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The Thing

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When Jane had come to Darcy begging for her support and company while she attended 'this thing with Thor' Darcy had been slow to agree. Jane's commitments (superhero boyfriend aside) ran to some pretty dry stuff. Scientific and political summits, guest lectures and, one particularly memorable time, a high school career day.

It was, of course, entirely Darcy's own God-Damn fault for not picking up on the rather vital inflection in Jane's voice when she'd made the request. Because 'this thing with Thor' was, in fact, a Thing. An actual, honest to God(s?), gathering of the big players of the nine realms (well, the peaceable ones) in Asgard. Otherwise known as a 'Thing'. Because that wasn't confusing or anything.

Darcy had been mercifully spared from actually attending the Thing, however her presence was required over the course of the games, hunts and feasts that were to follow. It seemed that there really weren't many who could party with the aplomb and conviction of the Æsir. There wasn't a lot to complain about, her misgivings about leaving Earth aside, Asgard knew how to treat their guests.

The room she'd been given was breathtaking, even if it was only a minor guest room. White marble dominated, the walls and floor carved into artistic scenes of frolicking maids and inlaid with rose marble and gold detail. Shimmering gold and dusky pink silk draped around the room, softening it. In the centre a large stone dias dominated, providing a base for her bed. Again soft pink and gold silk gave the bed a soft and inviting look, not to mention the multitude of pillows that seemed to beg to be transformed into a pillow fortress. It seemed that the Asgardians were intent on putting the Four Seasons out of business. No five star hotel could hold a candle to the opulent grandeur, or surprisingly touching thoughtfulness, of her hosts.

Still, Darcy sighed as she surveyed herself in a large gilt-framed mirror, even Gods got it wrong occasionally. The stunning dress that had been laid out for her, presumably for the evening feast, was a poor fit. That's what you get for having specs a porn star would envy. There was no doubting the quality of the beautiful gown, the soft pink (gender-casting much?) silk slip hugged her breasts and hips, but sat comfortably about the waist. It fell to the floor in box pleats, each pleat parting to reveal a cream brocade that couldn't possibly have been made by hand. The slip was secured by a cream underbust corset with gold fastenings, and that was where the outfit came undone. It elevated her (admittedly not inconsiderable) bust to somewhere in the stratosphere. It was obscene. Darcy was certain she'd be able to rest her chin, perhaps even a few drinks, on her breasts. Not that they weren't bitchin' but it would be nice to attend a banquet of Gods without some woeful faux pas like, say, a nip slip. As it stood, each breath saw her areole peek out from the plunging neckline.

God, what she wouldn't give for her trusty Hollywood Tape!

The buttery soft silk provided no barrier against the gentle breeze that plucked against her skin and teased at her nipples. She was pretty much ready to cut some diamonds.

Really, all she needed to do was whack some pasties on and she could easily be confused for the evening's entertainment.

The gold brocade slippers were far too small, but since her skirts fell fully to the ground she didn't feel too bad about wearing her red Chucks instead, no one would know. It was, Darcy had to admit, just another fantasy dashed. She'd always wanted to be one of those girls that rocked the period costumes, always figured she'd do justice to any sort of renaissance get-up. Alas, the opposite was true. Her cups, as they say, runneth over and she didn't think that anyone would appreciate her attending the feast in a toga fashioned from her bed sheets.

A knock echoed through the room and Darcy quickly wound her hair up and secured it with one of the small gold combs on the dresser (surely not real gold?).

At the door was a rather tasty surprise. He identified himself at Fandral, 'your humble and thankful escort for the evening'. He even made it a full three seconds before clapping his eyes on her chest and biting his lower lip.


It was, Loki noted with no particular degree of excitement, his birthday. Or an approximation thereof. After having known so many it was nigh impossible to keep them straight. After two years of imprisonment (both peculiarly long and fleeting), it had been decreed that he would dine in the Great Hall. A boon of sorts for good behaviour.

...or at least slightly less awful behaviour. Loki had never been known to lean toward good behaviour. Still, with his magic largely suppressed at Odin's behest and his movements throughout Asgard greatly restricted, he came as close to well-behaved as he'd ever been. It was a completely unsatisfactory state of affairs.

