#since his pieces were mainly commentary above all else
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A Loki TVA / Lokane fic that snatched a tempad. Rating T.
Previously: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 (of 6)
Shine a Light, part 4
This time around, he feels but the faintest glimmer of surprise as he steps out of the doorway and onto a busy sidewalk in Midtown Manhattan.
A few people stop dead in their tracks when the door materializes out of thin air, but the throng of commuters headed to and from Central Station is so dense, Loki’s appearance goes mainly unnoticed.
Dull resignation washes over him.
The tempad is officially broken. Its coordinates locked onto this little planet where, in his own timeline, he has known nothing but defeat.
Without bothering to look for a newsstand, he reasons there’s a strong probability it’s the year 2014. It would seem the damn gadget is slowly counting backwards, while refusing to take him anywhere else in the universe.
Above his head, a billboard flashing on the side of a high-rise building confirms his suspicions.
Incredibly though, the tempad still not out of “juice”. The battery life seems to be making a mockery of his failed attempts to direct the itinerary.
Taking a step out of the moving sea of people, Loki sees little in way of construction sites along the street.
On his timeline, this would have been two years after his attack on the city with Thanos’ army, but if that ‘highlight’ of Loki’s less than acclaimed villainous career took place in this reality as well, the mortals have effectively tidied up after him.
He tries not think of the countless faces frozen in terror that had looked up at him.
Of the lives lost because of his crazed ambition to prove himself - and to destroy something of Thor’s.
Almost if Loki had been transformed back into the chronically jealous five-year-old child who once stole his golden, annoyingly joyful, perfect brother’s favorite model toy - a grey wolf made of clay - and deliberately let it roll down the steps of the throne when their father (his NON-father) had been away.
The toy had broken into pieces and Thor had been inconsolable. Gripped by immediate remorse despite his initial intent, Loki had tried to fix it with his budging magic powers. Only for the wolf to melt to a sticky puddle on the stone floor.
Thor had wailed so loudly, a passing servant had thought him seriously injured and called for their mother, and Loki had been made to apologize, his usually pale cheeks burning scarlet. Then he had been grounded for the remains of the day.
The humiliation had stung, and so had the regret that his magic had failed him.
Not for the first time, the anger had turned, unwarranted (Loki knew then too), towards his brother.
From then on, it had just gotten slowly worse and worse and more malicious right up until that horrible moment of rage no more than a few days ago (a week?), when Loki had driven one of his daggers into Thor’s side on top of the Stark tower.
And twisted it.
The mix of bottomless sadness and shock in his brother’s blue eyes had cut through Loki’s heart with such force he might as well have sunk the blade of his other weapon into his own chest.
But instead of abandoning his pathetic scramble for power and hold Thor, instead of attempting to heal the wound with his magic that has become so formidable in adulthood, Loki had let the poison drown the remains of his sanity.
Of course, shortly afterward, the green monstrosity had effortlessly and repeatedly smashed him into the concrete floor of Stark’s living-quarters until Loki had thought he heard every bone in his supposedly immortal (right!) body break and his skull crack open.
To the outside, it had surely been a suitably entertaining show of retribution, but as he had lain there in the crater of rubble, unable to utter a moan, it was as if all the anger had been knocked out of him.
The link to Thanos’ ungodly servant had been severed and Loki had felt more like himself than he had in a long, long time.
When Thor, looking grimmer than ever, had dragged him to his feet in front of the ragtag band of ‘heroes’ and cuffed him, Loki had found himself strangely elated, on the verge of giddy.
His legs had been so shaky from the beating that Thor had had to hold him by the arm so he wouldn’t fall, and Loki had felt the heat of his brother’s huge hand penetrate the many layers of his own armour.
For a few delirious seconds, Loki had wanted nothing more than to lean against his brother’s strong frame and just close his eyes.
Instead, he had started cracking jokes until Thor had slapped the muzzle on him, as if he were some dog (that gesture had embarrassed him more than anything that had gone before). Unable to keep up his sarcastic commentary as they rode the elevator down, Loki had fleetingly wondered if he was suffering from a psychosis or actual brain damage.
Now, standing on the street so close to where it happened, the memory oozes fresh guilt.
But he redeemed himself.
In his mind, Loki goes through the TVA reel once more to remind himself of the images of his brother later in life, smiling at him.
Right before the end came.
If he is to spend the rest of eternity on Midgard - or at least until the multiverse crumbles - he will try to find solace in the good his future self managed to accomplish.
For Thor and, in another, brighter reality, for her.
The riddle of her part in his life now remains unsolved, but as hard as Loki tries to release the ghost wrapped in his arms, it merely squeezes itself closer to his chest.
He could try to find her here, on this timeline.
She will be with Thor, that much is certain, but since the reel of Loki’s fate had shown him only his own path, he knows not whether Thor and Jane shared a life on Midgard, or somewhere else, up until the brothers reunited (for lack of a better word) on Asgard.
What would Loki even say to her?
That, while at the bureau that controls all space and time, he saw her face on a roll of film of his supposed life, and now he aches for her more than anything? That on an alternate timeline a few hours ago, she kissed him?
Thor would not approve of that exchange.
Also, with Loki’s luck, Thor might be a frog in this reality.
He could still try to use the tempad to transport him to Svartalfheim and his own life’s story, seeing as he is now only year from where he feels so strongly he must go.
But finding the proper timeline is like shooting an arrow into the endless vastness of space and hoping it’ll hit the right comet.
He realizes that now.
An arrow.
Somehow, somewhere, on two timelines no less, variants of him had …
Loki’s head jerks up.
The tower.
It’s a desperate idea at best, but from the (very) little Loki knows of his character, Stark’s superior technical skills go hand in hand with an endlessly hungry, inquisitive mind. And pride.
Much like Loki, Stark is a man who needs to be the smartest man in the room. And like Loki, he probably is, most of time (in fact… no. Don’t go there).
Maybe Stark will listen.
Perhaps he can even help make sense of the tempad if Loki can somehow win his trust and appeal to his curiosity and (he winces a little) heroism.
Was it not Loki’s actions who had helped Stark “realize his best potential”, as his TVA file put it?
He spots the imposing structure further up the street, noticing the huge “A” at the top (is that new?), and sets off towards it at a brisk pace, darting in and out of the crowds on the packed sidewalk.
Here goes nothing.
As he reaches the large glass doors he briefly experiences a dizzying deja-vu, when suddenly a man’s voice calls out to him.
A frighteningly familiar, agitated voice.
… With a particular brand of anger bubbling underneath, that Loki had hoped he’d never have to witness up close ever again.
//
“What the hell are you doing here??”
His dark, curly hair has a few more streaks of silver. The checkered shirt is slightly crumbled, the glasses a bit askew. He clutches an armful of papers to his chest.
And he’s wearing a furious expression although, thank the Norns, a mortal complexion.
For now.
“Didn’t Tony explicitly tell you not to come here?! Are you that intent on causing everyone to lose their shit again?!”
Worry is all over Doctor Banner’s screwed up face.
“Seriously, Loki, is this funny to you? Clint is actually in the building right now and, in case Tony didn’t already inform you, he’s made it very clear that he’s quitting the team if you were to stroll through the front door!”
The Avenger has started shaking, his eyes wild (too wild).
This is heading in the wrong direction fast.
Mustering all the calm in the world despite his racing pulse and the nauseating sounds of bones breaking echoing in his head, Loki puts on his most courteous and, he dearly hopes, un-cocky charming smile.
“Bruce, please relax. I assure you, I’m not here to cause trouble. Not for you or anyone else.”
“Right, you just happened to be in town and wanted to stop by for coffee? Loki, this …”
Loki gently interrupts him.
“I merely came here to have a conversation with S- … Tony. Perhaps you could let him know I’m here? I promise you, I will not set foot inside. In fact - “
Loki adopts the form of one of the security guards he can see pacing inside the foyer.
“… I’m not even here.”
Bruce jumps a little and clutches his papers even tighter.
“Oh god, I hate when you do that, man. If you think showing off that trick makes anyone any less nervous around you…”
“Doctor Banner - Bruce. I have something …”
Loki searches for the words, quickly trying to decide on how much to reveal to the man-beast who’s now looking at him with urgent expectancy.
He sighs and bets it all.
“Okay. Bruce, what I’m going to say will sound mad.”
The man scoffs.
“Coming from you, I’d expect nothing less.”
Bruce shakes his head and looks to the sky in exasperation.
“Please - please - don’t tell me you’ve gone and changed your mind about the whole not conquering Earth business. Really, Loki, none of us understand how transforming you into ‘an asset’ became Tony’s pet project over this past year, or why Fury went along with it. But I’m sure both are going to be pretty damn disappointed if their new alien BFF decides to embrace his inner psycho again.”
Loki almost chuckles. It’s all too ridiculous.
“I won’t … embrace my inner ‘psycho’, I swear.”
“Then what?”
The God of Mischief draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Or rather, the security guard’s nose.
Then he surrenders to the absurdity of the situation.
“Bruce, I kindly beg of you, is Tony here? Or … (is there hope?) Thor?”
