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prepare4trouble · 3 years

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Vikings fanfic - Without Words

A week or so ago I posted this ficlet based on a prompt about Ivar losing his hearing. I expanded upon it and it grew into this 6K word fanfic...

(Ivar/OC in the latter half)

Writer does not have hearing loss, and I apologise for any inaccuracies. If anything is really bad, let me know and I will try to put it right.

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It is so subtle at first that he almost doesn’t notice; a misheard word here, an accusation of not paying attention there, the occasional smirk from Hvitserk as he repeats whatever he had said, enunciating to the point of ridiculousness for comedic effect. For a long time, Ivar dismisses it, passing it off as tiredness, or distractedness, or assuming that the noise around him is too loud and that everybody is having the same difficulty. For a time, it isn’t a problem.

But, as things have an unfortunate tendency to do, it grows worse until not only does he know, without a shadow of a doubt, what is happening to him, but despite his best efforts, other people begin to notice too.

“What’s going on with you?” Hvitserk asks him one evening as they relax among groups of men drinking and feasting in the great hall at Kattegat. Once, Ivar would have been sitting on one of the thrones overlooking the room, leading the celebration yet at the same time apart from it. No more. Now, he sits on a long bench, next to his brother, with a cup of ale in one hand, and the hum of conversation all around him. Everywhere he looks, people are drinking and celebrating, singing and shouting, and Ivar struggles to make out his brother’s words over the background noise.

But he does make it out, and the words -- the confirmation that Hvitserk knows, sends a shiver down his spine.

He turns to look at his brother for a moment, temporarily lost for words, caught between two possible responses; he can either feign confusion and deny that anything is wrong, carry on pretending for a few more weeks, or he can answer his brother’s question. After all, it has been getting progressively worse, and eventually it will be impossible to deny it.

Of course there is always the possibility, however slim, that he is mistaken about the meaning of his brother’s question, and that Hvitserk is asking him about something else...

“Did you hear me?” Hvitserk asks him. There is genuine concern on his face, and in that moment Ivar realises that there is no option to deny it. The worst part is, he doesn’t hear that question. He simply pieces it together from the fragments of words that he does make out, the expression on Hvitserk’s face, and the shapes that his brother’s lips make as he speaks.

Unable to bring himself to reply, Ivar nods mutely.

“Then tell me,” Hvitserk insists. He leans forward, closer to Ivar, either to convey the urgency of the conversation, or to ensure that Ivar can hear his words, Ivar isn’t sure.

Ivar hesitates. It seems pointless; Hvitserk clearly knows, and as Ivar has no idea what is causing the problem, or what he can do about it, telling him feels like an exercise in futility. Worse, it feels like an admission of weakness.

He feels a stab of anger and frustration at the situation, at the unfairness of it, and at Hvitserk’s lack of thought. After all, if his brother had actually thought about it, he might have chosen to have this conversation almost anywhere else. Somewhere more private, and somewhere where the ambient sounds did not blur into one overpowering wave that drowned out his words.

“Ivar…” Hvitserk says, and Ivar realises with a thrill of horror that although he sees it, recognising the familiar shape of his name on Hvitserk’s lips, he doesn’t hear the word at all.

He takes a deep breath, then instead of attempting a reply, he reaches for his crutch, pushes himself to his feet, and escapes the room as quickly as he can, leaving Hvitserk to watch him go.

Ivar sits on a large rock on the land just outside of Kattegat, and shivers in the chill air. It is not yet winter, but he can feel the season lurking around the corner, waiting for its moment. Any day now, he expects to see the first flakes of snow.

He has never liked the snow. Even now that his braces and his crutch allow him to walk, and he no longer needs to suffer the indignity and discomfort of crawling through it when it is shallow enough, or being carried when it is not, its presence makes it so much more difficult to move around. But for now, the ground is clear, and that allows him the opportunity to escape the city, and make his way, alone and unaided, into the edge of the woods where he and his brothers had once used to play.

He closes his eyes, and listens to the world around him. Although the wind blows hard and cold around his ears, he cannot hear it. Neither can he hear the rustle in the leaves and the needles of the trees that surround him. Somewhere high above, a bird makes a high-pitched cry, and that is exactly as clear as it should be. Other than that, outside of the city and away from the sounds of people, he finds himself faced with an eerie silence.

He shivers again, and this time it has nothing to do with the chill in the air.

It is getting worse. Already, struggles to make out words. He mishears and misunderstands, and when the sounds around him grow too loud, they chase words away, force them to disappear into the background where he has no hope of hearing them. Even when it is quiet, some voices, those of certain pitches, are almost lost to him.

He wonders how long it will be before the whole world fades into a permanent silence, and he wonders what he will do then.

He feels the need to speak now, or to clap his hands, to whistle; anything to break the silence and to reassure himself that he can hear. He wants to scream to the gods; beg them to make it stop. He would offer them any sacrifice they desired, if only they would grant him that one favour, but he has tried, and they were uninterested.

He wants to cry, but at the same time a part of him wants to laugh at the irony. After so long; a whole lifetime, of learning to accept the truth of who he is, of what he is, it seems so unfair that this should happen now.

He senses the hand of Loki in the timing.

He resists the urge to make a sound. Instead, he does nothing. Instead, he sits, listening to the silence; facing it head on, as he would any enemy. If this is to be his future, he needs to be ready for it.

He does not believe that he ever will be.

“You will have to talk about it eventually, you do realise that, right?”

For quite some time, Hvitserk had been looking as though he had something to say, and for just as long, Ivar had been carefully avoiding his gaze, refusing to make eye contact, and talking about other things, in the hopes that his brother might either forget, or decide to put off the conversation for another time.

No such luck, apparently.

He should not be surprised. It has been almost a full month since Hvitserk’s last attempt, and in that time, although the situation had grown only slightly worse, it had certainly grown no better.

Ivar picks up his drink from the table and takes a swig, still studiously avoiding Hvitserk’s eye. He does not react, as though he had not heard him speak. It is a plausible enough lie, anyway.

“Ivar…” A hand touched his arm, just where the first strap of his leather glove fastens tightly around his wrist. Ivar flinches at the unexpected contact and, before he can stop himself, turns to look at his brother.

Hvitserk says nothing else. Instead, he simply looks at Ivar searchingly, waiting.

“Why?” Ivar asks, when he can bear it no longer. “Why must I talk about it?” After all, the problem is his, not Hvitserk’s, or anybody else’s for that matter.

“So, you did hear me,” Hvitserk says. He picks up his own cup and takes a sip of his water -- he does not drink ale or mead any more, for fear that he might slip back into old habits. That is something else that they do not talk about. There are so many subjects that they avoid by this point, that Ivar has almost lost track. He does not understand why this should be any different.

Ivar glares at him. “Of course I heard you,” he says. “It’s quiet in here. You are the only one speaking.”

Hvitserk frowns, then glances around them. Ivar follows his gaze, realising as he does, something that he should have noticed earlier; that cannot possibly be true. There are other people in the room, and they must be talking and laughing together, sharing stories, making bets, and doing what people do when they come together at the end of the day. Ivar tries to hear them, but other than a vague hum, the room is almost silent.

He feels shame, and he does not know why. He has never been embarrassed by his limitations. But of course, this is different, because this is new, and he does not know how to deal with it.

Suddenly, he feels the overwhelming need to leave. He needs, desperately, to be anywhere other than here in this room, having this conversation. The air feels thin, as though it is suffocating him, and the room is too warm, and too full, and too… He reaches for his crutch, propped against the bench between himself and Hvitserk, but Hvitserk, uninhibited by ale, moves faster than him, and gets there first. He snatches the crutch out of the way before Ivar’s fingers can make contact with it.

“Don’t do that again, Ivar,” Hvitserk tells him. “Please.”

For a moment, Ivar stares at his brother in disbelief, struggling to process what is happening. A sudden surge of anger washes over him, and before he allows himself time to think, he makes his hand into a fist, and throws a punch to the side of Hvitserk’s head.

Hvitserk cries out in pain at the unexpected blow. He falls to the side, but manages to catch himself on the edge of the table before he lands on the ground. Still, the moment of disorientation gives Ivar the opportunity he needs and he slides backward from the bench onto the floor. His legs, held rigid by his braces, make it more difficult to maneuvere on the ground than it ordinarily would be, but still he quickly positions himself behind Hvitserk, grabs him by the waist of his pants, and pulls him to the ground with a swift tug.

Hvitserk hits the ground so hard that Ivar hears the impact. Ivar reaches across his brother, digging an elbow hard into his stomach as he does, and grabs his crutch from where it had landed on the ground.

“This is mine,” he says. “Don’t touch it.”

For a moment, he thinks that Hvitserk is going to fight back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he drops his arms to his side, and remains where he is, laying on his back on the floor, with the eyes of a dozen men staring down at him with varying expressions of amusement and pity. Hvitserk nods. “Okay,” says the shape that his lips make, and Ivar does not know whether he cannot hear him because Hvitserk is winded by the fall, or whether it is his ears failing him again.

He supposes it doesn’t matter; he knows that he has made his point.

He uses the bench to pull himself into a seated position on the floor, and then presses one palm hard into the wooden surface to lift himself to sit on the bench, while levering himself to his feet using the crutch.

He tugs his tunic to straighten it after their scuffle, then looks down at Hvitserk, still staring up at him from the ground. Finally, he turns, and makes his way out of the building, feeling wary eyes on him as he goes.

The streets of Kattegat are lit only by moonlight, and Ivar walks more slowly than usual, careful to avoid any unseen obstacles that might get caught under his feet or crutch and cause him to fall. Unfortunately his slow progress means that Hvitserk catches up to him with ease.

He gets a perverse sense of satisfaction from the fact that his brother is noticeably limping. He is holding his back rigid, in response to the impact from his unexpected fall to the floor. He is really going to feel that in the morning.

Good.

“I’m sorry,” Hvitserk tells him, and this time Ivar can hear him clearly. He might have ignored him, if not for the fact that he wants Hvitserk to know that his humiliation has been noted.

He shakes his head. “I imagine you are only sorry that your crippled younger brother can overpower you in a fight,” he says.

“No, that’s not… You’ve always been able to do that.” Hvitserk told him, and Ivar smiles, because it was true. “I’m sorry I took your crutch. It wasn’t fair. I just didn’t want you to run away again.”

Ivar allows his lips to quirk into a smile, and he shakes his head. “I have never in my life been able to run away, Hvitserk,” he says.

“You know what I mean.”

He does. And Hvitserk is right; he has been avoiding the subject, not only avoiding the discussion of it, but avoiding thinking about it. He has allowed it to exist in the recesses of his mind, lurking like some monster from legends, appeasing it by occasionally allowing it to drag his thoughts into dark directions, but for the most part dodging and hiding from it.

He has been on the run. And Hvitserk is right; perhaps it is time.

He stops walking and turns to face his brother. He takes a slow, deep, breath and leans heavily on his crutch for support, and when he feels ready, finds Hvitserk’s eyes with his own. “I…” he begins, but words fail him. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know how to begin.

There is no need to say the words out loud; to tell Hvitserk that there is something wrong with his hearing. It would not help, and he is acutely, painfully aware that Hvitserk already knows what is happening. He would not be surprised if everybody in town knew. It must have been obvious to them for months.

“I…” he tries again, and again he is forced to stop. His throat closes, as though to physically force him to keep the thoughts in his head to himself. It would be equally pointless to admit that he is afraid; that sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night to complete silence, and that for a moment he cannot breathe. He cannot tell Hvitserk that at times like that, he speaks to himself simply for the reassurance that he can still hear the sound of his own voice.

Words have always been his power. His mind, and the ability to express the thoughts in his head, to convince others to see things his way, and to bring them around to his way of thinking, are an important part of how he sees himself. If he cannot hear, he does not know how he is supposed to do anything. He does not know how he can be anything.

He feels the hands tightly gripping his crutch begin to tremble as grief threatens to overwhelm him, and he shakes his head, because even if he could bring himself to speak, he can’t think of a single thing to say.

He does not notice that Hvitserk has moved until he feels his brother’s arms around him, holding him tightly, holding him upright and embracing him until the moment of weakness passes. Part of Ivar wants to shake him off, to push him away and insist that he is fine, but he does not, in part because he still does not trust himself to speak, and in part because it feels wonderful, even for a moment, not to feel alone.

He barely even notices when the tears begin to fall, or when the words start to flow from his lips as he tells his brother everything that he has tried not to think about for months. Neither does if fully register when Hvitserk takes his arm and drapes it around his back, supporting him as they slowly walk home together.

Ivar wakes suddenly, pulled to instant alertness by the realisation that he is not alone; somebody is in the room with him. He reaches under his pillow for the knife that he keeps there, and it is not until his fingers close around the reassuring shape of the hilt, that he looks around the room.

Hvitserk is standing over him, with an excited grin on his face, and for a moment, Ivar can’t decide whether to relax because it doesn’t look like his brother is a threat, or to pull out the knife and threaten Hvitserk for having the audacity to creep into his bedchamber as he slept.

Although, he has done the same thing to Hvitserk before, on more than one occasion. So perhaps he will forgive it. Once.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Even his own voice sounds wrong now, still audible, but different. As though his ears are filled with water that he needs to let out. He resists the urge to raise a hand to his ears and rub at them, to try to clear the obstruction. He knows from experience that it will make no difference. He has not mentioned this new change to Hvitserk, not yet, although he feels as though he probably should.

Hvitserk’s voice, too, sounds altered. Muffled, with certain words partially or completely fading into near-silence. Ivar keeps his gaze trained on his brother’s lips as he replies. It helps, a little, but not much. The worse his hearing grows, the more he realises that he does not know how to read lips.

“There’s somebody I want you to meet,” Hvitserk tells him. He speaks slowly, clearly enunciating his words to ensure that Ivar understands.

Ivar frowns at him. His head and his stomach both feel a little delicate, and although his sober brother might have been up since dawn, Ivar needs a little longer to come back to himself

Hvitserk sits himself down on Ivar’s bed as though it were his own, and Ivar feels his frown morph into a scowl. “Please,” he tells him, “Make yourself comfortable.” Even to his own, failing, ears, his voice drips with sarcasm, but Hvitserk either does not pick up on it, or chooses to ignore it.

“She’s a merchant’s daughter,” he continues. “I met her this ...something... the market when she was helping her father with ...something…” As Hvitserk continues to speak, his words grow quicker and less pronounced, they begin to blur together, and Ivar begins to miss things.

Again, it is something that he should probably mention, but something that he chooses not to. He can fill in the blanks for himself most of the time. He frowns. “I am not looking for a woman at the moment,” he says.

Hvitserk laughs. “You might want to meet her anyway,” he says. “Both of us. We …something… her and her father. Today at noon.”

Ivar watches Hvitserk thoughtfully for a moment. He had missed a little of what his brother had said, but he does not think that it was important. Still, there was something else happening here, something that Hvitserk had neglected to add. He reaches up above his head to clasp the chain that hangs above his bed with a strong hand, and pulls himself into a seated position, then pushes off the furs that cover him, and moves his legs over the edge of the bed to sit next to Hvitserk. “What are you not telling me?” he asks.

Hvitserk smiles knowingly. “She can’t hear,” he says.

Ivar looks at him for a moment, waiting for Hvitserk to say something else, but he does not. He frowns. “And you thought I might like to talk to her about it?” he says. His lips quirk into an approximation of a smile. “There might be a problem with that idea, brother…”

Hvitserk shakes his head. “There isn’t, actually,” he says. “You will see.”

She speaks with her hands.

They both do; father and daughter alike. Ivar watches, fascinated, as the two of them hold a conversation without saying a word. Although he has seen people use gestures to express themselves before, he has never seen anything quite like this. He watches, fascinated, unable to look away. Standing to his side, Hvitserk gives him a quick nudge with his elbow as though to say ‘I told you so’, and grins.

Now he understands why Hvitserk was so eager for him to meet these people. He thinks as he watches, trying to calculate exactly how useful this skill would be to him. After all, he has never seen it before, and so he doubts that he could use it to speak to other people in the town. Perhaps Hvitserk would learn it too, but that would leave him dependent on his brother, and that is something that he does not want.

Hvitserk turns to speak to the older man, whose hands dance before him as he translates the words for his daughter. Hvitserk’s words are carried away on the wind, and Ivar does not catch what is said. He finds himself watching, without comprehension, the movement of the man’s hands. Every subtle move of a finger, the way that his hands come together, the speed and the direction of movement, all appear to carry meaning.

He does not know whether he would even be able to learn it, but to try and to fail might be worse than never to have tried at all.

The woman’s brow furrows into a frown, and she turns to look at him. She is a little younger than him, but old enough that she would almost certainly be married by now, if not for the fact that she could not hear. She looks at him closely, and he looks back, watching as her eyes drift downward, from the braids in his hair, to the blue in his eyes. Her gaze lingers on his face, taking in every line, and every scar as though they are somehow important and worthy of committing to memory. Eventually, she moves her gaze downward, until it settles on the braces he wears on his legs to allow him to stand, and his crutch, which rests underneath his arm.

It feels strange to be so… seen. As though she is not only looking at him, but also through him; seeing everything that he is, and everything that he has ever been. He feels almost naked under the sheer force of her scrutiny, yet it is not an entirely uncomfortable sensation.

Still, he finds himself looking away, unable to meet the clear blue of her eyes.

After a moment she raises her hands, and makes a series of gestures in his direction, punctuated with a nod and a smile.

The old man steps forward. “My daughter says that she is happy to meet you, Ivar the Boneless,” he says. He speaks loudly and precisely enough that Ivar does not miss a thing. “And that if you wish, we would be honoured to teach you and your brother how to speak without words.”

Ivar hesitates. He still does not know whether this is something that he wants to do. He has noticed lately that the deterioration in his hearing has slowed. Perhaps it will stop. Of course, even if it does, he has already lost so much that he has no choice but to recognise that this will be useful, but even then, it will only be useful up to a point.

He glances in Hvitserk’s direction, and it is clear to him that his brother has already decided what they should do. Hvitserk shrugs. “It’s just another language,” he says. “You’ve always been good at them. Lipreading will only get you so far, and you are fairly bad at it.”

“I am not…” Ivar begins, then stops. It occurs to him that he may have given away more about his hearing loss than he had intended, in missed words and misunderstandings. Still, he cannot let that go unrebuked. “You, on the other hand, are terrible at languages,” he says. It is not entirely true, but Hvitserk has never had Ivar’s knack for them. “What use will this… gesture language be to me if you cannot translate for me?”

Hvitserk frowned. “It might be better than nothing,” he said. “Which is what you have now.”

Ivar glanced back at the old man and his daughter. He hated when Hvitserk was right.

“My hearing might not get any worse,” Ivar tries.

But it will. He knows that. Whether he will lose all the sounds around him or not, he does not know. What he does now is that in life, just as in battle, it is better to be prepared for all eventualities, and so while he does not relish the possibility that he may be able to speak with only three people in the whole of Kattegat, he supposes it would be better than none.

Hvitserk turns away from the woman and her father, placing his back to them and his face to Ivar. He speaks, his lips move, but silently, slowly, enunciating clearly. Ivar hears nothing, and suspects that there is in fact no sound to hear. “You are being rude,” Hvitserk tells him.

Ivar rolls his eyes, then reaches out and pushes Hvitserk out of the way so that he can speak to the man. “Fine,” he says. “I will do it.”

“Don’t tell me,” the man says He indicates in his daughter’s direction with a wave of his hand.

Ivar hesitates. He does not know how to speak to the deaf woman.

“Like this,” her father tells him, and begins to make a series of gestures. He moves much more slowly and deliberately than he had when he had spoken to his daughter. After each movement, he pauses, and waits for Ivar to copy.

Ivar grimaces. He props his crutch underneath his arm for balance, and awkwardly repeats the signs with no real understanding of what he is saying, but the girl smiles in response.

Perhaps what her father had told him to say was a little more enthusiastic than the way that Ivar had spoken to him. That may have been for the best, but he did not appreciate words being put into his mouth… or his hands.

