*Stories

So maybe,
I am waiting
for something
that will not happen,
yet maybe someday
I will be so happy
and surprise
by something
I could never imagine—

that’s when
the universe
will show
it’s love
for me.

—  ma.c.a // And in the end, the stars will still shine brightly

They say not to bring home girls with hollow backs, boys with wings under their skin. But this is neither of our homes, and somehow I think that protects us both. On his land, I don’t think he would dare to touch me.  When the night began to grey I heard the first peals of the bell and then the cawing of the crows. I curled my face in to his shoulder and breathed him in, almost surprised at how solid and present he still was. Wood smoke pine maple sweat sweet sky wine and something animal and alive. He didn’t smell like he’d be gone in a few hours, but fairy gold never does for all that it’s made in their image. Though perhaps made in mine too, being gone just as soon, and his sort always did love shiny things. For a moment, his face winks out in to the darkness, but when I look back up from his shoulder it is there again, gently blowing smoke in his sleep.  With the next ringing the crows again threatened to drag the sky in to daylight but darkness still held our corner of the room. Light enough though that for a moment I was scared to turn around, that though I could newly see, I would not find him laying against my back where I’d remembered him, or that he would be wearing a different skin. A deep inhale behind me, an exhale through the nose that blows cool air between my shoulder blades, where he had asked me to press against on his own back a few hours before (“a thumb, or your chin”), a curious feeling of wings under skin when I did so. I had rested my face there, wrapped my arm around and nearly scorched my fingers when they rested above his heart. I find myself surprised at the lack of fire on his breath now, though his chest still heats the bed on its own. When I wake in a few hours the muscles between my own shoulder blades will be unusually tight, but for now I let the steady puffs of air pull me back to sleep. I do not turn to look.  He was up before the third chime, and suddenly – no more space between us, no careful blanket distance or borderlands. He wrapped around me less like a man than a large cat, a dragon curled round its hoard. There was the sense beyond what I could touch, of too much body and too many limbs, collapsing in to materialization upon contact, a flock a birds landing on me relentlessly one after another, shockingly heavy in their multitude. And then as quick, untangled and up, putting on boots heavier than they should need to be and gathering bits of himself from around the room.  As he opened the front door, I heard the ring of the third bells, but now, no crows cawing. They wait. When the door closed behind him, a sunbeam filled the space he left, illuminating the yellow stairs with his afterimage, the radiance of transformation. From outside, I heard something like a purr, footsteps rumbling and rolling, and a great rustling, as though a tree had unfurled all its leaves at once with the snap of a lady’s fan, as though they had browned and dropped crackling against each other in the next breath, as though a great many wings were headed skyward and south, away from the still-warm bed and me in it. They say not to go home with girls with hollow backs, boys with wings under their skin. I wonder if a kiss can be somewhat like a bite of food, a taste of something irrevocable, a contract signed on contact. I wouldn’t know. We don’t kiss. Just hold each other or more often a careful space between. We chart a different elsewhere in this no mans land between bodies. Although somewhere the sap boils in to syrup and perhaps there will come a time when the crows demand their gold paid in truths…here, now, this, is enough.  With the third set of bells he was gone, and a little later so too was I.  

[x]

In you I see everything I love. I hear my favorite songs in your laugh and smell my favorite flowers on your skin. When I look in your eyes I see the river I skipped stones on as a child and when we kiss it feels like the first I picked up an instrument. Most importantly in you I see the thing I love more than anything. You.
—  /Oliver
A Way to You Again: Part 12

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count:  1826

Catch Up Here

Summary: Bucky and Y/N have been fairly successful at keeping their relationship hidden from the rest of the Avengers. That is… until Nat walks into the kitchen one night and finds Bucky kissing Y/N. While Y/N is relieved that their relationship is out in the open it soon becomes more complicated than she could have ever imagined.

Author’s Notes: Thanks to the lovely @melconnor2007 for the request! This chapter has a little bit of angst and fluff.

I edited this while I was like 50,000 shades of exhausted – so if there are errors please ignore them :|.

Originally posted by harleyquinsn

Originally posted by problematicsebstan

“Bucky, where are we going?” I asked breathlessly as we exited the subway station.

“Patience is a virtue, doll,” he smirked as he looked at me. I chuckled to myself as I shook my head – when Bucky set his mind to something it was next to impossible to get him to budge on it. He casually caught my hand in his and laced his metal fingers delicately between mine. “This is nice,” he sighed to himself as he gave me another smile.