Bruce still looks at him with deep disdain, but his immediate anger seems to have subsided.
“No, Tony’s out of town. Took Pepper somewhere on holiday. They’re not to be disturbed for at least a week. Her words. And Thor … I should think you of all people know perfectly well why he’s not likely to hang around at the time being. Jeez, you guys and your endless family soap opera … I can’t even.”
Naturally, the universe again blankly refuses to extend any hands to Loki and his doomed quest. Sadly, once again, he is not surprised.
Wait - what?
“What do you mean, ‘soap opera’?”
Bruce looks like he’s about to throw his hands over his head and all the papers with them.
“Oh, come on! What is this?! You want approval? Confirmation of your little victory? Doesn’t the very lovely embodiment of that currently walk around in your apartment or wherever it is you live now? Loki, I’m done here. You have to leave. Bye.”
To hell with Stark – Loki wants to grab Bruce by his shirt collar and shake the little man till he explains what in all of Yggdrasil he’s talking about.
But he cannot afford to tempt the beast. Quite literally.
“Then … can you and I go somewhere to talk? Bruce, you’re a man of science. This is science … related.”
Loki feigns a smile.
Bruce sizes him up. No doubt considering whether to let the other guy continue the conversation.
Then his shoulders drop.
“Okay. Okay. For a creepy megalomaniac, you somehow tend to end up with some very cool people defending your case. Just know that those people are absolutely the only reason, you and I are still talking. Ugh, I’m too nice … “
Bruce casts a glance over his shoulder into the foyer, appearing to consider their options, when a man exits the glass doors – and shuffles up to them.
“Bruce! How nice to see you. You look well.”
The old man (those eyes …) grins warmly and pats Bruce on the back, then looks from him to Loki and back again.
“Everything alright out here? Is there a security issue?”
Bruce composes himself and smiles back.
“Hi, Lee, good to see you too. All fine. Earl here was just updating me on, eh, the new security procedures.”
He shoots Loki a stern look.
“Ah, yes”, Loki nods seriously. “Doctor Banner had some trouble operating the intricate open and close mechanism of the doors. The elevator doors, especially.”
He can’t help himself. It’s somehow both immensely tragic and life-affirming.
“Oh?” The old man raises an eyebrow (he looks … but he’s not quite …something is off).
“Will I have to get a new security card? I rarely come in these days, but in case …”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Lee. Because, because … like you say, you’re hardly ever here, so …”
Still smiling awkwardly, Bruce waves a dismissive hand, almost dropping the stack of papers (the man’s a terrible liar, Loki thinks).
“Speaking of”, Banner continues, “you must be enjoying retirement up there, huh, Lee? Must be nice to live by the sea. Good … air quality?”
Loki sighs inwardly.
The dog sniffing at his ankles looks up at him.
He stares down at the round, fluffy thing as if seeing it for the first time.
Which he is and he isn’t.
The old man is saying something to Bruce about the countryside, when he notices the dog wagging its tail at Loki’s feet.
“Oh, he likes you. You’re lucky, he normally doesn’t care for strangers. No, you don’t, do you Fenris”, the man coos.
Under coats of thick white fur, the animal looks eagerly from owner to Loki.
“Okay, well, I’ll be off,” the old man says, finally. “Come see me sometime, Bruce. My neighbor actually just put his house on the market, in case you’re looking for a weekend retreat…”
He nods at Bruce, then at Loki who barely notices. The dog whines unhappily at being dragged away.
It’s the same timeline.
Of course, it is. The tempad has locked itself on a sequence.
But why the different locations …?
“Yes, thank you, Lee. Take care now. Earl, shall we?” Bruce signals to Loki to follow him round the side of the building.
“We can continue our discussion about the security issue in the garage”.
//
“So, let’s hear it. Tell me what you came to say, so I can tell you why it’s a catastrophically bad idea.”
Bruce sits himself across the small table from Loki and dumps the stack of papers in front of him. The top sheet is covered in coffee mug rings.
They are in an anonymous, windowless office somewhere below the vast tower parking lot and numerous in-house repair shops.
The place is a gigantic maze and Loki has just shut himself in a tiny room with the very monster that turned him into ragdoll. The deep slash on his forehead has only just healed.
He does not fear many beings in the universe, but the mild-mannered doctor’s alter ego makes the hit list with the worst of them.
Ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand up (why did this seem like a good idea?), Loki drops his disguise and takes a seat on the cheap plastic chair. Not much of that flashy Stark glamour down here.
“Okay.” Loki takes out the tempad and puts it in the middle of the table.
He is not quite sure where to start, so he decides to begin with the purely technical aspect.
Bruce might appreciate being given a few ‘scientific’ details before any mentions of giant smoke monsters and alligators.
In fact, the fewer magical creatures and castles in the sky, the better.
“This is called a tempad. It’s a device that makes it possible to travel anywhere in time. You type in your destination, and a doorway opens. I did not make it myself. It was, er, given to me by a large and very powerful organization … in space.”
Bruce is leaning forward to get a better look at the tempad but makes no attempt to reach for it.
As he’s says nothing, Loki continues.
“This is where it gets, uh, weird, but try to believe me when I tell you, I’m not the Loki you know. I’m from another, similar timeline and -“
“Stop.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just stop, Loki.”
Bruce is leaning back on his chair again. He looks tired.
“I don’t know if you’re supremely bored of domestic bliss already, or just being your supremely annoying self, but I won’t engage. You’re not Loki but a time-traveler from space? Yeah, it’s -“
“No, Bruce, I am Loki. Trust me, I know this seems -“
“Trust? You wanna talk about trust again?” Bruce takes out his phone.
“Okay, we can do that.”
He taps a few buttons, then holds the phone to his ear.
“What are you doing?” Loki’s voice has a sharper edge to it than he intended.
The Avenger stares him down.
“Oh, I’m just calling someone. This guy I have in my contacts under God of Lies”.
Please, no …
Briefly, Loki considers whether another variant of him – the one he encountered at the house by the ocean, most likely – would actually be of more help.
Or if he, the variant, would try to kill him.
It was one thing reasoning with and trying not to get killed by Loki variants who at least understood the concept of variants, but how would he have reacted upon being confronted with a twin before the TVA?
No, not a twin … Because this variant has her.
None of the variants in the Void – the grown-up, human ones – had mentioned versions of her.
Either this variant has successfully taken out every Minute Man ever sent by the TVA to arrest him (in which case, Loki concedes, he may be the superior Loki), or this whole timeline has only just blossomed at the opening of the multiverse.
Why else would he, who apparently also gave his phone number to Bruce Banner, get to live a life so vastly different from the typical arc of a misguided Jotun prince?
Loki feels light-headed.
On one hand, he wants to know everything there is to know about his double, on the other, he fears what and who he might find.
You don’t belong here. Find your own timeline. No more Lokis.
Focus. Explain.
He raises his one hand in a placating gesture.
“Give me a little time to try and explain this, Bruce, and then, then … You can call whoever. Call everyone! But please just -“
“Oh, what do you know,” Bruce puts his phone down, “there’s no answer. What a surprise.”
He crosses his arms.
Loki inhales and tries again, speaking as evenly and as calmly as he can while his frustration mounts:
“There is no way of telling you all or any of this without it sounding utterly ludicrous, so you’ll have to hear me out. Five minutes uninterrupted from now, okay? Yes, we’re talking time travel, but compared to what’s really at stake, even time travel is a pretty basic technicality. Also, I promise you, in a few years’ time from now, the concept of time travel won’t seem all that laughable to you and Stark in particular. Provided this reality exists in a few years’ time seeing as -“
Bruce sighs dramatically.
“Yes, okay, so”, Loki continues, “Two years ago, I attacked New York, right?”
“If you’re about to roll out some outlandish excuse – another one! – I don’t care to hear it.”
The other man is narrowing his eyes as a fresh look of undistilled loathing creeps into his features.
So it did happen on this timeline as well.
“No, it’s not that. Or, I mean, let’s save that. When you captured me, in my timeline, I escaped from the lobby with the Infinity stone. I know it seems impossible from your end of events but - “
“Impossible?”
Bruce gives him a strange look Loki can’t quite interpret.
“Yes, S… Tony dropped the briefcase with the Infinity stone, and I picked it up and -“
Bruce pushes his chair back. The plastic scrapes loudly against the stone tiles of the floor.
“Loki, I can’t. I thought I had the patience to at least indulge you but turns out I don’t. I can’t tell if you’re losing your mind, but either way, you’ll have to take it – this, whatever it is – up with Tony instead when he gets back. Maybe bring that sweet lab partner of yours along if you’re going to talk time travel. With her field of expertise, I’m sure - “
“WILL YOU SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!”
Without thinking, Loki slams both his hands into the table. Papers go flying and Bruce staggers backwards.
Horror dawns as Loki realizes his error, but it’s already too late.
Bruce doubles over in spasms and a deep, much too deep, growling sound escapes his lips. He grips his head with his shaking hands as if trying to contain the explosion within, and Loki feels his own brain go numb with panic as one of those hands triples in size and a sickly green hue rapidly spreads.
There is no way out.
