This little fic was supposed to be about 3 pages and that was it. Now it's three frickin CHAPTERS. *shakes head* Like so many things I've written, it's taken on a life of its own! Now, who wants to see Loki kick Randall's ass? Show of hands!

*counts*

… nope, not enough of you. *waits* Oh, there's someone else in the back. Okay, that works. Good that you finally put your hand up back there. I was gonna walk away.

(This is how my brain behaves at 2am when I'm working. Aren't you glad you got this glimpse into my insanity?)

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Loki hadn't wanted to leave Taryn's house an instant before he absolutely had to, but he had a little errand to complete before he returned to the peace summit with the dwarves. His lips curved into a smile as sharp as a thrown blade–this particular visit would have nothing at all to do with peace.

A certain man needed a lesson in the consequences of treating Taryn Roswell with less than complete respect.

The night was just starting to give way to the first hints of dawn when he found the place he was searching for. Randall Fosse lived in a stucco duplex with a yard badly in need of a trim and his car parked haphazardly across the driveway. Loki would've preferred something a bit more secluded, but he'd worked with even less privacy than this before. A quick spell sealed the perimeter of the building, ensuring his prey wouldn't escape, followed by another that would muffle any untoward sounds Randall might make.

Only then did Loki walk up to the front door, unlock it with a touch, and slip inside to look around as his full armor materialized, replacing the casual Midgardian clothing.

The dark rooms were already wrecked. Loki frowned, wondering if someone had beaten him here, before realizing that the debris all over the floor was a result of the man's apparent inability to locate his own trash can. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He'd known monsters in the deepest reaches of Helheimr who lived better than this.

He didn't have to look far for his quarry. Randall lay curled up on the couch, snoring like a bear, knees drawn up and hands clasped between his thighs to protect his abused parts even in sleep. Loki could have laughed–Taryn must've put some serious muscle into that kick.

But then he thought of why she'd had to do so and his brief moment of humor faded. Loki lifted one end of the couch with one hand and effortlessly dumped the mortal onto his disgusting floor. He landed in an undignified sprawl with an even more undignified yelp of shock. "Time to wake up, Randall Fosse," Loki purred, dropping the couch and clearing a path to his prey with the wave of a hand–he was a prince, after all, and he would not tread on garbage. "I have a matter to discuss with you."

Randall tried to spring to his feet but slipped on an old pizza box and flopped back down. "Who the hell are you?" he sputtered, crab-crawling backward to put some space between himself and Loki before trying to get to his feet again. "What are you doing in my house? Get out!"

"Believe me, there is little I would like better than to leave your hovel," Loki assured him, letting all his distaste show on his face and in his voice. "However, our business is not yet done. Stand, man, meet me on your feet at least," he snapped in exasperation when Randall tripped yet again when trying to stand up. "Attempt to show some dignity!"

Randall finally managed to get up, legs trembling as he finally stood and attempted to glare at Loki. Unfortunately he was still at least partially drunk–he swayed alarmingly and his smell was unpleasantly reminiscent of Volstagg the morning after a bender. "You'd better get out of here before I beat the shit out of you," Randall said, but the threat was delivered in a trembling voice that utterly failed to intimidate. "What the hell is that outfit, anyway? Get out!"

Loki sighed and brushed an imaginary speck of lint off his armor. "So unoriginal," he said, shaking his head. "I'd really hoped this would be more fun."

Then he flung out one hand, firing a wave of magic that slammed into Randall and smashed him against the far wall hard enough to crack the plaster. "Fun for me, that is," Loki added, smiling. "I doubt it would've been fun for you either way."

Randall's bloodshot eyes were wide now, fully awake and speeding toward sobriety. "Who are you?" he gasped, pinned to the wall with his feet two feet from the floor.

"Loki, Prince of Asgard," he replied, giving him the truth because it didn't matter anyway–no one would believe Randall if he named Loki as his attacker and said he'd been beaten up with magic.

"Loki of–" If anything, the man's eyes went wider. "You mean like the trickster god?"

Loki raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. It was always so gratifying to be remembered, especially in this modern world. "Exactly like that." He watched Randall struggle against the invisible hold, his panic growing when everything he tried had no effect whatsoever. "More importantly for you, I am a very good friend of Taryn Roswell."

"Oh, shit," Randall breathed, and Loki nodded.

"Quite."

This wall was boring. Loki made a fist and threw his arm in another direction. The magic ripped Randall from that wall, slammed him into another. A framed diploma shattered on impact and fell, hitting his forehead before landing on the cluttered floor. "That looked important," Loki mused, and incinerated it with a snap of his fingers. Randall whimpered and Loki shot him an incredulous look. "Oh please, I've barely done anything to you and you're already crying? Did you actually have balls before Taryn kicked you?"

