Chapter Text
I heard the clock chime six times from the living room. I momentarily glanced up from my drawing-a piece that would be part of my college coursework-giving the clock and its swaying pendulum a cursory look, before returning my focus to the work before me. I breathed in the oddly pleasant scent of my sketching pencils as I meticulously drew the detail on Bucky Barnes' metal prosthetic limb.
My project more or less screamed 'fan-girl' but I was beyond caring. I fully intended to produce a large scale drawing of the Avengers, poised and bracing themselves for combat. Few might have called it artistic genius, some would have deemed it an unhealthy obsession. Most people had simply asked me if I was infatuated with one of the actors.
Being besotted with Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan might have been somewhat of a motivator, but I could also appreciate that they were inspirations for my creativity.
And not just because they were pinnacles of masculinity, with chiselled jawlines, beautiful, shimmering pools for eyes, plush mouths and bodies that could make women across the globe salivate.
My hormone-fuelled mind drifted quickly, and I had to mentally shake myself-not solely to cast aside thoughts that would distract me from my work, but also to remove the asinine expression plastering my face. I began drawing Bucky's tousled, shoulder-length locks, singing quietly to provide background noise. A few peaceful moments passed, alternating between steady maoeuvring of my pencil and deft flicks, and ambitious attempts at hitting high notes of the song I was singing.
That was until a glowing green light, akin to an aurora, filled the dining room. I ceased singing and dropped my pencil, gaping in terrified awe at the sight before. The pages of my sketchbook flapped and my hair flew, strands whipping me in the face, as thought a violent gust of wind was blowing through my house. I let out a low, fearful whimper, seemingly frozen solid to my seat. Cold sweat prickled my back and my heart was going at ten to the dozen. The emerald light began shrinking as if returning to its enigmatic source, dancing wildly about a vaguely human figure stood in the middle of my dining room. The mysterious wind died down. My body was wracked with apprenhension at what the emerald light would reveal, and whether my demise would follow shortly after.
I clutched at the dining table, nails leaving indentations in the embossed, PVC tablecloth as the light faded. The person I saw, standing in front of me, made my fear quickly turn to bewilderment.
"Tom Hiddleston?" I asked the tall, lean man, donning his Loki garb. In retrospect, it had been stupid saying that, seeing as most actors don't conjure up a funky, green lightshow and magically appear in people's houses.
"I know not of whom you speak, mortal. I am Loki Laufeyson, of Jotunheim and formerly of Asgard, god of mischief and madness-" Not-Tom- Hiddleston-but-Loki-Laufeyson announced with grandeur.
"Yes, I know, I've watched the movies. You don't have to go all comic-con on me." I interrupted abruptly, failing to appreciate the reality (a warped one at that) of the situation.
"Movies ? Do not test me, mortal, with your foolish japery!"
"Hey, you're not entitled to get sassy with me. You've just appeared in my house, out of bloody nowhere, uninvited I might add-so you better not run your mouth off at me, Laufeyson!"
"Impudent, mewling little quim! You dare speak to a god in such a tone?!"
"Call me quim again and I'll dare to shove a HB pencil up your rectum, you ostentatious git!" I spat venomously. Loki was agog, perhaps vexed-for the first time-by a rather unwisely irascible mortal being.
"Though I am loathe to admit it, I find your aggressiveness both intriguing and admirable. You impress me, mortal." Loki offered his praise in an airy manner. I arched my eyebrows and pushed my lower lip out in a contemplative pout, making no attempt at being benign.
"Hm. Thanks. Sorry about calling you a 'git'. And for threatening you with a pencil." I mumbled my apology reluctantly. The Asgardian held up a hand majestically, as if to accept.
"Let us speak of our brief conflict no more. I do not care for the exchange of pleasantries expected from us by the rules of social etiquette." He replied tersely.
"It is all rather tedious, isn't it?" I conceded, with a small nod. "So...why exactly are you here?" I inquired.
"Truthfully? I grew weary and sought to occupy my time. What better way to do so than by travelling to the Midgard of this universe and unleashing my powers of malevolence and cruel mischief on your people?" He explained, with a remarkably refreshing honesty.
"So you came here...because you were bored?"
"Yes."
