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itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

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Dirty Work 44

Joyous Walpurgisnacht: Part II

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Please share your screams in my ask or a reblog!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Laufeyson returns with a second drink. You still have your first, nursing it as you find your head spinning with the activity all around. As more guests stream through, raucous as they meet others they know, the stage hums and the speakers crackle to life.

Bragi begins his set, a brief tidings for the event before he strums into a tune. You wiggle your foot to the beat, peering over at the full band behind the lead. It's all so big and bright.

You turn back, reaching for your glass, as Laufeyson draws from his own. He watches you over the brim, eyes traveling down your body, focusing on the movement of your foot. You still it and uncross your legs, setting your soles flat.

He puts his drink down, half-finished. You sit back and fold your hands in your lap, peering around evasively. He probably saw you slouching or was annoyed by your fidgeting. You blow out between your lips as the party blooms around you.

Voices thrum in ripples beneath the steady rhythms of the stage, hollers go up now and then, piquing your interest as you look over to see a group cluster. They stand around smaller tables framed by two chairs each. You can barely see those sitting at them moving small pieces around the board.

“Hnefatafl!” The cry goes up as Thor stands and the pieces scatter on the table before him. You quickly look away as his head pops up above his audience.

“An old game,” Laufeyson explains, “rather dry for an event like this.”

You raise your brows curiously. You’re almost tempted to ask him more but think better of it. He hardly seems interested. Distant thunks bring another roar from a crowd further down. You twist in your chair to see across the field large round boards set up. A man with blond hair hurls an axe towards the wood, embedding it. You flinch and face the table again.

“Chaos,” Laufeyson mutters.

“Yes,” you agree, your toe tapping on the grass until you stop it again.

You sink into a silence which exists only between you and him. The furor of the party crackles around you, circling you in a whirlwind. There in the eye of the storm, there is no sound. It is deafeningly hollow.

“Ahem,” the clearing of a throat and tap on your shoulder brings you around. Laufeyson looks over your head, fixing his posture as you face Odin, “hiding in the corner?”

“Not exactly, father,” Laufeyson says, once more taking up his drink.

“There is much to enjoy. Your mother’s put in so much effort, I’d for her to see you glowering like this,” Odin reproaches.

“I do not glower,” his son snips.

“Mm, yes, well, you are more than welcome to wallow alone,” Odin replies flippantly, “but you needn’t cast a cloud over others…” he shifts to face you, opening a hand to you, “might I be so humbled as to request a dance from the lovely lady?”

You look up at him and your mouth falls open, “dance? I don’t know… how.”

“Well, then it is a good thing I must take it slow,” Odin insists, “it isn’t so hard to learn.”

Laufeyson sighs and drains the last of his whiskey. He stands abruptly, “I need to top up.”

Odin eyes him tensely but doesn’t remark. He looks back to you, “you don’t need to sit in his shadow all night. One dance, fair maiden of Walpurgisnacht, I see you can barely contain yourself.”

You look down as his gaze falls to your foot, once more wiggling. You still it and accept his hand. You hope Laufeyson isn’t too upset. It is only his father after all, he can’t be too put out.

“Thank you,” you stand and let him lead you away.

Odin brings you amid the other dancers, on a flat white floor laid out over the grass. He guides you to face him and helps you place your hands before he hooks an arm around you. He’s gentle but firm in leading you, counting with the rhythm between directing you how to move your feet.

“That’s it, dear, you’re a natural,” he praises as you let the music guide you, “and a beauty. That dress is very becoming, though it pales on you. You look immaculate…” he continues to sway with you, “my son is a fool not to say it himself.”

“Odin,” you look past him sheepishly.

“It is the truth. You are glowing and he is playing the troll, secreting you away from the light,” he tuts and shakes his head.

“It isn’t my party,” you utter.

“You belong here,” he insists, “don’t you think otherwise.”

“I am the house manager–” you rebuff.

“You aren’t,” he says, “my son didn’t get his senselessness from me. No, that is bred of mistrust. Fear, truly.”

“Odin, it’s true–”

“If he says it, it cannot be,” he counters, “when he looks at you, he is not looking at a house manager. He will claim I do not know him but he is my son. I see through him, it is only a pity he looks in the mirror and cannot do the same.”

You stare at the button of his vest. You don’t believe him. You don’t want to. You’re too afraid to think it could ever be true. Yet how can you tell him the truth? That would be humiliating. You are only half-right, your son wants more of me but only to sate his worst urges. It isn’t sentiment, it is convenience.

“Pardon,” a voice has you tripping over your own feet but Odin keeps you balanced, turning you as another figure stands close, “father, may I… take over?”

“Ah, but we are having such fun,” Odin taunts and twists you away from Laufeyson again.

“Yes, it seems so,” Laufeyson says thickly, “perhaps the next song…”

“Oh, don’t be so mopey,” Odin stops you as he chuckles, “I was only trying to pep you up, yes? It’s a party.” Odin raises your hand and kisses it gently, “thank you, dear, for humouring an old man.”

He stands straight and lets you go. He faces his son but you cannot see his expression, only the way Laufeyson’s eyes gleam back dangerously. Odin departs and Laufeyson’s attention flits onto you. He takes a step forward, once more looking you up and down.

The music ebbs and a new song begins. The soft plucking begins, then the reedy tone of a flute. Mr. Laufeyson offers his hand and you accept it, awkwardly coming closer as he sweeps his arm around you, his hand stretched over your lower back. He looks down to place his feet with yours before he begins. He is lithe and graceful, you feel otherwise.

“This is your song,” he says as the melody comes clearer.

You tweak an ear as you follow it, then lyrics begin.

“Moon River, wider than a mile…”

Your heart pulses in recognition. You smile towards the stage. You didn’t expect him to truly do it but it’s wonderful.

“I like it,” Laufeyson says, “it is very… whimsical.”

You turn your head straight, focusing on your footwork, careful not to trod his feet, “it is.”

He’s silent as you feel his gaze upon you, bearing down. He must be annoyed by how you follow his lead, uncertain in your body. How pathetic; never had a birthday cake, never had a dance. You look up and gulp shakily.

You almost stop dead in your heels as you see something less than agitated in his expression. He is fixated on you without a trace of chagrin. His hand shifts on your back, his other on your hip as you hold his shoulder and his upper arm. He is handsome in the dimming approach of the evening.

“When I said before that you look nice,” he begins, “I was remiss. You look… beyond anything I could ever put into words. You are magnificent, pet.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you stutter, “well, you look very handsome as well.”

“I am not looking for compliments,” he dismisses, “and I think I owe you more than that.”

You don’t know what to say. Is it an apology? You don’t know entirely what he means. He’s had three glasses of whiskey, just like that night, and in the morning, he was just the same as before. You won’t count on the kindness he finds at the bottom of a bottle.

A sudden flash makes you squeak. You look over as Yvonne smiles over the large lens. You give a nervous giggle and brace Laufeyson tighter. He sweeps you away from the camera.

“Tomorrow, we will talk,” he avows, “but we can enjoy tonight. It is Walpurgisnacht and it is a new beginning.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He winces and exhales, “can I be Loki for tonight?”

“Loki,” you echo, “yes.”

As the song ends, the heat speckling in your skin licks to flames. You don’t know if it’s being so close or his constant gaze or the thought of tomorrow and whatever you might talk about. You’re sweating and you're uncomfortable and you need a breath.

“Excuse me, um, I need the bathroom,” you gently pull away.

He reluctantly lets you go, his hand lingering on your hip as he points, “there, in the tents, I believe mother had facilities put up.”

“Thanks,” you offer a weak grin and step away from his grasp.

“I’ll be here,” he promises as you go.

You try not to hurry. You don’t want him to see how desperate you are to be away. It isn’t him, it’s you. This is all too much for you. It isn’t you. You’re not one of these people but they treat you like one. You’re just a poor girl born of cigarette ash.

You find your way to the tent housing the stalls. You take your time and try to collect yourself. Your nerves are tingling in your fingertips and where he held you; just along your lower back and your hip. It’s that urge that worries you, the one that made you think of resting your head on his shoulder.

You emerge and use the outdoor sinks set up in front of the stalls. You dry off and measure your breaths. You can do this. You go back down towards the fervour and as the night sets in, the large lights come to life and light the crowd.

You search the clusters of bodies. Where is Mr. Laufeyson? As you inch along the threshold, a shadow shifts to your right. You glance over but the figure disappears. You shake off the eerie sensation creeping down your spine and march forward into the tide of people.

You weave around bodies and tables, dizzy from the flurry all around you. You stagger as you’re nearly stampeded by a rowdy group of guests and you spin around to face a table in the far corner. There you find a scene that makes your heart plummet into your stomach.

You can’t stop yourself as you near the pair. Laufeyson, Loki, sits in a chair, two drinks on the table; his whiskey and another bright purple concoction. But beside him is Sif. She leans forward, her wrist clutched in his grasp as she whispers through the curve in her delicate lips. He stares back at her, eyes fiery, jaw locked.

“Loki, we had something good…” you hear her slither as you get closer. Her blue eyes dance over to you and her lips curl, “I still love you.”

She looks at him again and smashes her lips into his. He winces and turns his head, his gaze finding you as you stop, paralysed as you watch helplessly. You blink and swallow, wetting your lips as you bring your hand up to your sickened stomach.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You turn and race away on clacking heels. You don’t look back as you elbow through bodies, running without direction, without escape. You just need to be away from it. All of it.

You find the pathway into the garden, plunging into the brush as your heels wobble with each step. You stumble and grunt in frustration. You stop and bend to unbuckle the shoes, tossing them away before you hurry on.

You find the stone gazebo, lit only by moonlight, and throw yourself inside. You land on a stone bench and hang your head in the frame of an arched window. You deflate as you hunch over, trembling so much it hurts.

You won’t cry. Why would you do that? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Mr. Laufeyson only said you looked magnificent then turned around to kiss his ex-wife. And why wouldn’t she? She’s much more than you’ll ever be. She fits neatly into their puzzle.

“Ah, little maid,” the gazebo darkens as the moonlight disappears as if a clouds passed over the nocturnal guardian, “what is the matter?”

You sit up and shudder as Thor’s burly silhouette limns in silver. You brace the edge of the bench and stand.

“N-nothing, I was only… having a break, I should head back–”

“It is peaceful out here,” he says, unmoving as you gesture around him. He fills the entire doorway.

“Yeah, but er, I should–”

“How do you like Walpurgisnacht? Are you having fun?” He asks, propping and elbow against the stone.

“Sure, I guess.”

“And did you play any games?” he sneers.

You falter and lean back on one heel. You have a bad feeling. You wring your hands as the air breezes in, a shiver rattling you.

“No…”

“That is too bad. This is a day of fun! Games are fun, aren’t they?”

“Please, Thor, I have to get back–”

“Let’s play a game,” he ignores your protest and steps into the gazebo, “I know a special game.”

“Thor,” you croak as you glance towards the windows. You see the lights above the trees and hear the muted noise of the partygoers and Bragi’s tunes. You look back to him as he takes another step towards you.

“You can be the mouse…” he says, “and I shall be the cat.”

“No, please, I don’t want–”

“You best be nimble, mouse. for the cat is hungry,” he growls as he looms closer, “and ready to pounce!”

He lunges and you jump back. Your shoulder hits the wall and you cry out. You turn and feel around, nearly falling through the opposite doorway as your feet slip over the stone steps. You stumble at the bottom, slipping in the grass as twigs and stones poke into your bare soles.

You hear him behind you, laughing as he makes a steady but easy pursuit. You sprint across the small field towards the row of brush, skirt catching on bramble as you dive into the wilderness. You don’t know where you’re going, you just need to get away.

Your feet slip on moss as dirty sticks to your skin. You puff as you pump your arms, glancing back over your shoulder frantically. He isn’t running, but he is coming. You can hear him laughing.

You swerve around, towards the noise of the party. You just need to get back there. You need to find a path. You don’t know where you are, the further you go, the more lost you are. The noises fade further and further. Oh god, wrong way!

Suddenly, your toe hits something hard and you nosedive forward. You don’t have time to get your hands up as your face crunches into a thick trunk and you collapse to the ground. You roll over as you taste iron on your tongue. Ow.

You sit up and touch your throbbing nose. As you plant your feet to stand, you hear a rustle and suddenly, you’re pushed flat to your back. Thor snickers as he holds you down by your shoulders, straddling you beneath him as he huffs.

“Ah, I’ve caught you, mouse,” he taunts as you squirm and whimper, “now the cat must feast.”

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itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

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day 9, sesshomaru: ruts

kinktobruary day 9

sesshomaru x reader // inuyasha

—sesshomaru has been acting strange lately. the last thing he needs is your oblivious questions.

tw/cws: knotting, ruts, dubcon, sesshomaru being too horny to have self-respect

It is troublesome, this burning heat. It stirs, just beneath the surface of his skin, coils between his muscles. It calls to him, urges him to find a warm body, to mount it. His claws elongate as he observes the heat diffusing from his palm. Hm. Even a demon of high caliber such as himself is powerless to nature’s calling.

Much less… his thoughts began to drift to you, his very human companion. There are things he wants to do to you, thoughts that he’s repressed in the past that come snarling towards him, breaking out of their cage. He frowns. This won’t do.

—

“Gosh, Sesshomaru really has been cranky all day, huh,” you remark, after the third time he’s evaded your presence. His silence and occasional ignoring is something you’re used to, but not him outright using his demonic speed to dash seven paces away from you.

Jaken shushes you urgently, glancing fearfully towards his master. “Lord Sesshomaru is going through a… difficult period.”

You frown. You disappeared to the modern era for a few days to sort through your college midterms, and when you came back, Sesshomaru was in this bristly mood. You can’t help but think you’re missing something.

“Is it Inuyasha?” You ask lowly, knowing all too well of his tumultuous relationship with his brother. “Does it have to do with his father?”

“No, and no, you daft human,” Jaken nags.

You’re more than used to Jaken’s insults. “Okay, so…. what’s up with him?”

The imp glances eyes you, before quickly changing the subject. Your frown deepens as you finish bending the stems to Rin’s flower crown, before calling her over and placing it on her head. While she chatters excitedly to you, you find your gaze straying to Sesshomaru’s tense form in the distance, just far enough where he can still keep an eye out for enemies, but not too close to your group.

Whatever his problem is, you would get it out of Jaken some way.

—

You just don’t anticipate how you will.

Sesshomaru’s been acutely avoiding any and all interactions with your group all day. It’s almost as if he’s a specter, lurking just outside of your field of vision. Except whenever he does get closer, you’re overwhelmed by a sense of—bloodlust? Malice? Something that simmers with intensity. You can’t quite pinpoint it, and whenever you ask Jaken, he seems to evade your question. Whatever it is, it sends shivers down your spine.

When you set up camp for the night, he disappears entirely.

Your thoughts are plagued by worries for him, and you fall into a fitful sleep. What could possibly be causing him to be so on edge all day? You’re stirred into consciousness by something brushing against your nose. Your face scrunches up, and when you open your eyes, you see a flash of silver hair, curtaining your view, the same wave of bloodlust—

“Sesshomaru?” Just as his name leaves your mouth, his presence is gone in a flash, the air around you stirred. You sit up, glancing towards the direction of his after-image.

You weigh your options. Jaken did say he was going through a difficult time…. but you aren’t sure what is troubling him. Maybe it’s a demon thing? Should you really risk getting your head bitten off?

Against your better judgement, you go searching for him. Sure, he’s a big, bad demon, but something is clearly bothering him. And as his.... friend—as loathe as he is to admit it—you can’t just leave him be.

What you are not expecting is to see Sesshomaru hunched over by a tree as if in pain. You call out his name, running towards him, but are stopped by a feral snarl as he turns towards you, his eyes flashing red.

“Leave. Now.”

“What’s wrong? I—”

As you approach closer, you notice several things. His claws are sunk into the tree, the poison leeching from it and decaying the bark. The markings on his face are fiercer, more striking, and his fangs protrude from his lips. His eyes flash more and more red with every moment; he looks every bit a wild animal. But, and perhaps the most scandalous of all, he grips his cock in one clawed hand, erect and red, and apparently he was jerking off.

You try not to stare, you really do, but your eyes instinctively dart down there as you feel heat creep to your cheeks at the position you’ve caught him in.

His hand has stopped moving, but his cock stands throbbing, looking painfully erect. You gulp.

“You’re just a mere human. You wouldn’t understand—”

“You’re… horny,” you state, blandly.

“Human—” His eyes flash dangerously.

“You’re...” Your mind flashes through possibilities. Sesshomaru seems unable to control his... not bloodlust, but carnal lust. He is a dog demon, which means.. he could possibly be... “In a... rut?”

He stills. A vein pops out in his jaw, his fangs seeming even more prominent.

“I… I studied this in school. Once.” Freshman biology, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Do you need—” You’re not sure what you’re asking him. What does he need? A hole? A demonness to fuck?

This is awkward. His eyes follow you like a predator, that wave of lust washing over you again. You stifle a shiver.

