Chapter Text
“Ugh...”
The pounding inside your head is unrelenting.
Your limbs – tense and rigid – ache with every subtle movement.
Groaning in agony, you writhe in discomfort – the only solace being a warm soft form firmly pressed to the tender flesh of your cheek.
Tiny specks of sand pelt at your dust caked skin as your heavy eyelids remain closed.
What happened?
Exerting far more energy than should be necessary, your fingers stiffly dig into the ground, noting the fine grain-like material easily slipping through their cracks.
Where am I?
A blisteringly cold wind sweeps across you, beckoning forth an involuntary shiver.
Instinctively, you nestle closer to the source of warmth beneath to you.
Relishing in the cool brisk air, your stiff muscles relax, helping to ease the pounding headache as you work towards garnering some sense of clarity on the current situation.
The Battle of New York.
The aftermath.
We'd won.
That's where I was, down in the lobby of Stark Towers.
We were ready to leave, when...
The commotion.
The case.
The Tesseract.
The metal case – the one everyone has been vying for.
It's popped open.
Precious cargo sailing smoothly across the shiny tiled floor to halt right against the toe of your black leather boot.
Cautiously, you retrieve the artifact with both hands, grasping it tightly between the pads of your fingers as you hold it up to the light.
And then...
A pair of hands – bound by magical Asgardian shackles – clamp onto yours, clutching firmly to the crystalline cube.
…
Before a single word can slip out from between your lips, a plume of dark smoke erupts from within the cube, electricity snapping mercilessly at your exposed skin as the grey clouds enlarge before rapidly collapsing to devour you both.
Eyes snapping open, your senses sharpen – flooding with the rapid intake of information.
The overwhelming scent engulfing your lungs – earthy, smoky, and sweet.
The warm, soft material – rising and falling as it shifts against your cheek.
The soft, rhythmic thud – pulsating against your chest.
It’s…
Him.
Jolting upwards, you blink against the harsh light, raising a weak hand to shield your eyes from the sun's intense rays.
You find yourself in a bit of a precarious position.
Perched atop the God of Mischief.
Straddling his hips in a rather...
Suggestive manner.
Your dark-haired companion is laying face skyward, arms splayed wide at his sides, shackles undone and resting a short distance away. Heavy crinkles etch around those sparkling green eyes as he reaches up to remove his only remaining restraint – the muzzle – tossing it aside before turning his full attention towards you.
“My dear mortal, if that's what you're after...” He coos teasingly, a wide roguish grin spreading across his lips as his eyes roam your body with great interest. “All you have to do is ask.”
A distinct crimson hue trails across the chilled skin of your cheeks as you clumsily scramble off his slender form.
Is he serious right now!?
Your thoughts and feelings towards the Asgardian prince are muddled and confused enough without all...
This.
So, rather than dignifying his unseemly comment with a response - you shoot him a scathing glare, before turning away to dust yourself off while scanning the surrounding area.
There are dunes of yellow sand.
Everywhere.
As far the eye can see.
With the occasional rock protruding upwards from the sandy surface.
Why didn't I just kick that stupid cube away?
Or call for help?
Tony.
Thor.
Anyone at all!
Why did I pick it up?!
Loki’s playful grin drops, gaze suddenly focusing behind you as he raises a slender finger, pointing in the same direction.
“We seem to have attracted a gathering of voyeurs.” He quips, rising to his feet with a loud groan before sweeping at his sand encrusted garments.
Spinning around, you’re caught off guard by the number of individuals present – their deep brown eyes darting between you and the dark-haired immortal in confusion. Based on their features and attire, you speculate them to be of Mongolian descent – you'd participated in a number of operations in Nomgon many years ago and vaguely recognize the clothing style.
“Um...” You stammer quietly, struggling to recall the few Mongolian phrases you'd learned back in the day.
Before you can spout a single word, the God of Mischief notices your distress and comes to your rescue - grinning assuredly as he clambers onto an elevated rock nearby.
“Worry not, I have everything under control.” He clears his throat before addressing the locals haughtily.
“I… Am Loki of Asgard.”
You groan, shielding your eyes in embarrassment as he continues.
“And I am burdened with… Glorious purpose.”
Really?
Glorious purpose?
One of the women tilts her head to the side, eyeing him suspiciously before turning towards you.
“I don't think they know what you’re talking about, Loki...” A nervous smile tugs at the corner of your lips as your mind continues to search for a single Mongolian expression.
Come on...
How can I not even remember a basic ‘hello’!?
