Marvel owns everything (well, technically Disney owns everything...). Remember, I don't have a Beta reader, nor a vast knowledge of the English language.

Someone encouraged me into expanding the one-shot into something more articulated, so...here I am. I still don't know where I'm going with this darker perspective on both Darcy and Loki, hopefully it's going to have some sense, in the end.

The first time Loki saw Darcy Lewis, he didn't really noticed her. After all, he had more pressing problems to look after, like the Destroyer sent to Puente Antiguo to kill Thor. Darcy Lewis was just a blurry figure in the background, nothing more.

Then, when he had been on Midgard, concentrated on his plan to rule the petty planet and its inhabitants, he had caught some glimpses of her existence in Selvig's mind: some useful information, to use later, when he would have more time.

And at the moment, he had a lot of time. Impersonating the Allfather, who had conveniently fallen asleep just after he returned back after his "death", left the God of Mischief with a lot of spare time: after Thor removed Malekith's menace from the Universe, the nine realms seemed to want nothing more than enjoying a period of calmness, and peace. The court in Asgard and its never-ending intrigues just bored him, and so, taking a look at Thor and his idiot friends on Midgard was the least tedious way to occupy his days.

It was during one of his visits to Dr. Foster's new lab in New Mexico (the recent events at S.H.I.E.L.D. had temporarily stopped her project to try to affiliate with them, but her progresses with her research had gained her enough funds and respectability to have more advanced equipments), that Darcy Lewis finally caught Loki's attention.

Like others before him, at first he had made the mistake to lust just after her body. Hidden behind another another face, he let his eyes caress her generous bosom, wondering it was as soft and silky as it looked; he measured with his mind the abundance of her hips, imagining his hands taking hold of them, while thrusting into her; he pictured her plump lips closed around the tip on his engorged cock, milking him to the apex of pleasure.

Then, the God started to observe her behaviour, and his further examination left him even more intrigued. It amazed him, how her so-called "friends" could not see her true nature: but after all, it had been the same for him, on Asgard. They didn't perceive how her sarcasm, her casual pungency, were only the outcome of a deeper frustration. The bitterness, and the lack of recognition from her colleagues, were slowly shaping her anger into something potentially dangerous; there was a sinner, concealed from the sight of the simpletons around her, and Loki was determined to unleash her.

Being a shape-shifter had infinite benefits: for example, he could follow her home, without being seen, and scrutinize her habits and her quirks; he could see the real Darcy, the one she kept hidden from the others' eyes.

Loki knew how the intern would have called him: a pervert, a creepy stalker. He simply didn't care. The God rarely did something without planning in advance, and his decision to fully corrupt Ms. Lewis was no exception.

Plus, he could witness her most intimate moments, undisturbed. Thankfully she had stopped her dull tryst with her pathetic assistant, Ian: he had known he could not satisfy her, since the first moment he had watched him kiss her. He could see the need in her eyes, a lust that a pitiful human being could not placate.

Loki could smell how horny she was, sometimes. He was a God, after all, and all his senses were beyond the human standard. He yearned to breathe her most intimate aroma, while his tongue would taste her sweet flavour, bringing her to the climax; he would watch her struggling to delay the inevitable, just to prolong the sensations his body could give to her; and finally, her incoherent gasps and moans would turn into the only name she would always associate to pleasure. His name.

For now, he should content himself by watching her writhing in her bed, her hand between her open legs, caressing herself to an unsatisfactory orgasm.

And night after night, it was her name the last lucid thought that lead him to sleep, with his spent cock still in his hand, resting upon his stomach: "Oh, yes, Darcy..you are mine".

So, any thoughts?