𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧

ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｃｏｍｍｉｔｍｅｎｔ ｉｓｓｕｅｓ.

[fuxdeiflswued]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

I wrote a small Thasmin oneshot based on this amazing art by @jolivira It is set at the end of War of the Sontarans so beware them flux spoilers ;) Enjoy!

[gallifreyancryptid]

Thasmin moments in ‘Legend Of The Sea Devils’ 💙💙

[sapphichymns]

[thirteenjodies]

Is it that obvious?

[thirteenjodies]

It Takes You Away | Legend of the Sea Devils

[ssaalexblake]

DOCTOR WHO: Legend Of the Sea Devils

Jodie Whittaker as The Thirteenth Doctor

[nincompoopydoo]

CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

— GARDENIAS AND GRIEF ; PART 5 / ?

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.7k SUMMARY: Weary nights are meant for crying and confessions about the past. A/N: Finally, it’s here and I adore this side of Theseus he’s so sweet oof. WARNINGS: Crying! These two being idiots! support my writing through ko-fi 💖 MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Theseus tends to abandon his study. The thought of spending hours on end within a confined space of four walls seems to further constrict his need to let his mind run free and perhaps wild to a certain extent. The living room has become a space for his work for the past few years he has lived here. A desk permanently situated against the wall and by the fireplace. Though still confined, it thoroughly beats the study in terms of space, more windows for air to drift through.

You were silent during dinner. In truth, you were silent for most dinners, only speaking when you offered to wash his plate. He tried to deny it, but you were insistent, in need of moving your hands. You were naturally slow-moving, but far too fast at the same time. You could never sit still, constantly wanting to move around to distract yourself from the collapsing world around you—An odd reminder of his mother. A letter was sent to her at the sudden prompting of how your ways reflect the only woman he ever admired. Theseus cannot help but admire you as well. Though quiet, you manage to captivate with merely small gestures; the simple, absentminded curve of your lips, the brushing of fingers as you reach for his empty plate in his grasp and the sway of the stray strands of your hair in the gentle wind from the kitchen window. Now, in the evening glow, you are shamelessly lounging on the couch, immersed in the pages of an Agatha Christie book: The Mysterious Affair at Styles. One of the only muggle books he owns.

You are already near to the end, pages to your right thinning within your grasp with every passing evening. Three evenings to be exact ever since he offered the only book you were allowed to read to pass the time. Magical books were out of the question, and you were understanding enough.

Theseus has to force himself to look away at the sudden realisation of his gazing towards you in the light of his embarrassment. His eyes flicker to the mess of parchments and documents laid across the surface of the table, attempting to suppress the sudden emergence of agitation towards the clutter. He decides to lay his focus on the letter in hand—the last letter from your brother. Jagged lines with every stroke of a letter, he imagines the tremble of your brother's fingers as he wrote to you from the front lines in Somme during the early days of October.

We live our days in a landscape of mud, not knowing when will be the last. I cannot recall what it is to have dry clothes, dry boots, or a dry place to rest.

A sentence that paints the brutality of war, shed of innocent blood in outrageous environments. Your brother’s description is detailed, specific, probably to distract himself from the bitterness of his circumstances. Yet, he doesn’t seem regretful. He was more in awe of what the war had become along with his imagination of what the Somme must have looked like in the summer before the war began.

It is proof that a simple letter can withstand the weight of a thousand men.

Theseus cannot help but be perplexed by the way the letter is structured, odd gaps between sentences and words. As if hiding a secret within. He has gone through the letter a hundred times, even repeatedly casting the Revelio charm, but nothing to no avail. Yet, he cannot shake off the feeling that causes his gut to twitch.

“Are you alright?”

Your voice is near and soft as it travels across the place. He feels the brush of your hand grasping the bend of the chair against his back as you manoeuvre to his side. A touch of warmth against his shoulder blades through the fabric of his linen shirt. His eyes flicker up to see you peering at the mess of his desk. You catch his eye and he clears his throat. “Yes, I’m quite alright.”

You hum, shifting to prop yourself against the edge of the desk, hands arranged on your lap. “You seem tense, I could sense it from the living room.” you smile, another hum of amusement. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He eyes you for a moment, his gaze lingering at the crinkle of your eyes and how they reflect the yellow hues of the candlelit by the edge of his desk. You seem to have been calm for the past few days in comparison to the first time he met you. Yet, as he watches you with pursed lips and in the process of thoughts, he notices the persistent worry flickering in your gaze. You still keep your distance as you should be, but is it your closeness or just human warmth that he craves?

It was then when Theseus knew you could never say no to you.

He finds himself shifting his fingers as he holds your brother’s letter, rotating it towards you.

“Tell me, does your brother always write like this?” He asks, index finger directed towards the odd line breaks between paragraphs.

He watches how the crease between your brows deepen as they furrow in deep thought or perhaps confusion. You reach for the letter, bringing it to level with your eyes.

You hum. “That is strange. ”

Theseus blinks. “Have you not noticed this before?”

An odd shift in your expression, eyes turning away from the letter within your grasp. They flicker to the ground, your lips curved downwards as you speak with a sense of hinted bitterness.

“I must admit, this is the first time I’m reading this.” You vaguely wave the letter in the air in a gesture directed to it. “I couldn’t bring myself to open the letter all those years ago.”

After a pause, he realises the situation he must have carelessly forced you in. He forgets to be cautious with you sometimes when having only spent so little time with you, but he feels like he has known you forever. It may be a natural trait of yours, but it seems you possess the ability to read him like an open book.

“I’m sorry.”

Moments pass. Then, a flicker of a small smile and deep breath. “Don’t be. I believe it’s time I finally read his last words to me.”

—

You fell asleep in the armchair by the fireplace, close to his desk. From bewildered and odd questions on the case to soft hums of different pitches and finally silence. Theseus had been rambling on about the details of the case and theories on the possible importance of your brother’s letter merely because you insisted although he really shouldn’t be.

Nothing was figured out about the odd paragraph breaks so far.

When silence was the only response to his sudden question to you, he turned and craned his neck to spot your shut eyes, head lopsided and leaning to your right with the letter within your loose grasp.

Theseus stretches his arm to gently prod your shoulder. No movement. No reaction. For a moment, a dread that you might be dead creeps into his mind. He prods you once again just to be sure. A hum followed by a sigh—Relief.

Now, what to do?

He doesn’t dare to wake you. You seem like the type to be resentful when woken up from a deep sleep. So, he carefully ambles to your room, pulls the blanket off your bed and winces as he does from the prominent dull pain in his lower back—hunching over scatters of papers for hours can never be good.

He finds you in the same position as before. Perfectly still, yet you still seem troubled. Perhaps, it’s the constant crease of your brows.

As he attentively arranges the blanket over you with care, he catches a whiff of a scent from you—Gardenias. Like the ones from the flower stall just down the block. A pleasant smell billows through the air as he strides past the stall from the muggle bakery across the way during the mornings of every Saturday. A fleeting moment of peace and perhaps freedom. A time for no responsibility whatsoever.

He leaves you and returns to his desk with a gentle creak of his chair, sparing one final glance to your sleeping figure, your hair perfectly catching the hues of the nearby dimming candlelight, a quarter left of melting wax.

Your scent seemed to have attached itself to the fabric of his shirt, lingering within his surroundings. It influences some sort of calmness in his once heavy chest and aching head.

Theseus decides he can only truly feel at peace when with you.

—

The morning sun peaks through the intricate patterns of the lace curtains. The rays seem to catch your once shut eyes, forcing them to peel open against the pouring light. You blink, blurry gaze adjusting to your surroundings as you stifle a quiet yawn. You recognise the wallpaper that lines the walls of the living room, realising you’re tucked in the Chesterfield you had settled in the night before and under the checkered blanket from the guest room.

You don’t remember that being there.

As you shift in your seat, an aching and dull pain shoots across the length of your back, forcing out a hiss from your pursed lips. Then, you see him, Theseus, sprawled on the settee with his legs stretched out to rest against the scrolled armrest and arms folded across his abdomen. An odd position to fall asleep within a settee that is certainly unsuitable for a man his size, legs practically hanging off the edge and neck crane in such a way you figured must be uncomfortable.

Still, you can’t help but notice the resemblance of the sight before you to a painting, crafted by the hands of a master. The gentle light perfectly carved shadows against the structure of his still expression and the way his locks seem to curl even more from worn off pomade.

Maybe, you’ll sketch him someday.