“I'd like to see you do better, mortal.” The Asgardian retorts, rolling his eyes in contempt.
Just as you're about to respond, a strange trill grabs your attention, head snapping towards the sound. In the distance, a short ways from the Tesseract – now half buried in a pile of fine golden dust – a rectangular door-like object has appeared. It's murky, almost like a scratched-up piece of glass, and to your surprise, several people emerge from within it. They're dressed in red jumpsuits, body armour and helmets – similar to the attire of a S.W.A.T team. The armoured squad gathers around the glowing cube, garnering Loki's attention as he strides towards them with great purpose.
“Don't touch that.” He snarls, the armoured individuals raising their weapons threateningly as you send the group of Mongolian onlookers an apologetic smile and shrug, quickening your stride to catch up with the Asgardian.
Another loud warble – along with the opening of a second rectangular doorway – signals the arrival of an additional stranger.
“Appears to be a standard sequence violation.” Dark eyed and ebony skinned, the newcomer strides about the area, hand clutched to a metallic device. “Branch is growing at a stable rate and slope.” She's dressed in identical attire to the others, with the exception being her helmet - stamped atop it are a sequence of letters and numbers: C-15.
Clutching to the Asgardian's fluttering green cape, you peer out from behind his slender form to cautiously watch as she halts her approach a short distance away.
“Variants identified.”
Loki cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
In response, the woman slowly attaches the device to her belt before authoritatively resting a hand atop the red baton situated on her right hip.
“On behalf of the Time Variance Authority, I hereby arrest you for crimes against the Sacred Timeline. Hands up.” Her threatening gaze flicks over to yours. “Both of you.”
The squad behind her powers up their weapons, aiming them directly at you and your companion.
“You're coming with us.”
Swallowing hard, you turn towards the Asgardian in order to gauge his reaction.
If Loki isn't worried...
Then I shouldn't be either.
Right?
Unsurprisingly, he's not fazed.
Arching a challenging brow, and puffing his chest out with great confidence.
“I'm sorry... Who's us?”
His tone is rude.
Condescending, even.
What did I expect?
“I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.” You interject quickly, attempting to defuse the situation. “We’ve just arrived; we don’t know what’s –”
“Last chance, variants.” She warns, tense gaze unwavering. C-15 removes her baton, a bright blinding glow radiating at its end as her gaze darts between you and the non-compliant immortal, who chuckles bemusedly, sending you a reassuring nod before taking a step forward.
You can almost read his thoughts from the arrogant expression on his face.
“Don't worry mortal, I'll take care of this.”
“It's been a very long day, and I think I've had my fill of idiots in armoured suits telling me what to do.” He sets both hands upon his hips in a show of dominance before continuing. “So, if you don't mind, this is actually... Your last chance.”
You take a step back cautiously as the woman approaches, baton ready to strike.
“Now get out of my way.” He growls, teeth bared menacingly as he moves towards her.
What happens next is difficult to comprehend.
It occurs so fast.
And yet.
So painstakingly…
Slow.
The woman whips her baton straight across Loki's face.
As you step forward with the intention of assisting him, your mouth drops open.
Your eyes widen in disbelief.
He's thrown back from the impact.
His lips and cheeks are…
Oscillating.
At an impossibly long and drawn-out rate.
You see every wave of flesh rippling from the impact of her strike.
But...
How?
Gaze dropping to your own hands, you wiggle your fingers, noting their quick and swift movement.
No change here.
Returning your attention to Loki, you notice that he is still falling.
What's going on?
“He's moving at 1/16th speed... But feels all the pain in real time.” The squad leader responds, as if reading your thoughts. She then places a thick black collar around Loki's neck, a red light illuminating brightly upon its activation.
Turning towards you, her eyes narrow sharply as she taps the baton lightly to the palm of her opposite hand.
“Now... Will you be coming willingly? Or would you like to do it the hard way?” She asks, motioning towards the Asgardian, who's suddenly dropped to the desert floor, groaning in agony.
“Umm...” Slowly raising your hands in surrender, you shake your head resolutely. “Not the hard way. Definitely not the hard way.”
The woman slaps a collar around your neck and proceeds to hull you towards the murky portal.
“Reset the timeline.”
Peering over your shoulder at the timid Mongolian locals, your eyes widen in horror as the squad carries out her commands.
You're standing in a cramped, dimly lit elevator.
The God of Mischief is next to you, bellowing angrily at the closed doors.
The two of you have been brought to, what can only be described as, a typical government building.
Poorly lit corridors leading to an inevitable feeling of languid apathy.
