Yet another random itchy-scratchy 'won't get out of my head until I write it down' idea that came to me WAY too fast and bothered me while I was trying to work.
I hope this doesn't seem OOC, and I do want to warn readers that it IS rated M for a reason, as well as make you aware that it is a bit darker than I usually go for, and was written very quickly and may contain some mistakes.
Please enjoy and let me know how you feel!
I disclaim everything and everyone!
Jane knew she was dreaming.
She had experienced this scenario before, in the depths of sleep, in the two-a.m realm of fluttering eyelids and unconscious finger-twitching.
He had come to her with no announcement, crawling his way onto her bed in a much lighter fashion than his large body should have been able to, coming to hover his piercing blue eyes over her face.
She always 'awoke' to him smiling down at her.
And he was always, always, completely unclothed.
Jane knew she was dreaming, so of course, there was never a need to ask what would have been the obvious questions: When did you get back to earth? How did you get in my home? Why are you naked?
Those questions, among others, always fell silent on her tongue when his head bent down to capture her mouth in what was always a burning, aching kiss.
Only this time the burn never left, even after his mouth had sought its most favorite hiding spot in the space between her ear and throat.
Jane did not mind that her lips tingled with a slight sting that seemed reminiscent of the burn of cooking spice. Her hands found the straying blonde locks that tickled her shoulder as he nipped his way down toward her chest.
He stopped at the upper hem of her oversized t-shirt—never bothered to move farther down, and never attempted to remove it.
She knew she was dreaming when she sucked in a breath as his fingers scraped her thigh in its quest to tug at her boy-shorts. The air in the room was a thick and wet haze that made her feel as if she were outside, making love to an immortal in the early-morning mists.
It surprised her that this particular night he did not appear to be in a hurry. In dreams past, he always seemed eager, his hands rough against her flesh in their rush to feel all of her as quickly as possible.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he entered her without a word or a sound.
Jane found she could not speak.
She also found she did not care.
He was moving, now, slow and deliberate, gentle in a manner that seemed impossible for his fighting personality. His hands had fisted themselves in her hair, a thumb rubbing circles against her temple as he breathed softly—so softly—into her ear.
It was quiet, peaceful, and the sensation of his hips pushing just far enough against hers made her mouth open as if to gasp.
But no sound would come, and Jane was content to let her next breath catch in her throat.
It was only when, seconds later, he sped up the pace that she felt something strange come over her.
One hand still massaging her head, her otherworldly lover brought the other to rest gently on her neck. She felt the heat pool into her gut. She felt the quick jump in her pulse.
And she felt the unusual strike of worry hit her chest.
He was quick now, slicing his way into her warmth and creating a friction-effect that made her want so badly to scream.
It was when he was pushing her to her limit, grinding in a way that was just right, absolutely on target in every manner possible, that Jane let herself jerk up against him, into his chest, breathing in the sweet and spicy scent that covered his skin.
The only sound she could bring herself to make was the sigh that followed her descent from ecstasy.
It was only after he had pushed into her one last time, moaning in a way she had never heard in dreams previous, that the sharp twinge of concern she had felt moments earlier had her looking up into his eyes.
It was only when she saw the bright, unfamiliar green that stared back did she realize his hand was still on her throat.
It was only when he bent down and opened his mouth to speak for the first time did she realize the whisper that came from him was not deep enough to be his voice.
"You are mine now, Jane Foster. And you will remain so. Even in death."
She did not have time to feel the full force of panic course through her veins.
She did not have time to complete the thought that she was not, in fact, dreaming.
She did not have time to scream or cry or wonder why he was not there to save her.
She did not have time to hear the swift crack of bone as her neck was snapped.
And she did not see the glint of victory in his green eyes as he disappeared into the magic fog that filled her home.
She could not appreciate the fact that he had at least been humane enough to make it painless.
Tears of fury rushed down his face, dampening his stubble, dripping from his chin. Knees digging sharply into the severed and cracked crystal of the Bifrost, Thor Odinson shouted his eternal anguish into the endless starlit void that surrounded him.
Loki had won.
A/N: I apologize for the deception, my friends. But it was kind of the main point of the story :P I hope you liked it for what it was!