A/N: This is rated M for a reason. It's sweet smut, but smut nonetheless. Lemons abound. If that's not your thing, I would go away now. Don't say I didn't warn you.

This is just a oneshot of an established Lokane relationship. It could tie into my other oneshot, but it doesn't have to. The basic premise is, Loki discovers Midgardian love poetry and decided to try it out on Jane.

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel, any of its character or any of the poems/poets I've quoted. Love to, but I don't.

Latterly, Jane reflected that she should have known something was afoot when Loki announced from (seemingly) nowhere that he'd changed his mind about Midgardian poets.

"Upon deliberation," he'd said thoughtfully, paying no mind to how Jane jumped at his unexpected appearance in her lab, "I find that there are, in fact, some of your 'poets' that do indeed deserve that title."

Jane cleared her throat and blinked a little, attempting to calm her heartbeat and staunch the coffee slopped from her mug which was spreading alarmingly towards her computer. "Oh, well, that's…" she grappled for an appropriate response, "…good?"

For weeks the matter of the worthiness of Midgard's poets had been debated between them. Loki had made his way through the assorted works of science and literature on Jane's extensive bookshelves, and had begun on her poetry collection with eager curiosity. He'd often told her admiringly of the Asgardian poets who could reduce even the stoic warriors of the King's guard to tears with a well-aimed elegy or song, and Jane had been interested to see what he'd make of the Midgardian equivalent.

After the fourth book of poetry came sailing over the back of the sofa, flung away in disgust, she could be left in no doubt.

"Ridiculous!" Came Loki's frustrated cry. "How can Midgard perceive itself as advanced, and yet its wordsmiths can barely hold their pens?"

"What's wrong with our poetry?" Jane asked defensively.

Loki snorted. "You might as well ask what is right with the stuff; it'll warrant a shorter answer; which is: precious little. I find little from the last fifty or so of Midgard's years is even coherent, let alone of note. And what is coherent fixates on the most trivial of matters. That fellow," pointing to one of the discarded volumes, "seems to think digging the ground is such a worthy activity that he wastes upon the subject ink and paper that could have been put to better use elsewhere."

Jane shrugged, unwilling to admit that in that particular case she rather agreed. "Then what about the older stuff? What about," she craned her neck from her place at the table to peer at the books on the floor, "Keats? Didn't you like him?"

Loki sat up to nudge the volume in question with his foot. "Some were well enough, but the man wastes three pages upon the subject of an urn of some kind, and pants over it as though it were a beautiful woman laid naked before him!" Jane giggled a little in spite of herself, but Loki was too riled to take notice. "If this is what he devoted his life to, is it any wonder he died prematurely? I cannot think such amorous affection for pottery is good for any man." Now Jane laughed outright, tempting Loki's own mouth to quirk a little at the side, but still felt that she must defend poor John Keats.

"I'll agree that a Grecian urn is perhaps not the most exciting subject, but I've always thought it's more about how it's said; the words he uses; than what he actually says."

Loki snorted in dismissal, his attention turning to a new volume already. "On Asgard a poet's words are precious, reserved for the glories of battle, the heights and depths of emotion, and praises or laments for the worthiest people. Words of power and feeling are not bandied about or wasted. If we wish to speak of common things, we speak common words." With his verdict announced, Loki returned his disdainful expression to the book in his hands. Jane rolled her eyes, but let him be.

The subject was revisited, however, many times in the next few weeks. Loki was unable to restrain himself from bemoaning the inadequacies of each new poet he encountered, and Jane; unable to restrain herself from defending each one. Some were poets that privately she had no regard for either – but she felt it her duty, on behalf of Earth, to defend its poets from the disdainful alien.

Thus, when Loki's declaration came one afternoon as she was in the midst of poring over the same facet of data for the seventh time, Jane was rather at a loss. "Oh, well, that's…good?" Loki nodded distractedly he was crossing the room, pacing around the table with a slow, purposeful stride. "What brought this on?" She asked playfully, "Did you manage to find a poet you actually like?"

Occupied with moving stacks of paper away from the coffee spill, Jane didn't turn as he made his way around her in a measured, deliberate gait that, had she not been so concerned for her notes, would have alerted that something more than poetry was now the object of Loki's attention. In fact, it was not until she felt his touch gliding along her arms, soft as candlelight, that she realized he had ceased his pacing and was standing behind her, his chest only inches from her back. She could feel his warmth intensify as he leaned closer, feel the heat of his breath on the shell of her ear, but still the only touch she felt was the lightest of contact on her clothed arms. She held her breath as she felt him draw in his own, almost able to feel words hovering on his lips. But despite the vivid, tantalising anticipation, nothing prepared her for his words, when they at last came.