“Before your arrival,” he says suddenly, the piercing quality of his words startling you. “I had no such issues dealing with these… urges. But now, they are quite...” His claws dig into the bark further, and the bark snaps. “Incorrigible.”

“Oh.” You blink. “I’m… sorry?”

“This is partly your doing,” he growls.

“Uh-huh...”

“I... am tempted to ask you to fix it.”

This is where your brain grinds to a halt, your jaw dropping. His sharp gaze hones in on the way your mouth opens enticingly, and you notice, snapping it shut. “I—you want me to—”

He makes a frustrated growl in the back of his throat. “Disregard that.” And then he’s stalking away, each step seeming painful, emphasized even more by the engorged flesh sticking out of his pants.

“W-Wait, Sesshomaru—”

He’s on you in a flash, before you can even blink, and you freeze. “I suggest—” The warmth of his breath washes over you, and this close you can feel just how hot he’s running, his entire body diffusing heat. “That you don’t—call me—like that—”

“Like what?” you blurt out. “I’m just saying your name.”

His lip curls over his fangs. His eyes clench in frustration. You seem to be testing the limits of his patience.

“Sesshomaru, what—”

In a flash, he’s pressing you against another tree, and his lips are claiming yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, his fangs digging into your lip. You flinch when you feel blood trickle down your chin, and he snarls at the taste of it, before pulling away.

“For one of the less idiotic humans, you can be quite obstinate.”

“I’m...” You blink, dazed. “Sorry?”

His mouth is claiming yours again, his chestplate pressing you into the bark. You feel the heat of his cock pressed up against your thigh, and you shudder at the sensation. It’s hitting you now.

Sesshomaru, one of the most ethereally beautiful people you’ve seen, the most powerful demon in the Feudal Era, wants to... he’s this frenzied up because of... because of you. You, an average human.

Your thigh nudges against his length, and he breaks the kiss to snarl, his fangs lowering to graze your collarbone. Your breath hitches, and one, clawed finger comes up to shred your shirt. You yelp as the cold air hits you only to be devoured by the heat of his mouth on your skin. His fingers claws through the material of your bra, and you yelp again.

“Hey, that was one of my favorites!” you say, indignant. He scoffs, his mouth suctioning over the give of your flesh possessively.

You moan, arching into his touch, as you stare down at him. You don’t dare touch his silver hair, afraid of how he may lash out on you, but your hands do come up to his shoulders, tugging the fabric.

You tense when one of his fingers lowers itself to your hip, and then he’s ripping the panties and skirt off in one clawed swipe.

“We really... have to talk about you ruining all my clothing,” you say, weakly, your affront tempered by his actions.

He scoffs again. “You won’t need such flimsy things in just a moment.”

“Ah...”

His finger slides against your slit, collecting your release, as you writhe against his touch. He’s aware of the softness of your flesh in comparison to his demon claws so he doesn’t do anything much other than rub his finger back and forth along you. He growls once he’s satisfied with the amount of slick coating your area, before leaning back and aligning the his cock to your entrance.

“A-ah wait—“ Your eyes widen at his considerable length; you’re not nearly ready to take him in. But then he’s canting his hips forward, not penetrating you, but sliding his cock along your slick till he reaches your ass cheeks. He continues this rocking motion, his lips pulled back in a snarl. You moan, dropping your head back, before wincing as it hits the unyielding bark. His hand comes up to cradle your head. “Thanks,” you murmur.

His sharp gaze is fixated on the way his length slides against you, and rubs against your slick; the way your arousal gleams on his shaft under the moonlight.

His hips begin to rock faster now, a growl building up in his throat. You wince at the dig of his armor against your bare skin, gripping his shoulders as you attempt to find some grounding.

You feel his cock throbbing insistently against you, his pre-ejaculate mixing with your arousal to make for an easy slide against you.

He growls, his eyes narrowing. His grip digs into your hip as his thrusts become choppier. You get the sense he’s frustrated.

“Do you want to... put it in?”

His gaze flashes up to you, surprise in the bleeding red, as you continue. “I... that’ll help abate your rut right? I don’t mind... you using me.”

You have little else you can say, because Sesshomaru sheathes himself inside you in one thrust. You gasp, your eyes clenching at the feel of him stretching you to your limits.

“Ever heard of a... a warning?” you manage to choke out.

He shows no mercy, his hips ruthlessly pounding into yours once given the go ahead. It’s clear Sesshomaru is losing his grip on rule or reason now, his eyes maintaining their blood-red state. You wince as his elongated claws press into the meat of your waist. He fucks you like he takes down foes: with ruthless precision. Once his cock hits that spot that has you keening against him, he begins hammeringinto it, and your eyes began to water at the sheer intensity and rapidness at which your pleasure is mounting.

At the sight of your tears, however, he seems to slow down. His tongue darts out to lick them off your face, and he’s observing you, before his thrusts slow to a leisurely lull. When the palm of his hand comes down to press against your clit, the stimulation, combined with the way his cock is plunging into you in long, deep thrusts, has you writhing against him.

“S-Sesshomaru—”

You feel something bulbous forming at the base of his cock, stretching you wider, and you look down. Protruding from his cock is a thick knot, and you gulp once you realize that’s going into you.

You’re approaching your end. He snarls as you tighten around him, both his hands gripping your hips to him now, as your walls clench around him, nearly trapping his cock with their grip.

Sesshomaru thrusts once before pressing deep inside you, a throaty grunt tearing from him. You shiver as you feel copious amounts of warmth seep into you, and it remains inside you due to the knot plugging you up. The moment seems to stretch on forever, his hips jerking into yours in minute movements, and then it’s over.

The two of you are stuck together. You shift only to wince once it jerks at his knot. He grunts, keeping your hips in place.

“Sorry,” you say. And then, when a few more minutes have passed, and the two of you are still in the same position, you ask, “Ah, when can we.... detach?”

Sesshomaru grunts. “Once it deflates.”

“Ah... and when will that be?”

He shifts. “This Sesshomaru is claiming you as his. It will take awhile.”

“Ah, okay—wait, what?”

He presses you closer to him, and you rest your head against his chest. While the feel of cooling cum usually is gross, the heat of his body keeps you warm and feeling full. His clawed fingers gradually begin to trail through you hair. After several minutes that seem to stretch into eons, the bond keeping you to him diminishes, and you shiver when you feel some of his spend trickle down your thigh.

Instead of the hard flesh inside you softening, however, it stays stiff. You still, glancing up at him to see his markings still vibrant, his red eyes glowing distinctly.

“Did you really think we were done, human? The Demon Lord of the West surely does not possess such a meager drive.”

—

The next morning, you come up with some half-assed excuse to Rin about why you’re wearing a kimono from the local seamstress, and not your usual outfit. And why you can’t seem to walk anymore, and Sesshomaru has to carry you everywhere.

“(Y/N) must have fallen and hurt themselves.” She giggles.

“Yes, Rin... on a very large... stick.” Sesshomaru’s claws dig into your backside in warning. “I mean—tree branch.”

“Silly (Y/N)! It’s a good thing Lord Sesshomaru is around to take care of you.”

(Meanwhile, Jaken has yet to be seen since he encountered the two of you this morning. He’s too busy cleansing his eyes and nose out in a lake.)

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itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

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Dirty Work 42

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I've had a headache every day this week. I swear I want one good day.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You sit on the sofa, the bird still firmly perched on your shoulder. Bragi shows you the twelve-string, strumming lightly between stories about his travel abroad. Laufeyson glowers as he sits in the high-backed chair recently cleared of its clutter. The stout blond is quite talkative, it makes you wonder why your boss even brought you here.

"I'll be playing at Walpurgisnacht, so you will see me tomorrow," Bragi stands and places the guitar in a stand among several other stringed instruments, "perhaps Fossegrim will come too... he likes to sneak into my bag."

The bird squawks and tilts up and down.

"Likes you too," Bragi remarks. "Not as fond as your companion, I'm afraid."

Laufeyson shifts with a huff, "shall we continue to ramble? I did come for a reason."

"I nearly forgot," Bragi declares, "you requested it so long ago I nearly forgot."

"Yes, well, I left in a hurry my last visit and could not drop by, my apologies," Laufeyson rises and dusts off his trousers.

"Right, up in my office."

They leave you without much regard. You set aside your empty cup as Fossegrim rests his beak against your hair. He is rather big, your shoulder is sore from his weight, and yet he is comforting. You sit straight and hold out your fingers shyly. He bends to touch them and dips his head. You pet his feathers, uncertain what to do with yourself.

You hear a thump from above and a grunt. You look up as the bird hops down to the cushion. You rub your hands together and stay as you are. You don't want to intrude, besides, the place is so crowded, there isn't much space to move.

At last, you hear the stairs creak and the men's voices precede their reappearance. Laufeyson holds a wrapped parcel under his arm as a shank of hair hangs past his ear, dangling along his cheek before he sweeps it back. You wonder what happened.

"Sorry about the rug," Bragi chuckles as he scratches his neck.

"Yes, not to worry," Laufeyson dismisses, "as it were," he looks at his watch, "my mother will be less impressed with our delay."

"You will send my regards," Bragi smirks crookedly.

"I will let her know we saw you," he retorts, "let us be off."

He waves you over. You say goodbye to Bragi as you cross the room and the parrot wings over your head, rustling your hair as he lands on the banister post once more. He lets out a chitter and receives a hush from his owner.

"Best go before he grows more obnoxious."

You offer a tight smile as Mr. Laufeyson opens the door and you step outside. It's dark and the moon beams down brightly. You silently descend the steps and near the car. He doesn't say a word as he unlocks the door and you climb in opposite him.

He starts the car and steers onto the street without a word. You feel as if you've done something terribly wrong. You look at your lap and drag your sweat palms over your skirt.

"We need to be very clear about things, pet," he begins as the leather squeaks beneath his grip, "tomorrow, you must stay close to me. No more breaking the rules."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson. I'm sorry--"

"Do you remember the rules? That I asked you to be honest with me," he hisses, "yes? I know you recall, you are brighter than you look, aren't you?" He slaps the wheel, "if you need... time, or anything, you can tell me. You must tell me otherwise... otherwise how can our arrangement work? If I am ignorant of what you require, how can I provide it? You cannot be upset that I do not know."

"I... I'm not upset," you murmur.

"Yes, but if you were upset," he exhales heavily, "then I would like to know the reason for it. I--" He stops himself and shakes his head at the road, "I am only saying, if there is some issue between us, you cannot merely run away and hide."

"I didn't--"

"Yes, yes, you were reading," he cuts in, "I do hope you enjoyed your little story."

"It won't happen again, Mr. Laufeyson," you avow.

He takes a deep breath, "that's all?"

"I... I'm not upset, I said, I only..." you mull the words on your tongue, wondering if they'll even matter. "I've never been far from home."

He nods as he slows, idling at a sign, "very well."

You accept his response as he accepts yours. Tension lingers but neither of you wants to add to the boiling stew. So you look out the window and he glares out the windshield, driving on in repressed agitation.

✨

Mr. Laufeyson leaves you alone that night, bidding you to keep the door locked and nothing else. You know for certain he's unhappy with you. You've already put a damper Walpurgisnacht and it's not even begun.

You sit in the small cone of light cast by the lamp and try to read but find the task impossible. So you tuck away Jane and her troubles and lay down to sink into your own. You don't see the next day going well at all. No better than any that have come before.

Perhaps it might be better if you found a reason not to be there. You could keep the white dress on the hanger and just stay inside where you can't do anything wrong. No one would miss you very much.

It's Frigga's celebration and you aren't an Odinson, no one would know any better. Mr. Laufeyson would be free to enjoy himself and not worry about you irritating him. That's all you seem to do.

Your eyes close heavily and you tumble down into a turbulent sleep. Dread colours your dreams and wakes you several times in the grim hues of the moonlight. The fitful night drags on into a dull morning, shining over you until it sears through your eyelids.

Walpurgisnacht. April 30th. A day that feels like a page turning.

You sit up and sift slowly through the early hours as if wading through sand. You wash and ready in the bathroom, ignoring the memories of two nights ago, the echoes of your whines, and the coiling of his touch. Now, he won't even use you. This could be it. When you leave this place, you may also be departing this life. It might just be for the better.

The event doesn't begin until the afternoon. Frigga said as much before. So you pull on a pair of tan pants and a peachy shirt. You near the door but don't flip back the lock. You should wait for a cue. For permission.

You stand at the window and watch the day bloom. The dew gleams on the leaves and petals and the air is fragrant with spring. Oddly, it does feel refreshing.

There's a soft tap, one you're not certain you heard. You turn and lean on the window ledge and hug yourself. It comes again followed by your name. Mr. Laufeyson's voice is just as even-keeled as the night before. Empty of any expression. That's worse to you than anger.

You emerge, head down, and bid him a good morning. You're met by a curt 'morning' and he ushers you down the hall. You smell bacon as you descend and the crackle of grease hisses in a pan. You walk side-by-side with Laufeyson out onto the veranda.

Odin sits, stirring a cup of coffee with a silver spoon.

"Ah, good morning," he chimes, "Joyous Walpurgisnacht!"

"Yes, happy day," Laufeyson intones and sits. You take the seat at his shoulder.

Your attention is drawn by men in work clothes out in the yard. They must be setting up for the celebration. You wonder how you should ask to excuse yourself from the event. You might pretend to be unwell. You don't entirely feel great.

"Happy Walpurgisnacht!" A thunderous boom makes you jump and grab Laufeyson's arm. He merely groans as Thor approaches and drags out a chair, dropping down with a sigh, "father, brother... lady, isn't it a wonderful morning?"

"Son," Odin squints at his son's open shirt, his chest shamelessly bare to the sunlight.

"Mmm, coffee," Thor pours from the carafe then adds a handful of sugar cubs to his cup. Laufeyson helps himself to tea before offering you some with a twitch of the spout. You accept with a nod and a please.

"Coffeeeeee," an echo drawls in the air as Hela strides in, chewing a strip of bacon absconded from the kitchen.

"Ghostly as ever, sister," Thor guffaws.

"Ugh, must you?" She snarls as she slumps into a chair, "ew, do those buttons not work?"

Thor smiles as he looks down at his torso, "it's warm."

"Or maybe it's the hot air stuck in your head," she retorts.

"Children," Odin rebuffs, "please, it is a holiday. Let's try to get along."

Laufeyson says nothing as he sips from his tea. You peek at him, finding his eyes narrowly set on his father. Another twinge pinches in your chest. You hope you haven't made things worse between them.

"Oh, we are all here already," Frigga flutters in, canary fabric swishing around her, "wonderful."

"Wife," Odin outstretches an arm and she goes to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Mother," the siblings murmur in unison as you eke out her name.

"We will begin breakfast soon, I just checked with the staff, it is almost ready, but first," she pokes her elegant nail in the air, "there is one matter I need attend to. It won't take very long at all."

She smiles at Odin as he returns the sweet expression, then her eyes meet yours. Her cheeks pinken just a little. She sweeps away and disappears through the open doors. You hear her trill as she speaks to the staff.

"She is up to something," Hela slithers.

Laufeyson hums in agreement.

"Father," Thor peers over at Odin as he brushes his fingertips over his beard.

Odin shrugs, "I haven't any idea."

"Liar," Hela accuses, "you are not so sly as you think."

"I swear--"

"He definitely knows," Thor insists, "Loki, doesn't he? You see it, can't you?"

"I suppose..." Laufeyson squints and lets his voice dissolve into nothing.

"Here we go..." you hear Frigga chime before she appears again, "happy birthday to you..."

The song begins as two maids carry between them a double-tiered cake decorated with perfect white dollops of icing topped with raspberries. Your stomach gurgles and your chest racks as you sit up, caught in headlights as Thor and Odin join in on the melody but Hela and Laufeyson merely lean forward curiously. You gulp and look down at your lap.

As Frigga leads the chorus into your name, your shoulders slope and you turn your face away, tears stinging your eyes. How could she know? As nice as it all is, it's too much. You don't deserve any of this.

"Birthday..." you hear Laufeyson whisper quizzically.

You brace the armrests and push yourself to your feet as the song ends and the cakes placed before you. Your lips tremble as you look around the table. You can barely squeak out your apology before you flee, Frigga's hand glancing off yours as she tries to stop you.

You hurry away from the veranda, hurtling up the path blindly. You plunge into the brush and around the curving trails, retracing the same route Odin led you the day before. You clamour up to the gazebo and hide within, collapsing onto a bench as you fold over and shield your head.

Why would she do it? You don't matter! It's all too much. You don't want to pretend anymore. You don't want to act like you belong. You want them to let you go. You want Laufeyson to just do it already and throw you away.

You sit, bent over, weak and shaking, just breathing, paralysed. You hunch amid the songs of birds and the rippling of water. You can't move. You just want to stay and never come out.

A scuff makes you flinch. You lift your head to look over as a shadow steps into the archway. You raise yourself up straight and face Mr. Laufeyson.

"I didn't know it's your birthday," he says.

You don't say anything. Why would you tell him? Why would he care?

He lowers his chin, sliding his hands into his pockets as he steps into the stone structure, "if I'd known--"

"It doesn't matter," you say, "it's just another day."

