught between seasons, hovering in the space between what was and what would be.

Max was leaving.

Not forever. Not truly.

She knew this.

And yet, as she stood at the threshold of her home, watching him pull his coat tighter against the morning chill, she felt the ache of it settle deep in her bones.

"I will write to you," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "A long letter. Every word I can give you. They will be my words."

She nodded, her hands resting against the curve of her stomach, their child shifting beneath her fingers. "I will hold you to that."

Max exhaled, a small, unsteady breath, before reaching for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, rough and calloused, warm even in the cold. He had never been a man of many words, but she did not need them.

She had always understood him.

Charles stood by the cart, his expression unreadable. He had insisted on going with Max, though no one had asked it of him. It was his way, she supposed, a quiet kind of loyalty, the kind that did not need to be spoken aloud.

Arthur had said nothing. He had only stood at the doorway that morning, watching, arms crossed tightly over his chest. And then, without a word, he had turned away.

She did not go to the station.

She could not bear to watch the train take him from her.

Instead, she stood in the doorway of their home, the house still smelling of woodsmoke and morning bread, and watched as he climbed into the cart beside Charles.

Max turned back only once.

Their eyes met across the distance, something unbreakable passing between them.

And then, he was gone.

Two weeks passed, and the silence began to weigh on her like the heavy stillness before a storm.

At first, she had told herself it was only natural. The letters would come when they could, after all. Max was in Belgium now, a place torn by war and time, and perhaps the roads were not as kind as they once had been. Or perhaps he simply needed time to gather his thoughts, to find the right words. She had told herself this again and again, but with each passing day, the empty space between the world she had built and the world he now occupied seemed to grow.

She had not heard from him.

Not even once.

The doubt began to settle in her bones, thin and insidious, like a quiet chill that grew colder the longer it was ignored. She tried to shake it off, to tell herself there was nothing to fear, but every morning, when she stepped out into the quiet of her home, there was only the faint echo of absence, the ache of his absence in every corner. The house had once felt full of him, full of the promise of their future, but now it felt still, as if waiting for a sound that would not come.

And still, no letter.

It was late afternoon when her little cousin, Madeleine, arrived. She always had a way of filling up a room, her chatter endless and her laughter a steady hum of cheerfulness that cut through even the darkest of moods. Today, though, there was something else in her eyes. A glint of excitement, perhaps, or the way her footsteps seemed to bounce off the earth with a new energy.

"Don’t you look miserable?" Madeleine teased as she pushed the door open, all wide eyes and bright smiles.

She gave a small, strained smile in return. "I’m not miserable."

Madeleine raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking over the half-empty room, the quiet that hung in the air like a thick veil. She knew. Madeleine always knew when something was wrong, even when she pretended not to. "You’re missing him, aren’t you?"

Her cousin had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, and she didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

"I haven’t heard from him," she confessed, her voice tight, though she did not allow herself to dwell on it. "It’s been two weeks."

Madeleine frowned, then instantly brightened. "He’ll write soon enough, I’m sure of it." She tossed her bag onto the table and gave a determined little nod. "And even if he doesn’t, you’ve got me to keep you company."

The words were meant to comfort, but her cousin’s cheerful voice only highlighted the hollow ache she was trying to ignore. Still, she appreciated it.

Madeleine grabbed a chair and swung it around to face her. "So, tell me. Have you decided what to name the baby yet?"

The mention of the baby made her pause. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a quiet reminder that there was something to look forward to, something that would grow despite the world’s many uncertainties.

"I don’t know," she said after a pause. "I’ve been thinking about it, but... I don’t know."

Madeleine looked at her with wide, eager eyes. "Well, I think you should name it something strong. A name like... Jacques, or Henri."

"Henri," she repeated softly, turning the name over in her mind. "Yes. That’s a strong name."

Madeleine’s eyes lit up. "Henri! Yes! And for a girl..." She looked up at the ceiling as if searching for the perfect answer. "Marie. It’s a classic, isn’t it? Marie Henriette."

She couldn’t help but laugh at her cousin’s enthusiasm. "Marie Henriette, you say?"

Madeleine grinned. "Yes. Very elegant."

Her laughter softened, but the edges of her worry still lingered. She had not expected to feel the absence of Max so acutely, not in the way she did now. She had thought, foolishly, that time and distance would not matter. But it did. It mattered more than she had ever known.

"You’ll get your letter," Madeleine added, sensing the shift in her mood. "And when you do, you can tell me all about the baby names. I’ll be here to help pick, of course."

Her cousin’s light-hearted chatter, so simple and full of life, was a balm she hadn’t known she needed. And for a brief moment, it felt like everything was okay again—like they could sit there, in the warmth of her home, and dream of names and futures and things that were still far from certain.

But just as the afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows through the house, the door opened again.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his gaze flicking to the two of them, his expression unreadable. She hadn’t seen much of him in recent days. He’d kept his distance, ever since Max had left, as though he had quietly decided that his presence no longer mattered in their little world.

He had always been like that, closed off, his thoughts hidden behind that wall he never let anyone cross. But today, something felt different. There was a quiet tension in the air, a shift that she couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t speak right away, instead giving a curt nod to Madeleine, who was still sitting across from her with her bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Have you heard from him?" Arthur asked, his voice soft but heavy with something—concern? Or was it guilt?

She shook her head, the ache returning with the question. "No. Not yet."

Arthur paused, his eyes flicking to her stomach, then back to her face. "He’ll write. If he knows what’s good for him." The words were blunt, but they didn’t carry the usual edge of bitterness.

Madeleine, sensing something unspoken between them, stood up, stretching dramatically. "Well, I’m off, then. Don’t sit in the dark and pull faces, the minute the wind passes you’ll hate that your faces stay stuck like that!" She gave them both a quick, knowing smile before grabbing her bag again. "Remember, Marie Henriette."

And with that, she was gone, leaving behind only the soft sound of the door closing and the heavy silence that followed.

Arthur lingered, still standing near the threshold, his gaze turned toward the floor. Then, quietly, almost as if the words hurt him too, he spoke again.

"You’ll hear from him soon."

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. The silence was a bitter thing now, one that seemed to stretch longer with every passing day. But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she simply let the quiet sit, holding onto the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t the absence of letters that hurt most—, but the absence of the man who had promised to write them.

A week passed, and the silence was suffocating.

She had told herself it would be different, that he would write, that he would return soon, that everything would fall back into place. But the days bled into one another, each one heavy with the unanswered questions that hung in the air. Her thoughts, once clear, had turned into a constant murmur, a nagging hum at the back of her mind that she could not escape.

Still, she waited. Still, she hoped.

But as the days wore on, the silence between them seemed to grow louder, more oppressive. It was now nearly a week since Madeleine’s visit, and still no word.

She had tried to keep busy, to do the things she knew she needed to do, to care for the house, to tend to the garden, to keep the world turning despite the weight in her chest. But every moment without a letter from Max felt like an eternity, and every hour without him felt like a piece of herself slowly slipping away.

It was late in the afternoon when she heard it.The distant sound of hooves against the dirt road.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the wind, a memory of sounds past. But then it came again, unmistakable, the rattle of a chariot’s wheels, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves, a sound she knew well.

Her heart leapt in her chest.

Max.

It had to be Max. She knew it. He was coming back to her.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she ran downstairs. Her breath quickened with the anticipation, her pulse racing in her throat. She was halfway to the door when she saw him—or, at least, she thought she did.

But when the door swung open, her eyes met Charles’s somber face instead.

Her heart dropped.

Charles.

He stood in the doorway, his expression grim, his coat heavy with the weight of the journey. He didn’t smile, didn’t even look at her the way he usually did, with that familiar, steady warmth.

Behind her, Arthur appeared, his face unreadable, his movements stiff. He had heard the chariot, too, had followed her down the stairs with the same hope. But when he saw the look on Charles’s face, he fell silent, his shoulders tight.

Charles stepped inside, his eyes meeting hers briefly, before he looked away. He didn’t say a word at first, but in his hand, he held a single item. A newspaper, folded in half.

She reached for it, her hands trembling as she took it from him.

Her eyes flicked to the front page, and for a moment, her mind couldn’t quite process the words that stared back at her. The letters blurred, and the ink seemed to swim before her. But there they were, the headlines clear and cold: Max Verstappen, Dead at 28—Killed by His Wife in a Tragic Act of Honour.

She blinked, her breath catching in her throat.

The article went on to describe the unthinkable. How Max had returned to Belgium after having deserted his post in the war, how he had started a new life in the Grand Est of France, had taken a wife, and had gotten her pregnant. And then, the piece de resistance—the final, damning words.

His first wife had found out. In a fit of rage, in a jealous fury, she had killed him. A matter of dishonour, they wrote, a wife who could not tolerate the shame of her husband’s new life, of his betrayal.

She read it again.

And again.

But the words didn’t change. They were the same.

Max was dead.

The life they had built together, the love they had shared, it was gone. The future they had planned for. It had never existed at all.

And then it hit her. The reality of it. The finality of it.

She screamed.

A raw, guttural cry of pain that tore through her chest like a knife. The paper slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor as she sank to her knees, her body trembling with the force of the scream that had escaped her lips.

