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marlahey · 4 years ago

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under the same roof part two: an old friend

a harry styles rpf part two of six ratings/warnings: the stalking comes to an alarming head via chase, suggestion of violent intent, aggressive emotions, fuck the patriarchy notes: things get serious, intimacy occurs, we all suffer. moments were edited or cut to reinforce the utter lack of actual romance in a real stalking situation, but I promise we’ve made up for it in later parts! fun fact: on a lighter note, this series should probably just be titled: sweet things that have actually occurred to annie that she forgot she wrote in and so suffers in every edit session.

masterlist | part one | part three (14.12.2020) ... • friday, 4th january 8:34 pm • Blood roars in your ears as you sprint through the parking garage, but the sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the pounding footfalls that aren’t your own. Every gulp of air burns your throat but you can’t stop, you can’t even slow down. The hum of industrial ceiling lights overhead is the only other sound. No one would hear you scream.

You’d heard the second car door after yours, and the initial footsteps. A quick turn of your head was your worst fear realized: the blue-eyed man beelining towards you, so quickly you’d barely had a chance to try and outpace him. A heavy hand landed on your shoulder as the man grabbed a fistful of your cardigan before yanking back on the fabric. Twisting desperately against his hold, you’d heard a faint pop-pop-pop as the stitching around your collar snapped and gave. You’d practically fallen away from him before scrambling upright, sliding with little traction on the dusty concrete beneath your feet, and bolting towards the open center of the lot. Your breath pours out into the air. There are no security cameras. Why are there no security cameras? A white, hot panic inside your head makes it hard to think, but you must. You can’t take the lift as it leads to a dead end, so it’ll have to be the stairs. The torn neck of your sweater leaves one of your shoulders naked to the cold. You came so close to draping a scarf around your shoulders before you left your apartment this morning. Had you kept it on, you could have been dead by now. You tear through the door to the stairwell at the other end of the garage and take the steps by two. At any moment an obstacle could arise—a locked door, a dead phone battery, a hard fall on the stairs—and that would be it for you. You’d be a gruesome headline or a face on a milk carton. You would never see your siblings, or India, or Chowder, or your parents ever again. Hot tears sting the corners of your eyes. On the last flight of stairs before the lobby, the sound of the stairwell door slamming echoes up the passageway. You look instinctively. A black, gloved hand is making its way up the railing. You almost lose your balance bursting through to the lobby, and even though your legs are screaming, you do what all the brochures have ever told you to do and break into another full-fledged run to the lift around the corner. You wish you’d chosen a building with a doorman or security desk—some kind of human checkpoint. “No, no, no,” you beg under your breath, launching an arm between the closing doors. You stumble, half expecting it to be empty, and find yourself face to face with Harry. His eyes skim you over, widening from behind his glasses. You’re still clinging to the doors of the lift. Down the hall and around the bend, the door to the stairwell bangs open again; you wince. Harry’s eyebrows knit together. Thinking on your feet, you lurch inside and drag your hand along the keypad, illuminating just about every random floor up to the penthouses in the twenties, but not eight, and nothing before it. Harry’s eyes dart between yours and the doors. The footsteps in the hall behind you grow louder. You smash the close door button a dozen times, but something in you knows it’s a lost effort. You rush forward and tuck yourself into Harry’s side, tearing his name tag off and stuffing it in your bag. He startles, twisting to look at you, but you stick to your guns and slip your arm around his back. A moment later your eyes meet in the vaguely distorted metallic reflection above the keypad. Harry’s eyes are full of questions; a plea is in yours. For a second time, the doors of the lift begin to close but are stopped by an interjecting hand. A third body enters. It is him. That yellow-grey hair, the wrinkles and the scar on his lip, the worn, leathery skin… Immediately, the man turns to stare at you, and scoffs. You jump, your hand instinctively grasping the back of Harry’s jacket. You will your knees to be still. The lift doors close. It is silent until the car lurches upward. Suddenly you feel a warm, heavy pressure across your shoulders. In the reflection of the doors, you watch Harry’s arm wrap around you. He squeezes once. Your frantic gaze is pinned down by his much more fixed one. He feels so solid pressed into your side, and his eyes are solemn behind his glasses. More serious, maybe, than you’ve ever seen in the last year. Harry’s lips quirk—the suggestion of a smile—before he looks down at his feet: a ruse of casual nonchalance. Your stomach twists. The blue-eyed man sighs impatiently. Harry moves his hand to your waist and pulls you even tighter into his side. The car bounces to a stop on the sixth floor with a ding. As the doors glide open, it dawns on you that you had not thought this all the way through to the end. Do you go with Harry? What if you put Sylvia in danger? What if the man follows you? Harry’s arm drops from your shoulders. The same white hot panic from the garage sears behind your eyes. Is this it? Is Harry about to leave you alone to your fate? You almost miss his hand reaching back for you, like it’s something he does all the time. Harry squeezes, hard enough to nearly be painful. It starts you into motion. Your legs feel stiff and inflexible like they can’t remember how to walk as he pulls you along, keeping himself between you and the blue-eyed man. You’re off. The doors close. Harry glances over his shoulder, your hand still tight in his. He gently guides you to walk in front of him, and you shudder at the thought of the man still watching. You do not hear a third pair of footsteps trailing you, and you do not dare turn around to check. There’s something eerie in walking down a hall identical to your own but knowing that none of these doors are yours. “This is me.” Harry’s voice is low around the jingle of his keys as he nods to the only door in the hallway hung with a wreath. You say nothing as he steps aside to let you through. He peers into the hall one last time once you’re both inside before locking the door, deadbolt, and chain guard. You lean your back against the wall with your arms across your chest, clutching your sides. He looks over at you slowly, hesitates, and takes a step toward you. His Adam's apple bobs. Suddenly the air leaves your lungs entirely and you begin to heave. You feel as though you’d been sprinting on a treadmill for an hour and then stopped immediately, which keeps you from realizing that Harry has been saying your name. Tears gather in your eyes again; if you allowed yourself to blink, they would spill over. You begin to sink against the wall. Harry catches your elbows in his hands, but you keep sinking anyway. He follows you all the way down to the floor. “Sorry,” you gasp. “You’re safe.” Harry just shakes his head. “I’ve got you.” You nod and try to send a few deep breaths to the pit of your stomach, then clear your throat. “Call the police.” Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s on his feet, flicking on light switches and digging his phone from out of his bag. You hear, “Yes, hello. I’d like to report… following my neighbor.” Your mind reels. Harry’s voice sounds almost distorted, like you’re underwater. “In my apartment with me.” You catch, “...followed her into the lift,” as well as “Yes,” and “No,” to a series of questions before he reappears with a concentrated frown, watching you. “She’s safe.” You pick yourself up off the floor and Harry gestures to the small two-person dining table. He angles his cellphone down to his chest as he’s pulling the chair out for you. “Do you want to speak with them?” he whispers. You take a deep breath and nod, holding out your hand. Your fingers tremble, so you place it face up on the table instead and turn on the speaker. He may as well find out now; you can’t imagine having to explain all this a second time. “Hello?” “Hello, my name’s Officer Warren. We hear you’ve had quite a scare tonight. I know it’s hard, but try to stay as calm as possible and just answer a few questions for me as best you can.” The fact that the dispatcher is a woman comforts you. “Okay.” “Are you injured?” “No.” “Can you just confirm your full name for me? And your address?” You rattle off your details, noting with strange detachment that you and Harry live precisely two floors apart. His flat is 6F; yours is 8F. “How long have you lived there?” “Almost a year.” “And how long have you been in the UK?” “About two and a half years. I’m a student at UCL.” “I understand you’re with a neighbor. Do you feel as though you’re in immediate danger?” You look up at Harry before your eyes dart to his front door, hesitating for longer than you want to. “No.” “Can you tell me what’s happened?” You close your eyes. “A man tried to grab me in the parking garage.” “Was this a man you’ve met before?” “He’s been following me since June. I see him everywhere I go. It happened the first few times in public places like on my walk home or when I go jogging, but then I started seeing him everywhere.” Your eyes open again. “Like, I’ve seen him on campus and in restaurants where I was eating. He was walking behind me the first time I ever went to Ilford for work, which is completely out of my way. He took the same tube as me once and tried to grab my hand.” You hear Harry’s knuckles crack across the table from you. “And how long ago was that?” “December twentieth.” “Have you ever come to the police with this information?” “Yes. I filed a report at the Lavender Hill station on the first of October and we went through some headshots but none of them were him.” You hear a series of keystrokes. “Yes, I see your file here. And can you describe what happened today?” “I was picking up some archives at the Ilford Historical Society–” “For school?” “Yes. I’m a research assistant. They have a postbox under my advisor’s name. I usually pick up the archives for the week on Thursdays, but I didn’t get around to it until a few hours ago. It’s usually just three or four storage boxes but today there was a sealed yellow envelope—” Your voice runs higher, choked. You turn away from Harry as you swallow another wave of emotion, but your voice is hardly any different when you begin speaking again. When you turn back, Harry’s hand is a little closer to yours on the table. “Today there was this big yellow envelope with my name handwritten on it and I figured it was just something from my advisor, so after I carried everything to the car, I opened it, and it… there were all these pictures of me.” “Are you able to tell where these photos were taken? What you were doing in them?” Your bag sits half open on the table beside you; you can tell without looking that Harry’s followed your eyes to the mustard yellow envelope poking out the top. You don’t want to open it again. You don’t have to. The images are burned behind your eyelids. “There’s one of me on the tube looking at my phone. Another one of me leaving the shops. There’s a few at the gym.” You sniffle. “Most of them are taken through the window of my flat. They must’ve been across the street because you can see me through the blinds and I’m—when I don’t…” You stare at the edge of the table. “When I’m undressing.” You lean your forehead into your hand. Harry is stock still across from you. The pause before the officer speaks again feels like it stretches forever. “Can you tell when the most recent photo was taken?” It takes a beat to admit, “It’s from two nights ago,” and the words taste bitter in your mouth. The clack of a keyboard is audible again through the phone. “You said you’ve been to the Lavender Hill station before? Have you reported these photos yet?” You gather your thoughts. “I was going to go straight there, but I wrote these long descriptions of all the past times I’d seen him. The officer I spoke to the first time I went in, she told me to write down absolutely everything I remembered, so I did—the times of day I’d seen him, where I was, what I was wearing… She said having my own record would help my chances of opening an investigation. I keep all of that at home in my flat, so I decided to go home and grab my notes to bring with me to the station, along with the pictures. I borrow my best friend’s car to commute to Ilford, so I drove straight home.” “And what happened when you got home? In the car park?” You take a deep breath. And then another. Your eyes squeeze shut again. “Take all the time you need.” “I turned into the car park… I pulled into my usual spot. I took off my jacket and left it in the passenger seat, thinking I would come back to it in a minute. I got out of the car and locked it… ” You swallow dryly. “I heard a car door shut behind me. I turned around and saw the man—I recognized him.” “Do you remember what he was wearing?” “He was wearing, um, black gloves, a grey sweater, black jeans, and I think his shoes were black too.” You frown at your hands. “I could hear how quickly he was walking up behind me. I tried to get away, and he—” You swallow. “He grabbed me. Or at least, he tried. He tore the seam of my sweater and I managed to like, pull away. And then I just ran. I was too scared to try the lift so I just took the stairs all the way up to the lobby. But he followed me.” Your eyes flicker up to Harry absently before you go on. “Harry was in the lift—the—my neighbor, so I ran over and put my arm around him to make it seem like I wasn’t alone.” Harry nods at you from across the table. “And the man was able to follow you into the lift?” The tips of your fingers ache at the memory of slamming desperately into the close door button. “Yes.” “Did he try to communicate with you in any way?” You shake your head and then remember she can’t see you. “No. He was just staring at me.” “Has he ever approached you or tried to make contact before?” “Just the one time on the tube and the pictures.” “Were you followed out of the lift?” “No.” “And you’re in your neighbor’s flat now, is that right?” “Yeah.” You run your sleeve beneath your nose with a sniffle. “And the man knows which floor you got off at?” ”Correct.” “Do the windows in both of your flats face out on the same street?” Your stomach drops. “Yes… They do.” “I want you to remain calm and stay on the line, can you do that for me?” It’s deadly quiet as you and Harry look at each other. You feel eerily as though you’ve wound up in a Hitchcock film. “Yes.” “Move away from the windows and find a place in the flat that’s not visible from the street—” The legs of Harry’s chair are scraping the floor before you get the chance to react. “...and do not turn out any lights or change the way any of the blinds are positioned.” “C’mere.” Harry’s voice is gravely urgent. He leads you to the kitchen with a hand between your shoulder blades, and brushes past you to lower the blinds of a small window above the sink. Your eyes widen as your hand reaches toward him. “Harry—” He glances back, too late. “Don’t… ” You stumble. “Don’t fix any more of those.” He nods once. “Yes, don’t touch the blinds. Don’t change anything that would make it look out of the ordinary. If someone has been staking out your building from the same place across the street every night, you could give yourself away and put you both at risk.” “Okay.” Harry leans against the sink with his arms crossed, and you mirror him. “Since you already have a file on record and the whereabouts of this man are still uncertain, it might do more harm than good to have you come in again for questioning at this hour. But we’ll need you to come by first thing in the morning. You absolutely cannot go back to your flat tonight. He knows very well which unit is yours, and he’s clearly found access into the building somehow. Do not turn on the lights, do not fuss with the blinds, do not go to retrieve any belongings. If it’s something dire, an officer can escort you.” “Okay.” “And don’t leave the building, either. If you need a place to stay, there’s a section of the precinct that can hold you till morning. An officer will have to drive you there, too.” “Okay,” you parrot. “Listen carefully. It’s not forever, but right now we need you to keep yourself absolutely out of sight. Anything that could result in your being followed… Well, we would strongly advise against your taking unnecessary risks. We obviously want to keep you and anyone else involved as safe as possible.” “I understand.” “A patrol officer is en route to your address. He’ll stay posted outside the building for a few hours. If something happens, don’t hesitate to call. Is this a number we can redial if need be?” You look up to Harry; he nods fiercely. “Yes.” “Try to get some rest. You’re safe now, and we’ll see you first thing in the morning.” “Thank you, officer.” You pass Harry’s phone back to him before digging through your bag to retrieve your own. The dial tone rings in your ear as you turn to face the living room. You’re sent to voicemail. “Uh… hi, Mom. It’s me. Just give me a call back when you get this, okay? I—um… Everything’s fine I should just… give you an update, so. Anyways. Talk soon. Love you.” You set your phone down on the counter, but can’t manage to meet his eyes. Some part of you had been worried that he would judge you—or worse, pity you. He doesn’t speak, nor does he try to touch you. Your eyes are pulled towards two sets of rainbow-painted handprints stuck to Harry’s fridge—one large, one tiny. A wave of nausea washes over you at the imposition you’ve entitled yourself to, the risk involved, the implications. “Thank you.” Harry jumps at the sound of your voice. “For everything. I should—” you loop an arm through the strap of your bag— “I should go.” “Woah, woah, woah… ” Harry catches your arm before you can take three steps. You freeze. He releases you immediately. “And go where? You heard the officer, yeah?” He’s shaking his head slowly. “You can’t go back to your flat.” “I did hear her,” you counter. It comes out more curt than you had meant it. “There’s a safe place for me to sleep at the precinct… Thank you again, I can show myself out.” “That’s ridiculous—” You turn away and he says your name, once, imploring. It’s more of a plea than a demand, keeping you still. You still have your eyes on the door, but since you’re no longer moving, Harry goes on. “You can stay here, it’s fine. I’ve got a spare bed n’ all. You can sleep in Vi’s room.” Your resolve wavers. His voice is a pitch softer as he asks, “What is it?” Your mouth hangs open a moment before you can find the right words. “I don’t—we don’t…” We don’t know each other seems far too accusatory with everything that’s transpired between you, especially after tonight. You grind your teeth, reeling the words back. Harry’s fingers touch your elbow, hesitating, and when you don’t pull away he wraps his hand gently around your arm. Tears well up in your eyes and you can’t blame them on the guilt, fear, or relief alone… all of it at once leaves you itching to escape. “We’re practically strangers,” you settle on finally. “I put you in danger, and I put your family in danger—” Harry’s thumb rotates in tiny circles in the crook of your arm, a touch so light you can barely feel