Uniformed employees hustling and bustling about with stacks of papers that need signing.
Similar colours and patterns found on every floor and in every room in an attempt to create a sense of unity.
Yep, definitely a typical government building.
Though...
This is different.
You stare at the strange yellow box bolted to the wall before you. It looks similar to a television set. A television set that’s been tinkered with by mad scientists – numerous wires and pincered appendages sprouting out from all sides.
As you examine the strange device, Loki is still glowering at the elevator door in annoyance.
“How disappointing you are, mortal…” He criticizes, side-eyeing you indignantly. “So quick to surrender...”
“Did you see what she did?!” You snap back in response, defending your choice to not resist. “What could I have possibly done?”
Before the Asgardian can respond, the screen before you sparks to life – displaying two bright dots and a straight line.
Eyes...
And a mouth?
One of the metallic claws darts forward, grabbing at the hem of your shirt, while another reaches for the Asgardian's armour.
“Hey!” You exclaim in unison, pushing the appendages away as you cautiously eye the strange piece of machinery.
What is this thing?
A few dim lights flicker on, and the once blank face shifts into a friendly smile as its metallic limbs snap and whir with excitement. From what’s happened thus far however, you highly doubt the device has kind intentions.
Its pincers dart forward once more, snatching at your clothing as you swiftly slap them away.
“Don't touch me!” You cry out in annoyance as your companion rants loudly – something about fine Asgardian leather.
The face on the screen wavers, transforming into a confused, and then saddened grimace as it points a glowing device towards you.
The apparatus is metallic in nature.
Almost like a laser pen.
But bigger.
“What now!?” You exclaim in exasperation as the screen’s expression changes to one of malice and a squeaky, stuttering voice sputters out: “H-hold very still.”
An orange beam of light emits from the pen-like gadget, traversing your forms to swiftly disintegrate each and every piece of clothing.
Your eyes widen and you instinctively squeal in horror, arms wrapping across your bare chest as you bolt towards the side wall, shoulders hunched, and body curled inwards in an effort to prevent the Asgardian's prying gaze from catching sight of too much.
“Don't look at me!” You screech, flushing in embarrassment as goosebumps flare across your skin, the two buds above your soft mounds hardening beneath your arm’s flesh.
He’s not listening, is he…?
He’s not.
Instead, he’s blatantly defying your request.
Lust-filled eyes scanning your bare figure.
He takes in the elegant curve of your back.
Your long, silky smooth legs.
The tiniest of imperfections scattered across your skin.
Before eventually fixating on the swell of your supple buttocks.
“Oh, I’d never...” He breathes, grinning impishly as you carefully peer over your shoulder, hoping to catch sight of his compliance.
Instead, you become…
Distracted.
By him.
Standing tall and proud in all his glory.
Figure of a god.
Lean.
Smooth.
Powerful.
His body, though not bulky like his brother’s, is still sturdy.
The muscles of his abdomen are carved and well-defined.
His skin – pale and flawless.
Inhaling sharply, you wrench your gaze away before wandering too far downwards.
Oh no...
The image of his Adonis figure is burned into your mind.
Bare flesh ablaze and heated, an unsolicited desire makes itself known – tightening and coiling deep within your core.
Ugh, why?!
You groan in anguish, just as the floor gives way – depositing you both into another room, leaving you fully clothed once more.
Finding that you’re no longer nude, you release a heavy sigh of relief – you’re not sure how it happened, but you’re grateful, nonetheless. Sitting loosely on your form is a short sleeved, beige coloured jumpsuit. Bright orange lining decorates the cuffs and collars of the suit, with the letters TVA stamped across the upper left-hand side. On your feet are a pair of simple white Velcro sneakers.
The Asgardian, who’s grinning down at you with mischievous delight, is dressed in identical attire.
“Oh, mortal.” Cooing softly, he leans in closer, warm breath splaying across the heated skin of your neck. “I very much enjoyed the view."
You respond with a scowl, mortified by the thought of how much he’d seen.
Although, in great hypocrisy to what you’d asked him to do - you yourself had snuck a peak at his form.
And it was…
Perfection.
Raising an eyebrow in amusement, the raven-haired prince chuckles softly before a hesitant “ahem” draws your attention to a man seated behind the desk situated directly in front of you.
Fidgeting with his metal framed glasses, he clears his throat once more as the printer to his left sputters to life, spitting out a piece of paper. He dutifully removes it from the tray, adding it to the giant pile in front of Loki.
Sitting before you, is a significantly smaller stack of papers.