"Bright star," he murmured, hands gliding feather-light to the bare skin of her collarbones, "would I were steadfast as thou art – Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing at the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors – No – yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,"

Jane's head fell back to Loki's shoulder as his lips grazed her pulse and his hands took hers, sweeping their entwined fingers up over her hips, stomach and breasts to rest at her throat – "Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake forever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender taken breath And so ever live ever – or else, swoon to death."

The last word faded in a murmur of breath before Loki – at last – pressed his lips carefully to Jane's sensitive skin, just above where the neck meets the shoulder. Feeling the tingling wash of his warm breath over her throat, Jane felt as though her own breath had been stolen permanently; she let a gasping, soundless moan escape her as she freed her hand Loki's and brought it up, gripping his hair in an unforgiving fist in a bid to retain some semblance of self-control. Loki grunted a little but didn't desist, flickering his trickster's tongue unpredictably against her skin, the expanse of which was now so charged that Jane could feel every shift of muscle against her back, every hair that tickled her cheek.

Concentrate, Jane…there's something…something you have to…say…poetry…yes, that's it…

"I thought you'd decided against Keats?" she managed to get out, although it required much more concentration to form that sentence than a woman of her intelligence was accustomed to.

Loki's tongue paused long enough in its activity for him to reply, "After revisiting some of his works, I've decided he is not entirely without merit."

"I'm…I'm glad," Jane managed, "Oh, I'm very glad," as the gentle scrape of teeth joined lips and tongue.

Loki's attentions consumed her, slowing her mind so that she he spun her around to face him in one quick motion, she could only grasp his shoulders and comply as her hips were pushed back to the table edge and, a moment later, pressed against his own. And then his hands were everywhere at once; tugging her shirt over her head, in her hair, skimming her newly bared curves. No sooner had this sunk in to Jane's bewildered brain than his mouth took possession of hers, his tongue searching, searing, plunging with a passion that was almost aggressive in its urgency.

"Jane," was what he uttered when their mouths at last broke apart to draw in breath, "Jane." She blinked a little, panting. Her fingers were fisted tightly on his collar, crumpling the impeccable material with abandon. Loki's arms were trembling iron around her, his hips were locked between her thighs and there was a question in his eyes. Jane was almost amused that even now, after all these months together, he still felt the need to ask her permission every time.

Her single, fervent nod was all the assurance Loki needed. Jane blinked against the searing flash of green; no sooner had she registered that they were now in Loki's preferred apartment complex in Rome, and, moreover, her shirt had been left behind in New Mexico; than Loki's mouth was on hers again, coaxing, taking, pleading. She gathered sufficient wits to begin divesting him of his clothes, as he did the same for her. A scant half-minute had passed before Loki grew too impatient and flicked his wrist dismissively, banishing every article of clothing into the unknown. Another heartbeat, and he scooped her into his arms and strode as hurriedly as he could, with her thighs wrapped around his hips and their mouths still affixed, to the oversized bed that stood pretentiously atop a raised platform in the centre of the room.

Laying her down on the sheets, Loki lifted himself to kneel up between her legs, gazing down at Jane's nude body with something akin to reverence. All the urgency in his seemed to calm, although the darkening of his piercing eyes belied the stillness. After so many times of having been together like this, Jane no longer felt the impulse to cover herself when he stared so intently at her, but her eyes did widen when he murmured absently, as if to himself.

"She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;" His hands glided lightly up the outside of her ankles, calves and thighs before skimming her sides, tracing scant patterns over her stomach, sliding down her arms to entwine their fingers. The sensitive points of her breasts yearned towards him as he bent to kiss her again, but even when he rose to explore the smooth expanse of her skin, his touch skirted around both rosy peaks, denying her satisfaction.

"And…all that's best of dark and bright," he continued breathlessly as she arched pleadingly under his hands, "Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies…" Whether Loki would have continued beyond that point was determined by Jane just then, who, aroused beyond the scope of patience, rose to scramble into his lap. Now it was her lips that attached themselves to the pale column of his throat, drawing from his a sound that was halfway between a chuckle and a moan.

"If this is your reaction, dearest Jane," Loki articulated with some effort as Jane's lips, teeth and tongue descended his torso, "to any halfway decent love poetry, then I thank the Norns that none of the Asgardian poets wanted you for his own…a lowly prince and poetical amateur such as myself would never have had a chance…Jane!" He finished with a groan as Jane wrapped her hand around the shaft that stood to attention along his belly, and stoked slowly. Loki's head fell back, making it easy for her to push him onto his back among the expensive sheets.

"Another," Jane demanded softly, straddling his thighs and keeping her strokes long and languid.

"Another?" Loki muttered distractedly, hands clenched into fists as his feathery eyelashes flickered.