And he supposed that that alone was as good a reason as any to learn.

Her name, he learns, is Astrid, although that is not the name that she thinks of as hers. Her name is also a gesture, one created by her father, and which has no literal translation in spoken words. It is a variation on the sign that she taught him means ‘love’, or ‘loved’, and it is the name by which Ivar thinks of her.

Hvitserk had been wrong, or perhaps just overly optimistic, when he had said that the language of gestures would be just like any other language. It is not. He cannot call upon similar words from his own tongue, or from others that he has picked up along the way. He cannot listen for similarities in the sounds, or shared meanings between words based in shared older languages, and allow his mind to make connections that fix the new vocabulary into his memory. Instead, he feels like a young child, discovering language for the first time, and being taught the most basic ways to express himself.

It is slow, and frustrating, and there are times when he feels so angry that he wants to scream, but as time passes, and more of the language falls into place, it is also wonderful.

Ivar signs clumsily at first. They rely on on her father to translate each new word into spoken language, or back again, but as time goes on, he realises that they no longer need a translator, and that he and Astrid can communicate alone, with her explaining the meaning behind the words that he does not know, using those that he does.

The language is not enough for him, though. It is incomplete. Although it serves its purpose; allows communication without spoken words, it does little else. There is no room for subtleties or for the clever wordplays that he has always enjoyed. There are words, and sometimes entire subjects for which she has no translation; words for which a merchant and his daughter would have had no use.

Ivar makes it his mission to find them, and to eliminate them, and so he spends weeks explaining words and concepts to her using his basic knowledge of her language, improving a little every day, as he seeks out blank spots which he can fill. Together, Ivar and Hvitserk begin to create new words, and Ivar takes great pleasure in becoming the teacher for a moment. She laughs, and occasionally blushes, as he clumsily explains words which a father and daughter would have no need to say to one another.

He loves the sound of her laugh.

When they are done with their lessons each day, they walk together through the streets of Kattegat, or sit together and speak without words. Sometimes, Ivar helps on her father’s market stall, and he feels no shame for working at what he would once have considered such a lowly task.

As his knowledge and understanding of the new language grows, conversation flows more easily between them. They no longer need to stop every few words for an explanation or a reminder of the meaning of a sign, and Ivar’s confidence to express himself increases. There are times when it feels easier to speak with his hands than it ever did to use his voice. He finds himself discussing things that he has rarely spoken of to anybody before, even Hvitserk.

He tells her about the deaths of his parents, so close together that he barely had the time to process one loss before he was hit with a second. He speaks about the pain he feels in his legs every day, and how walking makes it so much worse, but how he does not care, and he will not stop. He tells her, with hands clumsy with emotion now, rather than inexperience, about the guilt he carries with him for the things that he has done, and the people that he has hurt. He tells her about the child that he left behind in Rus, and how he wishes more than anything that one day he will see him.

She responds in kind. She tells him about her mother, who died giving birth to her younger brother, who did not survive. She speaks of the loneliness that she felt growing up, and even as an adult, because until she had met him, she had nobody but her father that she could speak to. She tells him how she had lived in fear of the day that he would die, leaving her completely alone.

Ivar holds her then, and promises her that she will never be alone again, and he means it.

His hearing deteriorates further, as he had known that it would, but it slows, and sounds do not abandon him completely. Not yet. He does not know whether it is a temporary reprieve and that it will begin to fade again one day, or whether the gods have chosen to spare him the silence. He finds, to his surprise, that he does not mind either way. He appreciates the fact that spoken words are not lost to him, but the idea of silence no longer frightens him as it once did.

He waits to see what the gods have in store for him.

When he and Hvitserk speak now, it is often in a combination of gestures and spoken words. Words fill the gaps for which they have no sign, and Ivar remembers each one to ask her about later, or to come up with one of his own. Spoken words, too, are used for him to practise lipreading; he does not wish to lose his ability to understand. He does not wish to have to rely on anybody but himself.

One afternoon, as the sun sets, Ivar and Hvitserk sit together, watching the loading and unloading of ships. Ivar can no longer hear the gentle sound of the water hitting the sides of the ships, but the noise of the loading and unloading is clear even from a distance, as is the occasional shouted word or command from a captain trying to get his ship ready to leave.

As Ivar stares out over the dark blue water of the fjord as it reflects the evening sky, Hvitserk nudges him gently with an elbow to get his attention. When Ivar turns to look at him, his brother is smiling widely.

Ivar gives him a questioning gesture. “What?” he says out loud, at the same time.

Hvitserk’s smile grows wider still. “I was just thinking,” he tells him. Speaking only with his hands, “about how reluctant you were to learn this. Now look at you.”

Ivar frowns. “What are you talking about, Hvitserk?” he asks. He speaks with his voice, but feels his hands making the appropriate gestures as he does. Force of habit, he supposes.

“You’re happy,” Hvitserk tells him. “You were sitting there, staring out to sea, smiling… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…” he pauses, then switches to a spoken word. “So content.”

Ivar nods, partly to concede that Hvitserk is right, and also to agree that he has no sign for that word, and that he needs one. ‘Happy’, is the closest one that he knows, but contentment is different. It is a sense of completeness too, and happiness falls short in comparison. Whatever it is that he feels, he likes it. It is something he has been searching for his entire life.

“I’m going to ask her to marry me,” he says.

Hvitserk laughs, and nods his head. “I know you are,” he says. “I was wondering when you were going to figure it out.”

The sound of the baby’s cry breaks through the silence of the bedchamber and Ivar, well tuned to the sound of his son’s cries, comes to instant alertness. The room is lit by an oil lamp that they leave burning throughout the night; a concession to the fact that it is difficult to talk with one's hands when it is too dark to see.

Ivar props himself up onto his elbows to allow him to peer into the crib at the end of the bed, where his son lays. Seeing his father looking at him, the baby’s cries increase in volume, and he raises chubby, milk-fed arms in his direction.

Ivar smiles. “Why are you making so much noise?” he asks. “If I can hear you this much, you will wake the whole city.”

The baby stares at him imploringly, and Ivar sighs. He reaches for the chain that hangs above his bed, and uses it to pull himself into a seated position. “I am coming, you will need to be patient,” he tells him. “I am not as quick as your mother.”

Next to him, his wife stirs slightly, disturbed, no doubt, by the movement of the bed. Ivar pushes off the furs that cover them for warmth, and moves himself to the foot of the bed. The baby waits impatiently, but his cries fade as he watches his father make his way slowly to a safe position to lift him from the crib.

Ivar’s fingertips gently brush his son’s cheek, marvelling at the smoothness of the skin, before he scoops him out of the crib and cradles him in his arms. “There, see? Now you are quiet. Whatever it was that was bothering you, it cannot have been so bad, can it?” he whispers. He rocks his son gently back and forth, humming a song that he remembers his mother singing to him once. He can barely hear himself, but the sound, or perhaps the vibrations in his chest, soothe the baby, and after a few moments, his son’s eyes begin to close.

Behind him, he feels his wife still stirring. He turns to see at her as she rolls over, then sits up to look at the two of them. She smiles and pulls sleepy hands from underneath the furs to ask if everything is okay.

Ivar nods. He signs awkwardly, relying on one hand more than the other, around their sleeping son, to tell her that everything is perfect. Then, moving slowly and carefully so as not to disturb him again, he places the baby back into the crib, then moves himself back up the bed and underneath the furs.

His wife edges a little closer to him, pressing her body against his underneath the covers, and closes her eyes again. On her lips she wears a contented smile, and Ivar knows exactly how she feels.

He feels exactly the same way.

#vikings #vikings fanfic #vikings fanfiction #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #hvitserk ragnarsson #ivar/oc

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wrenhyperfixates · 4 years

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How the God Stole Christmas

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: Loki despises Christmas, and after watching the Grinch, he decides there’s only one thing to do about it. But you just might melt his cold heart. Warnings: zip, zilch, zero A/N: So this is my little spoof of the original and best Grinch, starring Loki. Hope you all enjoy :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Red and green everywhere, the same songs playing in every single store, silly little decorations in every nook and cranny. Yup, it was official. Loki hated Christmas. He couldn’t even place his finger on why, exactly; he just did. So, naturally, this was his least favorite time of year. Sadly, none of his teammates seemed to share that sentiment.

Loki walked into the common room only to hear the same carol that was playing in the last shop he’d visited. He gritted his teeth against the sound of his brother signing along. The Tower was just as heavily decorated as the rest of the city. If there was a Christmas-field version of something, you could bet one of the Avengers had bought it. And if they hadn’t, it was just a matter of time.

At least the sweets constantly being baked weren’t entirely despicable. Though, admittedly, even his notorious sweet tooth was getting a little sick of them. Right now, he could smell the aroma of gingerbread wafting from the oven. It made him consider skipping the cup of tea he was currently on his way to get, but he knew he needed it if he had any chance of calming down. He was glad he’d decided to go to the kitchen after all when he saw you were the one baking, flour smeared on your apron and face in an adorable mess.

The poor God of Mischief was still rather isolated from everyone else. He was trying, but by the time any of the Avengers had gotten over his past wrongdoings, he was sour towards all of them. It was hard to want to be friends with people who spent the first six months of his living in the Tower scorning him. It was also hard to call a place like that home. There had been one shining beacon of beautiful light during those early days: you.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted, heating up the water for his cup. “Those cookies smell divine.”

“Oh! Hi Loki,” you exclaimed, turning around, not having heard him enter. “And thanks. Do you want to help us decorate?”

“That depends on who exactly ‘us’ is.”

“The whole team.” He made a small hum of acknowledgement and blew on his scalding drink. You frowned a little, knowing full well that he distanced himself because of how they used to treat him. But you also knew they wanted to change things, they just weren’t entirely sure how. “It could be a great bonding opportunity. Plus, I’ll be there, obviously, but so will Peter and Bucky. Doesn’t it sound fun?”

Besides you, the trickster god found some companionship in the two aforementioned Avengers. They’d come after Loki had, and Peter’s endless optimism had won him over. As for Bucky, he had gone through much the same that Loki had, their common pasts bonding them quickly. Unfortunately, all his friends loved this despicable holiday.

“Perhaps another time,” he finally replied. “Next year.”

“Ok,” you sighed. “You’ll at least watch movies with us tonight, right?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it would be better if I did not.”

“Please,” you pouted. “Come on, it’s Christmas Eve. I’ll even save a special cookie for you.”

“Your persistence is as relentless as it is adorable,” he laughed. “I will come, but just for a movie or two. Deal?”

“Deal!” you squealed. “You won’t regret it. Oh! And, Loki, come here.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace. It surprised him, to say the least. He still wasn’t entirely used to such signs of affection, but they were welcome, especially from you. However, he never was quite sure how to respond. After a second, he somewhat awkwardly wrapped his arms around you to return the hug.

“What was that for?” he questioned as you pulled back.

“You just seemed like you needed one,” you shrugged.

The joy that that gave him lasted all the way into the evening when it was time for him to join you for a movie, as promised. He’d put it off as long as he could, even considering just skipping and saying he’d fallen asleep. That would upset you, though, and you were the one person he hated to lie to. So, he made his way to the common room where a new movie was just starting. You scooted over a little on the couch so he could squeeze in between you and Peter. Bucky was sitting on the floor close by, and Loki had no doubt you’d specifically requested they be in those positions so he felt more comfortable. He was greeted with a few polite—dare he say, borderline friendly—nods and waves from a few of his other teammates. And, of course, an overly enthusiastic pat on the back from his brother as he passed.

“Loki! Glad you could make it,” you whispered as he plopped down next to you.

“Well, a deal is a deal, darling.”

“That reminds me, here’s your cookie.”

The little gingerbread man you handed him was decorated to look like him in his Asgardian battle armor. It was a wonderful likeness, all things considered. He smiled as he took a bite of the baked good. He tried to let go of all hate for the season as he relished this moment with you, but it was still lingering there.

“It is delicious, thank you.”

“No problem. I’m glad you liked it.”

You quieted down as the movie began and the opening credits played. Loki was already losing interest, and then the title appeared. How the Grinch Stole Christmas. A most intriguing title, he mused. Now that his interest was peaked, he watched with rapt attention as the animated film began. That grumpy, green fellow was possibly the best protagonist in any movie he’d been made to watch yet. He certainly had the right idea about Christmas. And those tiny little voices would have annoyed Loki to no end. It really was no different than what he was going through now, he realized. He thought it rather rude to call the Grinch “mean” though. It seemed to Loki he was just misunderstood.

As he watched the Grinch load up all the wreathes and toys into his sleigh, Loki was struck with an idea. Why should he not be able to do the same thing? Ok, maybe he couldn’t get away with stealing from the whole city, but what about the Tower? It was his home, too, and no one had asked him how he felt about all this stuff.

Now that he had a master plan blossoming in his head, he didn’t much care to see the end of the movie. He’d gotten everything he needed out of it. So, he went up to get a refill on his drink. By the time he go back, it was over.

“You missed the ending,” Peter said. “Do you want us to go back?”

“No, it is fine. I thought it was perfect just the way it was.”

“But all you saw was him stealing Christmas?”

“Exactly.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No. In fact, I could use your help.”

Before Peter could ask with what, everyone was getting up and leaving the room, ready to call it a night. You fretted over the fact that he’d only gotten to see one movie, but he assured you it was alright. The matter wasn’t dropped until he promised to watch at least one more tomorrow, too. It didn’t make much difference to him though, considering that after he was through with the Tower, he was sure no one would be much in the mood for Christmas movies, anyway.

“You’re planning something,” Bucky said before exiting.

“Maybe. Are you looking to assist?”

“Probably not. But good luck.”

“Fair enough. Goodnight.”

“Yeah, goodnight, Loki,” Peter said as he tried to hurry off after Bucky.

“Spiderling, may I enlist your help?” Loki asked.

“I, uh, yeah, I guess. What are friends for?”

“Excellent!” Loki exclaimed as the rest of the Avengers finished filing out.

The more he explained the plan, the more nervous Peter became. It did give Loki a bit of a pause, but oh, it sounded like great fun! For weeks on end now, he’d been suffering through this horrid season. It was just a little payback to the universe. That was fair, right? Maybe, but it was not fair to force his friend to help him.

“Listen, spiderling, if you do not wish to help, you do not have to,” Loki said.

“This is going to make you happy, right? Like, is this going to make your Christmas?”

“Quite honestly, I think it will.”

Peter considered for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of this situation. “Ok, I’ll help. On one condition. We leave everyone’s rooms as they are. We’ll just clean out the common areas.”

“That is quite reasonable. Thank you, spiderling.”

The duo got to work, stuffing all the little decorations in their sacks. Peter insisted that if they were going to do this, they had to do it right, and fetched a reindeer antler headband for himself and a Santa hat for Loki. While it was on the one hand entirely ridiculous, it did give Loki a bit of a laugh at the implication of it. Him as the Grinch and Peter as Max, his reluctant but loyal ally. The thought made him smile a little.

Everything was going great until they got to the first of the many large trees in the Tower. Loki stood there with a cocked head, tapping his chin. Sure, he could try to do it like the Grinch had, but life wasn’t a cartoon. So, no, that would pose more of a problem than a solution. Besides, Loki had something the Grinch didn’t. Magic. Carefully working his seiðr, the god shrunk down the first pine, ornaments and all, and put it in one of the bags.

A little while later, he was getting ready to do the same thing to one of the last remaining trees. Then you came stumbling out into the room. Peter did a little panicked dance before slinging a web and sticking himself to the ceiling. Loki walked up to you and laid his hands on your shoulder, trying to determine how conscious you actually were.

“Loki?” you asked, rubbing your eyes, your voice a little slurred from sleep. “What’re you doing? Where’re all the decorations?”

“You tell me. It is your dream,” he quickly lied.

“My dream,” you parroted spotting the filled sack on the ground near his feet “So is this because we watched the Grinch? Does that make me Cindy Lou Who?”

“I suppose it does, darling,” he laughed. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“Are you going to put everything thing back, Loki Claus?”

This time the chuckle came from Peter, who was watching the whole thing play out from his vantage point. You were too out of it to notice, though. Instead, you kept looking at Loki with those adorable doe eyes.

“I... Perhaps. Let us just get you back to your room right now, ok?”

You nodded, and he picked up your tired body, using his godly strength to carry you bridal style and lay you down amongst your many blankets and pillows. You gently tugged him down onto the mattress with you, and he remained there for a moment, not exactly sure of what was happening.

“Do you need to talk?” you questioned, cupping his cheeks and seeming a bit more awake than you a had a second ago. “I know things are hard, but we all do really care for you. I really care for you. And I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

“I know. I will be alright, darling. Just get a good night’s sleep for me, hmm?”

“Ok,” you sighed as he got up. “Night, Loki.”

“Goodnight, darling,” he whispered as he leaned over to give your head a small kiss.

He walked back out to his partner in crime, who was anxiously awaiting him. Loki let out a huff. He knew what the right thing to do now was.

“So?” Peter asked.

“Let’s put it all back,” Loki conceded.

And so they did. It took most of the night, but they got every last knickknack and ornament into place. Then Loki did something he never imagined he would; he added even more. His magic made the garlands a little bit fuller, the lights a little bit brighter, and the trees a little bit taller. More little statues and winter scenes appeared on nearly every surface possible. Finally, he nearly doubled the number of gifts under the tree, adding his own to the mix. He gave a satisfied little nod when he was done, then looked at Peter who was beaming at him.

“What is it?” Loki inquired, though he knew the answer deep down.

“Oh, nothing. This was fun, though. We should do this every year,” Peter yawned as they worked their way to their rooms to catch a couple hours of sleep.

“Maybe we will, spiderling. Maybe we will.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loki woke up the next morning slightly more cheerful than he had in months. Ironic, considering today was actually Christmas, the culmination of the season he hated so much. Swinging his legs over the side of his bed and stretching out, Loki realized maybe he really was like the Grinch, and the only reason he disliked it so much was because he was so alone. And, like the Grinch, maybe he wasn’t appreciating those he did have enough. Maybe it was time to come out of his mountain cave and live amongst the people in town.

He eyed his Santa hat from last night, hanging from a bedpost. He picked it up and put it on his head, laughing a little in the mirror. He tugged on a deep green cable-knit sweater before he remembered the rest of the team’s plan to wear ugly sweaters today. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him exactly, but he conjured one up for himself. It was a little ridiculous, but he supposed that was the whole point.

Heading out into the hall, he realized everything was dead silent. Loki wondered for a second if maybe you all had decided to go out for breakfast this morning. He sighed, but he couldn’t really hold it against any of you if you hadn’t invited him. He never said yes on a normal day, and he’d made it a point just how much he disliked Christmas. Regardless, he made his way to the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas!”

He nearly pulled out a dagger as everyone suddenly jumped out in front of him and shouted those words. Once his heart rate slowed back down to normal, he smiled despite himself. That’s when he noticed plates piled high with his favorite foods and realized you’d all must have gotten up early to do this for him.

“Merry Christmas, everyone. What is all this?”

“We just wanted to do something for you, Loki,” you explained. “Oh! And we got you a gift. Here.”

You handed him a small package wrapped in green and gold. It must have been convenient that his colors were also colors for the holiday. He laughed a little to himself, wondering how he hadn’t noticed before. He tore into the wrapping paper to find a small planner. You nodded at him, urging him on as he gave you a quizzical look. It had a bunch of events written in it, as well as which members of the team were attending.

“See, we know you don’t always come to our team events,” Bucky told him, “but we know you might want to start.”

“We have not always been the most... accepting,” Thor added. “Now, though, we want you to be able to come to any and everything you want to.”

“So we wrote it all down for you,” Peter finished. “This way, you know when things are and can just join whenever you feel like it.”

“Do you like it?” you nervously asked, biting your lip.

“Darling, it’s perfect,” he sincerely told you, tears of gratitude welling in his eyes. “Thank you. All of you.”