"Mm, well..." he begins in a fragile tone, "I wouldn't agree. Birthdays are special..."

"Not mine," you pout.

His cheek ticks and bows his head, nodding as he thinks, "but... my mother did try to make it special..." he chews on his lip as he looks at you, "she's worried."

"She shouldn't care so much. She isn't my mother."

"But she is a good mother," he argues, "and she only wanted to include you."

"And I'm just as ungrateful as my father said," you sniff, "I'm sure you'd agree."

"I don't."

"Sure. It's why you left me alone all night. It's why you were so mad that I dare read a book. I know, Mr. Laufeyson, I know."

"Know what?"

You huff and cross your arms.

"I know better," you stand and jut your chin out. "I broke the rules again, I'm sorry."

"The rules... that isn't-- why are you being like this?"

"Like what?" You challenge.

"Please, I didn't come to lecture me--"

"I know the rules. I remember. I will be good," you drop your arms and force your spine straight, "I will apologise to Frigga and thank her. You're right. You're always right. I was wrong."

You go to step past him and he catches your arm, pulling you to face him, "stop."

"Mr. Laufeyson, is that not what you want? For me to be good? I'm sorry I made you look bad. I only... was surprised," you carefully measure your voice and force a smile, "tell me what to do, Mr. Laufeyson and I will obey."

His brows slant and he swallows tightly. He squeezes your wrist then releases you, "apologise," he breathes, "say thank you."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you reply and march through the door, "whatever you wish."

You keep your gait steady and set. He follows behind you and catches up. You return to the veranda in curdling silence. As the rest look up at you, you gather what's left of your strength.

"I'm sorry," you say, "I was only surprised and I... panicked."

"Dear, it's okay, I should've warned you," Frigga coos.

"I really appreciate it," you sit as Laufeyson pulls out your chair, "really..." you look at the pink cake, "I never had a birthday cake before."

As the words escape, you clamp your lips shut. It's only the silence that makes you realise how pathetic that must sound. You put your chin down and try to hide your embarrassment.

"Of course, dear," Frigga fills the dead air, "would you like to cut the first piece?”

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itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

Text

Dirty Work 41

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: it's thursday and i'm thirsty.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You have no tears left. When you’re still and silent, standing in Odin’s arms, slumped against him, the birds sing a little louder and the sun shines a little bright. You feel almost cleansed despite the hollow at the pit of your stomach. You lift your head and wipe your damp cheeks as he slowly lets his embrace fall away from you.

You sniffle and peer back through the garden, towards the house. You’e not ready to face them all, not with puffy eyes and a heavy heart. Odin pats your shoulder gently, rubbing your arm as he coos your name.

“I have something else to show you,” he says and offers his hand.

You take it and gulp down the last of your grief. He turns you away from the great Odinson manse and leads you around the fountain. Leaves rustle softly and the water trickles soothingly. He guides you down a path hidden behind a cluster of bramble, overgrown with moss and ivy, littered with winged samara and sprouting blooms.

The noise of the fountain fades behind you as you enter an archway formed by outstretched maple branches, canopied in the spring leaves. There’s a small structure ahead shrouded in purple wisteria. A gazebo, smaller than that on Laufeyson’s property, forged in stone with rounded windows upon each side. Within, the walls have benches jutting out, another doorway opposite the entrance, looking out into a shadow swath of untrimmed foliage.

“It is old, a bit unkempt, much like myself,” he chuckles as he lets you go.

“It’s beautiful,” you preen as you admire the neat lines between each stone block, “wonderful… I… I love it.”

“It’s a perfect hiding place,” he muses, “a perfect place to have one’s breakfast without disturbance.”

You turn to him, a question stitches between your brows.

“I will fetch you tea? Yes? Perhaps some fruit and something more substantial?”

“I…”

“Dear, you think overly much of others and not enough of yourself. Sit, enjoy your solitude while you can, and I will return with all you need,” he insists.

“I can’t, Mr. Lauf–”

“You let me worry for my son,” he interjects. “I’ve no doubt his part in your despair.”

You don’t argue further. You wouldn’t dare. You lower your head and sit along the stone bench against the wall and turn to peer out the window. It is wonderful there. Like a little world of your own.

You glance over but he’s already gone. You barely even heard him with the buzz of insects and scratch of sneaky critters all around. You turn back to the long window and watch a dragonfly skim along the ground, whizzing up, down, and back and forth. It’s as if you escaped into a book you read as a girl, where everything was magical and spectacular. You don’t think you’ll get a happy ending though.

Your mind wanders through the greenery and back to the house. The bedroom, dark in the small hours of the night, laying awake, staring at the wall, Mr. Laufeyson’s warm breaths puffing into your neck. Those moments when he doesn’t seem so intimidating but remains perplexing. One moment, wrapped around you, the next toying with you like a puppet.

Your core tingles and you bend your legs on the bench, squeezing them together. The sensations swirl in your mind with the shower steam. As delightful as it all was, your heart rents with shame. The way he left you on the tile, the expectation you would get yourself up and go to him, ready to be used again. As always, you have a duty.

Mr. Laufeyson does not care for you as a person, you doubt you’ll ever be that in his eyes. You are just another possession, like his records on the shelf, or that telescope he polishes so vehemently. Just another number in his collection.

You hear a snap and blow away the anxiety as best you can. You can’t worry about it so deeply, you know what you agreed to. He has given what he’s promised; you’ve been fed, clothed, and housed. You need him more than he could ever need you.

You turn to the doorway as Odin appears again, a tray in his hands. He brings it to the next bench and sets it down. There’s a cup of tea and a stack of square waffles beneath a dusting of sugar and heaps of berries. It smells delicious as your mouth waters for a taste.

“I’ve brought this as well,” he stands straight and takes a book from under his arm, “I hope it will keep you entertained.”

“Oh?” You watch him set it down.

“Today is for you, dear, you won’t be disturbed, I will see to it,” he declares, “Walpurgisnacht approaches and we all must be ready for the spring. Lay the past behind so we can start again.”

You lower your eyes, “thank you, Odin.”

“No need for that,” he says, “I only ask that you do one thing for me,” he nears and pets your head. You peer up at him as you heart seizes. “You will be kind to yourself.”

“I… I’ll try.”

“You should take care of her,” he points to you, “I rather like her a lot and I hate to see those I care for suffer.”

You smile, “I will.”

“Better,” he grins and retreats, “I will be in to check on you periodically.”

“Thank you,” you call after him and he gives a half-salute before he’s off, whistling into the air.

You exhale and let the last of the tension slake away. You drag the tray close and cut into the fluffy stack. You remember how you always wanted a waffle maker. Instead, you always had the frozen waffles you slid into the old overheating toaster. These are much better, they’re sweet and oh so yummy.

Sitting there, in the small gazebo, amidst the wilderness, you feel like a bird in a nest. Safe, cozy, and alone.

✨

You lose yourself in the pages of the book. The sun shifts as you move with it, keeping the ink in its light as you imbibe every word like sweet nectar. It’s like staring in a mirror as you feed on the tale of one, Jane Eyre.

Your literary meditation is splintered by the sudden ripple of a shadow and the clearing of a throat; gentle, almost reluctant to tear through the serenity. You look up at Odin as he stands in the archway, a small curve amidst his thick white beard.

“Apologies,” he says as he comes forward to gather up the tray, “I’m afraid it’s time.”

You deflate and close the book. You stand and hold out the book, “I can get all that.”

“No, no, I can manage,” he assures you, “and that is for you, dear. Keep that as your own.”

“I couldn’t–”

“You have some to go, haven’t you?” He eyes the book, “please, I have enough books.”

You look down at the book and hug it. It’s like a new best friend. You just want to spend all your time amidst its pages.

“Thank you.”

“Whatever you need,” he backs out of the gazebo, “come with me now. Let us put our masks on.”

You giggle and follow him. He says it so well. It’s like slipping back into a costume. You feel the peace chipping away and the tension once more has you rigid. Back to the real world.

“Now, we cannot give ourselves away,” he halts just out of sight of the veranda, “I shall go ahead and you will follow that path,” he turns and nods behind the row of hedges, “follow it around the front and you may slip in.”

“Oh, uh…” You blink and look over your shoulder, “that way?”

“Yes, it will take you right around to the front door.”

“Right, thank you… again.”

He bows his head and steps forward. You turn off in your own escape as the slippers on your feet clap against the ground. You come out in the golden sunshine and tramp across the stonework of the arced drive. As you come up the steps, the door opens from within. You stop at the middle stare and gape up.

“There you are,” Mr. Laufeyson greets, almost an accusation, “where’ve you been off to?”

Your brows pop up and you peer around, “reading.”

“Reading? You couldn’t do so in your room?” He challenges.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson. I broke the rules.”

“You broke the rules– get inside,” he points you inside as he steps back. You obey and he snaps the door at your entrance, turning towards you with a finger in the air. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson, I’m very sorry.”

He sighs and drops his hand, gripping his hip, “where were you reading?”

“Outside.”

“Outside– be straight, where?”

“In the garden,” you say plainly, lips down turned, “I only wanted to watch the butterflies.”

You look up at him, a pout in your lower lip, and bat your lashes. You clutch the book tighter and his eyes fall to squint at it. He reaches and curls his fingers around the top, wiggling it free. He flips it over to read the spine.

“This is a first edition,” he states as he examines, “where did you find this?”

The disbelief in his voice makes you nervous. First edition?

“Is it very old?” You ask.

He winces and looks at you, his green eyes lit, “1847… I’d say so.”

“Oh?” You bat your lashes.

“Not in its original form,” he turns it over, “it’s been rebound into a single volume. The first print was in three parts and this cover… it can’t possibly be so ancient.”

You gulp and purse your lips.

“So I have to wonder, where you found this,” he sneers at you.

“Well, I… your father gave it to me.”

“Gave it to you? To read? He lent it to you?”

“Um, he just said… to keep it as my own,” you shrug.

“Do you--keep it? A first edition Bronte?” He sounds ready to explode, “so that is where you’ve been? With my father?”

“I saw him, Mr. Laufeyson, but I was mostly alone,” you sniff, “I shouldn’t have gone out. I’m sorry. Again.”

“Is that all you’re going to say? Sorry, sorry, sorry?”

You nod, “sorry.”

He closes his eyes and pinches his nose, “you will stay close.” He offers the book back to you, “put this away and put on some proper shoes,” he looks down at the oversized slippers, “I’ve some errands to run for mother and you will come along. Do your duty.”

✨

Mr. Laufeyson is quiet throughout the drive. So are you. You accept your penance and roil in the thick silence, fingers twiddling and twining restlessly. His sighs make you flinch as you await further reprimand.

He pulls in before a shop front of white trimmed in red. He gets out without waiting and you follow after him. You trail him inside as he strolls across to the counter where women in red aprons and caps smile back at him.

“Hello, I’ve come to pick up an order for Odinson,” he declares flatly.

“Frigga? Oh yes,” the shorter of the pair flits into the backroom.

“You don’t remember me?” The other woman asks. Laufeyson’s eyes shoot darts at her and his brows arch.

“I recall you spilled vodka on my wedding shoes, yes,” he scoffs.

“Oh,” she makes a face, “I thought maybe you’d forgotten that part.”

“Mm,” he hums and taps his fingers on the shining countertop.

The other woman returns and slides over a large white box, a red seal stuck along the corner to keep it firmly closed. Laufeyson takes out his wallet, “how much then?”

“Paid for,” the woman proclaims, “all yours.”

“Right,” he slides the box off and pivots smoothly.

You peer back before you scurry ahead of him to the door, opening it as his hands are full. That woman was at his wedding? Did she know Sif? Was it a big event? Did everyone go? You don’t ask any of the questions that flood your head. You’d rather not know.

He balances the box in one hand and reaches into his pocket for his keys, unlocking the trunk. He tucks the box firmly against the emergency kit to keep it in place.

“Whatever it is, it should be kept cool in here,” he shuts the lid, “though I wonder why mother couldn’t have it brought with tomorrow’s delivery.”

You don’t say a word. You wouldn’t know either. He strides back along the side of the car and dips into the driver seat. You mirror him as you get in on the passenger’s and he presses the button to turn the engine. He sighs and rests the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. He glances in the rear view.

“I’ve another stop to make.”

That’s all he says. It isn’t a question, just a statement. Though you wonder why he even made the declaration. You don’t need to know, you just go along.

He backs out and rolls out of the lot into the street. You distract yourself with the other storefronts and the veneers of city buildings. He drives onto an avenue and slows along the curb, shifting to a stop before he once more shuts off the engine.

Again, he gets out without instruction. You follow. That’s all you can do. He heads up to the grey brick house. Where are you? It isn’t until you’re at the front door that you notice the metal placard mounted on the wall; Bragi Skald, Antiques and Artifacts.

Laufeyson clangs the large knocker on the door and checks his watch. You wait. It’s quiet. You see no light through the windows but the curtains are drawn flush to the windows, as if they’ve been sealed.

The hinges whine suddenly as the door swings inward, “Ah, Loki!” A blond man at least head shorter than his visitor greets, “wonderful to see you again. I did have it in my ear that you were about, I was curious as you when you should darken my doorway.”

“Bragi,” Laufeyson replies tersely.

“And who is this gorgeous creature,” the man’s crystal blue eyes surprise you as the bow in his lip deepens. He sends you a wink and offers his hand, “forgive me, sweetheart, I nearly missed you there, and how could I overlook such a ravishing woman.”

“Enough,” Laufeyson girds.

“I haven’t even introduced myself–”

“This is Bragi,” Laufeyson introduces the man then utters your name pointedly in return.

“Ah, beautiful name but that hardly answers my curiosity. Who is she? Oh, don’t tell me, you’re marrying again–”

“Hardly,” Laufeyson swipes away the thought with his hand, “I only need to be away from my family.”

“Yes, yes, of course. With Walpurgisnacht, I can only imagine–”

“Be glad you only have to imagine it,” Laufeyson scowls. “Are you going to welcome us in or shall we continue to stand on your porch like tramps?”

“Come, come,” Bragi opens the door wider, “Lady, please, don’t mind the clutter.”

Laufeyson waves you ahead of him. You enter and hold back your shock at the interior. You can hardly see the walls for the stacks of books all around, many with sheaths of paper jutting out. It smells like cinnamon and hint of dust.

“What are we in the mood for? Tea? Or something stronger? I’ve some absinthe–”

“Don’t be mad,” Laufeyson rebukes, “tea will do fine. Just tea, none of your tricks.”

“You speak to me of tricks?” Bragi hums, “is that a sense of humour I sense, oh, dour Loki.”

You lock your jaw to keep from gaping. You’ve never heard anyone talk to Mr. Laufeyson like that, not anyone outside his family, and even Thor did not mock him so lightly.

“Do you want tea?” Laufeyson looks over at you.

“If it isn’t any trouble.”

“Tea,” Laufeyson snaps his fingers at Bragi.

“Do you like scones, lady?” Bragi turns his attention to you.

“I’m not very hungry, thank you–”

“Lady!” A squawk makes you jump, drawing your attention to the flutter of blue feathers that descends to perch on the banister post. A great blue parrot tweaks its head and repeats the word.

“Oh, hush,” Bragi shoos away the bird but only receives a nip of its sharp beak, “don’t listen to Fossegrim. He talks too much.” Bragi shakes his head and retreats down the hallway, “tea, tea, tea…” he chants as if he might forget.

Laufeyson tuts, “he speaks of talking too much…”

You stare up at the blue parrot as it stares back at you. Around its eyes and mouth are bright yellow strips. It’s a pretty creature.

“Lady,” it bawks again and hops off the banister, winging around the space to land on your shoulder.

You gasp as Laufeyson takes a step back. He just sends a troubled look to the bird and glances around, “in here,” he points you through the doorway behind him.

“Um…” you move carefully, trying not to disturb the bird.

In the next room, a large harp stands in one corner, a piano the other, and a litter of various instruments on shelves mounted on the walls. There’s a twelve-string guitar on the sofa, leaned against the armrest as if it was left there haphazardly.

“Be very careful,” Laufeyson returns, “it bites.”

“Bite!” The parrot squawks and snaps in Mr. Laufeyson’s direction. He sighs and once more eludes the bird’s breadth.

“Wish he’d lock that thing up,” he mutters.

You stand like a statue, nervous. You turn your head slowly to look at the parrot. It leans in and nuzzles your hair. You stay as you are, paralysed as you fear it might snap at you too. A grating chitter rises from its throat, softer than its former screech. It continues the purrlike noise as it rocks on your shoulder.

“Is it singing?” You ask as Laufeyson stares with arms crossed.

“I have no idea. Let’s hope it’s not growling.”

You frown and clasp your hands tight. If the bird keeps Mr. Laufeyson away, it can’t be so bad.

210 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

Text

Dirty Work 40

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Feel very off today IDK.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“Please, please,” you puff, reaching between your legs, “please, I can’t–”

Your words are wobbly and loose, your legs too. As you touch Loki’s chin, you feel the slickness smeared across it. He only nuzzles further into you as your thighs twitch around him. You choke and beg through your shallow breaths.