The man lifts his spectacles, rubbing at the bridge of his nose wearily before pushing both heaps forward.
“Please sign to verify this is everything you've ever said.”
“What?” You both wonder aloud, as the printer whirrs to life once more, this time spitting out two pages.
He adds them to their respective piles, placing a pen atop each.
“Please. Sign.”
As the Asgardian opens his mouth to contest, you quickly nudge him in the ribs, shaking your head astutely.
Not.
Another.
Word.
His green eyes drift down to yours as a look of understanding crosses his face and he grabs the pen, signing the papers reluctantly while you do the same.
Once the signatures have been provided and the pens returned, the floor opens up once more and you’re both deposited into a small room with a large body scanner nestled at its centre.
Here, you both confirm that – to the best of your knowledge – you are indeed, not robots and walk through the detector in order to confirm so.
Well, Loki walks through – you are pushed through by the Asgardian as a means of testing the device's function before having to be exposed to it himself.
Sometimes...
I really hate him.
Glaring back to meet his unwavering grin, a blinding light flashes directly in your face. You're told it's for the purpose of acquiring a temporal aura – whatever that is, and you are subsequently directed towards a door, which leads to yet another room.
This room is much larger – ceilings decorated with numerous dull yellow bulbs and a series of long, belt barrier stanchions, zigzagging about to fill up the majority of the area.
Reminds me of the DMV.
Or border control.
This retro style area has an eerie, uneasy feeling to it and the soft elevator music playing in the background doesn't help much either.
“Take a ticket.” The uniformed guard stationed at the entrance states flatly.
“I don't think so!” Ahead of you is a brazen little man, who disobeys the guard’s orders and waltzes through the turn styles without doing as advised. To your surprise however, the guard does not act - instead turning his attention to Loki and yourself.
“Take a ticket.” He repeats mechanically, dead eyes staring straight into yours.
“There's only three of us in here.” The immortal whinges, peering down at the guard with a disdainful glare.
Why does he always have to be so stubborn?
With the stresses of the current situation weighing upon you, you find it difficult to remember exactly why you’d felt so fondly for this troublesome deviant.
“Loki... Just take one.” You assert, motioning towards the red ticket dispenser as you regard him with a weary smile.
“But… Ugh, fine.” Releasing a long drawn out sigh, the Asgardian relents to your request, rolling his eyes with bitter indignation while yanking a ticket from the machine. He stuffs it into his pocket before retrieving another – this one he hands to you.
As the two of you begin the excessively long trek through the winding barriers, a bright cheerful voice interrupts and the many television sets fastened to the adjacent walls flicker to life.
A set of clips begins to play, with Miss Minutes, an animated orange analogue clock with a distinctive Southern drawl, narrating the video. She introduces you to the Time Variance Authority – the officials whose custody you are currently in. The clip is bright and colourful, with a distinct message that feels awfully propagandist in nature.
Through all the cheery dialogue and the 1950s style animation, you're able to catch the gist of what’s being said. The TVA is an organization created by the mysterious celestial beings known as the Time-Keepers. Their job is to ensure that the Sacred Timeline is properly preserved – keeping mishaps from creating a number of chaotic multiverses. Variants – individuals such as Loki and yourself – have veered off the path set by the Time-Keepers. Thus, the TVA is tasked with fixing your mistake and judging you for your offenses.
Wait a second.
They’re saying that a set path, unbeknownst to me, has been predetermined by a trio of celestial beings?
And if I somehow inadvertently stray from that path...
I’m to be punished for it?
You turn to Loki, a look of confusion on your face as he scoffs in defiance, verbally expressing your current thoughts.
“The Time-Keepers? The Sacred Timeline? This is all absolute nonsense!” He exclaims, as a small commotion garners your attention.
Spinning around, you take notice of the other prisoner. He's at the front of the room now, arguing with a guard who's demanding to see his ticket.
“That guy didn't give me a ticket, I tried to ask for one!” He lies as you tilt your head to the side, watching with keen interest. As they continue to bicker, the prisoner manages one final line, “What, you're raising your voice at me, bucket head?” before the guard activates his baton – completely disintegrating his opposition.
I don't know if this TVA stuff is real or not...
But I don't want to end up like that guy.
Sweaty fingers clutching around the paper ticket, you glance up at the wary Asgardian. “Glad you took my advice?”
He tenses, frantically digging into his pocket before triumphantly raising his bright red ticket high into the air.
With a loud audible sigh, you continue pacing back and forth, hands folded neatly behind your back, eyes trained on the beige and blue patchwork carpet beneath your feet.