He sat at a trestle table far removed from his family. His father's gracious gesture would only carry so far and though Loki had had a mind to turn down the offer (slighted, as he was, and cast into social obscurity wedged next to a wary farrier and his family) it had been too long since he'd last had company that did not regard blunt force trauma and chariot races as worthy of painfully detailed recount.

From where he sat he could see his fam - his former family - making merry, seated at a great table, surrounded by many notable personages from throughout the realms. Thor's laugh boomed throughout the hall and Loki clutched at the tumbler in his hand. It was near empty and he turned to look for a serving girl. The farrier and his family had slunk away after the bulk of the food had been consumed, all horrified to have found themselves sharing a table with the disgraced prince of Asgard. No matter, Loki preferred to be alone, at leisure to enjoy his food and mead, to watch as he pleased...

Of course his enjoyment would be increased twofold if he were to be served in a timely fashion. Again he surveyed the room for any who might serve him.

Ha. His lips twisted at the thought. And who will serve you, Bastard prince?

He kicked out his heels, crossed his arms across his chest and eyed the king's banquet table again. Thor sat, alongside his Midgardian woman, flanked by his usual assortment of warriors, recounting some brave, valiant (and perhaps even true) tale. No shortage of serving wenches up there. Indeed it was considered an honour to attend the premier family of Asgard and thusly was a station reserved for the fairest of the lowly daughters, or the offspring of those with the appropriate titles, but inadequate funds or connections.

One such sweetling had quite forgotten her station, no doubt owing to a generous invite from his soft-hearted brother, and was seated beside the Midgardian woman (Jane, he knew her name but eschewed its use) and Fandral. The woman was clearly out of her depth. Her clothes, though of good quality, did not fit her well and though Loki had no qualms with the sight of such a buxom maid tucked into a tight gown, he noted that she tugged at the neck of her gown at every opportunity.

It was not at all uncommon for lesser families to urge their daughters to serve not only the æsir's appetites for food and drink, but to tease their baser appetites in hope of gaining a better financial or social standing. Mind, with all the delectable flesh that this dark haired wench had on display, he could fault no man for taking what she so clearly offered.

Loki observed with mild curiosity as the girl stood and leaned down to speak to Jane who nodded and pointed toward the back of the hall. Fandral seemed to drink in her every curve as the movement brought her lush full breasts down to the level of his eyes. Loki was powerless to keep the sneer from his face. Oh, yes, she may be a most delectable comfit but he imagined that, much like a comfit, once the colours and sweetness were stripped back she'd be nothing but peasant fare of nuts and seeds. Still, given his detention and prior occupation it had been decades since Loki had indulged in even that much. Had his father not said that Loki was at liberty to take his pleasure as he saw fit this eve? Did that not extend to having one such lush and buxom maid warm his sheets for a few athletic hours? A night between her thighs would tide him over for whatever remained of his interminable imprisonment. Loki adjusted the suddenly heavy weight of his cock beneath the table.

Oh, yes, she would do nicely.

The dark-haired beauty excused herself and passed behind the warriors, briefly stopping as Fandral latched onto her wrist and pulled her down to speak directly into her ear. She blushed, nodded and then continued. Whatever had passed between Fandral (that whoreson) and the girl had pleased the warrior greatly, he sat back with a wide smile and watched her thread her way through merrymakers toward the back of the hall. She was, he noted as she descended from the dias and joined the rest of the mere mortals, simply lovely. Inky curls framed her face and trailed down the nape of her neck to tumble over her shoulders. Her breasts - Loki's tumbler crushed in his grip - men would wage wars to take liberties with such fine breasts.

Not he, he was a God, but he could understand the allure. Lesser men could write sonnets about such attributes. Full and ripe, made for a man's hands. Or his mouth.

Even disgraced, Loki was still recognised as a prince of Asgard. She would be humbled, blessed, when he condescended to grant her his favour. She would demure, play coy, as all maids must. But such pretty play would be easily put aside with a few well crafted lover's words. No more than he'd used for any other strumpet, he knew some poems that had proven effective in the past. It would be worth it by the time he had her skirts over her head... then again, she was far too lovely to be hidden. He would undress her, slowly. The second time at least.