He hums into you, reaching around to snatch your hand, pulling your arm behind your back. You whimper, wavering on your feet. Before you can lose your balance, he takes your other hand, guiding it alongside your other, locking both against your lower back.

He moans as he drinks you up. You put your feet flat and shake as another wave crashes down on you, the water slakes over you, the humid air adding to the sweat beading over your skin. You cum again and again and again. Each time, he grows more devoted to his task, twining your nerves together until you’re wrought.

Your leg buckles and gives. He releases your hands, once more grabbing you by the hips and holds you up. He eases you down slowly as you shake weakly. Lower and lower, he keeps your ass in the air as you drop down on your hands and knees. You’re senseless and lost in the ravages of pleasure.

When you come again, all your strength drains from you. You can’t take anymore. He lets you go as you collapse onto the porcelain and groan. He drags his hands down your legs as you roll onto your side and heave. He snickers and traces up your arm.

“You’ve been very good, pet,” he growls and stands, stepping over you as he pushes the door open.

He leaves you there, the door open as the shower continues to pour down on you. You catch your breath but can’t move, not right away. You’re so very tired. Worn out by more than his unprecedented attention but by everything. The day seeps back into your mind and coils your muscles tight.

You get one knee under you, then the other. You climb to your feet and shut the faucet off. You emerge and stumble, reaching for a towel from the rack. You wrap yourself in the fluffy cotton and look at the open door. You hobble towards it, finding Loki… Mr. Laufeyson in your bed. He stretches out, his arms bent behind his head, as his nakedness is concealed only by the blanket folded at his waist.

You turn off the bathroom light and cross to the bed. You flinch as you sit, swollen and oversensitive. You dry yourself off stiffly and stare at the wall. The glow slowly fades and you’re left dull and worn. That’s all this will ever be. You have your use and when he doesn’t need you, you are just there.

You stand and drape the towel over the wooden arm of the sofa. You look around, searching. You pad along to the closet and fold the door back. There’s your stuff. You fish out a night gown and return to the bed. You wonder why he’s still there.

“I’ll stay,” he reaches to rub the silk between his fingers, “in case… my brother thinks to attempt another coup.”

“Oh, thanks,” you utter, refusing to look at him. “Would you like the light off?”

He takes a breath, “ah, I should’ve brought a book. You always do enjoy it when I read to you.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, “the light?”

“Off, is fine,” he replies evenly.

You flip off the lamp and lower yourself down. You keep your back to him, hand clinging to the edge of the mattress as you fight to keep your breath steady. You just want to cry. You feel so heavy but flat. As if you’ve been run over.

“Pet…” he says gently. You don’t answer as you stay as you are, right at the very edge, making yourself as small as possible. “Suppose you are tired…” he mulls quietly, “yes, you should rest.” He flutters his fingers against your waist, “as should I.”

He shifts behind you and brings himself closer, looping his arm around your stomach. He urges you back, putting you flush to him as you grasp slips from the mattress. He nuzzles your crown and his hot breath fans across your scalp. He sighs and embraces you tighter.

“I’m certain I did little to lessen your fatigue,” he snickers, “though I don’t think you will complain. Surely, you didn't sound unhappy at all.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you agree.

You feel him tense and he puffs a longer breath into your hair. He slackens his hold on you but doesn’t draw away. He hums, “sweet dreams, pet.”

✨

You sway between bouts of dull sleep that makes your head ache and hollow restlessness that has you squirming against the body behind you. Mr. Laufeyson sleeps undisturbed by your fidgeting, much to your relief. That last thing you need is him waking up unhappy.

When at last he wakes, he does not free you. He pushes you onto your back and covers your mouth with his. He kisses you until you can’t breathe and when he pulls away, he gazes down at you. You just look back at him emptily. He frames your chin and tries again. This time, your cheeks dimple as you attempt a smile.

He recoils and sits up, putting his back to you. You think he’s displeased but you can’t tell. He can seem so when he’s thinking. What could he be agitated by anyway? You’ve only let him do what he wants.

He’s silent as he rises and dresses. You do the same, picking a plum skirt and a white blouse. You sit to pull on your stockings and catch Mr. Laufeyson watching you. His eyes crawl up from your leg to your face. He quickly turns away.

“I have some calls to make,” he takes his phone from the side table and brusquely marches to the doors.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you confirm.

He stops, his hand on the door handle and his head tilts. He seems about to say something before he rips the door back. He swallows loudly before he finds his voice, “my mother should have breakfast ready, you may join her.”

He leaves and the door closes a bit too harsh for your comfort. What now? What have you done? And what calls does he need to make? Perhaps he got one. Maybe she… No, don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter.

You go to check your reflection and tidy up. You peer around the room. You can’t stay in here. It just reminds you of last night and all your confusing thoughts. Not just thoughts, feelings.

You let yourself out and look up and down the hall. You go downstairs and wade through the quiet morning lull. Gertrude is in the kitchen chopping fruit with a large knife. You don’t know what to do, you think you’re too early.

A figure startles you as its shadow darkens over your shoulder. You shuffle aside and turn to face Odin as he enters, an empty cup in his hand. Gertrude comes forward to take it from him with a “good morning, sir.”

“Ah, there she is,” he greets you, “have you had a coffee? Tea?”

You shake your head, “no, but I…” You don’t want one. You don’t want anything but to be alone. You turn our head to look out the window at the rustling leaves brushing against the pane.

“I always found the morning air did me more good than caffeine,” Odin says, “would you like to see the gardens?”

“Sir, I–”

“Please, enough of that,” he waves away the formality, “you would do me a favour. It isn’t often I have someone to walk with me.”

You look at him and bite your lip, “of course.”

“Wonderful,” he proclaims and waves you ahead of him. You go around to the back entry way and stop by the door. You look at the mat then around. You don’t have any shoes.

“Ah, these will do,” he bends and pulls out a pair of plaid gray slippers, “a bit big but we can go slow.”

He turns them towards you and stands, waiting for you to step into them. He has a pair of leather shoes already on his feet. You thank him quietly as you slide your feet in. He opens the door for you, again letting you take the lead.

He points you across the veranda and offers his hand for you to descend the steps onto the stone path. You take each stair carefully, not wanting to lose the overly big slippers. As you get to the bottom, he rescinds his hand and offers an arm instead. You hook yours through his and let him guide you.

You quickly lose yourself in the scenery and your worries. The green leaves, the creeping vines, the fluttering petals. It’s all so beautiful. You don’t belong there.

You lower your head, as if just looking upon it all is a crime. You should be at home with your father. A pang jabs deep between your ribs as you think of him. You haven’t even called. You’ve barely given him a single thought. You must be as selfish as he always accused you.

You keep your feet moving in tandem with Odin’s but pay little attention to your path. He slows and stops you as a trickling plucks in the air. You peek up and see a large plinth with water flowing down the sides. A wonderful fountain in the midst of a square basin dug into the earth.

“I come here to think. Or not to,” he explains, gesturing you towards a carved wooden bench. You sidle along and sit and he lowers himself with you, his arm still entwined with yours. “I can see you are in need of both.”

You shake your head and focus on the flowing water. Your cheeks pinch and your lips tauten across your teeth. You can’t cry. Not in front of him.

“You are homesick?” He asks gently as he pats your arm with his free hand.

You nod.

“It is only human. I remember…” he leans against you, “when I was young, if ever I truly was, and I went away from home for school. I was so very excited. My whole life I’d been sheltered, eh. My mother had me close all the time. I went to a private school with walls that shut out the world. And after the years of what felt like a prison, I couldn’t wait to be away, to be free.

“And my first day alone, sitting in my dorm, so proud of the Hendrix poster on my wall, I broke down. I bawled for hours. I couldn’t stop. I’d never ever cried like that. But I went down to the RA and asked to use the phone. I called my mother and…” he snaps his fingers, “in an instant, no tears. And even when she hung up, I was alright, because I knew I could always call her back.”

You sniff, your eyes stinging. He doesn’t know you can’t call your father. You don’t want him to know that.

“You went to college?” You ask.

“Mm, yes, wasted a bit too much time there,” he sighs, “but you won’t fool me, girl. Who do you miss so much?”

You shrug and hang your head. You don’t even know if you really miss your father. You know he doesn’t miss you. All you know is he’s sick and you’re hear, sitting in this splendour, buying new dresses, and eating fine cheeses.

“My father…” you croak.

“Ah fathers, they are… complicated.”

You nod and gulp tightly. You lift your head and peek over at him, “he hates me.”

The words strangle you once they’re out. There it is. The truth. There’s no taking it back.

It only took you thirty years to figure it out. You never had anything to compare it too but seeing Frigga dote on her children, just her asking you how you are, sparked the revelation. Then there was the other side, the dejection, the constant reminders that you are only good for what you can give, not what you are. That’s the only way your father ever treated you.

“I’m certain he doesn’t,” Odin coos gently.

“No, he does,” your lip downturns and tugs on your cheeks, “I always knew it but I wanted so desperately for him to love me that I… I told myself… that he did or that he could.”

You tear your arm free and stand. You hide your face as you try to smother the sudden eruption of sobs. What is wrong with you? You sweep away, facing the foliage at the other end of the fountain and heave, shoulders shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” you whimper. “I shouldn’t–”

“Do not apologise. I won’t accept it,” he insists as he rises and hovers close to you, “you’ve nothing to be sorry for. How you feel is not an offence.”

“I don’t want to go home,” you turn to him, “I want to disappear.”

His eyes sparkle and his features soften, “dear…”

“No, I do. I don’t want to be here or anywhere. I don’t belong. Not here, not there, not on this planet.”

“Oh my,” he puts his hands gently on your shoulders and angles you towards him, “you feel that way, but feelings are not always true.”

“It’s true. I’m… I’m just a maid. I’m not… I’m not…”

“You are exactly where you should be,” he says, “you are here with me.” He pulls you against him, trapping you in his arms. He brings a hand to the back of your head and cradles it, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. He rocks you gently, “you are safe and you are wanted.” He pets your hair as he holds you, “you are worthy.”

You bring your arms around, clinging to him, clinging to safety. You bury your face in the soft fabric of his shirt and weep. You weep until you're dizzy and raw and spent. And when you’re drained, you don’t let go. You can’t.

You just want to stay here with the birds and the insects and the rippling fountain. You want to hide away in this menagerie and never come out. Yet you know you must. Not right now, not just yet. But eventually, you have to tuck it all away again and face the world.

For now, you’ll just let him hold you.

254 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

Text

Dirty Work 39

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I slept a lot better so you get a touch longer chapter today.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You sit in the mud, mortified. You want desperately to leave but you don’t have the strength to do so. Your flight might be seen for exactly what it is; cowardice. You don’t have much but you have a sliver of dignity to you.

So you pretend. Just like those years you went to school and pretended everything was okay. That your father wasn’t awful and your house wasn’t dingy and smoky. All this time you’ve put your head down and obeyed Mr. Laufeyson as if you had no other purpose. You can do it.

You mimic Sif and stay reclined. You close your eyes and try to enjoy the soft harp music plucking from speakers. You should’ve gone with Frigga. A bit of sweat is better than stewing in dirt and shame.

Your mind races. How long is normal? When can you leave without giving away that doubt gnawing in your stomach? Why would you want to leave? So you can go back and face Mr. Laufeyson? What will you tell him? Do you tell him?

“Thank you, babe, marvelous,” Hela’s silky voice interrupts the din. You open your eyes and look over as her lithe figure slinks in like a cat, “where is she? Ah there you–”

Hela stops short as her eyes flick from you to Sif. The other woman remains silent, eyes closed as she is unbothered by the disturbance.

Hela sets down the glass on the ledge of the tub next to hers and swipes off her robe, handing it over to the attendant behind her. Her skin is rosy and damp already.

“Sif Sigmund,” Hela declares as she lowers herself into the mud bath, “what a coincidence.”

“Is it?” Sif opens a single eye, “what with Walpurgisnacht coming so quickly, you must be hard at work.”

“I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Nor I you,” Sif rebuffs, “I always thought you loathed it here.”

“Passing through,” Hela dismissed, “family.”

“And the help?” Sif suggests as she opens her other eye and looks at you.

Hela snickers, “the help?” She echoes, “some of us can be friends with other women, honey.”

“Friends?” Sif squints, “I never knew that to be a line with you.”

“Don’t be jealous, it looks awful on you,” Hela retorts.

“Jealous? You Odinsons always thought so highly of yourselves.”

“So highly you wanted to be one of us,” Hela snipes and lifts her glass, “babe, this is a spa, I’ve come here to relax, not argue with homewreckers.”

Sif’s lips press tightly. You gulp and peer between the women, confused. There’s animosity there which both reassures you and worries you. Despite Frigga’s praises, it doesn’t seem the gorgeous black-haired beauty left on the best foot. Or rather, this a show of how the Odinsons can be vengeful to those who do not fit into their pretty little picture.

Your eyes meet Sif and her thick brows slant. She scoffs and shakes her head.

“Not much of a home to wreck,” she mutters before she takes a sip.

You look away and resist the urge to drown yourself in the mud. Will she be attending Walpurgisnacht? Should you warn Laufeyson? Your chest racks at the thought. You don’t think he would take it as caution, he might even be upset at the mention of her.

Better to just keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told.

✨

You return to the Odinson abode less than refreshed. As Frigga and Hela glow, you feel a dark cloud around you. You keep thinking about that woman; Sif. Just the thought of her name makes you shrivel up. So tall and sleek and elegant. You don’t know why you care so much, you and Laufeyson have an arrangement, not a relationship.

As you pass through the front door, Frigga proclaims that she’ll have some iced tea and snacks put out on the veranda for the evening. You nod and wave your bag wordlessly, you’ll hang your dress upstairs and return.

You scurry up the staircase and slip through the double doors of the bedroom. You linger at the threshold, looking around. Something seems amiss. Something’s… different but you can’t place it.

You go to the wardrobe and hang the dress within, but itself. Your hand flutters over the sewn on silk flowers. It’s so pretty, you don’t know if you should even wear it. You’ll look like a child playing dressup. Maybe you should ask Laufeyson if you should even attend; you could stay in the kitchen and help like you did with Corissa.

You close the wardrobe and flit back out. Before you can reach the stairs, you hear a familiar thunderous timbre. You stop at the rolling voice.

“Father, I have been on my best behaviour. I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my reward…”

Your eyes round and you quickly press on. You shouldn’t be listening. That’s none of your business. Besides, the last thing you need is to run into Thor again. Especially alone.

Downstairs, you find the house desolate. You go into the kitchen and see the elder maid at the counter, stirring ice into a deep blue mixture. Gertrude, you remember. You give a measly hello and rush through to the veranda doors.

Hela is already sat, her head tilted up to the sun as her eyes are hidden beneath her big blocky sunglasses. She doesn’t flinch as you claim a seat of your own, nearly curling up in a ball atop it. He fans herself with her long fingers.

She sighs as Gertrude emerges to serve the iced tea, declaring it wild blueberry before retreating. You fidget but don’t move to pour a glass. You’re thirsty but too distracted to worry about your chalky tongue.

“Did you have a productive conversation with Sif?” Hela frightens you as she sits straight.

“Um, I didn’t say much,” you shrug.

“I wouldn’t think, but did she?”

You shake your head. She didn’t say much of anything. You suspect you aren’t worth her breath.

“Hm, nothing about my brother… brothers?”

“Well… she introduced herself and told me to send her regards to Mr. Laufeyson–”

“Oh, babe, don’t do that. Surely don’t,” she warns. “Ugh, what a pot stirrer she is.”

You frown. Of course you wouldn’t have carried that message. You couldn’t bring yourself to even say her name to Mr. Laufeyson. You’ve seen how his eyes darken when he hears it.

“Look, babe,” Hela plants an elbow on the armrest of her chair, “we should clear the air.”

You tweak your head to the side. What does she mean?

“I know I got carried away when we first met. We both did. I sense there is some tension left between us but we must move past it, yes? It was a bit of fun, nothing more. I can’t have you getting confused,” she flutters her fingers, “I see a pretty thing and I want to play with it but I’ll spare you the pain, you’ve enough bother with my brother. I have a rather short attention span.”

You blink, “oh…kay.”

“So we’re agreed, as fun as this would be, it’s simple to messy,” she smirks, “not that I mind a mess.”

You nod and reach for the pitcher to distract yourself. That day flashes in your mind; the clothes, the mimosas, her lips… you almost forgot it all in the whirlwind of the last few days. You think she may have too until that very moment.

“Darlings,” Frigga emerges in deep pink cotton, “oh, look at this, delicious.”

She sits and uses the tiny golden tongs to serve herself a plate of artisanal crackers then uses the knife to scrape on some of the soft cheese. You watch her, your stomach growling even as it turns. You’re too anxious to eat.

This whole thing is ripe to be a disaster. No, you will be the disaster.

✨

You excuse yourself from the table. You need to lay down. You’ll retreat and hide until Mr. Laufeyson comes to find you. That’s all you can do.

You’re cautious as you climb the stairs, almost wishing you’d ask for an escort. You listen for the same boisterous echo as before. It’s quiet. You let out a breath; no Thor.

