Written for the 12 Days of Tasertricks prompt "countdown". Enjoy and have a Happy New Year!
He is counting the minutes, as are all the mortals in the room, only he does it for a completely different purpose.
Twenty minutes until the strike of twelve. Twenty minutes until he can return to the quiet sanctuary of his private quarters. Loki counts each second painstakingly.
It was a lapse of judgement that brought him here. He lowered his guard, entertained the idea of attending this party for one moment, and Thor pounced on his hesitation.
Now his so-called brother is nowhere to be found. Likely engaged in some indecent activity with the Foster woman. Loki cannot even stomach the thought of that, and he pushes the notion away violently before an image takes root in his mind.
He has effectively been abandoned in the centre of a group of loud, crass Midgardians, each growing more inebriated by the moment as the new year approaches.
Loki curses his own stupidity, tugging at his too-tight tie. He never should have left his room. He could be doing something productive, catching up on his reading rather than wasting his time amongst these lowly, uncultured beings.
The smell of alcohol makes his throat sting and the noise of the ballroom seems amplified to his ears; all the laughter, music, and snippets of conversation melding together and roaring in his head like white noise.
He can't breathe.
He elbows his way through the crowd, bumping Captain Rogers particularly hard but Loki does not issue an apology. There is no time for that. His head is pounding, he needs space.
When he reaches the edge of the room he sees a set of French doors leading to the balcony outside. He stumbles through the door and staggers forward until he hits the stone railing. His knuckles are white as he grips the rail with both hands, leaning his head over the balcony and gulping in breaths of fresh air until the buzzing in his head finally ceases.
"Dude, you don't look so good."
A voice speaks over his shoulder and his hands tighten even harder on the railing. Solitude, that is all he asks for, but apparently it is too great of a request.
He recognizes the voice instantly. Darcy Lewis, the small brunette assistant to Doctor Foster.
When he spins and faces her, face twisted into a sneer as he prepares to tell her off, all the air he so greedily inhaled leaves his lungs instantly.
She is sitting alone on a stone bench in the corner, one leg crossed over the other in a way that causes her black party dress to ride up and expose an obscene amount of one pale thigh.
He tries to look away but his eyes disobey, following the line of her legs down until his gaze rests on her tall, strappy heels. His stomach gives an unexpected lurch and he inhales sharply, focusing his attention anywhere but on those legs.
There is nowhere else to look, though. Her shoulders are bare, appearing to be just as soft and creamy as her thighs, and the mass of her dark hair is thrown over her left shoulder, falling in a perfect tangle of curls that ends just above her cleavage.
"Um, Loki? You okay?" There is concern on her face and it's only then that Loki realizes he hasn't spoken a single word; just stared at her like an utter fool.
"Fine." His voice cracks and he wonders when he became so undeserving of his title of Silver-Tongued Liar.
Lewis can see that he is quite obviously not fine, and she stands, wobbling precariously on her heels as she takes a few hesitant steps towards him.
"Sit," she urges, "you look like you're gonna pass out."
She reaches for his arm but then thinks better of it, letting her hand fall to her side and drawing her lower lip between her teeth in a sign of nervous awkwardness.
She's afraid of him.
Good.
"I'm fine," he says again, and this time his voice is steady enough that Lewis does not question it.
She nods her head but makes no move to leave. Even with the extra height of her black pumps, Loki still finds himself looking at her forehead. She really is a tiny thing. His chest feels uncomfortably tight and he turns away from her, bracing his forearms on the stone railing and looking out over the dark expanse of the gardens below.
Lewis copies his movements, leaning her elbows on the flat top of the railing. She's close enough that Loki can make out the fine details of her features, but not so close so as to actually touch him.
Loki considers making her move but he feels exhausted. He doesn't have the energy to yell at her so he lets her be, and he very firmly tells himself that this decision has nothing to do with how nice she smells.
"Fucking Stark, eh?" She speaks out of the blue and Loki can only blink at her uncomprehendingly.