But for now, you’ll let your weary eyes linger on the sight of his figure in secret, memorising every curve and angle in hopes of conveying them through the strokes of your pencil within your grasp as you begin to drift back to sleep once more.

—

“Trouble sleeping?”

The voice startles you. Once a lone figure lingering by the kitchen table in the dark, your teary eyes were watching the way the nearly bare branches of the trees wave in the shallow wind. Hands gripping the edge of the countertop and by the sink, an empty teacup with a teabag yet to be brewed with boiled water is now left untouched. Another nightmare, nearly unbearable. You found yourself stumbling out of bed and into the kitchen, weary feet padding across the parquet while attempting to stifle your sobs. You needed to catch your breath.

At the sound of a familiar voice, you let your eyes drift to Theseus in his striped pyjamas with an almost empty glass of water within his grasp. You can barely make out his expression under the gentle glow of the moon and the nearby street light through the mist of the night. You merely hum, tugging your dressing gown closer to your chest as you attempt to blink away your evident tears.

You hear him shift closer to you, now standing by the other end of the table. “...Everything alright?”

You spare him a glance before shooting to your bare feet, a bitter laugh escapes your lips like a cough. “Why is it that you always see me crying whenever it’s dark?” You beam at him, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re referring to the night of the attack, the night he met you.

Theseus carefully places the glass on the table, it clinks as he does, and settles to lean against the edge beside you. Shoulder brushing shoulder. Your heart flutters, wondering if your cheeks are as red as they are burning.

“Perhaps the night is meant for crying.”

Another hum, he turns to you to find the twitch of your lip. His head stays, watching the way your tear-stained cheek glints under some external source of light through the tiny kitchen window as you stare ahead, still watching the wave of the bare trees.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

A sigh. It’s heavy. You let yourself slouch even more as you blink towards the ceiling as if to conjure some sort of memory. “What is there to talk about?” You nearly snap, swallowing thickly, eyes trained solely on your feet once more as if in deep thought. You’re wondering if speaking would do any good in helping with your daily night terrors because you seem to have taken the role of a frazzled lady, laced with exhaustion from insomnia.

Yet, Theseus is patient with you. He listens, unlike the others in your life.

With a purse of your lips, you begin to speak in a mere whisper.

“December 1911, my mother went missing.” A pause, you can feel Theseus' eyes still on you, but you don’t turn to meet his gaze. “No goodbye, no letter. Nothing. The police were no help. My father so strongly believed she fled to America that he took it upon himself to travel across the Atlantic. He left in Spring, onboard the Titanic. We never saw him again.”

Another pause, a gentle yet trembling huff escapes your agape lips.

“It seems that I’ve been cursed. I keep losing the ones that are close to me.” You finally turn to Theseus to see a certain benignity in the way he looks at you. “I should have stopped my father from leaving. I should have known of my mother’s emerging loathe towards my father...I should have been there for my brother when he needed me most.”

Guilt. He hears it in your tone and the way your gestures weaken with every word spoken and every thought of your past. He understands what it means to be in your position, though not to the extent of agony you must have dealt with within eight years. Theseus has his mother, but when it comes to Newt, he barely visits or writes.

Merlin, it must have been years since he saw his brother.

“Guilt, grief and loss is...all part of living, but you mustn't blame yourself over matters you had no control over,” He says quietly and before he can even begin to think it through, he finds his hand clasped around the curve of your shoulder. “What has passed has passed. Time will only heal. Now, you must take care of yourself.“

You merely scoff through sniffles. “How can I care for myself when my brother is out there, involved in some supremacist and seditious group?”

Your expression doesn’t reflect his. Theseus is serious, a slight crease between his brows. “We’ll find your brother. I promise.”

Then, you smile. Soft and sweet. His hand suddenly feels heavy on your shoulder.

He must have realised it too, his touch so intimate, as he immediately yet hesitantly pulls it away for it to sit within his lap.

And just like that, it’s gone. The spark, the warmth. Whatever that was.

You spot the teacup by the sink, a reminder of your initial purpose. You turn to him, still holding that same smile. “Do you want some tea?” You ask, ambling towards the kettle, carefully pouring the gentle steaming water into the cup. Theseus spares his own nearly empty glass of water before turning to you once more, lips matching your smile. “I would like that very much.” He says with affection.

Then, a whiff of Gardenias as you sway in your stance, reaching for another cup from the rack. Vague and pleasant. He wonders if it’s your favourite.

“Do you like Gardenias?” Theseus blurts regretfully, yet you blink and spare him an amused look.

“Yes. I’m quite fond of them.”

Theseus simply nods and the conversation ends, leaving you to wonder over the possibilities and reasoning behind his sudden question, yet you don’t address it.

The two of you end up sipping tea, sitting at the dining table until the wee hours of the morning. Too awake to sleep and too tired to draw yourselves back to bed.

TAGLIST:

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

[whirlybirbs]

jinxed ;

summary: an origin fic, centered around steve & you, the avenger’s cmo. pairing: steve rogers x chief medical officer!reader  rating: t for some gore & medical themes

You came back from Afghanistan different.

Before your deployment, you were as vibrant as warm sunshine on the cheeks of a giggling child. You were loud, you laughed, and you danced.

Things changed, of course. Things are always due to change, though the circumstances that wrought this dismantling of your personality were violent and painful and tied by the dogs of war.

You were constantly rocketed into a different reality at the sound of metal on metal. You couldn’t sleep anymore, not without hearing the distant rumbles of mortar fire – those sounds had become your lullaby. You had fallen apart in the grocery once after hearing the cry of a baby in her mother’s arms.

You came to the D.C. VA looking for calm – for peace. What you found was Sam Wilson. He was none of those things. He was a cold beer in the midst of a Fourth of July BBQ, he was rock ‘n’ roll and the sting of a sunburn. He was handsome, he was smart. He was an Air Force brat, but he was wrought with the same nagging panics as you.

Keep reading

[ivyxygoldie]

I'm extremely glad that Captain Carter and Nat have the same sexual tension as Steve and Nat had in CA:WS

[buckyhoney]

this might cause some controversy... but imma say it

after rewatching some mcu movies,

steve didn't really care about bucky- not at least as much as i used to think.

he cared about the bucky he knew in the 40's- he was searching for the comfort of the 40's and the life he knew before the ice.

every (almost) interaction between them was reminiscent of the 40's. steve searched for three movies to find/help bucky, but when he realized he wouldn't get the same man he dipped.

i go back and forth a lot, because i realize that the shittiness of the writers in endgame fucked up steves arc- but they are still canon in the mcu (unfortunately) and play a part in how i see steve and bucky.

sam loved bucky where he is now- not how he used to be or what he'd like to see him be- sam met bucky where he was at.

bucky needs someone to meet him where is at and help him move along in his journey post hydra- not remind him of the life he missed out on.

i believe steve loved bucky, but loved the idea of bucky he created in his mind.

therefore, sambucky is superior to stucky.

[nincompoopydoo]

CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

— CLARITY ; PART 4 / ?

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x reader

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

SUMMARY: You don’t deal with night terrors well when awakening in a place unfamiliar to you although you finally feel a sense of belonging. With every intention to dispose of all sense of strangeness, you make a blinded decision that may have ended badly. However, in the light of your impulsiveness, Theseus seems to always appear when you need him. Even if you don’t know it.

A/N: Wohoo! This series is back and so am I! Please enjoy this chapter, I can’t wait for you to read the rest I have planned. gif by @movie-gifs from this gifset

WARNINGS: Pretty detailed description of a night terror consisting of fire. Swearing. Bad decisions. Awkwardness overload!

support my writing through ko-fi 💖

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Silence. Darkness. Unperceived to your surroundings. There is liquid, your clothes drenched in a stench you cannot quite comprehend. A puddle takes form around your bare feet. With your bearings out of touch, the size of this void remains unknown to you. Whether large or compact, it is still hard to breathe over the constant flowing of the strange liquid from above and onto your face with an overwhelming smell of extreme potency with a tinge of sweetness—the smell of gasoline.

Then, a flash. So overwhelmingly bright and blinding, you have to squint your eyes. It gradually dims, and suddenly, your eyes are able to adjust to your surroundings. You spot something in the distance; a young boy roped to an armchair with his wrists, ankles, and waist restrained. His seated figure is seemingly lighted like a spotlight, shadows cascading his facial expression. The curve of his mouth is drawn downwards in fear, glassy and wide eyes glinting with terror. It is the way the boy looks at you, a silent cry for her that you realise the familiarity of the boy—it’s your brother.