You let yourself through the double doors and close them firmly. You turn the lock and it schlocks into place. The house is so still and silent, it’s ominous. You blame your addled wits and the long day. You’re on edge after the chaos of it all and that to come.

You go to bed and sit. You hang your head and sigh. You rub your cheeks and slowly raise yourself up, looking around as you once more feel something is off. Your luggage… you left it against the wall, still unpacked, and now, it’s not there.

You stand and peer around, spinning. Where would it have gone? Did Gertrude or Frida, the maids take it? You go back to the wardrobe, it’s still empty. As you turn and near the dresser, a click makes you wince. You look at the doors, they remain locked and sealed.

The clearing of a throat draws you around to face the bathroom door. You hadn’t noticed before that it was closed. Now it’s open but still filled. Mr. Laufeyson surprises you as he wears only a robe and smirks at you. Has he been waiting?

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you titter as you mash your palms together. “I didn’t know you…”

He puts a finger to his lips to hush you, a coy smirk twisting his lips. He turns his hand and curls his fingertip, beckoning you across the room. Shakily, you pull your hands apart and march over to him. He backs up, opening the wide door with him to reveal the sparkling bathroom. You enter hesitantly, unsure, eyes scanning frantically.

You stand in the doorway as he backs up. Your eyes bounce around the space desperately and finally stop as you find your laptop, the laptop he provided you, open on the counter. You shift uncomfortably, a tide of confusion welling over.

“Mr. Laufeyson, what’s…”

He hushes you again, this time with a hiss. You snap your mouth shut and swallow your voice. You look at him, not in the face, but at his throat and how it constricts.

“Pet, you are such a diligent worker. I admire that about you,” he begins, his voice like the distant threat of a storm, “truly, you’d not be here if I didn’t. You’ve ever been so thorough.”

There’s a mocking lilt in his words. Your shoulders slump and you wilt, waiting for the truth. Waiting for the insults you know must dance on his tongue to escape.

“But I didn’t expect you to be so…exhaustive in your research,” he goes to the laptop and taps the space bar to wake up the screen. You frown as he waves you closer.

As you step up, your heart clenches at the first noise. A man’s growl. You don’t understand until you see the screen clearly. You’d watched the video on mute but you know it by sight. That shower one he’d nearly caught you with before. You didn’t even think to erase your history.

“Pet,” he angles to you and touches your cheek. You flinch and hug yourself, “you are a naughty little minx, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” your voice is hollow and quiet, “I didn’t… I was curious…”

“If you are so curious,” he lets his hand trail down our neck and along your shoulder, “well, you could always ask me.”

He grips your upper arm and pulls it from across your chest. He makes you face him as your heart batters your ribc age. You’re lightheaded as the colours of the screen move in your peripheral and the low volume tickles in your eardrums. You sway as Mr. Laufeyson holds onto your arms.

“Pet,” he drags his hands up and down your arms, “you needn’t be so shy. Didn’t we have a wonderful night?”

You bat your lashes and nod. It was nice but… you’re still not her. You’ll never be her. You’re just a thing to him. Like Hela said, ‘a pretty thing’ or ‘creature’, as Thor taunted, a ‘maid’.

“Well, pet, I’ve reviewed your research,” his hands move to the front of your blouse and he tugs on the fabric, “and come to my own conclusions.”

He yanks as you stand paralysed. You only raise your arms as you sense his frustration. You stare straight ahead, barely processing what’s happening as he undresses you. Your skirt falls down your legs as he traces its path with his touch. He rolls down your stocking and circles around you to unhook your bra.

He pauses as he dips his thumbs under the fabric of your panties and bow to growl along your crown. He rips them down and lets them drop to your feet. He wraps you up in his arms, groping your chest as he rocks you. You feel his arousal, his need. You wouldn’t think of it as desire; he doesn’t truly want you, he wants what he can do to you.

“Pet, why don’t you run us a shower,” he slithers against your ear.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you eagerly escape his embrace as he lets you go.

You focus on the easy task. You go to the shower and slide back the glass door. You crank on the faucet, testing the water with your fingers until you have the right temperature. You are deliberate in each step, ignoring his movement behind you.

You squeak as he’s right against you again, his robe gone. He urges you into the show and slides the door shut in his stead. He holds you flush to him, an arm hooked around your middle as his other finds your chin. He turns your head as he leans his own around to meet your lips. His hard dick presses into your back as he groans into you.

His tongue delves deep into your mouth, his kiss sloppy and greedy. You let him do whatever he pleases, doing your best to play along. Your skin speckles with more than the heat of the shower as it reminds you of that video.

What did he think when he discovered that? Why had he been nosing through your things anyhow? Well, they aren’t truly yours, they belong to him, just like you do. Just another possession among his collection.

His hands rove up and down your body, exploring it as the showerhead slakes you in hot water, furling your bodies in steaming. He feels along your stomach and down your pelvis. His fingers crawl down to your cunt and urges your feet apart with one of his. He rubs you until you gasp.

He pulls his mouth from yours as tiny wisps puff from your mouth. You shake at the buzzing thrum of his touch. You don’t want to feel but you feel everything. He’s stealing that from you. Using you any way he likes.

And you let him. That’s your job. That’s what you agreed to.

He shifts back, coolness filling the space between your bodies as his hand slips from your cunt. He grasps your thigh and lowers himself to his knees behind you. You let out a strangled noise as he grips your hips and leads you backwards.

“Put your hands on the wall, pet,” he demands.

Obedience. That’s your only skill. You take orders. You do what you’re told. You do what’s expected.

He trails his hand around the back of your leg as he bends you at an angle. He keeps his other hand firmly around your hip as he plays with you, swiping up and down your folds, poking and prodding and swirling. He stops along your entrance and you clench as he delves into you.

One finger he presses his thumb to your clit. He rocks his hand, quickly stirring your pleasure. Then another finger, the strain making you whimper. Your fingers curl against the tile and your thighs quake. He pushes into you, over and over, until you’re panting wildly.

As if he senses you teetering on the precipice, he pulls his fingers from you. You quiver as the emptiness tamps the rising swell. He edges you back further so you bend deeper, keeping your palms to the wall. His hand swerves back around the front of your leg and he glides between your folds once more.

Something tickles against your cunt from behind and suddenly a warmth mingles with your own heat. You squeal as you realises what he’s doing. He buries his face into you from behind, tilting your hips as he sloppily laps at you, replacing his fingers with his tongue. The coil in you twists back into place.

Oh god. It’s even better. You’ve never felt like this before. Hot and cold at the same time, shaky and willowy, unable to think as you’re swept away completely. You close your eyes, throwing your head back as you arch your spine, welcoming him.

He groans and growls as he drinks you up, pushing you closer and closer, fluttering his fingers against you between the flick of his tongue. Then, all once, he stops. You’re there, ready to take the plunge, ready to dive into the sheer pleasure coursing through you like a river, and he just stops?

“Say my name,” he nips your bottom, “say it when you cum.”

You gulp, “Loki..” you utter uncertainly.

His only assurance is him diving back into you. His tongue furiously flicks and swirls and laps and begs for more. You feel your slickness smearing across his lips, flowing onto his tongue, and that adds to the vibrant effect of his eager tending. You choke and gasp and let the rise overcome you.

“Lo… Lo…” you quake as your insides knot, “Lo…ki.” You puff and whine as it all erupts, “Loki!”

Your thighs tremble as he purrs through your orgasm. He delights in you pouring yourself into him, surrendering to him as you stand on your toes, leaning into the wall to keep yourself from collapsing. But he doesn’t stop. Not this time. Even as you're ready to scream and slap him away.

He keeps going. He keeps going even though you can’t bear it. He’ll keep going and you’ll let him. That’s the deal. Your body is his but your mind is your own. You’ll just do your best not to think too much.

205 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

Text

Dirty Work 37

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: wowee, it's snowing here a lot.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Loki… Mr. Laufeyson doesn’t linger. As you lay in a sheen of foggy afterglow, he dresses and mutters to himself. You want to ask him to stay. To tell him it’s okay but you’re scared he might say no. So you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch him button his shirt.

“We both require a good night’s rest to contend with my family,” he says.

You nod and sit up, sliding your legs beneath the blankets. He looks up as you do and a line creases in his forehead. His worry makes you worry. You’re starting to get the feeling that something bad is looming.

“In the morning,” he avows before he turns away. “You will not emerge until I fetch you.”

“Yes, Loki,” you answer.

He stops at the doors and lowers his head, “here, behind these walls, I am Loki, beyond, Mr. Laufeyson. Understand, pet?”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you murmur.

He pulls open the door and steps out swiftly. The mechanism clicks into place and you fall back onto the pillows. You deflate beneath the downy duvet and close your eyes. He confuses you. One moment, he’s all over you, all-consuming and insatiable, the next he’s distant and icy to the touch.

You hug the top of the blanket and cling to his lingering warmth. Your thighs tingle and your core plucks as you clench, thinking of how his fingers delved deep into you. Why couldn’t he stay? You could have done more. You think you’re ready to.

It’s never what you want. You will await his signal and as always, you will take his lead. That is better. His words ring in your head from that fateful day, ‘obey and serve my every need and you will have all you ever longed for.’

What do you long for? That question follows you into your subconscious. You sink into the void, the knot of anxiety bound around your chest. Visions of rich greenery and fluttering petals fill your head, birds winging and critters chirping all around. The magical garden is a shrine of rosy sunlight.

Your mind builds a paradise and all at once, it falls around you. Your eyes roll open as you float back to the surface. Your lashes stick together as you blink and groan. It’s early, too early. Dawn paints a violet hue across the room. You lift your head and search around. Something must have woken you but there’s nothing but shadows.

You drop your head back down and groan. You turn onto your side and curl up, tucking a hand under the pillow. You squeeze your eyes shut, reaching for the last dregs of drowsiness. Your head swirls as you feel yourself descending again.

You’re brought back again. This time, you catch the noise. Your ears prick and you lift yourself to look over at the door, a gentle scuffing on the other side.

What’s happening?

You squint, your vision dulled in the lowlight. You sit up and push back the blankets as you sidle to the end of the bed. You see a black spot beneath the doors, darker than the rest of the slatted shadow. It moves. There’s someone out there.

The bed creaks as you bend your legs over the edge. Who could it be? Mr. Laufeyson?

A tap on the wood makes you flinch. The handle wiggles but doesn’t press down. Your heart thumps in your chest. A whisper comes through, “pet…”

Your spine goes rigid. Pet? It must be Mr. Laufeyson, but why doesn’t he just let himself in? You don’t recall locking the door before you went to sleep. You get up and creep forward.

“Pet, let me in,” the whisper is sandy and low. Is it really him? Who else would it be?

You unzip your bag in the dark and pick out a nightgown from the bottom, jostling the rest of the clothes. You slip it over your head and rub your eyes. You shiver as the air is cooled in the darkness.

You near the door and grab the handle so it stills. There’s tension as you twist it. It releases and unlatches easily. The lock is not in place. You pull it open a crack and squeak at the large, looming silhouette on the other side.

“Ah, pet, you’re awake,” Thor rasps.

“What–” you gulp, “what are you doing?”

“You didn’t come say hello,” he drawls, “so, hello, pet.”

You blink at him and push on the door. He slaps his hand against it, the wood shaking between you. You know he’s much strong, you can’t close him out.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing, I– I’m trying to sleep,” you eke out. If Laufeyson knew…

“You are funny, pet,” he chuckles.

“Please, go, I’ll see you in the morning–”

“But I am here now,” he jerks the door, just a little, just a statement: he can open it if he wants.

“Why?”

“Why?” He huffs, “you haven’t very good manners, pet. My brother has trained you poorly–”

“Please leave me alone,” you beg, jittering. Just the mention of his brother has your heart in your throat. He said to avoid Thor but what do you do when he seeks you out.

‘To the right of your door…’ you pluck the words from your memory and shudder.

“I just want to talk,” he edges the door in another inch and you stumble back.

You spin and run to the wall, pounding on it with your fists. You must seem crazy but you don’t care. You hit it over and over, “Mr. Laufeyson! Mr. Laufeyson!”

You’re wrench back as a large hand frames the back of your neck. Thor turns you and claps his other hand over your mouth, hushing you. You whimper as you shrink in his shadow.

“What are you doing? I’ve only come to talk–”

You wriggle and put both your hands around his wrist. It’s so thick, neither hand can fit all the way around. You kick out as he keeps you pinned to the wall.

“Haven’t I been nice to you?” He growls, “so why do you treat me as a villain, little maid…” he leans in, “perhaps because your thoughts have corrupted me, hm? Naughty little maid.”

His voice lightens playfully as he tilts your head up. You squirm as your hand slides down his forearm. Your other swings out to hit his chest.

“What do you think I’d do? If I am so evil, what could I do?” He taunts as he pulls you from the wall. He drags you towards the bed, “what have you done, eh?” He says as he edges towards the bed, “you’ve already made a mess.”

He throws you back onto the rumpled duvet and you squeak. You push yourself up on your elbows and bring your heels onto the mattress. You push yourself back as he looms over you.

“Aren’t you supposed to take care of messes, little maid?” He bends and puts his hands on the bed, snarling through his teeth. He catches your ankle and pulls your leg straight, tugging you down to your back as you yipe. “Let’s make a mess–”

He grunts and suddenly staggers, releasing you as a dark blur crashes into him. He hits the night table and sends the lamp to the floor. He deflects Mr. Laufeyson as he charges again and they tangle each other up in their arms.

“You beast,” Laufeyson hisses, “get out!”

“Ah, brother, lovely to see you here,” Thor chuckles, “we were only just talking about you–”

“Shut up!” Laufeyson snaps, hooking his leg around his brothers.

“Don’t be so… dramatic,” Thor heaves as they struggle, pulling back and forth as each tries to overturn the other, “I was only getting to know her–”

“Get out!” Laufeyson repeats, “or I will truly be dramatic. Let mother see the cretin you truly are–”

“Speak for yourself–”

“Get!” You throw out your foot and kick Thor’s shoulder, immediately regretting it as he barely reacts. You scurry back and hug your legs.

“Aye, little maid,” Thor sounds amused, “isn’t that cute?”

“Brother, I tell you one last time–”

Thor cracks his elbow into Laufeyson’s ribs. The slimmer man lets go with a wheeze but doesn’t falter long as he slides between the burly blond and the bed. He coughs out another warning, “go.”

“I’m going,” Thor says lightly, “you always were so serious, brother.”

He waves off Laufeyson and steps away, sending you a look through the rising dim. You cower and watch him stalk away. Mr. Laufeyson follows and swiftly shuts him out, turning the lock with a loud click.

You push yourself to the edge of the bed and lower yourself to the floor. You pick up the lamp and straighten the table. You flip the switch and the light radiates around you. You turn to Mr. Laufeyson as he holds his ribs and scowls, slumping back towards you.

“Are you alright?” You ask as you rush towards him, “Mr. Laufeyson…” you reach to touch him but think better of it, retracting your hands to fold your arms over your chest, “I… Thank you.”

He sniffs and sits on the side of the bed. He pushes back his dark hair and winces. You hover before him nervously, shaking like a hummingbird.

“You did well… calling for me,” he says quietly, “that was very good, pet.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I thought it was you knocking. I didn’t mean to–”

“I said, you did well,” he interjects as he outstretches his arms, beckoning you closer. He touches your upper arms and draws you straight, “are you alright?”

You quiver and nod, “I think…”

“Good, good,” He pulls you closer and leans forward to kiss your forehead, “I will sleep here then. Just until the morning comes.”

✨

Mr. Laufeyson leaves as you dress for the day. He bids you to lock the door behind him. He’s been silent but not in his usual way. Pensive but not dour. You put on a poppy red blouse with a brown skirt.

You ready out of habit, your mind still trapped in the night's events. First, Laufeyson and the wonderful way he made you feel. Then Thor and the horror he brought into your room. It almost feels like a bad dream.

You go to the door but don’t emerge. What if Thor is waiting? You shudder as you think of what he would’ve done if you hadn’t called for Mr. Laufeyson. If you hadn’t been heard.

The door shakes as a tap rattles you from your trance, “darling,” Frigga calls through, “are you awake?”

You inhale deeply, throat tight, and unlock the door. You pull it open and force a smile, “yes, I was just… about to come out.”

“Wonderful,” she trills, “we are having tea in the garden.”

“Oh?”

“Come,” she takes your hand, “after tea,” she drags you out as you pull the door closed with your other hand, “we will go into town and get a few things for the celebration. Flowers, as I said. And perhaps a new outfit.”

“Okay,” you agree meekly.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks as you get to the stairs, “you are quiet.”

“Fine,” you answer.

“Yes, I do find it difficult to sleep in new places,” she hums, “well, we only want you to feel at home so do let me know if I can do anything.”

You press your lips together and nod. Could you ask her to make Thor leave you alone? Or to make Mr. Laufeyson a little less stormy? No, but you suppose you could ask for some chamomile before bed.

She takes you through the grand foyer and into the next room, winding around to the elaborate dining room and the back entryway that opens onto an equally awe-inspiring veranda. The railings are wrapped in ivy and flowers, marble pots on plinths hold bunches of gardenia and the big square table at the center has four chairs on either side. Much too big for the meagre party at it.

