Chapter Two – Trip
In a strange place
When the sun goes down we move
Into a strange phase
Like we've got nothing left to lose.
Crosses – "The Epilogue"
Darcy's hands fisted through strands upon strands of golden draperies. She was determined to get off, right fucking now, and these damn things were everywhere. She grumbled and punched through one after another outlandish display of Asgardian affluence. Her carless jostling caused a drape to burst into tiny, brilliant white lights and rain upon the marble.
She paused and wrapped her manicured fingers around the fabric. A few pristine crystals dispensed into her open palm with faint musical tinks. She adjusted her glasses and scrutinized the little sparkles.
"Diamonds?!" She spittled and tossed them over her shoulder like spilt salt. She kicked the remaining fallen gemstones away from the crime scene. Darcy prayed that the all-seeing Golden Reindeer was on shit break.
One of these babies is probably triple my entire month's rent, Darcy thought and cringed.
Just moments before she was flinging these curtains around, a haphazard whirlwind of desire and anticipation. If all it took was booze and hormones to be a vandal, she might as well be locked up with her mystery felon. She detoured the smirk turning her lips upward and sighed.
Darcy buried her palms against her burning face and closed her eyes. She felt ridiculous. She would never get used to this opulence. She would never get used to being an honored guest of a GOD, for fucks sake. It didn't matter if she was on Earth or Asgard. She would always be screwing something up. Not keeping her snarky mouth shut. Drinking too much. On occasion flirting and fucking with indifference. Letting the morning rise with embarrassment—and as much as she tried to push it down, an empty ache.
Before the festivities, she was drawn a hot milk and honey bath—which was, without a doubt, pure heaven and soothed muscles she did not even realize were sore. Sjöfn presented not one but four different gowns. Darcy selected the least extravagant but Sjöfn was not content. The handmaiden insisted on a bronze girdle and a long, back-drop amethyst necklace for accents. Darcy politely refused but Sjöfn was determined.
"You really don't have to do all this," Darcy mumbled and failed at swatting away Sjöfn's expedient fingers. She was ushered to an elaborate vanity and instructed to sit. The cold marble seat bit her ass and made her back ramrod straight.
"My Lady," The handmaiden exhaled and plaited Darcy's long curls, "What good would I be to let you traipse the kingdom in common Midgardian garb?"
"I look stupid," Darcy pouted and squirmed on the marble, adjusting to the drastic temperature change. "Like a red-light district milkmaid. Ding-ding! Curtains up! Open for business boys!"
Sjöfn knit her eyebrows and hovered a bronze pin above Darcy's head. Her voice was small and weak, "Are you displeased?"
Darcy was familiar with that glazed over look of confusion. She had dumbfounded Thor—and Jane too—with countless pop culture references. What she didn't expect to find was rejection. And with that, a sniffle from Sjöfn plummeted her heart deep below her navel.
Oh, shit, Darcy thought, scrambling through her mind for words. Oh please, don't cry. I don't do crying. Darcy recalled her utter ineffectiveness with Jane after Thor 'promised to return soon' turned into months of chocolate ice-cream for dinner, sweatpants, and one sappy romance flick after another. Jane would blubber, honk her nose into the umpteenth Kleenex, and swear off Gods forever. Darcy patted and pacified with classic lines such as "there, there" and "everything will be okay"—all the while thinking Jane deserved someone stable and constant.
"I'm just not, well—" Darcy stumbled over her words, looking for something, anything to pacify this situation. Her thoughts drummed for any asinine excuse.
She cleared her throat and began again, spreading her hands over her crossed legs, "I'm just not like you Asgardians … I'm like my clothes. You know, common."
Not bad. That wasn't a complete lie. She felt small amongst these giants. She was an honored guest, yes, but an annoyance as well. That was made very apparent by Pirate Santa on the Mario Kart-esque rainbow bridge. Thor boasted and introduced, while Jane presented a faltering smile and trembling hand to the King. She made a remark about his wonderful home and graciousness. Jane really tried. The King responded with a hearty guffaw and marched away. The Queen embraced Jane quickly, attempting to assuage her husband and his blatant disregard for them. The golden armored gatekeeper, turned his back on them too, fixated on galaxies and a stray shooting star.
As the streaming star arched over the inky skyline and behind Asgard, Darcy was pulled against the Queen and her lavender perfume. The Queen wished her welcome. Darcy traced the star with her somber eyes and wished for acceptance.
Sjöfn was soon animated and prattling away with comforting statements. Darcy only half-listened. She was stuck between Sjöfn's many synonyms for beauty and aversion for the King. The thought of having to bed Pirate Santa, night after night for all eternity, crept unwanted into her mind and she gagged.