Instinctively, you step forward, wanting to run and reach for him, but it’s the sudden grasp of aggressive hands that lunges you back with force. Your brother is just a child; his figure disappears from view as you collapse to the ground. Your body is frozen. It feels like it’s shutting down. The sense of numbness creeps wildly onto you, and the compelling weakness prevents you from screaming.

Then, you hear a woman’s voice through the silence.

“You dirty witch.”

Her voice is shrill, ringing in your ears as it reaches a deafening crescendo.

You cannot see anything. You yearn for the safety of your brother—the tears beg to cascade down your cheeks. Promptly, you see a ball of flame in the darkness, lit on a matchstick. It seemingly floats around aimlessly, drifting to you. Then, you see him. A man. Tall and looming as he creeps from the shadows. He holds the little match with a grim twist to the edge of his lips.

“You did this to him...So long, witch.”

He tosses the matchstick.

Flames engulf you.

Open. Your eyes are wide open.

Your heart is pounding, and so is your head, panic coursing through your body. It’s hard to see with the haunting images of the dream that is still very much clear in your mind. You’re curled under the sheets. It’s starting to feel like your whole body is burning, strangely parallel to being burned by a toss of a matchstick. The heat, your head, and your heart, it’s unbearable. It seizes you up in bed, head leaving the feather pillow as your eyes begin to adjust to the rest of the room. It’s not yours, you don’t recognise the clean white walls, the lace cream curtains hung by the window and the dresser by the foot of the table. It’s foreign and you cannot recall where you are or how you got here. Too many thoughts running through your head—it’s noisy and it's frustrating. Your eyes become glassy and once the first tear breaks free, the rest follows in an unbroken stream—The man, your brother, this...room. You feel lost.

Then, you hear the door creak, eyes flying across the room to find it ajar. Through the crack, you spot the familiar sight of the living room as the memories of last night come flooding back. The most absurd night of your life—magic, the attack, your brother, the letter and Theseus. You remember it all now.

You crawl out of bed, legs swinging over its edge, and you hobble across the hardwood floor. It squeaks with every step. Halting at the doorway, your eyes skirt across the expanse of the apartment. Nothing to be heard within its walls. No signs of life except your own.

Sunlight pours in through pristine ivory lace curtains, hung against tall and open windows. They give the room a sense of warmth, yellow hues against wooden furniture. They add colour to the brown of the wallpaper. It strangely feels like home, even if it’s not your own. It’s something you have never known before today.

Yet, the only thing that comes to your mind is to leave. When things are strange and possibly threatening, you always leave. It’s just a mere instinct.

You scurry around the place in search of your trench coat but to no avail. Instead, you are left admiring the little trinkets around the house—books on spells and charms, strange-looking documents, and photographs of two young boys. They move under your star-gazed eyes, caught up in mesmerisation of how once still photographs are seemingly and magically in motion, hung in frames on the wall. You almost took no notice of the lingering scent of toast until your stomach involuntarily grumbles in hunger. You find yourself drifting towards the kitchen.

It’s a small space, equipped with a stove under an array of cabinets and furnished with a table for two by a tiny window overlooking the street below. Then, you see it. A full English breakfast served on a white porcelain plate along with a steaming cup of tea that sits idly at the very centre of the wooden dining table.

You hear your insides rumble once more, protesting against your attempted abstinence.

God, you’re starving.

Perhaps one bite wouldn’t bring any harm.

As you swiftly slide onto the chair, you spot a note neatly tucked under the plate. You snatch it, only to find it addressed to you with your name inked in cursive lettering.

Gone to the Ministry in pursuit of urgent business. Breakfast and tea are for you. Do not be alarmed by the owl. He is a friend.

For your safety, do not step out of the apartment. I should be back in the evening. I’ll see you then.

Theseus.

Your eyes skim the sentence about the owl once more as you turn up to see a barn owl with feathers of cinnamon perched by the windowsill. His watchful eyes are trained solely on you. You wonder if owls in the magical world could read minds because this certain owl must know how torn you are between leaving and staying to make use of the breakfast prepared for you.

You don’t even know why you want to leave. You just have to.

Despite your true intentions, you know a single breakfast dish will be enough to sustain you for an entire week. What was supposed to be one bite turned into many more, your tastebuds indulging in the savoriness as you let yourself relish in enjoyment towards your appetite. You power through the meal, and the tea, like it’s your first and possibly your last in a matter of minutes as you attempt to eat away your regret for leaving the one person you almost trust.

Perhaps you are finding it hard to wrap your head around the fact that your life will never be the same again. You haven’t seen your brother since the war—it took you years to finally accept his fate, and now, he’s alive. But certainly not the same boy you used to know.

Everything from your past is now abruptly thrown at you when you spent so much time trying to bury it. It’s almost unfair to how you have carelessly found yourself in a situation so foreign yet so familiar. You are well versed in the strangeness of danger, the unknown happens to pressure you into flight or fight mode. Though kindness is what your heart wants, your fierce and stricken mind always depends on the flight for your safety and survival. Even when others tell you otherwise.

Don’t think about it. Just leave. It’s presumably for the betterment of everyone’s sake.

You make it a point to at least leave the now empty plate in the sink, cautiously avoiding the owl. The owl continues to watch you as you turn to leave out the doorway. You cast him a look, unable to fight the clenching of slight dejection in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter to the barn owl, lips curving in a small smile.

The owl simply flutters the feathers of his wings.

You hum with amusement, and your eyes instantly spot a clock hung by the corner of the kitchen.

Five minutes to four. Bloody hell. He would be here any minute now.

You find your coat hung on the arm of the chesterfield by the fireplace and your shoes by the doorway. As you hurriedly shrug it on, the front door creaks as you swing it open gently, peeking through the crack—an empty landing. The parquet flooring with wooden panels along the walls and the twisting staircases with similar wooden bannisters that lead to the floor above and below. There’s sunlight pouring down the staircase that leads to the top, you spot a window above, with intricately patterned grills of ebony. You don’t recall seeing that last night as you were wearily trudging your way up the steps.

There’s another flat across the landing, the door slightly ajar. There’s chattering.

You carefully slip out the door, and you hold your breath as you gently close the door with a silent thud. With a heavy sigh, you finally feel a sense of relief, but feeling as terrified as ever. You hadn’t figured out where you were going to go.

You’re back to square one.

“What are you doing here, young lady?“

The aged voice of an elderly woman hurls you from your racing thoughts. With wide eyes, you turn to see a small-statured woman with brushed silver hair styled in a firm bun that glints under the light like strands of golden thread. The sunlight casts shadows onto her face that cause her wrinkles that line the strength of her expression with even more prominence. It accentuates the raise of her brow as she stares at you with sharp eyes.

There’s a bird with brilliant colours for feathers, perched on her right shoulder who cocks its head as it echoes the same question the lady had just asked.

It's a parrot. You have only seen one in pictures.

You’re frozen in your stance, mouth agape with words wanting to leave your lips, but not knowing what words should leave in the first place. With one hand still on the door, you stare at her, blatantly confused.

“Are you alright?” she presses on, nearing you with growing curiosity. Again, the parrot repeats after her. You gulp, hoping that by wrecking your brain, you’ll be able to say something. However, in a state of panic and under this small and fierce lady’s watchful eye, your mind persists on blanking out, lips sealed shut. You watch her gaze flit between you and your hand on the door handle, an insistent look upon her face.

“Mrs Monet.”

A voice calls out from below, echoing through the stairwell. Your eyes immediately drift to a pair of familiar blue ones. His figure is at the foot of the stairs, peering up at you as he attempts to hide the bewilderment in his expression by shooting a smile to the older lady that now has a name. Mrs Monet lights up at the sight of him scurrying up the stairs, with what you realise is your suitcase in his grasp.

“Oh, Mr Scamander! How wonderful it is to see you!”

In an instant, she pulls him into a hug, leaving two pecks on either side of his cheek. The parrot echoes its owner.

“Your mother tells me she hasn’t heard from you since spring.” The lady has a tone of affectionate disapproval. She speaks to him like he is her own son. Theseus laughs nervously at the mention of his mother as he tries his best to manoeuvre to your side while keeping his distance from the parrot. “Well, I am mostly preoccupied with the Ministry.”

Mrs Monet clicks her tongue in slight irritation. “You mustn’t let those frog-brained ministers take over your life, my dear.”

Another nervous laugh, “You very well know I will never let that happen.”

Suddenly, her gaze returns to your still stunned look, gesturing to you. “And who is this young lady?”

You and Theseus share a look. You still look scared.

“Well, this is... a friend. She has come to visit London.”

