Meanwhile in New Mexico...
“The Soldier of Winter!” the voice of the Thunder God shook Jane’s small apartment, vibrating the windows (and something very pleasant else. Jane would kill her.) as the poor Stark phone flung from his hand wildly, landing in a clatter of parts and a shatter of glass in the corner.
“Who?” Jane and Eric asked, oblivious. Those two never kept up with any current news that wasn’t in covered in Scientific American. Nerds.
“The Soldier of Winter! Our lost companion! Our fallen brother in arms in need of redemption!” He clapped his wide arms around them all. “He has returned!”
“Loki? Thor, we saw the body—“ Jane began worriedly, promptly interrupted by a bellow of “ANOTHER!” and yet another mug was sacrificed to the whim of Odin’s Son.
Make that two. Eric had throw his as well. Possibly in good measure, possibly because he could, and most certainly because he’d made the mistake of trying to keep up with Thor. Again. It’d been hours since he’d lost his pants. It wasn’t the first time. Wouldn’t be the last.
“Come, Jane! My love! We must celebrate!” And in his massive, muscly arms, Jane Foster made a reedy sound through her nose that sounded less like celebration and more like a lung popping. Her face had gone a blotchy purple.
Darcy’d always wanted to be choked out. It sounded hot. Like, actually hot-hot not 50 Shades of I-Could-Read-Way-Better-Fanfic-For-Free sort of hot.
[Jane still hadn’t forgiven her after finding her A03 account. But hey, Darcy could write Thor/Jane and Thor/OFC and Thor/Jane/OFC like the shit. Research, she insisted to her devoted readers and reviewers, was critical.
[“I swear to God, Darcy!“ Jane had threatened over the incriminating hard drive, “you publish ONE MORE THING ABOUT MY SEX LIFE AND I’LL—"
“Which God would that be, I wonder? Yon God of Thunder?” That had shut her the hell up for awhile.
But Thor had been less than unamused. Thor was ecstatic. “Jane, my love! Look! What wondrous ideas your friend has! Your Midgard customs are strange! Let us make haste to try them!” That had shut her the hell up for a good long while. Like, permanently. Darcy was positive that Thor and Jane getting their rocks of to Darcy writing about Thor and Jane getting their rocks off so Darcy could get her own rocks off (Ian wasn’t much use in that department. Great kisser, fantastic cuddler, cute hair, but couldn’t find a clitoris on a map of the female genitalia if it was labelled for him, bless.) was probably the deepest, weirdest, most erotic level of meta the internet had ever invented.
…And this from a girl who shipped Johnlock.]
“Holy mother of fuck,” she sighed, turning to Boothby, who was currently nodding off against the counter. “Why can’t you have arms like that?”