"And because you want to inflict emotional and physical agony on this planet for your own amusement?" I pointed to the ground, as if the carpet of my dining room represented the entirety of Earth.
"Precisely." Loki nodded, with a satisfied smile. I stared at him for a few seconds, brows knitting together in a perplexed frown.
"Well, I can't say you have no goals in life. But isn't that kind of...harsh ?" I held out my hands, cocking my head to one side as I put the question to him. Loki raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if in deliberation.
"Yes, I suppose it is." He acknowledged, before narrowing his piercing eyes at me, his lips curling into a malicious sneer. "But why would I be entertained by anything less?" He asked ominously. I shrank in my seat, stomach contorting into painful knots. Loki approached the table, and leaned forward, resting one hand on its surface, the other clutching a sceptre. His eyes bore into my soul, never leaving my face.
"And perhaps I shall start with you, Sophie Tavistock ? How should I throw your pitifully short life into turmoil, puny mortal? Oh I think know!" His voice had taken on a sinister rasping growl, and he stood straight and pointed the sleek sceptre at me. I gawked in horror, panic gripping my whole body.
"No, no, no, please don't! No! Don't kill me!" I pleaded through choked sobs, tears starting to cascade down my cheeks.
"Oh, I'm not going to kill you. No, I'm simply sending you to a world so like your own yet so different. Whether you live or die there, only time will seek to tell. But you'll have nobody you know from this world. To die alone and afraid...that is far, farworse than simply killing you where you are seated." His smile widened into something jagged, wicked and terrifying.
"No!" I wailed, springing from my chair, and backing into the radiator behind me.
"Give my brother my regards, won't you?" He said, before a ray of violet light struck and encompassed me, the dining room of my house dissolving rapidly. The last sound I heard was deep, echoing laughter.
I was sent hurtling through a vortex, which shone in a myriad of colours. The sensations acting on me were similar to that of falling down a flight of stairs, multiplied by about fifty. I shrieked and cried in utter despair, praying that I would wake up suddenly in my bed, safe between my quilt and sheets. Instead, I kept hurtling through this cosmic tunnel, spinning around nauseatingly, arms and legs flailing. When I saw the skyline of a city at the end of the vortex, I was both relieved and worried, wondering the heck I'd been sent.
The combination of relief and anxiety made a prompt transition into petrified hysteria when the vague image of the city morphed into pale grey slabs. More precisely, I was being thrown onto a fucking pavement. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, was all that was occupying my thoughts. I flung my hands out in front of me, in a measly attempt at reducing the impact between my face and the asphalt I was quickly heading towards. Bracing myself for pain, I let out a pathetic whine from the back of my throat, squeezing my eyes shut and tensing every muscle in my body.
Sadly, no amount of preparation was able to cushion the jarring thud as I hit the pavement, and rolled violently across the hard surface. A chorus of yells and screams from pedestrians acted as a bizarre fanfare for my unceremonious arrival into this different world. From the stinging and searing pain across my back, stomach, arms and thighs, I figured I'd scraped those parts of my anatomy. Great, this'll really help my problems with sciatica, I ruminated bitterly, a bruised, scraped-up heap on the ground, a huddle of concerned but morbidly fascinated people surrounding me. I lay there, peering up at alarmed faces and a decidedly beautiful, azure sky, bleary from my ordeal.
"Where'd she come from?" A distinctly American voice asked, rather rhetorically.
"What happened to her?" Another American voice asked. Well, I always wanted to visit America,I remarked mentally.
"Jesus, someone call for an ambulance!" A woman called out.
"Hold on, everyone calm down. We'll sort this out." A man, with a soft, deep voice, insisted, gently pushing through the crowd. My vision was starting to blur and my head was throbbing, so I couldn't quite pick out his facial features. He was of an impressive stature, tall and muscular. I noticed he was accompanied by another man, with dark, shaggy hair, slightly shorter but also of a strong build. I groaned in pain, holding out my hand, seeking comfort. The taller of the two men, the one who'd spoken up, knelt beside me and clasped my hand in his own warm one.
"You're gonna be okay." He assured me soothingly. I felt my eyelids drooping.
"We're gonna get you some help, get you patched up in no time. You'll be alright, I promise." He told me, before I blacked out right then and there.