As you approach, you see Mr. Laufeyson’s shoulders, straight and stiff as he grips the armrests. He glares across at Thor who smiles dopily at the sky. As you get closer, his eyes find you and you wilt down. Frigga draws you onward as Odin stands from the table to offer you the chair beside him.

“There she is,” he says, “come, sit.”

You obey, claiming the seat to his right as Frigga skirts around to take his right. Laufeyson sits along the side just to your own right and leans forward as you wiggle in the chair. He gives you a look and you bow your head slightly.

“What do you like? Milk? Sugar? Honey?” Odin offers as he pours a cup and places it on a saucer before you.

“Just milk,” you answer.

Thor puts his arm on the table as you feel him watching you. Laufeyson clears his throat but his brother doesn’t acknowledge him. You look down at the tea as it clouds with dairy.

“Isn’t this nice?” Thor booms, “I apologise, I was errant yesterday and hadn’t a moment to welcome you.”

You flinch and Laufeyson squeezes the armrest tighter, bristling visibly.

“Now,” Odin sits back, “boys, this is a special week for your mother. She’s working hard, you will not ruin this.”

“Wouldn’t dare think of it,” Thor puffs, “I was only being polite and welcoming the little maid.”

Little maid… the words make you recoil.

“Little maid?” Odin echoes, “don’t be so demeaning. She has a name or perhaps she should call you the big oaf.”

Thor tilts his head and snorts, peering between you and his father. “Forgive me, I thought that’s what she was.”

“Regardless, she is a person and a guest. You will remember your manners,” Odin reproaches.

“Yes, father,” Thor utters dryly and receives a sigh in return.

“Oh, let’s not spoil such a lovely day,” Frigga chimes, “isn’t it so nice to be all together ag–”

“Ugh, must the sun shine so goddamn bright,” the silty voice undergirds Frigga’s chirp. You look over as Hela struts in, a large pair of geometric sunglasses over her eyes, “remind me next time not to finish the bottle.”

“Hel,” Odin greets curtly as Frigga blinks in surprise.

“When did you arrive?” Frigga asks, “Hilde didn’t say.”

“I slept in my car,” Hela answers and struts to the table, sitting next to Laufeyson, “well, I woke up there, at least.”

“Oh my,” Frigga mutters.

“I got here early though,” Hela preens, “when’s that ever happened, mother? And all for Walpurgisnacht, though I guess Midsommar is some time off.”

“Yes, very timely,” Frigga agrees softly, “well, you can come along with us to town. You’ve always had a keen eye.”

“Oh, I may,” Hela smirks, “who is us?”

Frigga looks at you and you give a tiny wave. Hela grins and takes off her sunglasses, winking at you, “I almost didn’t notice the little mouse. Well, I think I shall join you.” She squints and shades her face before putting the glasses back in place, “tell me we have some breakfast wine.”

“Have some tea,” Odin insists, “and a bit of decency.”

224 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 2 months

Text

Dirty Work 36

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: we made it to friday so yall can eat up.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You hold back another yawn, your cheeks puffing out as you flutter your lashes. Odin tilts his head as he props his chin into his hand. He grins, "I've worn you out."

"No, I..." you try to roll the fatigue off your shoulders, "I'm okay."

"Don't trouble yourself," he stands, "dear, you go get some sleep. I've kept you a while."

You rise hesitantly as he comes around the desk, "I don't mind."

"Oh, you say that a lot, perhaps you should mind," he turns you to the door with hand on your back, "it isn't so bad to say what you want. Or don't want."

"I wasn't..."

"I am not reprimanding you. I am giving you advice," he opens the door, "but I expect no one's ever listened when you did say so."

You look down meekly and shrug, "well, I could... speak up."

"And you blame yourself," he says, "you deserve kindness. Especially from you." He rubs your back and nudges you ahead, "go on, I won't keep you any longer."

"Thank you, Odin," you smile, almost teary-eyed. You're just tired.

"Good night, dear," he says as you step into the hallway.

You turn back to return the nicety. He leans on the door as he eases it towards the frame, pausing before he closes it fully, "should you fancy another chocolate, you know where to find them."

You thank him again and he shuts the door. You turn down the hallway and stop short. You're not alone. Mr. Laufeyson has a hand on the doors to your room as he leans on one foot, a toe dug into the rug as he narrows his sights at you.

"There you are," he greets curtly.

"Mr. Laufeyson," you scurry forward, "I'm sorry, I was only--"

"With my father, yes, I can hear," he interjects, "you sound like you get along."

"I... I think so. He was very nice."

"Was he?" He scoffs and twists a door handle, swinging the door open, "get inside."

You bow your head and swiftly enter. He follows, the lock clicking loudly behind you. You turn and hug yourself as you watch him pace before the doors.

"He invited me-- I didn't--"

"Yes, yes, my father is demanding, don't I know it," he snips, "you think I am unhappy because of that?"

"I don't... I don't know, Mr. Laufeyson," you murmur.

"I am not unhappy," he insists as he stops, jabbing a finger upwards, "I was only waiting a rather long time for you to appear."

"I'm sorry," you repeat.

"My room is the next, to the right as you emerge," he explains, "so it isn't very far." He shrugs and tucks his hands into his pockets. You notice his shoulders, how he holds them rigidly. He's tense. "Did you encounter anyone else, then? My brother?"

"No," you shake your head vehemently, "only Odin. Your father, sir."

"Hm, fortunate," he remarks, "I shouldn't have left you but I thought my mother would keep a close eye."

"She did, I only... was tired and came up here."

"Tired," he nods, "certainly, me too."

You stand in silence. His tone softens with his last words, as if you can hear the weariness in him. You can see it in his eyes. After all, he did drive for hours.

He exhales and strolls forward. You move aside as he nears the foot of the bed and sits. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. He runs his hands over his face and groans.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his legs. He slumps there, silently glaring at the floor. If something is wrong, he refuses to say it. Maybe it's this place. You know well how home can fill you with dread.

You move slowly around, hesitant and unsure. You near the side of the bed. He doesn't flinch as your weight dips into the mattress. You don't know what you're doing, you're not sure if you should.

You walk on your knees across the bed and place your hands on his shoulders. You feel the tension wrought in him. You squeeze and knead, uncertain. You never done this before.

He sits up but you keep your hands on him.

"What are you doing?" He growls as he cranes his head.

"You uh... a... massage?" You offer dumbly, "you were in the car all day and... I thought."

"Mmm," he turns forward again, letting his elbows once more rest on his thighs, "you may go on.”

You shift, trying to get a better hold on him. You feel the tightness nestling in the muscles along his neck. You follow the natural grooves of his muscles with your fingertips, encouraged only by his groans

“Pet…” his voice is as weak as you've ever heard it.

You let up, tickling down so he shivers, then quickly work the knots again. The busy work of your hands keep your nerves from boiling over. He puffs out and lifts his head, pushing it back.

“Where has this come from?” He asks in a wisp.

“I… don't know,” you answer honestly.

He straightens and picks at his collar. He unbuttons his shirt and sheds it as you withdraw your touch. He reveals his bare skin and jostles on the mattress, planting himself firmly.

You touch him again. His warmth seeps into you as goosebumps prickle his skin. The tender calm of the moment has you speechless.

“Yesss,” he purrs, once more bowing his head. “Pet…” he grips his thighs.

You run your fingertips further down his back and drive your thumbs into the muscles along his sides. He growls and you ease up, scared you might have hurt him. He reaches back, pointing over his shoulder.

“Like that,” he directs, “I can take it.”

You obey. You aren't used to be so rough. Everything you do is with a degree of fear. Your hands are never forceful or firm.

He sighs and snarls. You drag your hands up and back down again. He shivers again and stands suddenly, frightening you. You sit back on your heels and stare at him.

“Did I…”

“You,” he wiggles a finger at you.

“What?”

He shakes his head and steps towards the bed. He beckons you closer. You inch forward on your knees. He grabs your blouse, quickly pulling it out of your skirt. He peels it up and you barely get your arms up before they're tangled in the fabric.

He strips away the fabric and snakes his arms around you to unhook your bra. You kneel before him paralysed as he undresses you to the waist. His eyes are smoky as he takes you in.

“Down,” he points to the mattress, “on your stomach.”

You lower yourself down as you slide back. You bend your arms up around your head and put your cheek to the blanket. He skirts around and climbs over the side, straddling you beneath him. He rests his knuckles between your shoulder blades as you curl your fingertips against the covers.

He pushes down into the muscles and you squeak. He leans his weight into his tending, tracing his thumbs down your flesh. You gasp as you feel tension slake from your muscles, tightness you never even noticed.

His long fingers explore your naked back, framing your hips as he kneads. You mewl, unable to stem the release as it rolls from your throat. He snickers and keeps his hands working.

You close your eyes, melting under his touch. He is much better than you, more confident. He must have done this before, maybe with his wife. Maybe it was even romantic, with candles and rose petals.

He tickles along your sides and sets his hands on the mattress. He lowers himself over you and presses against your bottom, chafing the raw skin beneath your skirt. You moan as his hard length rest firmly against you.

He brings a hand under your chin, lifting your head as he keeps it twisted. He angles to press his lips to yours. He kisses you sloppily as his other arm hooks beneath you. He gropes your bare chest, his thumb flicking over your budded nipple.

“Pet,” he parts with a groan before once more devouring you.

He rocks atop you as his breath hitches. Your heart beats wildly as you brace the bed, arching awkwardly to meet his hungry kisses. His lips trails along your cheek and down the side of your neck. He nuzzles your neck and bites into the muscles along your shoulder. You cry out at the pinch.

“I could have you just like this,” he breathes against your skin, his hips still tilting. “Is that what you want, hm? Is that your trick, pet?”

“Trick?” You eke out, “what do you–”

He lifts himself and flips you over harshly. You bounce on your back and yipe. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“You’re trying to distract me,” he accuses, “what did you and my father speak of, him?”

His muscles pull taught under his skin straining in his chest as he leans over you. You whimper and squirm, kicking your feet as his grip aches in your wrists. What have you done?

“Mr. Laufeyson, please, I wasn’t… we didn’t…”

“Tell me,” he demands.

You bat your lashes, “he… he gave me some chocolate.”

“Chocolate?” He echoes derisively.

“Yeah…” you croak, “he… he asked me what music I like. And if I read–” your voice crackles.

“And what did he say of me?” He hisses.

“N-nothing,” you sniff, “I swear.”

“And what did you say of me?”

“Nothing,” you repeat. “Please.”

He narrows his eyes and curls his lips, “hm, I believe you. You’re not clever enough to lie that well.”

He lets you go and sits up on his knees. He looks down on you, his eyes slowly trailing down to your exposed chest. You lay, paralysed and prone. A knock comes at the door, jolting both of you.

“Darling,” Frigga’s voice wafts through, “is everything alright?”

Your eyes round as Laufeyson scowls. He shakes his head and huffs, pushing off of you. He climbs off the bed and swipes up your blouse, tossing it at you.

“Get rid of her,” he hisses.

You grab the shirt and throw it over your head. You stand as he retreats into the bathroom, closing the door only halfway. You go to the door as you tug the blouse straight.

“Everything’s alright,” you say through the wood.

“Are you sure, dear?” She tries the handle.

You peek back and gulp. You flip back the lock and push down on the handle, inching back the door until you can see through, “yeah, I was getting changed and… I couldn’t find something. Think I forgot it.”

“Oh, well, if you need, you can always borrow from me,” she offers.

“Nothing important,” you insist, “thanks. I’m just about to lay down.”

“Of course, honey, so sorry to disturb.”

“No worries,” you smile and gently shut the door. Your hand lingers and you gently turn the lock back into place.

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Laufeyson emerges, “that was rather convincing.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you murmur, “I wouldn’t lie to you–”

“Certainly you wouldn’t,” he sneers.

You flutter your fingers at your side and teeter on your toes. He goes back to the bed as he undoes his fly. You furrow your brow and stare past him at the wall. What is he doing?

He drops his pants and kicks them away, “well, undress.”

Your heart leaps and thumps violently. Your hands tremble as you lift the blouse again. You let it drift to the floor and touch the top of your skirt. Is he… going to do it? Are you? Both of you?

You look down, opening and closing your mouth as your jaw threatens to lock up. Your ears feel ready to pop. You feel along your skirt and unzip the back. It slackens and you wiggle free of the fabric. You roll down your panties and watch them fall to your ankles. You step out of the fabric, only in your stockings as the bed frame softly creaks.

You dip a finger under the top of your thigh-highs and Laufeyson growls. You peek up, frozen, and find him watching you. He’s completely naked, his hand around his dick as he tilts his head.

“Keep those on,” he commands, “come here.”

You stand straight and pad towards him. You reach forward tentatively and climb up onto the bed. He gestures you closer and you stretch out next to him. He curls an arm around you and settles you in.

He drags his hand from his arousal and trails over your thigh, along your hip, and up your side. You quiver as he cups your chest and leans in to kiss you. He fondles you, tweaking and squeezing, groaning into your mouth as his tongue delves further.

He draws a line up your chest and across your shoulder. He brushes down your arm and takes your hand. He pulls it toward him and circles it around his length. He snarls as he squeezes your grasp tight on him, guiding it up then down. As he lets go, you continue to pump him.

He continues to smother you as his fingers tickle the vee of your pelvis. He dips down and touches the patch of hair there. He urges his fingers between your folds, sliding along the slickness gathering there. You squeak as he plays with you.

You work your hand in tandem with him. You match his rhythm as he toys with you, swirling then pushing his fingers back, only to spread your wetness around. Each time his fingers poke back, he gets closer to your entrance.

You lift your leg, opening yourself to him as a storm brews in you. You shudder as you grip him tighter. He groans again, the rocky noise sending a thrill through you. He rubs you fast and glides back again. He pokes against you, bending his fingers and dips a fingertip into you.

You gasp and pull away from his mouth. He catches the back of your head in his hand and eases you down to your back. He stays close, leaning over you, as slips his finger in deeper. You whine and he hushes you.

“Pet, relax,” he coos, pulling his finger in and out. Your bite down on your lip, your hand still as the shock of his intrusion stuns you. “Does that feel nice?”

You can’t speak. You don’t know. It feels… different. Tingly and hot but cold at the same time. He presses the heel of his hand against you, pressure flurrying beneath his touch. He rocks his hand as you splay, your grasp slipping from him and circling around his wrist.

“Pet…” he presses his nose to your temple, breathing down your cheek, “don’t tell me you’re going to cum?”

You whimper and curl your fingers tighter. He shakes his hand and you sink into the mattress. Breath mewls escape your lips.

“Tell me then,” he slithers, “tell me when you cum.”

Your eyes roll back and your head lolls. You puff out through a pout. Your chest thrums and your core swells. You feel the peak ahead, just within reach. Your thighs clench and tremble, the muscles uncoiling all at once as you cry out.

“Tell me…” he growls.

You choke as you spasm, “cum– I’m— cumming.”

“Yes,” he coaxes as he fucks you with his finger, “yes, pet, say it.”

“Cumminggggg,” your voice unravels, “oh–”

“Say it, say my name,” he growls.

“Mr.--”

“Loki,” he demands, “say it…”

“Loki!” you whine, “Lo-ki…”

“Mmm, yes, what a good little pet,” he drags his nose around your cheek, “my pet, yes? All mine.’

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itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Writing advice from my uni teachers:

If your dialog feels flat, rewrite the scene pretending the characters cannot at any cost say exactly what they mean. No one says “I’m mad” but they can say it in 100 other ways.

Wrote a chapter but you dislike it? Rewrite it again from memory. That way you’re only remembering the main parts and can fill in extra details. My teacher who was a playwright literally writes every single script twice because of this.

Don’t overuse metaphors, or they lose their potency. Limit yourself.

Before you write your novel, write a page of anything from your characters POV so you can get their voice right. Do this for every main character introduced.

199K notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Dirty Work 34

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: It must be wet wednesday.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Mr. Laufeyson sits with one long leg crossed over the other, his back against the headboard. He holds a book in his hands, eyes narrowed at the tight font as you emerge from the bathroom. You feel a lot nicer after a shower. Calmer too when you see him.

He doesn’t look up as you come around the bed and climb up on the other side. With a long day in the car ahead of you, you’re eager to tuck in. As your bottom touches the mattress, you're reminded of the raw bruises and tender gashes. You hold back a whimper and settle in, fixing the lacy strap of the nightgown.

“You’re tired?” Mr. Laufeyson asks, though it sounds more like an accusation.

“A little,” you answer, “we’re leaving early, aren’t we?” You ask, then sit up as a rush of panic swells over you, “did I forget something? Do you need anything, Mr. Laufeyson?”

He laughs and your heart flips. You stare at him horrified. He reaches over to caress your cheek, “no, you haven’t anything to worry about, pet.”

You exhale and lay back. Your pulse slowly peters out. He trails his hand along your cheek and pets your hair. You look at the ceiling and try to relax.

“I will read to you, it will help,” he offers, “you will need your sleep.”

