solo series

4

Storm #3 (2014)

I don’t know about you folks but I think about this a lot.

After being in the Marvel Comic Universe for 39 years, Storm finally got her own on-going solo series. Written by Greg Pak, Storm #1 is the comic book the fans of the Weather “Goddess” have been waiting for!

Marvel has been dominating the market with many outstanding solo series since the launch of Marvel Now! Has the reign of the team books been taken over by solid solo series? Not by this one, that’s for sure. 

The third installment in Storm’s most recent solo series brings us back to Kenya, where Storm was considered a “goddess”. I literally laughed out loud when Storm was like “I…was kind of crazy, wasn’t I?” I’m like, “SERIOUSLY? Nobody is going to address that?” And for the most part I was right. Nobody is saying how this old lady didn’t believe she was a Goddess but a crazy person. I don’t know, this event is just weird. Her characterization is weird, the motivations are weird, it’s weirdly paced… I didn’t enjoy it that much to be honest.

This series and issue is just missing the mark on all levels. What is Storm’s purpose and direction, because I can’t figure it out, and I feel neither can Greg Pak. It is not a good sign when it’s only issue three and you are changing up the artists and colorists. Scott Hepburn and David Baldeon’s art is really not at the level it should be for Marvel artists. I would like to know which one did what page or panel, as one clearly is better than the other. The inconsistency is glaring, but that being said, the art is still just plain bad. Pak’s story is just so uncompelling that I don’t care. There is a lot of history between Forge and Storm, which had me interested, but even that can’t get me invested into the story.

I wanna like this series, I really do. But Pak didn’t make this easy. Storm over the past few years just doesn’t seem to be herself. I remember saying to myself “This solo series and Storm really need a clear direction or they’re just not gonna survive.” Ironically I was right. I can get past horrible art if the writing’s top notch, but that’s just not the case here. Make me care about her! Seriously Pak, Storm is an incredible character who deserves a great series. Also, let’s have a story arc of 4 to 6 issues rather than one offs. That way we can really get invested in her and get to know her a bit better. Storm has a lot of potential to have compelling stories, but who’s gonna wait around for this series to finally find a direction. This was atrocious and a waste of a solo series.

I don’t blame Pak but Marvel as a whole. I feel like Marvel didn’t do much to explore her. Instead, Marvel went undermining Storm by taking away what made her most interesting. Making her look crazy and making readers understand that she was never a “goddess” but a loser for believing she was. And the comments where Storm explained to Forge about her LIMITS, she can’t control the global weather… UGH. This is Marvel saying to us fans that Storm don’t fit the criteria of Omega level mutant. Overall, I think I get the reasoning behind this. It’s a way to tell the fans that Marvel just don’t give it fuck about Storm.

Don’t waste your money. There are way better solo series to pick up than this one. Her solo was terrible it was poor sales, which didn’t progress and many weren’t supporting it. That’s what a cancellation means. 

Whipped...Boyfriend?? (Pt.5)

I want to take the time to thank my lovely @harryimaginedstories for nudging me in the right direction with this one. I was a bit conflicted in terms of which direction I wanted to take it, but she was able to settle my doubts. Thank you, love!

Without further ado…




It was impossible not to be so entranced by such a beautiful boy. A beautiful man. A wonderful human being. A decent human being, who taught the world how to be kind, even if they didn’t realize they were learning. He loves people the way they deserve to be loved, making sure to let them know it was okay. It was okay to be loved and to fall in love, that’s what we live for after all. But this boy lives for so much more. This man lives to make others happy, because that’s where he finds his own.

He’s a breath of relief, to see such maturity in a young person; it leaves others in true awe. The way he presents himself, with such confidence that could make you shrink into yourself, feel small. But he has the ability to pull you right out of that state of mind. He’ll make you feel like you’re the most important person in the world. He’s kind and sensitive and all that a man should be.

It was impossible not to notice him. It was impossible not to get caught up.

And it was impossible not to fall in love.

***

He was by no means perfect though. He had a temper. He had a tendency to disregard certain things, even though he didn’t mean to. He could be the life of the party one minute, and a great introvert the next, keeping to himself in an intriguing way. He was intimidating, but he had that aura. He would make you feel like you needed to be his friend, like you needed to know him and be a part of his extraordinary life.

He had spots and blemishes on his face, but make up covered that up well. When he was particularly tired, the circles under his eyes added to that imperfection. He had a bit of a lazy eye, but you couldn’t really tell unless you were dead on staring, and even then you would most likely get lost in the icy green of them, specs of gold.

***

But they never saw him like Y/N did. They never lay next to him like she did. They never felt the warmth of his skin like she did.

They never got to experience him in the morning like she did. She took notice to it all.

How his hair was lighter in the sun. A golden brown, or maybe blonde, that had her fingers running through the soft strands with little to no notice that she was doing it. His eyes, bright and excited, crinkles on the corners even though it was seven in the morning and all Y/N wanted to do was go back to sleep, but Harry was a morning person, and plenty times she failed to lull him back to sleep after the sun rose.

The dip on his cheek prominently deepened with every laugh shared, every joke told, every happy moment lived.

His lips, just like in the photos, and how the world sees them. Pink, and enticing. The way that he spoke, the way that his lips moved and pursed around every word, it was hard not to notice.

They never felt those lips like she did. They touched her hands, her fingers, her neck. Her ears, her hair, her forehead. Her temples, her eyes, her cheeks, her nose. Anywhere but where she wanted to have them for the amount of time they were best friends. Until finally, on that glorious night, they touched her lips. After that, she experienced the gentleness of them when he’d get home from work and lay a kiss on her waiting lips. She experienced how rough they could be, pressed tight against her own after long days apart. She experienced them on cold days, or nights. And never minded when they were chapped.

