Disclaimer: I don't own the Thor or The Dark World, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
He Doesn't Love You
A/N: Set during The Dark World.
"You," she says, and glides across the floor, that gown she wears a lingering disgrace. She's no right to it, Loki thinks, and peers over his shoulder, the tome still clasped in his hands. The woman spins him right around, shoves him into the bookshelf and slaps him again. "I hope you're proud of yourself."
What a thing to say. He doesn't waste the effort in fighting back that mocking grin, her tiny, ineffectual fists drawn about the fabric of his tunic, the light seeping through the library windows to catch her hair in a rather gentle bronze glow. Pity, Loki thinks, that she's mortal. Otherwise...
Another blow, this one knocking the book from his hands, the thing tumbling to the floor, landing with the text face down.
"I wasn't finished with that," he remarks, and Jane shoves him again, her eyes hard and angry. "Do you not think that was a bit rude, Jane?"
"I'm rude? Oh, that's rich, coming from you," she sneers, breaths escaping in uneven bursts. "He's in there," she presses on, "facing your father alone, trying to atone for your sins, and you have nothing to say to him about it?!"
What explanation does he owe Thor? Would she like him to seek the other out, fall on his knees and lie, beg for forgiveness that he does not desire? Would she like to see him plead with Thor, speak words that the whole of Asgard would peg for another elaborate pack of lies, and apologize? No. It would be a waste of his breath, his time, to do something so base and stupid as this. He doesn't care for Thor, not in the slightest, and she is every bit the fool his so-called brother is for convincing herself otherwise. She's wasting that pretty little mind of hers, trying to play peacemaker between them.
Slowly, Loki removes her hands, bending slightly to collect the book, inspect the pages for damage before settling it back into its proper place on the shelf. His hands clasp behind the small of his back, pacing, calculating, across the floor, all the while feeling the fire of her gaze as it tries to pick through the walls of ice.
No compassion. No remorse. No regret.
Only rage.
"If you only knew," Loki says, "what manner of man he truly is beneath your petty little illusions of grandeur. Beneath all that shine you project upon him, a mortal's idea of a hero." He doesn't look back, knows that her front is fading, self-righteousness subsiding, giving way to the desire to protect a man who, so far as he is concerned, does not know what love is. And Loki, being who he is, knows all the signs of false affection. "Has he told you of the others? Dear damsels, desperate beauties among Odin's servants who, on more than one night, sought him out, only to cleave unto that which you believe solely belongs to you?"
Jane draws a deep breath, and he can see her head shaking as she trembles.
Liar, she wants to say, name him that which he has already accepted. Liar. Traitor. Deceiver.
"Oh, you should have seen him before he met you," Loki drawls. "Vicious temper befitting a violent brute like him. A man lusting after every love struck little bird what looked at him with eyes like yours." He tips her chin up, runs that silver tongue about his teeth as if to taste upon the air her refusal to believe. Her fear. "Yes. A prince of Asgard, Thor is a cruel master. You should have seen him. Heard the way he made them beg."
"You're lying!" she shouts, tries to shake him off, fists pounding at his chest. "Liar!"
"Under normal circumstances, I would appreciate the recognition. But if I am telling you no more than falsehoods, why is it that you swallow them so willingly? Why do they hurt you?"
Jane freezes, eyes glazing over, hands almost clinging to him to hold herself upright.
He could get used to this. Seeing her, Thor's woman, in pain. Seeing her so uncertain, so broken down and detached that she doesn't quite know which way is up. Maybe, Loki thinks, a wicked gleam in his eye, he could become accustomed to steadily pulling her away, dragging her from the Son of Odin's arms and into those of Asgard's very own devil.
A sorry expression is what he places upon the table, gauging the way she looks to him, hoping that he'll take those words back, tell her that it's all a cruel trick like the ones he so loves to play.
Rather, Loki leans towards her, catches her lips in his and deigns a taste, eagerly drinking up the anguish that she carries in her throat.
A quiet sound, perhaps that of a choked off sob, and his hands find her waist, fingers curling into the fabric that, only moments before, made her a mockery to the Aesir. She stumbles back, spine pressed into the bookshelves as she arches, draws a breathy groan from his lungs at the feel, the idea, of fully stealing away that which so certainly belongs to his brother. Make her seek him out, Loki thinks, plead for him to touch, to kiss, the way he loves to, watch her unravel in the dark and swallow the lies of affection that he so fluidly feeds.
"He doesn't love you," the serpent croons. "He never has. To a man like Thor, you are a tool."
Her fingers scrape the side of his face, causing him to recoil, feel the beginnings of harsh red marks that will soon come to rest. Too far, perhaps. Just one lie too many.
"You're sick," Jane snaps, swiping at her mouth with the back of a hand. "And if you ever touch me again, Thor won't be the one you're running from."
With that, she turns swiftly on a heel, leaving the Trickster momentarily stunned by the threat, his mind coming to regard it as but a child's poor joke.
"I meant what I said, Miss Foster!" he calls after her, smiling to himself. "I like you."