“Oh, thank you,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he hums before he looks back to the pages. He rescinds his hand and licks his fingertip, flipping back in the book, “let’s return to where we left off…” he clears his throat before he begins. You close your eyes and let his narration ripple over you. How is it that his voice can inspire both peace and horror?

You fall into the rhythm of his cadence. It doesn’t take long for him to lull you into sleep. You succumb to it easily, shielding yourself in your unconscious. Your dreams are fractured and nonsensical between patches of all-consuming blackness.

The morning greets you with the soft speckle of rain on the window pane. Your eyes roll open and you stare at the space between the curtains. You see a rivulet flowing down the glass against the gray cast of the early hours.

You yawn quietly into your arm and turn onto your back. You’re careful not to disturb Mr. Laufeyson as his breath ebbs and flows. You glance over at him. He’s still a mystery to you. Still that unreadable man in his stiflingly silent house.

There’s a soft ticking in the air, as if counting down to something. You peek over Mr. Laufeyson’s profile and see his watch placed on the nightstand. Carefully, you get up and circle the bed to check the time on the face. You don’t dare touch the piece.

As you stand straight, you nearly yipe at the sudden clamp around your wrist. Mr. Laufeyson grabs your arm and tugs you towards the bed. You stumble against the mattress as he yanks you again. You fall over him and he snakes his arms around you.

You lay atop him, squirming as you brace his chest. He chuckles rockily as his green eyes glimmer from beneath his long dark lashes. His hand walks down your back and gathers up the silky skirt of your nightgown. He spreads his large hand across your fiery, bruised ass.

You squeak and wiggle again.

“Good morning, pet,” he purrs and shifts his hips beneath you, “what are you doing tiptoeing around?”

“Um,” you gulp, trying to ignore the rigidness against your pelvis. You think you know what that is. The thought scalds your face. “Checking the time–”

“Ah,” he sighs and gropes your rear until you whimper, “you needn’t lie…”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I…” you search his face. He’s in a pleasant mood, you wouldn’t want to spoil it. “Sorry.”

“You may kiss me,” he declares abruptly.

You bat your lashes and hesitate. You press your lips together as you bolster yourself. You should just do as he wishes and it’s no great task, is it?”

Impatient, his hand crawls up your back and grips the back of your head. He pulls your head down and crushes his lips against yours. You squeak and let him take over, curling your fingertips against the top of his chest.

The world spins as he flips you onto your back, rolling with you as he keeps his mouth over yours. He lifts himself over you, urging between your legs as he traps you against the mattress. He rocks slightly as he devours you, his hand slipping down to your neck, stretching across it firmly.

He grinds into you as he loses himself in his hunger. Your hands trail along his shoulders and you hold on to him, trying to slow him. Your heart is in your throat, knocking behind your ears. Your skin tingles as fire flows through your veins. You’re terrified but excited.

You let your touch wander down his arms, feeling the firm muscle. He’s suffocating but intoxicating. You close your eyes and think of the shower, trying to put yourself in that scene. A blaze sears over your face as you drag your hand down and twiddle your fingers.

You slip your hand between your bodies and feel around, finding his hard bulge and squeezing. He grunts and parts suddenly, pushing himself on one elbow as he keeps his hand on your neck. He dips his head to look down at your grip on him.

“Pet, what…” He murmurs.

You quickly retract your hand in horror, “i’m sorry, I thought–”

“No, no,” he purrs and rubs his thumb behind your jaw, “it’s… it’s nice.” He lowers his hips back down and rolls them. “Do you like touching me?”

You bite your lower lip and nod. You're quivering with embarrassment and eagerness. He draws his hand from your throat and caresses along your chin. He lowers his mouth to yours once more, kissing you hungrily.

He pushes his arousal against you, rocking between your legs as hot friction builds between you. He groans into you as he drags his hand from your face and grabs your arm, pinning it by your head. He does the same to the other, lifting himself over you as you puff weakly beneath him.

He keeps his hips rolling as he watches you. You squeak between shallow breaths and turn your face away. He growls and tilts harder against your cunt. Your nightie is above your thighs and the fabric of his panties is pressed to your bare lips. You feel your own delight staining it.

“Look at me, pet,” he sneers.

You snap your head forward and obey. You almost melt as you meet his fiery gaze. He ruts harder and a heavy pressure fills you, pulsing to the point of agony. Not a bad sort of pain, the type that needs release. You arch your back, pushing your chest up as you whine.

“Is this what you want, pet?” He taunts, “you want me fuck you like this?”

You gasp at the obscenity on his lips. You hum between your pouting lips and nod. He snarls again.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you babble.

“No, say it,” he repeats.

“I… I want you…” your throat clenches around the words. “I want you to… fuck me… like this.”

He snickers and picks up the pace. He looks down at his pelvis rocking into yours. You whimper and shake as you feel the coil winding tighter and tighter. You push up against him, wanting more, wanting to overflow.

He seems to go forever, groaning and grunting as he simulates his desire. He looks you in the face again and smirks, “tell me again.”

“Mr. Laufeyson–”

“Tell me to fuck you.”

Your eyes round and your lip trembles. You squirm as he keeps your arms pinned, still pounding against your cunt.

“Fuck me…” you whisper.

“I can’t hear you, pet,” he teases.

You recite it again, throat tightening as you do.

“Louder,” he commands.

“Fuck me!” You nearly shout, as close to it as you could ever get.

“Yes,” he puffs, “again,” you say it, “again,” you obey, “again…” He goes on, call and answer, until you’re breathless and he’s quaking.

He lets out a strangled snarl and spasms. His motion staggers but he pushes through. He slows, little by little, and hangs his head. He holds himself over you for just a moment longer then pushes off. He sits back on his heels and you see the sheen of your arousal on his pants.

He looks down at himself and heaves, “I should clean up…” he utters, “I might require some help.”

He backs off the bed and you shakily sit up. You flatten your legs and look down at them as they tremble. You lift yourself as Mr. Laufeyson retreats. There’s a wet spot on the sheets as well. You tamp down your humiliation as delight swells inside of you.

The video once more flashes in your mind. The droplets of water on slapping flesh. You’re wobbly as you stand and cross to the bathroom door. You peer through as you hear the shower humming and see Mr. Laufeyson step inside.

You follow and pull off the nightie. You pull back the door and slip in behind him. You look at his lined back, admiring the muscles and his build. You falter and look down at your body… does he think yours is nice too?

You shrug away the fear. He wants you, doesn’t he? He wouldn’t do all those things if he didn’t? You wouldn’t be here as he never shies away from casting out what he dislikes.

You reach to touch his back, visions of the shower scenes feeding you courage. You trace his spine and watch a shiver ripple through him. He purrs and faces you, holding out a loofah and a bottle of soap.

“Yes, you may get my back, pet,” he shoves both towards you, dismissing your lurid thoughts. “We should set off early to avoid the rush.”

You swallow and nearly choke, “yes, Mr. Laufeyson, of course,” you push the cap of the soap until it opens, turning your focus onto the task. How dumb you are.

✨

You’ve never been on a long road trip. Never spent more than an hour in the car with your father, never left the city limits even. You’re restless within the first twenty minutes, not able to focus on the book as the motion around you makes you dizzy. You squeeze the borrowed book and huddle back into the seat, fidgeting as Mr. Laufeyson cruises down the highway.

Instrumental music wafts in a low drone from the stereo but it’s not enough to entertain you. You stare at the dashboard, the sight of the road makes you queasy. You cross your leg over the other and shift, trying to get comfortable.

“Well, pet, we have some hours ahead of us so you better still yourself,” he reprimands.

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I’m trying.”

“Mm, well, try harder,” he sighs.

You make yourself stop moving and clutch the book tight. You keep your eyes on the interior, admiring the smooth finish and all the little knobs along the stereo. You could play one of the games you made up for yourself. You take a word and parse it out into smaller words.

“...an idea,” Mr. Laufeyson’s words break past your trance.

You glance over at him, hoping he doesn’t realise you didn’t hear him.

“An idea?” You repeat back to him.

“Yes, to keep you from all that squirming,” he reaches over to squeeze your knee. Your leg was jittering and you didn’t even realise.

“What is it?” You ask.

He grins and snickers as he pulls his hand back. As he does, he pushes up the armrest of your seat, then that on his own. You watch him curiously as he keeps his other hand firmly on the wheel. He beckons you nearer with a flick of two fingers.

“Mr. Laufeyson, “I don’t…”

“We can have some more fun,” he suggests as he rests his hand on the corner of your seat, arm extended between them. “You could… use your mouth again.”

Your eyes round in shock. You peer over the dashboard and immediately regret it. It makes your stomach swirl. You gulp down and look back at Mr. Laufeyson.

“Are you sure?”

“Let me worry about the road,” he dismisses, “come on, pet, you won’t be so bored.”

You restrain a frown and rub your hands together. It isn’t a request, you know that much. His delivery might be gentle but no is not an answer.

You push the seat belt behind you and twist in the seat to reach across as he sits up straight. You pluck open the top of his pants, hands clumsily brushing the fabric as you see him twitching. You push down his zipper, his tip throbbing and unrestrained beneath. You pull him out through the vee as he wiggles in the seat to slacken his pants.

You shudder and grip him firmly. You pump him up then down. He tenses and breathes out through his nose hotly. You do it again and he shivers. His reaction sets you alight. That thrill courses through you, the one where you feel powerful.

You take a breath and think of the shower scene and how the woman did it. She was so reckless and carefree. The way she did it, she seemed to enjoy it. You just have to pretend that you're her… maybe you’ll end up liking it.

You bend further over the space between the seats and bow your head. You pout just above his tip before pressing your lips to it. You flick your tongue against him and he growls. You slide your hand down and follow it with your mouth. You start slow, mimicking the woman as you pull back off of him and swipe along his length with your tongue.

Mr. Laufeyson rumbles and rests his hand between your shoulder blades, a wisp escaping him, “pet…”

You keep going, hiding behind your eyelids as you drift into the fantasy. This isn’t what it is. This is more than a task. In your head, you can make this man want you and you can make yourself want him.

You push your thighs together and moan around him. You do want him. You feel how badly you do. Your core thrums with desperation.

It doesn’t matter what he wants, you will do it. You want to be good for him and for him to tell you how good you are. You want him more than anything. You want this, you do. Don’t you? You must. You have to want this if you’re going to convince him to keep you.

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itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Unsolicited 1

Warnings: bad self-thought/talk, bullying, insults, low self-esteem, money problems, more dark elements to come.

Wouldn't mind some feedback! Lloyd was driving me nuts so I had to do it. Thank you in advance 💜

The glass cases and sparkling gems contrast your unbelonging as you step through the elaborately decorated entry. Your imposter syndrome nips at your neck as you twist the strap of your purse, the brown leather faded and cracked.

You swallow and look around. Unlike the rest of the mall, the shop is mellow and nearly empty.

You pick at your wooly cuff poking out from under your puffer coat. You go to the counter where a woman in a black turtleneck dress smiles flirtily at another customer. He looks like he belongs, though you're not a fan of the mustache. He chuckles as she helps clip a gold watch around his wrist.

"Does it bring out my eyes?" He kids as he puts his arm straight and pushes his shoulders back.

"They don't need help," the associate, her name, Kelsey, etched on her silver name tag, "it suits you."

"Mm, sure, you're not just saying that for the commission, are you?" He holds out his arm for her to unclasp the watch, his dark jacket is no doubt designer, if not tailored to his tapered torso.

You tune out their back and forth, the superficial exchange only adding to your displacement. You have a budget and a mission. You want to be in and out before you can dwell on everything you can't afford.

You peer through the glass at the Rolexes, casios, and Tom Ford pieces. Your eyes wander, looking for another employee to fetch your purchase. You don't want it to sell before you can get your hands on it. The silver watch with the sapphire face is exactly like the picture saved on your phone.

You lean forward trying to see behind the tall counter then pace to the corner and around the rear of the store. There is only the security guard at the door, watching shoppers mill by. You go back to the front where the customer continues his playful tet-a-tet.

You sigh and cross your arms, heat gathering in your thick coat. Your scalp speckles damply and you sway as your patience dwindles. The man browses the cufflinks as he asks advice on style.

"Ahem," you swallow your reticence at last, "sorry to interrupt–"

"And yet you did," the man retorts, "you can wait your turn." His sneer is derisive as he takes you in, head to toe, almost revolted by your dumpy attire. "That is if you can afford it."

"Excuse me, I…" your voice crackles and you shrug away the insult, "I'm sorry, just, when you have a moment."

You step away and drop your arms as you pretend to look at the earrings. The man scoffs and the associate gives a tinkly giggle.

"You know what would look good on you," the man says as you look out through the open wall into the mall, "pearls."

"Pearls?" Kelsey preens.

"Oh, yes, a nice little necklace around that pretty neck," he intones.

"I don't know, aren't pearls kind of… outdated?"

"Not the ones I have in mind."

You cringe at his entendre and roll your eyes. You should just leave. You really don't have the money. A year of scrimping and saving and for what? Colin doesn't care if you give him gold or a card, he's just happy with whatever.

Still, he deserves it. You just want him to feel special. For one day. To feel like he didn't settle, like maybe, he got the prize.

"You hold onto those for me, sweetheart," the man's voice carries in the vacant shop, "I'm gonna have a look at the tie pins."

You turn your head to watch his figure from the corner of your eye. He sidles around the other side of the store and you spin around. You go to the counter as Kelsey puts away a tray of cufflinks.

"Hi, yeah, if you don't mind I wanted this silver watch," you point over to where you found it.

"Sure, sorry about the wait. We're a bit short staffed at the moment," she smiles, "um, which one was it?"

"This one," you shift over and point over it, "with the blue."

She takes out the watch and brings it onto the counter. "Is it for someone special?"

"My husband," you smile, "he needs a new one. He got a new job so…"

"Oh, how exciting, is this the one then?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"And were you interested in the insurance plan? It includes free cleaning and battery replacement."

"Hm, how much would that be?"

"For this price range, an extra one-thirty."

"Oh," you can't hold back the impact of the number, "um, what's the total for just the watch?"

You hear a snicker and a shadow blurs in your peripheral. Kelsey goes to the till and you move along to stand across from her. The taxes are more than you expect.

"There's a Wal-Mart down the road," the man mocks as he leans on the glass, "think they might be more in your range."

You don't acknowledge him, merely biting down. What an asshole.

"I'll take the insurance, am I able to split the transaction?"

"Sure thing, how do we want to split it?"

"I'll pay for the watch in cash and the rest credit."

You put your purse on the counter and search through your clutter of receipts for your ziploc of bills. You peel open the top and start to count through the twenties, tens, fives, and hundreds, apologising for it as you do.

"You could have a good time down at the strip joint," the stranger comes closer and you turn slightly as you try to block him out. "Aw, baby, am I hurting your feelings? Maybe you could take that money and get a manicure instead? Or sort out that rat's nest."

"What do you want?" You slam down your hand as you lose count.

He smirks as you meet his eyes, bold and sparkling with amusement, "that."

"Leave me alone," you start over, frazzled as a few bills slip and flutter down to the floor. You bend to pick them up and grit your teeth as you resume your count.

"It's okay," Kelsey says, "I'll count."

You look at her and nod, pushing over the loose money and the ziplock. You take out your wallet and slide free your credit card, for emergencies only.

You wait as the man lingers closer. You wince as you feel him touch your hood and you pull away from him.

"Don't touch me. What are you doing?"

"Sir," Kelsey says as she puts the cash in her till, "please, I–"

"Mind your business," he snaps and keeps his eyes on you, "I'm just tryna figure who would marry… you?"

"Credit," you say to Kelsey as you motion with your card. She hits a button and you swipe.

"No wonder you're splurging, gotta keep him around somehow."

You key in your code and submit payment. You shakily place the card in your wallet and pack up your purse as Kelsey closes the watch box and slips it in an ivory paper bag. She tears off your receipt and staples it to the warranty.

"You gonna cry for me? Hm? Or maybe you can go home to the old man and tell him another guy actually noticed your fat ass–"

"Shut up." You snap as you swipe the bag off the counter, "I told you to leave me alone."

"Just one tear for me," he steps closer.

"Sir, please, I'll have to call security," Kelsey warns.

"You won't. I'm about to drop a month's worth of sales on you so you'll sit pretty and wait for me, dolly."

She flinches and curls her lip, fighting against her customer service smile.

"It's fine," you wave her off, "I'm leaving."

"Tell daddy you need a good fucking to get that stick out your ass," the stranger snorts after you, "if he can even find a hole."

You steam and puff your chest as you pass into the mall. Your lashes flick as your eyes sear. Just your fucking luck to run into the biggest douchebag in the place.

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itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Unsolicited Masterlist

Summary: You run into a rude stranger at the mall, but this won’t be just another chance encounter. (Lloyd Hansen)

Status: Finished

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21

Part 22

Part 23

Part 24

Part 25

Part 26

Part 27

Part 28

Part 29

Part 30

Part 31

Part 32

Part 33

Part 34

Part 35

Part 36

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itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Unexpected Masterlist

Sequel to Unsolicited

Summary: You must come to terms with life with Lloyd Hansen and all that comes with it.