In a silent moment, you watch Mrs Monet’s eyes move between the two of you as you wait for a reaction. You finally gain enough courage and common sense to flash her a faint smile. Then, a smirk grows upon her lips, eyes bright with amusement. She lets out a thrilling laugh.

“Oh, I understand. Yes, a friend indeed.” The lady whispers enthusiastically as she attempts to suppress her laughter of delight at this unknown epiphany that might suggest something more to you and Theseus’ relationship. “It is no wonder you are always so busy, my dear. Now, tell me, are you—”

“My apologies, Mrs Monet, but we really must be going.” Theseus somewhat politely interrupts her to prevent more questions from being asked and further risking exposing your true identity. You don't realise how his hand is on the handle of his already opened front door, palm briskly brushing against yours as his other hand finds your shoulder, guiding you back into the flat. Mrs Monet continues to press on or rather pester Theseus because as far as you are concerned, it seems that you’re the first woman she has ever seen crossing the threshold of his home. You still don’t say anything as Theseus bids his prying neighbour farewell with a tight smile and shuts the door behind you.

Once more, you return to the sight of a mellow household. Theseus is now standing across the way and by the settee, settling your suitcase on the woven carpet. You decide to fixate your gaze on your tethered shoes on the wooden flooring, creaking as he shifts in his stance.

“Why did you leave?” were the words that left his lips after a heavy exhale. His voice is soft, his tone confiding. You can feel his gaze on you.

You blink, a sudden realisation to the unknown purpose of you wanting to leave. Was it because you felt unsafe or for the first time, you felt truly safe?

"I am not certain how to answer that.”

Silence, a beat too long. You hear the movement of his feet. “Are you uncomfortable here?”

A chuckle escapes your lips, hinted with bitterness, purely directed towards yourself. “No. Not at all. Far from that. In fact, I feel right at home here. Truly.”

It’s the irony of wanting a home for a long time now, and when you finally feel at rest, it all seems a little too much for you to handle. You sigh, your fingers trailing the curve of your forehead as if to wipe the imaginary sweat from your skin. You feel anxious under his gaze, but in the best way possible. You want to be open, to stop hiding.

“Forgive me,” your voice cracks. “This is all—it’s a lot to take in.”

You wave a hand in the air, struggling to suppress the sudden urge to cry. You aren’t sad, just overwhelmed and frustrated. For a long time, you have been constantly pushed around, you had no control of your life. Now, when you finally had the chance of making a proper decision, you aren’t so sure if it was made in righteous aid or in vain.

Theseus looks at you with saddened eyes, heart-clenching at the sight of your distraught figure. It’s the stress and intricacy of settling in a puzzling environment, in a society where you are preferably not accepted. He never wished to see you this disheartened and threatened; you seem nice, sweet and extensively intelligent though you harbour issues from your personal life. It’s probably what makes you seem strong and accurately intuitive.

He approaches with caution until he sees the tears welling in your eyes with clarity. They are still focused on the ground.

“I understand the adjustment is tough, and we are asking you to do more than you should. If you have changed your mind since yesterday, I must say that you have every right to do so.”

He watches the crease of your brows deepen, eyes blinking rapidly with every deep inhale and exhale. Your gaze is cast to your left and towards the window, pupils shifting with the swaying of the withered branches of the tree outside with leaves of the colour orange. In the glow, your face seems bright though it perfectly presents fresh tears drifting across your cheek, the darkness upon your eyelids and a smudge of sauce from the baked beans of your breakfast.

He is glad you have at least eaten. It’s the least he could do if this were to be the last he will be seeing you. It’s a tug of disappointment although Theseus hasn’t quite realised the reason for his sudden and minor irrational feelings.

Another deep breath, your fingers find the trails on your cheeks, swiping them away vigorously. “It’s a first, in my life, that I finally feel I have a purpose. All I ever wanted was a place where I can find solace and see my brother once more. Now that I have the opportunity to have both, I find myself not knowing how to act or even to accept the kindness you have given me.”

You’re looking at him now. He has a fond look.

You swallow with every intention to pull yourself together and from the solemnity of your speech seconds ago, fingers now picking at the loose seam of your coat. “I am sorry for leaving as I had not been thinking straight this morning. I know it’s for my own protection, and I don’t want to die just yet. Bloody hell, I just had the best meal in my entire life, and I still thought fleeing was a better idea.”

Theseus finds himself smiling, laughing lightly at your tone of sudden implied hilarity. Then, he says your name, articulated with an enigmatic hint of endearment albeit you may have been imagining things.

"You don't have to apologise. We have nothing against muggles--non-magical folk, but a certain group does and they have eyes everywhere. I should have never left you alone without assuring you were well adjusted."

You nod, feeling reassured. “Then, that makes us even.”

“Well, not exactly," he chirps, lips quirking. "I did also save you from being discovered moments ago.”

You chuckle. “Right. Mrs Monet; the woman with the parrot. Thank you, I was lucky enough you showed up in time.”

Theseus clears his throat. “I wouldn’t call you lucky because she now thinks I am involved...with you.”

You frown. “Involved?”

A pause, clearing his throat once more. “Involved...romantically.”

You purse your lips, also growing silent. You feel the heat growing upon your cheeks.

“Oh.” is all you manage to muster in the sudden emerging tension wafting in the air between the two of you. Barely friends and barely strangers. You don’t have to answer, it would only make it worse. What was it to make it worse? Your already augmenting attraction for the man although you aren’t admitting anything, even to yourself or how you constantly spins at the thought of being among magic? You have a feeling it isn’t the latter.

He brings his right hand to his face, scratching his jawline, and you wring your fingers together. He seems to be on edge when he turns to look behind him, spotting your suitcase. His index finger extends, gesturing to it.

“Your suitcase.” He says even though it’s obvious.

Nevertheless, you simply nod, pursing your lips. Theseus’ gaze returns to rest on my face, blinking once then twice. You watch him with an expectant look when in reality, not actually what to expect.

“I should—I’ll run you a bath.”

And with that, he leaves, scurrying down the hallway towards the bathroom. When you hear the muffled sound of gushing water, beating against the porcelain of the tub, you subconsciously bring your arm to your nose, sniffing it. You stink, quite badly and now, you feel a little embarrassed.

Staggering back in your step, your back hits the door as you lean against it. You throw your head back, blinking up to the cream coloured ceiling as you attempt to steady your sudden erratic heart. You don’t recall ever experiencing this strange feeling. Could this be just an emerging sense of wanting to belong and be in the company of someone? No matter the circumstances, you’re just glad Theseus is very understanding of your situation.

For once, you want to stay for the sake of clarity, and Theseus is now your only clarity.

TAGLIST:

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

[xo-tough-love-xo]

Come. Much more for you to learn. Black Panther (2018) dir. Ryan Coogler

[antitheticaldreamgirly]

KDRAMAs THAT MADE ME FEEL SOMETHING

(not in any particular order)

disclaimer: I just started watching kdramas seriously this 2020. This is highly personal.

These dramas are the best, for me at least, and the ones that made me feel the most. 👌🏻

* Crash Landing On You 🏔

- This has been my black whole for kdramas-I went in and I never came back. This drama made me fall in love with kdramas.

- It is funny, romantic and heartwarming at the same time. It showed that sometimes strangers can be more home than your family.

- I loved the second couple just as much as the main.

- This helped me a lot through this year, I went through a hardcore ‘separation anxiety’ when it ended.

Feels like: a sunny day under a tree surrounded by flowers in full bloom 🌸🌺

Romance: so strong that it can light up the whole of North Korea (not my words)

Strengths: actor’s chemistry

Rewatch? : ABSOLUTELY

* The Tale of the Nine Tailed 🦊

- I don’t watch horror films AT ALL but the fact that I enjoyed this and loved it says a lot about how good this is.

- The magical character made it feel like I was reading a fantasy novel

- Family

- I loved some characters more than others and I wished some endings didn’t end the way they did BUT I understood.

Feels like: a hot bowl of soup on a rainy day

Romance: electric

Strengths: the BROTHERHOOD

Rewatch? : yes

* Extraordinary You 🌺

- the cutest but also mind-blowingly good

- Almost all characters are amiable. They are young but incredibly capable.

- It is like watching anime human version

- Will make you miss your youth (given that I am the same age as the actors)

Feels like: having butterflies in the stomach

Romance: the best of young love

Strengths: unique plot

Rewatch? : definitely!