Bruce is blocking the door and soon his bulk will be taking up the entire room. He falls to his knees, arms thrashing wildly and his shirt ripping across his back. The table sails over Loki’s head, one of the chairs lodges itself in the soundproofed ceiling, causing the panels of fluorescent light to flicker madly.
Are there no security cameras?!
There are screams, but they no longer sound human.
Loki has nowhere to hide.
He has to gather his magic around him, but terror is completely scattering his focus, cold sweat breaking out all over his body.
It is a matter of seconds before the transformation will be complete and the monster attempts to tear him limb from limb. With no heroes to stop it.
Cold.
He has only consciously reached for it once before, but now the thought barely registers before ice rushes through him as if by instinct. Bruce is not the only one with an abomination lurking under the surface.
He doesn’t have the casket of his birth father, but he has strength.
There is no time to consider if it’s enough or nothing at all. No time for crippling self-loathing or shame.
In front of him, the Hulk lifts its crazed, bloodshot eyes to meet his.
The green creature cannot stand upright in the office, and the first fist goes through the ceiling with the force of a wrecking ball. The next lashes out at Loki, who dodges it just as his own skin turns a deep, brilliant blue.
Little black ridges and markings rise on his arms and face and though his sight doesn’t falter, he feels the instant his eyes go from green to bright red. The fabric of his clothes chafes his new skin and waves of adrenaline surge through his body. Multiple foreign senses come alive and drown his fear.
But he has not a breath to spare to get used to his true form before the Hulk shoves him against the wall so hard, the bricks shift against his side as if they were made of a child’s building blocks.
The impact makes him gasp for air, yet the pain … the pain he can manage.
He just has to last long enough get out of here. And the cold is crystalizing his focus to let the magic flow easily, powerfully through his hands.
His blue hands.
If he had used this when …
Loki pushes himself off the wall (out of it) and almost collides with the Hulk (there’s no space left to maneuver in) who, instead of smashing its way out, seems hell-bent on squashing the only living thing in its line of sight first.
Loki swiftly crouches down on one knee, puts his palms together and, faster than the blink of a brilliant crimson eye, conjures a rotating orb of ice and chaos energy that explodes in a blinding flash of white light as he hurls it square into the monster’s chest.
The Hulk falls back, breaking through the wall to the parking lot on the other side and crashing into a row of cars, while a sheath of ice spreads from its chest and up its neck. The being that is not Bruce howls and claws at its skin, but the smooth ice thickens and as it reaches the head of the beast, it slides right into its eye sockets – and momentarily blinds it.
It will probably only last seconds but it’s all Loki needs while the Hulk shakes its head furiously.
He makes to flee when he spots the tempad on the cracked floor.
He can’t leave it.
As Loki dives for the gadget, the Hulk simultaneously knocks itself in the face with both fists, splintering the ice into a rain of tiny spikes. With a roar to match the sound of a spaceship engine taking off, the creature lunges.
Loki’s fingers close around the tempad.
He feels a buzz.
The door appears in front of him.
He doesn’t stop to think before throwing himself through it.
The Hulk punches into empty air.
Part 5
#loki#loki series#tva loki#lokane fanfic#lokane ff#lokane#loki x jane#marvel#loki ff#loki fanfic#shine a light#plainlo inthemorning#loki laufeyson
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Am I A Sure Thing?
the one where Harry, Nick, and Y/N are on a romcom movie night, with too much wine, and a gnome
A/N: This was my most popular series and I’ve decided to re-upload it! :) Check here for the masterlist.
The TV screen glowed dimly, casting a bluish hue against the group of three cuddled on Y/N’s couch. Nick was in the middle, splayed with his feet against the coffee table and his arms slung around his two best friends; Harry’s head was tucked against Nick’s shoulder, his arms linking around the other man’s chest and his feet curled onto the dark spaces between couch cushions. Y/N was on Nick’s other side, sitting more upright and her fingers toying with the ends of her hair.
While the boys’ attention was held tightly on the movie, Y/N’s was wandering towards the topic of split ends. What were they exactly, why were they so bad? Could she cut them off herself, or did she have to wait to get it properly done, for $60 at the local salon? Didn’t Harry not cut his hair for a few years, and still win awards for it? Y/N wasn’t sure, and more so she wasn’t sure if that topic had been brought up in the group chat, or when she had lazily been looking on Tumblr about her new celeb friend. Bringing it up naturally would put at risk her whole operation of secretly watching One Direction videos at 1 am, her eyes straining against the light of her laptop and itching to go to sleep.
If Harry asked, Y/N would swear up and down she never researched him – but, c’mon, there’s just so much information available online. And it was for meme research, anyway. Nothing to do with her lingering on articles with such lovely titles as Harry’s Top 10 Gentleman Moments and Harry Doesn’t Want You To Go To Sea-World!, and quickly passing over articles with well-known female singers and models (Nick had told her, quite unprompted, that those were mostly fake stories. Not that Y/N cared, of course. All that would matter is that Harry’s privacy is respected, of course. Of course.)
“-but keep on dreamin’ - this is Hollywood. Always time to dream, so keep on dreamin’.”
The movie was wrapping up. Nick had begun to shuffle a bit in his position, gently rotating his ankles to wake up his legs, smacking his mouth together to get his jaw back and ready to spew 10,000 words a minute. Y/N felt certain he had reached that speed, she believed in the guy.
Harry’s arms stretched out, his legs pushing outwards over the arm of the couch so his entire body was one, long, stretching noodle. His fingertips even grazed Y/N’s side, the one that had been nestled up to Nick. She subtly moved, flinching slightly at the surprise when his fingers poked against her thick sweatshirt.
“Well, Y/N, whad’ya think?” Nick grumbled, his hand shaking her shoulder slightly and turning his head to grin down at her. It had been her first time seeing that movie in particular, although Y/N wasn’t sure why Nick had suddenly been so keen on watching romcoms instead of their typical zombie/apocalypse genre.
“Liked it, nice film,” she spoke around a yawn, smiling brightly back and choosing not to mention she had zoned out for the last 20 minutes. The distractions of split ends and Harry Styles had overtaken her ability to focus on prostitutes and love. But hey, what’s the difference.
Harry hadn’t stirred since his light stretch, and Nick simply hummed a response. The three of them stilled, snuggled into one another, warm underneath swaths of blankets thrown across Y/N’s legs, Nick’s torso, and Harry’s shoulders. The ending credits of the movie began to roll over the TV, names slowly inching further up.
Harry, Y/N, and Nick were comfortable, warm, and quiet.
Pizza boxes were littered by the base of the couch, veggies that had been picked off the slices tossed against the greasy cardboard. It had been a good hour and a half since they had eaten dinner, a meal that Harry had insisted on paying for.
Despite it being Y/N’s home, Nick’s idea to order pizza, and Harry always being the one to provide food for the three of them when they were out. Nick hadn’t bothered to argue, waving Harry off towards the door when the doorbell rang, and Y/N was attempting to shuffle through her wallet, past the scramble of $1s, but couldn’t salvage the money before Harry had paid. She was set on returning the favor, at some point.
Y/N had texted Nick about re-starting their weekly movie nights, since Nick’s schedule had fewer required public appearances than before, and he had recently confessed to her his cravings for a more secluded lifestyle. Plus, she just missed having him around more, they had been close pals for years but had busier schedules with each promotion they had received.
Y/N supposed it would last a few weeks, Nick’s new private life, before he posted another hoard of Instagram photos and embraced his publicity like a long-lost friend. It was an aspect of Nick that Y/N adored, how he easily balanced being a public figure and also simply being Grimmy. His personality wasn’t wild, per say, but it definitely was never boring to keep in touch.
And so, when Y/N had suggested the idea of movie night to Nick, it had felt slightly wrong not to include Harry. Their group chat was active 24/7 at this point, especially when one of them was in a different time zone and had to play catch up on the conversation. The number of times Harry texted Y/N to explain what had occurred within the chat, in the span of the last 6 hours (more importantly, after Nick had finished his second Red Bull) was staggering.
Although Y/N wouldn’t consider Harry a close friend, he was certainly more than an acquaintance. She would often send him random texts, full of weird questions and thoughts. It was almost protocol between them, how their texts mainly composed of out-of-the-blue comments that were interwoven with more serious commentary about their days.
Nick had agreed with Y/N’s decision to include H, although he had encouraged it with a wide smirk. That just made Y/N nervous. She was nervous for numerous reasons, anyway, since the last time she and Harry had hung out in a proper, non-party setting was a month ago, when Nick was supposed to come to Harry’s dinner but instead burst into the door when she and Harry were moments away from kissing.
Late at night, when Y/N felt particularly lonely and the expanses of her bed sheets felt like a desert terrain, she could almost feel the breath from his lips against hers. The momentary hesitation before he leaned in, before Nick interrupted the moment. The excitement dancing in her mind, drunk with the wine he had poured her, and how his eyes had carefully looked into hers. As if he were looking for something special, thought she held the key to the universe.
It had been a while since she had felt like that, as if she were worth something beautiful.