Charles moved quickly, kneeling beside her, his arms wrapping around her. His strong hands held her tight, steadying her against the overwhelming storm of grief that had overtaken her.

And then, as if the world had stopped, Arthur was there too.

His arms around her, just as Charles’s had been.

The two men, so different in many ways, but here they were, their presence a quiet support, their strength a solace. But still, no words came. There was nothing to say.

She cried.

She cried for the man she had loved. For the man she had lost. For the future they would never share. For the baby that would never know his father.

She cried for the unfairness of it all. For the way the world had turned so cruel, so unforgiving.

And in that moment, she wasn’t sure if the tears would ever stop, or if she wanted them to. She didn’t know if she could bear this loss, this betrayal of the life she had dreamed of.

But Arthur’s arms tightened around her, and Charles’s hand pressed against her back, and she let herself sink into them, into the grief, into the feeling of being held by something that wasn’t quite enough to mend what had been broken.

She would never be the same again.

Time passed, but she did not follow it.

Days bled into nights, seasons shifted, but she remained unmoved, caught in the static of grief. The world outside carried on as though nothing had changed, but inside her, everything had unravelled.

She did not cry anymore. There was no use in it. Tears did nothing, solved nothing, brought no one back. And so, she stopped speaking, too.

Words were hollow things, useless things. They sat heavy in her throat, unwelcome. She let them wither away, let silence take their place. It was easier this way.

She left the house not long after that day. Left behind the ghosts of what once was, the warmth of home now foreign to her. Charles had tried to stop her, had begged her to stay, but she had only looked at him—empty, silent—and he had understood. Or maybe he hadn't, but he let her go anyway.

She moved into the school.

It was cold there, unfeeling. The walls held no memories of Max, no scent of him in the blankets, no echo of his voice in the halls. That was what she needed.

She did not sleep in a bed. She made a place for herself beneath the desks, curled beneath the wood like a child hiding from the world. Some nights, she sat upright against the bookshelves, staring at nothing until her body gave in to exhaustion.

She barely ate.

Food had no taste, no purpose. Her father left things for her. Bread, soup, fruit. But they would sit untouched for days until mould took them, and only then would she move them aside. Hunger gnawed at her, but she welcomed it. Let it consume her from the inside out.

She wandered through each day in a haze, drifting like a ghost through empty corridors. The sound of children’s laughter filtered in from the classrooms, but it never reached her. She did not teach, did not speak, did not live.

And she avoided Arthur.

She could not look at him.

There was something in his eyes, something that had been there from the start. A knowing. An unspoken I told you so that he never voiced but that sat between them like an unbearable weight.

Arthur had known. Somehow, he had always known.

And she hated him for it.

She hated that he had seen what she had not. Hated that he had been right. Hated that, in some way, he had been waiting for this, for Max to fail her. And now he was watching her crumble beneath the truth of it.

She was afraid of him, of what he saw when he looked at her now, nothing but a woman broken by her own blindness, by a love that had never been real.

She did not know how long she had been like this. Time was nothing now.

But one night, as the rain pounded against the school’s windows and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls, there was a sound at the door.

A soft knock.

She did not move.

Then another. Firmer.

Still, she did not answer.

And then the door opened.

She knew it was him before she saw him.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his coat dripping from the rain, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He did not speak right away. He only stood there, staring at her, taking in the wreckage she had become.

She sat curled beneath one of the desks, her knees drawn to her chest, her hair tangled, her skin pale and hollow.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

And then, finally, Arthur exhaled, a slow, measured breath.

“This isn’t living,” he said.

She flinched. The words were soft, but they landed like a blow.

Still, she said nothing.

Arthur took a slow step forward, then another, until he was standing just before her. He crouched down, levelling his gaze with hers.

"You think this is what he would’ve wanted?"

She clenched her jaw, her throat burning.

He sighed, shaking his head. "No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear into yourself. You don’t get to do this to your child. You are still here. And you—" He stopped himself, his jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides. "You are not alone, no matter how much you wish to be."

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders curling inward. She wished he would leave. She wished he would stop looking at her like that—like he still saw her, even when she was nothing but fragments of who she once was.

When she did not answer, Arthur’s voice dropped, quieter this time.

"Come home."

Home.

The word felt foreign, like something from another life.

She looked away, her eyes burning, her body trembling with exhaustion, with hunger, with grief.

Arthur did not move. He only waited.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than numbness.

It was not hope. Not yet.

But it was something.

Arthur did not leave.

The first night, she had ignored him. She had curled beneath the desk as she always did, her back to him, willing herself to disappear into the silence. But he had not moved.

She had thought, perhaps, that he would go home, that the rain and the cold and the weight of her grief would drive him away. But when she awoke in the grey hush of dawn, stiff and aching, he was still there, sat against the door, arms crossed, head tilted back, eyes closed but alert beneath his furrowed brow.

The second night, she had tried to tell him to go.

She had managed only a whisper "pars" but her voice was thin, barely there, swallowed up by the emptiness of the school.

Arthur had only looked at her.

"Nan," he had said simply.

And that was that.

Days passed in a slow, painful blur. He did not speak much. He did not force her to eat, though he left bread and water where she could reach them. He did not drag her home, though he could have. He only stayed, a quiet presence in the corner, as though he had decided that if she was going to waste away, he would not let her do it alone.

And then—

The pain came like fire.

It was deep and sudden, tearing through her as she lay curled on the wooden floor. At first, she thought it was nothing, another wave of exhaustion, another punishment from a body she had long neglected.

But then it came again. And again.

Stronger. Closer.

She gasped, her hands gripping the floorboards. A fresh wave of pain seized her, and a sharp cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Arthur stirred.

She did not see him move, but suddenly he was beside her, crouching at her side, his hands hovering over her as though he was afraid to touch her.

"What is it?" His voice was sharper now, edged with something unfamiliar, something like fear.

She could not answer.

The pain stole her breath, locked her inside her own body. And then it dawned on her, with a slow, creeping horror—

It was time.

She wasn’t ready.

"No," she whispered, her breath hitching. "Not yet."

Arthur swore under his breath. Then he was up, grabbing his coat, already halfway to the door.

"Stay awake," he ordered, his voice clipped, urgent. "I’ll be back."

And then he was gone.

The minutes that followed stretched into something unbearable. She curled in on herself, sweat slick on her skin, pain rolling over her in relentless waves. The schoolhouse blurred, the candlelight flickering, the world tilting.

Then the door burst open again, and there were hands on her, familiar, steady hands, voices murmuring, lifting her, guiding her through the storm of it.

Her father’s house was warm. Too warm. She had not been inside it for so long that it felt foreign to her now, the walls too close, the air thick with the smell of lavender and candlewax.

Then her mother. Her aunt. Hands pressing against her clammy skin, gentle voices cooing words she could not hear.

She barely saw Arthur, but she knew he was there. A shadow in the doorway, pacing.

Time twisted.

Pain consumed everything.

She heard them tell her to push.

"Non."

She clenched her teeth, shook her head.

"You have to, ma fille." Her mother’s voice was gentle, pleading.

"No."

She could not.

If she did, it would be real.

If she did, Max would still be gone.

If she did, nothing would change.

Hands gripped hers. Soft, warm, trembling.

Charles.

She hadn’t even realised he was there, hadn’t noticed him come to her side.

"I know," he murmured. "I know it hurts. But you have to."

Her breath shuddered. Her body trembled.

And then, with the last of her strength, she did.

A cry pierced the room.

Small, desperate, new.

And just like that, it was over.

She fell back, her body drained, her mind floating somewhere beyond reach.

She did not want to look.

She did not want to see.

But then there was a weight against her chest, a warmth, a softness.

And she saw her.

Blonde curls, wet with birth. A small, perfect nose. Eyes squeezed shut opening briefly to show crystal blue eyes, lips parted in a wail of protest.

She could barely breathe.

Max.

The child was Max.

His mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, his shape.

Something inside her cracked.

She turned her head away.

Someone took the baby from her, and she did not stop them.

She did not want to see.

She did not want to feel.

She closed her eyes.

And let the world fade to black.

Time passed.

The world carried on, but she remained untouched by it. Days slipped into nights, and the child, her child, grew.

But not by her hands.

She kept away from the girl.

Her mother took care of her, cooing to her in hushed lullabies, stroking the blonde curls that were not hers. Arthur, too, had taken to the child in his quiet, steady way. She caught glimpses of him sometimes, holding the girl with a carefulness she had never seen from him before, as if she were something fragile, something precious.

She did not ask what they had named her.

She did not want to know.

The days were dull, empty things. She drifted through them like a ghost, neither living nor dead, lost in the spaces between.

And then one evening, the weight of it all became too much.

The house was suffocating. The candlelight too warm, the sounds of laughter, not hers, too distant, too cruel. She could not bear to be inside those walls any longer, where Max’s absence clung to every corner, where his daughter existed in a world he would never see.

So she walked.

She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to move, to be away, to escape the skin that felt too tight around her bones.

It was cold outside. The wind gnawed at her as she walked through the empty streets, as her feet carried her further than they ever had before.

And then she saw it.

The bridge.

She stopped at the edge, looking out over the water below.

It was dark, the river black and endless beneath her. The wind howled through the trees, rattling the wooden beams of the bridge, but she did not feel it. She did not feel anything at all.

She stepped forward.

