The Avenger's soulmate

Chapter eleven: Shadows

They hadn't let go of each other. Only as far as removing themselves from their embrace, they now stood together. The man's hand entwined with hers, eyes fixed intensely on her. He was mesmerized. Entranced, even, by the woman before him. Not many people could stun a God, but she'd done it. Curls of deep browns bounced around her face, each strand, each end fixed to perfection. She was beautiful. Loki found it hard to form words, his internal confidence ebbing from his veins. Those dark eyes blinked up at him, "Ophelia." she breathed, the word spilling from her lips suddenly.
"Ophelia?"
"That's my name."
"and a pretty one at that," he smiled, laying a kiss on the hand draped in his, "I'm Loki of Asgard."
"Asgard?" she echoed. The God nodded, smiling at her expression: gears turned behind those irises of black, emotions flickering through them in an inner turmoil. "That's not part of our planet," she said, her tone alighting with realization, "So you're an alien?"
"I'm a God."
Ophelia smiled, sweet and delicate, "But from another planet, means you're an alien."
"Darling, I'm the god of mischief and lies."
"Agree to disagree?" her head tilted, those curls flopping across her shoulder, revealing a bare sweep of her neck. Loki's breath hitched, and his eyes scanned that innocent stretch of skin. Five minutes he'd known her and she already induced a rapid hammering in his skull. "Alright," he purred, disguising the tremor in his voice.

Would she decline him? Steve talked about her reaction to him, how she didn't accept him, nor declined him. Would Loki be the first? Fear grumbled in his chest, flipping and churning. Could he handle this rejection?

—-
Ophelia stared at this god, his cool demeanor, his genuine beauty, and felt guilty. A god.
A god. A god with a mortal woman, a killer.
Her shadows began to writhe and play across her skin. Trickling towards the ends of her sleeves, clawing towards Loki. This was hard. It made her head hurt. Too much piled up in her skin.
But his hand was in his.
Loki's hand was in hers. Eyes gazed into hers, understanding and comfortable. The shadows shook, burning and gnawing at her nerves but then his thumb was drifting over the top of her hand.
"It's okay," he whispered, almost as if to himself along with her.
"Is it?" she whispered. Black flicked out of the fabric sleeve, swiping at his hand. "Shit-" she hissed, retreating. Their connection was lost. Loki's face sank, his attention flitting to the dark shrouds flexing by her wrists. "Are you alright?" he asked, reaching for her.
"No don't–" but his skin already contacted hers, and the shadows leaped, brushing across him. Brows furrowed. She inhaled sharply, "N-no."
Nothing happened. The man was unfazed. Only curiosity masked those features as the shadows touched his fingertips. What the hell? Shocked, Ophelia flinched, fleeing backward, eyes wide. Fire seared through her body. Shadows recoiled away with her, like fire colliding with water, hissing in her head as it did so.
"Are y-you okay?" she gasped, her breath ripping through her lips. Any human would've died imminently, as soon as those tentacles licked their skin, they'd crumble, screaming, bleeding. He was a god. But she waited for it to happen. For him to die. For her to kill him.

"I'm okay," he reassured.
A rush of relief, tears misted over her eyes, "You're okay?"
The man raised his thin hands, unscathed and untouched, and smiled. "I'm alright, darling."
"They touched you."
"They did."
A tear slipped down her face, but swiftly she wiped it away.
"Oh darling," he stood, stepped, and crouched in front of her.

The gallery around them was silent. The people seemingly have cleared out. Ophelia had no idea where Lydia was. At the present second, she didn't care. Her soulmate was before her, reassuring her that she didn't hurt him, that she couldn't. It was like he was immune to her curse, unbothered by her odd attributes, her shadows. Loki reassured her, his ringed hands closed over her shaking hand.

It came quickly, as fast as those shadows had fled, a fresh spark. A spark like the light of a match. Her wrists burned.
Cooled.
Ached.
That was when she realized he'd accepted the mark. But a soft tingle in her wrist said she had to. She'd slipped up.
She'd nearly killed him. In her relief that she had not, her heart had opened, her soul spilling out. They'd accepted each other. One was purposeful.
The other is not.
But the oddest piece of it all was that the only emotion she felt was pure; Ethereal joy.

Oh hell.