They had shared a bed that night, their drunk friend occupying the guest room that was originally meant for Y/N. Harry had suggested they each have a side of the bed, perhaps trying to feel out the atmosphere, see if Y/N had snapped out of the haze of lust that his mind was still drowning in. She had shrugged nonchalantly and before Harry could say anything else -- her jeans were off. Cast to the floor, her body stumbling over to the bed.
Harry’s eyes had almost bulged out of their sockets, his head snapping quickly away to not be caught staring.
“Jeans are a bitch t’ sleep in,” was her justification, and it was admittedly the only piece of clothing that was taken off that night.
Harry stayed in his outfit from the dinner, simply untucking his shirt from the striped pants and calling it a night.
As they both sluggishly got under the covers, Harry focused on trying to swallow down his increasingly heavier breathing at the sight of soft pink, lace underwear that quickly fell out of sight when Y/N tugged her sweater lower. Y/N herself had spent the majority of the night trying not to breathe into Harry’s pillows too obviously, only subtly inhaling the perfume. When she heard him softly snoring though, she felt it was okay and burrowed her head into the blanket, taking a deep breath and finally feeling herself relax.
In the morning, they woke up in each others’ arms. Y/N was fairly warm, almost a little too hot, but the hard structure of Harry’s muscular arms circling her waist kept her from moving an inch. His hands were clasped behind her back, right above her bum.
Before Harry had pieced together who was snuggled up against his chest, her fingers grazing the sides of his neck and trailing down to the black collar of his shirt, he pulled her in closer, taking in a deep whiff of her hair in the process. Her fingers fell, slack, against the curls on the side of his head and in the exhausted frame of his mind, he hoped the girl would start playing with his hair. He always liked that.
Her hair smelled like the fresh, familiar winds in springtime, but Harry wasn’t sure if that was accurate or just his poetic ass being a lil romantic hoe again. Either way, it was pleasant. Something different than waking up to an empty bed, or to a person whose pores still clung to the heavy stank of liquor.
After they untangled their heavy limbs from each other, Y/N’s eyes lingered on the lines marking Harry’s cheek from the pillow. She found herself absentmindedly wondering how his hair would look in the morning under different conditions, but quickly shoved those thoughts away from her mind.
The rest of the morning lacked any physical connection between the two of them, interrupted by Nick’s clanking moans and head hidden underneath his stacked arms, mumbling about the tragedies of hangovers. They were in the kitchen, the dishes still stacked from the night before, a graveyard dedicated to the potential for Y/N’s night to be full of something other than going home and watching more Chopped.
Harry had whipped up French Toast for everyone, creating smileys out of bananas and strawberries and even bringing out some special maple syrup that made Nick whistle low, teasing his friend “pulling out the big guns for meh, aren’t ya Haz?” Y/N missed the quick glance Harry shot her, too distracted by Harry’s surround system in her conquest to play some James Taylor song.
Time in between then and now had muffled the fantasy of Harry for Y/N. Sure, the days following the dinner had her heart racing when she saw XXX My Ass had texted her again, but it soon waned when it was repeatedly questions about how many necklaces a giraffe could wear, and not another offer over to his place, sans their best friend.
To put it frank, Y/N felt silly. Like she had over-analyzed the situation, that the offer of a kiss was merely a product of the wine and not genuine interest. That the moment had been real, was there, but now was gone. It happened, yeah? Sometimes the flow of the atmosphere lent itself for certain people to come together, but a wind could alter the course of everything.
The sound of Harry’s voice snapped Y/N out of her stroll down memory lane, laughter catching itself at the edges of his words.
“Wha’ the fuck is on the table?”
It was a lawn gnome, perched next to the basket that held the Misc Electronic Pieces of her flat. Where did all the extra screws and wires come from, anyway? Y/N couldn’t possibly have so many things that needed charging, she felt, yet there were always random wires spotted around her flat.
The gnome had been a gift from Y/N’s boss, who apparently couldn’t even do a birthday gift with an air of normalcy. That figured, though, working in LA – Y/N was bound to start a collection of weird objects that served no purpose other than fulfilling the societal obligation of gifting on birthdays. This gnome, however, was not a normal gnome. Because of course it wasn’t.
Gone were the standards colors of red and blue, the orderly uniform of typical garden gnomes - instead the piece was covered by mirror pieces, tiny and reflective. It was a Disco Gnome.
On any normal day, Y/N would’ve agreed with the critic, because it was atrocious. The gnome community most likely mourned the moment it was put on the market, it was too futuristic for the current gnome fashion. But, that’s sort of why she liked it? It was fucking weird, probably insanely expensive, and useless. The perfect ornament to put next to a Misc. Electronics basket.
“It’s a disco gnome,” she responded, her tone as even as she could manage when giggles shook the words’ foundation.
There was a brief silence.
Nick was the one who started snickering, leaping straight across the boundaries of giggling into straight, hysterical chuckling and snorting, his hand unwrapping around Y/N’s shoulder to wipe underneath his eyes.
“Jesus, Y/N!”
“That’s gotta be...” and Harry was choking somewhat on laughter, as it racked through his body and mixed with coughs as he attempted to sit upright “...the strangest gnome ‘ve ever seen.” His giggles faded out, before relapsing into a heavier laughter the more he looked at it.
“Strange? Just plain ugly.” Nick interjected, waving a finger at the poor, defenseless gnome. It didn’t do much for itself, just stood and glistened.
The menu for Pretty Woman restarted on the TV, the frames continued to show snippets of the film with the options shining below. Y/N’s eyes kept on the TV, not quite wanting to join in on making fun of Frank (which was what she called the gnome, a 46-year old gnome, father of 27 other gnomes worldwide).
“Not very nice,” she grumbled, leaning herself forward off the couch, to land on the floor. She straightened out her shorts, not wanting her whole ass on display as she stalked by them towards the kitchen. It wouldn’t do to watch the berating any longer, plus the wine Harry had brought was still fogging up her mind. And the fact it was Harry’s wine again in her system seemed to launch another set of feelings she wasn’t aware of, lurking beneath her consciousness.
Sparing a glance towards her boys, she was slightly amused (but also irritated dammit, Frankie’s done nothing but exist) to see that Harry was crying, shaking with laughter, and Nick was simply beyond gone.
Harry’s Britney Spears shirt was half-up his chest from his new position, splayed against the back of the couch, one hand turned up as if to question the audacity of the gnome’s existence, and his other comfortably resting on his tummy. The bottom of his butterfly was peeking through from under his shirt, barely, his fingers rubbing back and forth against his chest.
Earlier that night, a black Snapback had been thrown against his curls, and while Y/N typically despised that trend, her toes had curled in their fuzzy pink socks when she had opened the door and saw him standing there, hands in his front pockets and his hat on backwards. The hat was now tossed somewhere on her carpet, a pair of black sunglasses replacing them as responsible for holding back his curls.
Nick’s sweats were barely hanging onto his hips and inched down dangerously with each laugh’s increase in intensity, his fingers reaching down to adjust himself quickly before launching back into the hysteria. His cheeks were ruddy, his fingers lifting the neck of his white tee to wipe away at the glistening tears. Harry and Nick were knocking into each other, nudging the others’ shoulder in some sort of secret language between the two of them.
It had just compiled on top of itself, the hilarity was for the sake of the hilarity as opposed to the situation. The gnome inherently had a limited amount of ridiculousness packed in its disco nature, the rest was just Harry and Nick being fucking idiots.
And, as Y/N stood in between the passage to her kitchen and the living room, she watched the two of them unravel further as if it were a second movie in itself, put on merely for her entertainment. Harry was wordlessly mouthing something to Nick, who understood the gibberish and it sent him into another spiel of giggles. Then, Nick began impersonating someone that went over Y/N’s head but Harry clearly got, because his mouth opened wider in silent laughter and his eyes crinkled just so and -
“I’m getting some more water,” Y/N half-yelped, and Harry’s head shot up, looking at her with his mouth still spread in a huge smile.
Harry glanced over at Nick, who was coming down slightly from the hysteria of the gnome. The two men giggled quietly to themselves, not sparing the gnome another look. The TV had restarted the menu selection again, which caught Nick’s attention briefly.
“’m gonna go get some water, too,” Harry decided, and Nick just grinned, nudging his friend off the couch.
Nick didn’t know how well Harry and Y/N were getting along, although he could tell by Harry’s blushing that he sort of fancied the woman. Y/N, however, was more of a mystery. She obviously enjoyed Harry’s company, but seemed more reluctant to let herself be loose. Nick watched Harry go towards the kitchen, wondering if the idea of match-making his two best friends was a good one, after all. They both had the tendency to not want to risk too much, which might result in both of them inadvertently hurting the other.
Her kitchen was not small, especially since Y/N knowingly sacrificed room in her bathroom for a larger one whilst apartment-hunting, but the walls felt closer to her than ever before. Perhaps it was how Harry entered a room, how his presence took up so much space. Maybe it was just because she was exhausted, sleep tugging at the corners of her eyes, and she had admittedly built up Harry to mean so much in her mind. Regardless, the kitchen felt tiny.