Sat down on the ledge.

Her feet dangled over the edge, the fabric of her dress fluttering in the wind.

She thought, briefly, of how easy it would be.

How quiet.

How peaceful.

A step. A fall. And then—nothing.

She closed her eyes.

Breathed.

And then—

Arms wrapped around her from behind.

Strong, desperate, shaking.

A gasp broke the silence, a choked, ragged sound, and then a voice—low, broken, breathless.

"Nan."

Arthur.

His grip was iron. He pulled her back, dragged her from the edge, his hands clutching at her like she might slip away, like if he just held tight enough, he could stop the world from taking her.

He turned her to him, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath uneven, his body trembling.

And then, something she had never seen before.

Arthur cried.

He let out a sob, raw and shuddering, and held onto her as if she were the last thing tethering him to the earth.

"Please," he whispered, his voice thick with grief. "Please don’t."

She did not move.

She did not cry.

She only sat there, numb, hollow, weightless in his arms.

And as the wind howled around them, as Arthur clung to her with everything he had, she wondered—

Why did he care so much when she felt like nothing at all?

Arthur did not let go of her that night.

Even as she sat there, silent in his arms, distant and detached, he held her as though she might slip away again if he loosened his grip. His breath was unsteady against her hair, his fingers tight around her wrists.

And then, without a word, he pulled her up.

He carried her home through the dark streets, his arms steady, his jaw clenched. She did not protest. She did not have the strength.

When they reached the house, he did not hand her off to her mother, nor did he let her retreat into the shadows where she had been dwelling for so long. He led her up the stairs himself, into her room, and sat her down on the edge of the bed.

She felt the mattress dip beneath her weight, but she did not move.

Arthur knelt before her, unfastened her shoes with careful hands, and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders. She let him.

Then, he pulled up a chair, placed it in the corner of the room, and sat.

Watching.

Waiting.

He did not speak.

She turned onto her side, curling into herself, staring blankly at the wall. The room was heavy with the sound of his breathing, slow and deliberate, as if he were grounding himself with it.

Sleep did not come easily. But eventually, the exhaustion took her, dragging her into the depths of a dreamless slumber.

When she woke, the sun was already high in the sky.

Arthur was still there.

He had not moved from his chair, though his eyes were no longer fixed on her. Instead, he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with an unreadable expression.

She did not speak.

He did.

"Lève-toi." Get up.

His voice was quiet but firm.

She blinked, sluggish with sleep, confusion flickering across her hollow features.

He stood, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs, and turned to face her.

"On part." We’re leaving.

Her brows knitted slightly.

She hadn’t left the house in days—properly left.

But Arthur wasn’t looking for a fight. He didn’t offer explanations, nor did he wait for her to question him. He left the room, and she was left with little choice but to follow.

She dressed slowly, without urgency, and when she finally made her way downstairs, he was already waiting by the door.

The journey was quiet.

Arthur did not tell her where they were going, and she did not ask. The train ride stretched on for hours, the countryside rolling past in a blur of greens and greys.

She watched the window, detached, her hands resting in her lap.

Arthur did not look at her. He sat beside her, arms crossed, gaze set ahead, his body still as stone.

It wasn’t until the train began to slow that she finally saw it.

A sign.

Hasselt.

Her breath hitched.

She froze.

Her pulse hammered in her throat, a cold, sharp dread settling in her stomach.

She turned to Arthur then, her first real movement in hours, her lips parting—

But he did not give her the chance to speak.

He took her by the wrist, guiding her off the train with steady, unyielding hands.

Outside, the air was cool, crisp with the lingering bite of winter. Arthur wasted no time in finding a caddy, speaking to the driver in low, firm tones before helping her in.

She did not protest.

She barely breathed.

The carriage ride was long.

The silence sat thick between them.

And then—

The caddy stopped.

She knew before she even looked where they were.

Graveyard gates loomed before them, iron and ivy-clad, weathered by time. Beyond them, rows of headstones stretched into the distance, names carved into stone, lives reduced to mere dates.

Her stomach twisted.

Arthur stepped out first.

He turned to her, his gaze unreadable.

"Vas-y," he said. Go in

She did not move.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but his voice softened.

"C’est le moment.” It is time

She swallowed hard.

Her hands curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms.

The weight of his words settled over her like a stone.

It is time.

To face what she had spent so long running from.

To look upon the grave of the man who had lied to her.

To stand before the earth that had swallowed him whole.

Her breath trembled.

She stepped forward.

And walked through the gates.

The grave was unremarkable.

A simple stone, weathered by wind and time, standing among countless others. His name was carved into it, the letters etched deep, final, unchanging.

Her breath shuddered.

She had not cried since that day. Since the newspaper. Since Charles caught her before she could collapse under the weight of it all.

But now, here, standing before the cold earth where he lay, something inside her cracked.

Tears welled in her eyes, thick and hot, blurring the words on the stone.

"Max."

It was the first time she had spoken his name in months.

She fell to her knees.

The grief struck her like a storm. Wild, relentless. Sobs tore from her chest, raw and unrestrained, pouring out all that had been festering inside her for so long.

She clutched at the dirt, her nails digging into the damp earth as if she could pull him back from it, as if she could unbury what had already been lost.

He was gone.

He had always been gone.

Yet now, for the first time, she felt it.

The weight of it. The finality of it.

And it shattered her.

She did not hear the footsteps at first.

Not until they stopped just behind her.

Slowly, she turned her head.

A woman stood there, watching her with sombre eyes.

She was not much older than her, perhaps the same age. Dark dress, fair hair tucked neatly beneath a scarf. There was something exhausted in the way she held herself, something heavy in her presence.

But it was not her that caught her breath.

It was the child at her side.

Small. Fragile. Barely past toddler years.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Eyes that she knew.

A sickening realisation twisted in her gut.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked from the child to the woman, her mind reeling, piecing together a truth she had not been prepared to face.

The woman’s lips parted.

"Je suis désolée." I’m sorry.

The accent was off. The words clumsy, unnatural.

She had not spoken French for long.

Her throat tightened.

"Why," she croaked, her voice hoarse from crying, "would you be sorry? He left you to fend for yourself and I took him from you."

The woman exhaled sharply, something bitter in the sound.

"Your only crime," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "was falling in love with a man who was not honest with you."

The words struck like a blade, but there was no malice in them.

Only truth.

She should have hated her.

Should have despised the woman who had killed the man she had loved.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew—she knew.

She had seen the truth in that newspaper.

Max had not been the man she thought he was.

He had belonged to someone else.

Her hands trembled as she wiped her damp cheeks, her breath still uneven, but her words came steady.

The air between them grew still.

The woman looked at her for a long moment, as if searching her face for something she could not name.

Then, silently, she reached into her coat.

Pulled out a stack of letters.

She held them out.

"Il t’a écrit." He wrote to you.

She stared at the bundle, her chest tightening. The pages were worn, the edges curled and soft with use.

"On his journey back to Hasselt." The woman’s voice wavered slightly, as though she were speaking of something that still pained her. "He never wrote to me."

Her fingers closed around the letters hesitantly, as if they might disappear the moment she touched them.

"He couldn’t even spell his family name when he left," the woman murmured, something almost wry in her voice.

She swallowed thickly.

Of course.

He could not write.

She had spent months teaching him, watching him fumble with letters, struggle to form words.

"I suppose," the woman said, a quiet sigh in her voice, "he truly loved you."

Her breath shuddered.

She did not know what to say.

Did not know how to respond to a truth that should have comforted her, yet only made the loss feel sharper.

So she did not speak at all.

She only clutched the letters to her chest—

And let the weight of them settle into her bones.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

The wind moved through the graveyard, rustling the brittle grass and carrying with it the distant toll of a church bell.

She clutched the letters tightly, as if they were the last pieces of him she would ever hold, but her gaze had fallen to the child standing beside the woman.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Max’s face, staring back at her with quiet curiosity.

She swallowed, her throat raw.

"Comment tu t’appelles?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The boy blinked at her, tilting his head slightly. His lips parted, his voice small, yet eerily familiar—

"Emilian."

The breath left her lungs.

It wasn’t just his eyes, his hair—it was his voice too. The same soft lilt, the same gentle way Max had once spoken to her in the quiet of the night.

She felt the weight of it press against her ribs, tightening around her heart.

The woman exhaled, a sound almost bitter, almost tired.

"For a while," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the child, "I couldn’t look at Emilian without seeing Max."

Her fingers curled slightly.

"I hated him." A pause. "Myself. Everything."

The words landed like a blow.

Her breath caught.

Her mind spun, twisting, unravelling, until the truth struck her with brutal clarity—

It was exactly what she had been doing.

To her daughter.

To the child with his eyes.

She had kept away, had let others raise her, because every time she looked at her, it was not just her daughter she saw.

It was him.

And she had hated her for it.

Her stomach twisted, her grip on the letters trembling slightly.

The woman’s words echoed in her head, reverberating through the hollow spaces she had carved out of herself.

She had not even asked for her own daughter’s name.

She had not wanted to know.

A sharp pang of shame coiled in her chest, cold and unforgiving.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Because for the first time in months—

She did not know who she was grieving.

She did not know how long she satthere, rooted to the earth, the weight of the past pressing down on her like an unforgiving tide.