“Yes – it is,” I smiled back.

We walked in silence through the Brooklyn streets until Bucky stopped in front of a Starbucks. “Here we are,” he announced as his face lit up with excitement.

“Buck… did you bring me all the way to Brooklyn to come to Starbucks? There’s literally at least three within walking distance of the tower,” I said bewildered. Bucky wasn’t a huge fan of fancy coffee drinks – I always pointed out that his inner grumpy old man came out when I ordered a Frappuccino.  

He snorted at my bewildered face. “No doll – this is where I lived until I left for the war. Not the Starbucks obviously – but the building,” he answered as he motioned towards the building in front of us. “I lived right up there with my folks,” he explained as he pointed towards the second floor.

“Oh wow,” I murmured – mainly to myself. Bucky had never been much of an open book about his past. I had never pushed him, because I knew it was painful for him to remember all the things he had lost.

Bucky looked down at me and smiled. “It wasn’t much, but it was home. Steve got beat up down that alleyway, and that one, oh and over there too,” he explained as he pointed to the various areas. “Honestly, now that I think of it – Steve probably got beat up everywhere in a two-mile radius. He was such a little shit,” he chuckled to himself. “We would play on this street when we were kids,” he smiled to himself before turning to me again. He could read the lingering questions so clearly on my face. “Let’s go – I have a few more places I would like us to visit,” he whispered into my ear as he grabbed my hand once again.

I followed beside him as we walked several blocks to a nearby cemetery. Bucky seemed to know the path like the back of his hand. As we neared a small hill we parted from the paved walkway and maneuvered through the tombstones. Bucky slowed to a stop in front of a newer stone. “I had it replaced when I came back to New York,” he explained to me as he looked at the stone. “I thought I owed it to them.” As I looked at the stone I read the names of Bucky’s parents with their respective dates of birth and death.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered as I kneeled beside the stone to wipe away a wayward leaf that had rested upon it. “The daisies?” I asked as I looked at the fresh daisies adorning the grave.

Bucky shrugged sadly. “They always reminded me of my mom. She loved flowers. I bring a new batch by weekly,” he explained as he kneeled beside me.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured as I traced my fingers softly on the petals.

“My biggest regret is knowing that they died thinking I had died a hero,” Bucky added as he placed his hand affectionately on the stone. “It’s better they didn’t know the truth, but I feel like I failed them in so many ways.”

I placed my hand softly on Bucky’s as I watched the emotions play out on his face. “Bucky, they would have loved you regardless. It was never your fault,” I whispered as I laced my fingers between his.

A ghost of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “My mother would have loved you. I wish she had been alive to meet you,” he whispered softly as he looked at me – affectionately tucking my hair behind my ear.

I swallowed hard at this. “Bucky, why are you…” but he cut me off.

“You said you loved me,” he remarked as he returned his attention to the stone.

“Yes,” I whispered softly.

“And yet you know nothing about me, because I was too afraid to share my past with anyone but Steve. If you’re set on loving me – you deserve to see all of me. When I didn’t respond the other day –it wasn’t because I didn’t feel the same…” he explained as he stared intently at the stone. Before I could respond he stood up and offered me his hand. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet,” he said as he pulled me up beside him.


A thirty-minute cab drive later I found myself standing in front of a memory care facility with my hand secured in Bucky’s. I stared at him inquisitively but this time he did not return my gaze—instead he led me into the large brick building where we strolled up to a solid oak reception desk. The woman working at the desk looked up and, upon seeing Bucky, smiled warmly. “Good Morning, Mr. Barnes. She’s been asking for you,” she replied sweetly. Bucky nodded his head in acknowledgement as he led me from the desk down a long hallway. I followed him silently to a room at the very end of the hall.

“James, is that you?” the woman laying in the bed asked as she turned her eyes away from the television.

“It’s me, Rebecca,” he answered softly as he walked to the side of the bed and kissed the top of the woman’s head. I immediately saw the striking resemblance between the two even though one was so young and the other towards the end of her life. I watched silently at the softness that overtook Bucky’s features as he interacted with her – seemingly forgetting my presence in the room.

“And who is this?” the woman asked as she turned her head politely towards me. Before Bucky or I could respond she continued. “Y/N, I presume?” she asked with an eye-crinkling smile – the same as the one that sometimes graced Bucky’s face. I nodded my head – forgetting how to speak for a moment.