"My Lady!" Sjöfn gasped, holding Darcy tight by the shoulders, "Are you ill? Do you require the services of Eir?"
Darcy squawked as thoughts of Pirate Santa's dangling appendage swung like a metronome and broke against her brain. She shook her head clear and stammered, "No, no. I'm okay. Just peachy. We were talking about something right?"
Sjöfn scrunched her nose and twisted a bronze pin into Darcy's hair. The motion was so delicate and precise, Darcy only felt a mild tug against her scalp.
The handmaiden sighed softly and spoke, "I was merely commenting that you are an exquisite, and at times perplexing, woman, Lady Darcy. Far from common. You are yourself—a trait not to be discounted."
"Thank you," Darcy murmured, her eyes downcast. She fidgeted and twirled the numerous bronze bracelets around her left wrist. She guessed Sjöfn must have slipped them on at some unknown moment. Darcy wondered what other unnoticed embellishments had found homage on her body.
"Perhaps the right Asgardian gentleman will appreciate your candor," Sjöfn continued, more upbeat and chatty, "Unless you prefer the company of elves or dwarves? They do say dwarves are thick where it matters most."
Darcy blinked. Twice. Her eyes found Sjöfn in the ornate mirror.
"Are we talking about dicks?"
A stifled giggle erupted from Sjöfn's lips, danced across her hazel eyes, and bounced into a stray red lock of hair. She tucked the little ringlet behind her bejeweled ear and said, "Is this not a common bonding ritual for Midgardian women? I believe you refer to it as 'girl-talk?'"
Darcy made no attempt to conceal her snort. Jane would never gossip about Thor or his mighty 'Myeuh-muh'–no matter how much she begged. She deduced Sjöfn wouldn't disrespect her Prince either, so Thor's junk would remain a mystery. Like Big Foot. Or crop circles. She decided to play along, for Sjöfn's sake at least.
"And how would you know about the girth of a dwarf, huh?" Darcy jabbered back, making a large O with both pointer fingers and thumbs. "Speaking from personal experience?"
"I know of tales only," Sjöfn smiled and pinned Darcy's braids into a low bun.
"Uh-huh," Darcy rolled her eyes and exaggerated the gesture with a husky sigh.
The weight of the long, amethyst necklace thumped against her back—and it was overpowering. She was wearing something meant for Gods. There were too many gemstones, too many diamonds, and too much muchness. Darcy slapped her clammy hands together in a loud, smacking clap. Sjöfn jerked forward and stared at her for a beat.
"What troubles you, my Lady?" Sjöfn frowned and wrinkled her forehead.
"What else you got? Any gossip about your guys?" Darcy asked and pushed her exposed, awkward nerves down. She was in desperate need of a distraction from this opulence.
"Well," Sjöfn pondered aloud and stated, "Asgardian men have unmatched stamina."
"Yawn, dude. I think that's pretty obvious."
"Elves have particularly long fingers …"
"Oooh, okay," Darcy commented and coaxed with a beckoning finger, "But something tells me you can do better, Sjöfn."
"And, oh!" Sjöfn happily exclaimed, "Apparently, Jötunn fluid causes frostbite!"
She didn't even know what a Jötunn was, but all she could envision was Flick from a Christmas Story tongue attached to a telephone pole screaming, "STU-HUCK!" Her thoughts were engulfed by snowmen with icicle dicks spraying sleet skeet onto a woman bukakke-style, and Darcy was gone. She laughed so hard tears spilled down her cheeks. The effect was contagious and soon Sjöfn was a sniggering fit.
Sjöfn made Asgard a little bearable and less pretentious. She hoped to spend more time with her—and maybe a little less with Mother Hen Jane. Jane would probably be too busy ogling and eye-fucking Thor to notice her anyway. She loved them, but their nonsense was getting old.
But her little throbbing problem stirred again. A reminder of unfinished desire, it teased and tormented her to find release. This was so typical. Darcy always went for dark and dangerous—and as of recent, unavailable guys too. This dude was no exception. She was getting aroused by an unnamed, unknown felon. His thin, curved grin branded her mind. Her body remembered his icy, open-mouthed kiss and was desperate for more.
Darcy peeled her hands away from her searing cheeks and lifted her eyelids to green.
Everything was green.
She closed her eyes tight and opened them again.
Still green.
She took off her glasses.
Blurry and green.
She rubbed her eyes hard.
Blurrier, but still green.
"What is up with the monochromatic?" Darcy slid her glasses on and parted back another—once gold and diamond, now green and emerald—curtain, taking extremes to be gentle and considerate. This was weird.