They were cold, they were warm. They were hers.

He was mesmerizing.

***

And they never saw him fall like she did.

Takes a grand deal to make a great man fall, but it takes even more to lift him back up.

Countless times he’d safely look to her to make his days better, until he realized he didn’t deserve her. Not after what he did.

***

He was superman. He was untouchable, indestructible. But only to the public.

Behind closed doors. Where everything happens.

Her touch couldn’t help him that night.

Her begging and pleading couldn’t save him.

Her love could not save them.

***

What did she do?

What did she not do?

Little did she know, it’s what he had done.




It honestly can’t be any more embarrassing. She should’ve let Harry accompany her, hell; she should’ve shot him a text, or called him while she was still in the loo. And though more often than not she’s able to handle herself, she should’ve really just trusted her gut and asked Harry to meet her outside.

It’s not as bad as it could be though, and in all honesty it might be her fault. But the dress just seems too expensive and she can’t believe she ruined it. She’s almost certain she would have burst out in tears if the woman behind the bar hadn’t gone around to help her dry up, but never the less the stain is still prominent, and she’s wishing and hoping that it’ll be an easy fix when she takes it to the cleaner once they get back home.

How was she going to explain what happened. So you see, I sort of kind of maybe definitely stumbled a bit because you know, alcohol, and maybe sort of definitely bumped into that lady over there and completely drenched myself in red wine.

“Harry.”

His eyes went wide before he’d even taken a proper look at her.

“I’m sorry.” The whisper came as a shock.

She was beginning to get teary eyed because again, she cannot imagine how much this dress must’ve cost Harry.

His sigh of relief goes unnoticed, and in two long strides he’s stood in front of her.

“Wha’ ‘appened, love.”

At this moment, he really seems to have forgotten about the problem at hand, and only hopes Y/N won’t ask who he’d been talking to.

“I’m sorry. It all happened so fast and-” the words get caught in her throat.

He takes a look at the wine stained fabric, a thumb rubbing over the damp spot as if it would help clean it any.

“No, kitt'en. S'fine. Nothin’ t’ fret over.”

She wipes a stray tear from her cheek with a knuckle, a single sob huffing out.

Harry kisses the top of her hair line, a chuckle lightening the tension he’s sure she must be feeling.

“S'not funny. Aren’t you upset?” She looks up at him dolefully, “I ruined it, H.” She pinches the fabric in between her fingers, pulling at it just a tad to emphasize the mess.

But Harry can’t help but smile, “s'okay, love. I’ll buy ye’ another one. I’ll buy ye’ ten if ye’d like. S'no problem.”

He smiles wider, in attempt to reassure her that it’s not a big deal, he’s not mad. And only when he feels her relax does he shrug off his jacket, slipping each arm out before reaching behind her and settling it over her own shoulders.

“Now c'mon,” he grips the lapel between his fingers and gently pulls her closer, pecking her pout, “let’s get ye’ t'the hotel.”

***

A shower is very much what Y/N needed. The alcohol in her system seems to have evaporated along with the headache that was beginning to creep up. The noise outside has settled, allowing her to sit in bed in peace and quiet, the only sound being that of running water as Harry took his own shower.

“Have any of tha’ body wash ye’ use, pet?” It’s just like Harry to step into the shower unprepared.

“Running low, gonna have to use your own, babe.”

She wasn’t really, she always makes sure to pack more than needed when they go on trips. But she likes how Harry smells, and if denying him her own scent meant she’d be able to cuddle up to fresh, sometimes minty smelling, Harry, then so be it. He can scold her all he wants once he comes out and finds that she does in fact have plenty of her own body wash.

“Can ye’ han’ me a towel?”

Of course.

Y/N thinks he does this stuff on purpose sometimes. Whether it be 'can ye’ hand me m'towel, love’ or 'left m'loofa on the far end of the counter’, for some reason or another he always seems to forget something at shower time. Sometimes he even lures her into the bathroom with the smell of whatever bath bomb he feels like indulging in. And she’s not completely dull-witted either, nor a woman with no needs. So even though she huffs because 'Harry, really? Next time I’ll let you come out for it yourself. Teach ya a lesson and learn once you slip and fall on your ass,’ she can’t deny she hasn’t fantasied.

And she must admit she does get that tight knot just below her belly button every time she slips into the bathroom and catches a glimpse of his silhouette behind the curtain. Or a tingle, that will have her thighs clenching at the sight of him in the tub, bubbles long gone, bare ass on display. And he’ll tilt his head up and pout his lips slightly, silently asking for a kiss after she’s handed him the bath bar he oh so conveniently left on the bathroom counter. But he’d never turn over, because despite his own needs, he didn’t really know how she would react, never even tried.

“'Lo?” She’s brought out from the lusting thoughts, jolting in place before scurrying over to the room’s dresser and pulling out a white cotton towel, aware that the water’s been turned off.

“Here.” It’s cute, how she’s peeked the door open just a bit, slipping her hand in and waving the material without once looking into the room.

“Ye’ can come in, love.” Harry chuckles, body hidden behind the curtain.

“Should really stop forgetting the towel.” But he can’t help it, he always thought if it got her mind wondering, maybe it’d help ease her along. But that was then, before he’d gone and had sex with somebody that wasn’t her. Now, all he wants is to find the appropriate time to tell her.

“G'na make a note of tha’.”

Any other time she’d be quick to rush out, but right now. Right now she’s looking at him in a way he doesn’t think she’s ever looked at him. Eyes lingering, sizing what little of him she can see through the shower curtain. He notices how her bottom lips drawls out from between her teeth. And though he begins to feel himself growing, he can’t help the guilt washing over him all over again. So he breaks eye contact, and slides the curtain closed.