"Another poem, Loki," she answered, her voice lowering instinctively, "give me another." An amused, rather mischievous smile quirked Jane's lips as she watched him flail mentally for the means to give her what she wanted, all the while keeping up her slow, steady strokes along his pulsating length.

"I, ah…uh, bid me to live, and I will live, Thy protestant to be… Or, um, bid me love, and – oh, gods, Jane!"

Loki broke off abruptly, his shoulders rising halfway from the bed when, Jane moved back a little and, without warning, took his haft (as much as would fit) into her mouth. She bobbed her head a few times, making good use of her tongue as Loki groaned unabashedly above her, then removed him from her mouth just as suddenly as she'd begun and said calmly, "If you stop, I stop." Jane could feel his growl reverberate where her hand lay flat on his belly as his head fell back against the sheets.

"Impudent woman, how can you torment me so? I believe it is I and not you who is the trickster god."

"Consider it payback, my love, for all the weeks of insults to my planet's poetry," Jane said smugly, "now get to it." And she blew a stream of cool air over his swollen length, which jerked in reply.

This time the growl from Loki's clenched teeth had an air of defeat about it as he flopped gracefully back and began once more; "A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free, As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee."

One stanza complete, Loki inclined his head towards Jane and raised an eyebrow expectantly. Jane dipped her head obligingly and slid his erection slowly into her mouth.

Loki responded with a gasping laugh and wet his lips to speak, fists digging into the sheets. "Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To…something…honour thy decree, Or bid…bid it languish, um, quite away, And't shall do so for – oh, gods!"

Jane's hand had joined her mouth's occupation, stroking and teasing what wouldn't fit between her lips. When Loki broke off Jane relinquished his length, to his dismay, and murmured, "For whom, Loki? You've stopped again."

"For thee, for you, Jane! Don't stop…" His protests trailed away as she took him back into the warm cavern of her mouth. He scrambled internally, combing his lust-fogged brain for the next words. "Bid me despair – no, wait – bid me to weep, and I will weep, I'll – I'll…or bid me die – oh, Jane! Thou art my life, my love, my heart," His voice rose to almost a cry and his fingers knotted in his own hair to prevent him from damaging Jane's. "The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part – yes, my love, yes! To – to live and die for – Jane!" Loki's hips jerked upwards as he spent himself across Jane's tongue, all attempts at coherency shattered as his wordless cries filled the room.

Jane relinquished his length gently as he relaxed back onto the bed, his smile as lascivious and satiated as only he could produce. She giggled, still kneeling between his legs. "Well, that was fun. I'm glad you've been…convinced of the merits of Midgard's poetry. At least there'll be fewer arguments."

Loki gave a bark of laughter that still sounded somewhat breathless. He propped himself up on his elbows, rumpled hair falling dishevelledly about his face. "You," he accused, "are a minx. How is it," he continued, sitting up straight and lifting her easily into his lap, "that I am known and feared across the realms as a trickster, when in truth it is my lady; not I; that they should fear?" Jane's replying laughter was cut short when Loki's lips found hers again. "I believe," he asserted between deep, eager kisses, "that it is my turn."

"Mm?" Jane returned distractedly as Loki began mapping kisses down one side of her neck, "Your turn to what?"

His mouth left her neck and a grin reminiscent of the Cheshire cat curled his lips. "To make you squirm, my dear." Before Jane had time to even consider that, or do anything more than gasp, Loki had bent her backwards over his forearm and enclosed the rosy, straining peak of one breast in his mouth. Jane gave a somewhat undignified squeak of surprise and clung to his shoulders as his free hand slid around her side to pay homage to the neglected breast. Once she was reasonably assured he was not going to drop her, Jane let her head tip back and she enjoyed the sensations of Loki's tongue – so very talented – laving velvety-rough circles on the peak of each breast, alternating between the two in patterns only he knew, drawing gasps from her when the sharp edges of his teeth grazed and nipped at her charged, hypersensitive skin. The sensations were so intense that Jane was almost (but not quite) relieved when Loki abandoned her nipples to whisper kisses over every smooth inch of her breasts; each side of the rounded swell and down the soft valley in-between. Here he paused to lick a meticulously methodical path upwards over her breastbone, then leaned his forehead down to inhale the scent of her skin and murmured; "Display thy breasts, my Jane, there let me Behold that circummortal purity: Between whose glories, there my lips I'll lay, Ravish't, in –"

"Loki!" Jane cried, when at that moment his thumb completed its journey from her breastbone to the tiny, hidden bundle of nerves that Loki found with dextrous ease. Loki hummed in gratification at her cry and set about stroking circling, tracing until Jane was, both literally and figuratively, squirming as he had promised her. She was so close, but needed something; anything – just a little more…

