RATING: T
GENRE: College AU, Non-magical AU, Humor, Romance
SUMMARY: [Sequel to Seven Minutes] After their make-out in the closet, Loki's gone back to acting as nothing more than Jane's academic rival. That is, until Darcy decides that a frat party is the next item Jane needs to check off of her list.
PROMPT: Fookasu221 left this message in my Tumblr askbox: "You know, I re-read today Seven Minutes, your College AU with the 'spin the bottle' prompt, and I gotta say, I love it! It's great, it's so much fun, and it'd be amazing if it gets any kind of continuation. Maybe you'll consider it sometime?"
A/N: I hope this suits! (Also, apologies to anyone associated with Sigma Phi Delta; I took some artistic license here.)
SIGMA PHI DELTA
After eight months of working here, Jane no longer hears the clank of coffee mugs, the burble and hiss of the espresso machine. The Grind is a couple of blocks off campus, a hole-in-the-wall shop that attracts a mellow, studious crowd with mismatched overstuffed chairs and couches. The dark wood paneling, rusty brick walls, pendant lighting with deep orange and yellow globes gives off a comfortable, languid vibe. This isn't the kind of place to rattle off a three paragraph order and then dash off to class.
Jane lucked out landing a job here. They don't normally hire freshmen—not that she's a true freshman, not with two years of college credits under her belt by the time she finished high school—but one of her TA's, Betty, put a good word in for her.
"So, there's a rager tonight over at Sigma Phi Delta. A couple of guys are in the frat," Darcy says as she wipes down the counter by the register. It's late afternoon, and there are only a few customers in the shop, spread out in the corners, either behind the glow of a laptop or curled up with a book. "That's next one for you."
Jane grimaces. "We already crossed 'party' off." She doesn't mention the other item that was check-marked that night on Darcy's "Things Jane Must Do in Order to Become a Normal Human" list.
Darcy imitates a loud game show buzzer. "Wrong. Try again," she says, tossing the rag toward the small hamper by the back wall. The wet thing lands half on the lid and slips down to the floor. Jane raises an eyebrow, but Darcy is already focused on laying out her mission. "That was like an awkward tween get-together. I mean, yeah, there was some alcohol and some pot—though you refused to partake in the latter."
"I drank something!" Jane didn't love it, though—especially when it made her stupid enough to play tonsil hockey with her arch nemesis.
"Yeah, I know." Darcy rolls her eyes. "And it's not like I'm saying you have to smoke or vape a little something-something so you can join the ranks of the initiated. If it's not your thing, it's not your thing. I can respect that. But a frat party is another animal."
"What? More alcohol and drugs and random hook-ups?" Jane levels a flat look at her friend.
"No!" Darcy argues, but then seems to think better of it. "Well, yeah. Kinda. But it depends on the frat. Sigma Phi Delta isn't like 'Animal House.' Come on, Jane. You have to—just so you can say you did."
"Why?" Jane asks, though she's pretty sure it's another one of those "you only live once" things. Yeah, no thanks. She's more of the seatbelt-wearing, drive-the-speed-limit kind of YOLO girl. (Unless science is involved, then all bets are off. Because science .)
"Why? Why?" Darcy says, sounding flabbergasted that Jane would even ask. "Because, dude, these are the formative experiences that you've been denied. You're emotionally and socially stunted."
"Really?" Jane crosses her arms. She may not be a social butterfly, but she's not Wednesday Addams either.
"Okay, you're not that bad," Darcy relents. "But—and I say this from a place of love—I think maybe you never learned how to have fun. All work and no play leads to you ending up in the psych ward because you stripped naked in the Commons and wrote warp theory all over your body."
"Oh my god , Darcy!" Jane hisses, cutting a glance around the small shop in the hope that no one overheard that gem.
Darcy spreads her hands. "Man, I'm just calling it like I see it," she says. "Come to the party tonight. The whole gang is going to be there."
The whole gang? Does that mean Loki, too? Jane ducks her head to hide the sudden warmth creeping across her face. She spent a couple of days doing her best to avoid him outside of class, but it turned out to be a wasted effort. Apparently, he's content to act as if nothing happened last Sunday. And that's fine. Just fine.