“Y/N, this is my baby sister, Rebecca,” Bucky explained as he looked at the woman affectionately.

“Tsh! I’m not so much of a baby anymore,” she added good-humoredly. “It is quite nice to meet you, Y/N. I have heard so much about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” I beamed as I neared the side of her bed.


We spent most of the day with Rebecca – talking and laughing. As is the case with most family, she had some embarrassing stories to tell about a much younger Bucky that caused him to snort and roll his eyes while dishing it back. It seemed normal – natural even. I hadn’t known about Rebecca, but I understood why. She was one of the last links that Bucky had to his old life – one of the last shreds of normalcy, and she was incredibly important to him. I couldn’t be mad at him for keeping her a secret – I understood the importance of a sister.

“You know – he thinks he’s a bad man,” Rebecca remarked after Bucky had left us alone so he could speak with her doctors. “I’ve tried to convince him for years that he isn’t, but he’s too stubborn.”

“I know – once he has his mind set on something it seems damn near impossible to convince him otherwise,” I remarked sadly. I felt the warmth of her hand over mine and looked at her.

“You’ve changed him,” she added with a smile.

“Me? How?” I asked shocked. Bucky had kept our relationship a secret from even his best friend until very recently. If Steve couldn’t tell – how could she?

“He never smiled until a few months ago. I hounded him until he finally told me about you. He talks about you constantly. Some days it’s all we would talk about. He loves you.”

“How can you tell?” I asked nervously.

“I’ve been around a long time, dear, and I’ve seen all types of love. When you see it – you just know. It’s the genuine article, but he’s too damn stubborn for his own good. He’ll never think he’s the right man for you… but I can tell by the way you look at him that you love him too. You’ll have to fight for him… you’ll have to lay yourself bare and vulnerable, but when you do you won’t regret it. Trust me,” she added with a soft squeeze of my hand and a warm smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me – I think this old woman needs to use the facilities,” she blushed as she pushed herself up from the bed and used her nearby walker to aid her as she walked out of the room.

I mulled over the things she said. Was is possible? Could we both be so stubborn that we were sacrificing our happiness in the process? Or were we both just scared? We had both suffered so much loss in our lives – could either of us risk falling in love and being left brokenhearted? “Where’s Rebecca?” Bucky’s voice floated through the room causing me to jump.

“Oh she went to the restroom. Is everything okay?” I asked noting the concern on his face.

“I’m not sure,” he muttered before disappearing back out into the hall. I sat in puzzled silence as I waited for the two to return. Suddenly I heard Rebecca’s voice from the hall.

“Where is this?! Who are you? I want to go home!” she yelled. The desperation and confusion in her voice caused me to jump from my seat and run into the hallway where I found Bucky, with the aid of a wheelchair, returning her to her room. “Who are you?” she demanded of me as she stared at me blankly.

“Stay here,” Bucky whispered as he rolled the chair back into the room – followed by several nurses.

Bucky emerged from the room several minutes later, and immediately bee-lined to me. “Are you okay?” he asked softly as he reached for my hand.

 “Are you?” I answered. I could tell by his changed demeanor that he wasn’t. “The… the doctors said that the disease is progressing. Today was one of the best days she’s had in awhile… and they’re likely to get fewer and farther between,” he paused as he looked over his shoulder sadly. “Let’s go home,” he finally muttered as he wrapped his arm around me.

As we left the facility in silence I began to understand just how hard it was for Bucky to allow himself to be so vulnerable, and I decided it was time for me to do the same.


Permanent Tags:

@annieluc @dapaticaldodie @shifutheshihtzu @alltheprettyroyals @writingblockswriters @kendallefire @marvelouslyloki @seargantbcky @sapphire1727 @dont-let-me-go-again @amrita31199 @kittthekat @bless-my-demons @lillian-paige @pleasefixthepain @nikkitia7 @earinafae @axelinchen @shliic @callamint @totallygroovyllama @lilasiannerd @coffeeismylife28 @ailynalonso15 @yumna97 @selfdestructivefangirl @mcsmashdesigns @brazien @winterboobaer @stickthinbarbie @sebbys-girl @buckyfvckmebarnes @marvel-fanfiction @lostinspace33 @hollycornish @california-grown @ifoundlove-x0vanessa0x @badassbaker @maygenjayne1 @bridgeneem @jenna-luke @wunnywho @pcterpvrker @sleeping-with-the-snakes 