* The King: Eternal Monarch 👑

- I watched this while it was airing and I very much enjoyed all the theories here on tumblr just as much as the drama itself

- Doppelgänger to a whole other level

- Thought provoking

- Strong independent individuals

- I loved this drama deeply and who wouldn’t fall in love with the male lead who is smart, decisive and loyal.

- The love line was mature without any misunderstanding.

- It will make you cry

- The ending was not perfect but it tied up mostly everything in the end. I wanted to see more of this world.

Feels like: reading a love poem

Romance: literal star-crossed lovers

Strengths: cinematography

Rewatch? : YES

* Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok-joo 🏋️‍♀️

- okay, right now you just want a break from kdrama mind games. You just want a cute rom-com. This is the drama for you!

- This is relatable in the sense that you are not even an athlete but you think you know what it feels like

- Tremendously raw at times

- Light but with weight

Feels like: falling in love

Romance: adorable 😍

Strengths: friends that are family

Rewatch? : the type that you can watch over and over again

* While You Were Sleeping 🌸

- dreamy and also “what a visual cast.”

- The first episode is an entire movie

- It is smart

- Will make you care for people you don’t even know

- One of my fave endings

Feels like: a beautiful daydream

Romance: love in it’s purest form

Strengths: OST

Rewatch? : done

* It’s Okay Not To Be Okay 👠

- As you may have guessed from the title, it’s about mental health

- humanly tender

- It shows how the toughest battles are in your head

- This will make you bawl your eyes out

- Not for the weak at heart

- Strong female lead

- Found family

- You will need a huggg after this

Feels like: sleeping in the softest silk

Romance: chemistry across all boards

Strengths: Fashion

Rewatch? : maybe? Just because it hurts (albeit the best way) and also because I already did

* Itaewon Class 🌙

- This is something you can recommend anybody

- About life-it’s best and worst moments

- makes you wanna get your life together

- Also, it makes you want to wrap these people in comfy blankets and give them hot milk

Feels like: WINNING

Romance: it will grow on you

Strengths: acting was superb and OST!

Rewatch? : DONE

* Goblin ⚔️

- How can we make a list of kdramas without this main meal? Everyone loved this and I must say, rightfully so.

- Dynamic duo bromance

- Second lead couple was everything

- Noteworthy

Feels like: experiencing the first snow fall

Romance: will also grow on you

Strengths: everything about this was iconic

Rewatch? : highly likely

These are highly mainstream dramas because I’m a basic b*tch but also since I’ve been reading everybody’s lists before watching (mostly). And if your fave is not in the list, it’s likely that I have not watched it so hit me up 👇🏻. I have TONS still to watch so don’t come at me.

All my Love. 💋

P.S. Yet to watch: Scarlet Heart, Hotel De Luna, Reply Series, etc. ✌🏻

[deokmis]

Crash Landing on You + Letterboxd reviews

[nincompoopydoo]

DEBRIS AND MISERY

DOUBT MAKES THE STRONG WEAK ; PART 8 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.5k SUMMARY: From concussions to destruction, you find yourself developing an odd trust in the last two people you would even begin to have faith in and when the apocalypse seems unavoidable, you discover that there may be more to the mystery of the universe. A/N: Well, this chapter is long. And mainly pertains around the theme of 'doubt'. A lot more of Sylvie stuff and Loki just having heart eyes the whole time. I love this chapter and I can’t wait to write more as the story ends. Please tell me what you love, hate, anything (maybe theories lol). Thank you for showing so much love. gif from this gifset by @kamalaskhans WARNINGS: Swearing. Apocalypse. Injuries. Blood. MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

You were once a fighter.

Hunter E-87 was the name you once knew, hollered through different fields and dimensions in time and space. You fought for what you thought was right, pledging allegiance to a cosmic establishment that held all power to a single timeline and never questioned the works of the Time-Keepers. The Sacred Timeline is indeed sacrosanct, too important, too valuable to interfere. You fight in the name of the single thread of time, the bark of a tree, forbidden to bare branches of a potential multiverse. You fight because the thought of alternate timelines used to scare you. Yet, if alternate universes were meant to be, the lives you took and destroyed are now in the grasp of your bloody hands. You hold the responsibility of the death of the innocent, taking part in mass genocide.

But promises must be kept.

The thought constantly haunts you in your sleep. You have dreams of death, war, destruction, and famine from across the universe. People seem to glide like specters in the world built by your imagination and mind. You have seen a lot, more than any being in the universe should, but no one talks about the aftermath of witnessing the tragedy of the universe as time goes on and on. No one talks about what it does to the mind. Music from cassettes and the wonder of human space exploration were distractions to cope with the grinding hole in you and the fact you might be turning truly crazy.

Sometimes, you would like to be human—Fewer problems and less time to live.

You blame the sickening and bizarre vivid images that come and go whenever you close your eyes as a symptom of being a hunter. The others are stronger than you. Well, they act like they are. Becoming an analyst made you sleep better but there was always doubt. Sakaar made you doubt.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

“You startin’ to have doubts?”

Green eyes. They watch you with curiosity with a hint of amusement. You hear yourself hum. “Would it be bad if I said yes?”

He laughs. It’s mighty. “Yeah. Definitely bad.”

A beat of silence. You feel your eyes start to sting. “I couldn’t even tell my mom.” A laugh escapes your lips despite the hurt you feel in your chest. “Did you tell anyone? Your wife?”

You see him now, blonde hair slicked back and deep-set eyes. He shakes his head. “Nope. Not even my wife.”

“She’ll be proud, you know.”

“I know...So will your mom. Jesus, you’re gonna be the first woman on—”

Wake up.

“—Is she dead?”

The voice is familiar. It pulls you back to reality but right now, your eyes are too heavy. Doubt is the first emotion that waves through your brain before the process of pain can even occur—uncertain if you are dead or alive.

You can’t feel your limbs, they are too weak.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

Maybe, you are dead.

“This is your fault! You’re the one who swung that sword of yours to her head! You’re careless—”

Sword...Sword...Careless? You remember a train, a fight.

“Oh, I’m the one who’s careless? You’re the one who’s drunk!”

Drunk...Who was drunk?

Then, your voice echoes in your head, images of a certain brunette with a deep frown. He called you a mewling quim. You quoted Hávamál. You then left him and wandered through the other cabins of the train. He blew his cover. He got you into a fight.

Loki. Loki Laufeyson.

Son of a bitch.

Your eyes are wide open now. All you see are the faces of Loki and Sylvie, looming over you. Just two floating heads. Then, the pain arrives, coursing through the entire back of your head. You wince in immediate reaction and the floating heads turn to you in an instant.

What a way to wake up from a concussion.

You remember everything now, but you certainly don’t recall being on the outside of the train. Must have gotten thrown out. The thought angers you, irritation practically boiling to the brim. Yet, it’s your fault. You hadn't thought to babysit the very person you wish were dead. As your palm grips onto the dirt beneath, muscling all strength left to lift yourself. Your head feels light and heavy all at once. Not good.

“Are you alright?” is the question that flies from Loki’s lips, tinged with an emotion you never knew he had for another but himself—worry. Whether selfless or selfish, you wish to ignore the complexity of Loki’s reactions and possible change in character, especially towards you. Ever since you stepped foot on Lamentis, all you felt was pain. You have never been injured so much within the last few hours than in your entire life and weirdly, you feel fine.

Sylvie is quick to stand, watching the two of you work in tandem. His grip finds the curve of your shoulders as you stick your hand out to grip him by the bicep. At your touch, you notice how his arm stiffens ever so slightly. You don’t say anything.

Some things about Loki are best left unknown and unanswered.

Today is filled with a lot of getting off the ground in the most unceremonious way possible.

A deep exhale leaves your lips, wisps of your hair drifting with the brutal breeze from your nostrils. Beads of sweat trail along the curve of your forehead and the back of your neck. Some entangled with the strands of your hair. Your hands feel clammy and dirty but you run them to push your hair back and away from your face anyway.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, pulling yourself away from his touch.

You finally get a good look at the two. Loki looks like complete shit but Sylvie manages to maintain the regalness to the locks of her hair despite her opposing overall behavior. It’s the Asgardian blood coursing through her veins. You cannot hide your ancestors' blood. It’s hard to believe the two are the same—one being. Yet, it's believable when you’re angry at the two of them.

The two messed up your career, that’s why.

Unbothered and uncivilized. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.

As your eyes shift along the train tracks that meander along a gorge with steep rocky walls that leer above it, you catch sight of a spark by your feet, glinting under the iridescent sky.

It’s the TemPad, shattered into pieces; you recognize the color gold of its border.