Because she'd rather chew her arm off than be forced to see him again socially.
She picked up an empty tray and rag. "Sorry, gonna have to take a raincheck," she says with fake disappointment. "Study group tonight." It's not a complete lie; she is going to study.
Darcy's expression falls in obvious disbelief. "On a Saturday night?"
"Yep." Jane shrugs.
"Dude, finals are, like, a month away." Darcy crosses her arms. She's clearly not buying it.
"Well, you know—nerds are like that." Jane flashes a smile and steps around the counter. A couple of people have left, and cleaning up after them seems like a better idea than continuing this conversation.
"We're not done talking about this!" Darcy calls after her.
"Yes, we are!"
There's a corner in the library that Jane has claimed as her own. It's hidden on the third floor behind some stacks that get sporadic traffic. A row of partitioned desks are pressed up against the wall, ending with a small table. That table is hers.
The smooth wooden surface is currently strewn with a half-dozen open books, spiral-bound notebooks, and her laptop. She's sporting earbuds, but they're soundless. Wearing them seems to ward off anyone looking to strike up a conversation. (Seriously, who chats in a library? Apparently a lot of people.)
This, she loves. She's heard of artists talking about the creative process as a compulsion, as necessary and desperate as taking a next breath. Academia is that for her. She doesn't know how to turn off her passion for learning, for making new connections. Others look at the vast night sky twinkling with stars and see simple beauty. She sees possibilities. A million of them so far beyond reach, and yet beckoning to her like sirens in a dark sea. It lights her up inside.
That's the high she chases. There's nothing better. Definitely not a party. Definitely not a make-out session with—
Her cheeks burn before she can finish that dishonest thought. She doesn't want to admit that jerk had managed to light her up in an entirely different way. It had to have been an anomaly. She blames the alcohol, the contact high—that and it was the first time she'd been kissed properly. It wasn't about him, specifically.
Granted, that's just a theory. The scientific method demands more data, more proof. She'd have to repeat the encounter, this time without the mood altering substances.
No. No. She is not thinking about locking lips with the devil of Experimental Physics. Never, ever again.
She redoubles her focus on the assignment that isn't due for another two weeks, reaching for her copy of Experiments in Modern Physics, but she's startled when it's yanked out of her hand. She glances up, face simultaneously falling and catching on fire when her gaze lands on the man in question settling opposite her. Loki casually props his booted feet on the table, tips the chair back and leafs through the pages of her book.
Jane grits her teeth. He's so rude. And worse: after that moment in the closet six days ago, she's having a hard time not being aware of how attractive he is—physically. (Like she could ever find his personality attractive. No. Gross.) Somehow his emo look has morphed in her mind into an alluring goth-vampire-rockstar thing. His raven hair is half-tied back, the top hidden beneath a beanie. He wears a threadbare Metallica t-shirt, a dark plaid button-down tied around his waist, and black jeans tucked into a pair of Doc Martens. A few bracelets, leather and hemp, ring loosely around his wrists, and she's mildly surprised none of them have metal studs. And the black nail polish and that British accent—
Stop staring at him! It was just one kiss, for crying out loud! And because of her limited experience, she can't even say definitively that it was that great.
She clears her throat—more to snap herself out of this ridiculous lapse than to get his attention, but he looks up all the same. She narrows her eyes to a glower. "What are you doing here?" she asks too loudly.
He presses a finger to his lips, then mimes taking out an earbud. She forgot she had them in, and it's a tense beat before she decides to pop them out.
"What are you doing here?" she asks again, this time in a whisper.
"Don't tell me you haven't gotten this one yet," he replies with a nod toward the book he's stolen. "Didn't you do the pre-reads?"
She rises, reaching across the table to grab it from him. "Of course, I've read it! I'm just using it as a reference for our assignment." Why is she bothering to explain herself to him?
He makes a derisive sound. "Experimental Physics: Modern Methods is better."
"Oh, really?" She glares at him as she retrieves her copy of that book beneath a pile of others, and holds it up. "Weird how I already knew that." She lets both books fall on the table with a soft thump. "You can go away now. Or do I have to fling Holy Water at you to banish you from this realm of innocents."