"Welcome back, Lady Darcy," Sjöfn's voice was distant and submerged.
"Um thanks, but where are—" Darcy turned and nearly collided with the handmaiden. She braced her hands on Sjöfn and laughed, "Oops, you're right there and—"
Naked.
Sjöfn was green, nude, and her perky little tits bounced with even the minutest gesture. Darcy was paralyzed and staring at them like a prepubescent boy's first encounter with breasts. She shut her open mouth with a loud click.
"Were you received well by your suitor?" Bounce-bounce-bounce.
"Um, yeah. Oh, yeah. Yup," Darcy removed her hands fast like she touched an open flame. She looked down and silently mouthed 'What. The. Fuck.' Sjöfn prattled on, apparently unaware of her nudity. Darcy shrunk upon herself and wished to crawl under the marble and make it a permanent home.
"When will you meet again?"
"He didn't really specific on a time," Darcy said and fixated on the floor. Her new mission was counting the number of circles within each tile. If she avoided eye contact with Sjöfn long enough, maybe the handmaiden would realize her error and streak into a closet. She still had time. Darcy was positive nobody else noticed. She only made it to six circles when a thunderous voice shattered her resolve. Shit. Now the loud-mouthed Prince of Asgard knew and poor Sjöfn was doomed.
"Fret not, Darcy Lewis," Thor interjected and clasped a firm hand on her shoulder, "Your suitor will return again. And if he be of Asgard, he will lavish you with many trinkets."
"Yeah. Yeah, good. I always liked the trinkets in the bottom of Lucky Charms the best," Darcy replied and pressed her lips into a hard line. Was he blind? There was no way he missed the handmaiden or her perfectly upright tits. No fucking way. She lifted her eyes and caught sight of him.
Naked. And very well-equipped. No steroid-induced, little surprise there. Good for Jane. Now that her suspicions were confirmed and confused, it was time to resume counting intricate circles. Her thoughts jarred again when a flash of flesh obscured her vision.
"Hey!" Jane's voice was distant, yet she was front-and-center and full frontal. Darcy inserted a pinkie finger into her ear and vigorously shook it. The maneuver did nothing for the waterlogged voices of her friends. They must have had a wicked threesome, got inebriated on lust, and stumbled into the Great Hall. They were all high on orgasms. Their inhibition was completely gone—it made sense, she supposed. She really wanted to believe it made sense.
Jane contorted her body and growled, "What took you so long? The King has an announcement to make!"
Darcy puffed her cheeks and blew a long gust of air from her pursed lips. She could only fathom that the announcement would begin with her indecent display and end with permanent banishment. She scanned the Great Hall, pleading to whatever God—Asgardian or otherwise—that nobody would see them and maybe she could formulate some means of escape.
Her mind paused and flooded with images only therapy could erase. Her eyes burned with hairy, thick-where-it-mattered dwarves and lean, tight-assed elves. Darcy swore fruity Robin Hood and his dick winked at her. Xena-warrior wannabe was even more intimidating nude and didn't need any further attention. Darcy jolted when three horns blared.
Pirate Santa stood from his seat, jeweled goblet in hand, no doubt about to commence the Asgardian freak fest. He was speaking and making grand gestures but Darcy heard only her crazed heart. It pounded hard against her eardrums, deafening all other sounds. She followed his white happy trail and paled. They were going to have a fucking green goblin orgy.
Darcy wanted to bolt. Her synapses were afire. Her muscles spasmed and burned. Her tendons ached with the need to run. Her hair bristled and begged for freedom to fly. But her feet were rooted in place. She was stuck.
Jane was the first to notice her alarm. She asked Darcy a question, face scrunching with apparent concern. Jane brushed her arm, made an exclamation, and shook clear liquid from her hand. Darcy hardly realized she was swimming in sweat. She looked down at her slick palms and was not distressed by her perspiration—but rather her pale, sickly skin.
Thor brought his face very close to Darcy. She was bombarded with sharp scents of amber and damp cedar. He asked a series of questions or maybe shouts—she wasn't sure of anything but his overwhelming presence. He grabbed her by both arms and shook. The jostling did nothing for her escalating pulse or hyperventilation. She slipped and squiggled in his arms like melting ice.
Sjöfn snaked an arm around her waist. Despite urges to succumb into darkness, Darcy was appreciative to be upright and somewhat coherent.
Passing out seemed really inviting right about now. Maybe Sjöfn would make some excuse about human frailty and drag her to her chambers. Sjöfn could say Darcy shit her dress and 300-style kick her off the Bifröst—it did not matter, Darcy wanted out. She wanted no part of this madness.
A familiar, coy whisper assaulted her ear.