He was met with a chorus of “you’re welcomes” and “anytimes” as the room was filled with even more smiles. Soon, everyone dug into the feast that had been prepared, and the rest of the day was filled with merriment and laughter. Loki was surprised to see there were even more gifts for him resting under the tree. By the time it was dark out, the team was settling in to watch a few final Christmas movies for the season. Loki didn’t think he’d be taking any ideas from them tonight.

“Darling,” he said as the two of you were alone, grabbing movie snacks in the kitchen. “May I ask you why you all did what you did for me?”

“It’s like we said, Loki. We all do care about you, and we want you to be able to do stuff with us. They know you’re not a bad guy, you’ve more than proven that. For a long time they just weren’t exactly sure how to bridge the gap. But you’re a part of the team, and we want you to feel like it.”

“Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“It’s no problem, Loki. Plus, you really did go all out with these extra decorations.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he blushed.

“Oh?” you said, walking up to him so that you bodies were nearly pressed together. “You don’t now, huh Loki Claus?”

Of course you hadn’t bought his lie last night. He laughed a little to himself now for thinking you had. But Loki realized something else, too. What you’d done last night, what you’d said, you’d fully known what you were doing. The way you’d pulled him onto the bed and held his face, told him how you cared. You knew it was real.

“Darling,” he said. “I think I do need to talk, after all.”

“I’m listening. What is it?”

“I love you.”

You pulled him in for a kiss, and he reciprocated immediately, smiling against your lips. Now he was wondering if he was dreaming. But no, just like last night, this was real.

“In case it wasn’t obvious,” you said, catching your breath, “I love you too.”

Hand in hand, you went to join the rest of the team. So maybe Loki’s heart didn’t literally grow three sizes that day, but there was one more comparison to be drawn. Because, you see, in finding his place, Loki realized that Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.

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chipper9906 · 3 years

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Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 4: Glimpses

<- - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 9,907

Overall Word Count: 42,032 (In Progress)

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (4/?)

Chapter Preview:

Loki was pretty sure Sylvie was making fun of him. Probably around ninety percent sure, if he had to give a figure. Or… or maybe more seventy-five… sixty-five… fifty-fifty? No, what was he thinking? He was just getting into his head, is all. Of course Sylvie was just joking around with him. Clearly he wasn’t supposed to take what she had said seriously.

…Right?

“Uh… so, just to be clear-,”

“Oh my God…” Sylvie’s drawn-out groan cut him off. “You’re supposed to be a master of lies, both in telling them and detecting them! You’re telling me you can’t pick up on a little sarcasm?”

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Sylvie was glad that Loki didn’t laugh at her comment in the self-deprecating way she had partly been expecting him to. For a few seconds, he didn’t even react at all, taking the time to absorb her answer and realize that she wasn’t lying to him – or trying to make what would have been a cruel joke. He makes no effort to hide the soft smile that hitches at his lips, eyes holding a warmth directed towards her that was almost overwhelming. There were times like these in the small moments of peace they found together where Loki bared himself to her, practically holding out his heart for her to take, and she always felt that bolt of fear that she would break it the moment she reached out for it.

Loki reaches out for her hand, and she lets him take it - lifting under her hand and pulling it up to place a tender kiss on the back of her hand. It was strange, only having used her knuckles to throw punches, and now experiencing the sensation of his lips on an area that was only used to violence.

“Thank you,” Loki said, voice brimming with genuine gratitude. His gaze rested on hers, bearing deep with an intensity that set her already over-heated skin alight.

Sylvie cleared her throat, forcing herself to break away from his gaze and pretend to brush away bits of sand and dirt that weren't actually on her clothes. Loki watched, partly in amusement but also in some confusion as she stood from the wall, only to drop back down on the floor directly in front of him.

“Teaching time,” Sylvie answers his unspoken question, crossing her legs underneath her. “Since you managed to conjure up that shirt, I’m assuming you’re up for it. Or, ‘have enough focus’ for it.”

“I… I think so,” Loki replied, pushing himself up a little straighter. “Although, I have to warn you: I’ve never actually taught anyone magic before. I’ve only ever been the, uh… the student.”

“Then we’ll both teach each other,” Sylvie offered. “I can give you some more tips for enchantment, if you’d like. In return, I want to know more about your powers. It seems our mother had a lot to teach me that I never got to learn.”

“There’s a lot,” Loki warned her.

“Examples?”

“Well, there’s conjuration, for starters,” Loki began, pushing down on his pointer finger with the finger on his other hand, counting to ‘one’. “Conjuration is… tricky. There are two main methods of conjuration I use -- one being more like ‘teleportation’ than conjuration. See, with that method, I’m simply grabbing something from a location where I know it already exists - though there’s nothing simple about it - and manifesting itself where I am. Say, for example, I had a dagger stored on some shack on the other side of this planet. I can use my magic to will the dagger to rearrange its atoms to a new location - such as in my hand.”

“Sounds easy…” Sylvie says, sounding daunted by the idea.

“Takes practice, just like any other magic,” Loki assured her. “There were a few times the item I was summoning arrived… not quite as it should. Other times I’d mess up the location completely. Ended up with the dagger materializing in my hand.”

Sylvie cringed at the image that came to her mind, still able to feel the faint sting across her palm from his dagger metaphor not long ago, knowing that doesn’t compare to the entire blade going through your palm.

“The other form of conjuration is, unfortunately, just as difficult - perhaps even more so,” Loki continues. “I’m afraid we’re rather limited to what we can conjure. Simple object mostly, that are only compromised of a few materials.

“Like clothing, and bandages, and blankets, and daggers…” Sylvie lists the items she’d seen him create from thin air.

Loki hums in confirmation. “Precisely. Bits of cloth, really. Simple weapons, such as my daggers, are possible as they’re not much more than… metal. Start adding too many parts and it gets too complicated, too complex to materialize. If there were no limits, well…” Loki cut himself off with a huff of laughter. “I could have just created a Tem-Pad whenever. Or an infinity stone. Anything.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Probably a good thing there are limits then,” Loki says with a knowing smirk.

“So… is that what you did back on Lamentis?” Sylvie asks, getting a confused frown in response. “Back when we trying to sneak onto that train headed towards the Ark. You changed your clothing to blend in with the guards?”

“Ah,” Loki realized what she was referring to. “No, that wasn’t conjuration. That would be a different power.”

“And you say you’re not a magician…”

“I prefer the term ‘Sorcerer’,” Loki corrects her. “You have the potential of these powers too, you know.”

“We’ll see,” Sylvie said, not sounding all that confident. “Come on, then - what else can you do?”

“Hmm… Well, there’s Astral Projection?”

“And what do you use that for?”

“Deceiving, mostly,” Sylvie nearly jumped out of her skin when his voice came from right beside her. She whipped around to face the direction of the voice, blinking in surprise at… Loki. Another duplicate of Loki, who looked identical to the one still sat against the wall, looking rather proud of himself for his magic.

“Sometimes gets confused with Illusion Casting - which is what I did back on Lamentis to alter the appearance of my clothing,” The other Loki faded away as the real Loki waved down at himself and - with another flash of magic - he was dressed head to toe in the deep blue guard uniform from Lamentis, ridiculous helmet and all. “Which is also what I used to create the fake dagger back on the train. And is… the same power we saw us - old us - use to trick Alioth.”

“Right…” Sylvie murmured quietly. “I’m guessing you’ve never been able to recreate the entirety of our home in an illusion?”

“Not quite,” Loki admitted. “But I can use it to alter my appearance rather convincingly.”

Loki backed up his statement by seemingly shape-shifting into a man she had never seen before, dressed in a uniform of distractedly bright blues, reds, and whites. “This pretty face belongs to one Captain Steve Rodgers - more commonly referred to as ‘Captain America’. He was one of the plucky heroes that managed to bring my army down in New York.”

There was nothing on him that Sylvie could see which would give away the illusion – no haziness to his form or fuzzy edges. There was no other word for it but to call it downright impressive. Although, her answer quickly changed to ‘creepy’ as Loki altered his appearance once more, and she came face to face with… herself. It was unsettling, to say the least, to stare back into her own eyes that technically weren’t her own, getting more and more creeped out by the minor mannerisms in her movements that Loki had managed to learn and use so quickly in his replication of her.

“Nope, too weird,” Sylvie has to look away, made all the more uncomfortable when his laughter at her discomfort comes out in her voice. “Give me back the original you.”

“As you command,” Sylvie’s grateful to hear him speak in his voice again, cautiously peeking at him out of the corner of her eye, relieved to see the face of the Loki she knows.

“Never do that again…” Sylvie asks of him, looking almost queasy at what had just happened. “It’s bad enough I have to look myself in the eyes in reflections; I'd rather not have to stare myself directly in the face, thank you.”

“You know, there was a variant of us that looked almost exactly like me back in The Void,” Loki tells her.

“And… is there any particular reason he wasn’t with the other versions of us you introduced me to?”

“Well, he was…” Loki tried to find the best way to put this. “…Rather an idiot, I suppose.”

“So, when you said exactly like you…?”

“Ouch,” Loki placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I guess you could say he was me - if I’d never learned my lesson. There were… at least a dozen versions of us all congregated in one place, which went about as well as you could expect. A fight broke out; the alligator version of us bit off the other me’s arm-,”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Never even knew I could scream like that...”

Sylvie’s head reared back in surprise, wondering exactly how much mischief Loki had managed to get into in the short amount of time he was in the Void before she and Mobius had run into him.

“What did you want to start with?” Loki asks her, experimentally stretching out to see how much pain would blossom from his wounds. The pain is still sharp and evident, enough so for him to wince and quickly stop his stretches, but it’s bearable.

“I think it might be worth for the both of us to be able to use conjuration,” Sylvie answers. “Especially if you’re going to be insistent on throwing yourself into danger every chance you get. I’ll probably be materializing bandages in my sleep…”

“With you as my carer, I know I have nothing to worry about,” Loki counters, shooting her a cocky smile as he offers out his hand once more for her to take. She places her hand in his, though raises a brow in questioning.

“Keeping skin-to-skin contact with you helped immensely when we were sharing our powers to enchant Alioth,” Loki answers. “Thought it might help with this, too.”

Sylvie nodded, his answer making sense in her mind - along with that annoying whisper in her mind that told her she didn’t need an excuse from him to hold his hand when she knew full well that she wanted to.

“Close your eyes,” Loki instructs her, and she does so. A sense of calm washes over her the second she does, keeping her grip tight around Loki as she sinks into that still, tranquil river of peace. “You can feel your control over your magic within, can’t you? Feel the opportunities it can provide? Feel the possibilities of the known Universe under your command?”

“Yes,” Sylvie answers automatically, keeping her eyes closed firmly shut.

“Picture the object you wish to manifest. Make it as real in your mind as if it were in front of you,” Loki continues with his teaching, his voice smooth and soothing as it washes over her. “Grab hold of that magic brimming within you. Remember that it is yours to control, to bend it to your will. You need to start encouraging your magic towards that picture in your mind, manipulate it into the object you desire.”

Sylvie’s brow was creased into a deep frown as she dredged up every bit of concentration she had, focusing it all towards the task at hand. The few beads of sweat that ran down her face from her hairline were not entirely from the sweltering heat of the cave, resisting the urge to wipe the drops away.

She heard Loki’s sharp inhale of surprise, but didn’t dare look at what he was seeing just yet. She let the sound of him fade away as background noise, doing all she could to ensure her first attempts at conjuration were at least somewhat successful. Loki’s hand in hers was not of the distraction she thought it’d be, rather acting as an anchor to keep her focused whilst simultaneously providing her with a reassurance; a way of him saying ‘I believe in you’ without him actually saying it.

She didn’t know if it had worked. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to look. She knew that, chances are, her first attempt at conjuration was unlikely to end the way she was hoping to. But that didn’t mean she wanted to see that with her own eyes.

“Sylvie,” Loki’s voice doesn’t give away how he’s feeling, the tight squeeze around her wrist being the only thing that snatched some of her focus away. “Sylvie, open your eyes.”

His words mirror her own from not too long ago, and she knows they hold the same pride she felt towards him on that day, as she got to witness him branching out his magic in a way he hadn’t done before. It’s this that gets her to slowly peel her eyes open, looking down to the small space between them to see if she had managed to manifest what she had envisioned.

And… there it was. It might not have been the exact same size, and maybe the color was slightly off from what she remembers, but… it was her boat; the little model that seemed a lot bigger when she was just a child. She knows that, technically, it’s not her boat - having long been pruned by the TVA along with everything else in her life. Yet… she had made it. She had willed it back into existence.

Loki watched her silently as she gingerly picked the model boat up from the ground, cradling it in her hands as she looked to her creation. She turned the model around to get a good look from every angle, inspecting the boat thoroughly for anything that would give away it being a first-time conjurer's creation.

“Not bad, huh?” Sylvie asks him, voice thick with emotion as she holds the boat out for him to take. Loki takes the boat from her hands with great care, knowing that - whilst it was only a replica - was the only physical thing she really had from her childhood, and from the life that had been taken from her.

“Not bad at all,” Loki agrees with a smile so full of pride that it makes her heart hurt, holding out the boat like he’s inspecting it - except he only has eyes for her.

"Not sure why I chose that," Sylvie says, taking back the boat when Loki carefully offers it back to her. "It just sort of... popped into my head."

She shoots him a sheepish smile, placing the toy boat down on the ground next to her. "Okay, your turn."

"My turn?"

"With learning," Sylvie clarifies. "Anything else you want to know about enchantment? Practice it?"

"Well, yes but..." Loki started, confused. "...But practice on who?"

Sylvie raised an eyebrow at him like the answer was obvious.

"You?" Loki's voice pitched up in disbelief. "You're going to let me enchant you?"

"I'm going to let you try," Sylvie returned with a playful smirk.

Loki glanced down to her extended hand nervously, delicately taking hold of her wrist. Back when they had enchanted Alioth, it had felt more like... like Sylvie was doing most of the work. She was the one to make that bridge between themselves and Alioth, whilst he sort of... did what he could do in the background, extending out his magic towards both her and to Alioth. He hadn't been too sure what it was he was looking for, his magic reaching out and searching through the mess that was Alioth's thoughts and memories.

"It's easier to search by my emotions, rather than just randomly selecting through all my memories," Sylvie tells him. "We attach our emotions to our memories; they stick out like a post-it note atop each one. It's useful when, for example with that hunter from the TVA, where I'm trying to... manipulate their memories. I sifted through the happy memories I could find, then forced myself into her memory, trying to blend in with her life."

"Why happy memories?" Loki asks.

"Keeps them placated," Sylvie answers. "They're more likely to accept changes - such as that hunter believing she knew me back on her normal life on Earth."

"...What would happen if you used bad memories?"

"Well... It'd be like a form of torture, I suppose," Sylvie gives him a somewhat concerned look. "Not many people want to re-live their worst memories."

"Oh, believe me, I know..." Loki says bitterly, shuddering at the memory of his repeated cycling memory with Lady Sif.

“If you’ll let me, I can show you,” Sylvie offers. “Afraid you’ll have to take down the walls in your mind, though. Even I can’t get through your defenses.”

What Loki found odd was that… the idea of Sylvie searching through his head didn’t worry him. He knew he had an extensive record of memories stored up there, and he knew full well that a lot of them featured his not so finest moments. But… it’s Sylvie. If anyone were to understand the things he did and the reasons he did them, it would be her. And besides, she said she would be looking through his good memories, right?

“Go ahead,” Loki gives her permission with a small nod of his head. Sylvie removes her hand from his hand, raising her fingers up to the sides of his temple, like she had tried to do in Lamentis. As her eyes slid shut, so did his, waiting for the moment he would be thrust into his own mind to relive his memories.

He could feel her presence in his mind. She was rummaging around, carefully sorting through memory after memory. It was unsettling that he didn’t know what it was she was… feeling from him? Feeling the emotions attached to his memories? He simply didn’t know where in his life she had jumped to, and to what ‘happy memory’ she would bring to the forefront.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Loki opened his eyes, expecting to see Sylvie sat in front of him, as she was before. Except now, he was standing upright instead of leaning against the cave wall, Sylvie stood next to him. Gone was the stifling heat, the unbearable dry air, and landscapes of nothing but sand. It had been replaced by a gentle and welcoming breeze that whistled through the trees surrounding them, soft dirt under their feet, and a perfectly reasonable temperature around them.

“Come on, Loki!” A young boy with a mop of blonde hair yells as he runs by the two of them, some of his finest clothing having been dirtied up – which would more than likely earn him a scolding once he returned home. He held a wooden sword in his hands - no more than a child’s plaything - but he held it like it was his most trusted weapon. “We need to advance before they retreat any further!”

“Thor…” Loki whispers in disbelief, the memories of this day rushing back as he watched the… well, the memory unfold.

“The cowards!” Another high-pitched, young child’s voice comes from somewhere within the trees. Loki watched as his younger self hurried over to his brother's side, he too holding a child’s weapon in his hand. Although, unlike his brother, his weapon was much smaller, thinner, and easier to conceal.

His love of daggers had started at quite a young age.

A touch against his hand distracts him for a moment, glancing down to see that Sylvie had slipped her hand into his, their fingers sliding together in a perfect fit. She watched the two children play with a warm smile, reminded of the mischief she and her Thor would get up to when not under their parent’s watchful eyes.

“You were a cute kid,” She leans closer to tell him, and before he can say or do anything in response, she looks him up and down with a criticizing eye. “What happened?”

“Oh, very funny,” Loki deadpans with a light-hearted glare. “I grew into my looks, thank you very much -- not out of them.”

“Don’t need to tell me,” Sylvie responds slyly, appreciating the way it made him close his mouth with an audible clack of teeth, looking caught between a feeling of embarrassment at her agreement, and that overly cocky sense of ‘Damn right’.

Whatever fake battle his younger self and younger brother had created in their imagination seemed to have reached its peak, the two boys ferociously swinging their wooden swords through the air and pretending it was slicing through the bodies of countless enemies. A part of Loki yearned to go back to those simpler times when his only worries were of what imaginary monsters needed to be slain, back when he was sure he would grow up defending Asgard until he breathed his last, ready to take arms against the Frost Giants if the need ever arose.

Finding out that he was one really threw a wrench into the plans…

Loki blinks, and all of a sudden he’s back in the cave, like they had never left it. The sudden shift in surroundings was disorienting, and he needed to take a second to come back to himself, and back to reality.

“That was an abrupt ending,” Loki commented, rubbing a hand against his forehead as he felt the lingering traces of Sylvie’s magic slowly dissipate.

“It was supposed to be a happy memory, you know,” Sylvie says, much to his confusion.

“What do you mean? It was a happy memory.”

“You didn’t look it,” Sylvie says, and he finds himself taken aback not only by how much he apparently put his emotions on display, but on how well Sylvie was able to pick up on it. “I don’t know what you were thinking about, but that memory certainly wouldn’t stay happy for long if you kept that train of thought up.”

She was right, and he knew it. Even now, he could already tell that the memory was tainted - no longer the pure and innocent moment captured in time that it had been.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd rather you didn't try to manipulate my memories," Sylvie says, tapping a finger to the side of her head. "We'll just go with simple enchantment for now. Just... do the same as I did for you. Enter my memories, and show them to me. Try and find a good one, if you can."

Loki swallowed nervously, slowly raising his fingers up to her head. He knew it was no small thing that she was so willingly offering her most vulnerable side to him, giving him the opportunity to view any and all memories that she has. And yet, when he placed his fingers on the sides of her head, she did not flinch away in a desperate bid to escape him. They both once again let their eyes fall shut, and like a searching hand did Loki’s magic reach out towards her mind.

He could tell what she meant before with the whole ‘wall’ thing. Hers was just as impenetrable as his, bringing his magic to a standstill as he reaches it. There’s a moment of hesitation - although, really, it feels more like a moment where Sylvie was gathering herself together - before the wall all but crumbles away at his touch, and he delves deeper into her mind-

Too much. It was too much, all at once, surrounding him until it engulfed him. He had no idea how Sylvie was able to pick through all those different emotions when they are all just there, screaming for his attention. Disembodied voices surrounded him, and there was no chance of him making out what voices they were as they all congealed into one unidentifiable mess of noise.