He huffs a soft, rasping laugh but annoyingly doesn't move an inch. "I like you, Foster."
Liar, she wants to say. If he liked her, he would have made an effort to be a friend. At the very least, he wouldn't have ignored her all week. Not that she cares. She doesn't. "That's too bad," she returns coolly, "because I don't like you." She hates that he brings out the worst in her. She's normally a nice person. Maybe a little—okay, a lot—awkward and excitable, but nice.
"Are you sure about that?" He raises a brow, tongue grazing his bottom lip as his eyes dip briefly in acute perusal. "You seemed to like me very much last weekend."
She tramps down the memory of his hands gripping the back of her thighs, his mouth against hers, rough and wet. "You wish." The words come out breathless, and she wants to bang her forehead against the table.
He smirks and swings his legs down, leaning forward on his elbows. "What else is on the list?"
"What list?"
"The list of things you missed out on from you sheltered upbringing."
"How do you know about that?" The stunned question rolls off her tongue without thinking, and his mouth stretches in a wide grin.
"I'm to drag you—kicking and screaming if necessary—to the party tonight," he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket. "Because, and I quote, 'Jane's gotta check that off of her list.'" He unlocks it and holds the screen toward Jane.
She blinks at it, the words bleeding together. Group text? That she's not a part of, but apparently they're talking about her? Great. So he's only here because Darcy made him come to get her. That's cool. Whatever.
Loki flips the phone back toward himself, glances down at it. "According to your friend, this is essential for your social development."
Jane is going to kill Darcy. Kill her dead . She sent that to the entire group! "Actually, there have been numerous studies that have shown homeschooled kids are just as capable socially as their public school peers," Jane replies. "And we tend to do better academically, by the way." She means that one as a thinly veiled insult of his education, though for all she knows, he could have gone to some stuffy school like Eton. (She doesn't even know how old he is.)
"If you say so." He shrugs as if he doesn't give a damn about her assertions. "Are you coming, or shall we see about checking off something else on your list?"
She snorts. "We? As in you and me?"
"Well, yes," he says in a somber tone. "I'm always available to help a friend in need."
She snorts again. "We're not friends."
His mouth twists in a grin that makes her think of movie villains. "We've certainly been friendly, though."
"Oh, god." She rolls her eyes, willing away the blush inching up her neck. "Get over it already."
He tilts his head and studies her with that unsettling smile. "Why? You haven't."
She gives serious consideration to hurling one of her textbooks at him. Instead, she stands up and starts gathering her things. "You know what? I'm going to let you off the hook. You can tell Darcy that you couldn't find me," she says as she snaps her laptop shut and shoves it in her bag.
He leans back in his seat and cocks a brow. "Where are you going?"
"Wherever you're not." She gives him a plastic smile.
"Hm. That's going to be a problem."
"Why?"
"Because I plan to be wherever you are tonight." He stands up, snatching one of her notebooks from the table before she can.
"That's called stalking." She makes a swipe for the notebook, but he easily holds it out of her reach. Vertically gifted bastard. "Give it back."
He doesn't, of course. Because he isn't nice. He never has been. "What's on the list?"
"I don't have a list," she says quickly, but her eyes betray her. They jump to the notebook he's holding hostage, and he doesn't miss the movement either. Dammit.
"You don't? Shall we confirm that?" He opens it, flips through the pages as he deftly steps back when she makes another attempt to take it from him. He stops halfway through, and her body blazes from her head to her toes. He clucks his tongue in exaggerated disapproval. "Why Jane Foster, you dirty little liar."
But she hadn't lied, not really. Yes, there's a list, but it's one that Darcy scribbled in her notebook. None of those ideas were Jane's. "Give it to me," she warns through gritted teeth to hide her growing desperation.
"TP-ing a house, sneaking out in the middle of the night," he reads aloud. "Frat party. What do you know? It is on the list." He winks at her.
"Give. It. Back." Please, please.
"Skinny dipping—oh, I like that one," he continues on. "Sloppy make-out in the 's an idea. We could cross that one off right now."
"Loki."
