~*Loki POV*~
Crisp suit.
Silk tie.
5-carat diamond stickpin.
Sigh. Dressed to impress with no one on this godforsaken planet worth impressing. Relegated to Midgard until further notice thanks to my darling brother.
I was cast out of Asgard due to scheming and just really trying to have a bit of fun (as though this would surprise anyone) and the least I can do is try not to look like I was hurled at the speed of light from a universe an unknown distance away. Which, if you were paying attention, you know that I was.
Of course it's all because of my brainlessly valiant brother Thor. He is what they call a "hero", one of those forces of nature completely unstoppable. He mows down all in his path with no concern for the aftermath littered with debris in his wake. Typical fool, and a noble one at that.
Everyone knows that's the worst kind.
Stripped of the protection Odin had once granted me, I wandered the streets of a large city called Chicago before acquiring what I needed to relocate; i.e., Midgard money, passable false identification, and suitable clothing.
It was hopelessly dirty in Chicago, and the air was stifling, not to mention the swarms of people milling about like ants on a hill. I shudder to think.
The money was easy to retrieve; I charmed a few mortals out of their pocketbooks and wallets, which they were all too happy to hand over.
The clothing was again, easy. Plenty of places to get an exquisitely cut suit.
The identification...that was a bit more difficult. There were hoops to jump through if I wanted to pass for a mortal, people to see and do favors for.
Eventually I tired of it and, regrettably, was forced to eliminate a few links in the chain.
With my new mortal identity and my funds secure, I set up a (hopefully not) permanent residence in a town full of trees and old houses and long winding roads. My house is creaky and bleak and belonged to a curmudgeonly old writer who died stinking of booze at his desk.
I am quite fond of it.
Today, however, I am in a foul mood. I went into town to search for some books and instead am being plagued by thoughts of my infernal nuisance false family. Not only was I awoken at an unholy hour by a racket next door, but I seem to have been crashed into by one of these infuriated mortals.
"Shit! Fucking Christ on a bicycle! Would it kill you to watch where you're walking?"
Infuriating, yet amusing.
I seem to have bumped into a young woman. A tall, slender, white-blonde woman.
I loathe blondes.
Still, the smirk that tugs at my lips is inevitable as I take in the sight of this mortal picking up page after page of lined paper with little marks on it. Dots and lines.
"Perhaps you should learn to anticipate when a passerby might be lost in thought and therefore unable to avoid collision with your-beg pardon-unstoppable force."
No sooner than the words pass my lips do I reap the rewards; the way her anger colors her porcelain cheeks makes her almost pretty, and the way it flashes in her bright grey-green eyes sends a tremor of excitement through me.
What can I say? I adore conflict, getting someone's ire up.
"Look, dude, I don't care how fancy your suit is or how snotty you wanna get with me. Be a damn gentleman and help me pick up my sheet music before it gets ruined!"
For a fleeting second I feel rage bubble up, threatening my cool demeanor, but I manage to suppress it as I always have.
I help her gather up the pages, crouching down in a suit which, needless to say, was not cheap.
"Forgive me, madam. I find myself in a daze this afternoon. Is there any way I might redeem myself?"
Smooth as polished alabaster.
My charms, I mean, not her mortal (albeit luminous) skin.
She pulls a face as though I am a toad rather than the elegant god in human form that I know myself to be.
She scoffs at me. Scoffs. At me.
"Yeah, how about buying me some more staff paper? Not to mention a new pair of gloves. Ugh." she groans as her knees crack and she stands upright once more.
This mortal is fiery. It amuses me so much, more than anything has in the month that I have been stuck here, that I wish to keep her engaged as long as this feeling lasts. That gives me an idea.
"Would you settle for having a drink with me? I would love to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to win your favor."
The bait has been laid, the trap set. She looks perturbed and frustrated, yet she does not refuse outright.
Oh, I'd forgotten how much fun this game could be.
"I don't know you from a hole in the wall...but...ahhhh fuck it. Yeah. Yes. Take me for a drink."
Seducing a woman, winning her heart, making her feel like she is queen of your world and then ripping it all out from under her; it is a time-consuming game but there are few that I enjoy more.
I may not have Thor's bulk nor his bravery, but I didn't get the name Silvertongue for nothing.
"Excellent. We can go anywhere you like, Ms...what shall I call you?"
She pushes back her pale hair with one hand and blinks those sloe-green eyes at me like a baby deer.
"Sigyn. Sorenson. Gin for short. Who are you?"
She is rough around the edges, unrefined, yet I find myself enjoying her company already.
"Laufeyson. Loki Laufeyson. Let us hope the rest of our evening goes more smoothly than our initial...meeting." I say extending my hand to her.
I almost give her my former surname, Odinson, but catch myself. Why lie? I think bitterly.
Sigyn, Gin, shakes my hand firmly once with a stronger grip than I'd anticipated.
Excellent, I think once more as we walk down the puddle-ridden sidewalk. Excellent.
~*Gin POV*~
I'm at O'Callahan's on this foggy autumn day with a total stranger. I can't help but wonder what my life is coming to.
Still, he's paying for drinks, and I'm choosing to try and make the best of a what's been a pretty crap day.
What I know about so far is his name (Loki), his age (30), and that he is very rich and extremely difficult to razz.
I mean, he's so slick it's like he's been polished.