"Stark," she repeats, lifting an arm and gesturing to the gardens with a sweeping motion. "This is all his property. Fucking billionaires, right?" She rolls her eyes and the corner of her mouth quirks up into a crooked smile.
"I am a prince, I am accustomed to wealth," he says stupidly, because he doesn't know what else to say.
It's obviously not the response she was hoping for and her smile drops. "Oh, right. This must be like small potatoes for you. Everything's bigger and better in Asgard."
"Everything," he confirms with a deep look.
She catches his innuendo and blushes. It should not make Loki feel as proud as it does.
"Why are you alone?" The question leaves his lips before he even registers opening his mouth.
Lewis lifts her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Contrary to what everyone might think, I'm actually not much of a party girl," she admits, tracing her finger along a crack in the stone railing.
Loki can't help but notice that her nails are painted black to match her dress and shoes. It contrasts with her pale skin and under the subtle light of the moon she looks like an unearthly goddess.
His heart is pounding hard against his ribcage. He tears his eyes away from her but it doesn't seem to help. He can still feel her presence, taste the scent of her on the back of his tongue, and he briefly wonders if he's going mad. No woman, Aesir, Midgardian or otherwise, has ever affected him quite like this.
"Why are you alone?" She directs his question back at him as she pulls a piece of hair between her fingers, playing with it absently.
Her hair is a glossy, rich chocolate brown and Loki wonders whether it feels as soft as it looks. He vividly envisions her lying across his bed, the mass of her soft brown waves fanned out over his sheets, and arousal hits him with a hard blow to the stomach.
He wants to take her to his bedroom and fuck her until she's crying his name.
He wants to throw up.
He isn't sure what he wants anymore.
"Loki?"
He's gotten lost in his own head but her voice pulls him out and when he resurfaces, he can only blink at her.
She opens her mouth but whatever she's about to say is cut off by loud chanting filtering through the open door.
"Ten...nine...eight..."
"Almost midnight," Lewis says, smiling up at him with that odd, crooked smile that Loki has become much too fond of.
"Yes," he says, brilliant wordsmith that he is.
"Do you have New Years traditions on Asgard? Here you're supposed to kiss someone at midnight. For good luck or something like that." Her shoulder brushes against his arm and Loki feels as though his heart has leapt into his throat.
"Five...four...three..."
He swallows hard and when he looks into her eyes, he is helpless. They are a dazzling blue, shining vividly despite the lack of light in the sky above. When he drops his gaze to her lips, he finds that they are plump and inviting, stained a flattering shade of red that he aches to taste.
He refuses to deny himself any longer. He hates this party. Hates Stark and Rogers and, most days, Thor as well. Hates Odin for leaving him here. Hates that he's never able to find a moment of peace in this world that is too noisy, too dirty, too wasteful. He hates everything about this damned realm, except maybe the woman in front of him. He's endured so much; shouldn't he allow himself this one small indulgence?
"Two...one..."
He dips his head and hears her quick intake of breath just before he presses his lips against hers.
The partygoers inside erupt into a cacophony of cheers and applause but it all goes unnoticed by Loki when Darcy slides her arms around his neck and returns his kiss with a fierceness that surprises him.
Her mouth is warm and pliant and utterly intoxicating, so much better than he could have ever imagined. Loki presses his hand firmly against the small of her back, drawing her body tight against his.
She's warm all over, he notes, and her soft curves mold against him with an easiness that almost frightens him.
He brings his other hand to her hair, plunging it into the thick strands. Yes, just as soft as he suspected.
She makes a little mewling noise that causes his pulse to quicken. He's painfully stiff in his pants but he doesn't know what to do. He feels like's just been transported back to his youth, inexperienced and unsure of himself.
When she pulls back, she's panting heavily and watching him with hooded eyes. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen. Loki feels a tug deep in his gut as a sudden streak of possessiveness comes over him. Yes, he decides, he will be the only one to ever kiss those lips. That look of utter pleasure on her face is now reserved for him and him alone.
"Wow," Darcy's tongue flicks out to wet her bottom lip and Loki feels himself twitch in his pants. "So if that's any indication, I'm gonna have one hell of a good new year."