"And—oh, Foster." He looks up at her with a feigned mix of shock and pity. "I had no idea you were that inexperienced. You really do need my help."
Mortification turns to rage, awakening something feral inside of Jane. She lets out an inhuman screech and launches herself at him, slamming them both into the row of partitioned desks. She wrestles the stupid notebook from him, scrambles away from him. He laughs as she tears the page out and shreds it.
"There. Is. No. List," she growls, and then throws the notebook in her bag. "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and leave me alone—just like you've been doing all week."
Loki straightens, adjusting the t-shirt twisted around his torso. She's angry with herself that she actually glanced at the flash of a muscular V-line near the waistband of his jeans. God, why can't people's looks be directly related to their personality? "Is that why you're surly?" he asks. "Your feelings were hurt that I didn't chase after you and beg you for another round?"
She scoffs. "I just told you to keep ignoring me. I'm surly because you won't!"
He's quiet for a beat, studies her with a shrewd look, and she tips her chin up in defiance. Because he's wrong about her being disappointed by his apathy towards her. If anything, she was relieved. Absolutely. One hundred percent.
"Cross one item off your list with me," he says. When she opens her mouth to argue, he amends, "Your nonexistent list."
She shakes her head. "No."
"Come on, Foster." He takes a step toward her, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a ghost of a smile. There's a whisper of a dimple in his cheek. She's determined to hate dimples from now on. And unfairly symmetrical, angular features. And pale eyes that seem to see everything. All of it. "It's just a bit of fun—harmless, really. I'll even let you choose which one we do."
"Let me?" She glares at him.
He steps another few inches closer, and she has to crane her neck to keep her gaze on his. "Too chicken?"
The dare hangs in the air between them. Why? Why is he being so stubborn about this? She wants to tell him to do unmentionable things to himself and stalk away, but he's boxed her into a "damned if she does, damned if she doesn't" no-win scenario again.
"Fine," she grinds out. She's going with the safest bet, the one where she doesn't actually have to do anything with him. "Take me to that damn party."
He gives her a radiant smile—a disturbingly genuine one—as he tugs the strap of her heavy bag out of her hand and slings it over his shoulder. "Let's go, then."
Darcy was right. This is very different from the basement gathering she dragged Jane to last weekend, but at the same time, it's not nearly as wild as film and television have made frat parties out to be. The house isn't the opulent mansion with marble pillars that Jane imagined. It's big, but pretty nondescript otherwise. She wouldn't have guessed it was the home of Sigma Phi Delta if it weren't for the sign over the door—and its location.
There are a few scattered groups on the front lawn, holding plastic cups and chatting casually. A few heads turn in their direction as Loki leads her to the entrance, but their gazes slide over her as if she's invisible. Oh, yeah. This is super fun.
It's more crowded inside, louder with music and conversation. Loki grasps her hand, drags her through rooms so quickly that she almost has to jog to keep up with his ridiculously long legs. They pass a room where the furniture's been pushed against the walls to make room for dancing. She's surprised to catch a glimpse of a live band set up in the corner before Loki tugs her into the kitchen. Someone tries to hand her a cup of something, but she begs off. There's no way in hell that she's going to drink when she's anywhere near Loki.
He swings the back door open and barely has her across the threshold when he collides with a couple headed indoors.
"Shit, man. Watch where you're going," mutters the guy brushing away the drink that spilled on his button-down. He looks familiar—average height but handsome, exuding a presence like a neutron star that pulls everyone into his orbit—but Jane can't place him. His companion is a leggy brunette who could be a Victoria's Secret model.
The guy's expression turns sour when his gaze lands on Loki. "Great. My Chemical Romance has come out of his lair and it's not even a full moon." He gives Jane a cursory glance, eyes pausing briefly on her hand in Loki's. "Where's Lorelei? Or did you trade her in for a newer model?" He glances at Jane again. "No offense snack-size, I'm sure you're a great gal."
Jane's stomach churns at the mention of another girl associated with Loki. Probably because the idea of anyone wanting to put up with the egotistical bully is rank. Yeah. That's it.
Loki's fingers curl painfully tight around hers, though he huffs a soft laugh. "How's Pepper?" he asks the other guy. "Still keeping the poor girl on ice while you sleep your way through Greek row?"