it. You think unbidden of the lift on New Year’s Eve, and the brush of his lips over yours. You want to fall headlong back into that memory—to abate what is shaping up to be one of the worst nights of your life. “I’m Harry.” You blink. “What?” He smiles at you—a quick, sanguine flicker of a thing. “I’m Harry… Styles. I’m twenty-six. I graduated from Kings with a Bachelors in Art History and Psychology. I’m an Administrative Assistant to the Director of the National Gallery—” his smile is real now, wider— “But sometimes I pick up shifts keepin’ an eye on the gallery for the extra few quid… I have a daughter named Sylvia. She’s almost five. I get her every other week. I grew up in Cheshire. I have a sister named Gemma and my mum’s name is Anne.” You sniffle. “Why are you telling me all this?” “So you and I aren’t strangers anymore.” You have no idea how to respond. “You’ve never been here before,” Harry continues. “If someone’s been keeping close tabs on our building, then maybe this is the safest place for you right now. If I felt you were putting my daughter in harm’s way—” you open your mouth to speak and he raises a finger— “I would ask you to leave… As it is, if you go now, I feel that I would be putting you in harm’s way… And I don’t want to.” The two of you stand at a stalemate. “Please don’t make me.” Harry lets go of your arm and eventually backs up to lean against the sink again. You could leave if you wanted to. Eventually you sigh and drop your bag down to the kitchen floor with a thud. “Are you hungry?” Harry asks. “I was gonna fix something for myself anyway.” You shake your head. “I don’t think I could eat anything right now.” The more powerful urge is to erase this night from memory, to scrub away the feeling of a rough hand on your shoulder. You absently rub your thumb into the sleeve of your shirt where the grime from the door to the stairwell had smeared. Your shoulder is still bare from the gaping hole. Harry tilts his head, as if he’s going to say something more, but you blurt, “Could I use your shower actually?” “Of course.” He leads you to the end of a brief hallway with three adjacent doors, only one of which is open. “Be back in a sec.” Harry emerges moments later with two folded towels, then flicks on the light as you trail behind him. Your eyes are immediately drawn to Harry in the broad mirror that covers the entire wall above the sink. His bathroom is virtually identical to yours, but it’s striking to see his familiar reflection somewhere outside of the lift. Harry pushes aside the curtain to the shower. “Fuck.” He sets the towels down on the toilet seat and hastily gathers up the army of rainbow rubber ducks lined along the rim of the tub, before yanking off a plastic water wheel suction cupped to the faucet. Clear synthetic stickers in the shape of cartoon rocket ships and planets cling to the shower wall which Harry peels off in a stack before scooping out a myriad of other colorful knick-knacks from the bottom of the tub. “Harry, you don’t have to do that.” “I’m just now realizing how mad this must look to someone who isn’t the parent of a four-year-old—” “Harry, please. You’re already doing so much for me. You don’t need to remodel your bathroom.” “Alright, well… ” Harry rises, brushing his hands down the front of his suit trousers with flushed cheeks and glasses halfway down his nose. He cards his fingers through his hair. “Just be careful not to step on those little sparkly buggers. They’re the most painful by far.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” You have to suppress an laugh at the image of him having stepped on every last toy in the tub enough to compare. “So, like, the red is hot and obviously the blue is cold but it’s very sensitive so I find it’s best to just leave it at about three o’clock—wait you…” Harry shakes his head with a frown. “You probably have the same one, don’t you?” You nod, wringing your hands. “Do you have a shirt or something I could borrow for after?” “Of course,” he almost cuts you off, disappearing into the hallway. You perch on the edge of the tub and run the faucet to adjust the temperature. There’s three raps on the door. “Come in!” you call. Harry squeezes through the door and you catch his eyes in the mirror. “Let me know if these fit.” You watch his reflection lift the clean towels, put down the bundle of clothes, and restack the linens on top with the ease of someone who’s clearly used to taking care of someone else. “Thank you, I’m sure they’ll be fine.” He nods and closes the door firmly behind him. Sylvia’s bath wrap, bright yellow and embroidered with her initials, hangs by its duck shaped hood on a hook next to the door. Steam is starting to rise from the shower. You take a deep lungful and step in carefully. Although childrens’ soaps and clutter are unfamiliar, the water pressure is the same as the shower in your apartment, if not better. It pounds down against your back and shoulders, and for a minute you let yourself just stand in the hot spray. It takes several seconds of inner coaxing before you can close your eyes and tilt your head back beneath the water. A hardened blue stare flashes in your mind’s eye, but you push it back determinedly. You think of Harry’s clear, level gaze. You think of the way he’d looked as he pinned a poppy to your chest—as he’d drank from that half-empty bottle of Prosecco. So you turn your attention to the soap instead. It’s strange to see the source of several of the mingling scents you’ve picked up from him in the lift over so many months, and even more strange to pick the bottles up and use them on yourself. But there’s something cathartic in the act of scrubbing yourself raw, especially the spot on your shoulder where you had to wrench yourself away from that painful grip. By the time the last of the shampoo and soap are swirling down the drain, buoying a tiny rubber duck that Harry had missed, you finally feel a bit more like yourself again. The towels are in easy reach. You wrap your hair in one, wind the other around your body, and tiptoe across the bathmat, wading through a junkyard of toys. A hotel toothbrush packaged in plastic lays atop the pile of clothes Harry had left, so you quickly brush your teeth before giving the bathroom a cursory tidy. You have to roll up the cuffs of his sweatpants to your ankles. You can barely see your own reflection, so you crack open the door to air out the steam a bit. Somewhere a kettle shrieks. You creep into the hall, clutching a neat bundle of your clothes and set your things down on the chest table in the entryway before joining him in the kitchen. Harry has changed out of his work suit and into a plain white tee shirt and grey sweatpants. Sundry, mismatched tattoos are scattered all along his left arm and it catches you by surprise. No rings. You have no idea what to do with yourself, faced with the reality that you’re standing in Harry’s flat, wearing his clothes, smelling like him. You lean gingerly against the counter, sort of surprising yourself as you blurt out, “I thought you said you were hungry?” Harry freezes, like he is both realizing you’re there, and also that he contradicted himself. “Lost my appetite I guess. Tea?” “I’d love some, yeah. If there’s enough water. Thanks.” “Sure.” You watch as Harry pulls down a veritable armada of teabags. “Gotta be prepared,” he says with a vaguely self-deprecating smile. “We take our tea seriously over here. These—” Harry gestures— “haven’t got caffeine.” Something tells you that an entire bottle of cold medicine couldn’t knock you out tonight. “Whatever you’re having is fine.” Your phone vibrates against your hip and you pull it out to skim the text from your mom. Hi honey. Sorry I missed your call, hope everything is alright… It’s late for you now so I’ll try back in the morning. Hugs. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as guilt taps you on the shoulder. You’re drained and it would be lovely not to rehash tonight’s events for a second time when you know it would do nothing but worry her. Since you’re in reasonably good hands, you lock your phone and shove it back into the pocket of Harry’s sweats. “How do you take it?” Harry murmurs. “With a little bit of milk, if you don’t mind.” He places your tea on the counter beside you before adding the milk. “I don’t mind,” he mocks your accent gently, and it bothers you how good he is at it. Harry passes you the mug. You raise it to your nose and inhale the steam. “Thank you, Harry, for being so… okay with all of this, and for just like, making me feel… ” You trail off, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to have, like, an ounce of normalcy tonight after all that.” You tuck a strand of wet hair behind your ear. Harry pushes his glasses up his nose with his thumb and idly plays with the tag hanging by a string over the side of his mug. “I’ve heard you take responsibility a dozen times tonight for the danger that someone else put you in,” he says after a minute. His eyes are vaguely unfocused, and trained on the blinds. “Tonight was not your fault. Like, you were smart, brave and all that, but you shouldn’t have had to be.” He takes a sip. “I’m glad I was there.” Harry doesn’t say anything else. It’s cathartic in a way you wouldn’t have expected, to hear him state it back to you so plainly and without nuance. There’s not a thing you could say to that in defense of the argument that you are indeed to blame. But there were other choices I could have made. I shouldn’t have gone running that morning. I should have known to be more vigilant, buying those groceries. It was reckless of me to choose sheer curtains. I should have apparated to class instead of taking the tube. The logic sounds absurd to you in a new way when held up to the light. You absently stir your tea; there’s an orange tabby painted on the ceramic. “Chowder!” Harry’s eyebrows fly up. “Sorry?” “My cat! He’s all on his own in my apartment.” “Does he have water?” “Yeah, and food. And he's a few years old so he’ll be fine. I just feel awful, he’s never spent the night alone.” You shake your head. “Sorry for making you jump, it just crossed my mind.” “No, it’s okay… Do you want—should I go up and check on him for you?” “No, no. That’s not necessary. I’m just, you know, a terrible cat mom.” “Ha!” Harry barks. It’s the loudest sound you’ve ever heard him make. “You don’t even want to… Oh Christ,” he shakes his head, creasing with laughter, “You have no idea.” “What?” You ask after a minute, unable to help yourself from joining in his laughter. His face is turning pink. “Do you have any idea how many nappies I’ve put on backwards? How many haircuts I’ve botched? I mean with my real, human child. I assembled both of Sylvia’s cribs upside down because the instructions were in Japanese. One after the other. It was the same fucking crib.” He deadpans your name at you. “Sylvia’s first word was fuck because Daddy couldn’t shake the habit of saying it all the fucking time.” “Oh my god.” “Yeah. We thought she was just a quiet kid, but then we were getting concerned that she wasn’t speaking by her second birthday. We took her to a speech therapist. So imagine you’re me, watching your daughter in her little highchair with her mum right up in her face, going, “Vi can you say ma-ma? And the child throws her binkie… and yells, Fuck!” You’re laughing so hard it’s completely silent. “Didn’t say it.” He swipes a tear from the corner of his eye, and it bumps up his glasses a little. “Yelled it. Not a thing wrong with her… Oh,” Harry sighs. “Annie wouldn't speak to me for a week.” He shakes his head. “That’s incredible.” “So, like, newsflash… ” He takes a sip of his tea. “Nobody has any idea what they’re doing. There’s no such thing as a perfect parent or, um—cat mum as you said.” “So…” you venture after a pause. “Annie?” Harry laughs once through his nose, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright. Fair.” He sets his tea down on the counter. “Thought maybe we’d get to have this conversation over Prosecco,” he says, chuckling dryly. “Sylvia was definitely… unexpected… ” Harry begins delicately. “But she’s, like the funniest person I know and also my favorite person on the planet. So… I dunno. It worked out.” He clears his throat. “She was conceived on the night I met her mum at a pub in Essex and that was that. Haven’t really looked back. Annie—Vi’s mum—is an amazing person. We were never in love or anythin’ even close, but she’s the best co-parent I could ever dream of.” “Vi’s a cute nickname.” “S’her first name, actually.” Harry smiles over the rim of his mug. “Lanh Vi.” His voice dips low and elongates the first syllable. “Lanh means gentle, happy. Vi is a family name. Annie wanted to give that to her parents, a proper Vietnamese name on her birth certificate. Sylvia’s sort of a good compromise for when she goes to school.” Harry stares at some middle distance, smiling like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “Annie’s parents took a little convincing that any of this was going to work out—mine too—but I love our unconventional little family, and I’m really looking forward to her wedding. Sylvia’s in store for two really incredible mums.” He looks back at you and shrugs. “It’s not such a bad life. Sometimes I wish there was a more exciting answer.” “That doesn’t seem like a bad life at all.” The corners of Harry’s lips drop a little the moment you open your mouth. His head is tilted slightly as though he’s trying to gauge your reaction. You try to mirror the same, reassuring smile he’d given you earlier, then cover a yawn with your hand. “What time is it?” you ask. Harry checks his phone. “Half ten—or just gone.” “No it’s not,” you frown, but he holds up his phone to show you. “Oh god…” “Time flies when you’re talking about parenthood.” He takes your empty mugs, setting them carefully in the sink. “Thank you.” Without turning around Harry announces, “I think I’m gonna have you sleep in my bed and I’ll take the air mattress in Sylvia’s room.” “No.” You shake your head. “Harry I swear if you insist on that, I’m calling a taxi to the police station.” “No, honestly… They’re the only two rooms in the flat with the blinds consistently drawn, and her room’s empty most nights anyway since I’m such a pushover.” It takes a moment for that comment to sink in and when it does you feel your heart melt a little. “You’ll sleep much better in my bed than on my inherited air mattress from the nineties.” “I won’t,” you lie seamlessly. “I don’t sleep well in new places anyway, so at least one of us should get a good night’s rest.” “Whatever makes you most comfortable,” he relents. You’re glad you don’t have to argue about it. “Thank you.” Harry leads you to the linen cabinet in the hallway and removes a cardboard box from the very top shelf. An enormous dust cloud falls like an avalanche down his shirt and he coughs hysterically, scrunching his nose. “Last chance to change your mind,” Harry croaks, wiping his glasses on the front of his shirt. You shake your head and he turns to the door across from his, where his bed is half visible in shadow. The two of you shuffle into a cubby of a room, and Harry drops the box onto the plush pile rug with a thud. Your neck cranes as you look around the tiny space, about as roomy as the lift. The walls are painted navy blue with silver and gold stars exploding in a galaxy across the walls, and your hand floats to your chest in memory of when Sylvia had pointed at you with a tiny finger, recognizing the shape at the end of the chain hung around your neck. Her bed frame is painted a deep, forest green and the two small pillows upon it are shaped like rain clouds. Plastic dinosaurs of all different sizes and colors line her windowsill. A small, homemade bookshelf is aligned by the bed. “You mind helping me spread it?” Harry’s voice brings you back down to earth, and you grab two corners of the plastic to lay out the mattress like a picnic blanket on the floor. It’s a tight squeeze, but at least it’s a queen. You look down at it with your hands on your hips, and Harry tilts his head, running a hand over his stubble. Harry steps back out into the hallway, ducking into his bedroom. You hear the creak of a closet door and shifting fabric as the beam of light from his room slants across the hall into Sylvia’s, illuminating a diagonal path right up through the wooden slats of her toybox. There’s a small, familiar shadow outline on top. You crouch down to pick up Jojo and his mother in one hand, running your fingers over the soft velvet of their floppy ears. It feels a little odd, to be so comforted by a child’s toy that doesn't even belong to you, but here you are. “I see you’ve found an old friend.” Harry leans against the doorframe, watching you. His arms are full with a clean sheet, spare pillow, and quilt. The fondness in his voice is hard to miss, but you wonder if it’s for his daughter, for the toy, or for you. “I would’ve thought Sylvia brought him to her mom’s, too.” Harry’s lips twitch with amusement before he puts the pillow and quilt on top of Sylvia’s dresser. “She used to take him everywhere.” He visits every corner of the mattress to tuck the sheet around. “Here, let me help you with—” “No, no, it’s always easier like this before you blow it up.” Harry steps into the corners of the room that aren’t completely swallowed up by the giant, deflated bed. He removes a paper lantern night light with constellation cutouts from its outlet, replacing it with the motor to the air mattress. “This part always takes a bit.” The small plastic box sputters into a whine and the mattress begins to inflate. “Just give it a few minutes… S’ old.” Soft whirring fills the room before he speaks over it. “We almost lost him on a trip to Brighton once—” he nods at Jojo, still in your hands— “Vi was inconsolable until we found him wedged between the bed and the wall in the hotel. Managed to convince her that leaving him at home—or at least only to Bridget’s on the first floor while I’m at work—was the best way to keep him safe.” He steals a glance at you and unfolds the massive quilt on top of the bed as it rises, before fluffing the pillow and tossing it to one of the long ends. “Then she started insisting on leaving him here on the weeks she spends at her mum’s.” “How come?” Harry’s smile is somewhere between pointedly self-deprecating and unbelievably loving. “Says she doesn’t want me to be lonely while she’s gone.” Before you can fully process all the ways your heart is both warmed and a little broken, Harry is disappearing into the hall again, returning with a throw blanket and fanning it out over the quilt. “Okay.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “That should do it. Do you want another pillow?” He turns to you suddenly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “I have a couple more on my—” “No, no. This is more than enough… Thank you again, Harry,” You reassure him with the understanding that this is goodnight. Harry runs a hand through his hair and a little puff of dust is drawn out. “If you, um—If you need anything, I’ll be… my bedroom’s just there.” He twists around to point. “Don’t hesitate to like… yeah, wake me up if you need—if you feel… ” He laughs once at himself, exasperated. “Sorry, I’m tired.” You shake your head and smile sympathetically. “So am I.” “Goodnight, then.” Harry backs out into the hallway. He pauses in Sylvia’s doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. At that exact moment, the motor clicks off and the sudden silence feels unbearably loud. “I want you to feel safe here.” The room is so still that you see the shadow against Harry’s neck bob as he swallows in the yellow light of the hall. His eyes are steady and clear. You take a breath in, and nod. “I do,” you say, steadfast. “I promise… Goodnight, Harry.” He shuts the door behind him. • saturday, 5th january 12:46 am •