Something good. That’s all he had to find, wasn’t it? Surely he can do that. He makes an effort to filter through everything around him, and the very first thing he comes across that shows even the slightest hint of being somewhat good, he grabs hold of.

And… immediately wishes he hadn’t.

To say he was shocked still was an understatement. Wherever they were was almost too dark to make out, barely able to detect that they were stood in some… shack, maybe? He didn’t know. But what he did recognize were the noises, and as soon as he heard them, he knew exactly why a memory like this would fall somewhere in the ‘good’ category. Loki could feel the intense flush across his face at the needy, breathy moans he could hear from the two bodies writhing together atop what looked like a less than comfortable bed. Then again, it wasn’t like they were using the beds for sleeping...

His mind incessantly reminded him that one of those naked figures moving on the bed was Sylvie, and he was caught off guard by the bolt of lust that shot through him whilst, simultaneously, he had to deal with a whole other mess of emotions: Shame, at witnessing such a private moment; embarrassment, at knowing he had been caught witnessing said moment by the person whose privacy he was betraying, stood by his side with an equal expression of shock. But what caught him most off guard though was the burning, overwhelming feeling of jealously that over-powered all the others, irrationally hating this unknown person. It shouldn’t be them who were allowed to run their hands across her body. It shouldn’t be them who were permitted to see every inch of her skin. It shouldn’t be them who got Sylvie to make those soft sighs of pleasure that made his mouth run dry.

He wasn’t sure if it was him or Sylvie that ripped them away from the memory. It was probably a little of both, the two of them hurriedly shoving each other out of the proverbial memory door, tripping over each other to get out.

Loki sat wide-eyed, staring un-blinkingly at Sylvie. He had ripped his hands away from her as soon as they had come back to themselves, waiting for his racing heart to calm down. They could only gape at each other for a good few seconds, neither one knowing what to say or how to react to what had just happened.

“I--I- I’d like to apologize…” Loki takes the first step, his words coming out in an awkward stumble of speech.

The pure panic on his face would usually be enough to make Sylvie laugh if she wasn’t still working through her own embarrassment. She pointedly refuses to look him in the eye, staring at a particularly interesting piece of wall behind him instead. “Suppose I should have expected that might have been a possibility…”

“I wasn’t searching for, um -- that,” Loki tries to defend himself, but it only makes his face flush brighter. “I didn’t know what memory I had found, only that it seemed to be a good one - which admittedly, it, uh… seems like it was?”

“It was… pleasant…” Sylvie forces out through the shame that wanted to keep her mouth firmly shut. “Um… how much exactly did you see?”

“Not much,” Loki answers, and it was the truth. “It was too dark to see much of anything. I mean, I knew that since it was your memory that it was… you, on that bed. But I didn’t see it was you.”

Sylvie nods, apparently accepting his answer. She clears her throat awkwardly, trying to shake off the last dregs of embarrassment that were intent on lingering. “Good. I’d rather not have that be the first time you see me like that.”

Loki’s wide-eyes stare somehow got wider, not expecting for Sylvie to bounce back from her embarrassment like… well, like that. It wasn’t exactly like he could take what she said and interpret it in any other way than what she was hinting at.

“Okay - let’s try again,” Sylvie said, giving Loki a serious case of conversational whiplash.

“I… what?”

“Enchant me again,” Sylvie clarifies, shuffling closer to him. “Only, this time, if you could spend a little extra time selecting the memory, I’d appreciate it.”

“Are you sure?” Loki asks, voice filled with anxiety as he places his fingers on her head again. “There’s every chance I could mess it up again.”

“I have faith in you,” Sylvie assures him, and it’s all he needs to hear to delve straight back into her mind.

At least he was a little bit more prepared for it this time. It still felt like he was being squeezed in on all sides by every single memory her mind had procured, but now he knew what it was like, he didn’t feel the immediate panic that had him reaching for the first good memory he could sense. Loki forced his way through, letting all the different emotions attached to each individual memory wash over him. It was disheartening to see - or more accurately, feel - just how many of her memories were bad ones. The good ones, if you could even call them that, seemed few and far between, dull in comparison to all the terrible moments she’s had to endure. Still, he trudged forward, extending his magic to its limits.

There it was. Shining bright in the darkness of everything else, tucked snuggly away in a nice, safe spot away from all the bad. He wasn’t sure if she purposefully hid it here to make this more of a challenge for him, or if it was just where it already was. Loki reaches for the memory, and the memory seems to move towards him, eager to accept his touch.

The blackness surrounding him gives way to a flash of white, momentarily blinding him. Loki raises a hand to shield his eyes, rapidly blinking as he waits for his vision to come back into focus. When it does, he can only slowly lower his hand back down, staring out to what was in front of him in disbelief.

He recognized this memory. This bright, shining, happy memory. Because… he was in it. For most looking on the outside, the memory certainly didn’t look happy, what with the giant chunks of planet moments away from smashing into them and obliterating the moon that was under their feet. Yet, there was beauty amongst all this destruction; the purples and pinks of Lamentis’s sky created an almost dream-like atmosphere, the luminous colors reflecting in the still lake they had been sat by.

He could see himself, sat on that rock with Sylvie by his side. This had been what they both thought were going to be their last moments. It had been remarkable really that, in those last moments, Sylvie didn’t hold onto any grudges – him having admittedly been the one to doom them to this fate by accidentally crushing the TemPad.

“Do you think that what makes a Loki a Loki… is the fact that we’re destined to lose?” He hears the words Sylvie had spoken to him, just as beaten-down sounding as he remembered.

“No,” His past self asserts with all the confidence he has. “We may lose. Sometimes painfully. But we don’t die. We survive. I mean, you did. You were just a child when the TVA took you, but you nearly took down the organization that claims to govern the order of time. You did it on your own. You ran rings around them. You’re amazing!”

Loki didn’t realize at first that the wave of emotions that crashed into him weren’t entirely his own. Somehow, he was simultaneously re-experiencing the emotions he himself had felt in that moment, combined with not only the emotions he was feeling in this very moment watching it all unfold, but also getting the full brunt of Sylvie’s emotions, from where he was witnessing all this from inside her head.

The strength of it nearly took him off his feet. The sense of gratitude he could feel from Sylvie, just from him saying what he had said. And there was this… this sheer adoration towards him, his chest tight as it felt like his heart stumbled over a few beats. It might have been him, it might have been Sylvie, or it might have been both of them. Either way, it was… beyond reassuring to know now, that it had been the same for her. This very moment, as he watched her reach out and place a hand on his arm… it had been the moment he began to fall for her.

Funny that it took reliving a memory for him to be slapped with the realization that right here, and right now, he had fallen completely and utterly in love with her. Deep down, he probably already knew that. In fact, it was probably obvious to many, let alone himself.

He wondered if, by some miracle, that she felt the same in that moment. Truth be told, he doesn’t know how she feels for him now. He’s not completely blind; he knows there’s some semblance of feelings there. Question was… how far did those feelings run? Were they as deep as his? Would she ever tell him?

Would he ever find the courage to tell her?

“Our Nexus Event…” Sylvie said quietly from next to him, eyes still transfixed on the memory of the two of them

It wouldn’t be too long before the ‘happy’ part of the memory was interrupted by the entrance of the TVA, their workers storming in to take them prisoner once again. Loki wasn’t too sure whether it was Sylvie’s influence on her own memory, but it seemed… slower, like she was savoring every second of it she could. He could almost feel the warmth of her memory self’s hand on his arm - the first genuine touch of kindness from her - the moment forever etched into his skin.

The end of this world, and the near end of their lives, was almost…. almost beautiful to behold. Especially now, with everything slowed down: the shards of broken-up planet hurtling towards them so slow you nearly couldn’t tell they were moving, the picture-perfect lake in front of them as still and calm as can be - quite the difference to the chaos and destruction just above their heads, waiting to rain down upon them.

“You know, I spent many nights wondering what my end would be,” Sylvie tells him. “Different scenarios that could occur. Most of them were preparation, I suppose. Trying to make escape plans for every possible thing that could go wrong. I thought that, if the day came that something did wrong, and I couldn’t find a way out of it? I tried to imagine how much of a mess my mind would be. What would I think about, as my death approached? That I failed my mission? That my life had been for nothing? Would I spend those last moments thinking of my family - or at least, what of them I can remember?”

Loki watched Sylvie as she spoke, who had yet to look away from the memory versions of themselves. Although she wasn’t looking at him, she seemed to sense he was looking at her, for she gestured with a flick of her chin for him to pay attention. Loki followed her line of sight just as she blindly reached out for him, wrapping a hand around his forearm, just below the elbow. At that same moment, the memory version of himself had slipped his arm down until his hand met Sylvie’s, the two of them latching onto one another tightly as the deadly chunk of planet that had been looming ahead crashed into the surface of Lamentis, sending a blast of heat and debris towards them.

It was then, with Sylvie’s hand still wrapped around his arm, that he heard her voice in his head. Not of her current thoughts, no, but of the thought she had in those last seconds - moments before she was certain would be the last seconds of life. What caught her off guard though, as much as it had Loki, was that she too heard his thoughts. Their last thought - or so they had thought - rang out within the memory as clearly as if they had said it out loud. And the craziest part?

It had been the same single thought.

‘Finally…I’m not alone.’

Their combined voices echoed in Loki’s head as the memory faded away, and he found himself opening his eyes back in reality. His fingers were still held against the side of her head, and he found he couldn’t take them away as Sylvie opened her eyes, immediately focusing in on him. There was such warmth to her gaze, and it took him a moment to remember how to breathe. There were times, such as the moment they had just visited, or when they shared a blanket in the void, where she had given him glimpses of that warmth. He had seen it, hiding behind a layer of wariness in her eyes, valiantly trying to fight to the surface. It seems that, in this moment of raw truth, that it had won its fight.

Gods, he never wanted her to stop looking at him like that. If he wasn’t careful, she would become an addiction - one he knows full well he won’t be able to kick.

Oh, who’s he kidding. He became hooked on every essence of her long ago.

And he didn’t mind one bit.

Loki let one of his hands drop away as the other softly grazed down the side of her face, coming to a stop at the bottom of her chin. It was a bit of an awkward angle from where they were sitting - even if Sylvie had gravitated towards him throughout their little enchantment training session - and the bending of his body as he leaned towards him had most definitely sent a twinge of pain shooting through his side. He was pretty sure that the movement had torn the wounds open again, but as he tilted her face up and their lips finally met, he decided that this was worth bleeding for.

Their kiss broke for the briefest of moments as Sylvie pushed herself up onto her knees, her hands resting on his shoulders as she swooped back down to reclaim his lips with her own. The pressure of her hands on him pushed him back into the wall, the rough and cold surface of it against his back a stark contrast to the gentleness and warmth of her lips. Loki had found a way to bring out a soft side of her that she didn’t know existed, one she thought was buried down and would cause great embarrassment if she ever let herself be seen as so weak. But with Loki, it all just… came easy. She knew that he wouldn’t see her as weak - and she was completely right. From Loki’s perspective, the fact that she was able to display such a side of herself when she’s relied on nothing but toughness and cruelness to survive filled him with a sense of pride and admiration that he hoped he was able to express with every lingering tender gaze and press of lips.

Kisses had never been much of an expression of emotion for Sylvie. They had just been part of the process – a sensation that leads to more, something to distract her. Most of the time, they were rough and hard: clashes of teeth, red and puffy lips as they make haste to get on with it before the end of the world, the taste of iron in her mouth from a bite of the lip that had been a little too hard.

It was nice, to have this with Loki. No rushing, no ‘We’re here to do a thing, so let’s get it over with’. She could just… take her time. Appreciate the way it feels to have someone touch her in a way that didn’t send her into fight or flight, savor the way he held her – not like she was fragile, but something precious. She doesn’t have to kiss him like the world's about to end. She gets to kiss him simply because she can, because it’s what she wants, because he’s what she wants, because she lo--

Whoa. That thought had almost come too easily, ready to slip into her mind like it was something of common knowledge. It’s enough of a shock that she pulls away from Loki – but then again, the burning in her lungs and the way they were both panting as they break away from one another likely meant that there would have been a pause soon anyway. Loki’s pupils were blown almost all the way out, the blue-gray of his irises nothing more than a thin ring eclipsing the black holes trapped within his eyes. Sylvie wondered if her eyes looked about the same right now – at least, if the heat searing through her veins was of any indication.

Loki’s tongue darted out across his lips, swiping away the taste of her that lingered there. His lips had turned cherry bright and glossy, which was almost tempting enough for her to dive right back in, only for her racing thoughts to be brought to a calm as Loki spoke.

“I know that you’ve spent nearly your entire life alone,” Loki began. “But… it doesn’t have to be that way anymore. I can promise you: I’ll make sure you never have to feel alone again.”

Sylvie could feel her face soften at his nervous offer. “You can’t promise that. And that’s not me saying that you might one day decide you’ve had enough of me - which is something I could see happening.”

Loki opened his mouth to strongly argue against her statement, but Sylvie continued before he could get a word out beyond the deep frown etched onto his face. “I’m saying it because… there’s a chance you might leave me, not of your own volition. The life I’ve dragged you into - especially now with so many new threats out there that we don’t even know about… someone could take you from me. In a blink, you could be gone, and… and I’d be alone again.”

“There’s always that risk,” Loki pointed out. “I mean, it’s us. You didn’t drag me into this life. I dragged myself into it when I picked up the Tesseract that landed by my feet. And If I hadn’t done that? Then my life would have ended at the hands of Thanos anyway. If I had to choose between that, and spending the rest of my life with you? Well, let’s just say it’d be the easiest decision of my life. Hel, you could give me the choice of living a life of luxury on the throne of Asgard, or slumming it with you in Apocalypse after Apocalypse, and I’d still choose this path. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter what path is laid before me. I’ll only choose the one where you walk down it beside me.”

Sylvie’s jaw clenched hard as she fought back the tears that threatened to spill over. She was almost certain that Loki was the reasoning behind around seventy percent of the number of times she’s cried in her entire life. When you’ve lived a life running from an all-powerful organization that’s chasing you for not belonging in their carefully crafted universe, it’s not all too surprising that actually feeling wanted by someone was enough to open the floodgates.

“You’re an idiot,” She croaks out in an attempt at a joke. Although, she supposed it wasn’t much of a joke. Choosing her over a life of comfort seemed like a pretty stupid decision….

“That’s likely true,” Loki agreed with a wonky smile. “But if you’ll have me, then I’ll be your idiot.”

“Hmm… Such a tempting offer…” Sylvie says, smiling through the tears that still sat in her eyes. “I’ve only gone and spent over a thousand years of my life living completely alone, doing what I can to survive. And now, here’s someone sat in front of me who’s fought by my side, helped me outsmart the TVA to achieve the one goal I had set out to accomplish, had my best interests in mind even when I couldn’t see it myself, has thrown themselves into danger numerous times to protect me, and is now the one asking if I’ll have him?”

Loki stared blankly back at Sylvie. “…Yes?”

Sylvie’s lips flattened into a straight line, unsure whether to laugh or sigh at his uncertainty. It had at least helped to lessen the burning in her eyes. “Hmm… Nah. I think I’ll keep going on my own, thanks.”

…Right?

“Uh… so, just to be clear-,”

Loki’s lips pursed into an honest to God pout, crossing his arms across his chest with an in-dignified huff. He had already known, from Mobius’s little interrogation technique, that the skill-set he possesses in making him the Trickster he’s known as is often thrown completely out the window whenever Sylvie becomes involved.

Sylvie took pity on the sulking demigod, reaching down to place a hand on his knee. Loki’s eyes darted down to her hand, then back up to her, his frown softening by just the slightest. “Listen, Loki… What I was trying to say is that...”

Sylvie stopped with a heavy sigh, shuffling around until she was side to side with him once more. She leans back against the wall as he was, letting her head fall back until it softly collided with the wall as she closed her eyes. She figured it would probably be easier to say what’s on her mind when she can’t see the way his eyes were trying to burn into her soul.

“After everything that happened… I truly didn’t know how you’d react to seeing me. You know how I said I liked to think over different scenarios in my head? Try and prepare myself for every outcome?”

Loki nodded his head, and although she couldn’t see it, she took his silence as her cue to continue. “In nearly every scenario I envisioned… it never goes as I want. Maybe the Time Door wouldn’t take me to the same TVA I placed you in. Maybe I’d be arrested or pruned before I could find you. Maybe… maybe they had already killed you,” A lump formed in her throat at that thought. “Maybe, if I did find you, you’d refuse to go through that Time Door. Maybe, once you saw me, you’d run away. Or maybe you’d run towards me, and thrust your dagger through my chest.”

“I’d never-,” Loki tries to exclaim, but Sylvie raises a hand to stop him. Obediently, he falls quiet, though his mouth was still twisted into quite the grimace.

“I ran through the argument we’d have so many times in my head,” Sylvie continues. “A lot of shouting… a lot of tears… some of them would end in another clash of swords, others… you leave. And I find myself alone again. So when…” Sylvie forces her eyes open, glancing at Loki from her side vision. “When you ran to me, I was waiting to see which of those scenarios would unfold. But you did none of them. You wrapped your arms around me, and you were… you were happy to see me. Even with what I did to you, you were just…”

“Glad to see you were okay,” Loki finished for her.

“And I still don’t know what I did to deserve that,” Sylvie confesses, the two of them turning their heads towards one another. “I hadn’t been expecting it, and… I thought that, if I somehow managed to find you and you didn’t want nothing to do with me, then… then I thought that I’d be the one that was asking you if you’d have me – not the other way around.”

Loki exhaled softly from his nose, averting his gaze down with the beginnings of a smile. “Communication doesn’t seem to be our strong point…”

“Really not a fan of… feelings,” Sylvie spat out the word like it burned her. “They’re rather messy, aren’t they?”

“Hmm. And confusing.”

“Way too confusing. I mean, really, they seem to be more trouble than they’re worth.”

“No doubt about it,” Loki agrees wholeheartedly. “They get in the way half the time. How am I supposed to make clear-headed decisions when they’re always there?”

“So we’re in agreement?” Sylvie asks. “Feelings are stupid?”

“Oh, definitely,” Loki answers with a sly grin that forces a near-identical one from Sylvie, the two of them smiling at each other in the steadily darkening cave as this planet’s day came to an end. Loki’s grin slowly softens into a gentle smile, matching the tenderness in his eyes as he looked to her. “Glad I have them, though.”

“Me too,” Sylvie utters gently, unable to look away from his eyes on hers, admiring the way they almost seemed to change color as the cave’s lighting had gradually changed with the passing of time.

“Guess that makes us both idiots.”

Sylvie snorts at that, giving his shoulder a flimsy shove, making sure not to touch anywhere near his wound. Although his eyes don’t once stop expressing that never-ending kindness he always seemed to direct towards her, even Sylvie could see the bone-deep exhaustion that had begun to dull them. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had slept properly herself, outside of the brief nap she had sneaked in on the train to the Ark on Lamentis. Loki probably hadn’t slept in… well, she didn’t know - and after days, weeks, perhaps even months of running both with and against the TVA, jumping in and out of apocalypses, facing the ruler of the sacred timeline, and now getting himself hurt fighting actual space lizards… It was downright shocking he wasn’t conked out right this second.

Even demigods had their limits, after all.

“You should get some rest,” Sylvie expresses her worry both verbally and with her expressions, her brow creasing in a frown that only a mother-hen would sport - which she certainly was not. “I’ll take first shift; keep an eye out for any more man-eating reptiles.”

“You sure that’s safe?” Loki asks. “We still don’t know whether this is an Apocalypse.”

“That’s why I’m keeping watch,” Sylvie counters. “First sign of trouble, I’ll… Well, I’ll hope that this thing still works, first of all,” She gestures to the TemPad on her hand. “Besides, there hasn’t been any evidence that this is an Apocalypse.”

“Other than the TVA not showing up,” Loki points out. “Thought they only did that when we existed within Apocalypses?”