That wipes the smug look from the other guy's face. (Where does Jane know him from?) "You know what? You don't get to talk about her," he warns in a low voice. "Screw you, Laufeyson."
Loki gives him an answering smile that borders on psychotic. "Only in your wildest dreams, Stark."
That's right! He's Tony Stark. The genius playboy who has more money than the gross national product of most small countries. And he's very obviously not a Loki fan. Shocker.
Loki doesn't wait for a comeback from Tony, but yanks Jane away as he makes a beeline for the hot tub at the far end of the pool.
"You should write a book on how to win friends and influence people," she says sarcastically. "You've got a special gift."
He rolls his eyes. "Stark is a spoiled, narcissistic arsehole."
"Takes one to know one."
He glances at her, and she prepares herself for a biting retort. But he laughs instead, an authentic, full-body thing without a contemptuous edge to it, and it's weird. "Maybe, Foster. Maybe."
Before she can ask why he's acting not-mean, she hears her name being called. Darcy waves at her from the hot tub. The girl is squeezed between some of the gang from last week's get-together, and Jane's not entirely sure that's a bikini she's wearing. There's way too much lace on that red top.
"You're here!" Darcy exclaims. "Look, Jane's here!"
The rest of the group gives Jane the same kind of "yeah, cool, whatever" greetings they gave her last time. She returns it with a perfunctory wave and a smile that doesn't quite make it to her eyes.
"I knew he'd convince you to come." Darcy glances to the handsome blond next to her. What was his name again? Mandy? Randy? Fandy—Fandral. "Didn't I tell you he would? You owe me a raunchy strip-tease."
Fandral laughs. "I do. I should have known better than to bet against you," he says. "Will you be wanting that right now or…" He stands up and hooks his fingers into his—yep, those are definitely boxer briefs.
The others jeer and splash water at him until he laughs again and settles back down next to Darcy, draping an arm across her shoulders. Jane lets out the breath that was trapped in her chest in apprehension. It's becoming painfully obvious that she's not chill enough to hang with these people.
"Get in here!" Darcy says to Jane, gesturing toward the tub. The movement is a little sloppy, and by the cups littered on the concrete nearby, the girl has probably had more than a few.
"That's okay." Jane takes a step back. She is not going to strip down to her underwear—a sensible plain white bra and a pair of boy shorts, striped with grey and teal—in front of these people, least of all Loki. "It's already full."
"No, it's not," Darcy argues. "I can sit on Fandy's lap." She scoots over with Fandral's help.
"And Gamora can sit on mine," one of the big guys says—Peter, if Jane remembers right.
Gamora rolls her eyes and stays exactly where she's at on the opposite side, elbows bent back over the lip of the tub.
"There's room on my lap," Thor says with a wink, and it takes a second for Jane to realize his offer is for her rather than the gorgeous cool girl that Peter is clearly ga-ga over.
Loki's hand nearly crushes Jane's; she's forgotten that he was still holding it. "I think she'd rather have mine."
A wave of heat swells over Jane. She hates that her body so readily agrees with his statement. She needs to get away from him, from them and their boundary pushing shenanigans.
"Actually," Jane says, disentangling her fingers from Loki's. "Where's the bathroom?"
A couple of people rattle off conflicting directions, and Darcy starts to rise up from her perch on Fandral's lap. "If you wait just a second, I'll come with you."
Jane shakes her head. "Stay. I can find it, thanks."
She heads back toward the house without making any promises to return. She's not. She's going to find a safe place to hole-up until she can get an Uber or whatever. She'll send Darcy a text, and that will be that. Frat party checked off.
Someone tries to hand her a drink again when she crosses through the kitchen, and for a heartbeat, she's seriously tempted. As much as she wants to pretend that she's unaffected by recent events, that walking away from Loki meant leaving behind the unwelcome flutters he inspires in her middle, her stupid brain won't stop reminding her of spearmint flavor of his tongue, his searing breath as he came in for more.
Stop. Stop. It.
She does grab a drink—one that she watched poured from the keg before it was passed to her. Because as naive as she is about many things, she knows about stranger danger, especially when alcohol is involved.