There had been a knock, of that much you are sure. One solitary rap jolts you from sleep, followed by the raucous succession of a dozen more as you sit up on the air mattress. It stops for a moment. Then starts up again. “Harry?” you whisper into the blackness, your heart suddenly pounding. In your groggy trance, you weren’t sure the first time you heard it if someone was knocking on the door to Sylvia’s room, but by the time your eyes adjust, you’re sure it’s coming from farther away. It stops. You’re still for a minute, careful not to rustle the quilt. There is no sound apart from a faint siren in the distance. You unplug your phone from where it charges beneath the nightlight, squinting at its bright little face. 12:46. Perhaps it’s a police officer? Surely they would have announced themselves, wouldn’t they? You slide down the mattress and creep up to the door, pressing an ear against the wood. There is nothing but the echo of your own blood rushing in your ear. You have to close your eyes and count to three before turning the doorknob. Harry is already in the hall, the door to his bedroom left gaping. He turns to you and immediately brings a finger to his lips. The sound of an open hand smacking against the front door is unmistakable. Harry inches towards the noise. He freezes suddenly, then twists to look at you, reaching his hand back with fingers outspread. Stay here. Harry rounds the corner out of sight until it becomes unbearable to stand there a moment longer. You tiptoe in his wake, and move at the same time he does. The only light in the flat spills from his open bedroom. Here in hall, the shadows are long and dark and Harry’s expression is harder to make out until he glances over his shoulder. He nods at you once before training his eyes on the door again. Your feet move of their own accord, as though they have unilaterally decided that the safest place for you is as close to Harry as possible. It seems jarring to you, that this man in a tee shirt and boxers is the same man who, not a week ago, seemed like a piece of art with his burgundy suit and damp curls; the memory of loose limbs and laughter clashes against the image of him fraught before you. Harry peers through the peephole. Your eyes are cemented to the back of his head and you begin to feel dizzy, only just realizing you’ve been holding your breath. He tenses. In a freezing rush of dread, you suddenly know exactly who is on the other side of that door. You know you shouldn’t panic. Harry raises a finger to his lips again in another soundless imperative and you know—from a place that feels somewhere outside your body��that the last thing you should be doing is opening your mouth. But this is a terror hurtling beyond fight or flight. Your primary functions are in a deadlock with a searing hysteria clamoring for you to scream, and something desperately carnal that believes you could only survive this moment if you were silent enough. Harry is still gesturing at you to keep quiet. He turns his back to the door and approaches you, the weight of his gaze keeping you motionless. He reaches forward and presses his palm firmly against your parted lips. All of a sudden you’re just as close as you were in the lift four nights ago when he tasted like brandy and the beginning of something new. The look he had given you on New Year’s was playful and wanting. In this moment, however, a pair of hard and urgent eyes bore into yours, igniting the pit of your stomach with a different kind of fear. Harry wraps his free hand around your wrist. You blink and blink. Beneath the steel resolve in his face, a desperate question forms: Do you trust me? You want to answer but you don’t know how. So you just keep staring. He pushes you backwards, gently, leading you around the corner and down the hall, his hand cupped to your mouth all the while. Even if you’d wanted to glance at the front door, Harry’s gaze is a magnet to your eyes. He walks you all the way into his bedroom, until you feel the mattress on the backs of your knees. You’d fall if not for Harry letting go of your wrist to guide you down with a hand on your waist. His lips move soundlessly around the words, stay here, and you manage to nod. Only then does he release your mouth. Your eyes can only focus on the closet door directly in front of you. It takes every ounce of your concentration to just keep breathing so you don’t pass out as Harry doubles back out into the hall, leaving you on the edge of his bed. You can feel an outbreak of sweat around your temple and on the back of your neck. You know you’re shaking but that feels distant, too. You have no idea how long Harry is gone, you just know he closes the door upon his return. You’re still trying to pace your breathing as he crouches down in front of you. He has his phone to his ear. You can only catch a few of his words at a time. “My name is Harry Styles… previously reported an, um, incident involving… yes… no… returned… knocked on the door. No, he’s gone now… I waited, to be sure. But I—” There’s a pause. “I think he’s knocking on every door on this floor.” You hear something like a choked gasp. Only when Harry’s eyes dart to yours do you realize it was you. You have put the entire building in danger. “Yes, she’s still here.” His free hand reaches up to your knee as he listens to the dispatcher, but he seems to think better of it at the last moment, worrying the edge of the duvet between his fingers instead. “Right, yes. I understand. I will. Thank you.” Faint ringing replaces the feeling of water in your ears. “They’re sending someone,” he murmurs after hanging up. “He’s gone.” You hear that broken gasp again. “He’s gone, I promise.” Your shoulders cave inward when you feel the full, painful heave of your sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you cover your face. Harry’s hand lifts again. You shrink away and he immediately moves from you to stand. “I’ll be—” You seize at the first part of him you can reach, grasping a weak fistful of his soft cotton tee. Harry is completely still beneath your trembling fingers. He doesn’t pull away or move closer. He just hovers there, steady. “Please…” You want to ask him to stay. You want to ask for help. You want him to touch you so you know that you’re real—that you’re not in fact still trapped alone in the most terrifying part of a nightmare, but the words are unbearable. The sound of your name in Harry’s mouth undoes something inside you. Through your tears you finally lift your head to find his eyes. His expression seems torn, like he wants to comfort you but doesn’t know how. You’re not sure which one of you bridges the gap, but your forehead lands in the warm slope between his neck and shoulder and that seems to be all the confirmation Harry needs. His hands slide up your back to hold you as you all but collapse into him, crying with enough force that Harry draws you off the bed and onto the floor with him. He smooths one hand up and down the length of your spine as the other wraps so far around your back that you can feel his fingertips hooked over your hip. “S’ok,” he murmurs, his lips pressing into your temple like he intends to seal the words to your skin. Harry doesn’t try to shush you. “S’gonna be alright. ‘M here… I’ve got you. You’re safe… I’ve got you.” When your wracking sobs give way to hiccups and finally to something halfway controllable, he stops talking and just holds you, rocking ever so slightly in a sort of motion that only a parent can do. You have no idea how long you sit like that, a tangle of limbs and soaked collars and cheeks, until you’re finally able to speak. “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “You—” “None of that,” Harry says immediately. You feel his nose dig into your hair, his breath warm as he sighs. “I mean it, alright? No more apologizing for any of this. Might have to make you a jar like the one Annie has for me in her flat.” The thought is strange enough to pull you, however briefly, out of your current misery. “You have an apology jar?” He exhales sharply. “Swear jar, actually.” Your laugh bursts out unexpectedly, sort of wet and weak, but there nonetheless. You feel the soft stroke of his thumb on the back of your head. “That’s more like it.” You draw back and Harry’s grip tightens, just for a moment, before he releases you. He brushes your damp cheeks with the side of his palm before you can do it yourself. You see the same concentration he wore when he’d pinned that Remembrance Day poppy to your jacket. It takes effort to silence the instinct to be ashamed and keep his eyes. “They said it might be a bit before an officer can get up here,” he says, searching your face. “They’re puttin’ together a couple patrol teams to canvas the building and stay outside the rest of the night.” All you can think to do is nod. “Can I get you anything? Water?” “Please,” you reply, grateful. “I should—” you make a vague gesture at yourself— “clean myself up a bit.” Harry opens his mouth like he wants to comment, but just nods instead. You use his shoulder to push yourself to your feet; his hand covers yours and you feel his thumb running across your knuckles. You say, “Thank you,” but it’s not nearly enough. He squeezes gently, staring up at you and saying nothing. You walk on unsteady legs to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you even when you close the door. Lacing your fingers atop your head, you sigh at the tearstained, swollen-eyed version of yourself staring back at you in the mirror. After blowing your nose and splashing a few handfuls of water across your face, you join him on his side of the bed. His phone is in his hands. He finishes sending off a long, blue bubble of text before looking up and passing you a water from the nightstand. He runs the tip of his index finger around the rim of his own glass.

You bring the drink to your lips, then lower it immediately; the glass clacks against your teeth with the tremor of your hand. You can feel Harry’s eyes on you even though he doesn’t turn his head. Again, you try taking a sip with the same result and sigh. “I think I’m gonna try my parents again.” “Sure.” You set your water on the nightstand and head to Sylvia’s room, shutting the door behind you. You take a deep breath before collapsing back on the mattress. The stars rotating on the ceiling like a merry-go-round make you nauseous so you unplug the nightlight before dialing. Your mom answers after the first ring, emphasizing your name like a scolding. “Hi, Mom.” “What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night in England. Is everything alright?” “That’s actually what I need to talk to you about.” You hardly get a sentence in before you hear her rushing to get your dad and the three of you have an hour-long, emotional crash-course on the last five hours of your life. There isn’t too much to fill in as you’ve kept them more or less updated on the blue-eyed man and your previous trips to the police department. You assure them that you’re in one piece and that you couldn’t have wound up with a more generous host, but that doesn’t assuage your mom from insisting on speaking with the police herself. She makes you promise to stay on the line until the authorities arrive. Before long, you hear a light rap on your door. “Yes?” Harry cracks it open without peeking his head inside. “Police are here—take your time. I’ll go out and speak with them.” “Thanks, Harry… Mom, some officers just arrived I think.” You pinch your phone between your cheek and shoulder, softly close the door behind you. “I’ll call you back once we’re done with everything.” You rush through a quick goodbye and meet Harry in the entryway. He’s thrown on some gym pants and a sweater and his arms are folded across his chest. The fully-uniformed men seem bulky and out of place in the sixth-floor hallway, as though they couldn’t squeeze in Harry’s modest apartment. It’s not like you’re the one in trouble, but your heart skips a little anyway. “… every floor of the building and searched the surrounding perimeter with no sign of anyone matching the description, and from the security footage we seized, we can see that he pulled out of the car park about forty-five minutes ago.” “Okay.” Harry nods, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Alright. Great.” The officer who had been speaking turns to you. “And you must be the young woman who—” “Yes.” You jerk your head quickly. It’s more like an anxious spasm than a nod. “That’s me.” “We were just filling your neighbor in that we were unable to find the culprit, but the building and surrounding area seem to be clear. If at all possible, we think it would be best for you to stay here just for the night, then come straight to the station in the morning to make a plan.” You simply nod again. “I will.” “You’re flat 8F, is that right?” “That’s correct.” “Were any of these marks on your door before this evening?” The officer pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, unlocking it to reveal the last few pictures in the camera roll. Your stomach drops. He flips through several photos of a long, black streak above the handle of your front door, and a sizable ding in the wood by the door jam. The impact was hard enough to scratch the paint. “No,” you manage. “I don’t recognize those. Did he, um…” “The door didn’t give,” the officer says. It’s just reassuring enough to keep your knees from buckling. He turns to face Harry again. “And you’re certain that the man showed no signs of knowledge that she—that the two of you were in this particular flat?” “Yeah. I watched him make his way down, knocking on a couple more doors.” “Was he stopping by every door?” Harry takes a moment to think. “No,” he replies. “It seemed a bit random if I’m honest.” “Right. Well, keep an eye out for any unusual activity in the next few days, especially on this floor. Don’t hesitate to let us know if anything changes.” The officer looks to you again. “In the meantime, we’ll see you at the station tomorrow?” “Yes, um… ” You clear your throat as your cheeks warm. “I’m sorry. Would one of you be willing to speak with my parents on the phone? They’re a bit worried and want to talk to a professional.” You hold up your cell. “Of course.” After dialing for him, you hand the officer your phone and he begins to engage your mom in what sounds like a very animated, reassuring dialogue. You and Harry are leaned against opposite walls in the hallway, spaced out in exhaustion. You cover a yawn with your hand and catch him doing the same. Do you dare check the time? Your hands absently pat your front and back pockets, and you frown in trying to recall where you’d last set your phone. You roll your eyes in glancing up at the officer pacing in the entryway on the phone with your mother. “S’ just gone two,” Harry mumbles. You make a light noise in the back of your throat. “I’m sorry, Harry.” “That’s a tenner in the apology jar.” You breathe a laugh without humor, shaking your head back and forth against the wall. “I just can’t wait for this day to be over,” you whisper. “Would you like to speak with her again?” The officer’s voice clips into your half-conscious conversation. You hold out your hand and tuck the phone between your cheek and shoulder again as Harry thanks the officers one last time before showing them out. Apparently satisfied with the conversation she’d had with the police, your mother circles back to the matter of your current state of limbo. “You’re sure you’re comfortable staying with this neighbor? Where are you sleeping?” You can practically hear the alarm bells from across the Atlantic. “It’s fine, Mom. We’re friends… sort of.” Friends that drunkenly make out in the lift. “He has a spare mattress. I’m staying in his guest room.” She digests this information in silence. “I’m alright, I promise. It’s just for tonight.” There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “I want you to call us, alright? No matter what time it is here or there, I want you to check in with us every day until we know for sure you’re absolutely safe.” “I will,” you vow. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I’m exhausted.” “Right yes, go get some rest. We love you.” You swallow with a little difficulty. “Love you too.” Harry’s idling by the sink with your empty glasses. “Sorry about that,” you say, and then wince when he gives you a sidelong look. “They can be a bit protective.” He shakes his head, his expression somehow more grave than you were expecting. “I know exactly how they feel.” Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he says into his palms. “I’m knackered.” “Yeah, of course… Get some sleep.” You hesitate. “You sure there’s not anything else I can get you?” “I’m sure.” He pinches softly just above your elbow. “See you in the morning.” Harry disappears into the hall. You listen to the sound of his bedroom door click shut before tilting your head to the ceiling and letting your eyelids close, literally twenty feet below your own apartment. You could probably throw a basketball higher than that. You sigh and look back down at your phone on the counter, quickly drafting a text to India and then deleting it. For a minute you stay like that, a statue in the pale light of Harry’s kitchen—the relic of a girl who woke up this morning unscathed. It’s probably for the best that you get some sleep tonight, but standing in front of the nursery with your hand on the doorknob, you can’t bring yourself to face the pitiful air mattress again. You turn to Harry’s bedroom door in defeat. Who on earth are you trying to fool? Heart hammering, you swallow your pride and crack open the door to Harry’s bedroom, stepping gingerly inside. It shuts behind you with a delayed click-click, impossibly loud. Nothing apart from blackness is visible before you, but suddenly comes the sound of a long breath in from somewhere in the room. Blankets rustle. Your fingers tighten on the doorknob behind you. With a tink, soft, yellow light spills over every surface in Harry’s bedroom. His nose scrunches and eyes squint. His hand flounders once against the nightstand before he locates his glasses, pushing them swiftly onto his face. Harry’s expression relaxes as he props himself up on one elbow to get a better look at you. Your face stings with heat, but you hold your ground. His eyes are soft, careful, yet strangely unaffected. Without a word, or the slightest suggestion of ambivalence, Harry reaches out an arm to the opposite side of the mattress, and tosses the corner of the duvet halfway down the bed before meeting your gaze from across the room. It feels like a weakness, to cave and accept his offer. You want to explain yourself, suddenly, but there are no words for this time of night and the chasm you’re hanging over by your fingertips. So you approach the bed in silence and slide beneath his covers. Backs turned to each other, you curl up so far from Harry that your knees hang over the edge of the bed. You hear the cool sliding of blankets once more before absolute stillness. The last image of your day is the dim, golden glow of Harry’s lamp vanishing on the ceiling. • saturday, 5th january 4:07 am • It’s disorienting, adjusting to a room you can immediately tell isn’t your own, momentarily teetering between asleep and awake. It’s even more disorienting when you realize that you are not alone. There’s a knee between yours and a heavy arm slung over your waist. You’ve migrated to the center of the bed somehow during the night, flipped on your back. But what draws your attention the most is the warm breath in the curve of your neck. “Harry?” It was the asleep-half of your brain that had thought to croak his name. You don’t know what kind of reply you’re expecting to receive in this blue, small morning hour. Perhaps you won’t get one at all. Perhaps you’re dreaming. You stare up at the ceiling. If you close your eyes now, would you even remember this come dawn? But the grip around your waist tightens, just for a moment, before you feel his body slide up against yours, a sigh fanning over your cheek. “Yeah.” Harry’s voice is low and gravelly, but unmistakable. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest through the fine cotton of the shirt he’d loaned you, and he sounds surprisingly alert. A small silence lingers. “Alright?” Your eyes stay trained on the ceiling. Are you? Part of you wants him to clarify the question: are you alright after everything that happened tonight? Are you alright… with this? “Yeah,” you breathe. Harry doesn’t say anything else. For a moment you think he’s fallen back asleep but then he shifts closer to you. You watch as the shadow of his arm reaches over your body for your hand—you had left it open and maybe a little vulnerable beside your head on the pillow. You can feel the calluses on Harry’s fingertips as they slide up your palm and find the space between yours. You don’t dare turn your head because there is a question in your eyes that you realize you can no longer ignore, and you are afraid of his answer. So you close your fingers around his and do not speak. Harry exhales. You’re hyper aware of the way his body relaxes as he squeezes your hand. You take a deep breath. You know it’s no use wondering whether or not Harry is going to remember this in the morning. Even if this is a dream, you cannot deny that you’re warm and you’re safe and that you will remember, possibly forever, regardless of whatever happens or doesn’t happen between you. It’s a vaguely scary thought. You close your eyes.

