This started out as something but turned into another things entirely. Even so I regret nothing. This is mostly pointless fluff and my side babbling. I have recently reread a popular poem in my country and was inspired.

I hope you enjoy this.


Loki liked producing emotions from others. It was one of his favourite pastimes while he lived in Asgard. There he would plot and tinker with inventions in order to get others annoyed, or possibly scared. He was the God of Mischief after all, and honestly they deserved it. Besides, his little tricks were harmless – mostly.

Fear was also something he had enjoyed extracting from other living creatures. With it came respect, and there was a time when Loki craved respects. He relished in the terror marring the faces of Midgardians whenever he attacked. The horror in Thor's, his brother's eyes also delighted him.

But that was some time ago. Now these feelings gave him no thrill. Instead they left him empty, and he hated them for that. No, more accurately he hated the one who made them dull. That is to say, he hated Darcy Lewis. That human woman swept into his life when he was at his lowest point, tackled him with her useless righteousness and somehow she still managed to ensnare him completely. Loki was so taken with her that nothing else seemed to matter.

Of course at first he tried to annoy and scare her, but he found that the girl had a high tolerance for his attempts. She would meet them all with a derisive remark and a concealed roll of her, oh so blue, eyes. Loki would sneer and try again. Never once did he question the fact that none of his pranks were actually dangerous, no matter how desperate he got, and Darcy's lack of response simply infuriated him.

But Loki knew he lost the moment he let a new tactic unfold. Wanting to elicit something, anything from Darcy pushed the god to trap her against the wall and fuse his lips to hers. It was beneath him and juvenile but it still made a shiver go up his spine. To top it off Darcy had an unexpected and wholly pleasant reaction; she kissed back. That was how Loki discovered that he liked being on the receiving end of her lust more than he took pleasure in her distress.

From there on he concentrated his efforts on drawing out her more primal side. It was a sweet torment he would endure for all time if he could. Every chance he got, Loki used it to back her in some private place and bend her to his will while he succumbed to hers. Even so, he was aware, from previous experiences, that lust often died out fairly quick. He'd undoubtedly get bored at some point and break Darcy's heart. But he didn't pull away, he was selfish like that.

The more time he spent with Darcy, the harder he found it to let go. And at some point it stopped being about lust and went further to love. At first it was love fuelled by desire, much like lust this was built upon discreet rendezvous, deep nail marks etched in his shoulders and teeth punctures along her neck. It wasn't so much love as a primitive sort of affection born out of closeness and understanding. It was a human type of love that Loki couldn't sustain for long. He needed more.

And Darcy was never one to disappoint. She gave him what he asked for. Yes asked, because between body coupling and soul merging there was a huge difference so he felt compelled to ask for her approval. Bodies perished, images faded for they were feeble steam that would grow fainter with the passing of time. But not souls – those were everlasting. Loki wanted forever and he knew, hoped that Darcy did too. So he clung to her soul and gave her infinity and himself in exchange. It was all he could give, and everything she wanted.

So Loki loved her like an immortal. It was something boundless, unbound by rights or wrongs, timeless and eternal, real and extraordinary but perfect and not. Darcy barely understood at first and adjusting was hard – she hadn't been made for immortality but still had to exist with it. What they had, went against logic and the natural state of being but it was beautiful in a soul shattering way that would've crushed Darcy had she been any less than ceaseless.


So? What do you have to say? I think I did a pretty good job and if you see any grammar mistakes feel free to let me know. I promise not to cut your, metaphorical, head off. Scout's honor.