"Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."

- Prayer to Persephone, Edna St. Miller

She walks across the bedroom, toes curled up to protect themselves from the cold of the stone floor. It is habit for her by now; surely, after three months, she has grown accustomed to the temperature. Loki admires the swell of her backside and the dainty round of her hip, the silhouette of her curves visible through the nearly sheer material of her night gown. It had been a gift from him and she knew it pleased him for her to wear it, though she would rather sleep nude. He remembers dimly the first gown he had given her and how she had cast it into the fire. He remembers clearly the first gift he had given her and how it had led to this current...arrangement.

"Soon enough, a Midgardian season of your presence will not be enough for me." He drawls as she passes him, packing yet another "analyzer" into her suitcase.

"That's really just too bad." A smile flickers over her face before she replies dryly, her attention still drawn to her chore.

He no longer intimidates her, though he should. Her brilliance has never lent itself to wisdom, but he allows her disrespect, enjoys it even. When she first arrives for her brief visits, she is always melancholy, given to heavy sighs and far-off stares. As days wear on, she warms both to him and to whatever new world he's shown her. By the last weeks, she is retaliating to his teases and laughing at his antics. Her notebooks are filled with her hastily scribbled notes, despite the fact that no one will read or believe them. He dislikes waiting for those last weeks, though, agreeable as they are. Waiting for the end of the Midgardian calendar year is bothersome enough. Being granted a fourth of an eternity with her is still an eternity in the grand scheme, but Loki is greedy and has never pretended to be otherwise.

Jane knows his threat is idle. The spell to bind her to him for winter was costly enough. Even with his vast talents, he does not think himself able to keep her for longer. Not at present. It will be a far sweeter prize if she requests to stay for a greater length of time herself, but it is too great a hope. Asking is pointless and the idea is distasteful to him besides. He has no desire to incur her ire so near to her departure and he has no wish to lower himself by begging her company.

From the beginning, their relationship has been tug and pull, almost dizzying in its constant ebb and flows of passion and antagonism. Immortality has made her bold. She does not nag; instead, she wheedles, insinuating her remarks and feelings and thoughts into his subconscious until, unbidden, things she has said and done spring to mind. Naturally, these memories only seem to surface when he is alone and without her. He wonders if the same happens to her and considers asking, then decides against. An answer in the affirmative will undoubtedly be worded in such a way as to be an insult and an answer in the negative will make him feel foolish. Sentimentality is not something they share.

He assumes all her sentiment is reserved for the other Asgardian in her life. He does not care to spy on their relationship for a number of reasons, the foremost of which is that they are so incredibly boring together. He has seen it, once or twice - fleetingly, of course. They agree on nearly everything, from what to eat to whom they visit, but they speak of nothing substantial. When they are out and about together, her arm is always hooked in his and she dangles from him in a submissive way he finds most unattractive and unlike the woman with whom he has grown so intimately acquainted. Their arguments are few and far between as he's seen them, though he's noted with some satisfaction that he is usually somewhere around the center of them. They are not heated debates over stimulating topics like the position of some solar system or the translation of some magical equation, but rather tearful, heartfelt entreaties tossed back and forth like war volleys. They end with no resolution.

He counts the Abduction of Jane among one of his greatest tricks. He is not above pettiness. He is not above the passive torture of another god. Most of all, he is not above the soft skin and charged intellect of a loud woman half his size. Loki is unsure of when he began taking more pleasure in Jane's companionship than her hero's pain. It may say something about him beginning to rise above a grudge, but that is improbable.

"Are you really so eager to be away from me?" He asks petulantly.

She rolls her eyes at him before turning her back to him, but offers no words. This may be because she is not willing to part with the answer. Never once has Jane mentioned that she might miss him when she is away. In her mind, it would likely be a greater infidelity to her oaf than sharing Loki's bed.

It is a fine bed. And he is lounging on it, alone, because she still insists on her manual labor.

"I would do that for you, if only you asked nicely."

"Nope. I'm done. You do it wrong anyway."

She finishes her packing just in time; he is tired of her inattention. She rises languidly from her kneeling position, arching her back into a graceful stretch and yawn. The gown stretches over her breasts and her erect nipples, drawing his eyes to them immediately. This is part of the game he has every intention of winning. He crooks his fingers at her.

"Come."

She smirks and it is a near perfect impersonation of the one he so often gives her. He is always so proud of this mischief he inspires in her.

"You can't just say it and make it happen. You have to work for it."

Mischievous, indeed.

"Fair point, my lady. Luckily, I am very confident in my abilities to make you come where ever I wish."

He crooks his finger again and this time, magic hooks around her middle and drags her to him. She takes it in stride and she seats herself on the edge of the bed beside his leg as if that had been her intention all along, peering over her shoulder at him in an exaggerated display of innocence. The smile is wiped from her face as he grips her hair and wraps it twice around her fist, tugging her head to his. The effect is immediate; he can hear it in the quickening of her breath. The game is still being played. She supports herself with a hand on his thigh, their lips only whispers apart.

"I miss the days when you were young and fresh. You were afraid of me then."

"You were scarier then."

"Quiet."

His command is empty. He does not want her quiet and as he divests her of her scant clothing, he makes that very clear. As promised, she does come, screaming and trembling. As he watches her from between her legs, he wonders if his dear brother knows how very deviant his woman can be. Does he know her limit? Are her claws and teeth as sharp with him? Does he know that she likes to watch, she likes a hand around her neck, she likes to control, she likes to be controlled? Loki is sure that the animal she is with him is a far cry than the maiden she is with the tender lover that faithfully awaits her on Midgard.

When they finish, he makes some quip or pun and she laughs melodically. When her mirth fades, she smiles at him so beautifully he feels his stomach clench. It is the same smile she gives Thor. The revelation is so glorious that he does not see the distance in her eyes.