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction

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gripefroot · 4 years ago

Text

Got You in Stitches

A crunch beneath his foot draws Bucky’s attention downward - baffled, too early in the morning still to think very hard, he frowns at the sight of a crinkly shopping bag with a sticky note attached. He lifts his foot, but the words are upside down. He sighs, and bends down to scoop it up.

Hey B - these ripped from the tag, could you fix them up? I promise I’ll make it worth your while. Signed with a winking face, and he snorts.

What will it be this time, he wonders. Socks? Sweater? Holster? Now that had been a privileged afternoon - carefully stitching up a tear in your thigh holster as you’d watched on.

He’d been naked. So what? So had you. He’s good with a needle, anyway.

It’s not socks.

The bag opens in his hands, and a waterfall of silk slides between his metal fingers. Bucky holds back a squeak of surprise - it’s not very Winter Soldier-y to squeak - but his heart is definitely beating fast as he realizes you’ve asked him to repair torn panties.

The hole along one side is easily found, and it’ll be a simple fix. All that time in the Army had left him with numerous skills - stitching up torn clothes is merely one of them.

Wait - is that - a flash of purple? That’s odd, and the pinch between his brows return. Purple bows at the hips. Very odd - your collection of lingerie is pretty much exclusively black on black on black, apart from that one, stunning ruby-red piece that he can’t even think about without getting…

Well, there it goes. His face flushes hot, and Bucky wrinkles his nose as he slips back inside his room and closes the door. Might as well get this fixed before breakfast - who knows what sort of surprise you’ll have later that day, to thank him for his (admittedly minimal) effort…

Plus he won’t have to show off a boner in his loose pajama pants to anyone else digging into their early morning cereal.

He finds the late morning cereal-eaters, though. Just an hour later (he’d decided to shower, and clean off the scent of your sheets and perfume from the previous night, which he remembers with a fond, sloppy smile), Bucky strides into the kitchen with distant, happy thoughts of that underwear - and stalls.

A detestable sight, half-hidden behind colorful boxes of cereal more sugar than grain - a giggle, a kiss, and slurp of spoon between lips. Toes tucked beneath legs.

Disgusting.

“What is this, Christmas under the mistletoe?” Bucky drawls - Clint breaks guiltily away from the embrace with a furtive glance, but 41 just beams.

“Morning, Bucky!” she crows. “Sleep well?”

He grunts, shuffling over for a bowl and spoon. Lets Clint stew - Clint picks up a spoon again, hands safely busy with eating, and Bucky feels a little better. Doesn't stop him from glowering as he sits across from them at the table, pulling over one of the colorful boxes. The cereal trickles loudly into the bowl, but not loud enough to drown out a soft giggle. He looks up to see 41 winding her fingers into Clint's with a secret smile.

“Did you sleep well, squirt?” he deadpans, eyes trained on Clint.

“I did!” 41 chirps. “Never better.” This with a little tapping of her fingers, a brightness to her eyes. Clint gulps, and Bucky reaches for the milk.

He doesn’t ask Clint if he’d slept well.

Halfway through his cereal a reprieve from the lovebirds comes - in the form of you, of course, bounding in cheery and fresh and not at all looking as though you’d kept him up until two in the morning, for just one more, Buck, just one more. Bucky flushes red, he’s sure of it, and shoves more cereal in his mouth as he surreptitiously admires the work-out clothes you’re in.

“Morning, 41. Clint.” A pause, and your fingers curl over the globe of an orange, perched in a fruit bowl as your eyes dance with mischief. “Bucky.”

Oh, even your saying his name brings back rushing memories of last night and so many others. He tries to swallow his cereal.

“Hey, 28!” 41 is beaming over the cereal boxes, though Clint is still eyeing Bucky warily. Bucky scowls back. “What brings you here so early? Briefing isn’t until four!”

“Came for a workout.” Fingernails dig into the skin of the orange, squirting juice - Bucky clears his throat, spoon clattering in the bowl.

“Smart,” 41 nods wisely. “Avengers Tower has a much better gym than that old one at SHIELD headquarters, remember?”

“I remember,” you smile, and it’s a dangerous one. “I remember sitting in the rafters and counting how many agents sneezed on the weights during flu season. I think that’s the only time I saw you put candy back in the bag, 41.”

Gagging noises from Clint, who now looks a little green around the gills. “That’s disgusting,” he says with a shudder.

“Almost as disgusting as you kissing 41,” Bucky cuts in.

“Bucky,” you interrupt, as 41’s brow creases in indignation, and Clint sinks, horror dawning, behind a cereal box. “I was wondering if I could use those ankle weights you let me borrow...that one time.”

He remembers “that one time.” It had involved an exercise ball, an empty gym, and diving behind a weight machine with his shorts around his ankles when Natasha had come in, whistling a tune, to use a treadmill.

“Sure,” Bucky says casually. “I’ll go get them.” Stands, takes his bowl to the sink. Wishes the kitchen was empty so that maybe he could hoist you onto the counter and kiss you silly - but he imagines he might get to do that anyway. Somewhere else. When 41’s bright gaze and Clint’s frightened one aren’t so near.

“Thanks,” you say, equally nonchalant. Teeth sinking into a section of orange as he passes, the sharply sweet citrus is heavy in his nose, and juice beads on your lips.

Bucky adjusts his pants before coming ‘round the counter, and heads towards his room.

The neat stitch along the side is barely noticeable. Perhaps his finest, most delicate work - and falling back on his bed, twirling the panties on one finger as he waits for your inevitable appearance - he’ll be sure to extract proper compensation for it. The potential curls his lips into a smile. Flesh hand behind his head, and the panties twirling ‘round metal, a contrast he rather likes.

Wait - is that...

Smile freezes. Panties stop swinging. Holding them closer to his face, he notices, for the first time, an embroidered purple symbol at the front of the underwear. It looks like...an arrow. An arrow? That can’t be right. It’s brutally familiar - emblazoned on a locker at the gym, on a weapons unit downstairs, on a door just down the hall, on -

Wait. Why...

A tap, tap tap, tap, tap tap on the door - heart skipping a beat, Bucky glances over - your sparkling eyes through the crack in the door, and with a quick glance over your shoulder, you sidle into the room. Throat dry, he doesn’t speak for a moment, and you slide the lock home with a quirked brow.

“That’s your idea of staying low-key?” you ask with amusement. “Wandering off to your bedroom to get ankle weights that are definitely downstairs at the gym?”

“Well - you suggested them - and hold on for a second.” Brows furrowed, Bucky swings his legs over to sit at the edge of his bed, panties still in hand. You wander over, that sly smile ready to undo him the moment he’s ready, and he swallows. “Babe.”

“Bucky.”

“Why is the Hawkeye symbol on these panties you wanted me to fix for you?”

A blink. Then a bursting laugh, and Bucky stares. “Oh, these aren’t mine,” you say, clearly amused as you pick the repaired panties right out of his limp hand, folding them neatly against your belly. “They’re 41’s.”

“They’re - ” A rushing in his ears, red spots blocking his vision. “They’re what?”

“41’s,” you repeat patiently. Place them on his nightstand, and move instead to thread your fingers through his hair, but he doesn’t notice.

“Babe…”

“Hmm? What is it?” Little kisses along his neck now - he must’ve missed you climbing into his lap, because he just blinks stupidly as you settle against him; lips against the hot skin of his throat, with a little sigh that would usually turn him to pudding -

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Clint?” You pull back, and that smile - oh, you’re not taking him seriously at all. Crossly, Bucky settles his hands on your waist, digging in to soft flesh to drag you closer.

“Yes, Clint. He’s - babe, he’s - he’s ruining 41! He’s desecrating her.”

“She bought the underwear herself, not him,” you point out, quite reasonably. “I was there.”

“You were - ” More shock, more horror. “Babe - !”

“There was a sale! All Avengers underwear and lingerie, fifty-percent off.”

Bucky is sure he’s swimming out of his depth. His little knowledge of women’s underthings (apart from yours and how to get them off), and the prospect of Clint - Clint doing those things with 41 - 41, so sweetly innocent and content in life, and if Clint hurts her, Bucky will dislocate every bone in his sorry body, and put them back in, and dislocate them again...

“Earth to Bucky,” you coo, and he jerks back to the present. Your face tilted towards his, lashes lowered. “You didn’t even ask what I bought.”

His mouth is dry. All thoughts of Clint vanish quicker than a snap.

“Babe,” he says hoarsely. “What - what did you buy?”

A smile that promises the fiercest of challenges, and his heart is beating fast. And then a purred offer: “Why don’t you find out for yourself, huh, soldier?”

His fingers, the flesh ones shaking, trail down the curve of your waist to the elastic of your shorts. The precipice of loving, a pretty cliff welcoming all pleasure below. But he stops.

“Two things,” Bucky grumbles. “And then we can have sex.”

“Oh?” A lifted brow, a waiting smile.

“First - we gotta talk about you pimping me out for clothes repair. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

A trilling laugh, and he can’t help it - he grins, too, sliding his fingers beneath the elastic to press into your soft, bare skin.

“And second,” he drawls. “I’m still gonna kill Barton.”

“But after, right?”

“After.” A beaming smile, a nudge of your hips - he falls back on the bed -

- and quickly discovers, to his delight, a crimson-red star planted on the left cheek of your underwear.

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bluebeardsbride-archive · 5 years ago

Note

Where do you find the strength to go on? To live? To keep trying? To believe? I've lost myself and I'm completely undone. I'm not suicidal but I never want to leave my bed even though I haven't really slept in weeks. And yes, I'm getting help. It's taking longer than I expected to show results. I'm sorry for putting this on you, I just want to know what you do when you've lost all hope and faith? How do you comfort yourself?

I’m by no means a therapist, and none of this is a replacement for adequate medical care. This is what I do when I feel bad:

Get outside. Whenever I’m feeling really upset I go and pray in the woods.

I go on the treadmill for a half hour. I can’t believe I’m recommending exercise because six months ago I wasn’t very active and didn’t believe exercise would help me— but it did! The hardest part was getting started.

I clean my room! Do my laundry, wash my sheets, make my bed, organize my books. It’s a soothing ritual for me.

I take a break from electronics and do something with my hands. I make bread or embroider. Bread is very easy to make, and also very soothing: all you need is yeast, flour, and water.

Have structure in your life! I set my alarm for seven every day (except for weekends— then I wake up at nine!). This is where having a job or school can help (if they’re not too overwhelming). My weekday is usually like this: wake up at seven, at work from eight until five, come home, relax for a half hour, make dinner, set aside five minutes of writing time.

Try not to compare yourself to other people. This is probably one of the things I struggle with most.

For two minutes every day, I sit in the middle of my room and focus on my breathing. That’s it. Sort of like meditation.

Move from your room! Even if it’s just moving from the bed to the couch.

Write down all the mean things you say to yourself, and what made you think them. Doing this made me realize how awful I treated myself, and over very insignificant things.

Have spaces that comfort you: in the words of Joseph Campell, “[Sacred space] is an absolute necessity for anybody today. You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.”