Story Tags:

@themistsofmyavalon  @melconnor2007 @harleyqueen7  @marvel-lucy @lbouvet @avengers-bucky-fanfic @buckybarnesbestbabe @irepeldirt @glitterintheairblog @mizzzpink @barnesandnoble13 @themercurialmadhatter @bringmetheemobands @theloveablesociopath @bellenuit45 @moncun @smkunz613 @ephemeral-high @the-craziestone @zxcorra @awinterloveuniverse @thefandomplace @hellomissmabel @imamoose  @barnes-and-noble-girl @skeletoresinthebasement @iron-winter @mikaelarhead  @queenllamamama13 @jasmins3 @caitsymichelle13  @mytasterpeculiar @bexboo616 @sgt-jbb-107 @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @fiercemonaco   @alyssaj23 @harleenquim @masha-meow01 @simplyashley95 @beautifulbri26 @buckyappreciationsociety @specs15 @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @basicallybucky @and-i-swear-we-are-infinte @tequilavet @canyoumovyourseatup @shamvictoria11 @megandrawsspace @axelinchen @domcaaa996 @get-weird-pjjl @buckypietroandstevearemyfavs @genlovesdcb @gingerbatchwife @specs15 @xthefuckerysquaredx @sammysgirl1997 @sebstanthemanxo  @sempiternal-amour @fine-ass-feminist @ladymelissastark @allinhishands  @stacyscarlet04 @ek823 @delicatecapnerd @movingonto-betterthings @4theluvofall

            My hands are covered in scars, and they smell like dust. The scars are from the things I love; cat claws and plant thorns and spattered cooking oil. A mosquito bite I got while camping and couldn’t stop scratching. A shiny patch on my palm from where I fell off my bike and got road rash. A line across the knuckle of my right middle finger, where my mom’s puppy bit me during his rebellious teenage months. A yellowjacket sting on my wrist from the summer I spent researching bees at a nature preserve. Most of my scars are so faded, only I can tell where they are.

            I came to Elsewhere University for a job. I’d burned out at my previous job at a vet’s office, too socially awkward and too trapped by my OCD to be consistently competent. Needing work and desperate to no longer live within my stepmom’s sphere of influence, I applied for the posting at EU as a research assistant for whoever needed one in the biology department. Now I spend my days on my laptop, compiling reference lists and background research for other people’s papers, or in the library, tracking down articles published in obscure journals that only have the abstracts available online. My not-quite-faculty status means I have my own office in the basement, in between the display of stuffed songbirds and the adolescent chimpanzee skeleton.

            I’m good at my work, but it’s all dry, dead things. Theses written by students who have no further record in academia. References mentioned in one paper that don’t go anywhere because the original journal no longer exists. Even when I get to work with real things, it’s just drawing small animals’ skeletons for the student who swears he’s found new morphological evidence for how bats evolved powered flight. Everything’s dead, and dusty, and my hands smell like dust.

            I’ve heard that you can trade things, and I think I know how. I can find my way into the depths of the library, where the floors don’t match up. More importantly, I can find my way back out, and I’ve learned how to follow the stacks to come out of the door near my office that leads to the greenhouse if I go through it in the other direction. There are always students working at the carrels along that route, but their eyes don’t close and their books aren’t real, and I know they can tell me where to go to make my deal. They know who I can give my scars to as payment for making sure my hands never smell like dust again.

[x]

vimeo

In February 2017 a group of 6 led by accomplished photographers Benjamin Hardman & Dylan Furst, gathered to capture the beauty of Iceland’s unforgiving winter. This is one perspective of the journey.

Whipped...friends?? Or...

Whipped…friends?? (Part One)

Flashbacks*


Harry doesn’t bother going back to the living room to join the boys. In fact, he’s stood frozen in place for the past ten minutes, staring at the door Y/N’s walked out through with the excuse of being late for a date she had never once mentioned before. Harry didn’t even think she was dating, let alone actually seeing someone already.

It’s all come as a bit of a shock to him if he’s being honest. He likes to think they had something special going on, but maybe it was just all in his head. Or maybe he should’ve said something to her, proper admitted his feelings and all. But what if she didn’t like him back? Harry’s always been a sort of risk taker when it came to getting what he wanted. But he always thought risking their friendship was too much. If she liked him…that would be amazing. But…what if she didn’t.  