The woman and the boy lingered a moment longer, then turned away, disappearing into the quiet streets of Hasselt.

She remained, clutching the letters, staring at Max’s name carved into the stone.

She was not sure what she had expected to find here. Closure, perhaps. Answers.

But all she had found was herself, reflected back in the grief of another.

And for the first time, she did not run from it.

She let it settle, let it ache.

Then, slowly, finally, she turned away.

Arthur was waiting just beyond the gates.

He had not paced, had not fidgeted. He had simply stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead, as though he had always known she would return to him.

When she saw him, something in her crumbled.

She moved to him without thinking, closing the distance between them in a few short strides.

And then she was in his arms.

Arthur stiffened for the briefest moment, as if caught off guard, but then his grip tightened, his arms locking around her.

She pressed her face into his chest, the sobs wracking through her once more, but this time they did not tear her apart.

Arthur said nothing.

He only held her.

Not as he had that night on the bridge, when he had caught her from the edge of the abyss—when he had held on as though she might slip through his fingers.

But as a brother does.

Steady. Constant.

As though he had been waiting for her to come back.

The train rocked gently beneath them, the countryside rolling past in a blur of muted greens and greys.

Arthur sat across from her, his gaze fixed on the window, arms folded.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Then, at last, she did.

"I’m going to Paris."

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

She exhaled, her hands smoothing over the letters resting in her lap. "In the week. I’ll find work—maybe in one of the grand houses, a governess, a maid—something with a rich family." She swallowed. "And I’ll come home on the weekends. To her."

Arthur’s eyes flickered to her then.

"I will raise her." The words came steadier than she expected. "I will be her mother."

For a moment, Arthur said nothing.

Then, a slow breath left him.

And he nodded.

"Je suis heureux de te retrouver, sœur." I’m glad to have you back, sister.

A lump formed in her throat.

She turned to the window, blinking hard.

Outside, the world blurred past, shifting, changing.

She was not the same girl who had arrived in Hasselt.

And when she returned home—

She would not be the same girl who had left.

The months that followed were slow and unsteady, like learning how to walk again after a great fall.

She found work in Paris, just as she had planned. A grand house, high windows, polished floors that never scuffed beneath hurried footsteps. She was a governess to the children of a family so rich they barely saw them, her days spent teaching soft-spoken boys their letters, combing through tangled curls, buttoning coats that would never feel the bite of winter.

It was a quiet life, a measured one. And yet, it was not hers.

Hers was the life waiting for her beyond the city, in a house worn by time and war, in the arms of a child she was learning to love.

She returned each weekend, stepping off the train with a bag heavy on her shoulder and the weight of the world lighter in her chest.

On the weekends she could not come, Charles brought her daughter to her. He never let her miss more than a week, never let the distance stretch too wide between them. He would arrive at the door of the grand house, his cap pulled low, her daughter bundled against the cold, and the moment she saw her, everything else fell away.

Arthur was the one who raised her in the days between. He never spoke of it, never boasted, never asked for thanks. But he was there, always there. Holding her daughter's small hands as she took her first steps, lifting her onto his shoulders when she refused to walk, murmuring stories into her ear when the night grew too dark.

At first, she had been afraid. Afraid that when her daughter looked at her, she would see the ghost of a man who had lied to them both.

But she did not.

She saw her mother.

And that was enough.

She did not let her daughter suffer the sins of her father.

She let her be her own.

And though grief lingered, though it always would, in some quiet corner of her heart, it no longer held her captive.

One evening, as she sat in the schoolhouse, letters spread before her, candlelight flickering against the ink, she thought of Max.

Not as he had been. Not as the man she had once loved, nor the man she had lost.

But simply as someone who had passed through her life.

Someone who had given her something more than pain.

Something that would outlast him.

She dipped her pen in ink, her fingers steady.

And for the first time in her life.

She wrote his name without shaking.

THE END.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @carlossainzapologist @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn @iamred-iamyellow @obxstiles @iimplicitt @oscduck81

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gremlin-girly · 7 months ago

Text

Kinktober Day 18

Title: Cheat Day

Pairing: Personal Trainer! Bucky x Curvy!female reader

Tags/warnings: SMUT, semi-public sex, shower sex (slippery), self-consciousness, mentions of cellulite/stretch marks, a smidge of fluff bc I can't resist, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it!!), pet names (doll, baby), praise

Summary: You are a newbie to a gym and one of the regulars takes a liking to you and offers to help you on your gym journey. However, you notice that he's a lot more hands on than other trainers at the gym

Word count: 2.9k

Banners by @/cafekitsune + dividers by @/saradika-graphics

A/N: maybe it should more aptly be gym buddy Bucky but alas... I had plans - I promise!! I might have to get my big fics out tomorrow rip me

Prev | Next | Masterlist

Warm Up

You hate, hate, hate HATE working out.

You hate the gym. You hate the way you look like a lost puppy and don't know which machine to use. You hate that you get so out of breath on a tread mill. You hate how your arms wobble when you lift weights.

And you hate that damn Stairmaster.

The only thing you love is perhaps how your deliciously thick thighs can support the heavy weights on the legs press like it's nothing. That would probably be it.

You take one of the last treadmills available, setting your bottle and towel down before fiddling with your earbuds. You're not really paying attention to the guy next to you; you're too focused on trying to get through your warm up.

You start at a walk. You're hair swishing as you lift it to your crown to tie with a hairband. The guy beside you picks up his pace and your eyes flicker over to him. And oh God. What a guy. He's tall and muscular, clearly a regular unlike yourself who makes every excuse under the sun to avoid the gym, with a mop of dark hair that's bouncing to his movements. He's barely sweating at a pace that would have you panting.

You don't realise you've been staring until he smiles at you, sticking his tongue out playfully, before going back to running.

You are red faced and almost trip over your feet. You need to focus. You turn your music up and eventually break into a light jog. After thirty minutes your gym buddy wipes down the machine and disappears to another section of the gym, flashing you a smirk and a wave has you watch him go.

His T-shirt has the logo of the gym of its back and for a split second you're wondering if you should book a session, before scolding your horny brain.

Workout. Focus on working out.

Arms

The next time you come to the gym, it's dark out. You'd spent the day in work and although you just wanted to go home and eat dinner, maybe have a glass (or three) of wine, you had made a promise to yourself to go and now you were here.

It was so much more peaceful at night. The blaring music was off and there was hardly anyone about. Suddenly, you loved your idea of coming here. You had little reason to be self-conscious with so few people around.

Today was arms and you were busy trying to hype yourself up using the bench press. Arms were the worst, just after cardio and you dreaded having to do this. Suddenly the thought of three glasses of wine didn't seem so bad.

Adjusting the weights either side of the bar, you slip under it, getting comfortable against the hard leather seat. You reach up and grasp the bar, straightening your arms and pushing the bar out of it's rest. Your arms wobble slightly, your arms bracing against the weight and you hadn't even managed one rep. Perhaps you'd done the weight wrong.

"Whoa doll!" A voice calls out and you strain your neck trying to look for the approaching footsteps. It's the guy from the other day. "You're gonna hurt yourself doing it like that."

"I - Uh-" you grip the handles, unsure if he wants you to let go or not, but you're palms are starting to sweat. "Okay."

He grins down at you, placing large, rough hands over yours and gently lifting the handles back to stationery position.

"Thanks." You sigh, rubbing your sweaty palms on your workout leggings. You glance up at him again, only to find you're eye level with his crotch and go beet red.

Bad thoughts. Bad thoughts.

The guy doesn't seem to notice. "I'm Bucky. I'm one of the trainers here."

"Y/N." You try and offer a smile but you're too focused on not thinking that his crotch his just right there.

"I've seen you round here once or twice before, um..." Bucky rakes a hand through his long hair. "You're new right? Have you thought about getting a personal trainer?"

You recalled almost tripping in front of him a week or so ago and flush red. Was it that obvious you weren't a regular? Unhelpful, mean thoughts fluttered through your head and you fought to push them away.

"That obvious, huh?" You smile sheepishly, finally sitting up on the bench.

"Very obvious." Bucky nods, still smiling at you. "You hadn't put the locks on the plates, they could have slipped and injured that pretty face."

Your eyes widen; you hadn't noticed the locks and were grateful Bucky was there to save you from injury... even if he was being a flirt about it.

Even if it made your heart flutter.

"Well, thankfully I have a hero to step in." You tell him playfully. "And about the personal trainer... to be quite honest, I don't think I could afford one right now."

You give him an apologetic shrug but he only smirks in response. "Good thing I'll help you for free. Consider it a free trial."

You eyebrows shoot up. Having someone around to motivate you and show you the ropes would be ideal, and especially if it was someone as handsome as Bucky, it may motivate you to come to the gym more often.

"Only if you're sure." You say cautiously, eyeing him. "I don't want you to lose out on work because you're helping me."

Bucky shrugs. "Hey, helping you is more important. I can just text you what days and times I'll be at the gym - if you're here the same time, then we can do some sets together."

You can't say no to that. His eyes brighten when you agree and exchange numbers before he runs you through how to correctly use the bench press, encouraging you and praising you even though you're red faced and drenched in sweat by the end of your set. But you feel fantastic.

If this was how your sessions with Bucky would be, maybe you'd have to consider saving up for more sessions.