Other things I do:

I have a few poems memorized that I recite when I feel overwhelmed: some lines from ‘The Second Coming’ by W.B. Yeats, ‘Bog Queen’ by Seamus Heaney, ‘Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind’ by Thomas Wyatt, ‘Me Tangere’ by Sara Eliza Johnson.

I watch European comedy films. Or Hannibal. Or any comfort show, really.

I call my dad. My dad and I are really close, so talking to him always settles me down.

I have a notes doc of ‘reminders’: quotes I put away to make myself feel better. Here are some:

this post and this post

“As a child I thought a great deal about meaninglessness, which seemed at the time the most prominent negative feature on the horizon. After a few years of failing to find meaning in the more commonly recommended venues I learned that I could find it in geology, so I did… I found earthquakes, even when I was in them, deeply satisfying, abruptly revealed evidence of the scheme in action. Later, after I married and had a child, I learned to find equal meaning in the repeated rituals of domestic life. Setting the table. Lighting the candles. Building the fire. Cooking. All those soufflés, all that creme caramel, all those daubes and albondigas and gumbos. Clean sheets, stacks of clean towels, hurricane lamps for storms, enough water and food to see us through whatever geological event came our way.” (Joan Didion)

“I also am other than what I imagine myself to be. To know this is forgiveness.“ (Simone Weil)

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.” (Frederick Buechner)

“A long time ago, when you were a wee thing, you learned something, some way to cope, something that, if you did it, would help you survive. It wasn’t the healthiest thing, it wasn’t gonna get you free, but it was gonna keep you alive. You learned it, at five or six, and it worked, it *did* help you survive. You carried it with you all your life, used it whenever you needed it. It got you out—out of your assbackwards town, away from an abuser, out of range of your mother’s un-love. Or whatever. It worked for you. You’re still here now partly because of this thing that you learned. The thing is, though, at some point you stopped needing it. At some point, you got far enough away, surrounded yourself with people who love you. You survived. And because you survived, you now had a shot at more than just staying alive. You had a shot now at getting free. But that thing that you learned when you were five was not then and is not now designed to help you be free. It is designed only to help you survive. And, in fact, it keeps you from being free. You need to figure out what this thing is and work your ass off to un-learn it. Because the things we learn to do to survive at all costs are not the things that will help us get FREE. Getting free is a whole different journey altogether.” (Mia Mckenzie)

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories… water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.” (Clarissa Pinkola Estes)

“We cannot live in a world that is interpreted for us by others. an interpreted world is not a home. Part of the terror is to take back our own listening. To use our own voice. To see our own light.” (Hildegard von Bingen)

“You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.” (Joan Didion)

“The aim is to balance the terror of being alive with the wonder of being alive.” (Carlos Castaneda)

“Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.” (George Adair)

“If you remember better times you know they were lies, because they led to this.” (Alice Notley)

#Anonymous #advice #whispers

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 5 years ago

Text

Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: Twenty- Three

“Y/N,” Bruce scolded gently, reaching over to slow down your treadmill, “easy, sweetheart.” You bite your tongue and take a deep breath. Honestly, you’re just thankful Bruce is still letting you do anything at all. You’ve got three weeks left to go and as the days tick down, he’s a bigger mess. “Bruce,” you say, giving him a look. The scientist smiles sheepishly and takes a drink of water.

He watches you discreetly after that. Looking for any sign of distress or discomfort. You’ve been having more back pain and the starts of contractions for the last week. Lea and Medical are both in agreement that you could pop at almost any time. When you’ve finished the little bit of your workout Bruce can handle you doing, he breathes an internal sigh of relief.

“C ‘ mon, sweetheart,” Bruce says, kissing you softly, “Let's get a shower and get you off your feet.” You smile and press into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, “Baby,” you soothe, “ I’m fine, I feel fine.” He sighs, “But,” he starts. You kiss him, “It’s all normal, sweetheart. There’s nothing to worry about. Yeah. Harper could come at any time. That’s normal too. Babies set their own schedules.” You take his hand and tug him after you. Even if you’re a little irritated right now your feet and your back to ache terribly and you wouldn’t mind a rub down and some tea. He chuckles and follows after you, thankful that you were healthy and that you felt well enough to be irritated at him for coddling you. He’d read about everything that could go wrong. All the ways you could be hurt or killed. Everything that could go wrong with the baby. You’d banned him from reading anything else after he spent the whole night falling down a hole of incredibly rare diseases and pregnancy-related problems and going over every detail of your chart, quietly fretting while you slept.

The whole thing had culminated in him hulking out and lifting you out of bed carefully, rushing you to medical and insisting that there was something wrong. He’d scared you to death and you’d burst into confused tears, making things worse for Hulk. He’d not understood why you were crying and hadn’t known how to fix it. It had been a rough night for everyone and after that, Bruce was not allowed to read anything related to your pregnancy or the impending birth. He still worried but he was a lot less anxious, and that was an improvement.

In your rooms, he starts the shower and he gets a little more insistent about kissing you. It feels good, feeling you warm and eager in his arms. He lets you undress him and returns the favor before helping you into the shower. He can’t refuse you when you stroke his prick and suck a soft mark into his chest. Bruce hadn’t intended for things to get filthy while he helped you clean up, but he’s not disappointed by the turn of events. He loves when things are slick and soapy. The feel of your skin under his hands and how easy it is to make you breathless and needy as he toys with your hormones. “You sure, baby?” he asks softly, palming your cunt as he kisses your throat. “Yes,” you pant, “Please?” Bruce turns you around gently and waits for you to get positioned comfortably. “This won’t hurt you?” he asked, hesitating. “It might help put me in labor properly,” you tell him, “But it won’t hurt me.” Bruce nodded and kissed your shoulder, pushing into you gently and reaching around you to cradled your breasts in his hands. You moan softly and he starts to thrust gently. He could get you both off in moments if he wanted with how sensitive you are, but right now he wants to enjoy this. More importantly, he wants you to enjoy this. A lazy slow afternoon of lovemaking and cuddling. You deserve it. And, Bruce reasons, if you’re blissed out and lazy, you aren’t stressed.

He focuses all his attention on you, coaxing you into orgasms one after another until he spends inside you. When he wraps his arms around you slowly, petting your stomach and nuzzling your spine, he smiles softly, “Good girl, he praises, “Always so good for me.” You let him help you out of the shower and he dries your skin carefully before leading you to the bedroom and starting to smooth lotion over you while you sit on the edge of the bed. He kisses your stomach and smiles when your fingers slide through his hair and you sigh. “Just relax,” he says softly, “Let me take care of you today?” You smile, “I don’t see how I could say no,” you hum, “you’re really good at that.” Bruce preens a little and arranges your pile of pillows so you can lay back, “I gotta take care of you,” he said simply. He helps you into some panties and an oversized shirt before laying you back gently. You sigh and pull him next to you where you want him and cuddle close. You need him nearby. It makes you anxious when he isn’t there to hold you while you sleep. Bruce smiles tenderly and pets your tummy, “Nap time?” he chuckles. It doesn’t take much to wear you out, but he knows that you’re fine. Just pleasantly tired after having been loved properly. You yawn and close your eyes, “Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m sorry,” you say softly.

He kisses your head and keeps rubbing your belly lovingly, “You can be lazy, baby,” he soothes, “I’ll be just as happy to be at your service when you wake up.” Under his fingers, he can feel Harper moving. He imagines she’s probably a little irritated and cramped as she grows too big to be comfortable. He smiles softly as you fall asleep and follows suit, happy to have his girls warm and safe. It’s a nice day. A perfect Sunday. Slow, lazy lovemaking and Bruce feeding into your need for attention happily. He’s never minded that. You never really gave a fuck about gifts, but you do like attention. All the attention he’ll give you. Bruce adores when you’re feeling a little needy and snuggly. It’s the easiest to keep you safe then because you stick to him like glue. He knows it’s your biggest love language. Touch, attention, time. And he’s happy to give you all of it.

_________

It’s getting late when Bruce looks up at the clock with a sigh. You’re still in your workshop, desperately trying to finish up some things and tie up loose ends before you go on leave. It’s getting closer to midnight and he’s a little worried. You should be in bed. Or at least on the couch with your feet propped up. So he makes his way to the shop, mentally preparing to coax you into coming with him. He pauses at the door and smiles a little. You’re sitting on top of your desk, cross-legged and munching on an apple as you stare at your chalkboard. He knows what “stuck” looks like when he sees it.

“Hey, beautiful,�� he says, kissing tart apple sticky lips when you look up at him. “Hey,” you say smiling a little. “How’s work?” he asked. “The magical equivalent of algebra and I hate it,” you grouse, “Fuck alchemy.” Bruce chuckles and holds out his hands to help you off the desk, “How about you fuck me instead?” he teases. You let him help you down and stretch, “That does sound,” your voice trails off and you gasp. There’d been mild pains through the day. Just like it had been. You hadn’t thought much of it. It was just some discomfort that Lea and medical had been keeping an eye on. This pain was not that.

Warm fluid runs down your leg under your skirt and puddles around your feet on the tile. Bruce stands there frozen for a second and you look up at him, “I think it’s time,” you say swallowing hard. “Time?” Bruce stammers, “No. There are still two more weeks.” You wince and squeeze his hands, “No, babe. There isn’t. Harper’s coming now.” Bruce’s brain takes a few seconds to get traction but when it does, he helps you to medical and calls Lea. Your godmother was going to be doing the actual delivering. You felt more comfortable with it, and honestly, Bruce couldn’t fault you. Lea had been bringing babies into the world for centuries. The compromise was that she do it in medical. Just in case. Bruce wasn’t terribly comfortable with you giving birth in a house. Any house. Even if Lea’s was magically immaculate.

Once they got you settled, sans an IV to avoid you having to deal with needles, and with Lea there to advocate for you and help Bruce keep you as comfortable as you could be. It was time to wait. There was nothing to do really but monitor things. The only hiccup was a nurse, a new nurse, coming in with the things to give you an epidural and subsequently having a terrified witch threaten to hex her into the middle of next week. Beyond that, once they got you calmed down it was fine. Bruce was thankful Lea was there when it was time to push and you were exhausted and scared.

“Y/N,” she coaxes, “C ‘ mon. Push.”

“I can’t,” you pant, “I just can’t.” She smacks your calf lightly, “Try,” she coaxes, “your mother said the same thing. And here you are.”

You grip Bruce's hand and he feels his knees buckle. If you haven’t broken a bone in his hand he’ll be shocked. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” he praises, “ You haven’t hexed me. Or told me we’re never having sex again.” That coaxes a laugh out of you and he wipes tears away gently as you rally to push again.

“One more,” Lea coached, “ One big push, mama.” You do, crying out and sobbing for breath and if you hadn’t broken a bone or two in Bruce’s hand before, you did then. Black spots blossomed in front of his vision and he felt his stomach roll over as pain shot up his arm and he tried not to whimper. Harper was in Lea’s hands, bloody and screaming and suddenly he forgot how badly his hand hurt.

He helped Lea then, cutting the cord and helping a waiting nurse to get her ready to hand to you. Well. He tried to help. He was crying and not able to do much more than be in the way. But, as the nurse put her in your arms and you said your first hello, he was convinced you’d never be as beautiful to him as you were in that moment. He could taste tears on your lips as he kissed you softly and wrapped his arms around you. “She looks like you,” you say smiling up at him. Bruce tutted, “Silly girl, I told her I wanted her to look like you.” He smudged a kiss against your head and gently fluffed your pillows. “You can’t have everything you want, Bruce,” you snort.

_______

When you fell asleep, Bruce went to get his hand seen to. You had indeed put stress fractures in his hand in a couple places. Luckily, it wouldn’t need surgery. He’d just need to baby it and wear a brace. That done, he slipped downstairs to update the others properly.

Thor swept him off his feet in a bone-crushing hug and laughed when Bruce told them all that you were both just fine and you’d probably be up to visitors soon. “What happened to your hand?” Tony asked, looking up from pouring celebratory drinks. “She broke it,” Bruce said calmly, smiling a little. Steve sputtered for a second, “On purpose?” Bruce gave him a look and laughed, “No, of course not.” Natasha snorted and Clint looked a little horrified. “What?” Bruce said, “I wasn’t not going to hold her hand.”

“So you just let her break it?” Bucky asked. Bruce nodded, “She was pushing out a seven-pound 8-ounce baby. Without pain killers. A couple stress fractures aren’t that bad. She didn’t just do it for fun... She’s just stronger than she looks.”

“So,”‘ Clint said taking the shot he’d been handed, “Is Miss Harper green after all?” He had a shit-eating grin on his face and let Bruce chuck a pillow at him, “No, you cretin... She’s perfect.” There’s a round of teasing Awww-ing as Bruce visibly softens, thinking about his girls upstairs. “I want pictures!” Nat demanded, snatching Bruce’s phone out of his pocket. “You keep that,” he said, heading towards the elevator, “I’m gonna make sure they’re still doing okay.”

_________

Two years later

The Hulk is at your back, you sling magic and he flings robots, tearing them into pieces. You don’t have time to think about the fact that there’s a second baby on the way and you hadn’t told Bruce yet before everything happened.

You can’t think about Harper. At home with Lea waiting for someone to tuck her in. Thinking about her big dark eyes and messy curls makes tears sting your eyes. You have this awful feeling in the pit of your stomach. A feeling that you won’t be coming home. A feeling that crawls over your skin and crashes into reality for you as the Hulk inadvertently brings down part of a building on top of you.

The rubble saves the day but Hulk, in his despair, runs away. He hesitates just long enough to hear someone say you’re still breathing. But As Natasha calls out to him, he doesn’t turn. He hurt you. He could have killed you. Taken you away from Harper because he wasn’t careful enough.

The time on Sakaar passes in a blur. He isn’t sure how long he’s been gone but it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing but endless fighting. There are no other women. Not even the Valkyrie that reminds him so much of you. Driven. Smart. Ferociously kind. It makes the Hulk miss you terribly at the same time it soothes him. Until Thor arrives.

Thor throws a Monkeywrench in everything.

“Go away,” Hulk roars. He doesn’t want to hear about you. About your pretty house. Or the kids. Two girls. Bright and beautiful. “She misses you,” he blurts out. It hurts. It’s a blistering sort of pain, the kind the Hulk just can’t take.

As Bruce came back groaning on the floor he looked around, “Oh god. Where am I?” Thor helped him sit up and hurriedly handed him clothes, “A planet called Sakaar,” he said. “Y/N, Harper... Oh god. How long has it been?”

“Y/n, Harper, and Lyra,” Thor corrected gently, “It’s been two years.” Bruce covers his face this his hands and swallows hard, processing. “Lyra is yours,” Thor murmured, “Y/N was with child when you left. She had to expend a lot of energy to get them through a building falling on top of her, but. They’re healthy.” It’s all Bruce can do not to fall apart.

He left you.

He proved you right. All those anxieties you’ve ever had.

_________

When he makes his way to the house, Thor and his Valkyrie friend in tow. He stops the car and just stares. Harper is beautiful. Dark hair and dark eyes. All Curls and dimples and chubby kid adorableness. And Lyra. Lyra looks like you. A tiny, adorably chubby version of you as she totters along in the grass giggling as she chases a red ball. “I can’t do this,” Bruce said taking a shaky breath, “What if she throws me out?” Thor shook his head, “She won’t. When we thought you were dead, she never gave up. She’s been waiting for this since the minute she woke up and you were gone... Don’t disappoint her.”