"Don't hurt me, please!" Randall begged, and Loki grimaced at the tears running down the man's cheeks. "It was just a, a misunderstanding, okay? She way overreacted–I wasn't gonna, you know, do anything to her, I swear! Okay? I'm not like that! Please, man, don't–"

"For Bor's sake, be silent!" Loki snapped, utterly disgusted. "If all humans are as weak as you, I hold little hope for this realm." Randall shut up but his silence was marred by little hiccupping sobs that grated on Loki's nerves like sand in a wound. He started to step closer but a drift of garbage blocked his way. Curling his lip, Loki instead flung Randall with magic again, this time pinning his back to the ceiling, face inches from the blade of his ceiling fan.

Then he walked over and looked up at the mewling, trembling man above him. He shook his head in disgust. "You know, I had planned to spend some quality time with you," Loki told him. He drew one of his daggers and held it up so Randall could admire the blade. "Just you, me, and this. But I would not soil my blade with your blood lest it weaken from your influence. I have never met a more unworthy foe."

"Yeah, that's right, I'm way unworthy!" Randall agreed immediately. Loki let him fall face-first onto the floor, then slammed him back into the ceiling.

"You don't agree with that! By Yggdrasil, if you had any pride, you'd try to kill me for saying such a thing!" Loki couldn't believe how far the human race had fallen. "Do you have no sense of honor at all?"

Randall held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. "Look, man, I'm just a mathematician," he said pleadingly. "I don't want to fight to the death or defend my honor or whatever. I just don't want you to cut me up into little pieces, okay?"

Loki shook his head. This wasn't going how he'd planned at all, and for him, that was a novelty. Finally he dropped the man on his face again, releasing him from the magic altogether. "Get up," he spat. Randall scrambled to do so, wiping tears, snot, and blood from his face with his tee-shirt as he did. Loki was beginning to wish he'd just killed the bastard without ever waking him. "You want to live, do you? Honor or no honor?"

Randall nodded frantically. "Yes. Please, don't hurt me any more!"

Loki flicked a finger in his direction and sent him sprawling onto the couch again. "Then know this–if you so much as breathe in Taryn's direction again, I will return and teach you how the Æsir deal with cowards who try to force themselves on women. Do you understand me, you insignificant creature? She is under my protection. If I have to have this discussion with you again, you will not get off so lightly."

Randall looked for an instant like he wanted to argue that getting thrown around his living room, breaking walls, slamming into his ceiling and falling onto his face–twice–didn't equal lightly to him, but he thought better of it and nodded silently.

Loki nodded once. He felt filthy, defiled from just having dealt with this weakling. "Just to give you a little incentive to keep your word, because I have the impression that your word means less than nothing to you," he said, "I am going to give you a little homework. Do a little research on the blood eagle so you will know what awaits you if I have to return. Do you understand?" Randall nodded frantically, again not daring to speak, and Loki had reached his limit. "Good. Pray that we don't meet again, Randall Fosse."

He turned and retraced his steps to the door, which magically opened for him. Then he turned and snapped over his shoulder, "And for Bor's sake, clean up after yourself!"

Randall watched the stranger in green vanish into thin air. The spreading wetness in his crotch was the final proof that he hadn't dreamed it, as if the man-shaped dents in his walls and ceiling weren't enough. It was a long time before he dared to move, and the first thing he did was to slam his front door and double-bolt it, then shove his recliner in front of it, too.

Just in case.

Then he went to his office, turned on his laptop, and googled blood eagle.

Wikipedia had an immediate response. The Blood Eagle was a method of torture and execution that is sometimes mentioned in Nordic saga legends. It was performed by cutting the ribs of the victim at the spine, breaking the ribs so they resembled blood-stained wings, and pulling the lungs out through the wounds in the victim's back. Salt was sprinkled in the wounds…

That was as far as he got before he vomited on his computer and fainted.

Two things were certain, Randall thought when he finally came to, face stuck to his shorted-out laptop with dried puke and a distressing smell rising from his damp pants. He had no desire to ever cross Loki of Asgard again.

And from now on, he would treat every single woman like a freaking queen.

.

Well that… didn't go quite like I thought it would! But Loki was so grossed out by this guy's sheer wimp factor that he told me, "I'm not punching him. It would be a humiliating waste of fist. It'll be more fun for me to make him puke, piss himself, faintand without even touching him. Watch." Ahh, Loki, you bad-ass motherfucker, you.

By the way, the bit at the end is a quoted passage from Wikipedia. Yep, the blood eagle, it is not nice. Doncha just love ancient tortures? Their only concerns regarding cruel and unusual punishment was to make it every bit as cruel and as deeply unusual as they possibly could.