Legs

Whichever the Bucky you saw the night he convinced you to take some sessions with him, didn't exist after that night.

The next few sessions with Bucky he'd been nothing but a hard ass, making your brows furrow with displeasure each time he taunted you. It spurred you to complete reps sure, but that wasn't the point. Quite frankly, you missed him being a little bit nicer and you missed the praise that came with it.

"It's false advertising," You huff mid-squat, shooting Bucky a glare. The more time you'd spent with him, the more confident you'd become at back talking him (even though you'd still complete all your reps). "If I'd have known you were going to be a drill sergeant, I wouldn't have agreed to this."

Bucky chuckles, eyeing your form as he stands with his big arms folded, sipping his water bottle. "And yet you finish every rep like a good little soldier." He teases back.

You scoff in response but your cheeks still grow warm. "Whatever."

After squats it was the leg curl machine. You're on your front, your quads under the foam cushions of the machines trying to push the bar against the curve of your ass but it's too heavy. Bucky is stood, as always, with folded arms watching you intently.

"Bucky, it's too heavy." You huff, letting your legs relax. "I need to put the weight down."

"No, you're doing it wrong." He chuckles. "May I?" He approaches, hands splayed.

You shrug, looking over at him with your chin in your palms. "Be my guest."

You still jump when you feel his strong hands on your thighs, moving them slightly wider. Your heart leaps into your throat and you could swear his fingers linger. His fingers are hot even through your gym wear and you're suddenly bashful when your head is filled with thoughts of another type of exercise you could be doing with Bucky. Again.

His hands trail to your knees slowly, bending them a little more before giving your calves a playful squeeze.

"Try now." He says quietly and you obey. The curl is a lot easier now, and the bar smacks your ass making it wobble.

"Oh, wow, OK." You chuckle bashfully. "Yeah OK you were right."

You catch Bucky smirking triumphantly but his eyes aren't on you; they're shamelessly glued to your legs and ass, watching you perform your reps.

Heat pools to your core and you quickly glance away. You have to be imagining it.

You have to.

Cardio

It had been about two weeks since you last saw Bucky and since you last visited the gym. You'd had a cold and then were so busy at work you couldn't find the time to drop by. You'd dropped Bucky a text to say you'd be out of commission but never explained why - and he'd not asked.

Sighing, you dumped your towel and water bottle next to the treadmill and began to walk. You'd come to the gym tonight for an escape. You hadn't wanted to text Bucky just in case he'd already be asleep but you itched to reach out.

The gym was a ghost town. Only the whirr of your treadmill echoed around the open space. You tried not to think about how you wished you'd bumped into Bucky or remember how he'd looked at you.

Maybe he's like that with all newbies...

That thought made your chest twist uncomfortably. You picked up your earbuds and shoved them in your ears, picking up your pace to a light jog.

So much for easing yourself back into it.

After an hour, you decide to call it quits.

It's 11pm and you just want to be back in your bed, hidden under the covers, away from the world.

You're on your way to the showers when you bump into a familiar face emerging from the men's changing room.

"Y/N?" Bucky

"Hey." You pause as he approaches, taking in the sight of his large biceps under the rolled up sleeves of his tee. "How've you been?

"Good. Long time no see. I thought I lost you."

You can't help yourself from smiling. "Oh no, can't keep me away from this place." You say sarcastically, making Bucky grin over at you.

"Really? Even miss me?" He teases softly.

"I don't miss you being a hard ass, if that's what you mean." You quip and Bucky scoffs. "But I have missed you."

Both of your gazes meet and the tension you'd been feeling over the last few weeks increases a hundred fold.

"So..." Bucky says slowly, barely breathing as he looks at you, not knowing which path to tread. "What are we doing tonight?"

"I've just finished," you say a little disheartened. "I was about to hit the shower."

"Can I join you?"

You both stare at one another. Bucky’s brain was expecting you to say your plan for your next set... not that you were going to shower. Mortified, redness bolts to his cheeks as he attempts to back track.

"I - I mean," he shutters and then coughs awkwardly. Your face is equally red but your eyes glimmer with want. "I thought - Uh- you were going to-"

"Sure," you say thickly.

Bucky's brain short circuits again and you give him that bashful smile that makes his heart stammer.

The women's showers are empty and after two minutes Bucky sneaks in behind you. As soon as the door closes, his strong arms pull you towards him, cupping your face before putting his lips on yours.

"Missed you too," he huffs, pulling his shirt off as you both fumble blindly for a shower booth. Bucky tugs at your gym clothes desperately as he kisses you, urging you to undress.

Your mind swims. He missed you too. He's kissing you senseless and you're sure that given the chance he'd rip your clothes from your body.

You peel away your clothes, pausing only to give Bucky more needy kisses in between layers. Bucky follows suit, discarding his sneakers, shorts and boxers into the pile next to your feet.

You feel a wave of self-consciousness as you take in Bucky's body; all muscle, toned and hard and utter perfection. Your eyes drop to your body; soft, squishable, with silvery zebra stripes running over your hips.

You hear Bucky suck in a short breath and you glance up through your eyelashes, smiling a little nervously. His blue eyes are transfixed on you as he closes the space between you. His fingers twitch as he reaches for you, desperate to feel your skin under his hands, but not knowing where he wants to touch first.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his hands ghosting over your hips, drawing you flush against him. His hands tighten their grip on your hips and you you gasp softly, feeling the hard heat of his cock brush against your thighs. One hand cups your face again, and Bucky’s head dips to kiss you slowly. His tongue brushes against your bottom lip and you open your mouth wider, letting Bucky kiss you with far more passion and severance than you'd anticipated.

You're lost in the kiss for what seems like an age; your fingers running through his hair as his hands explore your body, tracing each and every curve, groping at your breasts, hips and ass. You moan into his mouth, mimicking his actions, running your hands over his pecks and down his abs to his cock against your thigh. Bucky pants a curse as you pump him a few times, nipping along his jaw.

"Bucky," You whisper. "The shower."

"Right," he huffs. He pulls the shower door open and gestures for you to step inside first, following closely behind and pressing the on switch.

You gasp when cold water hits your back and Bucky chuckles, arms encircling your waist and moving in to latch onto your neck under the spray of now luke-warm water. Your arms attach themselves around his neck, half-hoisted as you spread your legs to allow Bucky to slot between them. You bite back a loud gasp when Bucky's hand slides between your legs, running along your slit finding your sweet bundle of nerves and drawing quick, tight circles.

"Bucky," you whimper into his neck, your your breathing hitching and hitching like the tightness in your core; rushing upward so fast you feel lightheaded.

"Cum for me doll, be a good girl and cum for me," Bucky sucks at your neck, groping at your tits with his free hand. You lean your head against the shower wall as you feel pussy clenches around nothing. Your fingers grip at Bucky's wet hair, gasping his name as you hang at the precipice of your orgasm. Without warning, Bucky plunges two fingers into your sopping hole, curling them inside you. Your orgasm crashes over you and you cum over his fingers with a wracked half sob.

Bucky's fingers are withdrawn as quickly as they're inserted, leaving you hollow and looking at Bucky pleadingly. He grins at you pecking your lips with a hasty kiss.

"'M sorry, doll. I promise to take my time next time but I need you so bad."

He lifts you with ease, pushing your back against the cool wall, wrapping his arms under your thighs and spreading them open. Wisps of steam rise from behind him as your eyes lock, his cock brushing against your slick folds only once before he slowly lowers you down onto him.

"Oh - oh - oh!" You moan as he breaches inch by inch, each time your walls contract around him, adjusting to his size. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your thighs shake with pleasure and you're utterly at his mercy as he starts to fuck up into you.

"That's it, baby." Bucky praises, littering your face with kisses. "You feel amazing on my cock."

You moan his name and kiss his lips hungrily, pulling yourself closer to him as he brings you to ruin again. Your pussy's grip is like a vice, milking him as you press yourself flush against him glassy eyes meeting his and Bucky can't take it any longer.

Bucky pants curses rutting into you before pulling out entirely and cumming over your stomach and thighs with a short groan. His cock continues to twitch, his cum slowly being washed away by the water save for the white, thick line that connects to your thigh. Bucky slowly lowers you to your feet and you lean against him for support, relaxing in the post-orgasm bliss and the heat of the water.

"I've wanted to do that since the moment I laid on you," he confesses, tilting your head up to capture your lips in a sweet kiss.

"So have I," You admit with a soft chuckle. "Kinda wish we could have done that instead of you making me do squats."

"But you're ass looked good." Bucky teases, chuckling when you glare at him.

"So you were checking me out!" You smack at his bicep playfully and that earns you one of his boyish smiles.

"So? Besides, more importantly," His hands grasp your hips tightly, forcing you to be still. "Today's a cheat day and I wanna take you out."

"Take me out? At 11pm? What's even open?" You smile up at him and he only shrugs.

"Okay, fine, twist my arm. Breakfast it is." He kisses you again, this time lingering a moment before smirking deviously at you. "But first let's get you cleaned up."