“We still don’t know how this whole ‘multi-verse' thing works. I don’t even know what kind of universe we’re in. What if this one doesn’t even have a TVA?”

“You don’t think the other TVA’s would work out a way to jump between universes?” Loki asks. “I’m sure some of them are already getting to work on pruning all those ‘unruly timelines’…”

“Oh, just lay down and get some sleep, would you?” Sylvie all but orders him.

“Yes, ma'am…” Loki mumbled, barely avoiding another annoyed shove.

Loki shuffled down the wall until he was flat on his back, staring up at the rocky ceiling that loomed above their heads. Now, with the once glaring sun that had been peeking through the cracks long gone - and the beginnings of the night sky now having replaced it -the temperature had slowly taken a nosedive. The hard ground under his back made it especially difficult to drift off, despite his body's desperate pleas for rest.

Then, even from beyond his closed eyelids, Loki could sense a bright burst of light appearing above him. Naturally, it startles him, eyes popping open in preparation for potential danger. Instead, he feels the comforting weight of a soft, warm blanket being draped over his body. His eyes dart over to Sylvie still by his side, seeing her watching him with a knowing smile as she twirls her fingers, conjuring the blanket out of thin air that was now laid comfortably over him. Loki pinches the corner of the blanket between his thumb and fingers, inspecting the new creation. The blanket was of a similar dark green to the one he had made, but the material had a heavier weight to it, along with being made of more of a wool type of material than the silk of his own.

“You looked cold,” Sylvie jokes. “Thought I’d return the favor from last time.”

“Made a few changes, I see,” Loki notes, running a hand across the blanket. “Seems we both enjoy the same type of color scheme, though.”

“Nothing wrong with the color of yours,” Sylvie said. “But c’mon - even you have to admit that it wasn’t the snuggliest of blankets.”

“And is that what you had in mind when designing this one?” Loki’s teasing grin as he looked up to her came through in his voice. “Ideal for snuggling?”

Sylvie’s glare came out weaker than she intended, trying - and failing - to ignore the heat that had rushed to her face. “Last time I do something nice for you…”

Loki’s responding laughter at least wasn’t a mocking one, the very definition of ‘I’m laughing with you, not at you’. For what felt like the umpteenth time since she’s met him, Sylvie looked away from him with a roll of her eyes, staring out into the dense darkness of the cave.

The moonlight seeping in above could only do so much to illuminate their surrounding, and her eyes could only provide her with so much information about what they could see before it became ‘nothingness’; the shadows and outlines of the cave blending together into one deep, dark, stretch of murky black. She could almost convince herself her eyes were closed if it weren’t for what felt like little weights attached to her eyelids that were trying to force them down. Sylvie hid a yawn behind her hand, as if fighting off those yawns would convince her that she wasn’t really tired.

For once in her life, the feeling of a hand wrapping around her arm didn’t have her reaching for her sword. She glanced down to the hand, then followed the arm attached to its owner, raising an eyebrow at Loki as he peered up at her. Loki answered her questioning look by gently tugging on her arm, which… didn’t entirely answer those questions if she’s being honest.

“What… are you doing?” She asks him, glancing between his hand and his face.

“What does it look like?”

“Kind of like you’re trying to pull off my arm?”

“What? No, I’m-,” Loki cut himself with a sigh, eyes narrowing as he looked to her, weighing out his decisions. Or, more accurately, the consequences of said decisions.

He seemed to make up his mind remarkably quickly, for the next second, the tug on her arm had become much stronger. Stronger enough that, with just one pull, she found herself being pulled down, all but falling into his side. She placed a hand on his chest, ready to push herself back up and ask him what the Hel he thought he was doing, when she froze at the feel of his blanket-clad arm sliding across her back to wrap around her, pulling her close to him and wrapping them both up in the blanket she had conjured.

“You were right,” Loki’s voice rumbles in his chest under her ear. “This blanket is snugglier.”

“A little bit more warning would be appreciated,” Sylvie tries to pretend she’s annoyed by his antics, whilst at the same time tucking herself closer to his side, resting the arm that had been trapped between them on top of his chest. “I’m supposed to be keeping watch, you know.”

“And you’re more than welcome to do that,” Loki mumbled sleepily, eyes closed and sounding like he was a few seconds away from dropping off. “Just make sure you wake me up in a few hours for my shift,”

“You don’t have to-,”

“Yes, I do,” Loki asserted strongly. “You need some sleep just as much as I do. And I know you don’t like letting your guard down, but… I promise I can keep you safe.”

Not long ago, Sylvie would have scoffed at anyone that said that to her. But Loki had said he could keep her safe like he truly believed it - enough so that she believed it, too. The battle wounds he’s currently sporting from their earlier skirmish were proof of that.

Loki’s heartbeat was calm and steady under her ear, its rhythmic thumps combined with the alluring warmth of his body heat making it particularly hard to fight off the drowsiness fogging her mind. It was with great amusement that she realized that, whenever she lightly brushed her fingers against his chest, she could both feel and hear his pulse picking up, pounding just a little harder below her head before settling back down to its usual rhythm.

“It’ll be your fault if I fall asleep on watch, and we’re murdered by scavengers that sneak into the cave,” Sylvie says after a few minutes, able to tell that Loki was still awake by the way his breathing had yet to slow.

“I’ll be sure to apologize profusely in the after-life,” Loki said, his large hand covering her smaller one atop his chest. “And I’m supposed to be sleeping, you know. That’s quite difficult to do when you’re quite literally playing games with my heart.”

Sylvie chuckled gently, the weight of Loki’s hand on top of hers stopping her from continuing her little amusing experiment. “Apologies, your majesty.”

“Just you want until it’s your turn to sleep,” Loki grumbled. “We’ll see how grumpy you get when I keep interrupting your nap-time.”

“Unless you want me to spring awake with a knife to your throat, I wouldn’t advise messing with me in my sleep,” Sylvie advised him.

“Duly noted,” Loki said with a long sigh, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “I had planned on waking you up with a morning kiss - you know, like a good prince should - but if you say not to…”

Despite his tiredness making it difficult for him to do much else than lay with his eyes closed, Loki had to suppress his laughter at the long stretch of silence from Sylvie as she absorbed what he had just offered.

“...I suppose it’d be good to try and break me out of that habit..”

Loki did laugh that time, the deep rumbling of his laughter vibrating throughout his chest.

“Well, if all I have to risk is a knife to my throat to steal another kiss from you? Then that’s a risk I’m more than willing to take. I’ve done it before, after all.”

Next Chapter - - - >

#sylki #sylki fanfiction #sylki fanfic #pro sylki #loki/sylvie #lovedagger #enchantricks

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imagine-loki · 4 years

Text

The sniffles

TITLE: The sniffles CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: ONE SHOT AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump ORIGINAL IMAGINE:

After the Chitauri attack on New York, imagine Loki being sentenced to public service on Earth, specifically in aiding people who got hurt during the attack. His magic has been limited to only be enough to aid keeping Odin’s spell in place so he wouldn’t turn blue. His task is to help people with special needs, to do house chores, help them get around, do their grocery and keep them company while they recover. He is assigned to a girl who ended up blind after one of the Chitauri shot at her.

Imagine that against everything you both thought possible, Loki gets the flu.

RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: It’s getting to be chilly season, so the flu is lurking about. Get your flu shots! Be careful! Socially distance! Language, maybe? Mostly fluff. Mentions of illness? (Do people tag that?) Not beta’d or edited, really–probs lots of typos.

SUMMARY: Loki gets sick, though he insists it’s just allergies. Charlie puts on her bossy pants and shows Loki she’s a bamf. Loki is a Nervous Nelly.

Loki had nearly frowned himself into an alternate dimension when it first happened–a simple sneeze. He had been sorting through some paperwork that Stark had asked him to complete, a mindless task meant to keep him occupied under the guise of his rehabilitation. With a shrug, Loki aired out the papers, assuming dust had tickled his nose for the briefest of moments, but thought nothing more of it.

Two years into his exile to Midgard and working under the tech guru, Loki had pretty much worked off his sentence in Tony’s eyes. According to anyone with half a brain, depriving Loki of his magic, the major condition of his exile, was punishment enough for the Prince (Loki would never admit that the act of cleaning a whole kitchen to perfection on his hands and knees was methodical and soothing, but it was one of the many joys of his near mortal existence). Still, it turned out that Stark was a bleeding heart and could recognize the tell-tale signs of a son who never got proper validation from their father (or enough hugs). It could have also been the fact that the former hissing-serpent-of-an-Asgardian all but turned into a golden retriever after he fell in love. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that Stark was deathly afraid of the five-foot-nothing woman Loki now shared an apartment with, and who would most definitely cause him bodily harm for overworking her boyfriend.

All in all, within the constraints of this supposed punishment, everything was wonderful.

Then, Loki sneezed again.

And continued to do so.

But, of course, he wasn’t ill.

Achoo!

Charlie started, letting out a half-strangled shriek that soon turned into a groan as objects clattered on her desk. Her jaw clenched together so tightly, she thought her teeth would crack.

Now, Charlie wasn’t irritated that her dork alien of a boyfriend was sneezing in her presence while she was trying to get work done. No, she was irritated because she had sent him to bed (again, for the sixth time) twenty minutes ago when his fever and chills started to turn him into an unintelligible, hallucinating mess. She thought she had been quite clear in her order for him to get some rest. After all, it had been three days since Loki first sneezed, and though he had brushed it off as a bad case of seasonal allergies, his denial was starting to get ridiculous, not to mention, harmful.

Turns out thousand year old demigods-turned-mortal are no better at following orders than any other man on the planet. In fact, Charlie was pretty sure he was being more of a brat than any other mortal… not that she’d ever tell him.

Pushing away her keyboard, she stood away from the desk, taking a second to orient herself and stare in the general direction she had heard the sneeze come from.

She schooled her facial expression into what she hoped was a no-nonsense expression. “Go. Back. To. Bed.”

Loki grumbled, his voice particularly hoarse and gravelly with an added nasally quality from his blocked passages. “It’s allergies and I have things to do,” he retorted stubbornly, ignoring the fact that his whole world seemed to tilt ever-so-slightly with each step he took.

“Allergies, my ass. Loki Odinson, you have the flu. You belong back in bed. Don’t make me be the bad guy here.”

He let out a half-hearted snort, pretending that he did not at all feel the need to double over and repeat whatever little breakfast he was able to get down his gullet that morning. “I am not sick. I haven’t been sick in four centuries. Your sorry Midgardian microbes cannot infect me.”

“Yeah, when you had your full powers. Now, though–”

“I’m fine-d.”

It was a small, momentary miracle that Charlie wasn’t able to see the way he swayed on a spot, holding his head pathetically against the sudden bout of vertigo that assaulted him. At least he thought she couldn’t. Though Loki could not explain the fact that her hand grasped him by an elbow a moment later with what appeared to be no difficulty. Clearly he was off his game, and he didn’t even bother complaining when Charlie half-dragged him all the way to the sofa and forced him to sit.

He couldn’t help but smile at the brows knitted together in worry or the lower lip being chewed within an inch of its soft, supple life. The extreme gentleness and care she took in smoothing back his hair and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead made his stomach twist in the most pleasant way. This was the best antidote, he supposed, just watching her fuss over his shivering body. Loki certainly wasn’t used to being taken care of in this manner. It felt almost wrong to succumb to the desire of slumping into the pillows and letting her dote on him.

“I love you,” slipped from his lips before he was even aware that his brain had attempted to convey the message.

Charlie beamed in response, cheeks turning warm copper with a blush. Her fingers trailed down the sides of his face to cup his cheeks. “I love you, too, sweets, but if you don’t stay still and rest, I will put on Stark’s suit and make you.”

Loki smirked, twining one of her curls around his finger and letting it bounce back with a gentle tug. “Have I told you how attractive I find you when you get all bossy?”

“Only every single second this week, Lo.”

“Well, I firmly believe in truth-telling, dove,” he added, voice betraying the exhaustion that seeped into his bones. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that the gentle circles she drew around his temples were some sort of ancient magic. “I’m late for work,” he protested, making an effort to sit back up. He would admit that they way Charlie shoved him back onto the cushions was a little distracting for two entirely different reasons: one, he was weak enough that Charlie could push him down like it was nothing; and, two… it was sort of… sexy. He would take them both to his grave.

“I called Tony and told him you were sick.”

Loki frowned. “What did he say?”

“He asked FRIDAY to queue up ”Ding dong! The witch is dead“,” she joked, lips tugging up in a smirk. “He said to take the week off. No one needs your Asgardian super bugs rolling around the Tower.” Charlie’s lips pressed against his forehead, followed immediately by a sigh. “You’re burning up again, Loki.”

“Everything hurts,” he conceded in a small voice, feeling like a failure when the concern etched in her features deepened further.

Charlie took in the complaint with a resolute nod.

“OK. I’ll go to the pharmacy down the street for some medicine and some electrolytes. You get some rest.” She patted his cheek and made to stand when Loki’s hand wrapped around her wrist.

“I’ll come with you.” He assured, at once, hoping the edge of nervousness wasn’t obvious in his voice.

“Nice try, super spreader.” Her fingers peeled his, dexterously. “No. Get some rest. I’ll be back in twenty.”

“But–”

“I promise you I will be fine, Loki. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

Loki was still reluctant as he watched her cool and confident expression. He shifted awkwardly. He knew that Charlie was entirely capable of any task and she had adapted well to the technology available to her as a non-seeing person, but… Norns, he was just a pathetic mess when it came to her. The thought of anything happening to her… “I know, but–”

“You worry. I understand, but this is important, Loki. You’re important and you’re sick and you need me to go get you medicine.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against her hand for a long moment before finding the courage to speak. “Just… be careful, alright? Maximum alertness, yeah?”

“I promise,” she assured in a whisper, leaning in to kiss his crown. “Please get some rest until I get back.” Her fingers were back to scratching his scalp, combing through his shaggy locks until he could no longer fight against the heaviness of sleep. He uttered half a protest before drifting off, leaving Charlie to cover him up with the spare blanket she kept on the sofa and tucking him in.

Charlie would not say that she was nervous about going out without Loki, but she was certainly not not nervous. She wrapped herself up warm to ward off the autumn chill and triple checked her belongings: keys, phone, card wallet, cane. Her head turned over her shoulder on instinct, as if attempting to spare a glance at Loki sleeping on the couch, before she closed the door behind her.

Loki awoke with a start what felt like an eternity later. His hair was sticking out in all directions and his clothes felt like they were pasted to his body with sweat. He was no longer on the couch, but in bed, and he felt… marginally better. Still, his heart was thumping loudly against his ribcage with a sense of uneasiness.

Charlie.

Where was Charlie?

“Oh, gods, please no.” It was too still. Too quiet. “CHARLIE!?” He called frantically, kicking the covers off of himself, despite the fact that his head disliked his sudden change in momentum. He grit his teeth against the nausea that rose immediately after. He needed to get out of bed and–

“Oh, you’re up!” Charlie chirped happily from the doorway.

His head snapped toward her voice to find her standing with a tray and very carefully balancing a bowl of soup, a sports drink and a bottle of water atop it. The grace with which she was managing to balance the liquids over the wooden serving tray was uncharacteristic–Charlie had never been particularly poised due to her impatience and going blind had not helped matters. After a minute, she placed the tray beside him on the bed and managed to sit down without any major spillage. Loki beamed at the satisfied look on her face and the anxiously flitting and hovering gaze she got when she was particularly excited.

“You’re back,” he breathed softly, fingertips trailing over the hand resting closest to him.

“I was only gone for fifteen minutes.” Charlie giggled. “Do you not remember taking your medicine and coming to bed?”

Loki shook his head before remembering his replies had to be aloud. “Er… no. No, I don’t.”

“You were pretty out of it,” she admitted, not thinking anything of it. “We had a lot of extra veggies, so I made you soup.”

He swallowed at the lump in his throat to no avail as he watched the perfectly cubed pieces of vegetables floating in a golden broth. He could practically feel her efforts radiating off the bowl with every plume of steam that rose enticingly. “You cooked?” His voice caught slightly.

“Yeah. Don’t tell me if it’s no good. It took me forever to chop things, so I might actually cry,” she replied, only half serious.

He picked up the bowl and tentatively sipped at the broth, letting out an involuntary moan when the rich taste flooded his taste buds. “Charlie, it… it’s perfect. It’s delicious.” The satisfied grin she gave in response made the remainder of his pain float away like dandelion fluff. He sipped some more before letting out a contented sigh as his bones warmed. “You are a wonder of wonders, Charlotte Camden.”

Charlie snorted. “I went to the pharmacy and managed not to burn down the apartment. I am middling, at best.”

“Say what you want, but I am proud of you,” he whispered, enjoying the blush on her cheeks as he slurped down the rest of his soup.

He knew she was secretly pleased with the praise, even if she didn’t admit it. Loki was aware that he worried all too much about giving her extra independence with all the what-ifs that popped up in his head. She was always so eager to challenge herself and had proven time and again she was capable of so much more than what she did on a daily basis. Loki was still in her life because she desired it, not because she needed anything from him.

For goodness’ sake, here she was, minding him.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Charlie. I feel restored, already.”

“Finally, he admits illness!” She snickered under her breath while Loki grumbled. “Of course, Loki. It is my distinct pleasure.” She leaned in just enough to prompt Loki to proffer his cheek, skin warm from the flush that could only half be attributed to the warmth of the broth. Her fingers trailed over his scalp, making him shudder from head to toe. “Drink all your fluids and back to bed,” she ordered gently before disappearing back out the bedroom door.

Loki wasn’t used to being taken care of like this but… he could get used to it.

#Loki #Lover #Others #Submitted one shot #submission #the sniffles #fanfictrashdump

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aahsokaatano · 4 years

Note

King I would love that essay about Changing Channels

Fjdjshjdhdjd thanks for reading my tags Jesse you're the real VIP here.

Okay SO "Changing Channels" is the 8th episode of the 5th season of Supernatural. I give this information bc it's important in looking at the context of the episode - now I've complained a LOT about how SPN is terrible at giving us canonical timeframes within the episodes (y'all i was SHOCKED to discover the first season is supposed to cover a little over a year's worth of time, I thought it was like... 4 or 5 months) so I can't say for sure how long before and after the other episodes happen in-universe around "Changing Channels" BUT

The episode before is "The Curious Case of Dean Winchester" where Dean and Bobby bet years of their lives in a game of poker with a witch. The episode after is "The Real Ghostbusters" where Sam and Dean end up at a fan convention for the in-universe Supernatural novels.

Why am I pointing this out? Because it's important, please, no audience participation, this is like a Brian David Gilbert panel.

[under a cut bc this got...... STUPID long. Who knew I still had this many opinions about SPN in 2020?]

Okay first of all I wanna talk about the cinnamon topography of this episode - I love the way the first 5 seasons are shot because you really feel the americana gothic horror aesthetic they were going for (I have a whole ‘nother rant about the first 5 seasons vs the last 10 but thats for another time). Everything is a little washed out and grey-toned, the camera angles generally serve to make Sam and Dean appear even taller than they actually are (larger than life - again, another post for another time), and there’s honestly a LOT of shots from the ‘monster’s’ perspective, which is really neat! I’ve said it before (on another blog - YES i have a dedicated spn rant blog, don’t @ me hdjfhfjfh) but the episode that really got me hooked on spn back in the day was the second one, about the w*ndigo. Yes, it’s a racist, culturally appropriating shitstorm, but the way its SHOT is fantastic. I’m honestly not a horror fan, but that episode could have easily relied on jumpscares and they DIDN’T and it was scary as all fucking hell and just - fuck okay getting off topic.