Your eyes grow wide, mouth agape. You don’t even feel angry anymore, it’s more than that. You stick out your hand to gesture towards the destroyed device, “Is that—Is that the TemPad?” you ask as your other hand lifts to hold the side of your head. “Or am I just seeing things from the concussion?”

Sylvie is the one to speak. “It’s not the concussion.”

You suddenly feel like you’re burning.

If it were possible, you could have instantly killed him with a look.

“You. You killed us!” you step closer to him and for a moment, Loki doesn’t exactly know what to do. “So, it’s my fault then? You were the one who left me alone in the lounge.” are the words that leave his lips. Completely useless. Trying to diffuse the tension is the exact opposite of what he does.

His silver tongue isn’t so shiny and silver anymore.

You don’t pull your blow this time. Your palm strikes his cheek, rocking his head to the side. Your hand is oddly soft. Loki winces and you stand your ground. “You’re a jerk and an asshole. You’ve probably been called that for all your life and yet, here you are. Still, the most insensitive and pathetic man I’ve ever met,” you articulate your words with frustration and rage. You don’t raise your voice like before, it’s low and frightfully intimidating. “And I’m not your babysitter.”

—

Battles, ruination, and fracas gave a sense of familiarity to Sylvie in a time of an impending apocalypse. When worlds end, benevolence is resolute. The tragedy of the end of lost souls—afraid to die. But as daunting as the apocalypse is, the beauty of their souls finally returning to the universe protrudes amongst the debris and misery.

She sees herself in the two of you, as much as she doesn’t identify as a Loki anymore, and her hatred towards the TVA. You have a temper and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

You’re mysterious in an almost enchanting way and possibly significant as you seemed to be at first glance. Sylvie is highly curious about you.

You don’t stray too far from the group, only to find rest by the edge of a pit made by a crashing meteor. You sit with your back turned against the very two beings you distrust as you watch the border where the bustling city of Shuroo is based. Your guard is down and you don’t care at this point. Everyone is about to die anyway.

Sylvie’s gaze finds Loki who seems to be only watching the back of your still figure, eyes glinting with an emotion unknown to her. Possibly regret? Sylvie doesn’t know what regret looks like. But fear and anger, she feels it radiating from you. She knows it. Something tells her you’re not solely angry at her and Loki.

She finds herself drifting closer to you. You don’t move. She cautiously settles beside you. “You’re not hiding a knife somewhere, aren’t you?”

You merely scoff, caressing your head, “You’re the one to say.”

Sylvie blinks. Fair enough.

Silence. Sylvie’s eyes shift to the handkerchief tied around your arm, stained with blood. “How’s the arm?”

You hum. “Surprisingly, fine.”

Oh, Sylvie knows it’s fine. She knows what Loki did. She decides not to mention the scratch she made across your cheek.

“Did the slap make you feel better?”

The question is hinted at near sarcasm, but genuinely, she wants to know.

“Yes, it did. You should try it sometime.”

She simply hums. “I would have but you beat me to it.”

A turn of your lips as they curve into a small smile. Sylvie watches with an odd sense of satisfaction. “You know, I’m still mad at you. For what you did to me.” Your words are slow. You find yourself swallowing. “But it’s nothing compared to what the TVA did to you.”

Empathy. Is this what empathy feels like? The moment when someone finally understands what it’s like to be alone for so long. Your lives are different but they reflect in certain ways. You have had your fair share of living in constant fear and constantly running. Sylvie finds herself wanting to tell you that she hadn’t simply pushed you into Sakaar. When it’s a mission, things are never accidental. She always has a plan.

Yet, she chooses not to say anything.

You speak again but merely whisper, fidgeting with your fingers, “Before Sakaar—did you enchant me?”

It's as if you're reading her mind.

“Are you seeing things?”

After a pause, the fidgeting stops.

“I’ve seen things all my life, images. Brief and insignificant. But ever since I was in Sakaar, it’s gotten a lot harder to differentiate a dream and a memory.”

“That’s because they aren’t dreams.”

Your hardened gaze finds hers for a brief moment, nearly growing wide at her words but in an instant, your guard is up once you hear the shuffling of feet behind you where Loki lingers. The subject is dropped immediately. He meets Sylvie’s gaze, the two share a knowing look.

Your anger is provoked and well deserved and yet, the last thing he wants is to be your enemy. Loki doesn’t know why. He has lived a life full of them.

You’re different.

He stills, wondering if you’re going to lash out at him again but when he notices your slow breaths, he decides to sit next to you anyway, awkward glances to you in his periphery. A deep sigh escapes his lips, fiddling with his fingers. “What now?”

Sylvie is the one to answer. “I don’t know. You broke the TemPad.”

“Well—”

“And that planet is about to crash into us.”

Loki looks up at the nearing planet of Lamentis. He blinks. “Well, yes, but—”

“Yes, but what?”

“Well, the entire moon is destroyed, right?”

Sylvie is trying to suppress your growing annoyance. “Yep. And everyone on it is killed.”

But Loki pesters on. “Including us.”

She raises her voice. “Yes, including us.” Loki glances at you momentarily. A pause. He furrows his brows in thought.

“What about the ark?”

“The ark never leaves because it's destroyed.”

Suddenly, an epiphany, his eyes light up. He turns to you and Sylvie, “Never had us on it.”

You suddenly scoff at his words. “Are you suggesting we hijack the ark and make sure it gets off this moon?” You turn to him to only spot a vague smile playing upon his lips. He nods in return. “Sounds like a good idea to me, Agent.”

You merely blink, watching the way his eyes shift across your face. First, you’re struck with uncertainty. It’s a risk, a huge one but you know, risks are meant to be uncertain. Risks are also vital in success. Hesitation, doubt—they make you weak. This time, you want to be strong. Strong enough for one last push to save your life.

“Okay.” is what you say, your expression reflecting his.

For the first time, since he took your hand in Sakaar, you’re starting to trust him.

—

The walk to Shuroo seemed endless. You trail behind the two, feeling like you’re about to suffocate.

“—To preserve the connection, I have to create a fantasy from their memories.”

Loki and Sylvie had been conversing about the science and functions of enchantment in a rather surprisingly calm manner. Loki hums, amused by her elucidation. “And you call me a magician.”

Her expression is unchanged as she continues to trudge alongside Loki, ignoring his previous statement. “That young soldier from the TVA, her mind was messed up. Everything clouded. I had to pull a memory from hundreds of years prior...before she even fought for them.”

Loki halts abruptly in his step, hand flying to grab Sylvie’s arm. “What? What'd you say? Before she joined the TVA?”

Sylvie blinks. “Yeah. She was just a regular person on Earth.”

His mind starts to reel, face muddled with confusion. “I was told that everyone who works for the TVA was created by the Time-Keepers.”

“That's ridiculous. They're all variants, just like us. Including her.” Sylvie gestures discreetly to you who has stopped to take a breather, hands on your hips as you blink up to the sky.

You, Mobius, all of them. All variants.

“They don't know that. She doesn’t know that.” he breathes a terrified expression.

Sylvie looks at you from afar. You’re now looking at them with a bewildered expression. “What?” you call out, voice echoing through the wide area, in a somewhat defensive tone.

She turns to Loki once more, voice nearly faltering. “I have a feeling she already knows it.”

—

Loki doesn’t realize the unfamiliarity of hopelessness. Throughout his life, he was constantly surrounded by those with unfaltering determination—His brother, family, friends who were warriors, The Avengers.

Never was it known that he would see it burning in your eyes as they reflect the growing fire of the Ark, crumbling down, tongues of fire engulfing it whole before you. His heart burns with it as Shuroo falls quiet—only the sounds of the metallic crashing of the disintegrating parts of the ship falling from above and the screams of the rich and deemed worthy to live. Every Lamentian still alive held their breath, a moment's silence for their lives must end. Everything must end.

So close yet so far.

Sylvie is gone by the minute as the city starts to descend in terror and panic. He stands behind your still form, just watching your only chance of making it out, swallowed by its own billowing smoke. He reaches out for you, tugging you by the sleeve. “We should leave,” he says with a sudden sense to protect you. There isn’t much to do at this point. It doesn't matter if you are hit by the falling pieces of the Ark because you are all going to die anyway.

But he considers it a gesture, as insignificant and small it is. The least he could do is to distract you from the end, whether for a mere second or minutes.

“I know things haven’t been the best between us and I concede I bring out the worst in you, but I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You turn to Loki with his sudden words. He watches the way your expression softens so gracefully, face adorned with gashes and wounds. Your mouth twitches as you respond with a gentle voice. “I forgive you.”

