Based of the prompt from dl-prompts: Hands. Whether it's hand porn, hand fascination, ambidexterity, just make it about hands. Kinda angsty, no smut.
Some men like legs. Some men like breasts. Loki, though, had a certain fondness for hands. Darcy was always teasing him about it, too.
"All that time the media was brainwashing me about maintaining my boobs when I should've been moisturizing my hands," she laughed as he kissed her fingers again and again. He'd usually nip the delicate skin there in response to hear her laugh again.
"Hands are the most trustworthy body part," he'd say sagely. "You can learn to lie with your face, your eyes, even your body, but no one can lie with their hands." He ran a palm up her leg. "When you force yourself to stay still, the energy in your body circles. Like a storm," he traced circles on her hip in illustration. "Eventually, the energy has to bleed off, so it takes the easiest route out. The body is efficient that way." He pushed his thumb across the inside of her thigh and her fingers curled in on themselves. She laughed in surprise then pulled him in for a kiss.
"The God of Lies is a handy man."
Of course, that wasn't the only reason. Nothing is ever simple with the Trickster God. Hands were creation. In the past, he'd often taken artists and musicians as lovers. He found very little as interesting as watching his lover tenderly mold a piece of her soul into a work of art or a composition. He was made to destroy; it was refreshing to witness the other side of the coin. And his Darcy, who claimed to have no artistic talent at all, was a wonder to watch. Her hands moved with her words and thoughts like they were dancing to the most exquisite music. Her every touch was serenity and passion stitched together like silken robes. Even when she was absorbed in her work, transcribing notes and entering data, her fingers lightly skipped over the keyboard as delicately as a fairy.
Hands were time. More accurate then wrinkles in the skin or the dimming of the senses. Hands were simply a collection of gears and joints and when one failed, well, it was only a matter of time before the rest started to follow suit.
Loki remembered that first time her hands failed her. They were getting ready for dinner and Darcy was fussing over a roast or some such thing. Jane and Thor were meandering in the living room, smiling politely at him. Even after five years together, her friends couldn't believe that they were still here, still together. Thor was the only one genuinely thrilled with their coupling. He thought Darcy was a good influence on his wayward brother.
The table was set and all was ready except the roast. Darcy smiled broadly, proud of her achievement (they normally ate much simpler meals) and lifted up the heavy platter. She started carrying it around the counter when Loki saw pain suddenly flash in her eyes before she cried out and the roast fell from her hands. Loki thrust out his magic and caught the platter before it could shatter on the floor and hurt her anymore. Thor snagged it out of the air and set it on the table while Loki moved to Darcy's side.
"Sorry, sorry," she gasped as he gently took hold of the arm she was cradling to her chest and examined her hand. "I-I think it's my wrist. It just popped. I couldn't hold it anymore."
"Shh, my love, let me see." Carefully, Loki confirmed that it was her wrist. The weight of the roast had caused it to slip out of the joint. She whimpered quietly as she struggled to hold back tears of pain. "It's dislocated, love."
"If it's dislocated, she needs a doctor," Jane piped up, rifling through her purse for keys. "Do you need us to drive or...?" Jane trailed off as Loki and Darcy disappeared from sight.
"He's in a rush," Thor put in with a shrug.
"We should still go," Jane pulled out her keys. "Darcy'll need us."
"As will my brother, though he'd never admit it."
Several intense hours later, Thor had all but tied Loki to a chair to keep him from ripping the hospital apart from worry and anxiety while Jane looked on, unsure if she should be amused or concerned.
"Mr. Lewis?" A middle-aged doctor approached them, holding a clipboard.
"Is she alright," Loki demanded, all but shoving Thor away from him.
"Your wife is fine, sir. We were able to put her wrist back in order without any surgery, and she's been a real trooper. We've given her something to help with the pain and I've written her a prescription for some painkillers for the next few weeks." The doctor kept speaking but Loki tuned the rest out, allowing the knowledge that his lover was safe to ease the violence that had been building inside him.
"May I see her?"
"Of course. She doesn't need to stay overnight, so you can take her home once we finish the last stats. Just make sure she doesn't overwork that wrist. And by overwork, I mean don't let her lift anything heavier than a paperback novel."
Darcy on drugs was simultaneously hilarious and terrifying. Her tendency to say the first thing that crossed her mind was only amplified, resulting in several vulgar references to the good doctor's various body parts. And then she'd keel over like her spine no longer functioned, giving Loki multiple heart attacks. She waved her braced hand around like a conductor, humming tunelessly as Loki filled out the required paperwork, Jane hovering around her like a nervous bird.
Thor had politely suggested that Jane drive them all home and Loki had reluctantly agreed, teleportation not being a reliable means of transportation when one traveler is too frazzled to think straight and the other is drugged out of her very pretty mind. He carefully settled his lady into the car, scowling as he maneuvered the tight backseat. He despised mortal transportation. Darcy giggled at him.
"You look so pissed," she said before flopping over onto his lap. Loki tsked at her as he ran his fingers through her hair gently.
"You're so much trouble for such a little thing," he said softly, tracing her ear lightly.
"Youuuuu like me," she said in a sing-song voice that suggested that she was making a vague reference to some form of Midgardian pop culture she had yet to expose him to.
"Yes, I do, Valhalla help me."
Later that night, after he'd finally gotten Jane and Thor to go away, he'd curled up with his lady, gently kissing her uninjured hand while studying the thick purple brace of the other. He didn't know whether to weep or laugh.
Hands were like machines. As they aged, the gears rust and decay until they fail. And when one gear or nut or screw fails, so do the rest.
His beautiful, loving, laughing, darling Darcy was aging.
And he never would.