In “Changing Channels” we get that distinctive grey-washed tone in the beginning and the very end of the episode, but the middle? When they’re in TV Land? Everything is bright. Almost comically so, I mean - okay look at these two shots of Sam (apologies about the crappy phone pics, netflix won't let me screenshot)

This one is from the start of the episode, in the "real" police station

And this is from a little later in the "TV" hospital

Ignoring that my phone is washing him out a lot in both pics, you can still see the warmer tones in the hospital shot as compared to the cold greyness in the police station one

Okay, now look at this picture

Dean inside the Impala, and those warm tones are back. Why? Because even though Sam and Dean believe that they’re back in the “real” world, they aren’t - so instead of the grey-washed shots that we’re used to, its the bright and warm shots that we see in “TV Land”! So the viewers pick up, even if its just subconsciously, that the boys aren’t out of the woods yet - everything is still too bright to be the in-universe reality we’ve come to expect from SPN by season 5

Which is also why i love this shift so much

These shots are literally SECONDS apart. The first is in "TV Land" and the second is in the "real" world. I have some red strip lights behind my bed, which are reflecting off my laptop screen - notice how much brighter they seem in the second picture? That’s because literally all of the warm colors have been drained out of the shot. As soon as Gabriel snaps them all back into “reality,” things get so much colder.

Okay, so the second thing I want to talk about is some of the very pointed dialogue choices within the “shows” the Winchesters take part in. Not between Sam and Dan and Gabriel, but from the, for lack of a better term, NPCs within the shows.

In the hospital, Dr. Piccolo tells Sam that he is “the finest cerebrovascular neurosurgeon I have ever met - and I have met plenty! So that girl died on your table; it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Sometimes people just die.” Standard cheesy soap opera dialogue - but lemme just swap some words here and -

“You are the finest hunter I have ever met - and I have met plenty! So that girl died on your hunt; it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Sometimes people just die.”

Or even -

“You are the finest hunter I have ever met - and I have met plenty! So Jessica and Mary died above you; it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault [but Azazel’s]. Sometimes people just die.”

Keeping in mind that the NPCs are basically Gabriel’s mouthpieces, its easy to see why so many people ship Sabriel. I’d actually love to see a fic that explores them talking about this moment in particular later on and the kind of gentle forgiveness that Gabriel can give Sam... getting off topic again.

In an abrupt about-face, the herpes commercial (much meme’d within the fandom) is straight up Gabriel shaming Sam. Because if you replace “genital herpes” with “demon blood” it’s.... dark. And very intentional.

So that’s what I did! (I combined all spoken lines to make the message easier to read, rather than splitting them up across 3 speakers as in the episode)

“I’ve drank demon blood. I tried to be responsible... did I try. But now, after being forcibly detoxed, I fight my addiction every day to reduce the chances of passing back into that toxic mindset. Ask your loved ones about a demon blood intervention today. [...] I am doing all I can to slightly lessen the chance of drinking demon blood again. And that’s a good thing.”

Like... the subtext throughout this episode sure is. Something.

Okay this is getting ridiculously long so I wanna wrap up by talking about The Best Scene In The Whole Goddamn Show

I’m talking, of course, about Gabriel’s Confession

“Max,” you might be saying, “there are so many better scenes out there, even within the first five seasons!” and to that i say, again, no audience participation, please. Also, you’re WRONG and here’s why!

Gabriel’s confession hits every goddamn emotional chord that the fandom begged for on this show - fear, rage, grief, pain, guilt, and even, yes, absolution.

Okay, here’s the scene again for those of you who don’t think about it at least once a week like me

youtube

Now this video is missing some of the conversation, but most of it is there, enough for you to see what I’m talking about. Gabriel up to this point has been, essentially, a nameless antagonist - this is the third episode he appeared in, and before this, we didn’t even know he was going by Loki. He was just referred to as ‘The Trickster’. But here, not only do we get a name (a real name at that), but we also get a glimpse of his backstory and a hell of a lot of character development in less than 5 minutes. I mean, Sam didn’t get this much character development throughout the entirety of season 1! There’s a good reason Gabriel has been a fan-favorite for a very long time, and I think a big part of it is this particular scene.

Because here, we get to see Gabriel being vulnerable. And we even see Dean show a little vulnerability, as he can empathize being the third party to explosive arguments between the two people who mean everything to him.

I mean... okay, it will never see the light of day, but I wrote a little bit of a Reverse ‘Verse fic (because I’m a sucker for Reverse ‘Verse) and this was the scene I started with. Not s1e1, not even the resurrection in s4e1, but this scene. Because this scene, more than any other, is critical to the way not only Gabriel’s (first) arc plays out, but also to how Sam and Dean conduct themselves for the rest of the season (and maybe a bit beyond, it’s been a hot minute since I watched s6 and later). Dean is angry but determined, he has a point to make, he is going to save Sammy and if he can’t do that, then he’s going to damn well die trying. But Sam... it’s after this episode that we start really seeing how bone-achingly tired Sam is. It’s after this conversation - where one of the other archangels, one of the few beings who can truly understand how powerful Michael and Lucifer are - says that there’s no other way around this that Sam seems to start inching towards giving in. Saying yes.

Sure, in the actual episode, he seems outraged by the idea, practically scoffs at it - “you want us to say yes to those sons of bitches?” - but it’s after this where Sam really seems run down.

I mean, look at the episodes before and after (HAH you thought I forgot about that first point I made at the very beginning of this post! I did, briefly, but I’ve circled back to it, thanks for being understanding). In “The Curious Case of Dean Winchester,” Sam behaves much as he did since the start of s4, which is to say, ‘annoying little know-it-all brother tossed into the middle of the apocalypse and just trying his best’ and it works well for the mad scramble for any scrap of information that’s happening in s4/early s5.

But in “The Real Ghostbusters” it’s different. This is another funny meta episode - except, while Sam and Dean are technically aware of the joke, they aren’t as amused by it as the audience is. And it’s not because of the ghosts. It’s because they’re just... done. Especially Sam. Dean has that nice little moment with the cosplayers at the end of the episode, but Sam... threatens to shoot Chuck. Sam ‘goes darkside’ more often than pretty much any other character in the show, but that moment is different. It’s a flat promise, not a threat. He’s not being an asshole, like he is after losing his soul. He’s just... done. And it’s obvious to see.

Gabriel’s confession is the turning point for Sam in s5, and it informs a lot of his behavior through the rest of s5, and possibly beyond! Like I said, I haven’t watched past s5 in a very long time, so I don’t feel confident enough to analyze that specific sort of character line, but I feel confident in saying that hearing one of the most powerful beings in the universe basically say “it doesn’t matter what you do - your destiny is unavoidable” and then he’s proven right (Sam says yes to Lucifer, and Dean eventually does say yes to Michael down the line!)... like, that’s really gotta fuck up your world view that was built on free will and throwing off the shackles of fate. Sam managed to avoid his ‘destiny’ in s2... but then it turns out that that wasn’t ever his destiny. Lucifer was his destiny.

Talk about an obscured view of the inner self.

#thebisexualmandalorian #jesse #max answers #spn #naturally super #changing channels #im having some THOUGHTS yall

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tomhiddleslove · 5 years

Text

The screen and stage star is making his Broadway debut as the bottled-up husband wearing a “mask of control” in Harold Pinter’s romantic triangle.

[ By Laura Collins-Hughes

Aug. 21, 2019, 5:00 a.m. ET ]

Tom Hiddleston was posing for a portrait, and the face he showed the camera wasn’t entirely his own.

That had been his idea, to slip for a few moments into the character he’s playing on Broadway, in Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal”: Robert, the cheated-on husband and backstabbed best friend whose coolly proper facade is the carapace containing a crumbling man. And when Mr. Hiddleston became him, the change was instantaneous: the guarded stillness of his body, the chill reserve in his gray-blue eyes.

“It’s interesting,” Mr. Hiddleston said after a while, analyzing Robert’s expression from the inside. “It gives less away.” A pause, and then his own smile flickered back, its pleasure undisguised. “O.K.,” Mr. Hiddleston announced, himself again, “it’s not Robert anymore.”

It was late on a muggy August morning, one day before the show’s first preview at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theater, and Mr. Hiddleston — the classically trained British actor best known for playing the winsomely chaotic villain Loki, god of mischief and brother of Thor, in the Marvel film franchise — had been in New York for less than a week.

He’ll be here all autumn for the limited run of the production, a hit in London earlier this year, but he wasn’t going to pretend that he’d settled in. “I literally have never sat in this room before,” he’d said at the top of the photo shoot, in his cramped auxiliary dressing room, next door to the similarly tiny one he had been occupying.

He’d had nothing to do with the space’s camera-ready décor. So there was no use making a metaphor of the handsome clock with its hands stopped at 12 (“Betrayal” is famous for its reverse chronology; far more apt if the clock had run backward), or of the compact stack of pristine books that looked like journals, with pretty covers and presumably empty pages: a bit off-brand for Mr. Hiddleston, who at 38 has a model-perfect exterior with quite a lot inscribed inside.

Take the matter-of-fact way he said, in explaining that he’d first encountered Pinter’s work when he studied for his A-levels in English literature, theater, Latin and Greek: “It was a real tossup between French and Spanish or Latin and Greek. I thought, I can always speak French and Spanish, I can’t always read Latin and Greek, so I’ll study that and I’ll speak the other two.”

Though, to be fair, he only said that because I’d teased him slightly about the Latin and Greek, and I’d teased him — not a recommended journalistic technique — because he was so disarmingly good-humored and resolutely down to earth, chatting away as he waited for the photographer to set up a shot. It didn’t seem like it would ruffle him. He laughed, actually.

From a one-night reading to Broadway

In this country, Mr. Hiddleston is mainly a screen star, known also for playing Jonathan Pine in the John le Carré series “The Night Manager” on AMC. There are plans, too, for him to bring Loki to Disney’s streaming service in a stand-alone series.

But at home in London, he has amassed some impressive Shakespearean credits, including the title roles in Kenneth Branagh’s “Hamlet” and Josie Rourke’s “Coriolanus,” and a turn as Cassio in Michael Grandage’s “Othello” — a production that Pinter, saw some months before he died in 2008. That was the year Mr. Hiddleston won a best newcomer Olivier Award for Cheek by Jowl’s “Cymbeline.”

Jamie Lloyd’s “Betrayal,” which has a staging to match the spareness of Pinter’s language and a roiling well of squelched emotion to feed its comedy, is Mr. Hiddleston’s Broadway debut. Likewise for his co-stars, Zawe Ashton (of Netflix’s “Velvet Buzzsaw”), who plays Emma, Robert’s wife; and Charlie Cox (of Netflix’s “Daredevil”), who plays Emma’s lover, Jerry, Robert’s oldest friend.

Beginning at what appears to be the end of Robert and Emma’s marriage, after her yearslong affair with Jerry has sputtered to a stop, it’s a drama of cascading double-crosses. First staged by Peter Hall in London in 1978 — and in 1980 on Broadway, where it starred Roy Scheider, Blythe Danner and Raul Julia — it rewinds through time to the sozzled evening when Emma and Jerry overstep the line.

The most recent Broadway revival was just six years ago, directed by Mike Nichols and starring Daniel Craig as Robert, Rachel Weisz as Emma and Rafe Spall as Jerry. It might seem too soon for another, let alone one with sexiness to spare — except that Mr. Lloyd’s production is also marked by a palpable hauntedness and a profound sense of loss.

Reviewing the London staging in The New York Times, Matt Wolf called it “a benchmark achievement for everyone involved,” showing the play “in a revealing, even radical, new light.” Michael Billington, in The Guardian, called Mr. Hiddleston’s performance “superb.”

What’s curious is that Mr. Hiddleston, so good at bad boys, isn’t playing Jerry, the more glamorous role: the cad, the pursuer, the best man who goes after the bride. But Mr. Lloyd said that casting him that way was never part of their discussions.

Last fall, when Mr. Lloyd persuaded Mr. Hiddleston to read a scene with Ms. Ashton for a one-night gala celebration of Pinter in London, part of the season-long Pinter at the Pinter series, there was no grand plan. Having asked Mr. Hiddleston about a possible collaboration for years, since “just before he became ridiculously famous,” Mr. Lloyd said, this was the first time he got a yes.

“I just really admired his craft of acting, the precision of his acting, as well as his real emotional depth and his real wit,” Mr. Lloyd said. “And he’s turned into what I think is the epitome of a great Pinter actor. Because if you’re in a Pinter play, you have to dig really deep and connect to terrible loss or excruciating pain, often massive volcanic emotion, and then you have to bottle it all up. You have to suppress it all.”

This, he added, is what Mr. Hiddleston does in “Betrayal,” where characters’ meaning is found between and behind the words, not inside them.

“Some of the pain that he’s created in Robert, it’s just unbearable, and yet he always keeps a lid on it,” Mr. Lloyd said.

The scene Mr. Hiddleston and Ms. Ashton read at the gala appears at the midpoint of “Betrayal”: Robert and Emma on vacation in Venice, at a moment that leaves their marriage with permanent damage. Within days, Mr. Hiddleston told Mr. Lloyd that he was on board for a full production.

‘What remains private’

Photos taken, back in the faintly more lived-in of his Broadway dressing rooms, Mr. Hiddleston opened the window to let in some Midtown air — and when you’re as tall as he is, 6 feet 2 inches, opening it from the top of the window frame is easy enough to do. Then, making himself an espresso with his countertop machine, he sat down to talk at length.

“I’m always curious about the presentation of a character’s external persona versus the interior,“ he said. “What remains private, hidden, concealed, protected, and what does the character allow to be seen? We all have a very complex internal world, and not all of that is on display in our external reality.”

He can tick off the ways that various characters of his conceal what’s inside: Loki, with all that rage and vulnerability “tucked away”; the ultra-proper spy Jonathan Pine, in “The Night Manager,” “hiding behind his politeness”; Robert, a lonely man wearing “a mask of control” that renders him “confident, powerful, polished,” at least as far as any onlookers can tell.

In “Betrayal,” each of the three principals has an enormous amount to hide from the people who are meant to be their closest intimates. It’s a play about power and manipulation, duplicity and misplaced trust, and what’s so threatening about it is the very ordinariness of its privileged milieu. This snug little world that once seemed so safe and ideal — the happiest of families, the oldest of friends — has long since fallen apart.

But to Mr. Hiddleston, Pinter’s drama contains two themes just as significant as betrayal: isolation and loneliness.

“The sadness in the play — it’s not only sadness; because it’s Pinter, there’s wit and levity as well — but if there is sadness in the play,” he said, “I think it comes from the fact that these betrayals render Robert, Emma and Jerry more alone than they were before.”

Trust and self-protection

One-on-one, Mr. Hiddleston was more cautious than he’d been during the photo shoot, surrounded then by a gaggle of people affiliated with the show. Still, when I asked him about betrayal, lowercase, he went straight to the condition it violates.

“To trust is a profound commitment, and to trust is to make oneself vulnerable,” he said, fidgeting with a red rubber band and choosing his words with care. “It’s such an optimistic act, because you’re putting your faith in the hands of someone or something which you expect to remain constant, even if the circumstances change.”

“I’m disappearing down a rabbit hole here,” he said, “but I think about it a lot. I think about certainty and uncertainty. Trust is a way of managing uncertainty. It’s a way of finding security in saying, ‘Perhaps all of this is uncertain, but I trust you.’ Or, ‘I trust this.’ And there’s a lot of uncertainty in the world at the moment, so it becomes harder to trust, I suppose.”

An interview itself is an act of trust, albeit often a wary one. And there was one stipulated no-go zone in this encounter, a condition mentioned by a publicist only after I’d arrived: No talk of Taylor Swift, with whom Mr. Hiddleston had a brief, intense, headline-generating romance that, post-breakup, she evidently spun into song lyrics.

That was three years ago, and I hadn’t been planning to bring her up; given the context of the play, though, make of that prohibition what you will. Mr. Hiddleston, who once had a tendency to pour his heart out to reporters, knows that he can’t stop you.

“It’s not possible, and nor should it be possible, to control what anyone thinks about you,” he said. “Especially if it’s not based in any, um —” he gave a soft, joyless laugh — “if it’s not based in any reality.”

That’s something he’s learned about navigating fame — about being put on a pedestal that’s then kicked out from under him. He knows now “to let go of the energy that comes toward me, be it good or bad,” he said. “Because naturally in the early days I took responsibility for it.”

“And yes, I’m protective about my internal world now in probably a different way,” he added, his tone as restrained as his words. He took a beat, and so much went unsaid in what he said next: “That’s because I didn’t realize it needed protecting before.”

Even so, he doesn’t give the impression of having closed himself off. When something genuinely made him laugh, he smiled a smile that cracked his face wide open.

And the way he treated the people around him at work — with a fundamental respect, regardless of rank, and no whiff of flattery — made him seem sincere about what he called “staying true to the part of myself that’s quite simple, that’s quite ordinary.”

That investment in his ordinariness, as he put it, is a hedge against the destabilizing trappings of fame, but it doubles as a way of protecting his craft.

It’s also of a piece with his insistence that vulnerability is a necessary risk to take, at least sometimes.

“If you go through life without connecting to people,” he asked, “how much could you call that a life?”

#tom hiddleston #hiddles #twhiddleston #the new york times #Betrayal #harold pinter play #Betrayal Broadway #bernard b jacobs theater #August 21 2019 #Devin Yalkin #tom hiddleston interview #loki #tom hiddleston portrait #black and white photography #new york city #link to original article in source

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thwip--thwip · 5 years

Note

Hey, I was looking for some new reading material and wondered if you could give me some recs? Please and thank you sm!

ho BOY anon, COULD I! I’ve got over 2,000 bookmarks on AO3 - what are we looking for? I’m going to assume IronDad, or at the very least Peter Parker-centric; short or long? MJ or Gwen Stacy? Angst, fluff, whump? Sorry this took a minute; I went into the vault for you and pulled out some rare gems:

LONG FICS

In the Home by @captainkirkk | 68k

The Avengers have been infected, turned violent and aggressive against their will. And Peter, the only one unaffected, is trapped inside the Tower with six feral teammates.

“Natasha,” Peter says cautiously, “what happened here? Steve attacked me, and if there was ever a sign that something was wrong, it’s having the embodiment of Truth, Justice, and the American Way throw you across the room—”

Natasha comes closer, her stride controlled. Nothing necessarily out of the ordinary, but there’s something in her face, in her eyes—

Natasha lunges across the space, and slams into Peter, hard.

This just…hoo. A classic if I’ve ever seen one. There’s going to be plenty of aloneintherain on this list because she’s the bomb dot com and its no secret I’m in love. we Stan in this house; this might be my favorite Spidey fic ever written.

POW Avengers by Punny_Puck |122k

Tony Stark is thrown into a new Nazi POW camp. It’s his fifth–or sixth–and he’d really like to make it to his fiftieth escape attempt this time. But Stalag III isn’t like any of the other POW camps he’s been in. He suddenly finds himself facing an impossible task: Getting two-hundred and fifty men out of the camp in one massive escape attempt. And dammit if he’s not going to make it work.

Very impressive, very lengthy and detailed historical AU set in WWII. This one is more Tony than Peter, and quite a fair bit of Loki (this author does a great job with all the different POV’s, that’s why it’s so long!). Nice and juicy!

5 Times Peter Fell & Tony Caught Him, and The 1 Time He Didn’t by eva7673 | 35k

Peter has a nasty habit of falling. And Tony, bless him, will catch him every. single. time. Until the day he can’t.

I love this series with all of my heart, but especially this first fic! It’s the perfect amount of whump and IronDad, and oh man, that last time? GETS me. Eva definitely put in so much work on this series, and it SHOWS!

Twelve Days of Peter Parker by @upcamethesun | 27k

In each of the twelve days leading up to Christmas, Tony runs into one Peter Parker — for better or for worse.

In other words, an excuse for this author to write gratuitous Peter fluff/angst/nonsense with a Christmas theme, because ‘tis the season.

This fic is so cute I Die. Perfect bit of holiday nonsense! I read it every year lol. It’s got everything you’re looking for and more, to scratch the itch you didn’t know you had.

ever in your favor by @iron–spider | 153k

Peter startles awake when someone shakes him.

“Sorry, honey,” May says. Peter blinks a couple times and she comes into focus, her hair pulled back from her face. She’s trying not to look a certain way, but he can see it in her eyes anyway. She clears her throat, keeps talking. “But it’s…” She glances away, wets her lips. “You gotta get ready.”