If he told her how he’s stayed awake more times than he can count thinking of her. How he’s watched her sleep next to him and wanted to kiss away the frown she gets when she’s having a bad dream. He wants to jokingly tell her how the boys tease him for being so whipped, and have her laugh because they both know it’s true. He wants to tell her that he loves that he gets along with Gemma and his mum. That they adore her because she’s everything they want for him. He wants to tell her she’s everything he wants for him. He just wants to explain to her, or at least try to because it’s very hard to find the words for it, how she makes him feel…whole. How he misses her when she’s not with him, and only falls harder when she is. 

So no, Harry doesn’t bother going back to the living room. Walks up the stairs of his home instead, body slumped and heart wrenching. He thinks he’s lucky that he’s made it down the hallway and to his bedroom with out breaking down. Managed to somehow drag his feet and supported his heavy body…heavy heart, through his bedroom doors and to the bed. He stares at it for a short minute, thinking about how he’s going to have to sleep on his own tonight. How he’s going to be denied of Y/N’s warmth tonight. He’s not going to have anyone to wrap his arms around, to breathe their scent, to smile into their hair when he wakes up in the middle of the night reminded that he’s not alone. And he sits on the edge of his too big a bed, feet firm on the cold floor, the heels of his hands digging at his eyes because surely this is all a dream..a nightmare. Thinking about it, he doesn’t remember ever being this…this…gutted? Jealous? Empty? Broken? All of the above, and more!


Walking down the streets of anywhere hasn’t been much of a hassle for him since the band’s break. He’s able to walk through roads and into shops with no problem. The paps have been nice enough to keep a distance when taking photos, and he’s grateful for that. So in all honesty, now he’s only ever just a tad tense when Y/N’s with him. But it’s not a bad thing, no, he loves having someone to go around town with, rather just feels the need to protect her a bit more on their outings. 

So he keeps an arm around her shoulder, body tucked close to his, guiding her as they walk down the busy street, pulling her closer when he thinks someone passing by might bump into her. And she doesn’t complain. Tonight’s temperature’s dropped rather low, and the heat emitting from Harry’s body keeps her warmer than she thinks her own coat does. Y/N thinks it’s nice. Loves when Harry’s close to her. Loves the fact that his scent will linger on her clothes for days until she finally brings herself to put them in the washer.

They come to a stop by a hot dog cart, tummies grumbling because they hadn’t eaten anything since brunch, and even then Y/N hadn’t felt well enough to eat more than half of what was on her plate. So as per usual when that happened, Harry had to finish her meal, too, not that he had complained.

Now he’s standing in front of her, hands rubbing at her arms to heat her up as he offers to buy her a hotdog because “ye’ need t’ eat somethin’, kitten. Can’t have ye’ gettin’ sick, now.”

So she nods her head yes and tells him she’ll be waiting for him inside of the bakery they’re stood in front because “s'too cold outside. And I caught a whiff of the goodies! Gonna head in and get us a table.” Harry can’t help but smile down at her, and before he’s able to say anything, she leans up to whisper in his ear, “I know…you used to be a baker.” The sound of her giggle tickles at his ear, his smile only stretching more, and now he understands what the boys meant. He gives a light chuckle, kissing the top of her head before whispering a low, “I’ll jus’ be a minute.”

Y/N never needed to tell Harry how she liked her food, it’s fair to say they know each other well enough not to get the other’s orders wrong. And as simple as that thought might be, it makes them both happier than the other will ever know to know that type of stuff. 

Harry never thought he’d feel such happiness looking at someone either. When his mum used to give him talks about girls and how important it is to treat them like princesses, Harry would wave the comments away. He was old enough to know that yes, his mother did raise him to be a proper gentleman. But he never thought, or at least not at the time because he was so young, that he’d have someone making him feel the way Y/N does. Only ever wished.

But now he’s looking at a beautiful woman standing in a bakery. Her eyes fixed on the displays because he sure knows she’s got a sweet tooth.

“Tell me wha’ ye’ wan’ and I’ll get it for ye’.”

Harry’s whispered words have Y/N turning around swiftly, smiling up at him because Harry’s never short on getting her anything and everything. Not that she ever asked for much. 

He thinks he’s got more money than he knows what to do with, so he’s always more than willing to get Y/N anything she pleased. But that’s the thing about her, she doesn’t ask for much. Give her cuddles and your time and she’s more than happy. That’s how Harry knows she’s meant for him. She’s simple, and Harry loves simple. Harry loves her. 