The memory of tears welling up in your eyes gets him out of the car. It makes him stop and take a deep breath as Harper tears into the house yelling for you, “Mama, Mama, Mama,” she yells, “Uncle Thor brought friends!” You step out on the to porch, drying your hands and freeze.

“Bruce?” you ask softly. It’s music to his ears. You look almost the same. A few threads of white coming down from your part. Your hair is longer and you look more muscled. Less soft than you’d been even when he met you. You had harder edges now. He starts forward carefully and when you bolt into his arms, he stops and catches you, clutching you to him as your legs wrap around his waist and your lips find his. He tastes tears but he doesn’t stop. You feel like home. Still.

Neither of you hear Valkyrie whisper to Thor, “How did that idiot get a wife that hot?” Thor snorted, “She’s not his wife.” Valkyrie grinned, “So you’re saying there’s a chance?” Thor barks a laugh and scoops up both kids, carrying them into the house. “Uncle Thor,” Harper asks wide-eyed, “Who’s that?” Thor grinned and kissed her head, “That’s your dad.” Harper gave him the same Skeptical look Bruce had given him dozens of times and he chuckled. These were definitely his kids. “Promise,” he said, “Your mother doesn’t kiss just anyone like that.”

Tags: @lancsnerd @stevieang @golddaggers @blameitonthecauseway @qxeen-of-hearts @process-pending @xmarveled @beautybyfire, @etherealwaifgoddess, @mschellehitt

#Hulk x reader #Bruce banner x reader #fluff #angst #childbirth #Thor Odinson #Tony Stark #Steve Rogers #Natasha Romanoff #Clint Barton #Domestic Avengers

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years ago

Text

I Like Him

They might have gotten off to a rocky start, but near the end of 'Flashpoint' Thomas Wayne comes to think highly of Barry Allen. Enough so that he comes around to the idea that the speedster is in love with his son. He never so much as said it, but it was obvious to someone like him - the best detective in his reality.

So when somehow he comes back - with his son in tow - Thomas needs to let Bruce know how much he approves of their relationship.

Only Bruce doesn't have feelings for Barry Allen... right?

(ao3 link)

Bruce knows he should say something, his stare unnerving in most circumstances, but any attempt stalls in his throat as if stopped by some immovable barrier. Still, Thomas doesn’t say anything to turn him away. In fact he seems calm, like they weren’t standing guard at the lip of the Cave’s entrance waiting for their coming attackers.

“You know,” Thomas starts, “When Barry told me about you… about who you were and what should have been… I thought he was crazy. During the entire time we worked together every rational part of me screamed that it wasn’t going to work. That we were going to die. But a tiny piece… it had hope.”

He nods. “Barry does a great job of making a little bit of hope go a long way.”

Thomas agrees, glancing between him and the aforementioned speedster.“He’s a great man… I think he’s good for you.”

Bruce startles, thrown for a moment. “What are you…”

“I like him,” Thomas says, facing Bruce. He smiles like he knows a secret that Bruce is privy to as well. “And knowing you have Barry in your life… well, it gave me some comfort while the world ended all around me. To protect you when I couldn’t… to make you happy.”

Taken aback, Bruce breaks away from his father’s gaze. Unfortunately his eyes settle over to the other side where Barry’s blur zips around the Cosmic Treadmill. Bruce imagines what he must look like trying to put it together. Brows furrowed over blue eyes steely in their focus, and his jaw set - tongue peeking out as he’s seen countless times when Barry fully devotes himself to a task.

“I don’t,” Bruce fumbles, “We’re not -” A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, cutting him off.

“Son,” his father says, “believe me, the fact that he’s a guy is the last thing I’m worried about.”

“But -”

A crash sounds from far off, forcing their conversation to stall on an unfinished road. “They’re coming,” Thomas says, “You ready?” He pulls two guns out from holsters on his side, Bruce aware enough to notice the motion.

“No killing,” Bruce tells his father.

“It’s not like they won’t have it coming -”

He doesn’t waver. “No.”

They’re chopping away at the grandfather clock, seconds away from breaching the first line. While Bruce might not have enough ability to navigate the murky waters of relationships, there are a few things he can still strongly hold onto. And his unwillingness to kill is one of them.

Thomas flicks the safety off. “Fine, but you can’t stop me from maiming them.”

Soldiers leap down the steps, closing the distance between them and the Waynes. A tall, dark-skinned woman tackles Thomas, letting two of her friends circle Bruce. He pulls out his bat-a-rangs, body twinging from Thawne’s earlier abuse. Bruce stamps down the pain, however, and allows adrenaline to lead him through the choreography.

He drops down onto his back, kicking the first woman who charges him into the one waiting behind. Then, flipping back onto his feet, he launches the barrage of bat-a-rangs watching them explode in front of the waiting legion. Their shields can’t protect them from the concussive blowback, and one of their numbers falls into the deep chasm.

Bruce gives them no room to breathe, rolling a few pellets onto the ground before blocking an uppercut. The strike hid an even fiercer knee kick that rips a few of his stitches open. He staggers back a few feet, a hand pressed to his side. The group regains their bearings and readies their attacks. Luckily the pellets hiss and blast open, a growing foam washing over them.

The woman in front of him curses, her long red hair swaying as she stalks towards him. Her axe raised, Bruce readies a dodge for when she swings. She never does; the woman who attacked his father slams into her and sends them both crumbling to the floor.

Bruce looks at his father, a few cuts across his chest being the only injury. “Are you okay?” he asks him, hands relaxing from rock-like fists. Bruce tries to tell him ‘yes’, only the pain in his side rears back and has him biting back a gasp. He collapses into his father’s ready arms.

“Guys! Guys, I think I’m done!”

They turn to see Barry waving for them, a rebuilt treadmill to his side.

“Like I said,” Thomas whispers, carrying Bruce over, “he’s a real good one.”

Bruce blames the overwhelming hurt on his inability to give a response. The growls and shouts from the Amazons fade into the background as Thomas leads them both over to where Barry waits. He hands him over to Barry, Bruce straining to stay with his father.

“That was a scouting party,” Thomas says, “There’ll be more coming without a doubt. You two need to leave now.”

“No,” Bruce gasps, “You… what about -”

A loud rumble shakes the earth beneath them, cracking fissures in the cave walls and knocking stalactites into free falls. One shatters a few feet away, and Barry’s grip on Bruce tightens. “Bruce,” Barry shouts, “This place… it’s starting to tear itself apart!”

“But what about -”

“Bruce,” Thomas speaks over him, voice firm and face set with grim determination, “Bruce, please… this place was never meant to exist. I… I wasn’t supposed to live. But you can. With your family, your son, and…” He pauses, gaze briefly flitting over to Barry. “Stop letting the bat control your life… choose to be happy.”

Amongst the noises of the world ending Bruce hears the Amazons from before ripping themselves from their entrapment, alongside the echoes of even more flooding in. Barry pulls him towards the treadmill, one foot on it. He continues to fight, calling for his father.

“Barry,” Thomas addresses the other man, “Please look after him. Keep him safe.” The words weigh heavily on Bruce’s heart, he and Thomas the only two aware of what exactly his father asks.

“Of course,” Barry says, both him and Bruce on the treadmill. He runs, the electricity flying off the machine with each step. Bruce feels the lightning coursing through him, sparks flying every which way. Thomas watches them with a calm acceptance, shoulders set back and chin held high.

The scene fades from view the faster Barry runs. Thomas, the Amazons, and the Flashpoint reality disappears, and yet Bruce cannot calling for his father. He returns to that little boy in the alley, forced to sit in a dirty puddle while his trembled cries go unanswered. So distraught he barely notices the other speeding blur that passes them until Barry shouts his name.

“Thawne!”

Up ahead he sees the yellow-clad speedster chasing an unseen force, button in hand. Barry pounds into the treadmill with reckless abandon, Bruce’s hold on him tightening so he doesn’t fall off.

They chase for what feels like years but could possibly be seconds, never coming close enough to catch Thawne. Barry tries his hardest, reaching out and straining to snag the tiniest scraps of fabric. Before he could Zoom bursts forward with the aid of a second wind, tearing into some other facet of reality. The tremors of his speed causes the already shaky treadmill to come apart under them. Unable to travel further, he and Barry become spectators as Thawne confronts some so-called ‘god’. Stare in terrific awe because the villain disintegrates before their eyes, an unseen shadow proving his might. All that remains of their foe is a haunting scream.

“Bruce,” Barry says, now focused on the predicament at hand, “Bruce I need you to hold on. If you let go, we’re going to be lost -” The treadmill shatters, and they’re thrown more into the strange energy around them. Bruce, numb and exhausted, can only sense Barry fly away because the warmth at his side disappears and a rush of cold replaces it.

His last thought before the shock overtakes him is how he never appreciated how nice Barry’s presence made him feel.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce cannot sleep. In these instances he would usually slip into his costume and swing from the rooftops or sit at his computer and pull pieces from a crime scene and assemble the puzzle. With his injuries from Thawne and the wreckage of his equipment, all he’s left with is his mind and the window of his study.

There’s a lot stirring inside his head that he shouldn’t be bored - the figure that killed Thawne, the button, the mysterious man who saved him and Barry. But they all pale in comparison to his reunion with Thomas Wayne.

He has much to unpack about what they spoke about. Sitting in the very spot where the idea for Batman was born, Bruce considers following his father’s advice. Hanging up the cowl and stepping out of the shadows.

“Happy,” he mumbles to himself, “Can I really be…”

A montage of a life without Batman flashes, where he turns Bruce Wayne into the hero he was meant to be instead of the misdirection he uses to keep up appearances. Imagines what it might have been if he never took to the cowl in the first place.

But then he remembers what his father said, about his family. Bruce would never have had them without help from the Batman. He might embody the night but Batman was responsible for hanging each star in his sky.

“I’d have no sons…” Bruce says, “No friends - real friends. I never would have met -”

His father’s approval comes to mind, and Bruce shakes his head. He wills the blush away from his face, dragging a hand down his cheeks to stem the flow of blood.

He thinks about Barry, considers him the way his father did. It’s true that he and the other man had always had a special bond - one of mutual respect, both master detectives who can only discuss their skills with the other. True equals. But there was never anything more to it.

Sure Bruce may smile more in his presence, but Barry can crack even the most petrified faces. Sometimes he would overstep boundaries others have that sent Bruce spiraling into a bad mood in the pace; however it only conjured up some fond exasperation when Barry did it. And seeing him in danger did grip at his heart in the cruelest of ways, driving him to keeping the speedster safe.

But that didn’t mean he liked Barry in that way.

Shaking his head, he casts those thoughts to the side. “You’re tired Bruce,” he says to himself, “Overthinking… he has Iris and you…” Chuckling darkly, Bruce lets the words drop off.

As the sun crests over the hills Bruce decides to follow his father’s advice. He will be happy. There is someone he can be happy with.

He thinks his father would have liked her… even if she wasn’t Barry.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Epilogue:

Thomas considers Bane’s offer, weighing the options in his mind. While it was a cruel and sadistic plot against his son, there were enough loose ends that he could leverage to give his son the family and happy ending he deserved. But he needs to play his cards close to his chest.

“I want to see Batman die as much as anyone,” he starts, “But I may need some time to think it over. I’m still getting used to this reality… it’s only been days since you found me.”

Bane nods. “I understand. I hope you know, though, that I won’t stop my plans for you either. Everything needs to happen at the right moment, and we’re working on a very tight schedule.” He smirks, “Why in a few days I’ll be ruining your son’s wedding.”

He frowns, “He’s getting married?”

“Yes, it would have been a lovely affair - a truly happy moment. But unfortunately I can’t have a happy Batman.”

Thomas sighs, thinking of Bruce standing at an altar in a black tuxedo. Imagines him waiting for someone who would never come. Pictures Bruce believing that the love of his life had run out on him. As much as he wanted for his son to be happy, now that he’s here Thomas can take over.

“I won’t stop you,” he tells Bane, “I do ask though that whatever you do to Flash, it’s no serious harm.”

Confusion settles clearly across Bane’s face at Thomas’s request. “What?”

“The Flash? To stop the wedding - I don’t know what you have planned but I’d hate to see the poor boy killed -”

“Why do you think I would hurt the Flash?”

“...Because that’s who my son’s in a relationship… isn’t he?”

Bane laughs, a cruel bellowing sound that grates on Thomas’s nerves. “Well that would be a complete shock to everyone!”

Thomas scowls at him, leaning forward. “What is it you’re trying to say.”

“I hate to break it to you old man, but your boy isn’t marrying the speedster,” Bane says, “He’s planning to tie the knot with a thief named Selina Kyle - otherwise known as Catwoman .”

Settling back into his seat, Thomas takes in this new information. Somehow adjusting to the idea he was no longer in a world that was crumbling all around him seemed easier than accepting that his son wasn’t dating Barry Allen. Immediately his loose plans for the future adjust, roping Barry into them. If they weren’t together, Thomas would at least like to know why .

Bane, ignoring Thomas’s silence, continues on, “Flash though? I didn’t consider adding him… but if there is something there for you to see I might just have to expand my operation out to Central City… and I know the Gotham Girl for the job.”

#Batman #Flash #Bruce Wayne #Barry Allen #Thomas Wayne #Batflash #Batflash fic

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buchanannn · 6 years ago

Text

Seconds: Part Three (Bucky Barnes X Reader)

Part 1

Part 2

Summary: After your night with Bucky, Nat seems to be a little clued into your feelings about a certain soldier.

Word Count: 2369

A/N: OKAY more fluff that is kinda lowkey filler but whatever I’m a sucker for characterisation and friendships ://

You woke again, earlier than Bucky, the sun only just peaking through the clouds past your window. He'd rolled over during the night,body half uncovered as his left arm lay half off of the bed. His hair was messy and his face was squished adorably. You wondered why, before a conversation about sex that started as a joke, you'd never really seen his as more than just a friend. For Steve it'd been instant. He was tall and broad and handsome and a gentleman, and something in your brain had just slipped and insisted on infatuation. But for Bucky, it'd always been comfort. He was always there when you needed someone to talk to and he always tried his hardest to make you laugh when you were on the verge of tears. It wasn't beyond friendship for you, but now seeing him half naked, sprawled over your bedsheets, it seemed normal. Like it was meant to be that way. You felt a sudden urge to kiss him, to worship every limb and tell him how beautiful he really was but instead, you just slipped from under the covers and tip toed across your room, snagging your robe from the back off the door, and slowly inching it closed after you, as to not wake him. Your laptop was were you had left it on the kitchen bench the night before, so you perched yourself up on one of the stools, beginning to browse the day's news. It was the same: depressing, but in the dullest way.

A buzzing sound erupted in your apartment, coming from the general direction of your sofa and you immediately dove towards it, hoping to catch it before it woke Bucky up.

"Hey." Your voice was hushed.

"Hey, you running late or something?" It was Nat. You furrowed your brows, confused about what she was saying when it hit you. You were supposed to be working out with her and you were already late.

"Oh my god, Nat, sorry, shit, I completely spaced, I'll be there in like fifteen." You rushed.

She let out an airy laugh. "Don't stress, but know that I have been waiting for you for ten minutes." You felt guilt all over your entire body. Of course you forgot, Jesus, how could you forget? "I'm so sorry, Nat."

"It's fine, Y/N. Seriously. I'll see you soon?" She sounded chirpy.