#kinktober #gremlin girly #gremlin girly writes #no beta we die like men #marvel mcu #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky x you #james buchanan barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #kinktober 2024 #kinktober2024 #day 18

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whats-the-word-again · 2 months ago

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༄ ° Poems that remind me of Lady Hestia ｡

This is just a small fun devotional act for Lady Hestia as She's been on my mind quite a bit as of late. I thought this might be nice especially cause I love poetry and it's one of my favourite ways of expressing myself and one of my favourite forms of literature! Though none of these are written by me, all credits will be given to the original authors; I've been simply perusing the internet for some poems that speak Hestia to me. Enjoy!

[there are six (6) poems in total. all have links to where I found them]

'A Wish' - Samuel Rogers

Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

'A Domestic Scene' - Felicia Dorothea Hemans, from The Amulet [1830]

Twas early day — and sunlight stream'd Soft through a quiet room, That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd — Still, but with nought of gloom; For there, secure in happy age, Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of Heaven's recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright On his gray holy hair, And touch'd the book with tenderest light As if its shrine were there; But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone With something lovelier far — A radiance all the spirits own, Caught not from the sun or star. Some word of life e'en then had met His calm benignant eye; Some ancient promise breathing yet Of immortality; Some heart's deep language where the glow Of quenchless faith survives; For every feature said "I know That my Redeemer lives." And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath Before this solemn sanctity Of thoughts o'ersweeping death; Silent — yet did not each young breast, With love and rev'rence melt? Oh! blest be those fair girls — and blest That home where God is felt!

'The Little Front Gate' - Kate Slaughter McKinney

A way from the world and its bustle, When the daylight grows pleasant and late; In our own cosy cot, I am waiting For the slam of the little front gate. The birds at the doorway are singing, The roses their beauty debate; But I sit here alone, and I listen For the slam of the little front gate. Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight Send the roving bird home to its mate, I list for a hurrying footstep, And the slam of the little front gate. O! you who are burdened with sorrow, And believe that life is but fate, Learn from me there is joy in waiting For the slam of the little front gate.

'The Hearth' - Henry van Dyke

When the logs are burning free, Then the fire is full of glee: When each heart gives out its best, Then the talk is full of zest: Light your fire and never fear, Life was made for love and cheer.

'Upon the hearth the fire is red' - J.R.R Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: One Vol. Edition

Upon the hearth the fire is red, Beneath the roof there is a bed; But not yet weary are our feet, Still round the corner we may meet A sudden tree or standing stone That none have seen but we alone. Tree and flower and leaf and grass, Let them pass! Let them pass! Hill and water under sky, Pass them by! Pass them by! Still round the corner there may wait A new road or secret gate, And though we pass them by today, Tomorrow we may come this way And take the hidden paths that run Towards the Moon or to the Sun. Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe, Let them go! Let them go! Sand and stone and pool and dell, Fare you well! Fare you well! Home is behind, the world ahead, And there are many paths to tread Through shadows to the edge of night, Until the stars are all alight. Then world behind and home ahead, We'll wander back to home and bed. Mist and twilight, cloud and shade, Away shall fade! Away shall fade! Fire and lamp, and meat and bread, And then to bed! And then to bed!

'Fire on Your Finger' - Tony Jolley

Fire on your finger, Fire in your eye, Fire in your spirit, Fire that won’t die. Fire in the bare bones of being, Fire to uphold what’s right, Fire in the heart of darkness, Fire to fuel Love’s light. Fire to burn but not consume, Fire to learn and not assume, Fire to live and give living room, Fire to love and sing her tune.

That's all the poems for now! if you guys have any poems that remind you of Hestia (or of any deity), please feel free to share! (I just love finding new poetry.)

Praise beloved Lady Hestia 🤍

-> all dividers made by @/anitalenia

#song to the theoi #lady hestia #hestia deity #hestia worship #hestia goddess #hestia #helpol #hellenic polytheism #hellenic deities #hellenic worship #digital offering #poems

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sonnet-of-skalitz · 3 months ago

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The Whole World Turns Around Henry (Part I)

(Henry and women, through Hans Capon's eyes. It all begins at that pond...)

Once the talking had dried up and Hans had finally cajoled Henry into the pond with him for a bath, away from the others in camp, he found himself asking, “So, was she any good? I mean, really?”

“What?” Henry asked distractedly, hovering as he was so mistrustfully at the shallowest edge of the water.

“Behold—my bodyguard,” Hans sighed, a smile playing at his lips. “Fearless as a lion on land, but plop him in anything deeper than a puddle and his legs go all a-quiver.”

“Shut up,” Henry snapped, still glaring down at the water lapping his calves, then added a perfunctory, “Sir.”

“A little deeper at least, Henry.” Hans walked backwards and waved him after. “I don’t need an aide with squeaky clean knees and armpits that stink like the brimstone of Hell itself when we parlay with von Bergow tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, Henry obeyed. When they were both standing, chests submerged, the buoyancy of the water raising them up on their toes, Hans asked again, “Out with it, then—was she?”

“What are you talking about?” Henry gave him that tone—that fucking irritating tone that turned even the most harmless of sentences into a pointed attack against Hans’s character. What the fuck are you on about now? he might as well have said.

“Your girl from the mill—Tana, or Theodora, or whatever her name is.” Hans paddled out a little further, just because he could; just because Henry couldn’t; just to get those eyes on him and his faultless swimming form. “What was she like?”

“Theresa. And I already told you all—” Henry started, and Hans cut him off with a tut.

“Don’t come the coy virgin with me, Hal.” Hans treaded water, watching him from just far enough away to be untouchable. “You only played the part of a monk. Unless those holy vows meant more to you than you let on?”

“I never said I was—” Henry sighed and gave in. “There was a girl. In Skalitz. Bianca.”

Hans’s perfect form faltered for a second. He’d never heard that name before.

“Your true sweetheart?” he asked drolly, recovering fast.

“Yes,” Henry responded, suddenly soft. “She was.”

“And yet you’ve never mentioned her. If I were poor Bianca, I’d feel quite offended.”

“It was… difficult to talk about her.” Henry’s voice took on a rough edge. “And she’s dead now, like all the rest, so I don’t reckon she’ll be feeling much of anything.”

He turned from him then, only a little, and Hans felt like the rankest shit in all of Bohemia.

While he was still trying to think of something to say that would wash his transgressions clean, Henry chose to speak again, saying, “It was her ring that I always wore—I don’t suppose you ever noticed.”

The dingy little ring that never left Henry’s finger. That tarnished scrap of metal that, for some reason, Hans did remember. He didn’t say that, though.

Through a clenched jaw, Henry confessed, “I lost it somewhere—I don’t know where. Probably slipped loose during some skirmish or other. By the time I realised it was gone, it was too late to even retrace my steps. God forgive me.”

The quiet that followed made Hans’s skin crawl. He felt hot with shame or guilt or pity or some other terribly boring and inconvenient emotion, and every time he opened his mouth he only ever made things worse but, damn it, he’d go mad if someone didn’t say something—

“Well, I don’t know about God, the wrathful bugger, but if this Bianca was your girl then she must’ve been a good one. She’d forgive you.”

Henry gave him a smile, then—a true smile. Hans’s stomach swooped a little and he swam back to the shallows, then started to wade towards shore. Henry went after him and, as he emerged bit by bit from the depths, Hans’s eyes drifted down to where his white smallclothes clung to his—

“Bloody hell, Henry!” He couldn’t help himself. “Tell me you brought a club in with you for protection.”

“What are you on about now?” Henry stopped and gave him a long-suffering look.

Hans covered his eyes, head turned dramatically. “I’m saying you’re packing enough sausage to keep the whole of Rattay fed through the winter. Fuck me, some poor bastard’s wandering around with a hole between his legs because you stole his share.”

Things were quiet for long enough that Hans dropped the theatricalities a smidge and peeked out from behind his hand. Henry was staring at him. Then, when their eyes met, he huffed out a laugh and shook his head. Hans grinned so wide his back teeth gleamed. Got him.

“Fucking hell,” Henry muttered, still chuckling, wading further back to shore. “Come on, let me just ‘roll it back up’ and we can get out of here—before, knowing my luck, I somehow find a way to drown in knee-deep water.”

Dragging his gaze away from Henry’s ‘pride and joy’, Hans was about to throw out an offer to teach the poor wretch to swim sometime, once the task at hand was done, when—

Laughter. Music. Like birdsong. Like the chorus of angels. Naked angels, perhaps. Well, he wouldn't be Hans Capon if he let this opportunity fly.

“Females! Let’s go to them!”

Hans was already on the move, and chose not to hear the exasperated sigh from behind him. As always, Henry would follow.

#hansry #kcd #fanfiction #fuck i got bit by the kcd bug #and then this happened

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maxprofitness · 10 months ago

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Treadmill Cover: Benefits of Using One for Your Treadmill

Investing in a treadmill cover offers several advantages that can enhance the performance, longevity, and maintenance of your treadmill. Here’s why using a treadmill cover is beneficial:

1. Protection from Dust and Debris

A treadmill cover provides a protective barrier against dust, dirt, pet hair, and other debris that can accumulate on the treadmill's surface and components. This helps keep the treadmill clean between uses and reduces the frequency of thorough cleaning and maintenance.

2. Prevention of Moisture Damage

Moisture can be detrimental to the electronic components and mechanical parts of a treadmill. A cover helps shield the treadmill from moisture build up, whether from sweat during workouts or humid conditions in the environment. This protection helps prevent rusting, corrosion, and electrical malfunctions over time.