Three words. Very powerful words.

His heart skips a beat.

You find Sylvie at the brink of the city, sitting on a stretched slab of rock amongst the dirt, watching the horizon where the planet starts to meet the moon. Loki still has his hand around your arm, but you don’t complain. It’s your only source of support at the moment. It’s an unconscious move, but everything about it feels right when the two of you settle beside her, shoulders brushing against each other. It only makes sense to want to feel the nearness, the closeness of another as the light at the end of the tunnel begins to dim.

It’s impending. It’s scary.

“I remember Asgard.”

Sylvie’s voice trembles, her eyes are somber.

“Not much, but I remember. My home, my people, my life. Then, the TVA showed up, erased my reality, and took me, prisoner. I was just a child.”

You turn to her, guilt bubbling in your chest, but you don’t say anything. You let her speak. It’s only right.

“I escaped.” she breathes, blinking the brimming tears in her eyes away. ”Stole a TemPad and I ran for a long, long time, which really sucked. Everywhere and every-when I went, it caused a Nexus event.”

Sylvie turns to you with a melancholic gaze. “The universe wants to break free, so it manifests chaos. Like me being born the Goddess of Mischief. But to you and the TVA, I’m not supposed to exist.”

For so long, you hadn’t realized the consequences of your work at the TVA. You believed you were right. That erasing, resetting realities were meant to be. You cannot comprehend how it only occurred to you to question the authority of the Time-Keepers over time itself after Sakaar. All those years of being ignorant and selfish. You hadn’t realized. You never did.

But now you know.

Sylvie continues, gaze shifting away from you. “I figured out where to hide. And so that's where I grew up, the ends of a thousand worlds. Now...that's where I'll die.”

Then, silence. It sits heavily between the three of you.

“The universe—isn’t she beautiful?” Your voice is soft, eyes trained on the horizon—a fleet of asteroids, they reflect the end. But they seem to dance to the silence of the apocalypse, drifting across the stratosphere, lining the firmament. Loki’s gaze shifts to you, training on every curve of your face and the tears slipping down your cheeks. He agrees, the universe is beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

“She brings turmoil, agony, and destruction but in all her flaws, there’s beauty in her very existence.”

Your hands find Sylvie and Loki’s hands, holding on to them tightly as you fight the wavering of your voice.

“You...Both of you might be the epitome of chaos but you must know that you have such beautiful souls. All of us, we're her children...and if she is beautiful, so are we. And the Universe is always right. If she created you then we are wrong.”

Sylvie’s face is soft. Loki squeezes your hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I should have known from the start...that the TVA was lying to all of us. I should have questioned. I should have doubted—”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” she says, smiling with saddened eyes.

You laugh. You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe, it’s because you know you are a part of the problem anyway, even if you were just doing your job.

You find Loki’s gaze that’s already on you. You sigh and speak through a whisper. “I’m sorry for slapping you.”

His lips curve into a grin, eyes crinkling like your own. “It was well deserved, but I forgive you.”

Fingers entangled with the hands of two unlikely people, you finally realize what it truly feels like to not be alone. To be in the company of someone you want to be with.

“Now long now.” Those three words leave the very lips of Sylvie and your chest feels like it’s about to collapse.

You never knew you were afraid of death, yet here you are—terrified.

The ground shakes beneath you. It’s dark and there’s fire everywhere. A meteor collides to the ground just across the way, it sends smoke billowing to its surroundings faster than you can blink.

Even in the last seconds of your life, you have doubts remaining. What if the universe isn’t always right?

Then, through the growing dust, you see a spark, like lightning. A glint of a figure, standing before you. White, pure, and serene. You’re standing now, staring ahead. Sylvie and Loki cease to exist in your mind as they gaze at you with bewilderment. They anxiously call you by your name but you don’t hear it. There’s only silence now, you don’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

A voice, she speaks with dignity. A voice so familiar.

“Doubt makes the strong weak, my child.”

Then, you hear it. A soft hum—a Time Door glows warmth amid your impending death.

Suddenly, she’s gone.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

@the-maroon-panda

@kashasenpai

@nyxrae

@johnmurphys-sass

[nincompoopydoo]

DEBRIS AND MISERY

WELCOME BACK, AGENT ; PART 4 / ?

( gif by @alligatorlokis from this gifset )

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

SUMMARY: You're back at your desk job at the TVA, suffering the consequences of your mistakes that led to your crash on Sakaar. However, Mobius has a better job for you than doing just paperwork.

A/N: I feel like this one has more platonic mobius x reader than loki x reader lol but you know, this loki is meeting her for the first time again. please leave comments, criticism or love, whatever, I love to hear from you guys who are reading this. enjoy xo

WARNINGS: Swearing. Paperwork.

MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

The sweet musky smell almost lulls you to sleep as you skim through the case file of a Loki variant, pictures and text of monochrome glaring under the unforgiving fluorescent office lighting. It’s a harsh reminder of your mishap; a simple overlook during a mission that sent you crashing onto the wasteland of Sakaar. According to the reports as you stood on the pedestal, pleading your innocence to the judge, you were there for an estimated 600 years. Maybe more.

The thought of spending six centuries stranded on a planet sends a wave of pain through your skull—it’s overwhelming information but unsurprising. You do feel like you’ve spent 600 years on that God-forsaken planet.

Now, your once fugitive days have been replaced with the return of being trapped behind a desk and having to recount every event that took place during your time there. Word for word. You despise the TVA’s love of paperwork—it’s a fucking nightmare.

The collar of your shirt feels itchy against the back of your neck, bringing your nails to graze it furiously.

You decide to ignore Miss Minutes' cheery voice despite your agitation, your name rolling off her southern accent. It hints at her chagrin towards your disregarding nature.

"Are you even listenin' to me?"

Her voice lacks all sense of her once constant sunny disposition. You spare the projection a glance, watching her rubber-hose-like arms curve to her where you assume her hips would be. She looks at you with an expectant raised brow. You don’t say anything, keeping eye contact as you snatch an empty event report template, spinning in your swivel chair and away from the glowing tangerine clock.

With pursed lips, you swipe the scatter of mess away, revealing an orange typewriter that sits idly within the expense of your stacks of case files and your collection of vintage Earth cassettes. You hear Miss Minutes' sigh as she strides to the other end of your desk, perching on top of a dusty stack of pending paperwork.

“C’mon, it’s just a test,” the animated clock says. You spare her another look as you feed the report template into the roller forcefully. Bing! The return bar dings unceremoniously as it nearly startles Miss Minutes off the stack.

“That is exactly why I’m refusing to listen to you,” you mutter with annoyance, fingers already flying across the keyboard, punching letters onto the event summary section. The loud clickety-clack of the keys makes it impossible to hear over it. “I don’t get why I need to take a test when I clearly know everything I need to know.”

“Well, you were gone for a very long time and we just wanna test your memory on policies and procedures here at the TVA—”

“Then, why didn’t they come and get me earlier? From the moment I stepped foot on Sakaar, I did everything I could to create a Nexus event or even just a spike and you only came when? When I met Loki.”

Your eyes are now on her startled figure, clicks and clacks coming to an abrupt end. You’re upset over your arrest, the whole hoo-ha at the courtroom, and everything before that. Your behavior is nearly childish but understandable to those who express empathy. You feel like you were being used, prioritizing the capture of the Loki variant that has been causing a ruckus to the timeline. But, it is your job to protect the TVA and the sacred timeline. Although you feel that the TVA should be protecting its employees as well.

“Look, I am not taking that test and that’s my final word. Everyone knows I am capable of handling myself. Plus, I do have tons of paperwork to refresh my memory on policies and procedures if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The cartoon clock nods but with hesitation. However, you do make a fair point. Thus, with a swish and a blip, Miss Minutes disappears into thin air, and you’re left to your own devices once more.

Finally some goddamn peace.

As if the universe doesn’t loathe you enough, someone calls your name, approaching from behind you. A groan escapes from your lips, scowling at the glaring keys of the typewriter.

“What?” you spat. In a swift motion, you swivel in your seat and turn to look over your shoulder.

It’s Mobius, approaching you with sudden caution. You let your shoulder sag with relief, happy to see a familiar friendly face.

“Glad to see you’re back and still feisty.” Mobius hesitantly taps your shoulder, flashing you a small consoling smile. Your expression, however, remains unchanged. “Well, you guys did find me after all.” He spots the glimmer of melancholy in your eyes; they avert back to face the typewriter, hands resting on the keys. Mobius shoves his hand into the pockets of his brown slacks, shifting to lean against the edge of your desk. He knows to tread lightly around you after what happened. You’ve changed with wrinkles of age and crinkles of exhaustion. Sakaar must have not been kind to you.