Y/N was next to the fridge, a glass in her hand, not having yet slid it under the compartment to get water. Her attention was elsewhere, as Harry’s low giggles had faded out as he entered. He coughed, low, sniffling a bit as he padded in. The change between the living room, with its disco gnome and easy, platonic moments – and the kitchen, with steel appliances and cold floors and fuck, isn’t Y/N properly over-analyzing this again? It was merely a room, but now it was a room where Harry could see her in all her nervous glory. That sort of intensified everything, to Y/N.
“Just wanted some wa’er, too, ‘f that’s alright,” and instead of Harry walking by her to reach the glasses, as would be his next move naturally, he waited by the stove, hands reaching up to fix his glasses on top of his head.
He simply looked at her.
“Yeah, ‘f course,” she took a step away from the fridge, letting him slip by.
Frustration clung to the smell of silence. It was much easier for Y/N to insist on the ‘moment’ with Harry being circumstantial when she wasn’t a few inches away from his body. It was simple to say it had been the wine, until his cologne hazed her mind and she could see the freckle on his lip clearly.
His socked toes tapped against the floor as the water poured into the glass; Harry sniffed once, reaching up and scratching the tip of his nose. Y/N tugged her phone out from her sweatshirt pocket, scrolling through her notifications in the persisting and awkward silence. The water was so loud, fuck, and what was Nick doing in the living room alone? There was almost no noise, at all, in the world.
(Y/N would see later, that Nick was taking a plethora of selfies with the gnome and would relaunch his introduction back into the public eye by slaughtering the reputation of Disco Gnomes. Which didn’t have a sturdy reputation to begin with.)
“Was the wine good?” Harry asked, moving back from the fridge and taking a long drink from his glass. Y/N was transfixed by the bobbing of his throat, although a small portion of her mind was scrawling on the innards of her brain: get your act together! Harry didn’t seem to notice, though.
How could two people be so awkwardly about each other, and yet completely miss it? A tragedy of the times, an issue that couldn’t be solved within a sane mindset. And in the haze of wine, pizza, and a good time with friends, their sanity was arguable.
“Mhm, really good, thanks for bringing some,” and Y/N’s shoulders relaxed, because this type of small talk was the sort she could settle into. Albeit, small-talk was never her first choice, but when she wasn’t sure why she wanted to suddenly launch herself onto the counter and curl her ankles around Harry’s back until he complied – yeah, small talk would be safest.
“Well, yeh seemed to like it last time, thought it would be a good bet.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s still really good. Liked it last time, was good this time,” Y/N felt herself rambling, and bit her tongue in nerves, trying to force the words to come to a goddamn end.
His eyes were carefully trained on the glass in his hand, now empty. It had bothered him immensely, how Y/N never mentioned the almost-kiss, that she never implied she would be okay hanging out with him alone, again. He didn’t want to risk it, overstep, make one of Nick’s closest friends uncomfortable. Fuck, didn’t even matter if Y/N knew Nick, he just didn’t want her to be uncomfortable around him. Ironically, the situation the two of them had crafted by their own worry manifested discomfort perfectly, it settled over them like a fine dust.
Her legs were bare, the cotton shorts having been hitched up slightly during the movie; and Harry respected her mind, sure, from the texts they had exchanged and how he would sometimes call her, even if it were for only five minutes, and hear how breathless she seemed running to catch the bus for her work, hear her reactions to the new juices (it usually involved quiet retching she tried to hide from her boss, which was adorable in a very new and strange way to Harry). But at that moment, in front of a woman who was just begging to be cuddled proper in her comfy pajamas, in a way Nick couldn’t, Harry’s heart ached.
Y/N noticed when he took a step closer, because although her eyes were on the newsfeed littered across her phone screen, every inch of her being was keeping close track on Harry. After a few more careful steps on his end, she turned off her phone and slid it back into her pocket, looking up at him.
With his hair brought back, his eyes were more piercing, his lips drawing in more of her attention now than they had previously that night, when she was fighting him over the last slice of pizza. (He won, with a victorious shout and Nick screaming at Harry about being nice to people).
Her kitchen was not small, but managed to feel like just a corner of a room, with Harry’s body so close to hers. His shoulders were at her eye-level, his fingers brushing her fingertips, the edges of her shorts.
A shiver danced against her spine delicately. Her mouth was parted, a breath caught between her lungs and her mind, her heart missing the memo to keep its cool and instead thudding heavily.
His head was ducked low, and Y/N knew if she were to look up too quickly, it was all too possible that her lips would brush against his stubble, before making it home to his own. So, she looked down, readily, at his feet, as one of his socked foot bumped into her own. It flashed her back to that sleepy morning, when she was unsure where her limbs ended and his began.
His voice broke the silence, although it sounded low compared to the roaring in her ears.
“Mind getting me mo’ water?” he cleared his throat gently, and Y/N heard the hitch in his breath. “’m thirsty tonight, love.” It was a low whine.
Y/N nodded, jerkily, and Harry’s mouth twitched
“S-sure,” she whispered, not trusting her voice to speak any louder. His chest lifted in a slow, deep breath, and along with it Y/N looked up, gradually.
A single strand of hair fell across his forehead, slanted to rest by the middle of his eyebrow. His mouth was set, now, in a firm line, his gaze more intensely than Y/N had remembered last. As if he were set on memorizing the surface of her skin, the freckles and smudged makeup.
It seemed crazy, how enticing the air around him was, how his eyes literally sparkled like it was a Disney Princess film and Harry was magic.
“Maybe...instead o’ water,” Harry began to suggest, his slow words only building up the suspense in her throat, “I could ask yeh for somethin’ else?”
“Yeah, what would that be?” Her voice sounded casual, she figured, and Y/N’s eyes were dead-set on Harry’s lips at this point.
“Think we got interrupted, last time. Wanted to finish it. That okay?”
It was barely a nod, Y/N felt so hypnotized by the pull of his magnetism and how her head was swirling with intrigue and lust. It made her eyelids heavy, as if they were closing on their own behalf as opposed to a conscious preparation. Her body just responded to his, as if it were only natural.
Because her eyes were closing, Y/N missed how Harry’s hand rose from his side, up to her cheek, before hesitating. She didn’t see how his face scrunched up, somewhat, because fuck if this wasn’t nerve-wracking. He had done this before, kissing someone wasn’t a new concept, but after so much build-up around the thought of Y/N, he couldn’t help but be nervous.
His hand eventually made contact with her cheek, and the moment was so familiar, she was brought back to the moment in hist study. How one hand had been on her waist, the other doing the same action of brushing over her cheekbone.
Kissing was a concept Y/N didn’t fully understand. How swapping spit could turn her engines so fast, how quickly some boys jumped to tongue (and she still had no clue what to do with her own in those predicaments, so she sort of just let them ‘explore’ her mouth and tried not to think about it too much) and how some girls liked to suck on her lower lip more than the actual kissing part (again, she didn’t quite get the hype but let them do whatever they wanted, they seemed to enjoy it).
It was a jumble of confusion, and Y/N felt quite sure in her opinion that kissing was only fun when the relationship was established, and it was quick pecks before work and slow, languid making out when the day was coming to an end.
She liked kissing when it had no pressure related to it, when it wasn’t a question of “What does this mean” or “Oh my God have they heard of mouthwash”. But, this was different. As Y/N should’ve really expected, really, because wasn’t Harry just different? In his total essence, when they were physically near each other, she had never quite met someone like him before. That it would only impact her this strongly when he was in the room with her, was unfortunate; to step away from him would mean to allow herself to tear the moment to shreds, ignore the potential of his lips on hers.
And he was gentle with her, the instant their lips touched.
She would never be able to properly describe it to anyone, how gentle he was with her. How freaking soft his lips were, and she half-wanted to break the kiss in order to ask him about whatever expensive lip scrub he used, because he tasted like butterscotch. Her mouth widened into a smile as she continued kissing him, feeling a smirk form on his, as well.
Her hands rose from being balled up in her sleeves, her fingers coming out from their safe haven in the warm cotton to rest, hesitant, on his cheeks. The scruff felt scratchy, and the bottom of her stomach clenched at the thought.
Having understood her moves as a sign she was okay with the kiss, that it hadn’t been all on his end, Harry deepened the way his lips moved against hers. His lips remained closed but were rougher, his hands holding her head firmly in place.
Y/N could hear a low moan in the back of his throat, how he tried to stop it by evening out his breathing, but she could feel the vibrations against her lips. Her fingers drifted to the back of his head, at the nape of his neck, and curled themselves around locks of hair. They were soft, having been matted down by his hat earlier that night, and Y/N wished it was within her right to try her hand at tugging on them, seeing what other sorts of noises she could draw out from the man kissing her.
But that would be something else, something far deeper than a kiss in her kitchen, with their best friend a room away, posing with a Disco Gnome as his penis for Instagram.
Harry felt drunker than the wine should’ve allowed him to become, the taste of Y/N’s lips was sweeter than any drink. He, himself, was not entirely sure where his bravery had stemmed, or why his self-control had vanished for the night. How Y/N was responding to his every touch, how her skin felt like gold and he could almost smell the springtime – it just felt nice. And it had been a while, since he properly felt relaxed and at home, like he did when she was around. What that meant, what that could mean for the two of them in the future, wasn’t on his mind remotely. All that mattered right then, was him and her.
