Thor- The Science of Lies No. 35

It's twelve thirty two in the morning on a humid Tuesday night.

Jane Foster has just completely ruined her life, and she did it all for a man the likes of whom her mother warned her about when she was a girl.

His name is Loki, and that is a name for the ages.  He is tall, dark, and undeniably handsome.  He is intelligent, witty, powerful, and a hell of a lover.  The whole enchilada as some would say.  He is also an ambiguously reformed psychopathic mass murderer and potential conqueror of her home world.  Jane says 'ambiguous' because no amount of reassurances by Thor will ever convince her that Loki is suddenly good, no matter what happens after tonight.

It's twelve thirty four and Jane is alone in her room.

It's actually a guest room in the palace of Asgard, and after tonight, she imagines there will be a pair of burly guards busting the door down, ready to drag her to the bifrost and drop her ass back on Midgard at the behest of the All-Father.  That's only if Thor's dad doesn't decide to just kill her outright.  Blow her to smithereens with that staff of his like he had clearly wanted to tonight, when Jane was in the process of smashing his older son's heart to pieces.

It's twelve thirty six and Jane is getting cold.

It's not because the temperature has suddenly dropped or the windchill factor has gone up or anything else natural and ordinary.  Jane's life is no longer ordinary.  It hasn't been since she hit a god with her truck, and after tonight, the last few visages of normality have been stripped from her and carried away with the tide.  She has no idea yet what's she's become.

It's twelve thirty seven and Jane is no longer alone.

His arms come around her from behind, warm and cool at the same time.  They are much like he is, a bundle of contradictions and confusions.  They come together to form this enigma of a man, who is actually pretty easy to read if you try hard enough.  She won't tell him that, though.

It's twelve thirty nine and Loki's fingers undo the knots of her dress.  

She's been daydreaming about his hands, about them running down the length of her to her core.  She had dreamt of him as Thor led her into the banquet hall, and as she explained to a distraught Thor  and all the gathered friends and courtiers why she couldn't accept his proposal.  It was not the first time that she fantasized.  It would not be the last.

The only part of him that never enters her mind is his voice, because she hates it.  He has a wonderful voice for sure, a voice that speaks possessive words in her ear as he brings her closer to the stars, but she hates it all the same.

"That was quite a show," he says, deep and husky and oh so terribly.  "I won't lie, much as I enjoy having you to myself at last, seeing Thor so broken might have been my favorite part."

Her hands that would reach out and stroke the lines of his face ball into fists, and she shivers with more than anticipation.

"Stop talking," she says.

His hands slow at her sensitive area.  Her body cries out in protest.  Her mouth has the hardest time staying closed.  

"Why should I?"

He's mocking her.  Always mocking her.

She hates him so much, almost as much as she needs him.

"I don't want to hear you," she says without a hint of the hesitation he must have expected.  She's beyond that now.  She has nothing left to lose.  "I just want you to take me.  No talking."

And so he does exactly that.  She sees his face for the first time over her head.  It speaks for him.  It speaks of pain and insanity, lust and hatred, sorrow and regret.  Above them all is need, need that matches her own.  It's wild and untamed and she allows herself to be consumed by it.

She gave up her Prince Charming for a dragon, and the strangest part of all is that she has no regrets.

So far.

It's twelve forty two on a humid Tuesday night, and on this night, Jane Foster is reborn.