It's been hours.
You've been waiting for hours.
Loki had been called up first.
He'd presented his ticket and vanished through the orange door situated at the front of the room.
You'd stayed behind, waiting for your turn.
But that was hours ago.
Or it least...
It feels like hours ago.
You'd snaked through the twisting and turning maze of barriers multiple times.
First, with a quick, agile stride.
Then, with a slow, lazy amble.
Repeating these action three more times.
But even after that, it still hadn't been your turn.
Eventually, you'd left the line completely, slipping beneath the black retractable belts to approach one of the clerks at the front of the room.
“Excuse me. I've been waiting for a while now and I just –” He'd rolled his eyes condescendingly before pointing towards the television sets, where that same video of Miss Minutes’ explanation had been playing on and off again for who knows how long.
Huffing in frustration, you'd sauntered off to perch on one of the metal benches lined up against the side wall.
You'd carefully examined the oversized uniform hanging off your body, picking off pieces of lint and loose hanging thread.
You'd done jumping jacks and knee touches.
A few push ups and sit ups.
Still – no one called you forth.
And not another single soul entered the waiting room, either.
Groaning in frustration, you flop back down onto the bench, face buried in your hands.
When is it going to be my turn?!
This is all just a misunderstanding anyway…
I’m sure if I just explain to someone that –
“NEXT!”
A gavel bangs loudly, its sound ricocheting off the stone walls as you’re escorted towards the front of the room – dimly lit, with floor tiled in orange, red and black. The walls - decorated with large painted murals - are faintly lit with small, antique wall lamps.
On the right-hand side, the art is depicted in a style reminiscent of Soviet propaganda - showcasing groups of people, similarly dressed, standing tall and proud beneath a shining beacon that you assume to be the TVA's logo.
On the left-hand side, the mural portrays three beings – presumably the Time-Keepers - adorned in red robes and engaged in a number of varying activities. One shows them standing with their hands neatly folded in front of their chests, another has them gathered around what looks to be a tree.
What is this place?
“Next case, please!”
The guards walk you down the aisle of the courtroom, each side lined with a number of wooden pews for observers – though not a single person is currently watching.
Your placed upon a small podium.
In front of you is the judge’s bench, high and mighty, and made of black marble.
Behind that, carved in glossed pinewood, are three strange faces.
The Time-Keepers.
Again.
The woman sitting at the judge’s bench is dressed in a dull brown suit with a red and gold tie neatly tucked beneath her jacket. Her curly black hair is kept in order via a low ponytail, slim fingers folded neatly on the dark marble bench as her bright brown eyes scan through an opened folder situated before her.
She states your last name, adding a variant ID together with your known alias – Violet Spectre – as you stare up at her curiously.
“You are charged with sequence violation 7-20-89.” She flips through the sheet of paper before peering down at you wearily. “How do you plead?”
“Uhm...” You stammer, angling your head upwards in order to catch a glimpse of her gaze. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Are you guilty or not, ma'am?” Her eyes sharpen, fixating on your feeble form.
“If this is about the Tesseract, I never meant to do anything. In fact, I don't even think I did anything. I just picked it up... If I did do something, then it was an honest mistake. I –”
“Ma’am. Whether intentional or otherwise, your actions were in direct opposition to what the Time-Keepers had planned, leading to a deviation from the Sacred Timeline – thus, the court finds you guilty and I sentence you to be reset.”
She concludes the proceeding with a sharp bang of her gavel, disregarding you completely as she replaces the file before her.
“Next case, please!”
“Wait, reset? What does that mean?!” You cry out in trepidation as the guards advance on you, taking you by the arms. “What are you doing?! Let me go!”
You're ready to fight.
To argue.
To prove your innocence.
However, before any of that becomes necessary – the large doors behind you swing open, and an older man, carrying a stack of papers under his arm, rushes in.
He's dressed in a brown blazer, a matching pair of slacks and a blue button up with a thin brown tie. He has short white hair and a notable moustache.
The judge groans at the sight of him, listlessly signaling for the guards to halt their actions – and they do so, reluctantly releasing their grip on your form.
The man rushes past you to approach the judge’s bench where the two speak in hushed whispers.
You’re unable to garner anything from the conversation, save for an exasperated “again?!” from the judge and an “it’s our best bet,” from the newly arrived individual.
Within minutes, the judge begrudgingly overturns her sentence and you’re quickly removed from the courtroom - left in the custody of the older gentleman, who turns towards you with a warm smile.
“Come on now, let's get everything sorted out!”