They eventually parted. Harry’s hands remained on her face, cupping her cheeks, his eyes lazily opening and a boyish grin growing on his lips.
“Yeh taste like lemonade.”
A weird statement, but Y/N readily took it as a compliment, scrunching her nose.
“Yeah?”
Harry took a moment, his eyes scanning her face once more, before nodding, humming his approval. Her fingers detangled from his curls, and his hands dropped from their place. His fingers seemed to be going towards her own, but she put them in her sweatshirt pocket before he could, fast enough that it wasn’t obvious what she was avoiding.
If there were one thing Y/N sucked royally at, however, it was the seconds right after Big Moments. Last time, she hadn’t needed to come up with anything to say in response, because Nick had crashed the party, and then in the morning Nick had been moaning rather loudly so Y/N had simply hurried to his side. There was no after-discussion between her and Harry, and she liked it like that. Sure, it meant there was less of an explanation, but it also meant she didn’t need to try and continue whatever illusion of attractiveness that had led Harry to her, to begin with.
“Did you still want that water?” Y/N cleared her throat, turning her head to look at the fridge. When Harry turned to look, as well, still a bit dazed, Y/N subtly wiped at the corners of her mouth, wondering if her lips smelled like butterscotch now. She certainly felt it thrumming in her veins, the adrenaline of kissing a cute person that never got old.
Damn, she was good.
“No ma’am, got what I came in here fo’,” he cheekily replied, lowering his head a bit and grinning. It was entirely unfair, how adorable this grown man was, how his chest was hardened with muscles, his cologne smelled of cinnamon and deep, manly shit, and his voice could drop to insanely husky levels – and yet his Britney Spears shirt, pink and faded, and his multitude of bedazzled suits and his collection of feminine designer scarves, they all made him more masculine to Y/N. There was nothing that distracted her from his genuine self, everything was seamlessly magnificent on him.
It was these thoughts that prompted Y/N to continue onward, pushing past her awkward reluctance of intimacy beyond the intimacy. With her hands still tucked in the pocket, fingers twirling nervously against one another, she turned back to Harry.
“Hey, I was wondering...”
The silence was sticky, her throat wasn’t properly opening up, how did people ever do this?
“HAROLD!” Nick bellowed from the living room, and Harry immediately turned, before looking back at Y/N, eyebrows raised with expectancy. He wanted to know, just as badly as she wanted to speak, what the next words were.
But Y/N just shrugged her shoulders, nodding her head towards their friend in the living room. Because that was what the focus should be on, not on whatever Harry and her had going. This was a friends group, yeah? Once again, the awkward seconds after Big Moments, cut short. She wasn’t one to complain.
Y/N let Harry go in before her, taking a quick second to pour herself some water. Take a few, deep breaths. Sort herself out.
After the adrenaline subsided, Y/N stepped out towards the living room. She felt a lot more like herself; hydration would do wonders, it seemed.
The sight in front of her was something she hadn’t quite expected, although after a brief second of consideration, she probably should’ve.
The gnome had Harry’s hat on its head. Well, it partially did; threads of the cap were caught on the edges of the mirror shards, so it was almost hanging off the gnome, but stubbornly held on the front of the gnome’s face. Frank looked rather displeased with the outcome, although Nick looked beyond wildly excited, and Harry simply adopted a perplexed expression.
“I was tryin’ to put it on the gnome, ‘cause wouldn’t it be funny, yeah? And it got caught,” Nick needlessly explained, as Harry knelt down and tugged gently on the hat. Some of the threads snapped, so he stopped before any more damage could be inflicted on the Snapback.
“Was my favorite hat.” Harry said simply, running his fingers around the mirrors to see if he could pick out where it was latched onto. Nick was standing above Harry somewhat, a few steps back, one arm around his own waist and the other lifted up to his mouth, biting a bit on his nails. He glanced over at Y/N, who was walking up to her two boys.
“I’d imagine you’ve got plenty others, H,” Nick continued, swinging back to survey the man as he attempted to wrestle the gnome for the glory of the cap.
“Probably plenty other weird ones, like bedazzled cowboy hats.” Y/N piped in, which received a thumbs up from Nick and a snort from Harry. The former wrapped an arm around Y/N, holding her tightly to his side as the two of them watched Haz struggle with his short nails to pick away his hat.
“It’s really fuckin’ on here, isn’t it?” Harry grumbled low, sitting back on his heels and glaring at Frank.
Frank didn’t have much to say back – he, frankly (pun intended), never wanted to be in this position to begin with.
“Speaking o’ which,” Nick sang-said, swaying himself (and consequently, Y/N) side-to-side, “-could I come over to yours t’ pick out a suit? I want my gramma to be wow’ed this hol’day. Figured you’d have somethin’ a bit out there, got anythin’ with cheetah print?”
Harry, mostly focused on the gnome and attempting to will it with his mind to let go of his hat, shook his head. Before a pause, and then a nod.
Nick grinned and let out a weird sort of throat chuckle, happy with the outcome, and most likely picturing his grandmother’s reaction when she saw him in a few weeks.
“Wanna shine brighter than this fuckin’ gnome, Y/N,” Nick retorted, and Y/N shook her head, refusing to hear anything negative about her precious gnome anymore.
The TV had been turned off, most likely having been done by Nick in order to try and eavesdrop on the two in the kitchen, but the main light was on above their heads. The pizza boxes had been stacked on top of one another cleanly, next to the couch which, in turn, had the layers of blankets folded on top of one another. Y/N really loved Nick, sometimes, especially when his inner ‘mother’ side came out and he did the chores around her place. Who could ask for a greater friend, really?
The night was wrapping up, when Harry gave up on saving his hat and reluctantly flopped it back onto the gnome, which Nick found hilarious and took more photos of. Y/N made a slew of promises to Harry that, if chance ever fell on his side and the hat was freed, she would return it promptly. Harry’s eyes never lessened in distrust towards Frank, almost as if he felt sure the gnome had done it purposefully to avenge the teasing. Y/N couldn’t really argue with that, because it’s surely what she would’ve done, if she were in Frank’s position.
Nick had to be off, his shift at the radio station had been scheduled an hour earlier than normal. He was convinced he needed his beauty sleep, in addition to the billions of coffees he downed before he went on air, and Y/N just tousled the top of his hair and shook her head.
“Alright, Grim, if you gotta make yourself beautiful, I won’t stand in your way.”
“Aww, love, you’re the best-” and he hugged her tightly, squeezing her ribs as if it was the last time they would ever see each other. Y/N didn’t mind, Nick’s hugs were always supreme in her book. Especially when he turned his head, as he did then, and smack a kiss on the side of her cheek. He had done that since the first time they met, when Nick had confused Y/N with his other friend - but it had all, thankfully, worked out.
Yeah, Y/N thought, pinching Nick’s cheeks as he was walking out the door, things really did work out well for them.
Harry had gone home when Nick did, which left Y/N with a weird feeling. It only made sense, though, as it would’ve been odd if she tried to make him stay the night. There was no point, really, and she could try to say her piece later, through text. It wouldn’t be as immediate, but it sure as heck wouldn’t be as scary. Give Harry some time to think it over, let Y/N have some space to figure out how she wanted to get her message across. A true Marketing major.
So, when it drifted closer to midnight and Y/N was wrapped safely in her own comforter, a teddy bear propped by her head and her lamp switched off, she decided to go for it. Sleep deprivation could always be blamed the next day, for Christ’s sake.
Y/N: Hey, meant to say something earlier.
She didn’t expect her phone to buzz so quickly, didn’t expect Harry to still be awake.
XXX My Ass: Hey, thanks for having me tonight. Glad you got to see the movie! What’s up? x.
Y/N’s fingers typed out the message, her lips mouthing the message as she wrote it out. “I was...wondering...comma...do you wanna...go out...with me….sometime...question mark.” A final tap on the punctuation, Y/N felt very proud of herself for even finishing the message -- her stomach was already twisting in the worst way.
She read over the message, and then reread it. Once more, for luck’s sake. Was the proper punctuation too much, should she lowercase the ‘i’ and keep it casual? Would Harry be put off if she added a smiley?
It didn’t feel right, though, none of it. Her nerves were bubbling over, way too much for her to feel okay in putting herself out there, and she began to rethink the whole situation. Sure, there had been a kiss, but what did that mean? Y/N tossed her head again against the pillow, huffing loudly to herself and to the teddy bear.
“This fucking sucks, I want to move to an Amish community and never have to engage in romance, ever again.”
Her teddy bear figured that even the Amish had romance, considering the need to procreate, but didn’t bother correcting Y/N. Sometimes teddy bears were the fucking best.
Her phone buzzed again. In a panic, Y/N flashed her phone back to her eyes and her heart was in her throat – but nope, she hadn’t sent the message yet. It wasn’t even Harry this time, it was Nick.
Nick: Hey, love. Been thinking – should we set up Harry with Marie? Think they’d get on well. He’s been a bit lonely, sulking around in his millionaire mansion, think it might cheer him up some.