3. Reduced Wear and Tear

By keeping dust and moisture at bay, a treadmill cover minimizes wear and tear on the treadmill's belt, motor, and other mechanical parts. This prolongs the lifespan of the equipment and reduces the frequency of repairs or replacements, saving you time and money in the long run.

4. Enhanced Safety

Covering your treadmill when not in use can contribute to safety, especially in households with children or pets. It prevents accidental activation of the treadmill and reduces the risk of small objects getting caught in the moving parts. This promotes a safer environment for everyone in your home.

5. Maintaining Aesthetic Appeal

A treadmill cover helps maintain the aesthetic appeal of your fitness space by keeping the treadmill clean and free of dust. It presents a tidy appearance and preserves the overall condition of the treadmill, enhancing the visual appeal of your home gym or workout area.

6. Convenience in Storage

Many treadmill covers are designed to be lightweight and easy to use, allowing for hassle-free installation and removal. They fold or roll up compactly when not in use, making storage convenient and ensuring the cover is readily accessible whenever needed.

Conclusion

Using a treadmill cover offers multiple benefits, including protection from dust and debris, prevention of moisture damage, reduced wear and tear, enhanced safety, maintenance of aesthetic appeal, and convenience in storage. Investing in a quality cover for your treadmill helps preserve its condition, extend its lifespan, and maintain a clean and safe workout environment in your home.

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spiralhouseshop · 10 months ago

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Restocks on Troy books!

#troy books #gemma gary #traditional witchcraft #treading the mill #wortcunning #cunning man #Hallowtide #wisht waters #devil's plntation #under the witching tree #corinne boyer #val thomas

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icallhimjoey · 1 year ago

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Reinvent Love

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Joe are treading new waters. You’re no longer flatmates, but still close. More than friends, but nothing defined. Nothing labeled. Determined to not lose what you have, though. But, can you?

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes, jealousy, accusations, soft fluff, season 3 of my flatmate!joe

Author’s note: the first cracks; they're here - and, again, you don’t need to have read define close or explain us, but it’ll obviously give you backstory, which might help!

Wordcount: 3.6K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

It was silly. Joe was being silly.

He knew it, and felt so stupid for it. Like, in hindsight, the worrying felt so dumb. The constant milling shit over didn’t change anything, there was no real point to it. Although, maybe you being on his mind in this... new manner was what summoned you last night.

You just showed up, talking about a crazy day, no sad pouts, no needy touches. Just jittery movements and a lot to tell him.

Joe kind of sat back on his sofa, spread out and leaning into his left elbow and watched you pace around his lounge. Something about something a colleague had said that then turned out to be lies and you found out something by overhearing a phone call you weren’t meant to overhear – Joe was barely following along. Didn’t really try his best to, if he was honest.

He was moreso paying attention to what you were actually doing – were you even aware that you had started grabbing random things he had left lying around on his coffee table, on the kitchen island, on the counters, and one by one, put everything away where it was meant to go?

Joe pursed a smile as he realised you knew exactly where everything went. Why did that make his chest ache in the best of ways?

This new casual form of intimacy seemed so small, but Joe felt how it smothered that little grain of doubt that resided in his chest. That little grain that had convinced him that you were probably going to fall into a new routine with your new flatmate after he moved in and, then you would probably grow close to him and Joe knew how you... no.

No.

He couldn’t think that.

It wasn’t fair on you. He caught himself trying to finish the thought a lot, but he knew it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t true. He didn’t even fully believe it. It was this thing. Still, he also couldn’t help how it simultaneously made him grow a little more possessive and made him want to prepare for the worst.

But, she was here, he had to remind himself.

She’s here.

And she was wandering around his space, letting her train of thought flow freely from her brain into his living room and he used to witness this all the time when you lived together still. Joe realised he’d actually missed it a lot, and wasn’t that the whole point? That he got to miss you now?

God, Joe missed you a lot and you were right there and he could just burst at the seams at how fucking lucky he felt.

He was a just normal guy in a normal flat with a normal relationship– well, normalish relationship, anyway. Not that you had talked about anything yet. Of course you hadn’t. But it was pretty fucking obvious what this was. So he had started shrugging whenever someone would ask if you were actually together, which felt a lot better than the forever, “No, we’re flatmates, what are you talking about?” he used to throw at people, practically gaslighting them out of whatever they thought they’d witnessed between him and the girl that he used to live with.

It was working. The plan he had made, this vague idea of normalcy; it was working out the way he had wanted it to.

And yea, sure, you were getting a new flatmate and Joe had a difficult time not feeling some type of way about that, but, he had made the decision to move out and, look at you now.

“Do you think I can get a raise out of this? Or at least get a weird bonus, mid-term?”

Joe had a hard time not laughing at your question as he saw you had already mentally moved onto something else. You were stood in the middle of the room, both hands on your hips, eyes scanning the room. Everything tidy and organised.

“Joe, when did you last clean?”

Joe followed your gaze up into one of the corners of the ceiling.

“I cleaned today.” Joe said, knowing you’d likely not take it as an honest answer. You had lived together, remember? No fucking way was Joe ever going to feel the urge to maybe sometimes swipe a feather duster across the upper corners of his living room.

You shuddered at the thought of what resided behind his curtains there.

You sighed and tutted and turned back to Joe’s kitchen like you were going to start cleaning his fucking ceilings at half past ten at night.

“Hey, no. No, no. Stop. Will you come sit down a second? My god.” Joe huffed, feigning annoyance. When you turned on your heel and giggled as you scurried over, Joe let a laugh escape his throat just before you let yourself fall into the cushions next to him.

He hooked an arm around your neck to pull you in so he could press his nose into your cheek a second. You gladly let him, and when he held you close like that for longer than you initially thought he would, you suddenly realised you’d just been talking about yourself for twenty minutes straight.

Just barged in with unimportant thoughts on your mind that you just verbally vomited right into Joe’s space. You knew it was mostly nervous energy that was only there because your new flatmate picked up his keys earlier, which now meant there was every opportunity for someone to just... walk into your flat at any given time. That had unexpectedly brought on way more anxiety than you previously thought it would do.

Hence why you decided to just... escape it, and went over to Joe’s to spend the night there.

Joe was pressing his nose into your cheek and held you in place for a bit before he moved his head down, hiding into your neck a second.

“You okay?” you asked softly, head tilting down a bit.

“Mm, yea, fine.” Joe inhaled deeply, before pressing a few small kisses to the crook there and moving back to look at you the in eye. He unhooked his elbow from around your neck and placed two cupped hands on either side of your face, swiping bits of hair back in the process.

Joe was leant all the way back into the sofa, head squished in between two of the back cushions and you took a moment to look at each other. Joe studied your face and rubbed his thumbs across the apples of your cheeks until you grew shy.

“You look tired,” you softly said before Joe sat up a little and leant closer. It had you close your eyes just before scrunching up your nose as he kissed the very tip of it.

“I am tired.” He mused, copying your nose scrunch when you blinked your eyes open again, and Joe looked so soft. Sort of pleased with life, happy to be where he was and like he’d just had a really good productive day. He blinked slowly, eyes only half open, and looked sleepy enough to slip right into dreams the second his head would hit his pillow.

You loved him like this. His hands on you, all soft touches. Comfy and cosy and calm. Just you and him. No one else. No threat of someone randomly walking in.

This was perfect.

“Mmm, me too.” You smiled and let Joe grab one of your elbows to pull an arm across his stomach as he sat back again.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve just done a 5K as you tidied this room, I think.”

You huffed a laugh as you sank into Joe’s side, and then you sat like that in silence for a moment. No TV on. No phones in sight for some easy distraction. Just you and Joe and the view of his living room.

“Are you okay?” Joe suddenly asked, emphasis on the you, and you tried hiding the small, hitched intake of breath by quickly nodding and casually going, “Yea. Fine.”

You could feel how Joe tucked in his chin to look at you.

He waited. Wasn’t going to tell you, “No, be honest...”, but also wasn’t going to accept it and move on. It was still like that. He knew you were lying, and you knew he knew, no words shared at all.

So you sighed and took a second, and then said, “Josh picked up his key today.”

And you didn’t want to explain what that meant.

Didn’t want to tell Joe that, for a while, this existing-in-two-flats thing had just felt like a bit of a joke. Just the two of you playing and being silly about whatever you really were. You still sort of thought of him as a flatmate because he still came over all the time, and you went over to his all the time too. You existed in the same space almost just as much as before, sort of.

But now a new flatmate was actually moving in, and suddenly, it felt like reality had slapped you right across the cheek like it had done that day that Joe moved out.

You’d gotten to hide away for a lot of that.

And there was no real hiding this time around.

You couldn’t go home and pretend Joe was going to move back in eventually, because now Josh’s things were going to be all over the flat. Which was fine. Josh signed a lease. His things were allowed to be all over the place.

It was just... things were getting real now.

Shit was real.

“Which reminds me,” you suddenly piped up, pushing uncomfortable thoughts down, tucking those away for another time and place. “This is going to save you some money!”

You saw how Joe’s mouth slowly stretched into a smile as he watched how his own feet rubbed against yours. Then he caught himself and quickly furrowed his brow, saying, “No, I don’t think it works like that.”