She grins and it's the most beautiful thing Loki has ever seen.
"A good year," Loki echoes as he considers her comment, letting the idea roll around inside his head.
He must look as perplexed as he feels because Lewis is smiling again as she reaches up and wipes a smudge of lipstick off his mouth.
When the pad of her thumb drags across his lower lip, he can feel his heart stutter, missing a beat before it resumes thudding heavily in his chest. He wants to kiss her again. He parts his lips and lets his tongue brush against her thumb.
She sucks in a breath and makes a quiet little 'oh' sound and it's all the encouragement he needs to grip her by the waist and drop his mouth to hers once more.
This time he bucks his hips against her experimentally, gauging her reaction, and he's pleased to find that she doesn't pull away. If anything, she pulls him closer, arching her body against him enticingly.
"Fuck," she rasps once she's torn her mouth away from his. She slides her hands inside his suit jacket and he can feel the heat of her fingers burn through his shirt and into his skin like a brand as they skim across his ribs and down his back. "Definitely bigger and better."
He doesn't understand what she's saying until she rubs herself against the bulge in the front of his pants, then their earlier talk of Asgard returns to him with startling clarity.
Could she possibly want him?
It seems like such an absurd notion, he dismisses the thought immediately but he cannot deny that she is eager, responsive and yielding to his touch. Perhaps he is affecting her just as much as she is him.
"Would you...that is, may you wish to..." Damn it all to Hel, he can barely speak around this girl.
He is saved from any further embarrassment when Rogers steps out onto the balcony and clears his throat. "Darcy, Jane's looking for you."
Her hands drop from his back and when she steps away, Loki instantly misses her touch, feeling a cold, uneasy emptiness settle over him.
"Thanks, Steve. I'll be right in." Her voice is still husky as she smiles at Rogers. Loki is pleased to see that it's a bland, tight-lipped smile, not the small crooked grin she reserves for him (although he still wants to rip the Captain's head from his body for daring to interrupt them).
Rogers lingers for a moment, as if he can't quite believe that Darcy is willingly spending time in the company of Loki. When the Captain's eyes land on him, Loki stares back unblinkingly. He feels a white hot anger beginning to simmer in his veins and he forces the feeling down, distracting himself with the thought of burying a knife deep in Rogers' belly. It would be a satisfying, bloody death, he thinks.
He is picturing the last rattling breath leaving Rogers' lungs when Darcy's fingers wrap around his and pull him back to the present.
"I have to go, my ride's leaving," she says apologetically as she squeezes his hand.
When her fingers start sliding out of his, Loki panics and grips her hand tightly, preventing her from drawing away.
Lewis stares at their linked hands for a moment before she raises her face to him. He takes the opportunity to study her properly, to etch every detail of her into his memory before he must let her go.
Her eyelashes are long and full, fanning over her cheeks each time she blinks. Her lips are still wet from his kisses and her lipstick is smeared. The back of her hair is completely disheveled after his fingers combed through the dark waves. She looks as though she's been thoroughly debauched and a smug sense of satisfaction settles over Loki.
"I want to see you again," she says, "you're living here, right? In the tower?"
He despises being caged and watched over by his brother; is furious that he must accept room and board from Tony Stark, but if it means that he will see her again, he will call the Avengers Tower his home for however long the need may be.
"Yes," he rubs his thumb over her knuckles, reluctant to release her.
She smiles that soft, crooked smile and Loki wonders if she would smile at him like that if he were to be between her legs, making her come. He hopes to find out.
She pulls her fingers from his and reaches up with both hands, gripping the lapels of his jacket as she tugs him down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek.
"Happy New Year, Loki." Her voice is soft and warm against his ear and then the heat of her body is suddenly gone. She's walking back into the ballroom, leaving him alone, lost, and slightly dazed.
He will see her again. He holds that knowledge close as he watches her walk away (she looks back over her shoulder once and this immensely pleases him). This is not the end, this is only the beginning. It is the dawn of a new year and he has all the time in the world.