***

Why it took Harry a good ten minutes to finally come out of the bathroom, Y/N’s got no clue. Surely it couldn’t have taken more than three minutes to wash his teeth. When he does finally come out, he doesn’t make eye contact, instead she watches as he walks around the room from where she sits on the bed against the headboard, collecting every piece of clothing he wore tonight and hanging it appropriately on hangers.

She watches how the muscles on his back flex when he moves his arms. She watches the swallows high on his chest move to the way he breathes. She smiles at the way the damp strands stick to his forehead before he slides his fingers through and back to remove them from his eyes. She admires the stern look on his face as he fumbles to button his suit jacket, lifting it up to inspect it before hanging it inside the armoire.

Her eyes trace over his tense jaw, the dimly lit room allowing her to see the chiseled structure of his face. She bites the inside of her lip, eyes following the drops of water trailing from the tips of his hair, to the side of his face, to his collarbones, past his chest hair and down his abs before being absorbed into the white material. Her eyes linger lower, noticing how the towel hangs dangerously low on his waist, enough that she can see his happy trail.

A hand moves to settle between her thighs, already feeling the heat that’s worked up.

What sends her over the edge is the evident outline of his bulge, and when he turns sideways, the noticeable tent-like bump has her toes curling and thighs pressing closer against her hand.

“Harry.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out sultry, but it does and it has Harry giving her his full attention.

She’s on her knees now, walking on her knees to the edge of the bed where he’s standing at.

He can feel his breath hitch at the touch, her fingertips ghosting over the 17BLACK tattoo down to the butterfly on his tummy before she’s rubbing her thumb over the Might as well by his v-line.

Before he knows it, he’s exhaling a low moan into her mouth at the feeling of her fingertips trailing down his happy trail. They stop at the top of the cottony fabric. He forces his eyes shut when the pads of her fingers continue trailing down until her palm is against his growing erection and he’s bucking his hips forward.

He feels her smile against his lips. And it’s then that she starts a slow up and down motion, her hand working on his length.

Harry grips at either side of her hip, pressing the tip of his tongue against her slightly parted lips, and when she opens further, his tongue slips in to work against hers.

It’s been a while since he’s had a hand other than his own touching his cock, and although he’s denied of full pleasure because of the thick material around his waist, it’s better than him having to tug one out in the confines of a bathroom. 

The attention her hand is giving his cock is enough to have him in a daze. But he can feel her uneasiness still, not doing much other rather running her palm over his member, so he sets a hand over her own, squeezing it to cup over his cock, the knot in his lower stomach tightening as he detaches his lips from hers and throws his head back in pleasure.

His breathing has become jagged, eyebrows knitted in hopes to restrain the throbbing of his cock.

He feels her replace her hand with his own, and Harry can do nothing but lightly squeeze at the head.

She kisses from his shoulder, to the protruding vein on the side of his neck, and back down to the crook of it, hands trailing up to his chest. When she bites at the skin, the hand that was soothing the ache on his cock goes to her hair, and suddenly his eyes meet hers again.

“Need you.” It’s what she whispers as she presses herself closer, hips meeting his in an urge to feel him, her lips reattaching to his. This causes Harry’s hand to slip down to the curve of her bum where it meets the back of her thighs. And he’s pressing them firm against her bum, his own clenching in an attempt to press himself closer to her, wanting her to feel what she’s done to him.

She takes his body along with hers as she begins moving backwards onto the mattress until she’s completely laying down with Harry on top of her, holding his own weight with his forearms flat on the mattress. His hair, once too short, falls over the sides of his face, eyes downcast and nostrils flared.

He moves to hook a thumb inside her boy shorts, but doesn’t make any effort to slide them down. Instead, he holds it there.

Y/N starts to feel the pressing of his bulge against her mound, and her back arches when he grinds into her. The built up frustration is causing him to grip at her hip a tad too tight, but Y/N’s moan at the feeling only causes him to rut his hips harder.

Although Y/N might be a virgin, she’s not a complete saint. She’s spent countless times reading up on the pleasure that is sex. She’d often get off at the thought of Harry, hands gripping her bed sheets as she wrenched and moaned until she reached release. But she’s never been confident enough to take that big step. Not with Harry, not with anyone else she’s dated.

And she never thought it would feel this good.

Her legs hook around his waist, craving to have him closer, and he’s attaching his lips to her neck.

“Pet.” His whisper is mixture of frustration and pleasure.

All she can do is moan.

Soon enough, he’s pushing himself off of her.

Did she do something?

But he doesn’t say anything, moves to sit on the edge of the bed, trying his best to ignore the throbbing of his cock, well aware that he won’t be relishing in the pleasure of release. A hand runs through his hair before it settles on his lap. And then he’s letting out a sigh and bringing the heels of his hand to dig at his eyes.

“Everything okay, H?”

He’s waited so long for this. But he can’t. He won’t.

He needs to tell her, but where does he start.

He hears her yawn, and he can already imagine her kneeled behind him, hovering over his body.

But she doesn’t say anything, wraps her arms around his neck from and presses a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

But he does, he wants to. Just not like this.

He reaches behind to caress at her hair and presses his temple against her forehead.

“Not tonight, pet.”

She doesn’t say anything after that, so Harry stands up to walk to the dresser, grabbing a pair of briefs and making his way into the bathroom.

When he comes out, his Y/N is asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed, oblivious to the silent tears running down his cheeks.

He’s made up his mind. He’ll tell her tomorrow.

He stands at the side of the bed, looking her over, the guilt eating at him.