Y/N stared at it, for some length of time that surpassed any comprehension. What the genuine fuck was going on? She had felt pretty sure that Nick knew what was happening between her and Harry, considering the amount of teasing that had occurred. She didn’t know for sure, of course, but it had seemed implied that Nick wanted her and Harry to get it on. Was that just Nick trying to get two friends together, platonically? Was something misconstrued?
Then, Y/N mulled over, perhaps he did mean for sparks to fly, but something changed. Did Harry mention something to Nick on the way home, tell him Y/N was a bad kisser? Her fingers flew to her mouth, feeling them cautiously, wondering if they were rough or tasted like her pizza. But that Harold-man told her she tasted like ‘lemonade’ and that’s a good thing, to most human beings. It was even a Beyoncé album title. It was iconic.
Without letting herself address any of the emotions stirring up in the shit-storm of her thoughts, she typed out a response.
Y/N: Sounds good. IK she’s going to Brian’s BBQ Thurs.
Nick: Brilliant, thx. Had fun tonight xxxx.
“You and me both, pal,” Y/N muttered, switching back to her messages with Harry. Rereading the message, and deciding it was all bullshit anyway, she deleted it quickly. Harry must’ve said something to Nick, she was convinced.
But she needed to say something to Harry that could pass off as friendly, nothing too serious, absolutely not referencing the kiss.
“What...brand...was...that...wine...question mark.” she whispered, retyping a response out and sending it in a huff.
It was a really cheap excuse for a question, and she half-hoped he would call her out on her bullshit. Not that he had done that before, because it always seemed like an unspoken agreement to simply take each other for who they were, as opposed to challenging and questioning one another. At least, their friendship hadn’t reached that level yet. Which was unfortunate, because the situation could really use some confrontation.
Time receipts were quite literally the worst invention of all time.
Y/N saw that Harry had read it immediately, and she gasped dramatically. Even her teddy bear gasped, it was a drama show for two.
The three dots popped up, and Y/N’s eyes tracked their motion left to right, but then they disappeared.
Once more, they popped up, and then they disappeared again.
Y/N’s eyes, strained against the light of damned technology, stayed on their messages for 23 more minutes, but the dots never popped up again.
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A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts here, and check out the rest of my works if you’d like!
#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fanfiction#archive of our own#mine#one direction fanfic#one direction fanfiction#one direction fic#harry styles fluff#harry styles drabble#harry styles blurb#harry styles fic#saint nicholas verse#snv
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On Bob’s Burger’s Gene learns to be a sweeter Mama’s Boy; The Simpsons rediscovers its heart by showing empathy to a struggling teacher.
Mama’s Boy is possibly one of my favorite Ramones song, at least the one I’m most obsessed with. A track written sporting writing credits for all three Ramones. This fact really answers the age old riddle fo how many Ramones it takesto change a light bulb. There’s no question about it if the Ramones were still alive and kicking they probably would be cameoing in all sorts of animated shows and would be a Wonder Wharf regular. Episode 9, “Mama’ Boy” not only focuses on Gene’s wholesome adoration of his Mama, but also makes a clear point of demonstrating how the Belcher’s challenge conventional gender norms. If I grew up with a dad like Bob Belcher, a man who is more than willing to get into a tub with me for a spa day I’d probably be a more productive citizen. The episode strongly packs in three whole subplots with Gene and Linda’s weekly “Spa Day” ritual being interrupted by Linda joining a Women’s Business Owner Group, Bob trying to be a substitute for Gene, and then Louise and Tina getting transfixed by a clever Rocky rip-off, Ham & Egger. The boys want a seaweed eucalyptus infused face mask and the girls want to brawl, a sweet and subtle commentary that is done with that effortless Bob’s Burgers charm.
The main conflict between Gene and Linda is fraught with family psychology. Linda emboldening her only son’s clinginess with her gentle form of favoritism that threatens to mutate’s Gene’s cute Mama Boy into an emotional manipulative, controlling and abusive Mama’s Boy. This is one of the rare instances where Gene is essentially the antagonistic force of the episode, a role often bestowed upon every other Belcher but rarely reliable supporting player Gene. Gene’s antics are more than just his usual little stinker business and at moments threatens to veer off into Norman Bates territory when he fears that he’s losing his mom to the Business World. Thankfully, Gene is a thoughtful and lovable boy that experiences flashes of introspection, experiences self-realization and catches himself from going off the deep-end. The episode ends with Gene and Linda still enjoying a slightly inappropriate, but ultimately sweet relationship where boundaries are starting to further establish themselves, but I do worry for whomever ends up with Gene as a partner later in life.
Ah! My favorite high school based musical, Sunday School Musical
The episode’s subplot with Louise and Tina is a great writing lesson, a clean how-to on writing a quality parody. The whole subplot is basically mapping elements of Rocky and making them slightly cheaper and sillier Ham & Egger versions. The subplot touches upon a very specific experience of childhood when you stumble upon a lesser, knock-off movie on cable before seeing the original version, therefore making the cheaper version the definitive version in your naive mind. The subplot also serves as a fun contrast/reversal with Gene’s arc, two daughters being more interested in rough housing and watching junky TV, whereas the son is clinging onto a more traditionally feminine activity. The show hasn’t been this progressive since its explorations with Tina and her explorations of a healthy sense of sexuality. The reason why these issues work so well on Bob’s Burgers is because the writer’s never draw attention to them or try to pat themselves on the back like other lesser sitcoms tend to do, and because after 11 seasons audiences have been given a lot of opportunities to bond and appreciate each and every Belcher. Every single Belcher is capable of delivering a solid episode and whenever I pick up on whether or not an episode is going to focus on a specific character or character relationship on Bob’s Burgers I am more or less satisfied with the direction the writers and actors make with this beloved TV family.
4.5 Spools of Yarn as thick punchable yarn out of 5 thick and punchable slabs of meat.
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News update in the Bob’s Burgers world: The Belcher family is officially losing its Fox TV status and gaining FX personhood. This ultimately changes both a little and a lot, the biggest impact of the change is that Bob’s Burgers will be removed from adult swim syndication. Bob’s Burgers is ultimately in the clear for however much longer the series wishes to stay on air. This change in syndication is mainly worrisome for the state of adult swim, which will at this point go completely under due to financial straits or assimilate itself into the HBO Max roster. The adult swim brand is still fairly strong one and as long as they have Rick and Morty to cling onto they will still have a cash cow to sustain them. If adult swim collapses we will be losing one of the last bastions for weird and creative TV programming and will be left with nothing but a sea of Disney detritus.
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Search result for a stock image of a “Sad Teacher”
Speaking of Disney Detritus, it’s time for another peek back into the Simpsons brood with its 9th episode, “Sorry Not Sorry.” The episode for the most part is the most conventional episode of an exhaustingly highly conceptual season. The quality of the episode is probably due to the fact that the episode isn’t written by another one of the safe old white Harvard guys the series is doomed to forever employ, but instead, this above average episode is written by an Ivy League woman and 1996 Subrina the Teenage Witch creator Nell Scovell. Go figure, the Simpsons enormously benefits from diverting from the usual white male voice that dominates the massive bulk of Simpsons screenwriting credits. The main reason I got back into watching the Simpsons in the first place was when I saw that slightly problematic Twitter rising start Megan Amram had written a couple of episodes for its 30th season. For me, this indicated the exact type of tone shifting the Simpsons needed to course correct itself from its perennial slump. Both of Amram’s episodes are fantastic, especially “Bart versus Itchy and Scratchy.”
The typical writer for the Simpsons
This gender disparity in the Simpsons verse led my curiosity over to the Simpsons writer’s wikipedia page. Wikipedia lists 133 writers in total, I was able to tally up 18 different women who have at least one written episode credit to their name. Out of those thirteen women one of them is Conan O’Brien’s sister and Bart Simpson herself Nancy Cartwright. The numbers probably become even more grotesque when looking at anything else that diverts from the White Ivy League Educated paradigm that the Simpsons has firmly established in its endless run. So whenever a show as creaky and conservative, at least in terms of writing room staff, diverts from the white male paradigm I find that the typical Simpsons episode has a noticeable more pep in its step, the show for a brief moment feels more vital, and for me the reason is because of a wider perspective a woman writer can offer in a male dominated workplace. This episode’s title alone is a piece of modern mainstream feminism sloganeering that Lisa explicitly touches upon in the episode, and unlike Bob’s Burgers the Simpsons is the sort of show where it makes more sense for a character to explicitly call out problematic world views. This type of empathy and inner growth only tends to happen in the show whenever Lisa takes over the focus of an episode and it’s that quality of heart that is missing from the large swathe of modern Simpsons where forcing jokes for the sakes of jokes always takes precedent over having any heart or reflection.