Harry can’t quite recall at around what time he’s been falling asleep at nights. After that first night, he only knows he’s been falling asleep to memories of Y/N.  

During the days he stares at the TV mindlessly, jumping at the sound of his phone in hopes it would be Y/N. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed to see it was Louis, or Niall, or Liam. On occasion his mum who by some reason or another knew what was going on. Don’t get him wrong, he loves talking to his mum, he just rather wishes it were Y/N.

“Harry, sweetheart-” and he could hear the hurt in her voice. That tone a mother gets when they know nothing they say or do can help a suffering child. “-don’ give up, baby. You fight for her, you hear me.” And Harry will pinch at his lower lip in an attempt to keep his voice steady before assuring his mother that “I won’t mum. I love her." 

The boys come around as often as they did before. And after asking why Y/N wasn’t around anymore, Harry told them "she’s apparently datin’ some bloke. I’ve not heard from her. Won’t return m'calls.”

He’s tried to reach out to her plenty of times. He’s called, texted, stopped by her place, all to no avail. 

And Louis doesn’t remember seeing Harry this down over a girl. “Tha’s shit, mate. She spends every wakin’ moment with ye’ and somehow still meets someone? Reckon ye’ would’ve taken notice, ehh?" 

"Cheryl thinks there’s something else going on,” Liam adds, “says a woman knows when a friend has feelings for a guy. And she says Y/N never quiet looked at you as just a friend.”

Harry would much rather believe this than keep thinking about Y/N doing what she did with Harry with someone else. But he pushes the thought to the back of his mind, because if by any chance she did like him, she wouldn’t have left him.
And it’s awful knowing he doesn’t know when he’ll see her again. All he knows, is that he’s not giving up.


After sulking around for what feels like an eternity, Harry’s gathered up enough strength to pull himself out of where he was staying and into the busy city that is NYC. 

He’s arrived here only a few days ago for business, hasn’t even told Y/N seeing as she won’t answer his calls.

So he pushes thoughts of her to the back of his mind, or at least tries to. And thankfully, the fans he’s just recently met did a good job of distracting him. But only for a moment when he was interacting and taking photos with them.  

And it’s times like these that he doesn’t take for granted. He loves making his fans happy. Loves getting to thank them personally. And though he’s able to keep all thoughts focused on who he’s talking with, the second he walks away to get on with his night and readjusts the scarf she gifted him two Christmas’ ago, is the moment he feels his eyebrows knit in focus, recalling another memory.


If there’s ever any situation for Harry to be protective, it’s now! He doesn’t know how he’s ended up at the park near Y/N’s. Doesn’t remember if he walked or drove. All he knows is that he was lying about in his room when he got a call from her. And hearing her frantic voice going on about how she thought she was being followed had him running out the door before she could tell him where she was.

“Just please, Harry. Stay on the phone with me.” She was whispering and stuttering and her voice was shaky and Harry. Was. Scared. 

Like hell he was gonna just stay put.

So now here he is, phone still to his ear whispering words of comfort. “Where are ye’?” “S'okay, poppet, you’re g'na be okay.” “I promise.”

And then suddenly the worst thing that could happen. He’s got no idea what’s going on, but the rush has him forgetting he’s wearing nothing but sweats and a thin tee in below freezing weather.

He tucks his phone in his pocket.There’s no point, their phone call got cut and all he heard before it did was a man’s voice and her muffled one.

He’s running. Where to, he’s got no clue.

It’s not until he hears a cut scream that he knows exactly where she is. Now. He’s angry.

“Get the fook of a'her!" 

The guy doesn’t even get a chance to turn around and look at him before Harry’s big hands collide with the stranger’s back, gripping at his shirt and yanking him back and to the ground.

He looks at Y/N only for a second, still tucked into the corner the bloke had her in, eyes full of fright.

And honest Harry doesn’t train for these type of situations, but he must admit the boxing sessions are useful in this precise moment. All it took was a right hook to the guy’s face. That was enough to have him falling to the ground again, this time a mouth full of blood. And Harry knows. Y/N knows. He’s gonna have the outline of Harry’s rings imprinted on the side of his face for a while. 