But god. Why do people drink this stuff? It tastes so bad. She makes a face, but drinks the rest, tosses the cup in the garbage bag hanging from a nearby doorknob. The buzz starting to prickle under her skin is weaker than the one she had last weekend. It softens the tension in her muscles, but doesn't take her to a place of rubbery complacency. That's probably a good thing. Because the latter got her into more trouble than she can handle.
"Jane? Jane Foster, right?"
She turns, searching for the source of the question. The room is loud, the band in full swing with an enthusiastic audience. When her gaze passes over a guy sitting on one of the couches pushed against the wall, he lifts a hand and stands. She blinks, and then she recognizes him. She steps closer to him.
"Bruce." She practically has to shout over the music. "From Plasma Waves." He's always quiet in class, but they often tie for top grades. Sometimes he even beats her, but she's not bothered when it happens. Not much, anyway. Not like she is in Experimental Physics when—nope. Not going there.
Bruce smiles, and it's nice. Not smug, not suggestive like some else that she is absolutely not thinking about.
"This doesn't seem like your kind of thing." Bruce nods toward the writhing, gyrating mass on the makeshift dance floor.
She raises her brows. Does she give off a "I'd rather stay home and catch up on the latest from the Hubble telescope while listening to the Star Trek soundtrack" vibe? "I was coerced into coming," she admits.
"Me too," he says with a soft laugh that she can't hear. "But they kinda ditched me."
She opens her mouth to confess that she's the one doing the ditching, but the words get stuck in her throat when she catches a glimpse of Loki in her periphery. He stands several feet away, his expression hard, almost predatory. She has to actively fight the gravitational force that draws her toward him—and the unnatural thrill skittering beneath her skin. If magic were an actual thing, she'd think this was some kind of sorcery. She's starting to regret having that drink now.
"You wanna dance?" Jane says to Bruce. "We should dance." She grabs his hand and pulls him to the middle of the room.
"Oh, okay," he says with another laugh.
Bruce is a terrible dancer, but he's a good sport, grinning as he shuffles from side to side offbeat. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his arms. It's adorable. This is the kind of guy Jane's always imagined herself falling for: cute, nerdy like her, endearingly awkward. She wants to like him that way, but she doesn't have to lock lips with him to know that it'd be like kissing a cousin. She can have fun anyway, right? Darcy would be proud. Jane closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her.
She opens them again sometime later when a pair of hands curl at her side and yank her backward. She yelps when her butt meets her partner's groin. She spins to tell Bruce that she's not interested bumping and grinding with him, but it isn't Bruce. It's Loki. She whips her head around to search for her new acquaintance, and he's backing away with an apology written on his face.
She whirls back around. "Are you serious? What did I say about leaving me alone?" She needs him to, to save her from another episode of pure insanity.
Loki stares down at her, and it's so fiery that she could melt into a puddle on the spot. A month ago, she believed that "chemistry" between people was a farce dreamed up by romance novelists. There was no such thing in her world. But now… This? This is Berthollet's salt and red phosphorus. This is combustion .
"With me ," he says, and she knows he's referencing the agreement they made earlier in the library.
"And then you go back to ignoring me?" she asks. Her airy voice barely carries over the din, and a part of her hopes he won't hear her.
He does, though. His mouth curves up in a smile that's nowhere near nice. It does things to her. She hates those things. No, wrong. She loves those things like an addict loves the high. She hates that it's him doing them.
She has to get out of here before she loses her mind, before she climbs his tall frame and attacks his face with her lips. She pushes through the crowd, not caring about direction—any will do as long as it's away from him.
There is a wrong direction, though, and Jane curses when she realizes that she's somehow gone deeper into the house instead of toward one of the exits. She curses again when she glances over her shoulder to find Loki hot on her heels.
He catches her hand, but instead of pulling her back to him, he steps around her, tugs her behind him as he climbs a staircase. She tries to wrench her hand out of his, but his grip is too strong.
"Hey!" she demands. "Let go!"