You copied his expression, but were more confused than anything else.

“Of course it does. Josh signed the papers, he’s going to start paying rent now, you–”

“I said that I had taken care of things, didn’t I?” Joe interrupted you, fingers playing with the folds in your sleeve of the arm that rested over his stomach. “Can’t just not keep a promise like that.”

You blinked at him a second, then moved to sit up to stare at him harder. If both Joe and Josh paid rent, that basically meant that you... got to live for free for a while? That math wasn’t mathing. One plus one wasn’t equalling two here. You looked around Joe’s flat and tried to think of his own expenses, and... what the fuck was he doing?!

“Joe,”

“You’re not going to be able to talk me out of this.”

“Joe.”

Joe ignored you and faked a yawn, sped it up along with stretched out arms above his head and quickly said, “So tired. Bed?” before getting up and leaving you on his sofa as he left the room.

“You’re insane if you think I’m just going to accept that!” you called after him and heard him laugh from down the hall.

“Did you not just say you were after a weird mid-term bonus?”

And you hated how that made you smile. Made you punch one of the cushions and sink your teeth into your bottom lip begrudgingly as you forgot to breathe a second.

Joe smiled to himself too as he turned on the lights in his bathroom. It felt like he was winning a contest - there was no contest, no one to fight, not really, but, he was definitely winning.

“You coming?”

Breathe.

Calm down.

You could pretend to fight him on this once more in the morning.

Crawling into bed with Joe had its own little routine which was different from the one at yours. Different order of things, because the lay out of the flat was different.

Bathroom first. You brushed teeth together, always had to stop Joe when he washed his face too aggressively and then used your own moisturiser on him. “Just for your dry patches,” you’d always say, but would end up swiping delicate fingertips all over anyway. There’d be a snarky comment, of you using too much, of him feeling too greasy, of how he was going to stick to his pillow all night now, and then you’d always kiss him to shut him up before moving on to do your own skincare routine.

When you’d get into bed, Joe would already be in there, giving his phone a last once-over before he’d scoot down and get comfortable.

This time, however, when you walked into his bedroom, the lights were already off, and it looked like Joe was already falling asleep.

This soft man.

So sleepy.

He was all messy curls and bare arms, duvet tucked under them, curled up right in the middle of his bed. You slid in and cuddled up right behind him, hips against his bum, chest to his back.

You were right.

Joe was already falling asleep.

You pushed a leg in between his for warmth and snuck an arm around his front.

“You’re crazy,” you whispered into the skin of his shoulder which prompted Joe to grab hold of your hand and pull it into his chest so you were hugging him properly. The big spoon to his small one. Then he just hummed as you pressed a small kiss to his warm skin there.

“So crazy.” you nuzzled into his pillow, your nose rubbing his back as you did, and you felt how he ducked his head down to press a small kiss to your fingers.

You fell asleep warm, comfortable, and smiling.

You woke up in the same way.

Just on your stomach now, and with Joe’s heavy limbs slung over your body. When you turned over, it woke Joe up, and for five blissful early morning minutes, you tried crawling into each other’s skin as best you could. Breathed each other’s breath and tasted each other’s skin. Stroked hands underneath clothes and had fingers crawling into underwear, just to touch and to hold.

When you quietly asked if Joe wanted coffee, he groaned and told you to shut up. He was able to feel you giggle to that, and he could cry with how happy he felt in that moment. Why would you have to go and ruin it by getting up to go and make coffee?

“Five more minutes.”

“Mmm... it’s never just five.”

Joe sighed, “Just five.” speech slurring with early morning drowsiness and then burrowed himself into you even more.

And fine.

Joe could have five more minutes.

But then they easily turned into twenty, because they always did, and you had to eventually bribe Joe with breakfast for him to let you go so you could sit up.

“If you take a slow shower, I’ll have it ready when you finish.” You looked over your shoulder where Joe, still with his eyes closed, smiled widely. His nose was slightly red from pressing it into your skin, and his bedhead made you have to suppress a giggle that you hid by leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead before you got out.

Joe barely even felt that little grain of bad in his chest when he thought of how much he loved you.

Because he did.

Joe fucking loved you.

There was going to be a moment soon where he was just going to have to say it. It was going to spill out of him in some other way if he wouldn’t simply use the words, he just knew it.

Joe loved you as he watched through squinty eyes how you reached for a pair of white socks of his to borrow.

Loved you as he watched you pull one of his old sweaters over your head before you walked out, bare legs still on show.

Loved you when he stepped into his living room after his shower to the smell of burnt toast and scrambled eggs and coffee.

Loved you as he watched you step onto a chair in the corner of his room, wet dishcloth in hand to remove the strings of dust you had scolded him over the night before.

Loved you as he felt what the sight of your stretched body, your bare tighs, and the little peep of your bum did to him inside of his boxers.

Loved you as he groaned and let his head fall onto the counter, having to breathe through it, because you were just cleaning his living room, and not giving him a sensual striptease act or whatever.

Loved you as you looked back over your shoulder, raising your eyebrows in surprised confusion before accusingly asking, “Really, Joe? Cleaning?”

Loved you as he stutteringly defended the blood rush down south by saying, “You have no idea what you look like right now.” into his elbow where he had to hide his face for a second.

Loved you, loved you.

He was hardly able to deny any of it.

And he didn’t feel that he had to, either.

Because, you were there. In his flat. In his clothes. Cleaning his dusty ceiling corners. And wasn’t that just something he wanted to tell the whole fucking world about?

That small little green grain of doubt and worry and negativity dried out and got no sunshine to really grow into anything. Thank fuck.

He got to ignore it for a while.

Forgot about it entirely, and pretended it wasn’t even there for a bit.

It was easy.

Joe loved you.

He knew he did.

Would tell you soon.

Didn’t know how.

Or where.

But he was going to say it.

He was going to use his words because he was just a normal guy who loved a normal girl and you weren’t being weirdly secretive about what you got up to in private. At least, not how you used to be, anyway.

Joe loved you.

You brought Joe flowers and cleaned his ceiling and wore his clothes and cooked his breakfast.

Joe loved you, even though your new flatmate Josh turned out to be impossibly good-looking in addition to being incredibly kind as well, so Joe didn’t even get to have a real reason to dislike him at all, which seemed unfair, but, all right.

Joe loved you, even when suddenly two shiny black acoustic guitars appeared on your living room wall, because Josh worked in music, and wasn’t that just so cool?

Joe loved you, even though his very first thought after that was, well I know how to play guitar too, don’t I?! which you had never even mentioned before.

Joe loved you, even when he walked into your flat one evening and interrupted a dinner you were having with Josh and one of your friends and, look, Josh cooked for us, and for the first time ever, he felt uninvited and intruding.

Joe loved you, even when your friend jokingly said, “You’re over here at lot for someone that moved out.” right to his face, to which you then heartily laughed, because she was only joking, Joe, and then you didn’t say anything about how you were together, but, you were together... weren’t you?

Joe loved you, even when he stuck to the bit and handed you his flat key like he always did, expecting to find it in his coat pocket later, but then ended up finding both his pockets empty when he went home the next morning, which, yea actually, that made sense, because Josh lived there now, and it was a little weird to have a key still, wasn’t it?

Joe loved you, even when you had told him to come over on Friday evening because you’d had a shit day at work, and for the first time ever, he had to ring the doorbell to get inside.

Joe loved you, even when Josh was the one that answered the door, and Josh almost didn’t let him in, telling him, “Oh, she’s fallen asleep on the sofa, mate.” to which Joe just smiled as he stepped around him, because what the fuck did Josh even know about falling asleep on the sofa in this flat?

Joe loved you, even when he found you asleep on the sofa, curled up under a blanket he’d never seen before, with an empty pizza box bar some crusts still on the coffee table, and you never ate a whole pizza yourself, so that was obviously shared with someone else.

Joe loved you.

He knew he did.

But there was a playstation besides the TV now, and a cool record player on the side, pile of vinyl next to it, and, God.

Joe fucking hated this.

Whatever was inside of Joe’s chest, that thing he didn’t even want in there, was growing.

Was getting fed without Joe even fully realising he was feeding it.

He hated those guitars. He hated that he no longer had a key. He hated that stupid blanket. And he hated that empty pizza box.

Still, he sat down beside you and placed your socked feet onto his lap. Watched the last scenes of whatever film you’d put on as he slowly kneaded a foot and let you sleep, and he tried his best to not get bitten. To not let it sink its teeth in. To not let it hurt.

It was silly.

Joe was being silly.

Rational thought saved him.

Rational thought told him he still loved you.

And he hoped rational thought was going to be enough.

---

The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson,

@choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @djoseph-quinn,

@dolcevit4, @eddies-puppet, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee,

@figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @hanahkatexo, @harringtonfan4,

@hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke,

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@munson-mjstan, @nadixq, @nglharry, @notverywise, @pepperstories,

@phyllosilicate-s, @royale1803, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @solzi1420,

@songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73,

@werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

#Joseph Quinn #Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn x You #Joe Quinn x You #Joseph Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn Fanfic #Joe Quinn fanfiction #Joseph Quinn Fanfic #Joseph Quinn Fanfiction #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x y/n #icallhimjoey #define close #explain us #reinvent love

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