He manages to wedge himself in between her and the mattress without waking her, bringing her to lie against his chest, holding tight.

But the tears don’t stop.

At 4 in the morning he’s still awake, no sign that he’s growing tired. He’s trying to memorize all of her, his eyes and hands scanning and ghosting her sleeping figure.

She looks so pure. A sob racks his body, and when the next one threatens to shake him he inhales deep when he feels her stir against him.

How could he have done this to her.

After she buries her face in the crook of his neck, he closes his eyes tight, squeezing her to him one last time before letting sleep overcome him.

And though it’s a long shot, he just hopes they’ll be able get through this.

***

When Harry wakes up, it’s to an empty bed and a note on the side of mattress where Y/N laid the night before. He takes the hotel’s notepad in between his thumb and index finger.

Went out for breakfast with Lou. Giving you a Y/N free afternoon so you can hang out with the boys. Already packed for our flight tomorrow. See you later, babe!(:

Although he really wishes she would have woken him so they could eat together, Harry knows he’s got to sort his guilt out. He can’t let another day go by lying to her.

***

How did they end up here.

She knew it wasn’t gonna be anything good. From her experience, nothing good ever follows 'we need to talk.’

But she could have never imagined this. Never in a million years could she have thought those words would be coming out of Harry’s mouth.

She’s in complete shock, hands trembling and heart pounding, pounding hard against her chest and she swears she can hear it echoing in the room.

“You-” She can’t say it, she can’t repeat it, but she knows there’s no way around this.

“You slept with someone else.” She’s making sure she heard him right. She wants to believe she heard wrong, but his following words further prove that’s not the case.

“I’d had too much t'drink. I-I didn’t know wha’ I was doin’. I can’t remember anythin’. All I know s'I woke up next to h-”

“Stop.” Every word he says, hang in the air, floating in her head because no, she refuses to believe her Harry could have done this to her.

He had been stood frozen in the middle of the room after insisting she sit down, and though she was reluctant and wary, she had, the soft sofa failing to ease the growing tension.

“Y/N.” His eyes are red, fighting against his sobs to explain to her, to try to get her to understand that had he been in his five senses, it wouldn’t have happened because he doesn’t have eyes for anyone else.

“Stop.” There’s nothing else she can say. She doesn’t want to hear about what, or how it happened. She doesn’t want details on the night Harry betrayed her trust.

Harry can see tear drops landing on her jeans, hands clasped together on her lap, making no effort to wipe at her eyes or her cheeks.

“It meant nothing and I-”

“Harry.” And the look on her face when she finally looks up at him, that look has him falling to his knees in front of her, reaching out to take her hands in his.

“Y/N, no.” His lips are quivering, the corners of them pulled down. “It meant nothin’. Ye’ can’t think fo’ a minute tha’ I wanted it. I love you. You know tha’.”

His heart breaks all the more when she bows her head back down and says nothing. She looks at their joined hands and gives his a squeeze.

“Tell me ye’ know tha’.” The crack of his voice tugs at her heart.

“M'sorry, love. M'so so sorry.”

Suddenly, it clicks in her head.

“No,” she whispers in sudden realization.

She pulls her hands away when she feels his lips rest on her knuckles.

“That day, that’s what it was. That’s why you were crying.” It’s as if it’s all come together. “You should have told me.”

“I wanted to. I wanted t'tell ye’,” he chokes on his words, “and it killed me to-”

“You’ve kept this from me this long.” It’s more like she’s saying it to herself, trying to wrap her head around how he could sleep next to her knowing what he had done.

“I wanted t'find the right time t'tell ye’. I didn’t mean for it t’-”

“Stop.”

She can feel his grip tighten on her thighs. She can’t do this. She can’t sit here and listen to his excuses.

“M'sorry for lettin’ it come this far. Pet, m'sorry. I wanted t'tell ye’. And then when I saw 'er last night-”

Is he serious? She was there? There’s a chance she might have had a conversation with the woman Harry slept with?

“Stop.” She really just wants him to stop.

“I was so scared. I didn’t know she was gonna be there. And I couldn’t have ye’ findin’ out like tha’. I couldn’t risk-”

She can’t take it. “Harry stop!” She didn’t want to yell, she’s never been one to yell. Their small tiffs never ended in yelling. But she knows this isn’t small, and she can’t be expected to keep calm.

He’s losing her, he feels it.

She brushes his hands off, pushing herself off the sofa and moving away from him to the door of the room.

“No,” he cries, tears welling up in his eyes, vision blurry, so he wipes at his them harshly with the back of his hand.

“Get out.” She’s opening the door, eyes fixated on the floor.

He sets his weight on the back of his heels for a moment, head in his hands. The only sound in the room being a mix of his ragged breathing and her sobs. He stays still, but only for a moment, until he hears her faintly whisper his name.

“Please, love-” he’s quick to get up, shoulders slumped as he cautiously moves to her, feet dragging.

“Out.” There’s no changing her mind.

She’s never felt so broken before, so betrayed.

And she doesn’t look at him, not even a glance even though she can feel his stare on her.

She listens as whis breathing evens, and lets him kiss the top of her hair before she’s shutting the door behind him.

Her world’s crashing around her, and all it took was one night with someone else. She wants the floor to swallow her whole. She wants this all to be a nightmare.

But it’s real. And it hurts.

L'amicizia è complicata ma non preoccuparti, non affronterai tutto questo da solo. Non sarebbe divertente: credimi, io lo so.
Non sarà sempre facile, potrà fare un po’ male - anche più di un po’. Dipende da te.
—  Tredici
Whipped...Boyfriend...or not anymore??(PT.6)

Originally posted by potplanthas-been

GIF is not mine




How do you go from being around someone 24/7 to having to get used to their abrupt absence from one day to another? 