"Yeah, see you soon." You hung up, silently speed walking to your bedroom. You crept in, pulling your workout clothes from your closet as quietly as you could and leaving. All the while, Bucky didn't stir, still softly snoring away. You slipped into your bathroom, washing your face, pulling your hair back and getting changed in a world record amount of time and then you were off. Before leaving, you quickly scrawled a note explaining your absence to Bucky and left it on the kitchen counter. Luckily the traffic wasn't too bad due to the early hour but you still took 18 minutes to get to the training room. You were short on breath as you burst in, Nat waiting expectantly standing over the speakers that she plugged her phone into. "You took your god damned time." She smiled, noticing your frazzled state.

"Yeah, I know. I suck." You stripped your jacket off and tossed all your things onto the bench at the side of the room. "At least I got a bit of extra cardio in, though." Nat laughed, meeting you in the centre of the room as the two of you stretched. "Big night?" She asked.

You shook your head. "Just stayed in. Watched some shitty TV. Went to bed. You?"

"Yeah me too, I watched that horror movie you always talk about. Wasn't that scary." She stretched her arm over her head to loosen her triceps as you bent your knees to stretch out your quads.

"You're just a weirdo. It's impossible to scare you." You rolled your eyes.

"I guess you grow out of it." She shrugged.

"You should come over and we'll have a horror marathon. There's gotta be something your afraid of." You stretched down to touch your toes.

"Yeah, maybe on a night when your not having sex." She chuckled.

You sprung up. "What?"

Her laugh became louder as she abandoned her stretching. "Is that why you didn't invite me last night? You already had someone over?"

"N-no." You stuttered.

"You're such a bad liar!" She laughed. "You totally had someone there. And you smell like a dude."

"I'm wearing cologne." You countered, putting your hands on your hips, feigning certainty.

"Okay, nobody is buying that." She rolled her eyes. "Who was it? Was it fun? Were they good? You sore? Is that why you were late?"

You took a moment to catch up with her quick fire questions. "I didn't have sex last night!" You insisted. She raised her eyebrow and tilted her head to tell you wordlessly that there was no way that she believed you. You let out a sigh, caving. "We just cuddled."

She grinned, shoving your shoulder slightly with a childish joy in her eyes. "Who?"

"You wouldn't know him." You lied.

She bit her lip with a tiny giggle. "Can't wait to meet him."

"Oh my god, it's not that serious." You exhaled heavily. "Now are we here to work out or not?"

"You're right, you gorgeous minx, you." She gave you a little wink as she approached the treadmills. You followed, your cheeks burning bright red, hoping that you wouldn't give yourself away. An hour and a bit later, you were sweating by the bucketload, your hair a mess and your muscles aching. Nat looked great, as usual, convincing you further that she was actually superhuman. Or an alien. Or a figment of your imagination. Wouldn't that be fun. "God I would murder for an omelette right now." She said, wiping of the, maybe three, droplets of sweat of her forehead.

"That's such a weird craving." You puffed out, wincing as you walked over to your stuff. "But now I really want one too. My house?"

"Sure!" She grinned. The two of you headed out of the compound's gym, you wiping your sweat of the back of your hand, which was also wet. Nat handed her, pretty much dry, towel to you and you thanked her with a smile. You were glad you had her. Everyone needs someone who would let you borrow their sweat towel.

You only split at the lobby, you heading to your car and Nat to her room in the compound. It was pretty much only used to store clothes when she needed a fresh set after your workouts. You told her you'd meet her at your place and with that the two of you separated. You climbed into your car and once again started on the road toward your house. You felt completely wrecked but also sort of energised in a way that only a difficult work out could do. You wondered, on the road, how you lived before all of this. Before the team, before your friends. You hadn't ever been this happy, and definitely never this healthy. It'd been a long and winding road of staying on the run and squatting in houses and couch surfing from apartment to apartment until you found them. It was as if some miraculous trial had paid off and you were finally useful to someone. And loved. Nat was one of the first to embrace you with open arms, seeing you as more than an asset to the team but a friend. She helped you set up your place in the living quarters, introduced you to everyone, took you out, trained with you. She helped you feel not so alone. And it was something you'd be eternally grateful for. She was one of your best friends and it was something you'd thank your lucky stars for until the day you died. You parked in your usual spot, taking your time in climbing the stairs and suddenly wishing you lived somewhere with an elevator. You were glad to be way from Nat, never feeling great about her seeing how weak you are. It seemed that as much as you worked out you could never keep up with everyone else. Your diet of takeout and beer and pretty much nothing else might've had something to do with it, but it wasn't your fault you never learned how to cook. You were glad, though, that she wasn't too far away because she knew how to cook and her omelettes were to die for. You fumbled through your bag for your keys turning the lock and pushing open the door only to be hit with the smell of smoke.

"You look awfully sweaty, doll, you been seeing somebody else that you should tell me about?" Bucky stood, shirtless in your kitchen, flipping pancakes with a wide grin on his face.

"Bucky!" Your eyes widened, your belongings dropping from your arms as you quickly shut the door behind you. "What are you doing?"

"Cooking pancakes." He held up the pan as if you needed evidence. He looked down at his work and winced a little. "Burning them, really."

You approached quickly, glancing over your shoulder. "Oh my god. You're literally the sweetest person alive but you need to go."

He frowned, confused. "But, I-"

"Nat is coming upstairs in like five minutes." You explained.

His eyes widened. "Oh, well, shit."

You nodded, his response appropriate. "I'm so, so sorry, I should've called, I just blanked. I'm so out of it this morning."

"No, no, it's fine, I just." He walked around you. "I'll get my stuff."

You turned off the stove, scraping the burnt pancake batter into the sink and pushing aside the evidence to the side of the bench. You hoped that Nat took her sweet time in getting changed. You walked down the hall quickly to where Bucky was getting dressed in your room.

You peeled off your sweaty clothes and pulled on a fresh t-shirt and a pair of sweats, ignoring Bucky's eyes on you. He grabbed his shirt from the end of the bed and pulled it over his head.

"You know, I should really start working out with you if this is the show I get after." He said.

"Oh shut up." You rolled your eyes, pulling your hair out of its tie and shaking it out. You turned around, both of you fully dressed now. "I'm really sorry, Buck. I feel like a total ass."

"It's okay. I mean you're always a total ass so I'm used to it." He walked towards you, pulling you by the waist into him. He leant down, planting a firm kiss on your mouth. "And plus, you can just make it up to me tonight. Dinner at mine? If you don't have plans with Nat."

You smiled, nodding. "Of course. Hopefully this time you don't burn it."

He chuckled, brushing some stray hair out of your face. "That's probably not likely."

You laughed, and then immediately stopped upon hearing the front door open. "Jesus it's smells like a wildfire in here. Did you try to cook without me?"

Your body tensed and Bucky's eyes widened.

God damn, curse Bucky for being so adorable and making you give a long winded goodbye apology. He mouthed the words 'what do I do?' And you mouthed back 'I don't know.'

"Y/N?" Nat chimed, starting down the hall.

You winced, holding up a hand. 'Stay here' you mouthed. He nodded, watching as you walked out of the room, closing the door behind you nonchalantly. "Uh Yeah, sorry. I tried to start some eggs and forgot about them while I was changing and I completely fucked up my frypan." You laughed. She rolled her eyes at you. "Dude that's ridiculous. This is why you should wait for me."

"Well I figure I've got to learn one day." You shrugged, trying to keep the conversation light but you couldn't take your mind off the boy in your bedroom.

"Well here's a tip; don't start cooking something and then walk away for five minutes." She laughed, admiring the charred mess in the sink. "You gotta learn the basics before you can become the grand housewife to a certain super solider." Oh my god, did she see Bucky? How could she have? Maybe she heard him? Your heart raced.

Upon seeing your reaction she laughed. "What, you didn't think I noticed your crush on Steve? You're smitten, kid. It's so obvious."

You breathed out a sigh of relief, too thankful to be embarrassed. "Oh, that. Yeah. I forgot about that."

Nat furrowed her brows giving you a quizzical look. "You and that guy last night should've screwed, this dry spell is making you weird."

"Should we go to that cafe down the block?" You suggested with pink cheeks, wanting nothing more than a subject change.

"Yeah, sure. I'll teach you how to cook another time when your kitchen doesn't smell like shit."

You laughed at that. "Okay, sweet, I'll go get my coat. Just give me a sec."

You turned back towards your bedroom, opening the door to see Bucky perched on the side of your bed, lacing up his boots. You rolled your eyes at his smug smile as if silently telling him to fuck off. You grabbed your coat from your closet and began to leave but Buck ceased your wrist, pulling you back towards him. He pulled you down so he could whisper in your ear, his breath in your neck sending shivers down your spine. "Be at mine by seven and wear something pretty. I'm taking you out for real."

You smiled, his face looking up at you with a determined smirk. You nodded, leaning down to quickly peck him before pressing your spare house key into his palm. He released your arm and you began to head back out to Nat, holding up seven fingers to Bucky for confirmation that you'd see him then. He returned the gesture, a distant smile on his face as you left.

#bucky barnes #marvel imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #marvel fluff #imagine #bucky #seconds

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youcantunringthebell · 6 years ago

Text

The Lyin’ King

This is the 99 percent true* story of a friendship that was at least 50 percent false.

Surprising, because I never thought of myself as a gullible person. Shouldn’t a newspaper reporter have the strongest bullshit detector imaginable? (Yes, there was the time my colleagues convinced me the boss was forcing us into “treadmill meetings,” but in all fairness, she seemed to have some body image issues, and the company gym was right there.) In situations where things seem ideal, though, I’m often the first to Google that shit and start finding the flaws.

Except for with Leo. **

I met him through my ex-husband, but after a handful of happy hours, he was more my friend that my ex’s. We had something in common: Upbringing in ultra-conservative Christian families followed by fallout when we left those systems. He was coming out as gay and leaving the church, I could help him navigate that and, being newly divorced, I had a lot of time on my hands. We bonded over mutual rejection and our newfound addiction to online dating.

I try not to use the word “perfect,” because a Buddhist friend reminds me that nothing on this earthly plane fits that description. But Leo was perfect: young, model-gorgeous with a wardrobe to match. Charming in any social situation. Wickedly funny, useful in a crisis, an attentive listener. Go places with Leo and, over time, you will meet literally hundreds of people drawn into his light. Some of them get to stay. It’s intoxicating.

He barely made an effort at work and won employee of the year consecutively. Eventually, he earned a lofty position that absolutely nothing on his resume would demonstrate he could fill, and his bosses loved him there, too. He sang beautifully, danced sexily, painted passably. He ran marathons and lifted weights. Leo even perfectly curated his imperfection, to wit, a scar that came with a hilarious story about a brown recluse hiding in old pants.

He lived with my husband and me briefly, between men, but there were usually men. Never as attractive, typically more accomplished, although that second requirement could be suspended if it looked like the other option was extended singleness. So when Leo started talking about the man he would marry, I burst out laughing and told him he was full of shit. He started crying because I didn’t believe him. I begged him to forgive me.

Looking back, that should have told me something.

Because if Leo had been sitting on a computer in Nigeria emailing me that he was a displaced prince and needed my bank account number so he could reclaim his lost wealth, I’m not completely sure I wouldn’t be bankrupt right now.

The new boyfriend was close to becoming a doctor. The Doctor told me his medical specialty was hugging — that’s how earnest this guy was. He and Leo moved to another state for a residency and, sure enough, got engaged soon after that move. I spoke at their wedding.

Their marriage didn’t last long. Something was always wrong with The Doctor. He wasn’t attentive enough. He walked funny. He overspent. Leo had to take a second job — working weekends at conferences around the globe — to pay the bills. He texted me pictures of scenery in exotic locales. “This looks fun, but you seem angry all the time now,” I told him. Of course he was angry, living with all the stress of keeping them afloat, Leo said.

They got divorced, and Leo announced he was moving home to Nashville, but first he had to move in with a co-worker suffering from a brain tumor to see her through it, plus he was getting more involved in church and going to therapy. No more men, he said, just work, caretaking and the spritual journey of self-discovery for him. Every single phone call came back to the church, therapy or the friend with cancer. I started to feel petty, wanting Leo to come home when there was such important work where he was. Our conversations got awkward.

“Leo always reminds me we’re best friends, but I don’t think I know him at all anymore,” I told my husband. He shrugged. Friendships change, he said.

Instead of Leo moving back to Nashville, The Doctor moved back. Leo called, frantic, with the news. Turns out the doctor had been cheating on him all along with a colleague! He stole all Leo’s money! Leo was ruined! Wasn’t it awful?

So when The Doctor, who worked less than a quarter-mile from my office, texted that we should have coffee now that he was back, I ignored that asshole. A few months later, when he texted that he was thinking about me and asked how I was, I wrote back, “Fine, thanks.” This slow thaw went on for about a year, and eventually it seemed nuts NOT to just forgive him and have coffee. Let he among us who hasn’t cheated for the length of a marriage and then left our spouse destitute cast the first stone, right?

The first half-hour our visit, we discussed weather and work. The Doctor finally introduced the elephant.

“Why do you think Leo and I got divorced?” he asked.

“That’s not important,” I said. “Water under the bridge.”

“I seriously want to know,” he said.

I considered for a moment. “Because you’re a compulsive philanderer and thief?”

The Doctor looked prepared for that answer. No, he said. Just the opposite.

And through a series of lunches with The Doctor plus light stalking, I learned that many things Leo told me since he moved were lies. The weekend conference job was a cover for an affair that predated the marriage — The Doctor figured that out thanks to an unexpected credit card statement. It was a man The Doctor knew as a family friend, a straight husband and father. That meant the pictures sent to me were probably from Google Images. Leo’s co-worker with cancer probably never actually had cancer, and if she did, her daughter already lived in the same apartment.

There really was a church, turns out, because Leo and his lover joined it on the same day, according to an online bulletin.

I started to investigate some stories that didn’t have to do with Leo’s marriage. More lies. The timing on my Nancy Drew act was bad, because Leo was hopping a plane home to see a concert with me the next week.

I emailed him what I’d found out, too afraid I’d fall apart during a phone call, and apologized for the times I came off as judgmental about other people’s affairs. It was none of my business, I wrote, and I could see where it made it impossible to tell me what was going on. We set a time to talk, and Leo tearfully copped to the affair, but nothing else.

“What made you think you couldn’t just tell me the truth?” I asked.

“I always wanted to be so perfect.” He was crying, struggling to get the words out. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be my friend anymore.”

We were silent for a moment, and then I heard a muffled, cheerful greeting. “I’ll be in there in a sec!” Leo shouted. No tears.

“Where are you?” I asked.

He was outside a wedding shower and had to go. “I assume, in light of all this, I shouldn’t come to Nashville,” he said.

“Of course you should still come!” I said. “You need to come now more than ever so we can figure out what the hell happened between us.”

He sent the text a few hours before I was supposed to pick him up from the airport: I’m being called last minute to work one of those conferences, and with my financial situation, I can’t afford to say no.

Even with the truth in the open — realizing that I knew the conferences never existed and The Doctor hadn’t stolen from him — he retreated into the lie. It was like he had no choice. I couldn’t stop staring at my phone.

The way my decade-long friendship with Leo ended shook me for about a year. Now that he was gone, my friends who knew him could step forward with their own experiences. I could look back on things he said and see the cracks. I’ve never felt more stupid. Mostly, my feeling was that because he was so beautiful and charming and talented, and because I am a fat, middle-aged lady with a few jokes and decent writing ability, I never allowed myself to be skeptical with him for fear he’d stop talking to me. I believed someone else with more self-esteem who was a little brighter would have seen right through Leo. This isn’t me being self-deprecating, this is how I actually saw it.