“The Simpsons, a feminist masterpiece” - Matt Groening’s accountant
Ms. Hoover has always been one of my favorite characters, she’s got a great sense of style and her nihilistic world view and bottomless loathing of her job is especially relatable. Looking at Ms. Hoover’s Simpsons’ fandom Wiki I found disappointing tidbits such as she’s one of the only two characters in 2007 Simpsons Game besides Lunch Lady Doris given zero lines of dialogue. The series writers’ also thought it would be funny in season 25 to have Bart hook up with her in episodes set in the future. In the show’s 32 seasons very little time and space has been dedicated to Ms. Hoover so it was satisfying to get a substantial glimpse into this teacher’s life especially since she’s the only original teacher left filling in the void left by the late great Ms. Crabapple. Hard to imagine anyone having a more hellish year in Covid times than the Ms. Hoovers of the world the women relegated to teaching jobs, because society for too long has deemed a woman’s place is not in a major network animated sitcom writer’s room but silently suffering in the classroom with the rest of America’s ungrateful brats. All of our essential workers should be delivered a deluxe orthopedic vibrating chair from a pawn shop and I won’t accept anything less!
In order to properly review this episodes I try my best to watch through them at least twice and I found that this episode in particular really holds up on a second viewing not only because its central plot is solid but also because the episode is full of little silent visual gags that make the show feel like a labor of love rather than another episode off of the factory line.
A real solid PASSING GRADE episode!
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Love and understanding in the time of coronavirus
An intensive care physician from Limerick has advised us to treat each other like pariahs in order to avoid spreading the coronavirus. This may seem counter-intuitive at a time when a lot of people are confused, terrified and need, more than ever, human warmth. But look at her face, she’s not joking. She’s not politely suggesting that you think about changing your behaviour the way Boris might tell you to refrain from going to the pub. She is saying: if you don’t practice social distancing people will die. In fact, she looks like she might kill you herself if you don’t comply. But pariah is a confusing analogy here, because really what she’s also saying is: we are all connected and your actions have consequences beyond yourself. Care for others by not being close to them.
We live in an age of hyper individualism but it’s a fallacy that we ever believed we were individuals in the first place.
For the last few weeks I’ve been puzzling over why other people seemed to be far less affected by these warnings of a fast-approaching apocalypse. I couldn’t figure out why there was little public outcry over the suggestion that over 60% of the population should catch this virus that we know little about (with a death rate estimated between 1% - 3%) on the offchance that we build up herd immunity to a virus that may in any case mutate. The herd immunity idea has since been retracted, and described instead as an unintended consequence, as opposed to a desired outcome. This shift in policy has been attributed to the results of a study from Imperial College, which showed that the original strategy would overwhelm the NHS many times over. Adaptive policymaking is to be expected when the science is shifty and uncertain and decisions are ultimately political, but the lack of transparency means that people in the UK genuinely don’t know if they should take it on the chin and get infected…or the complete opposite. When you need trust in a government above all else, that’s a pretty big problem.
As it happens, my anxiety around the potential knock on effects of coronavirus grew to such an extent that I naturally achieved a pariah-like status without even trying. I’m not particularly worried about catching COVID-19 myself, but I’m terrified of unintentionally infecting people who have worse health than me, I’m worried about how our decimated public services will deal with the strain (even with the extra resources), and I’m haunted by the steepness of that exponential curve, fearing that we’ve done more to make it spike than to flatten it. I’m worried about the role state violence will inevitably play in keeping order. But more than any of those things, I feel a strange mix of terror and hope at the transformative potential to change the very way that we relate to the world and each other.
People are coming together in amazing ways to navigate a new normal, but people are also divided, helpless and angry. We’re living in the wake of ten years of austerity and this crisis represents a decisive point – do we get better at understanding each other and changing our behaviour or do we refuse to think beyond ourselves?
“Selfish middle class bitch” shouts one woman in the street to another who is wearing a facemask “what do you think you’re doing?”. Assuming that this insult is aimed at her ‘selfish’ mask wearing – I wonder what makes the abusive woman assume she isn’t trying to protect others as much as she is protecting herself. She might be a healthworker or chronically ill or pregnant. She may be trying to protect her elderly friends and relatives. Please don’t shout at her, I want to say, but I keep my distance like the pariah I’ve become.
The regular homeless man who roams round our street looks on at the people kitted out in gloves and masks scurrying about with shopping bags in bemusement, a wry smile on his lips. Apparently, they are going to tell the contestants on Germany’s Big Brother, who have no access to news, about the coronavirus live on air. Will they go straight back into the house to quarantine? How will they know what reality is any more? How does anyone?
Meanwhile people send memes mocking those who are scared of food shortages, a recipe for a quarantini, or messages complaining about their kids not being allowed in nursery. I take a deep breath before responding to anything, consider the situation from all angles so as not to get upset that somebody’s take on it is different than mine at that precise moment.
I have a heated conversation with my Dad, who is 71, because he laughed off my suggestion that he might change his plans in order to mitigate the risk of catching or spreading the virus. Things go from bad to worse when he says he was pleased to hear Boris say he was led by the science. I get angry and say it’s meaningless. What is ‘the science’? At that point I couldn’t find anything to show what he was referring to, and this obfuscation leads me to speculate that he was planning a eugenics experiment inspired by Dominic Cummings. Children get infected to pass it on to grandparents and the ill. He chastises me for the Hitler comparisons, even though I didn’t mention his name directly, and we talk momentarily about the undesirables. “I’m not a fan of mass murder” my Dad says after a pause and the absurdity of the statement makes me laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.
He asks how much we’ll need him over the coming months, and I tell him I have no idea, it’s difficult to quantify. I explain, wincingly, that I don’t want to put other vulnerable people at risk if he’s not going to change his behaviour. “If I’m expected to stay in my house for four months, you may as well give me an injection”, he concludes. My Dad may be stubborn but he’s not prone to dramatic outbursts. This made me sit up and listen.
So, in a weird reversal of my teenage years, I’m yelling at my Dad about not going out, and he’s telling me that he’d rather live life on the edge, ignore the public health advice and play tennis with his octogenarian friends. I realise on reflection, that while I’m worried about my Dad, I instinctively feel that he will be alright, but as my partner has a chronic illness and is on an arsenal of various opiates I am worried that he may be badly affected. An overwhelmed health service is unlikely to be able to deal with anomalies such as rare diseases should he need medical care. It’s all speculation of course, and my partners’ anxiety is mainly about protecting his parents, who I’m also very keen to keep safe too. So there is a web of connections and half-voiced concerns between all of us, and what I want for one of the people I love is not compatible with the free will and intentions of another person I love. One wants to bunker down and wait it out, and the other thinks this approach is laughable. In a way, in the case of such overwhelming uncertainty, both of them are right.
I save most of my emotional strength for the time I spend with my 3 year-old daughter, which is also the time that I should be working. My partner reminds me gently not to look at e-mails or the news when I’m playing with her. She gets upset when she doesn’t have my full attention and I’m grateful for the reminder. I’ve been obsessively streaming through commentary and evidence and opinion pieces, trying to form a balanced view of all this, to try and understand the rationale for certain decisions that have been made. It does me good to stop.
The more I talk to different people the more my views, which a week previously I’d been sure about, shift. I was convinced that we should be following China, South Korea and Singapore’s model: strictly enforced social distancing measures, contact tracing and an aim to suppress, rather than mitigate, the virus. This seemed logical to me, as somebody who lives with other people that I love. My Dad, who lives alone, saw quarantine more like a death sentence. I suppose solitary confinement is a punishment for a reason.
The next morning my wayward Dad jumps on the last plane (urgent travel only) to Germany to see his girlfriend. Once he’s settled there he calls on what’s app: “I’m embarrassed to say that I’m having a good time”. He puts me on his car insurance, says we can use his house which is up near Hampstead Heath and has a garden (=heaven) everybody is, in that moment, happy. We all need some fresh air. We are physically distant but emotionally close. I ask him to send his address in Germany as I have a fear that the internet is going to stop working at some point. Can the internet disappear? Or would it just be temporarily suppressed?
The next day I call my 91-year old Nana anticipating she might be afraid after the announcements about the over 70s. Again, I am proven wrong. She appears even less bothered by all of this than my Dad. Maybe she thinks, at her advanced age, that she is in a different category altogether. She’s been working in her son’s DIY store that day, handling coins, riding on the bus. She’s been selling lots of toilet roll, she laughs.
“It’s just a matter of luck, whether you get it or not” she says. In a way, she’s right. Many people won’t have the means to avoid it. But I tell her it’s a good idea to wash her hands all the same and to try and lie low for a while if she can. “I’ve had lots of phone calls lately” she says. The phone is making a comeback we agree. Yes, and there are dolphins in Venice’s canals and the birds seems to be singing louder than normal. And then she warns me that the phone will cut out because her phone battery only lasts for 25 minutes intervals. “We’ll just keep talking until it cuts out”, she says. And then it does.
We’ve all been rearranging our lives in light of a new virus, to accommodate something we don’t fully understand. A week ago, I was certain I had all the answers but that was because I had a very narrow view of the problem. It might seem obvious to do something from one perspective, but there are inevitably unintended consequences, both good and catastrophic. Every intervention (such as school closures) brings with it an array of unintended consequences (e.g vulnerable children not receiving free school meals; parents going insane from trying to work and look after their kids at the same time, rise in domestic violence).There isn’t such a thing as a single solution to something so complex, only a series of momentarily meaningful decisions made in the face of dizzying ambiguity. We are making it up as we go along, and we have to make sense of it together. Even when physically apart.
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