Harry can admit he’s felt the cold hands of loneliness clinging to him for far too long. 

He’ll refuse to complain about the sudden rise to fame he’s gone through these past 7 years-he likes to think most of everyone knows that-and give into the idea that it might have stolen what might have been a normal life. It’s given him everything he ever only wished for. 

But he’s not immune to the want…the need to have someone beside him he can love. And it’s not the same as family love, or strong bonds of friendship for that matter-not that he’d ever complain about that either, he’s been lucky enough to be surrounded with a genuine group of friends that will put him in his place if need be. But it’s not the same as having someone he can give his heart to in a different way. Someone who he can wake up to, go to sleep next to, celebrate accomplishments with, and just love in a way every human longs to be loved like. 

He’s had relationships in the past, sure, but those didn’t live to see…hear the words I love you. There was just always too much public interest in who he was dating. Harry knew though, so he couldn’t ever reproach fame for that either. The few, and by that maybe two at the most, relationships that he was able to keep out of public eye never made it past the three month mark. What with having been on the road for the better part of his teenage years, he could never offer any of the girls stability. 

But when he met Y/N, it was different. And he sometimes thinks it’s because they were able to form a strong bond as friends before they became an item. The cliché friends to lovers if you will. 

So the questions stands. How does one manage to lose all of it? He had the girl of his dreams at his side? She knew every kink and flaw there was to him. She made him laugh and did things for him without expecting anything in return, which he’s come to the conclusion it’s hard to come by when it seems all he’s encountered is people wanting to be his friend to benefit themselves. Harry, at one point and he’s not sure when, realized Y/N was someone he absolutely could not live without. It’d taken him so long-too long-to come into terms that it hadn’t once crossed his mind that he didn’t see Y/N as more than a friend not because he didn’t have feelings for her, but because he knew how these things go and what steps follow the previous. 

It goes, strangers to friends. Friends turn to best friends which turn into two people realizing they’ve had feelings for each other. If you’re lucky and someone has the balls to say something, that turns into a relationship. And then after that, there’s only two ways it could go. There’ll be bumps in the road, yeah, but through communication and will, the relationship will see the day of marriage and kids and so on. But…if it doesn’t. You lose a lover, and you lose a friend. So yeah, Harry had been oblivious to Y/N’s love because he didn’t wanna lose her.

So, again. How do you cope with losing your best friend…from one day to another?

It’s the moment he opens the door of their previously shared room to nothing but a made bed and his bags where she’d left them after packing for him yesterday, that Harry realizes, nothing he can ever do or say, will ever make this better.

The wrenching feeling in his gut hits him like a train. Harry doesn’t recall the last time he’s felt this alone, not since Y/N. He could be thousands of miles apart from her, but just knowing that she was somewhere, maybe waiting for him, was always enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone. 

But that was then. That was yesterday, before he confessed. 

Harry didn’t have a hard time finding someone he could bunk with last night. There was really only one person who wouldn’t have asked questions if Harry showed up at their door, emotions a mess and looking like shit. He’d apologized for waking his friend up, and didn’t say much other than ‘can I crash 'ere t'nite mate?’ Grimmy couldn’t say the state Harry was in didn’t concern him, he wanted to ask what’d happened, but he didn’t. He’s known Harry long enough to know that he’ll talk about his feelings when he’s ready. No amount of coaxing will get him to spill anything no matter how much he would press. So he’d patted Harry on the back, making a joke about how he’d have to sleep on the sofa and hope it wouldn’t fuck up his back more than it already was. And Harry was grateful that he hadn’t asked about it, because in all honesty, maybe he deserved to sulk in loneliness. 

What Harry did have a hard time with though, was falling asleep when all he could picture was Y/N’s face. He knows her too well, enough that he can tell when she’s trying to keep her emotions at bay. And it hurt that she wouldn’t even look at him.

But he knows. Harry knows he couldn’t ask her to not be mad.

He knuckles at his eyes, tired not from lack of sleep, but from too much crying. And the noise that erupts from his chest and breaks the silence in the room makes Harry want to break down all over again. 

But he doesn’t. As much as he wants to crawl into bed and wrap himself into the covers until he’s a cocoon-like ball of fabric, he can’t go another second without knowing Y/N’s safe. 

So for the next hour or so, he paces the room, his phone firm to his ear, calling everyone from Gemma to some of Y/N’s coworkers, anyone that could possibly know where she’s gone to. But it seems she hasn’t reached out to anyone. And the thought of Y/N having to go through this alone makes him feel even shittier. 

He’s despondent after what feels like the hundredth call. Until his phone rings, Niall’s name flashing across the screen. 

“'Lo?" 

”'Arry? Ye’ a'right?“ 

Harry doesn’t think he can really answer that, but he exhales audibly none the less, the heel of his palm rubbing at his newly glossy eyes. 

"Yeh, Ni." 

Any other day he would gladly made conversation, but he’s got too much on his mind to even pretend to pay attention to whatever Niall’s calling him for. 

"Ye’ sure, buddy?” Niall pauses for a moment, before continuing, “Picked up Y/N from the airport." 

Harry’s tired eyes open wide at that, "ye’ did? How is she? Is she okay?" 

"She seemed fine, H. Was pretty quiet, though. Everything okay with ye’ two?” Niall’s tone is cautious, knowingly, but cautious. 

“Jus’, stay with her, please?" 

"Yeh, o'course, H." 

"Thanks, Ni.” He ends the call on that. A sigh falls from his lips. His body seems to ache, but he throws his head back in exasperation, both arms and heart defeatedly numb. 

