I was made to be ruled, an avengers fanfic

Just a drabble.

Well, I need help. I thought to myself. It's gotten to the point of unhealthiness. I was completely in love with a mass-murder psychotic. Enamored. Obsessed.

His name was Loki, and he was, well, an alien. Not of Earth. He'd wrecked havoc in my city only a few months earlier, and the people were still recovering. The news channels were forever debating the chaos that had reigned for the few hours that day in May, the fighting, the confirmation of extra-terrestial life and so-called gods, the people who'd died. But most of all the so-called Avengers, and their adversary, Loki.

The government hadn't commented specifically on the catastrophe, only the boiler-plate responses: "Our prayers are with the deceased/injured and their familes" and "We are working as hard as we can to gain as much information as possible on the threat". Etc. etc. etc.

And while most of my friends were fangirling over Tony Stark or Steve "Captain America" Rogers, I was obsessed with Loki, the bad guy. I mean, the only Asgardian most people were interested in 'romantically' was Thor. The strong, handsome God Of Thunder, as it were. Of course, Black Widow (or Natasha Romanoff) had garnered much attention as well. Even Hawkeye and the Hulk (Clint Barton and Dr. Bruce Banner, respectfully.) had a small but dedicated group of admirers.

It's obvious why people were enamored with them- the heroes, the ones who'd saved the day- and I'm sure it didn't hinder them they were all so quite attractive.

And yet, here I was, staring at photos of Loki. Many had been taken of him during that historic battle, and here was a fresh batch that had only been leaked that morning, by an anonymous operative inside SHIELD (an organization that, of course, had been taken a beating in the media). Everything in the SHIELD helicarrier had of course been monitored by cameras and microphones, the post explained- and Loki had been imprisoned on that very helicarrier for a short time. There were an abundance of video clips, audio clips, and photographs of him inside that glass cage, and his subsequent escape, that had made their way online. I clicked play on one video clip. The angle was from inside the glass cage, a camera that had been on the ceiling. Loki was right up against the glass, and he was angry, and the words he was spitting out were low, almost frenzied. And they were cruel. He was using the harshest terms he could think of, trying to scare Agent Romanoff, who was on the other side of the glass.

"You mewling quim," he spit out at the end of the video. Such a disgusting thing to call a woman, I know I should have thought, but I could not help but be incredibly attracted to him even more. He just exuded pure power, pure malice. Is that not why The Joker is such a beloved character? Hannibal Lecter? How many fangirls are there of them? But those are fictional, I suppose, and Loki is not.

I browsed through the comments.

He was a monster, everyone said. He was a sociopath, everyone said. Try as I might to push away the attraction I felt to him, I could not.

It was, as I thought earlier, unhealthy. He's millions of miles away by now, in Asgard (if the space he must have traveled through to get there was even measured in miles, which it wasn't). There was no way I would ever meet him, and even if I did, he would probably kill me or demand my submission and allegiance. Which, try as I might to deny, I don't think I would have fought.
I guess I understand what he's saying- we crave subjugation (The only existing video of that little speech in Stuttgart was of terrible quality, off of a cell phone. Impossible to make good gifs of, though many had tried.)

I was tired of struggling. Tired of working two part time retail jobs I despised, tired of going to school in a major I wasn't interested in (healthcare- the only reason I'm even in that field is because that's the only place job security is in now). I opened up PhotoShop to make a few graphics of the new photos that had been leaked.

As I worked, I reflected on my life, and how I was living it. I liked doing this- making graphics, being artistic and creative. I wanted to go to school for graphic design, but as my mother and guidance counselors had so lovingly told me, that was not a good field to go into. So, I'm going to become a medical assistant. Yay.

I gazed at Loki's features as I tried out different colorings on it. Such startlingly blue eyes. He's sitting there, in his cage, trapped, imprisoned- and yet he doesn't look the vaguest bit angry, or even bored. He looks amused. Almost content. And yet, there is a sadness in those eyes.

"What happened to you?" I mutter. After all, one does not become a raging murderer for no reason.

Murderer. Well, that's what he is. He murdered people in cold blood. People who had lives. People who had children, and parents, and friends who were going to miss them.

And yet, when he screams, "KNEEL!", my first thought is to obey. To submit. I don't want to think anymore, I don't want this- what was it?- bright lure of freedom dangled in front of me when I will never reach it. I want to follow you- him, I want to follow him. I want him to make the decisions for me so I don't have to. Those people that died... perhaps they were lucky.

My hands subconsciously touch the scars on my upper thighs, ghosts of the wounds I made myself during my tumultuous years of depression in high school. I learned to stop the physical self-harm, in time, but the thoughts of loneliness, sadness and hopelessness never truly went away, and I suppose on some level I still longed for death.

I sighed and finished up my graphic. I posted it on my blog, the only place where I meet others like me. People who understand how and why I feel the way I do about Loki, people who agree.

And as night falls, and I get ready for bed, my thoughts are, as always, of him. The rage in his voice as he insults that woman should make my stomach turn, but instead it makes me long for him even more. I long for someone to take charge of my life- every aspect- and turn it into something useful. No matter how destructive. Once again I trace the scars on my legs. I am no stranger to destruction, even though the small kind of which I have been acquainted probably cannot compare to the death and desolation of the war Loki had been proposing.

I lay in my bed, and as usual, my hand wanders under my clothes. And in time, I am sweating, and bucking into my hand, and I reach my release with the thought of him in my head. The thought of him taking me, and dominating me.
Why am I this way?

Review? Please?
Also, the next chapter will be all or mostly pwp, this one is just set-up.