It's quieter, empty up here, and she should be nervous, terrified even. Especially when he opens one of the doors in the hallway with a key and nudges her inside. Her heart is pounding against her ribcage, but it's not fear making it unsteady. Not when he locks the door behind them, and leans on the frame, facing away from her. Not when the flick of a light switch reveals a room that she knows instinctively is his.
Bookshelves, bursting with a hodge-podge of paperbacks and hardcovers, span one of the walls and half of another. More books are stacked on the nightstand, on the desk by the window. The rest of the decor is simple, a neatly made bed that doesn't look quite big enough to be queen-sized, a guitar sitting in a stand in the corner, a couple of posters tacked on the wall—one of a band she's never heard of, another of the Sombrero galaxy, the same one she hung up in her dorm room at the beginning of the year. She has an irrational urge to tear it down as soon as she gets home.
The room is so normal, uncomfortably familiar. She doesn't know what she expected his place to look like, something more diabolical. Like the Phantom of the Opera's lair.
"I broke up with my girlfriend," Loki murmurs, drawing her attention back to him. He's turned around, back against the door, looking haggard as if he's been in a battle and lost.
She frowns, remembering the snide comment Tony made at Loki downstairs. What was that name? "Lorelei."
Loki hums an acknowledgement. "Last night."
"Why are you telling me this?" She thinks she knows, but she's hoping that he'll disprove her theory. He has to. She doesn't want to feel this for him. She doesn't want to want him.
"You're right, you know. I was ignoring you," he says, pushing off the door and moving toward her in slow footfalls. He breathes a quiet laugh, an oddly rueful one. "I was trying to ignore you. Then I realized that I don't want to."
Everything comes alive inside of her with his confession, and it's too much. The heat, the frenetic anticipation spinning in her middle in a violent whirlpool of desire—desire that she didn't know she was capable of feeling. She's almost nauseated by the intensity of it. When his eyes slide from hers, stopping at her mouth, instinct tells her there's only one cure for this madness.
She grabs a fistful of his shirt and drags him down to her level. He comes as willingly as last time, maybe even eagerly, and then it's a clash of lips, brutal and devouring. There is relief from that want eating her alive, but it's fleeting, overrun by another blazing tide. This one more demanding as he growls against her mouth, as he picks her up again, fitting her legs around his hips. She tangles her fingers in his hair, tugs on it in an attempt to draw him somehow closer, kiss him harder, deeper.
Reality comes crashing back to her when her back touches the cool comforter on his bed, when his lips and tongue make a trail from her mouth to her neck. And oh god, she almost gives into the fire in her veins, almost lets this encounter take its natural course.
No. Not like this. Not with him. She's not some doe-eyed girl waiting for a fairytale prince before she crosses this milestone, but she wants it to be more than some random frat party hook-up. "Stop." She grasps his shoulders. "I can't."
He props himself up, searches her face before his head dips in a brief nod. He gets it. He's seen the list, and something bubbly and warm bursts in her chest as he steps down from the bed and helps her up. She's going to call it gratitude.
He takes her face in his hands and gives her a lingering kiss before pressing his forehead to hers, exhaling a deep sigh. "You'd better go." He retreats from her, cracks the door open.
She runs her hand through her hair, straightens her shirt and walks toward the exit he's giving her. She pauses at the threshold, looks back at him feeling like she's supposed to say something. What, though? Thank you for that steamy make-out? Thank you for not trying to talk me into doing something I'm not ready for yet? Is he going to pretend this never happened when they run into each other in class on Monday? (Does she want him to?)
He speaks before she can cobble together some kind of response. "This isn't over," he says, and against all reason, she likes the promise written between his words. "That list is mine."
She scoffs, but her heart isn't in it, not really. "There's no list."
He bares his teeth in a slow grin. "Oh, yes there is. You're going to cross off every item with me."
The air between them is too thick to breathe, and she has to force out a retort. "You wish."
He places a finger under her chin, tips it up and brushes his lips over hers. The kiss is almost tender, comfortable like they belong. She's unsettled by it. She wants more of it.
"Good night, Jane," he murmurs.
Outside in the vacant hallway, after his door latches shut, she runs a hand over her face with a groan. What was she thinking?
This is bad—so, so bad.
~FIN~
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! As ever, I would love to hear your thoughts!