With a few years’ perspective and after meeting a couple more Leos subsequently, I have a theory. I think there may be a lot of Leos out there among us.

Those of us raised ultra conservative, who wake up to the damage that extremism does, face a choice. The day comes where we either speak our truths and stop accommodating the family system, or we always keep a little bit of a lie going so we can keep their favor. Leo was like that. Once he told his family he was gay and they could live with that, he had to construct a perfect gay marriage to a perfect candidate. It couldn’t be troubled like other marriages. There couldn’t be an affair. It had to be perfect.

But those of us who stop accommodating, who say you’re wrong and refuse to support even the slightest vestige of that system, who take our lumps and live with the displeasure ... we get to be rigorously honest. Once we’ve made a stand that life-changing, it no longer matters what our friends, or our boss, or anyone thinks.

We’ve earned our truth. And we may live so strongly in that truth, it seems impossible for someone we love to be enmeshed in lies. We may be completely taken in by that person.

And that’s OK. Maybe even beautiful.

* I’ve changed one name.

** That’s the name.

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reptilerach · 8 years ago

Text

“Rejection”; Chapter Twelve

NOTES: Extra long chapter today to make up for the wait. No swears, and... well, you’ll find out for yourself towards the end of the chapter. (▰˘◡˘▰) (=ﾟωﾟ)ﾉ

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(The next morning…)

You awoke at around 9:30 to the scent of something sweet. Rubbing the crust from around your eyelids and ruffling your hair, you saw Papyrus setting something down on the kitchen table. It appeared to be… spaghetti. You frowned, and sat up straight. The tall skeleton must have saw your sudden movement, as he rushed over to you. He sat down on the floor beside you, booming out a hello.

You covered your ears, wincing from the loud noise. “GOOD MORNING, SLEEPY HEAD!” Papyrus chuckled, and cocked his head to the side. You smiled from his goofiness, and stretched. None of your bones popped, which irritated you, but it didn't last long. “Hey there, Paps.” You yawned mid-sentence, and scratched your shoulders. Papyrus’s happy demeanor faltered for a second, and he fiddled with his gloved thumbs.

“HUMAN, I AM SORRY THAT I MADE YOU CRY LAST NIGHT. I HEATED UP SOME LEFTOVER PASTA TO MAKE YOU HAPPY!” He lowered his head the same a puppy would do when being yelled at, and your brain ached. Oh yeah. I’d completely forgotten. I don’t think I had any dreams last night either; except for one part where I was in the Arctic, freezing, and a warm breeze passed over me to keep me warm. Weird. It felt real...

You reached out a hand, and massaged the innocent skeleton’s skull lovingly. “Oh, Papyrus. I could never stay mad at you!” Papyrus jumped up into the air, and scooped you up into his arms. You braced yourself for the spinning, but instead Papyrus settled back down onto the couch behind you and embraced your body tightly. “THANK YOU, FRIEND (Nickname)! I CANNOT IMAGINE GOING ON WITH MY DAY KNOWING THAT YOU WERE STILL UPSET!”

You felt a tear streak down your cheek at his worry, and squeezed him back hard. “Papyrus, I will always be your friend. Don’t you ever forget that.” You whispered by his face where his ears should be, and felt his cheekbones warm with pure joy. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, until he reached for your blanket and laid it atop your lap. He scooched from out under you, and handed you the remote.

“YOU WAKE UP EARLY COMPARED TO MY BROTHER, (Nickname).” Papyrus mentioned, and an idea occurred to you. “What time do you wake up?” You asked, and Papyrus struck a heroic pose. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WAKE UP AT 6 O'CLOCK SHARP.” Your jaw dropped, and wrinkled your nose. “Why?” You laughed, when his eye sockets bulged slightly.

“DON’T ALL HUMANS WAKE UP AT THE SAME TIME THE GREAT PAPYRUS DOES?” He inquired, and you shook your head. “As you can probably see…” You gestured to yourself, “...that is not true.” You giggled, and Papyrus brought a hand up around his chin. “INTERESTING… FRISK IS AN EARLY RISER LIKE I AM. PERHAPS YOU ARE SPECIAL HUMAN, (Nickname).” You blushed at his compliment (was it a compliment?) and waved a hand at him.

“Hey, what can I say? I’m a night owl.” You shrugged, and Papyrus made a bewildered expression. “I THOUGHT YOU WERE A HUMAN!!” It took you a second to figure out what he meant by that, and when you did, you burst out into laughter. The walls reflected the loud noise, and Papyrus started yelling at you to calm down. “I’M SO CONFUSED!!!” He shouted, and started flailing his arms about like an idiot.

You only laughed harder, and plopped flat onto the floor. Papyrus stopped his crazed running around, and threw you on top of his shoulders. “(Nickname)!! EXPLAIN YOUR RACE!” You wiped a tear, not even minding how strong this guy must have been in order to pick you up so fast like that. “It’s a figure of speech, Paps. I’m a human; when I say I’m a ‘night owl’, that means I like to stay up later than most.”

The skeleton pondered for a moment, and then started chuckling. The rattling of his laughs made you bounce slightly, causing you to wrap your arms around his neck for safety. “OH! THEN MY BROTHER MUST BE AN OWL TOO. HE SELDOM GOES TO HIS ROOM EARLY; MAINLY BECAUSE HE HAS TO READ ME MY BEDTIME STORY.” You recalled how he told Frisk that same bit of information, making you smiled.

“IT’S CALLED-” “-Tales of the Fluffy Bunny?” You finished his sentence for him; he looked up towards you, smiling wide. “HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT, HUMAN?” You flinched, reminding yourself that around Papyrus you had to keep your mouth shut. “U-uh, you told me last night while making dinner! Remember?’

He frowned, and narrowed his eyes at the messed up couch. “HMM… I THINK I DO. BUT, ANYWAYS, LET’S GO EAT THAT DELICIOUS BREAKFAST THAT I HEATED UP JUST FOR YOU!” Papyrus cheered, and took off towards the kitchen. You clung to his scarf, and froze. “Wait, Papyrus-! I’m not gonna fit through the-” Your head clunked painfully against the entryway, and you slipped off of the younger brother’s shoulders.

You fell to the ground hard, and cried out when your spine landed first. You shrunk into the fetal position, and Papyrus spun around quickly. “OH MY GOD!! DEAR (Nickname), ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! I AM SO SORRY!! HOLD ON, LEMME GET SOME HEALING SPAGHETTI-” You cringed at the thought of him pouring spaghetti on you while you mentally screamed in agony. Hair was stuck in your mouth, so you spat it out grossly.

Dear God… I’m about to fall victim to a pasta avalanche. Papyrus came out from the kitchen, and held your breakfast up in the air. He had a fork clutched in the other glove, and you widened your eyes. “HERE YOU GO! THIS SHOULD FIX YOU RIGHT UP!” He fret, and you wrapped your hands around your head, preparing for the attack. Just as you could hear the fork scratching against the plate, a voice called out from above the stairway.

“woah, woah, woah! paps, what are you doing?!”

(About a half hour earlier…)

Sans opened his eye sockets slowly and took in a deep breath from his nasal cavity. A distant noise had disrupted him from his slumber, and it annoyed him greatly. He glared at the clock on his desk across the room, and growled. 9:34. seriously? this is probably the earliest i’ve woken up in a long time. He sat up on his mattress, and cracked his bones tiredly. The loud vibrations bouncing off his door continued, and it almost sounded like...laughter.

Not bothering to get dressed, Sans slipped on his slippers and passed his treadmill. Santa had gotten it for him as a Christmas present a couple of months ago, or whenever the first reset was. He rest a hand on the doorknob, and ignored the dog flying around in his self-sustaining tornado.

The noise was indeed laughter, he confirmed, but it sounded nothing like his brother’s. It was a little deeper, but not much. It made Sans’ hand tremble on the brass, from either anxiety or nerves. The door creaked open, and the noise stopped. He yawned, and scratched his sternum. An emptiness grew inside his ribs at the void of the sudden laughter that made his pulse rise quickly.

He peered over the stairwell, and smiled when he saw Papyrus messing around with someone. Sans squinted, and realized it was (Y/N). He remembered everything that happened the day before, and was shocked how Frisk still hadn’t reset yet. It’d been a few days since the kid moved back in with Toriel, and befriended all the monsters Underground.

A weight fell upon his shoulders from all the information he now has to deal with and try to comprehend that was given to him from the new human yesterday. His grin fell into a frown, and he shut his eyes. (y/n) said that our entire world is a videogame. got it. she also mentioned that she practically knows everything, except for this timeline. she apparently has a very unique soul; one that does not remain the same color or dominant personality trait.

He rubbed his temples frustratingly, but relaxed when he heard Papyrus say something about “breakfast”. Sans opened his eye sockets just as (Y/N) collided with the top part of the doorway to the kitchen; he practically jumped a foot into the air from shock. Sans winced as she hit the ground with an “oomph!”, and curled up into a ball. He waited to see if Papyrus would check for any injuries, pick her up and lay her on the green couch on which she slept, or perhaps even take her hand and-

“OH MY GOD!! DEAR (Nickname), ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! I AM SO SORRY!! HOLD ON, LEMME GET SOME HEALING SPAGHETTI-” Papyrus nearly shrieked, and ran into the room beside him. Sans just watched in confusion from his brother’s choice of action, but made no move to teleport by (Y/N) to make sure she was okay.

However, when he saw how Papyrus was about to dump some “healing spaghetti” onto the wounded human, Sans decided to intervene. “woah, woah, woah! paps, what are you doing?!” Sans shouted, but not so loud that Papyrus would think that he was angry at him again. Sans ran down the stairs, and slid across the carpet next to (Y/N).

He held his hands up in the air, ready to flip the girl and look her over. “I-I WAS JUST PLAYING WITH (Nickname) HERE AND SHE FELL OFF MY SHOULDERS! I THOUGHT THAT SINCE THE PASTA TASTED REALLY GOOD, IT WOULD HEAL HER TOO-” Papyrus stammered, freaking out a little at (Y/N)’s almost unconscious body. Sans grabbed her bicep gently and tugged to see her face.

She laid still, but was groaning under her breath at the welt that was sure to appear on her forehead. Sans sucked in a breath through his teeth upon seeing a large bruise already starting to form above her right eyebrow, and forced himself to remain calm when blood seeped out of the left gash. “paps, use your magic on her.” Sans commanded tenderly, and Papyrus kneeled down across from Sans quickly.

“WHAT SPELL?” He asked, and Sans tripped over his own words. “i-i dunno; the one you used when i broke my finger the other day.” Papyrus nodded, and waved his hands just above her big glasses. Sans wasn’t one for learning healing magic; all his life he was trained to use blue magic, the kinds of spells and summonings for attacks and destruction only.

Meanwhile, on the other hand, Paps was really good at treating illnesses and fixing things. There was no way his magic could rival Toriel’s; she was practically the master of all things medicine and curing. But while Tori was far away from most towns to help sick subjects, Papyrus was always there when someone needed him. He could run very fast, as his legs were practically four feet long, which was an attribute Sans did not have.

Sans was not meant for taking hits, as he had very little HP and a low attack stat, but that didn’t mean he was weak. In fact, Sans was probably the strongest and scariest monster there is in the Underground. He’s right up there next to Asriel Dreemur in his godly form; proving that whenever Chara possesses Frisk and goes through the Genocide route, it’s going to take an insane amount of time and skill in order to beat him.

Sans’ endurance in battle is amazing; most would think that the bigger and bulkier you are, the more of a chance that you’ll win in battle. At least, that’s what the Underground’s mindset was. This is why people always underestimated Sans; because he wasn’t bulky, and he most definitely wasn’t a big bad-ass Boss Monster with a huge reputation. If only people saw what his true capabilities were when he needed to dunk a certain demon wreaking havoc to all monsterkind.

Normally, Sans was a lazy skeleton who enjoyed ketchup and making puns all day. But when you take away his most valued and prized possession, you might as well just give up completely. Because that possession was Papyrus, the only family he has left and the only thing he has to live for whilst dealing with his depression.

After a few silent minutes of Papyrus working away and doing his thing, (Y/N)’s eyelids fluttered open. The blood on her face had evaporated into thin air, and the bruise on her forehead had disappeared back into her tan skin. She also noticed that the pain in her spine had gone away, too. Sans breathed a sigh of relief, and sat back onto his heels. Papyrus wiped the sweat beads that formed on his skull away, and looked down at (Y/N).

She groaned softly, and blinked when she saw the two skeletons above her. “What is it with you two making me hit my forehead on stuff?” She chuckled, and bringing a hand up to her hairline. When she brushed it back, Sans smiled at the genius joke that popped into his mind. “i guess papyrus was getting a little a-head of himself.” Sans smiled when his bro glared and reprimanded him.

“I SWEAR TO ASGORE SANS, IF YOU START WITH THAT NONSENSE I’M DISOWNING YOU.” Papyrus mumbled, and (Y/N) giggled. Sans was glad to see that she was already feeling better. “sorry, i didn’t mean to make that as-gorey as it came out. maybe a less bloody joke will help lighten the mood.” Sans chuckled deeply, and his ribs rattled softly. (Y/N) laughed a little louder, and Papyrus shot up immediately.

“THAT’S IT! YOU ARE NO LONGER RELATED TO ME.” Papyrus stormed out of the living room, taking the plate of spaghetti with him. Sans sighed happily, and turned his attention to the clock above the TV. 10:02. “wow, time sure does fly when you’re making puns.” Sans looked back down to (Y/N), who was trying to sit up.

When she let out a cry, Sans’ smile dropped. “hey, take it easy pal. i know paps’ magic is pretty awesome, but that doesn’t mean you should be making any sudden movements so soon.” She grinned sweetly, and nodded. “I thought the phrase was, ‘time flies when you’re having fun’?” Sans raised his non existent eyebrows, and thought to himself. He shrugged, and winked playfully at her.

“it is, but i don’t think that getting injured is much fun. unless to you it is, which i can respect. a bit masochistic, but i’ll accept it.” He said nonchalantly, and (Y/N) rolled her eyes back. “Touche.” She laughed again, and went quiet. She stared down at her clothes, then brought her attention back up to Sans.

“So...am I just gonna lay here until Papyrus’s magic settles, or…?” Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip. The way she looked at that moment with her all messed up and long eyelashes batting slowly towards him made his soul jump unexpectedly. An idea came to his mind, and he thought it would work fine.

“nah. here, lemme help you over to the couch.” Sans leaned over, and curled his arms under (Y/N)’s back. She gulped, and let out a nervous yelp. Sans stood up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck like she had done to Papyrus’s scarf. “S-S-Sans!! What are you doing?!” Her face turned beet red, and the skeleton chuckled. His own cheekbones released a light blue tint, and his eye flared softly.

As he walked her over to the couch, Papyrus peeked from around the corner and saw what was happening. He saw both of their expressions, and smiled devilishly from his spot in the kitchen. He knew something had been off with Sans ever since (Y/N) arrived, and was sure to talk to him about it later in private.

FIRST

Chapter Ten (Where all the chapters before that are.)

Chapter Twenty (Links for Chapters 11 --> 19)

Chapter Thirty (Links for Chapters 21 --> 29)

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