So basically, I've been trying to push buttons hoping that I'll cross some line and get him as upset as I was earlier (my unfinished symphony and other arrangements scattered and soggy on the ground. Sob.) but nothing has worked.
He's remarkably evasive and it's pissing me off.
He's certainly not hurting my eyes at all, in any case. He sips his old-fashioned and peers up at me with round eyes as green-blue as they come, watery and pink-rimmed like he stepped out of a Botticelli painting.
God, listen to me. I've definitely had one too many.
Loki's thin lips seem to always be in a state of purgatory between a half-smirk of amusement and a somber twist of distaste, though he smiles like a hungry snake. I don't like that.
Or maybe I do?
Ugh.
The bartender, Mac Reynolds, has been giving me waggly eyebrows all night. It's like everyone here knows me (they do) and knows that I'm being hit on (I'm not sure if I am.)
"Where do you come from, Mr. Laufeyson? I mean, your accent is hardly American..." I don't add 'not to mention you're way too handsome'.
He swirls the melting ice around in his third glass of bourbon with one long index finger, which seems uncharacteristic for someone so clean.
"That is true, I'm not an American by birth. I was born in...Norway. My parents moved me and my...brother...to England when we were young. My accent I'm sure has a little sprinkling of Germanic in with the Queen's English."
He seems to tense visibly at the mention of his family, a fact to which I can wholeheartedly relate. I wonder if his brother sucks too.
"But you don't want to hear about me. I want to hear about you, about your music. Quite an ambitious amount of paper I knocked on the ground earlier."
He flashes that charming smile-smirk my way again and I can't stand it. I can't stand the way it accentuates his knife-sharp cheekbones even more and makes me want to finish my drinks faster.
I can't stop playing with my hair.
I'm afraid I might be more than halfway to drunk city.
"I would love to tell you allll about my music, Loki, but," I am kicking myself before the words even come out, "I'm getting more and more intoxicated as the conversation goes on, and I should tell you now that I walked into town today and would you mind terribly being a gentleman and taking me to my house?"
He chuckles and brushes his knuckles across my flushed cheek, smiles, and does up the buttons of my coat. Maybe it's all the booze, but I feel suddenly too hot for the room.
"Of course, Gin. A lady should always be accompanied home when it's late. Lucky for you, I happen to be an expert navigator. Just give me your address."
I do, and we head out to the street where he offers his arm to me. We start down the sidewalk once more, me relying on him for balance and he walking straight as if he'd never touched a drop tonight.
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~*Loki POV*~
"And that's when I told them I'd rather live in the Yukon territory in a cave than live in that house with them anymore!"
Gin's face is flushed with alcohol and enthusiasm as she gives me a rousing account of her estrangement from her family.
I'm glad I inquired about the photograph on her piano, a framed picture of her father and younger brother.
Her brother is a brawny young man, blonde and smiling in the photo. He reminds me quite a lot of a clean-shaved mortal version of my own brother.
We're sitting in a room with a piano, a few couches, and shelf after shelf filled to the brim with books. Ironically, she lives not five houses away from me, and it turns out the ruckus this morning was her dog chasing after a squirrel.
Her dog, what she called a Siberian, is actually quite likable and in fact sitting beside me on the couch with her head laying in my lap.
"There'll be hair all over you, I'm so sorry." Gin grimaced when the dog claimed me. I like the dog. She looks like a wolf, and her eyes are odd; one blue and one brown.
"It is of no consequence to me, Gin Sorenson. Sorenson. Swedish, perhaps?"
She nods, closing her eyes.
"Swedish-Irish. My mom was Colleen McGuinness. I get the pale skin and the green eyes from her. Everything else," she gestures loosely to her body, "is courtesy of my dear father Axel."
After our arrival at her home, Gin has since changed clothes. I will never get used to the freedom with which mortals display their bodies and skin; she wears a thin top with no sleeves, and short pants which may as well not be there at all, giving me a supreme view of her long legs.
I confess I have not felt the flesh of a woman in a long, long time, and I cannot help but think how she might feel under my hands...
No.
Not yet.
First, I must make her love me, truly love me. I know it would be too easy now, with the drink in her blood and the way she glances at me from across the room.
"Go on, then. Play me something," I suggest, waving my hand at the piano, hoping to deter anymore lust-filled looks from her. She sighs somewhat disappointedly before staggering over to the baby grand and plopping her willowy body onto the bench.
Then she starts moving her hands across the polished keys, closing her eyes and entering a dreamlike state as the most astounding sounds are coaxed forth from her instrument.
Crescendoes and thunderous melodies give way to haunting measures and harmonies, and I can't help the feeling of satisfaction that overwhelms me at hearing this masterful composition.
She rocks with her music, forward and back, and her trance seems primal and passionate. The thought again creeps into my mind what it would be like to bed her...
Would she like for me to dominate her, or would she refuse to be controlled?
Either way, I refuse to rush this. For the game to work, one must be patient.
When Gin finishes her piece, she looks positively drunk, slumping over the keys and slurring some unintelligible words at me. I take it upon myself to carry her up the treacherous stairs to what I deduce is her bedroom, laying her gently down on a heap of pillows.
Just as I am turning to go, however, she reaches up with the agility of a striking snake and grabs my forearm.
"Stay?" she mumbles, and for some unknown reason, I feel compelled to do just that.