*** 

The plane ride back home was anything but settling. 

Three hours. Approximately three long hours spent looking out of a plane window, mind wandering to the what if’s

What if Y/N forgives him? What if she gives him a chance to explain? 

But what if she doesn’t? What if she doesn’t pick up his calls? What if she ignores his texts too? What if she does, only to tell him she doesn’t ever wanna hear from him again? 

What. If. 

Harry feels utterly weak, his feet barely helping his body move. Every step feels heavy, every move forced. 

He thanks the cabbie and hands him some money before exiting the car, bags in hands. 

He sets them atop his doorstep to dig out his home keys from one of the pockets, thankful for the easy find, feebly unlocking the door.

He’d expected deafening silence. But when he leans further in, surprised at the faint noise he managed to hear coming from upstairs, he’s all but tripping over his feet, two stepping up the stairs to find the source. 

His heavy steps halt the ruckus, and when he opens the door, he feels his heart drop to the floor. 

“Y/N.” The name falls delicately from his lips. 

If she was caught off guard any, she doesn’t show. She looks him over once before wiping at her nose and continuing her search through his closet. 

Harry’s stands still at the doorway, eyes fixated on her as she patiently unhangs her shirts from where they hang on rods. Her movements are oddly unflustered.

He watches her walk to and from the bathroom, utilities in hand before shoving them into the same bag she’s packed her clothes in. 

He looks at how she goes to kneel in front of the dresser, opening and closing drawers, retrieving anything that belongs to her. 

Harry’s rendered powerless, not knowing what to do, what to say- where to start.

It’s when he hears her sniffle that he’s brought back, the sight of his raggedy Rolling Stones shirt in her hands bringing back memories of her walking about the flat, doing chores in nothing but his shirt and a pair of panties. 

She folds the shirt calmly, placing it back atop the rest of his shirt and closing the drawer. 

“Y/N.” Harry doesn’t remember at what point the tears started to flow, his eyes sting and he’s sure they’re red, but he couldn’t care less. 

He takes a step forward, his hand instinctively reaching out. 

She doesn’t look at him, though. Instead, she kneels over the storage bench located at the foot of the bed. 

“Y/N,” he tries again, “please. Talk t'me pet." 

Still nothing. 

"I hope you don’t mind me taking these,” she mumbles, holding up a select handful of vinyls.

“Can take 'em all f'ye’ wan’. But jus’ look at me!” He’s desperate, he thinks she can sense that by the way she nearly slams the top down. 

“Just these." 

The seconds pass by with Harry now standing over her, and Y/N motionless, her elbows on the bench and head in her hands. 

He runs a hand through his disheveled hair and over his tired face. 

"S'not what ye’ think.” His voice is soft as he kneels down next to her, eyes trying to search her hidden face for any sign that he can keep going. 

“Didn’t mean for it t'happen,” he continues, testing the waters, “was so out of it, pet. I’d been drinking and I wasn’t thinking and then next-" 

"Harry.” His name gets caught in her throat.

“Pet-" 

"No Harry." 

Her head whips up, tilting to look at him. 

Harry lets out a slight whimper at the sight of a glossy eyed Y/N, features dejected.

She sucks in a breath, but it does nothing to mask her trembling voice. "You can’t do what you did and expect me to willingly sit around and wait for you to justify it. I don’t want to hear how much of a mistake it was. I don’t want you to tell me that you didn’t mean for it to happen." 

She allows the tears to fall freely, wiping at her cheeks only once before tucking the strands that stick to them behind her ear. 

"I know. I know there’s nothin’ I can say t'justify wha’ I did. But, please, ye’ have to let me make this up t'ye. I promise it won’t 'appen again." 

He looks at her with doleful eyes, the corners of his lips pulled down. 

"No, Harry.” It’s almost a whine, a defeated whine that tugs at his heart and has her looking away from him. 

“Y/N,” he calls out, eyes begging to have her attention back in him, “I love you.”

She looks at him almost painstakingly, chest heaving as she keeps the sobs at bay. 

“I loved you, too Harry. I loved you to the point I let you go once if it meant you’d be happy. I loved you so much that sometimes I thought no one could ever understand it. I loved you too much to ever do anything that would jeopardize what we had. And I trusted you,” she nods her head disapprovingly, “I trusted you with everything and honestly, you were the last person I could ever imagine would hurt me purposely." 

"But I didn’t-” he’s shaking his head furiously, knowing every second that passes is closer to having her walk out of his life if he doesn’t do anything about it.

“But you did. You did, and you hid it and it hurts." By this point, Y/N thinks it useless to try and regain control of her emotions. 

He reaches out to touch her face only to have her abruptly stand up, palm landing at the side of her hip. 

He could feel she would have walked away, if not for the touch. 

He looks up at her pleadingly. 

"I don’t want to lose you.” He admits, broken-heartedly. 

And oh how Y/N wishes she hand never stepped foot in this place. She should have just sent someone to retrieve her stuff, hell she might have just left everything here all for the sake of forgetting. 

But she knew it wasn’t gonna be easy. She knew she would need some sort of closure. 

“You lost me the moment you slept with her.”




If you’ve stuck around this long, I owe you a massive thank you for putting up with having to wait so long between updates. I appreciate every single one of you! I cannot express how grateful I am that there’s people out there that like reading what I put out. I love you all too much!!(:

LouM xx

Heartbroken and Alone(Whipped Series)

I figured it’s time to put a stop to title-ing any follow up as “Whipped” anything since y’know, Harry can no longer express how seriously whipped he’s been.

So I’ll start by apologizing for not title-ing this Whipped Ex PT7.

