The Ink in Our Skins | Loki Laufeyson

Since Loki had been able to understand those around him, he understood, among other things, that one day, someone was destined to be his as much as he would be theirs. A soulmate, someone with his name in their skin. His handwriting is forever imprinted on them. For years, he waited until he understood that either they would try to break the bond between them, or that he would destroy them, break them, put them back together, and mold them into something fitting his needs and ideals. He wouldn't change, he couldn't change. Destined to him, as salvation, as punishment.

For years, he had rubbed their name and handwriting, soothing himself with this thought, with the fact that he would be free, sooner or later, of waiting, that he would be face to face with someone some higher force considered worthy of him, a perfect match, his other half. Of course, he had imagined them. Nestled in the crook of his elbow, just a bit before the dip. The place where you caress a big cat, where you hold a baby, where you leave their head rest as they sleep in the security of a familiar lap, vulnerable and soft.

He woke up, slowly but heavily. Something tight in the chest, like someone grabbing him by the solar plexus, fisting his nightwear, by the clothes, pulling him upwards to be seated in sweat-drenched sheets - after he had been soaked in water like an Ophelia, among underwater grass, branches, and flowers, clothes now dripping everywhere, filled to the brim, weighted and weighing down. Dressed quickly, the name burning in his skin, Loki was quick to isolate himself. He couldn't word it, but he knew - this certain someone he was supposed to love until the end of time was coming. Soon. If he had to scare them, he needed to be alone, needed to be alone to force a shape onto them, appreciate the flowers more than the roots, keeping them tight and close without ever needing to touch them, just like their very thought of existence kept him tight and close, out of breath.

A human. A Midgardian. They gave him a mortal! After the second of disbelief, leaving him cold, Loki felt his anger burn bright inside him, blood rushing back inside him. A joke, a mistake. Impossible, a simple yet so disgusting, cruel joke. His name written in the skin of a mortal. Bond, forever to a fleeting life he would witness decay second after second without anything else to do. A creature prone to diseases and sickness, weak, fragile. A weakness. His weakness.

Swallow your grief quickly, Your Highness, you have no time for jeremiads. Humans, animals - exposed vulnerability, lying belly-up, dogs begging for love, and now he is wondering if their teeth can tear through him, dig and rip his throat. Two poor imitations of Abel and Cain, separated yet together, one kind, one longing, and Loki wondered if he would kill them, and if they would want to die, but die under his hands, for death would be sweeter, maybe gentler.

"Why is there always someone to ruin my plans," Loki muttered to himself, seated on a golden edge, elbows on his knees, facing them, drilling ice-cold holes in their skulls, yet smoke could be almost visible, fingers intertwined, both index fingers pinching his nose. The light reflected, a broken moon mirror shattered and scattered around, at his feet, crushing under him, stars up and down, and this black hole between them.

He is an old being with strange hungers, and they gave him a simple little naked pink monkey with not even a third of his knowledge and experience. The awkwardness of someone not loved enough and now forced to improvise as the emotions of this other one flood him like vibrations echoing inside his body. Uncomfortably close by.

"You will bring me dishonor and shame, but at least, you are bringing something," Loki spat with putrid sarcasm, eyes boring into them, up and down, lip curled in disgust, trying to see beyond the clothes and skin, see the flesh and nerves, see what is soft - he knows what is soft, the words dripping full of venom, the polished marble almost corrupted and pierced by the toxicity. Almost breaking when reflecting Loki and the light from the outside. Even disgusted, he is handsome.

He closed the distance, a moving gush of black wind, of furious smoke and green, grabbing their wrists to inspect them, to find his name in their skin. His skin was almost crawling - so much emotion, so much going on inside this unruly body, things he couldn't control.