"What else did you drink tonight, Miss Lewis?"
It was the voice of her mystery man, but it was coming from Sjöfn. Darcy stared at the handmaiden mouth agape. Sjöfn curled her lips into a tiny smirk and inclined her head to Thor. Darcy faced him and gasped. He was frozen in a bellowing shout, hands locked and biting into her bare arms. The beads of sweat from his brow were suspended in air like tiny ice crystals.
Darcy peered and craned her neck around his golden hair. The elves were frozen in dance. Dwarves locked forever in mock fights. The handmaidens stuck curtsying before fruity Robin Hood. They were like statues.
"Repetition does little for my patience, woman," Sjöfn sizzled with his voice into her ear.
"Are you doing all this?" Darcy murmured and turned her attention to Sjöfn.
The handmaiden smirked again, with that sly and mischievous grin of her mystery man. Sjöfn traced her earlobe and his voice replied, "Answer my question first."
"A couple steins of mead, maybe? Plus, a glass of that green stuff." She responded. Her eyes darted from each statue to statue, watchful for any miniscule twitch of life. Even the hungry flames from the extravagant candelabra were calm, enveloping guests in stationary shadows.
"Oh."
"Oh?" Darcy choked on her saliva and grumbled, "Is that all you have to say? This goes way beyond a cute little card trick. What the fuck is going on?!"
She was on the precipice of losing her fucking shit. If this was some kind of initiation rite to play with the big boys, then she forfeited. She was not getting flogged by fruity Robin Hood and his merry men. She would be damned if they jeered and chanted while she was pressured into frenching Sif—or worse. This must be what happens when Gods are bored. They prey on Midgardians and turn them into submissive pets. The horror of ball-gags and pony play was extinguished with his words.
"Excessive consumption of mead and absinthe frees the mind of most intangible things and presents them before you," His voice hissed.
"Oh, nice," Darcy groaned and continued, "Make me sound like an alcoholic. Meanwhile, I'm tripping balls on some Spanish fly shit."
"I see no connection with falling over spherical objects and insects to your current circumstance, Miss Lewis."
"No, dude," Darcy sighed and wondered if all Asgardians were so concrete. It seemed she would spend her time spelling everything out. "I'm not tripping on balls, I am tripping balls, it means I'm tweaking out. Hallucinating. Making the intangible appear before me, like you said."
"May I inquire on your intangible thoughts?" His voice murmured and Sjöfn's grip tightened around her waist like a boa constrictor.
"Can't you see through her?" Darcy gulped. It was enough of a mindfuck for him to be speaking and have it come from Sjöfn. She tried to crush her libido and focus on something that would require a vigorous eye-washing with bleach, but her eyes fogged with lust.
His tone dropped an octave and buzzed against her eardrum, "I would much rather hear your depictions. Your innermost thoughts and desires must be fascinating."
This was hopeless. She was spiraling and consumed with need. Darcy was panting. It was embarrassing, how just a few inflictions of his voice turned her into a desperate little puddle. A slow, torturous warmth stirred in her cheeks and rippled in waves over her breasts. She wanted to coax his words out of Sjöfn's mouth with her own. She bit down on her bottom lip and caged her hungry, wet tongue.
"Oh, come now, Miss Lewis. Is there nothing you see worthy of your desire?"
Darcy whimpered against her closed lips and pressed her legs tighter together. She saw more trim now than a producer in San Fernando Valley and Hugh Heffner combined—and yet, she wanted nothing more than him. His voice was such a maddening tease. She squirmed, desperately struggling to break free of Thor and his vice grip, but his immobile hands were a solid restraint.
"Do you desire release?"
She almost choked on the entendre. His tone did not divulge the type of release, but based on their current conversation—oh, to hell with it! Darcy could bear it no longer. Did it really matter where the voice came from so long as it was his? If this was the only way, she would close her eyes and surrender.
"Yes," Darcy breathed, her acknowledgement raspy and destitute. A thousand times, yes.
"As you wish, Lady Darcy" And just like that, his voice was gone. Sjöfn and her coquettish soprano tone returned accompanied with wide doe eyes.
The green cloud was lifted and clothing materialized with convenient swiftness. The dancers swirled with fanciful freedom and finesse. A swell of laughter and animated banter returned and mocked her senses. Her arms prickled as Thor relinquished his grasp and patted her shoulder. Time resumed and taunted her with false promises and broken hope. It was as if her mystery man never existed.
She would have screamed. She would have resorted to tears and a full-blown, fist-pounding tantrum on the marble floor. She would have hardly cared that this was childish, shameless, and rude. She would have even hated him.
But her body had other plans, and with permission from her mind, Darcy passed out.