Yet, you’re here, at your desk; alive and well.

“Hey, what’s got you all wound up?”

It’s a stupid question, really but it’s a question to show he still cares. You have every right to be upset. However, you have every right to be thankful. You would have been pruned. Desk cleared and cassettes discarded—it would be as if you never existed. Renslayer would have never given you any mercy after the act you pulled. Disobeying orders and recklessly throwing yourself into danger with the risk of bringing the whole TVA down. You’re impulsive on missions, but it’s your unrelenting determination that drives you to be one of the greatest analysts Mobius has ever seen.

You’re also a friend. A great one. And he isn’t planning on losing one.

“Please prune me, Mobius.”

Your statement comes off as intentionally sarcastic rather than truly meaningful.

“What? I always thought you adored paperwork.” Mobius hears you groan, burying your face in your hands, elbows propped up on the desk. “My back is already hurting, and I have a migraine just thinking about typing out reports of my time on Sakaar. I think it’s quite clear I adore paperwork.” Your muffled voice tinges sarcasm heavily.

Laughter erupts in his chest. He's glad that your sense of humor never changed. Then, the moment quickly passes and he senses a sudden change in the air. You turn up to look at him.

“What was my Nexus event?”

It’s abrupt, almost arbitrary but leads him to even more confusion. Mobius finds himself frowning. “You don’t know?”

You blink. “That’s the one thing they never told me.”

He shifts in his seat on the edge of your desk, blinking up to the ceiling in thought. “Well, from what I heard...it was because Loki willingly helped you. And it wasn’t for his own advantage.”

It’s your turn to frown. “Wouldn’t that be Loki's fault?”

“Apparently not. It was all you.”

You laugh in response; it comes out like a puff of air. “Well, then. That’s a first. I guess I can finally add manipulation to my list of skills. Plus, pick-pocketing weird cosmic fruits.”

Mobius laughs and taps your shoulder again.

“C’mon, take a walk with me. I’ve got a new case that I need your help with.” You shoot him a quizzical look, eyes catching sight of a thick case file in hand—must be important. “I thought I was supposed to be on desk duty.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to sit behind the desk the whole time,” he shoots back a clever answer with a raised eyebrow, beckoning you to accept his offer. Your laugh comes off as more of a snort. It’s the first one in a while. You stand on your feet, stretching your limbs as you shrug on your coat that was hung over the back of your chair.

“Plus, you’re under my supervision,” he says before turning on his heel, heading for the exit. You watch him raise a hand, his back to you, gesturing for you to follow as he pushes through the wooden door. You hum with amusement, trailing behind him.

-

The winding hallways feel hollow, mundane walls lacking any color of brightness the TVA tries to bring to the space when in all fairness, orange isn’t much of a fun color now that everywhere you look, there’s a tinge of tangerine somewhere. The posters that adorn the walls are your least favorite parts of the headquarters’ decorative choice. You pass one that says 'Always Watching' in big bold letters, ominously glaring at you. The words are far from comforting, almost inhumane—a jarring reminder of where you are and where you stand in the hierarchy of this bureaucratic organization.

Mobius clears his throat from beside you, pulling you out from your thoughts. In a weirdly discreet manner, he hands you the case file with an outstretched hand. You take it, eyeing him and his odd behavior, there’s an unexpected shift in the air.

Then, you glance down, reading the scrawled words on the file that reads: Variant L1130, Loki Laufeyson.

Your strides come to an abrupt end, whipping your head up to see Mobius’ sheepish smile. Your eyes are wide, and you’re shaking your head in utmost objection.

“No, no, no. No. Absolutely no—”

“C’mon, it’s just—”

“No, Mobius. Nuh-uh. I swear, if I have to deal with another Loki, I will prune myself. I literally will.”

You're shoving the file to him, as he attempts to suck it up to you like the optimistic idiot he is although he very well knows once you’ve made up your mind, you cannot be swayed. You’re stubborn, rebellious—it’s what makes you dangerous. Yet, the TVA are pessimists. It’s Mobius who truly recognizes your accompanying positive characteristics that make dealing with your spontaneous character worthwhile.

Then, coincidently emerging from the door of the locker room is Loki himself, dressed in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks—clothes and color schemes accustomed to the TVA’s dress code. Mobius can practically see the wires in your brain short-circuiting as soon as you lay eyes on the God. Your eye twitches and from that, he knows you’re about to go mayhem. It’s the mayhem that’s going to break out on him like a hurricane devouring everything and anything in its way.

“You hired him?! You hired a Loki?!”

Your voice is loud, startling Mobius and Loki as passersby stare at the commotion you’re causing. You find yourself hunching in response, shoulders sagging as if it’s supposed to help with averting the attention away from you. Still, your expression doesn’t falter, and you’re staring at Mobius like he’s nuts.

Your voice comes off as a whisper, tone still harsher than before. “Mobius, are you insane?—”

“Just, let me explain,” he cuts you off with a raised palm to you. You purse your lips, sparing a glance to Loki who seems amused by the looks of the conversation that’s turning to more of an argument because you’re directly questioning your colleague’s sanity in public. Nevertheless, you decide to hear him out.

You watch Mobius sigh at the sight of your raised brow. “We have a variant. A Loki variant that’s been killing our Minutemen and I believe it’s the same one that threw you to Sakaar. So, to hunt down a Loki, what better way than to source the help of another?”

Silence. You’re giving him that deafening silent treatment once more. You’re thinking, he can see the mechanics in your brain running like a steam engine. He observes the way your eyes flicker between him, the file, and Loki who attempts to hide his confusion of you and the whole situation.

You’re not his superior, not even close, but he’s hopeful for your approval of his plan.

You cross your arms, shifting in your stance. “Which Loki is this?” You gesture to Loki with a tilt of your head. Mobius heaves a sigh, a hand to his hip and the other waving in the air.

“He’s, uh, he’s from 2012—”

And you’re back to causing mayhem.

“2012?! Mobius! That’s the worst one yet!”

“Now, hang on just a minute—” Loki interrupts, voice tinged with bewilderment and resentment but with two sharp looks directed his way, he instantly shuts his mouth.

You and Mobius are now back to your whispered debate.

“Look, as much as I hate to admit it, the TVA’s survival all depends on catching this variant and that means our survival. He has potential for change, so much of it...You just have to trust me on this.”

Mobius makes an excellent point but you can't help but feel the queasiness rising from your stomach. It feels like bile. You begin to feel the weight of the case file in your grasp becoming heavier and heavier. It’s the thought of risky business, and you’re almost upset as to why Mobius thinks it’s such a brilliant idea to pull you into this case after the stunt you pulled.

“Care to explain why I'm involved in this? You do know I’m being scrutinized for every move I make, right?”

Following your question, he glances at Loki who seems to be growing impatient, eyes wandering around the hallway. He leans forward and lowers his voice though his pitch raises, like when he's excited about a breakthrough.

“Because I know you’re capable of getting Loki to trust you. It happened once, there’s a high chance it’ll happen again and that’s good enough for me.” He watches you blink once. Then, twice. He continues, “And you’re being scrutinized by me. So, does it really matter?”

You’re silent again but in deep thought and not out of spite. Your troubled eyes find Loki’s. He’s already staring at you and for a moment, you see an unknown glimmer in his eye, expression nearly vulnerable but in an instant, he seals it away from you and averts his gaze, busying himself with straightening his pecan brown tie. It’s a small sign that he must have heard what Mobius said to you quietly. Nothing more.

Your gaze returns to your colleague and you pull yourself together, heaving a deep sigh. “Fine, but I still think you’re insane.”

Mobius beams down at you in an almost proud manner. “Welcome back, agent.” And with a turn of a heel, he waves for Loki to follow as the three of you head down the hallway. Loki quickly catches up beside you, much to your dismay. “So, what’s your story?” he leans into you with a curious smirk. You keep your face forward, shoulder back, and chin up as you reply with a monotonous tone. “None of your business, daddy long legs.”

In your peripheral vision, you note how the God retracts in response to your reply, brows now furrowed as he glances down to his legs in an almost sheepish and innocent way.

You struggle to fight down a growing smirk.

Mobius looks over his shoulder for a moment and catches sight of you and Loki’s expression after your exchange.

It looks like the two of you would get along just fine.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

[flyingpurplepeopleeater42]

#no other thoughts just gator loki