Within seconds Harry’s attention was back on Y/N. Fingers ghosting over her face because he doesn’t know if she’s hurt. But she wraps her arms around his torso and clenches at the fabric of his shirt, face tucked into his neck. Harry exhales into her hair and wraps his arms around her shoulders, holding her against his body as he closes his eyes. 

"M'here. I’ll always be here.” He whispers. 

And Harry knows he can’t ever let this happen again. He won’t. 

But how can he protect her when she won’t let him? 

How can he, when the first time he sees her since that night is by the hand of someone else. 

And…what is she doing in New York?


Easily Bewildered

Bewildered; the first time someone used the word, I nearly laughed aloud.
There was a group of varied students sitting across the lawn, grouped together in the shade of a tree, all decked out in weird jewelry and with circles around their eyes, hurried pen ink on their wrists. I was at a picnic bench, sitting with my friends from lab, working on some report or something. There was a lull in the conversation, and the hushed voices, filled with awe, scattered across the grass of the lawn towards us. I was looking absentmindedly at my phone, and when I heard the strange phrase, I burst out laughing. Their voices were so quiet, almost afraid, and like so much else at this school, I didn’t take it into account. I instantly lumped them in with the other students, overly superstitious and quiet, clinging to their iron and their salt like this was some episode of Supernatural.
The first time I heard bewildered, I laughed. 

The second time, it was coming from the mouth of my Hall Advisor, in the longest informational lecture I’d gotten that year. I was sitting on a couch in the overly cramped common room, squished in-between two of my closest friends from bio lab, and we were already bored and over dramatically rolling our eyes at one another before it even began. They were talking firmly, as if they believed in everything they were saying, reminding us very sternly of the “advice” from the beginning of the year. Every year. It was about the third or fourth time I’d heard this lecture, despite not having been here that many years. Sometimes, I wondered if the weirdness would ever end, and just leave me to do my labs and lose my mind in peace.
“Don’t go out late at night, if you have to, make sure you stay on the path.” Well, duh. I looked to my right, and met the eyes of my lab partner, who was just perishing of boredom. I could tell she wanted to be on her phone, but we’d managed to be polite this far, so maybe we could make it to the end of the meeting. Our HA would appreciate it.
“Don’t go near the woods. We’ve had way more kids get bewildered this year, it’s not normal and you all really need to step it up.” I snickered. The friend to my left said something under eir breath, and my other friend suppressed a laugh, and we tried, really hard.
Our HA didn’t appreciate it. They stared us down for a moment, while some other students clutched their iron necklaces or slipped hands into pockets, making fists around what was probably salt, if I knew this floor well enough. I elbowed my lab partner in the side, and she shut up, em quickly following suit. Shockingly, we managed the rest of the meeting, finally slipping out and snickering, finally sharing all of the snide comments that had built up the whole time. Other students walked out glumly, faces pale, shoulders slumped.

Keep reading

It will happen one day. I will wake up and for the first time you will not be my first thought. Perhaps I will think of you occasionally throughout the day, a certain smell will trigger a memory or an image will make me remember you, but eventually all trace of you will fade. One day I will wake up and I will not think of you once. You will be forgotten.
Codot Doesn’t Do Television

I’ve had a few asks from people wondering if I had ever pursued an acting career, so I thought I’d bore you with a rambling tale!

I love Voice Acting: It’s incredibly rewarding, and I get to be whoever/whatever I want and have fun with roles. There was a time, however, where I wanted to do some TV / Film things - it looked fun, and I’m a pretty decent actor, but here’s the thing:

I’m big. I’m tall. I’m menacing.

With my voice, I am the Riddler, I am Scarecrow, I’m even the Penguin. On Television? I’m Henchman #04. At least that’s what I was on Rent-A-Goalie back in… oh lord, 2007?

There I am! Hidden in the left looking all tough!

Oooh! There I am AGAIN! This time on the RIGHT! Edgy!

The only time I ever got to do anything close to fun was when I did my indie films - I did a short called Profetia: Salvarea (Prophecy: Salvation). I had realised early on that many stories involving angels have hokey dialogue that sounds MUCH better in another language. So my buddy Zsolt translated it all into Romanian. I butchered the translations, but no one who saw it knew!

Oooh! Codot looks angry! Threatening the other angel (who was the translator, so HE said HIS lines right)!

It wasn’t long after all this that I decided my place was either on stage, or behind a microphone. I don’t think the world is ready for my SHEER BEAUTY and RAW SEXUAL POWER.

This has been a completely pointless post from Codot!