He remembers what day it is, and his heart beats like a drum at someone’s execution. But he tries to put on a mask, make it all seem normal. It’s everything but, despite the fact that he’s been dealing with reaping day since he was born, between himself, Ben and May. That fear that one of them could be taken away. Sent to surefire slaughter. But now Ben is gone, taken despite never having his name drawn from a bowl, and May’s finally safe. Now Peter’s name is in there alone. The last Parker sitting on the chopping block. He doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t know what normal is, when the Hunger Games are looming on the horizon.

I mean…how could I possibly do a fic rec list without this on it? Iron–spider’s latest masterwork, and it truly is a masterwork. The Hunger Games AU your soul has been crying out for, and quite possibly the greatest AU to ever live. Do yourself a favor and get settled in - you’re in for a ride.

Magazineverse by @copperbadge | 56k

Heroes In Manhattan: From Captain America’s Hidden Talents To The Truth About The Hulk, We Debunk The Myths And Expose The Daily Lives Of The Avengers.

Avengers-centric, takes place post-2012. The Avengers team we deserve! The whole series is amazing, and I definitely didn’t see the twist coming (SO original, and you totally got me. Well played.)

MEDIUM FICS

devil in a sunday hat by @captainkirkk | 14k

Peter wishes he hadn’t gotten out of bed that morning. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t be reduced to this—limp-crawling through the rabbit burrows that is Oscorp Tower, a monster of a man on his heels, bloody and bruised and choking on a panic attack.

This series really speaks to Peter, and his experience as a street-level hero. I don’t think I’ve ever not cried reading this series - it’s really beautiful. Aloneintherain always manages to capture how much weight and anxiety sits on Peter’s shoulders - and how dire his consequences can really be.

5 things that change for Peter after the end of the world by @iron–spider | 14k

…and one thing that always remains the same.

(SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR)

Peter knows he’s different now.

The first three months were like a bubble. He didn’t think about the newness of his old life, he didn’t think about the state of the world now that it had been saved—he just worried. Worried about Tony and Steve recovering. Worried about May worrying about him. Worried about everything in general—he didn’t allow himself specifics because specifics didn’t make sense, not yet. He just focused on his routine, kept it normal, the same schedule every day so he didn’t throw himself off.

It felt like the bubble popped when the party ended, and everything became clearer. The differences in who he is now were highlighted, like there was a spotlight on his every move, like everybody could see the invisible scars the world-ending experience left on him.

The first thing he notices is the sleeping. Or lack thereof.

(a follow up to my story “the rattle of their hearts” from Peter’s POV. You can read this one without having read the original, but it would make more sense if you have read it!)

Everyone knows Rattle, and if you don’t, definitely read the first fic in this series! But this second one is really special to me (and MJ never fails to make me laugh out loud, every time). Peter’s PTSD is dealt with intimately in this fic, and I love it to bits.

the conspiracy kids by @tempestaurora | 13k

WHO IS SPIDER-MAN?

The screen showed Peter Parker, sixteen years old and determined to prove the identity of Spider-Man over the course of the three-part documentary he was making, unknowing that it would become viral within days of the first part being released. Behind the camera, way off screen, was Harley Keener, Tony Stark’s other prodigy child, grinning like crazy as Peter started the documentary. Only a few people knew what was to come, and those few people were about to have a great few weeks.

“My name is Peter Parker, and with the help of my friends, Ned Leeds, Harley Keener, and my Aunt, May Parker, who provided me with a lot of red yarn for this project, we’re going to uncover the identity of Spider-Man.”

“what if peter just decided to fuck with everyone who didn’t know he was spider man and make a documentary about him trying to uncover the Truth.”

Looking for a fun, Peter-and-Harley-being-ridiculous-teenagers fic? This is the One For You. I can see it all in my head, and it never fails to make me laugh. Delightful piece of fluff and probably the best social-media-esque fic I’ve read.

Primary Reason Tony Stark Would Throw Down With An Anti-Vaxxer In The Street by @caraminha | 12k

Prompt from my Tumblr: Have you heard of tetanus? I’m studying it for school and it’s got lots of angst potential - it causes severe, seizure like muscle spasms which can break the patient’s bones, but they’re conscious and fully aware of what’s happening. It also causes fever and lockjaw, and difficulty breathing. I’d love to see an angst fic where Peter has bad tetanus and Tony and co are looking after him whilst his symptoms get worse and worse.

Looking for some Peter!whump? This fic is so sweet. Tony is Dad. What more do you need?

SHORT FICS

Come Together by @captainkirkk | 1.8k

From the ground, Tony squints at Thanos and the young heroes the villain is chasing through the city. “Are they…” Tony begins.

Steve, being lifted onto a gurney by starstruck paramedics, laughs a little. “Leading the man who almost destroyed the Earth in a wild goose chase?” In the sky, Johnny Storm sticks his tongue out at Thanos, ducking and weaving out of the villain’s grasp. “Yeah. I think they are.”

Didn’t I promise she’d be on here a billion and one times? All of her stuff is so good, for every fandom. Go READ this queen who’s been killing the game for years. This fic is such a sweet one, an Endgame fic before Peter was even in the MCU. It’s perfect.

Only Road by @garamonder | 2.8k

A rare breather between fighting should have been a relief for the Avengers. Instead, one small comment triggers a confrontation Peter had been avoiding for months.

Oh wow this one…this dialogue between Peter and Tony is incredible. One of my favorite things in a fic is a good argument, especially one where Peter has a distinct and mature point.

Every Penny and More by Princessfbi | 1.2k

She forced herself to inhale air and hold it before releasing it from her lips. She grounded herself in the cheap vinyl in a crappy diner that she wasn’t sure she was ever going to be able to look at the same way again. She thought of the life Peter would have if she said yes because she knew that’s what all of this was about: Tony asking her permission to let him do this.

May and Tony co-parenting Peter is…oh, be still my heart. This is such a sweet little fic of something that definitely happened off-screen :’)

5 Times Spider-Man Saved An Avengers’ Ass (and the 1 Time They Saved Him) by TunaFishChris | 7.2k

What it says on the tin.

Going through an angsty Spider-Man phase. I regret nothing.

YES give me Peter x Avengers team! Peter gets a great moment with each of the Avengers, proving himself a capable hero (and getting assistance when he needs it the most :’) baby makes some friends!). Really cute, a fun little romp.

unbearable loss by @iron–spider | 1.6k

“Peter…he was so afraid, Pep,” Tony says, his voice breaking. “He…he just lunged for me, he was so afraid, he wanted—he needed someone to be there for him. And I tried, I tried—I held him, I told him he was alright, which was a—goddamn lie, and the only fucking thing that came out of my mouth. The last thing I said to him.” He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “The last thing I said to him was a lie.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Pepper says, quietly.

“I do,” Tony says. “He trusted me. That kid trusted me, and I failed him every possible way I could have. I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t—he died in my arms and I couldn’t do one single solitary thing about it. And I couldn’t—me, the human fucking chatterbox—I just stared at him. He was dying, turning to fucking dust and apologizing to me and I just stared at him, like a moron.”

This fic Fucks. Me. Up. Iron–spider’s Tony angst is unparalleled. It hurts me every time, and the dialogue between him and Pepper is just…it’ll get you.

yesterday, I saw a change by @captainkirkk | 6.8k

Inspired by prompt: ‘Peter is unmasked on live television, and everyone goes berserk—you’ve already heard this one but here’s the twist—he’s wide-eyed, staring into the camera, frightened, but not because of his own safety. The first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Someone please, please protect my Aunt May.” And the entirety of New York cries out simultaneously. Heroes and neighbours and fellow students rain down on the Parker house, ready to defend her.’

This is - surprise! - a May Parker fic. This fic will move you. You will probably cry. I love it with all my heart. If I ever need a refresher on who May is and how she feels - how New York feels, about Spiderman - this is my go-to.

Hope that gave you some new stuff to check out! I have more, do I ever have more. Enjoy & remember to leave comments for all of these wonderful writers!!!

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insanityclause · 5 years

Link

Tom Hiddleston was posing for a portrait, and the face he showed the camera wasn’t entirely his own.

From a one-night reading to Broadway

This, he added, is what Mr. Hiddleston does in “Betrayal,” where characters’ meaning is found between and behind the words, not inside them.

“Some of the pain that he’s created in Robert, it’s just unbearable, and yet he always keeps a lid on it,” Mr. Lloyd said.

‘What remains private’

But to Mr. Hiddleston, Pinter’s drama contains two themes just as significant as betrayal: isolation and loneliness.

Trust and self-protection

Even so, he doesn’t give the impression of having closed himself off. When something genuinely made him laugh, he smiled a smile that cracked his face wide open.

That investment in his ordinariness, as he put it, is a hedge against the destabilizing trappings of fame, but it doubles as a way of protecting his craft.

It’s also of a piece with his insistence that vulnerability is a necessary risk to take, at least sometimes.

“If you go through life without connecting to people,” he asked, “how much could you call that a life?”

#betrayal (play)#Tom Hiddleston

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maryxglz · 5 years

Link

Tom Hiddleston was posing for a portrait, and the face he showed the camera wasn’t entirely his own.

From a one-night reading to Broadway

This, he added, is what Mr. Hiddleston does in “Betrayal,” where characters’ meaning is found between and behind the words, not inside them.

“Some of the pain that he’s created in Robert, it’s just unbearable, and yet he always keeps a lid on it,” Mr. Lloyd said.

‘What remains private’

But to Mr. Hiddleston, Pinter’s drama contains two themes just as significant as betrayal: isolation and loneliness.

Trust and self-protection

Even so, he doesn’t give the impression of having closed himself off. When something genuinely made him laugh, he smiled a smile that cracked his face wide open.

That investment in his ordinariness, as he put it, is a hedge against the destabilizing trappings of fame, but it doubles as a way of protecting his craft.

It’s also of a piece with his insistence that vulnerability is a necessary risk to take, at least sometimes.

“If you go through life without connecting to people,” he asked, “how much could you call that a life?”

#tom hiddleston #betrayal #betrayal broadway #harold pinter #bernard b jacobs theatre #theatre #broadway #jamie lloyd #zawe ashton #charlie cox #the new york times

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spidergrotto · 11 months

Text

how do i like , move on with my life after that?

#loki season two was ridiculous in the best way possible #loki season 2 #loki season two #loki series #loki spoilers #loki laufeyson

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gingerwritess · 6 years

Note

An idea (if you’ve not already written this) Loki and Elliot both have the flu (or severe cold) and Loki just knows he’s gonna die from this Midgardian bug. Reader is trying to take care of both before she gets sick too.

i can’t—this whole concept cracks me the feck up, thANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I never realised that the ever-nearing release of death would taste so sweet.” His voice is muffled under a pillow as he struggles to pull yet another blanket up to his chin. “I expected a bitterness, a dying, stale bitterness, but not this…”

“Ah yes, this ‘elixir of approaching death’ is bubblegum flavoured.” You sigh and open a new box of tissues, sticking them in the corner of the bed near his head as you take back the little cup of cough medicine. “All we had was the kids version, I quadrupled the dosage for you. You actually think this stuff tastes good?”

“Taste is an abstract concept,” he moans, a hand emerging from the pile of blankets to grab a tissue before retreating back into hiding with a hugely exaggerated sniff.

This is getting ridiculous…although it is a tiny bit refreshing to see your god of a husband taken out by something as trivial and as human as a common cold. The poor guy had woken up with a scratchy throat and had nearly blown a hole through the roof—“there’s something in my throat!! My throat, my throat, there’s something in my throat that I didn’t put there—DARLING, IT HURTS—”

Sore throats are apparently unheard of on Asgard. As are stomachaches, cramps, fevers, stuffy noses, and the overall idea of snot.

“I should have appreciated taste while I still possessed the ability to do so. I don’t believe I’ll ever know senses again—not that it will matter.” There’s a wet honk as he blows his nose. “Becau’de I’ll be dead.”

“…you’re not dying.”

“Life…death…such a fickle thing,” he practically sobs, clamping the pillow down over his face. “I never thought it would end so soon. I-I had so much more I wanted to achieve, I had thousands of years left to live!”

“Again, not dying.”

“Shhh. At least I will die by your side, my love.” He peeks out from under the pillow and reaches weakly for your hand, his eyes red and puffy. It’s hard to take him seriously right now, being so over dramatic and with two wads of tissue stuffed up his nose, but you give him a sweet smile and take his hand.

Ew, he’s all cold and clammy.

“You’ve given me everything, my love,” he sniffs and holds your hand tightly, trying for a weak smile. “Our time together has changed who I am, and…and I owe you everything.”

“Mhm. Are you seeing a bright light yet?” You brush a few sweaty strands of hair from his forehead and he melts into your touch, closing his eyes.

“Yes…yes, I see it! Should I chase after it?” His eyes fly open and he becomes fixed on the ceiling fan, eyes going in circles as he follows the blades around and around and around—

“Stop watching the fan, you’ll make yourself throw up,” you sigh, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his sweaty forehead. “Bleh. Okay, I’m going to go check on Elliot. Oh, and that’s just the bedroom light, not death’s door.”

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads and reaches a hand out to you. “I always knew I would die alone, but-but I want your heavenly smile to be the last thing I see before I go.”

You roll your eyes and turn back around, dropping your head against the doorframe with another exasperated sigh. “Loki, for the last time, you’re not dying. You’re both going to be fine, it’s just gonna hurt for a couple days.”

“Denial, you’re already in denial, darling,” he wails, flopping back onto the pillows and spreading his arms wide in defeat. “My time has come and all I can wish for are your lips, just once more, I beg of you…”

“You are such an idiot.”

He lifts his head to look at you, his eyes pleading and pained. “Hush, please, just kiss me once more and send me off with the taste of you lingering on my fading lips…”

Shaking your head with a small smile, you walk back over to his bedside and he flops back onto the pillows, reaching for you with weak arms. “Please don’t make me kiss you.”

“You wouldn’t revoke the wish of a dying man, would you?”

There’s still tissue shoved up his nose.

You take the empty little cup of medicine and the box of tissues, holding it out to him. “Blow your nose like a proper human and maybe I‘ll reconsider.”

You’ve never seen such a sad, utterly defeated look in the eyes of a man before. Loki gives a violent cough and throws an arm over his eyes, staggering his breathing with a groan. “Tend to my son with care. Send him my eternal love, you immortal mortal.”

Somehow you had managed to evade this wave of flu season and Loki just can not comprehend how he has been so beaten by this “measly virus” while you, a proud every-morning orange juice drinker, had by some divine power been able to survive. Elliot got hit hard, and you think he’s the one who brought the sickness home, considering he spends most of his days in a classroom with a bunch of sticky, slimy, sometimes even drooling little kids.

Thank goodness your child is practically perfect in every way.

“MOMMYYYYY!” Elliot’s screaming for you from the bathroom down the hall. “I THREW’D UP!”

Practically…perfect…

“Don’t go into the light, babe,” you sigh and give Loki another kiss on the forehead, immediately gagging when you pull away and wiping off your mouth. “Ew, why did I do that again?”

“Ew?!” Loki repeats as you walk out the door, leaving him wailing under his pile of blankets. “You kiss me and say ‘ew’? I’m dying, and all you can say is ‘ew’—”

“Oh my god, I’ll kiss you later.”

Elliot is laying on the floor of the bathroom, having brought his pillow and blanket in to continue his nap by the toilet. “My everything hurts,” he whimpers when you kneel down beside him, running your hand through his hair.

“Don’t you want to get back in bed, sweetie?” The tile floor can’t possibly be comfortable, but he shakes his head and rolls onto his side.

“Too hot.” His fever has finally broken, so that’s not surprising.

“M’kay…why don’t you come lay in bed with dad?” You rub a comforting hand over his back. “Your own personal ice cube, that’ll make you feel better. And I think he could use the company.”

Elliot sniffs and slowly nods, sitting up and rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. After having him rinse out his mouth and drink some water, you pick him up and carry him back to your bedroom where Loki is surprisingly sitting up…and staring at the tissue in his hands with a look of pure horror.

“My brain,” he whispers, looking up at you with wide, watering eyes, “is leaking. Through my nose.”

“…no, it’s not.”

“Then what is this?!” He waves the dirty tissue at you as you lay Elliot on the bed, helping him prop his head up with an extra pillow.

“Oh my god, Loki, throw that away! That’s disgusting!”

Elliot curls up into a little ball and scoots over closer to his dad, who’s now fallen into some kind of paralysing shock, staring blankly at the foot of the bed in horror.

“All my knowledge,” he whispers, “everything I’ve ever known, dripping from my nose. This death is cruel, cruel, to keep me alive just to watch myself go mad.”

“Wait, we’re gonna die?” Elliot pipes up from under Loki’s arm—Loki hasn’t even seemed to notice until now that his son is there, as he is far too concerned with his “liquified brain.”

“No, no, no, neither of you are dying.” You fall onto the bed with a groan, rubbing your aching temples. “I swear if you say that one more time, Loki, I’m not even kissing you when you’re better.”

“Death is only natural, Elliot,” Loki murmurs, completely ignoring you, pulling the little boy into his arms and clutching him to his chest. “I always believed we would have more time together, but—”

“You’re nOT DYING, LOKI.”

“…see, your mother can’t quite accept the truth of the matter. Don’t be afraid, Elliot. I’m with you.”

Elliot’s gaping at you, stuck in his father’s hold and absolutely terrified. “I don’t wanna die! Mommy, I don’t wanna die!”

“Loki! Oh my god!” You hiss and clap a hand over Loki’s mouth, pulling your son into a hug. “You’re not going to die, I promise. You’re just a little bit sick! Both of you.” You shoot Loki a pointed glare. “Can you just trust me for a second? You’ll start feeling better in a few minutes when the medicine kicks in.”

“You’ve drugged us.”

“Yes, Loki, I drugged you. Now shut it before I shut you up myself.”

Loki pulls Elliot back against his chest and reaches for the tissues, shoving another wad up one nostril without breaking your gaze, and even in this state of “almost death,” you swear he smirks at your threat. And when he speaks, slowly turning a frosty blue as he runs a hand over Elliot’s sweaty back, his voice is all clogged up and nasally; “I’d cer’nly die a habby man.”

“That was SO attractive.”

He waves a blue hand at his face, heaving a great sigh that‘s just screaming for your sympathy and affection.

“That’s the best I can do. My brain is leaking, and death is inevitable.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

hope you enjoyed, feel free to send me ideas!

loki tags: @bluediamond007 @himitoshi@drakesfiance @destiel1597 @dangertoozmanykids101 @archy3001 @jcalpha1 @yzssie @skullvieplu @forthesnakeofdragons @skulliebythesea @wegingerangelica @storiesfrommirkwood @agarwaeneth @adaliamalfoy @laurfangirl424 @paradisaicsam @fitzsimmons-is-forever @ladylokimischief @katelinwrites @tarynkauai @polaristrange @loavesofmeat @canadian-ravenpuff-multishipper @lou-makes-me-strong @holyn0vak @chocolatealmondmillk @swtnrholland @kenzieam @jessiejunebug @catticas @the-republic-and-face-of-texas @doralupin01 @whitewitchdown @atomiccharmer @falconfeather23435 @babygirlicecream @avengrcs @vethrvolnir2 @bookgirlunicorn @wabisabigrl @myhealingstar @khaleesi-marvel @ei77777 @spacecrumbs @scarlettrosella @rocks-are-pretty-odd @confessionsofastrugglingteen

#loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki fanfiction #loki fluff #domestic!loki #dad!loki #sick loki #loki family #loki and son #elliot lokison #elliot lokason #loki drabbles #loki requests #loki funny #fluffy loki #marvel requests #marvel drabbles #marvel loki #marvel fanfiction

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iamartemisday · 5 years

Text

Merry Christmas, Miss Foster! Part One

A/N: For Lokane Week, I am resurrecting the Miss Foster series!

Well sort of. The next official part of the series has been half written for... some time now. I’m working on it, but there’s a lot of other stuff going on. You know how it goes.