Anyway, I want to take the the time to thank every single one of my lovely readers for being so patient and not killing me over the lack of updates!/.^

YOU’RE ALL GREATLY APPRECIATED AND LOVED!!!!






“‘Ave ye’ heard, love? Julia’s pregnant. 'Aving another little one.” Harry breaks the comfortable silence, a grin wide on his face as he averts his attention away from his phone screen and to his girlfriend who’d settled herself in between his legs and on top of his body. 

“Is she?” Y/N’s eyes widen in excitement, brows arching as she turns her head to lay her chin on her folded hands that rest atop Harry’s chest. 

“They 'aven’t publicly announced yet. But yeah, baby number three s'on its way.”

“Hmm,” she hums in thought, pressing her ear to his chest, the steady thumping of his heart sending her into a sudden comfort, “what do you reckon we should gift them?" 

Harry’s brows furrow, tongue poking out in thought as his fingers lightly begin to trail her spine from the arch of her back, up to between her shoulder blades and back down. 

He’s looking at the top of her head absentmindedly, noticing the way her body seems to raise and fall at the rhythm of his breathing. 

"Wha’ about a crib?” He questions, halting his movements on her back and bringing his phone back up to eye level, fingers working to search up cribs on Google.

He’s scrolling through endless pictures. Wood brown cribs, white cribs, grey cribs, cribs with slats, some without. All pretty, some not traditional and with drawers worked into them. And he must admit, looking through beds for little teeny-weeny babies gets his heart all fuzzy and warm.

“What’re you smiling at?”

Y/N’s moved her hands to lie under and wrap over his shoulders, gazing at him curiously, a finger lifting to poke at his dimple.

Harry hums at the feeling, but says nothing, just takes a quick glance to meet her eyes, his nose scrunching cutely at her. 

“Not gonna tell me?” She whispers, chin now poking into the top of his chest. 

Her mouth moves to press a gentle kiss to his chin before pulling back slightly. And when Harry doesn’t respond at all, she kisses just under his chin, nibbling at the stubble he’s been growing for a few weeks. Though it prickles her lips, she stretches her neck further to press more kisses every time Harry tilts his head back to avoid her pecks.

“Not gonna stop till you tell me!” He’s wiggling under her, head tilting to the opposite side every time she tries to kiss him, until she’s poking her tongue out against his chin.

“Did ye’ jus’ lick me?” Harry looks at her accusingly, and his laugh rumbles against her chest as he brings his hand up to wipe at the slightly damp spot. 

The sight of his Y/N trying to hold back a laugh has him narrowing his eyes at her before his own tongue is licking her forehead.

Y/N giggles at that, flattening her palm on his forehead and moving it upwards to push his hair back.

“What’s got you smiling like a dolt, H?" 

Harry clicks his phone off then, looking down at her intently, hands locking over her lower back and sock clad feet rubbing against her own bare feet.

"M'just 'appy tha’ you’re 'ere.”

Harry’s always been quite sappy, but if she’s being honest, this sort of catches her off guard, doesn’t really know what’s got him saying that.

“I’ve always been here silly.” She chimes, 'booping’ his nose with her index finger.

Harry spreads his hands over her back, rubbing up and down once and then bringing his right to wrap around the back of her neck. He presses into it to bring her face closer so he can kiss her forehead.

He exhales audibly, the hand that was on her neck now working to push her hair back with the back side of his fingers, tips brushing her shoulder.

“But m'appy to have ye’ like this, pet. To m'self,” he whispers, “all t'myself.”

Y/N’s sure she’s never felt this happy before. And she really doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t think there are words that’ll express just how happy she is to be here with him. So she smiles warmly at him when he starts to hum to the tune of “Songbird,” and watches his hooded eyes close completely, a smile creeping onto his lips as he runs his hand down her back and rests it on the curve of her bum, thumb slipping under the hem of her shirt and rubbing circles on the hot skin. 

“Harry?” He thinks he wouldn’t have caught if it weren’t for the fact she’s so close to him.

Harry can hear reluctance laced in that simple word, and when he opens his eyes, he’s met with a timid look, a look that tells him her mind might be tittering on whether she should continue or not.

He smiles reassuringly before whispering, “Yes, love?”

“You love me, right?" 

Harry cracks a smile, appalled she would even have to ask at this point. 

"G'na love ye’ til I die,” his words get muffled into her hair, “m'gonna be good t'ye and m'gonna love ye’. Never g'na do anything to jeopardise that, pet. Promise." 

It was a promise she didn’t know she’d needed. A promise Harry thought was implied in their relationship, something he didn’t know he had to audibly say. But it seems to put her at ease by the way she relaxes further onto his body, an ear pressed to the right of his chest.

They continue to indulge in each other’s company, nothing but light huffs falling into the silent air. 

"Loved ye’ for a long while now,” he admits, though he’s sure he’s said it before, “not g'na stop.”

He feels the curve of a smile on his skin as she reaches up to take his cross necklace between her fingers, moving it in a way that it slides on the chain.

“Good." 


***


Y/N doesn’t remember how long she’s been stood still, with the moon and the stars shining through her kitchen windows like spotlights. But it feels like forever. It’s felt like forever since the breakup. Days seem to drag longer, nights feel shorter than usual, and she can’t recall the last time she’s had a nice long sleep. 

If any of her friends were to ask - which they have - she’s been doing rather well. Doesn’t deny that it didn’t falter her any, but she’s aware time will heal her wounds. She’ll spit lies about how she’s been preoccupied with work enough that her mind’s able to function normally. 

But in a quick reality check - which she can thank her wandering mind for - she’ll remind herself of Harry’s betrayal. 

That’s how she seems to have ended up sobbing in her kitchen. 