Loki, obliging to the extreme as always, had her on her back among the sheets in a heartbeat, as if her mute desire had been whispered in her ear. Hooking her legs over his shoulders, Loki began his attack of lips, tongue and fingers without preamble. The whimpering moans she emitted in response made him smirk (as best he could) against her folds, and soon he was compelled to drape his forearm across her hips to keep her in place. It took very little time for Jane's whimpers to become high, keening moans and Loki could practically feel how she teetered on the edge of the precipice…just a very little more…

With this in mind, his fingers moved faster, his tongue pressed and sucked and siphoned that fraction more, and –

Jane fell with a full, throaty cry of release; the fingers in Loki's hair pulled tight to the point of pain. He pressed even closer at the biting sting and kept his movements steady and strong, drawing out her climax with the expertise of familiarity. When at last she was still, panting, flushed with satiation and lying prone among the rumpled sheets, Loki licked her arousal from his fingers with blithe relish and said, "I suppose I could make some reference to 'For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of paradise'?" Jane's chuckle was low and languid, a more sultry sound than she was apt to produce, which gave yet more fuel to the fire within him, making it roar into a blaze. He reached for her eagerly, his lips finding hers once more as they rolled, twisting the sheets they lay in. Jane tasted her own essence on his tongue, and opened her eyes to find herself in Loki's lap, his arms coiled around her as her legs encased his hips. She clung to his shoulders as she lifted a little, angling herself above him, then let him guide her with gentle hands to sink down over his length until she rested in his lap. Loki's shuddering sigh matched her own, and for a long moment neither moved.

Loki bent his forehead to her shoulder, stilling to feel the warmth of Jane's depths and luxuriating in the tingling sense of home that suffused him. When the pressure and the weight of his desire won out, he shifted his hips upwards. His first tentative thrust was met with a gasp and Jane's hips began their own slow rhythm in answer.

"Mm – Jane –"

"Loki…" For a while, their names were the only coherent sounds that fell from the other's lips. Loki's hands went to Jane's hips and griped tight; tight enough almost to bruise her; as her rhythm increased and his hips thrust upward to meet every one of her strokes.

Jane's eyes opened when Loki began to speak, watching his darkened eyes, the slight flush in his cheeks and the perfection of his lips as they formed immortal words. "A savage place! As holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover!"

How he timed it, Jane would never know, but the chaotic ecstasy she had felt building, boiling, coiling inside her found its climax when Loki's dextrous fingers found their way at that moment to that tiny bundle of nerves at her apex. In retrospect, Loki thought with amusement that the only description for the sound that broke from Jane then was a wail. She creamed her release, nails pressing into the skin of his shoulders as her back arched against the explosive pleasure racing along her spine. Loki dipped his head to take the peak of one breast between his lips, teeth grazing her gently. Her scream faded into incoherent, breathless moans – the only word discernible on her lips was his name, and Loki would have grinned had the powerful ripples of her orgasm not been squeezing quite so tightly around his shaft, buried inside her.

Before the shocks of her climax had even begun to cease, Loki had turned Jane on her back in one quick, powerful movement. The pace of his thrusts increased and increased, his hands found hers and pressed them into the pillows as his head dropped to her collarbone. "And from this chasm, with…ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing," The words themselves were pants, hot against her skin as Jane surrendered all control to Loki. She could feel how close he was in the desperation of his movements, and bit down on the pale column of his throat, making him moan a breathless rendition of her name, "A…a mighty fountain…momently was forced…Jane! Gods, Jane!"

Loki was never quiet in his orgasm, and this was no exception. One final thrust, and he was crying out his release into her skin.

When his muscles relaxed and the shuddering aftershocks stilled, Loki moved as if to pull away from her, but Jane slipped her hands from his and held him to her. "Don't move yet."

He lifted his head, shaking a few rumpled strands of hair from his eyes, and asked "I am not too heavy?" Jane shook her head lazily and smiled. Loki settled his head back on her shoulder, breathing in her scent.

Jane's eyes were closing when she heard him speak again. "I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride. So I love you because I know no other way than this, where I does not exist, nor you, So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."

Jane smiled sleepily. "So Midgardian poetry has its perks after all?"

Loki grunted into her skin and rolled them until she lay along the length of him. "A very few, I will concede. I never said I was infallible, little mortal." Jane slapped his chest, but Loki only laughed and sealed her mouth with his to stop her protests.

A/N: The poems I've quoted in this are: John Keats' Bright Star (look up Tom Hiddleston reading this…just do it...); Lord Byron's She Walks in Beauty; Robert Herrick's To Anthea, who may command him anything; Herrick's Upon Julia's Breasts; Samuel Coleridge's Kubla Khan; Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII (I do not love you). All of them but Bright Star are quoted incompletely.