For those unfamiliar, the Miss Foster series is an all human AU in which Jane is a second grade teacher who ends up with Loki’s three children in his class. Said kids are a bit too smart for their ages and decide Jane is exactly the kind of person their billionaire single father needs. And since there are LOKI’S children we’re talking about, they get into some wacky hijinks along the way.

This story is honestly in kind of a grey area in terms of continuity. It’s sort of like an anime movie where the timeline isn’t clear and it’s kind of just contained within itself. Semi-canon so to speak.

Regardless, whether you know this verse or not, I hope you all enjoy and I’ll see you again tomorrow!

The Odinson family had a log cabin nestled on a hilltop in the heart of Lake Placid. The only thing that shocked Jane was that it wasn’t three stories.

Snow was freshly fallen, just in time for the holidays. The sky was bright white, clouds masking the sun in preparation of another wintery onslaught. Riding in the back of a limousine, Jane flipped through several hundred stations, almost all of which were playing the same old Christmas music she knew by heart. Some of them were her favorite songs of all time. Many others she’d happily tear her eardrums out before she listened to them again.

At least the roads were clear, at least for now. The forecast called for clear skies until the 20th, when Jack Frost descended to unleash the full force of his icy fury upon the unsuspecting New York populace. Or so the weatherman rather hammily declared.

Which begged the question: why did Loki want to spend Christmas in the middle of the woods?

Another question: why did Jane agree to go with them?

It was the kids. She needed to face facts and admit to herself that for all her posturing and assertion of authority as their teacher, those three little angels wielded the power of the puppy dog eyes, and they were not afraid to use it.

“We bought this cabin from an old man who used it as a hunting lodge,” said Jormungandr. He flipped through the book in his lap. As always, it was roughly the size of his entire body. “He used to come out here with his two sons during deer season. Then one of them moved away and the other decided to be a vegan. Now he’s in Florida with his wife. He said the weather would do wonders for his aching joints.”

“I’m surprised you remember all that,” Jane mumbled.

“Dad’s offer nearly gave him a heart attack,” said Fenrir, stretching out in his seat like he was desperate to move. “His asking price was way lower.”

“But it was worth the money,” Hela proclaimed, beaming so hard her entire face glowed. Even the scars were less apparent. “And we fixed it up real nice. We go out and chop down a giant tree, and we decorate it and we put up lights and-”

“We don’t need a play-by-play,” Fenrir snapped, shoving his sister. “And quit yelling in my ear.”

“I wasn’t yelling!” Hela yelled. “Maybe you just need to clean your ears out.”

“Maybe you do!”

“Do not.”

“Do too!”

“See?” Jormungandr smiled. “Not even any hair-pulling. They’re already in the holiday spirit.”

“They most certainly are,” said Loki.

He drove over a rough patch in the road, the tires grinding through the rocks and making the inside jostle. Jane held tight to the dashboard until the road smoothed out. As expected, Loki had no reaction to it at all. He guided the car along the dirt path like he’d been doing it all his life. Like maybe he came out every summer to hunt deer now. Jane tried to picture him in a plaid shirt with a vest over it and a hunter’s cap. She wished she could laugh at the ridiculous idea, but like everything else the asshole wore, the idea just made her cheeks warm.

The mountains were lovely, she couldn’t deny that. Swathes of fir trees and a pure white sky gave the jagged cliff sides that picturesque quality Thomas Kinkade painting were made for. In fact, Jane was pretty sure she had seen these mountains in one of his greeting cards. Maybe Loki owned land around the cabin and licensed it out. For all she knew, they filmed Hallmark movies out here. Hell, maybe she was about to star in her own Hallmark movie.

Rich, handsome single father locked in a cabin for a week with his children’s second grade teacher. It practically wrote itself.

“What’s funny?” Loki asked.

Jane started. “Huh? I wasn’t laughing.”

“But you were smiling.”

“Smiling doesn’t mean something is funny,” Jane sat up straighter in her seat, “I might just like to smile.”

“Like Buddy the Elf?”

“Yes, exactly. Thank you, Hela.”

The little girl beamed, her lips lined with chocolate as she reached for the bowl of M&Ms. “Maybe we can watch it tomorrow. Tonight is The Muppet Christmas Carol.”

“Since when do you get to decide what movie we watch?” Fenrir snatched the M&Ms away. “I want to watch Die Hard.”

“Die Hard is for the 26th, Fenrir,” Hela retorted.

“Guys, come on,” Jane said, adjusting the rear view mirror to see them better. “We can decide when we get there what to watch. And don’t eat all of those. You’re going to get sick.”

“Don’t worry, they’re sugar free,” said Fenrir. “Otherwise, we’d have Jormungandr tied up in the trunk so he can’t get at them.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Jormungandr said, slamming his book shut.

“Welcome to the Odinson family Christmas,” he muttered in her ear. “Are you happy you said yes?”

Jane stared out the window as another pile of rocks whizzed by. “I’ll let you know.”

The car crawled higher and higher up the hillside. Every time Jane thought she saw a wooden roof in the distance, Loki turned a new corner. The town below had long since vanished. She wondered if they’d ever see it again. Someone had turned the radio on. The children sang along to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, their off-key but passionate interpretation earning applause from Jane and a smile from Loki.

By the time the shadow of a slanted roof came into view, they’d gone through Christmastime Is Here and that Alvin and the Chipmunks song. Now the music faded into the background as Jane beheld a palace of a cabin in the woods. Polished wood with a stone chimney. A covered patio and an observation deck overlooking the trees. In the back was a small structure, possibly a shed or even an indoor jacuzzi. Jane had learned never to assume with this family, and always expect the unexpected.

“By the way, our basement pool is currently closed,” Loki said as they pulled into the driveway. “We’re having issues with the heating system, but someone will be out to fix it shortly.”

“Great. I didn’t even pack a suit…”

The cold smacked Jane in the face as soon as she was out of the car. Looking around, there were ice patches everywhere. Some had been dissolved with rocksalt, but what remained made the front lawn resemble a minefield. It was a sentiment not shared by the kids, who raced to the front porch, cheering all the way.

“We’re going to have so much fun!” Jormungandr hopped in place. “We’re going to put up the tree and sing Christmas carols and bake cookies and wrap presents and build snowmen and-”

“Are you sure those M&Ms were sugar free?” Fenrir asked Hela, who shrugged.

“Now now, children,” Loki chided them, “remember we’re not alone this year. Grandmother, Grandfather, Uncle Thor, and Aunt Sif will be along in just a few days. We want to kept this place clean and presentable for them, don’t we?”

“Yes, Dad,” the triplets said. They walked up the stairs, speaking softly, and didn’t start screaming again until they were safely inside.

“A whole week out here,” Jane said, taking in the crisp mountain air. “Here I thought I’d just spend Christmas with a bowl of cereal again.”

“It won’t be that much of a change of scenery,” Loki said as the second car trailing behind them finally caught up. Out stepped a man glaring daggers at Loki. Luckily, Jane had convinced him not to actually bring any weapons. “I was nice enough to invite your dear brother along.”

“Yeah, you’re a saint, pal,” Bucky said, pushing past him. He managed to smile at Jane. Not even Loki’s presence could completely dampen his mood.

“Whoo! That was a hell of a ride!” Bucky’s passenger proclaimed, stumbling out of the car.

Loki sniffed. “And your… Darcy.”

Jane nodded. “Yeah, that was real nice of you.”

“You guys are lucky I couldn’t afford to go home this year,” Darcy said, flashing them a thumbs up. “By the way, I brought my own Menorah. Any place in there I can put it up?”

“The mantle should do nicely,” Loki said. “Just don’t touch anything.”

“I will do my best to respect your humble abode, Major Moneybags!” Darcy skipped along, leaving the pair, finally, completely alone.

“She needs to think up some more creative nicknames,” Loki observed, hand on his chin. “Why does she follow you everywhere?”

“Well, when I first moved into my apartment, she came over to ask if I had one of those whipped cream makers,” Jane sighed, “and then she just kind of never left.”

Loki hummed, and with that, they started for the porch. Luck, as it turned out, was on Jane’s side. She made it a full three steps before she slipped. With a yelp, she grabbed blindly for the nearest sturdy object. She hung on tight as her eyes unclouded and her mind reoriented itself. It was only then that rough leathery material in her hand shifted. Loki raised his arm, pulling Jane with him. She continued to cling to him, blinking stupidly at his chiselled features. It hit her all too late that they probably shouldn’t be doing this.

“Uh…” Jane said, stepping away and almost slipping again. “Thanks. Sorry.”

Loki pocketed his hands and glided across the ice patches, like he controlled them as much as he did everything else in his life. “Do be more careful next time.”

“Right.” Jane shuffled after her, head bowed, face boiling.

This was going to be a long Christmas.

#Lokane #Jane Foster #Loki #Lokane Week #Lokane Week Holiday Celebration #Day One #Snow and Ice

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goddessofgamma · 6 years

Text

Extreme Lengths to Prove Loki Wrong (Ao3 link)

Summary: Annoyed by his brother's teasing, Thor tells him that he has a boyfriend. The holidays are fast approaching and Thor needs to come up with someone to be his ''partner" quick, and luckily for him, Bruce doesn't have any plans.

This was written for the lovely @ragnarokwrites who requested some ‘Fake a relationship for the holidays’ fic. I’ll write the second (and last) chapter sometime just before Christmas if all goes to plan.

It had all started with a snide comment from Loki over what was supposed to be a good-natured catch-up brunch. They had been bickering again, Loki telling Thor all about his new boyfriend (Thor thought that ‘sugar-daddy’ would be the more appropriate descriptor), and Thor holding fast to his belief that anyone who went around asking to be called ‘the Grandmaster’ was not right in the head.

“Well at least I’m not going to have to spend this Christmas alone with our parents,” Loki had said. “I might have thought that two years after Jane dumped you-“

“- She did not! It was a mutual –“

“- That you might have tricked some poor soul into dating you rather than moping around all the time.”

“I am seeing someone!” The words were out of Thor’s mouth before he could stop them, the need to prove his brother wrong stronger than his need to be truthful.

“Really?” Loki’s tone was sarcastic, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Thor tried his steadiest tone.

“Who are they, then? Go on, tell me all about my possible future in-law.”

Thor scanned his mind for friends he had who weren’t already in relationships.

“Bruce. His name’s Bruce, he’s a scientist.”

Bruce had shot to the front of his mind; they had had a conversation the day before about his plans for the holidays, and Bruce had awkwardly mentioned his lack of family to spend them with. At the time of their conversation, Thor had wished it would be possible for him to keep Bruce company over Christmas, but he knew that his family tradition and powerful parents demanded he should come back home.

“Right, a scientist.” Loki did not sound convinced. “And why haven’t I heard of him before?”

“He doesn’t like the spotlight.” That, at least, was not a lie. “If father knew about him, you know he would demand to meet him and I don’t think Bruce would be comfortable with that.”

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

Thor’s head spun.

“What? No, Loki don’t tell father, he wouldn’t –“

“Whyever would I keep how happy you are from father? You know he would love to meet this ‘Bruce’ for Christmas-“

“Loki –“ Thor’s tone was warning.

“Unless, of course, he doesn’t actually exist.”

“He does!”

“You won’t mind bringing him along for Christmas then.”

Two days since that conversation and Christmas was fast approaching. Only an hour after Loki had left, Thor had gotten a commanding message from his father about how he expected to meet Thor’s new ‘suitor’, accompanied with a rather sweeter message from his mum about how she was glad he’d found someone that made him happy.

He had yet to deal with the unavoidable future backlash, avoiding Bruce’s messages and cringing every time his name came up as a notification on his phone. It would be unbearable now to tell Loki, to admit that he’d lied just to prove a point, but Thor knew that it would be more ridiculous for him to continue the act further. If Bruce found out the lie that he had told, he might get spooked, might get angry at Thor. Still, the way things were going, Thor worried he might end up insulting Bruce anyway with his lack of contact.

Braving the prospect of admitting to Bruce what he had done, Thor sent a message to Bruce asking him to come over the next day, ostensibly to arrange to buy joint Christmas presents for some of their mutual friends.

Sat awkwardly in the small space between his Christmas tree and the power socket, Thor fiddled with the plug of the fairy lights, trying to stop them from flickering fast enough to induce a seizure. The screeching tones of Merry Christmas Everybody swam down from his speakers, and every conceivable surface in his living room was covered in either tinsel or glitter.

The chime of the doorbell made Thor spring to action, trying to jump up from the ground but finding that his back was aching from all the time he’d spent sitting on the floor. Rubbing his back with his hand, he went to open the door.

“Hi, Thor,” Bruce greeted him.

“Bruce! Come in.” He motioned for him to move to the living room. “I’ve made some mulled apple juice, would you like some?”

“Mulled apple juice? Non-alcoholic?”

“No, I know you don’t partake in alcohol so I thought –“

“I’d love some, Thor.” Bruce walked into the room and looked around him, taking in the decorations. “Someone’s really gotten into the Christmas spirit.”

Thor let out a small, low chuckle.

“I do like the Christmas season, warm colours and shiny decorations, they remind me of home.”

“Back in Asgard?” Bruce checked.

“Yes,” Thor nodded. “Or at least, it reminds me of the better parts of home. The palace is beautiful, all gold, with red embellishments, dazzling, with such warmth.” He thought back; there was a part of him that missed it, but the freedoms of living away from the country where everyone expected you to behave like a prince were too good for Thor to pass up on. “Although, I must say, the gold there is real, not glitter.”

Shaking his head in mild disbelief, Bruce smiled.

“I can’t believe I’m friends with a prince.”

“I can’t believe I’m friends with a Nobel-winning scientist,” Thor countered. He was met with a bashful look in response.

“I’d love to go there, one day. Asgard… it’s not exactly my usual sort of place, but it always sounds amazing when you describe it.” Thor was about to respond, tell him that he could go to Asgard in a week’s time, if only he agreed to go along with Thor’s deceit, when Bruce’s attention was caught by something behind him. “Oh my god, should your lights be doing that?”

They were flashing more than ever, not just rippling, but turning on and off at an alarming rate that no one could have found enjoyable.

“Eh, no. I was trying to fix that when –“

Bruce sat on the floor by the tree, trying to figure out how to set them right.

“I think it’s just on the wrong setting.”

Nodding, Thor went to the kitchen get the apple juice from the pot he was brewing, figuring that Bruce would be occupied for the amount of time he would take. As he got out some mugs, Thor tried building up the courage to ask Bruce to pretend to be his partner, thinking about what the best way to tell him would be.

Thor walked back into a living room devoid of any flashing lights.

“You did it, wonderful! I’d been trying to sort that out for half an hour.”

Bruce smiled, almost smugly.

“I guess there are some plus sides to having a Nobel-winning friend.” He pushed himself off of the floor and sat down next to Thor at the table.

“Bruce?” Thor said the name questioningly, working his way up to ask him his real question.

“Hmm?”

“You know how you said you would like to see Asgard someday?” Bruce murmured his agreement. “Well, you may have the opportunity to do so, although I am afraid that I may not be offering the circumstances you would hope for.” Met with a puzzled look, Thor could tell he wasn’t explaining himself well. “My parents and Loki, they have been asking for two years -since I split with Jane – whether I have since moved on and started seeing anyone else. And Loki – well – Loki was taunting me and telling me all about his partner and he asked whether I was dating anyone and I told him I have a boyfriend.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Bruce seemed shocked.

“No!” Thor clarified. “I told him I have a boyfriend. Except when he asked more about this imaginary boyfriend, I couldn’t come up with an imaginary person on the spot so I sort of told him you and I were dating.”

Bruce nearly laughed, which was not at all the reaction Thor had been expecting.

“It’s a good thing he doesn’t know what I look like or he’d have seen through that straight away.”

Aghast, Thor tried to correct Bruce.

“Why? You are a handsome man, Bruce, you must see that.”

“Maybe a while back, but right about now I’ve got more of the overweight, aging professor look going on, not exactly someone that a guy as hot as you would look twice at.”

Thor took Bruce’s hands in his and looked him in the eyes pointedly.

“You are truly a very good-looking man, Bruce, I would do much more than look twice at you.” Suddenly Thor felt his hands overheat. “Anyway, if Loki saw us together, he would not doubt our plausibility as a couple. In fact, I had hoped that you would meet him.”

“Meet Loki?” Bruce was even further in his confusion.

“Not just Loki, my parents and my sister as well.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Well, since I told Loki that I had a partner, my family expects me to bring said partner to Asgard for Christmas.”

“And you want me to meet them and lie to them?”

“There wouldn’t be a lot of lying, more just letting them assume that aspects of our relationship are more romantic than platonic.”

“You want me to lie to the King of Asgard? Isn’t that treason?”

“No!” Thor said defensively. “Well, maybe but they wouldn’t ever know. I only see my parents in person a few times a year, you’d only have to meet them once. Then I can tell them we went our separate ways, but are still friends.”

Holding his head in his hands, Bruce looked baffled.

“What made you think that this was a good idea? Loki torments you for a few minutes and you decide a fake relationship will sort it all out?”

“Loki’s been tormenting me his whole lifetime. I thought this would be a way of getting him and my father to cool off about it a little while. And I had also thought that it would be nice for us to spend our Christmas’s the same side of the Atlantic.”

Bruce bristled at that.

“Oh right, you thought I would love to spend my Christmas not alone for once, thought I would be somehow less sad for me to be someone’s fake boyfriend than it would to spend the day alone.” Anger was slowly growing in Bruce’s voice and Thor wanted to put it right.

“I know it was selfish of me, but it wasn’t just that, I had thought it would be nice to choose who I spent the holidays with for once.”

They were quiet for a moment before Bruce responded.

“You’d choose to spend the holidays with me?”

“Yes. You put me at ease, Bruce, and apart from my mother, that’s not something I’m used to at Christmas.”

The silence roared as Thor watched Bruce’s mind whir for a moment as he decided.

“Okay. I’ll do it, so long as it’s a one-time thing and I’m not expected to buy expensive presents I can’t afford for your relatives.”

Thor beamed.

“Don’t,” Bruce objected but he was smiling too.

“I’m not doing anything! Just appreciating how fine my lovely partner is looking today.”

Bruce responded with only a shake of his head and a nervous fiddle of his glasses.

#Hope you like it!#thor #bruce banner #thorbruce #gammahammer #my fic #thunderscience #loki

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omninocte · 5 years

Link

Tom Hiddleston was posing for a portrait, and the face he showed the camera wasn’t entirely his own.

“I’m protective about my internal world now in probably a different way,” says the actor Tom Hiddleston, making his Broadway debut in “Betrayal.” Credit: Devin Yalkin for The New York Times

Mr. Hiddleston as Loki in “Thor: Ragnarok.” Credit: Marvel Studios/Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

From a one-night reading to Broadway

Mr. Hiddleston and Zawe Ashton portray a married couple in Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal” Credit: Marc Brenner

This, he added, is what Mr. Hiddleston does in “Betrayal,” where characters’ meaning is found between and behind the words, not inside them.

“Some of the pain that he’s created in Robert, it’s just unbearable, and yet he always keeps a lid on it,” Mr. Lloyd said.

Mr. Hiddleston at the Jacobs Theater, where “Betrayal” opens on Sept 5. Credit: Devin Yalkin for The New York Times

‘What remains private’

But to Mr. Hiddleston, Pinter’s drama contains two themes just as significant as betrayal: isolation and loneliness.

Trust and self-protection

The actor’s Shakspearean roles include“Hamlet” and “Coriolanus.” Credit: Devin Yalkin for The New York Times

Even so, he doesn’t give the impression of having closed himself off. When something genuinely made him laugh, he smiled a smile that cracked his face wide open.

That investment in his ordinariness, as he put it, is a hedge against the destabilizing trappings of fame, but it doubles as a way of protecting his craft.

It’s also of a piece with his insistence that vulnerability is a necessary risk to take, at least sometimes.

“If you go through life without connecting to people,” he asked, “how much could you call that a life?”

#betrayal (play)#broadway #tom hiddleston

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