She had let herself enjoy her own company - maybe a little too much. She’d prepared a bubble bath when she’d gotten home, but was quickly reminded that Harry had gifted her the luscious bombs when she walked back into the bathroom and caught a whiff of the lavender scent. Without further knowledge to the inviting bubbly water, she’d retracted from the room and shut the door all too hastily, leaving the bubbles to deflate until the water was nothing but a soapy lilac coloured puddle of memories. 

She was beginning to get better at blocking out any thoughts of him - or so she’d tried to convince herself. Plenty times she’d caught herself turning off her telly because 'shit. Dunkirk promo’s started' and she knew there was a chance she’d catch a glimpse of him even if she was clicking through channels. And no matter how quick she’d be to click it off, it would surely send her into a haze she’d much rather avoid. 

But tonight. After a month of working on picking herself up, it all caught up with her.

She was stumped after having walked down the empty hallway to her sitting area, enough that she didn’t think twice when her eyes caught sight of the bottle of wine she’d long forgotten two nights ago. She gripped the neck of it maybe a little too harshly, completely throwing the idea of pouring it into a glass out the window and wrapping her lips around the opening. Tilting her head back, she’d taken a long swig, brows furrowed and eyes screwing shut in hopes of silencing her mind and any thoughts of Harry. 

She’d wiped her lips with the back of her hand after they’d detached from the bottle and slumped down on the sofa. 

Slowly - through every chug and every gulp - she’d begun to get light headed, sight becoming blurry and body growing tired.

She’d reached for the control and turned on the telly absentmindedly, barely paying any attention to the program displayed across the screen. 

But she never realised at what point the interview began. And frankly couldn’t comprehend why it had taken her so long to turn it off after the imagine of him processed through her mind. 

It sobered her up some, enough to bring her to her current spot at the kitchen window. Tears free falling down her cheeks and eyes stinging from not having bothered in taking off her make up. She made no effort in silencing her sobs. This is her home after all. A place she can be vulnerable, even if it’s only to herself. 

She lets the recent image of Harry imprint into her brain, unable to deny that although the sight of him made her heart literally hurt, it also made it melt. It’s as if she was conditioned to feel nothing but happy when she saw him or heard his voice or even caught the mention of his name.

It’s not until her ringtone for Gemma sounds that she snaps her head in the direction of the sitting area. Walking over to her purse but not necessarily tripping over herself to answer the call. 

She inhales deeply before pressing the green button and lifting the phone up to her ear, wet cheeks causing the phone to slide down slightly only for her to readjust after wiping at the damp skin.

She lets out cough, hoping to steady her voice so that it’ll sound more as if she’d been asleep rather than crying. 

"Hey, Gem.” Complete fail.

“Y/N! Love,” and it’s as if she was actually surprised she’d picked up, “haven’t talked to you in a while. How’ve you been?”

Y/N’s been close to Gemma the second Harry had brought her over to their childhood home for a birthday party. She’d found herself confiding in her like you would a best friend. Harry had often been at the center of their conversations, and it was actually Gemma who’d at one point called it that her baby brother would end up with Y/N. 

So Y/N thinks she understands why Gemma would be surprised she’d answer her call. One would think she would have ignored it like she’s been ignoring Harry’s. 

But all in all, Gemma’s not the person Y/N would’ve gone to crying over Harry. Not her, not Niall, not Grimmy. And as sad as it is to admit, having made friends with Harry’s circle of friends led up to be heartbreaking. It was a given fact she wasn’t going to reach out to any of them after what happened. She wasn’t going to be the person that would strain those friendships, wouldn’t take any pity from them. And in all honesty, wasn’t going to make Harry look bad in their eyes, no matter how much he deserved it. 

“I’ve been better,” she admits, voice low and timid. 

After that, Gemma tries her best to comfort her. She tells Y/N her how she wishes she had given her a call after it all happened. Tells her over and over again how it didn’t matter that Harry was her brother, he’d been a proper dick and she would have smacked some sense into him if she’d known. All in all, she just couldn’t believe Harry had cheated. 

She also talks about how miserable Harry’s been, moping about their mum’s, spending more time inside than she’s ever seen him do. She tells Y/N how it breaks her heart to hear her baby brother silently crying on the sofa at night when he thinks everybody’s gone to sleep. And Y/N notices how not once Gemma mentions that Y/N should forgive him, only wishes she gets better and assures her that anything she needs, all she has to do is call.

When the call ends, Y/N tries so hard to hold back the fresh tears rimming her eyes. 

She couldn’t bring herself to think of Harry being miserable. Of a broken Harry sulking over the mess he’d made. 

Many times she’d been there to ease his mind and worries, to calm his sobs and lull him back into her Harry. A kind Harry that saw the world for more than what it was. 

But now, she’s suffering. And he’s suffering. 

She fiddles with the phone in her hands, a picture of Harry towards the upper left corner of the screen, his contact number screaming out at her. 

Her thumb lingers over the digits, mind saying no, but heart contradicting it. 

What would she even say to break the ice? Maybe she could start by congratulating him on the film? But then what? The second that phone rings, there’s no going back.

And she knows she can’t speak to him, not when she’s this vulnerable, not when the sound of his voice might just have her braking down in tears for the third time today.

Maybe she shouldn’t. Not after it all. She doesn’t want to be that person. The one that so easily forgives the people who’ve wronged them. But haven’t they both had enough? Haven’t they suffered more than needed? More than they should have? 

But a simple congrats doesn’t mean anything more than congrats. She’s not taking him back for Christ sake. She’s overthinking it, but she just wants to tell him she’s proud. 

Her thumbs swipe over the keyboard swiftly. 

“Congratulations on the movie, Harry. Hope you’re doing well." 

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