Her path would bring her right past his table. Loki felt the pull of a genuine grin. Oh, but he ached for this.

The banquet had fallen to its usual level of thinly veiled debauchery (at least down at this level) and those at liberty to move away had done so, leaving Loki very much alone and granting him a wide berth. Still, it was perhaps the only benefit of being positioned at such a lowly table - he sat between the young maid and the outdoor amenities. When she was finally within earshot he brandished his mangled tumbler and spoke clearly. "Woman! Attend me."

Yes, that would do quite nicely. It had been years since he'd spoken to a woman other than Frigga.

The wench stopped in her tracks and turned uncertainly, as if looking for another who might answer his call. No such luck, this sweet confection of all that was womanly was alone in his company. If any had chosen to look their way, perhaps, they might have noted the exchange. But drink and music proved far too tempting a diversion for the remaining revellers.

Finding no one in their immediate vicinity she turned her attention to him, her eyes growing wide, nostrils flaring with recognition. Oh, yes, my sweet, it is I. Your prince.

"Erm..." the sound issued from her throat, broken, unsure. She looked around again. Then continued as though she meant to ignore him!

"You court my displeasure, girl!" Loki snapped, "Attend me at once, and do so with mead if you value your pretty hide."

Again she looked around, as if unable to believe that she stood in his presence, her gaze slid to the exit with naked lust. Perhaps he had been too quick to deem her worthy. Loki would not take an addlepated woman to his bed. He required beauty, but no great brilliance. However, if she could not follow simple instruction, she would make for poor bed sport.

He watched her expectantly as she fumbled at a nearby table. She sighted a pitcher beneath a shimmering candelabra and snatched it. Her nose scrunched up as she surveyed the contents, but with a shrug she thumped it down on the table before him. Globular clumps of tallow wax swam in the dregs of the mead pitcher. Well, he hoped she was a better fuck than she was a serving wench.

Still, she continued to edge toward the exit. "There is wax in this, girl." Loki allowed his voice to convey his irritation.

"Can't you just, y'know, pick it out?"

"Pick it ou-" Loki near lost his composure as he echoed her words.

With a shrug she turned to leave. Her disrespect could not be borne. Loki marshalled his residual power, a paltry echo of what he'd once had, but enough to momentarily stiffen her skirts with frost and send her crashing toward the floor. Then it was a simple matter of snagging one delicate flailing hand and hauling her across the table, sending cups and platters flying, and into his lap. She landed soundly across his lap with a slight bounce, the movement edging the blush of her nipples out of her dress. Oh, yes. The disagreeable shrew would do nicely. He'd never been one for pain play with his women, but the thought of smacking the lush arse pressing tight against his stiff shaft brought a rush of blood to his guts.

"Are you out of your freaking mind?!" Loki banded his arms tightly about her as she began to protest and struggle in earnest. "Wait, of course you are. Jesus, let me go!"

Ah. Not an Asgardian then. Unfortunate, as he'd been expressly forbidden from interfering with any not of his own realm over the course of the banquet. Still, the damage was done. Her struggles served to do nothing but cost her her modesty as her lush tight nipples went from 'precariously covered' to 'wickedly exposed'.

Well, Loki was nothing if not a gentleman. He grinned deeply as he dropped his mouth to suckle one sweet fleshy gem, his hand rising to span across the other. It would not do for any wandering eyes to happen across his pet, exposed as she was. He wished, not for the first time, that he still had command of his power. In that moment he'd give anything to cloak them in darkness, to duplicate himself and surround her, to slow her blood with cold while heating her nerves... So much he could have done to her.

Her hand tightened in his hair, verging on a pleasurable sort of pain. Her breath hitched as she gave a delectable mewling sort of noise, caught between a protest and a plea. Oh, this one was responsive. And yet...

She stiffened in his arms seconds before Thor's voice cut through the hall, his tone relaying a wealth of displeasure. "You will unhand the maid at once, Loki!!"

With a wary sigh he removed his mouth and hand, then tugged the bodice of her dress back into place.

"I apologise," he spoke softly to her, dragging his knuckle over the pale swell of her breast, "But it appears I have an audience with my brother. Perhaps another time."

She smiled tightly at him before unleashing her charming and eminently Midgardian reply.

"Fuck off."