Status: In Progress

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21

Part 22

Part 23

Part 24

Part 25

Part 26

Part 27

Part 28

Part 29

Part 30

Part 31

Part 32

Part 33

Part 34

Part 35

Part 36

Part 37

Part 38

Part 39

Part 40

Part 41

Part 42

Part 43

Part 44

Part 45

Part 46

Part 47

Part 48

771 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Dirty Work 33

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: The man has no chill.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You hover before the door, each step sending a searing ripple through your bottom. You wring your hands as you walk in circles. You're not even sure Mr. Laufeyson is still within but you don't dare open to check.

Time slogs by in your cowardice. You retreat to the sofa and pull your feet up, hugging your knees as you hang your head. You just want him to forgive you and tell you you're good.

You close your eyes as your head begins to thrum. You're mind wanders ahead of you and the list of everything you'll need to pack. You don't even have a bag of your own, what will you put your stuff in? How long will you be gone? You'll have to rescheduled Ronan's next visit, and forward the gate codes to the gardeners...

You slip into a doze as your mind skews with the endless rote of tasks. You slump down until the world goes black, your body sinking into itself. You only stir again as you feel a shift around you.

You grunt and lift your hand as you're lifted from the sofa. You look up at Mr. Laufeyson's chin as he carries you across the room. You wiggle and brace his chest as you float precariously in his arms.

"Come to bed," he coaxes as he takes you into the hall.

You don't move. You don't dare. Fearful that he might suddenly hate you again. He brings you to the bedroom and lays you on the bed. You stay curled up as he shuts the door.

He moves around quietly and approaches with a swish of fabric. He holds a satin nightgown by its straps. You pout up at him as he tilts his head.

"Sleep, we have much to do tomorrow," he girds.

You nod and sit up. You sidle to the edge of the bed and he places the nightie beside you. He unbuttons your blouse before you can. You sit there and let him. He swiftly pulls the sleeves down your arms and disposes your bra in quick succession. He grabs your arms and makes you stand, unzipping your skirt before he shimmies it down to your ankles. You step out of it, then your panties as he tugs them down too.

You raise your arms as he opens the nightgown above you and he sweeps it down your figure. The cool fabric makes you shiver. Still groggy, you teeter on your feet and turn to stare at the bed, waiting for his order.

"A moment," he extends a single finger before striding away.

You stay as you are, folding your arms as you face the wall. The satin makes your bum sting each time you move. You hear him behind you.

"Get on the bed," he orders, "on your stomach."

You obey, so quickly you nearly flop onto your face. You move your head onto the pillow, bending your arms beneath. He nears and pinches the fabric just along the curve of your thigh. He peels it up and reveals your tortured flesh.

"It might hurt," he warns and touches a cool swab to your skin. You hiss between your teeth and swallow down a whimper. He works diligently, almost dotingly at cleaning the lashes, bruises tender at his touch. "We can't have an infection, can we?"

"No, Mr. Laufeyson," you agree as he covers your bottom with the nightie.

"Mmm," he hums and leaves you again.

You wait, unmoving, for his return. When he comes back, he undresses near the closet and pulls on only a pair of twill pajama pants to sleep in. He climbs onto the bed from the other side and grabs your shoulder, rolling you onto your back. Your face contorts in pain as your weight rests on your rear.

"Better," he says. You frown. "You are doing better," he specifies, "pet, if you are to accompany me to my mother's celebration, you must be on your best behaviour."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you utter.

He traces the strap of your nightie with his fingertips and you shudder. As much as you fear his touch, you long for it. It means he's not upset. His hand wanders as he trails over the swell of your chest, your nipples going pert beneath the fabric.

"And you are excited to come?" He asks.

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you answer.

"Truly?"

"Yes, I... I've never gone anywhere before."

"Not anywhere?" He prompts doubtfully.

"No," you lower your eyes shamefully, "we couldn't afford--"

"Not to worry," he lifts his hand and taps the tip of your nose, "let me worry for the expense. I only need you on your best and to have everything ready. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you gulp, "I promises--"

"Shhhh," he presses his finger to your lips, "it is late."

You nod as he drags his fingertip over your lips and circles your mouth. He fixates on the move, his eyes glittering. He lets out a sigh.

"One more thing," he adds as he frames your chin, "you will avoid my brother."

You swallow and whisper, "yes, Mr. Laufeyson."

"Very good, pet," he bends to kiss your forehead, "rest, you will surely need it."

✨

Exhaustion shrouds the night. You wake little by little, sore and weak as your fatigue weighs you down. You languish in the bed next to Mr. Laufeyson, his breath rising and falling softly in his chest. You’re uncertain what to do.

Should you wait for him to rouse before you set about the day?

You don’t dare wake him up. The very thought sends a flow of terror through you. Whenever you disturbed your father’s sleep, he was never happy. Those days were the worst. Men are safer when they’re asleep.

Restless, you relent to the morning and sit up carefully. You glance over at Mr. Laufeyson. Gone is the anger that creased his forehead and curled his lip. He is peaceful and placid, all tension drained from his features. Conscious, his cheeks are always drawn taut with disapproval and brow set in an imperious line. He looks almost harmless.

As the night tugs against your bottom, you’re reminded that he is not. You turn your back to him and slip off the side of the bed. You peek at him again, slowly tiptoeing to the door. He doesn’t stir.

You ease the door just enough to pass into the hall and scurry onward. You take the stairs quickly and charge into the kitchen. He can’t be mad if you bring him tea. If you’re just doing your job, there’s no reason for disappointment.

You boil the kettle and pluck out cups and the tea pot. You do the task without thinking, arranging the tray just so before lifting it up. You are careful not to rattle the contents as you climb the staircase.

You shoulder through the bedroom door and find Mr. Laufeyson as you left him. You try not to notice what you didn’t before. The twitching movement over his pelvis, just beneath the blanket. You gulp and set down the tray on foot of the bed. The smell of tea wafts from the spout of the pot.

It’s good he’s asleep, the tea still needs time to steep. You step back and pull on your finger, watching him, waiting. Would he be even more upset if you let him sleep too late? He said today would be busy.

“Pet,” he frightens you as he speaks without moving, “do you plot against me?”

You wince and shake your head, pressing your hands to either side of your neck, “no, Mr. Laufeyson, I wouldn’t–”

“Be calm,” he opens his eyes and his head lolls to face you, “I am being facetious.”

You stare at him and blink.

“Sarcasm,” he declares and bends his arms around his head, stretching his long back with an arch. His arms bulge as the muscles in his chest strain against his skin. “What has you awake so early?”

“Tea,” you bounce on your feet, “I wanted to surprise you–”

“Mmm,” he rumbles and scratches his chest, “you can be so precious.”

You nearly wiggle at the praise. He doesn’t hate you anymore. You’re being good.

“Have you made your list?” He asks, groaning as he sits up.

“My list?” You echo in confusion.

“For our journey,” he leans against the headboard and smooth his hair, though a curl stubborn stands at an angle.

“I will,” you step forward and pour a cup of tea. You bring it around to him and place it on the night table, “no milk.”

“Ah, good,” he hooks a finger through the handle. His lifts his other hand flicks his index towards you, “take this off,”

“Mr. Laufeuson?” You flinch.

He arches a brow, overriding further argument. You bunch up the satin in your hands and pull the nightgown above your waist. You shimmy it up over your head and slip the straps down your arms. You put it in a heap on the side of the bed, just by his legs.

“Turn,” he twirls his finger.

You obey and put your back to him. The bed creaks as the cool morning air pricks your skin. You jump as he touches the hot flesh along your ass. You hiss and ball your fists up as the bruises thrum.

“Mmm, it should heal,” he retracts his hand, the headboard knocking against the wall again. You hang your head and let out a shaky breath. “Well, pet, you may sit and have your tea before we begin the day.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you reach for the nightie and he tisks.

“Ah, leave it,” he demands, “I prefer you like this.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you acquiesce and stiffly march forward, curling around to the other side of the bed. You pour yourself a cup as you feel him watching you.

“And you are still excited?” He prompts.

You bat your lashes at him as you cradle your cup.

“About the trip?”

“Oh, yes,” you nod and blow over the steaming tea.

“But you are nervous,” he states, his gaze boring down on you.

“Yes,” you lower your cup over your lap. “Trying not to be.”

“No, it is good, you are well to be cautious,” he girds, “you’ve met most of my family, being confined with them is another task.”

You nod and stare down into the amber breakfast tea. He sips and lets out a deep breath, a rumble rising from his chest. You glance over as he traces his finger along the rim.

“Stay close to me and all should be fine,” he sighs, a strand of anxiety in his timbre, “yes, I do think it is our best plan.”

You bring the cup to your lips and taste the stringent tea. It’s too strong for you but you drink anyway. Your mind isn’t on the tea, it’s on that word he keeps using. ‘Our’? No, it’s his and yours; what he has and what he allows you. One moment, you are adversaries, the next, he speaks as if you’re allies.

You don’t understand him and his moods, you just know you must appease them.

✨

Mr. Laufeyson picks your outfit. A black miniskirt and a white camisole, along with a pair of sheer stockings. You note that it’s rather similar to the maid costume he’d liked so much before. You don’t linger on the thought long before you begin the day.

You have your list of to do’s; the first being, make your own list. You don’t know the first thing about packing. Before, Mr. Laufeyson gave you a carefully curated inventory, but now you have to figure out what you need. That’s a question you rarely consider.

You type out two things before you feel lost; clothes and soap. Well, that’s not very helpful. Which clothes? How do you dress for Wimplesnatch or whatever that thing is? You still don’t know what exactly this celebration is. Is it like Christmas? Or Halloween? Do you need a costume?

You type into the search bar and find a website that generates packing lists. You’re slightly amazed by its existence. It reassures you that you’re not the most clueless person on the planet. You don’t know how many days you’re going to be away so you put in a week and hope for the best.

That looks better. You copy down the list by hand and set it aside. You start a second, one you don’t need help with.

‘Electric, rent, Leslie, groceries…’

You tally up the new deposit in your account into your debts. You login in to your online account and click around. You usually just go to the bank but when you went to get your direct deposit information for the agency, the bank offered a virtual sign in. You’re confused by all the different numbers and buttons.

You go to the FAQ and scroll. You finally figure out how to pay a bill and search in your email for the digital bills you let stack up unread. You add the payees one by one before you attempt payment. You check and recheck each amount before sending it off. When you’re done, your heart lurches at the amount leftover. It’s almost all gone.

You exhale in relief. You can’t go off not knowing your dad’s taken care of. You didn’t part on good terms but he’s still your dad and he’s still very sick. Maybe you should go say goodbye…

“Pet,” Mr. Laufeyson startles you as he struts in through the open door, “ah, I’ve found you.”

You turn in the seat and watch him roll in a large suitcase behind him. He drags it towards the desk and wheels it to face you. It is the colour of lilacs with rose gold zippers. It’s so pretty.

“There you are. It should suffice,” he slaps the top before letting it go.

Your eyes round as you admire the bag. It’s yours? You reach tentatively to touch it before recoiling.

“Thank you, it’s so nice,” you smile. “Erm, I was thinking…” you reach back and grab the first list, an asterisk next to one of the items, “gas money? Do you–”

He interrupts you with a laugh, “pet, don’t bother with all that. You only need to bring yourself. Besides, you should save your money. My mother does love to spend and she will surely have some special plans.”

“Oh,” you seal your lips and twist in the seat. You reach to exit out of the window but before you can, the screen is spun away from you.

Mr. Laufeyson angles the laptop towards him and bends to scan the screen. His eyebrow furrows and he looks at you in alarm.

“Did your stipend not go through? I will call the bank–”

You gulp, “it did, I just–”

He clicks and you grip the edge of the desk to keep from grabbing him. What is he doing? His eyes flit down the screen.

“You… you’re still paying for the fetid old beast?” He snarls.

“Mr. Laufeyson, he’s my dad–”

“A father who never once took you on a holiday? Or a simple road trip? Yes, he is a prize. If I knew my money would be siphoned into his ungrateful hands–”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you pout and rock in the chair, “I wasn’t trying to be bad.”

He huffs and stands, his hands going to his hips. He looks down at you and you wilt. He rolls his shoulders and drops his arms.

“I know you meant well,” he sighs and feels around his back, sliding his wallet from his pants pocket, “you will take the gold card for the trip.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I can’t–”

“You will,” he picks out the gold plastic and places it on the open laptop, “I cannot have my family thinking I pay you pennies."

231 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Dirty Work 33

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: The man has no chill.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Time slogs by in your cowardice. You retreat to the sofa and pull your feet up, hugging your knees as you hang your head. You just want him to forgive you and tell you you're good.

You slip into a doze as your mind skews with the endless rote of tasks. You slump down until the world goes black, your body sinking into itself. You only stir again as you feel a shift around you.

"Come to bed," he coaxes as he takes you into the hall.

You don't move. You don't dare. Fearful that he might suddenly hate you again. He brings you to the bedroom and lays you on the bed. You stay curled up as he shuts the door.

He moves around quietly and approaches with a swish of fabric. He holds a satin nightgown by its straps. You pout up at him as he tilts his head.

"Sleep, we have much to do tomorrow," he girds.

"A moment," he extends a single finger before striding away.

You stay as you are, folding your arms as you face the wall. The satin makes your bum sting each time you move. You hear him behind you.

"Get on the bed," he orders, "on your stomach."

"No, Mr. Laufeyson," you agree as he covers your bottom with the nightie.

"Mmm," he hums and leaves you again.

"Better," he says. You frown. "You are doing better," he specifies, "pet, if you are to accompany me to my mother's celebration, you must be on your best behaviour."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you utter.

"And you are excited to come?" He asks.

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you answer.

"Truly?"

"Yes, I... I've never gone anywhere before."

"Not anywhere?" He prompts doubtfully.

"No," you lower your eyes shamefully, "we couldn't afford--"

"Not to worry," he lifts his hand and taps the tip of your nose, "let me worry for the expense. I only need you on your best and to have everything ready. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you gulp, "I promises--"

"Shhhh," he presses his finger to your lips, "it is late."

You nod as he drags his fingertip over your lips and circles your mouth. He fixates on the move, his eyes glittering. He lets out a sigh.

"One more thing," he adds as he frames your chin, "you will avoid my brother."

You swallow and whisper, "yes, Mr. Laufeyson."

"Very good, pet," he bends to kiss your forehead, "rest, you will surely need it."

✨

Should you wait for him to rouse before you set about the day?

“Pet,” he frightens you as he speaks without moving, “do you plot against me?”

You wince and shake your head, pressing your hands to either side of your neck, “no, Mr. Laufeyson, I wouldn’t–”

“Be calm,” he opens his eyes and his head lolls to face you, “I am being facetious.”

You stare at him and blink.

“Tea,” you bounce on your feet, “I wanted to surprise you–”

“Mmm,” he rumbles and scratches his chest, “you can be so precious.”

You nearly wiggle at the praise. He doesn’t hate you anymore. You’re being good.

“Have you made your list?” He asks, groaning as he sits up.

“My list?” You echo in confusion.

“For our journey,” he leans against the headboard and smooth his hair, though a curl stubborn stands at an angle.

“I will,” you step forward and pour a cup of tea. You bring it around to him and place it on the night table, “no milk.”

“Ah, good,” he hooks a finger through the handle. His lifts his other hand flicks his index towards you, “take this off,”

“Mr. Laufeuson?” You flinch.

“Turn,” he twirls his finger.

You obey and put your back to him. The bed creaks as the cool morning air pricks your skin. You jump as he touches the hot flesh along your ass. You hiss and ball your fists up as the bruises thrum.

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you reach for the nightie and he tisks.

“Ah, leave it,” he demands, “I prefer you like this.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you acquiesce and stiffly march forward, curling around to the other side of the bed. You pour yourself a cup as you feel him watching you.

“And you are still excited?” He prompts.

You bat your lashes at him as you cradle your cup.

“About the trip?”

“Oh, yes,” you nod and blow over the steaming tea.

“But you are nervous,” he states, his gaze boring down on you.

“Yes,” you lower your cup over your lap. “Trying not to be.”

“No, it is good, you are well to be cautious,” he girds, “you’ve met most of my family, being confined with them is another task.”

You nod and stare down into the amber breakfast tea. He sips and lets out a deep breath, a rumble rising from his chest. You glance over as he traces his finger along the rim.

“Stay close to me and all should be fine,” he sighs, a strand of anxiety in his timbre, “yes, I do think it is our best plan.”

You don’t understand him and his moods, you just know you must appease them.

✨

That looks better. You copy down the list by hand and set it aside. You start a second, one you don’t need help with.

‘Electric, rent, Leslie, groceries…’

“Pet,” Mr. Laufeyson startles you as he struts in through the open door, “ah, I’ve found you.”

You turn in the seat and watch him roll in a large suitcase behind him. He drags it towards the desk and wheels it to face you. It is the colour of lilacs with rose gold zippers. It’s so pretty.

“There you are. It should suffice,” he slaps the top before letting it go.

Your eyes round as you admire the bag. It’s yours? You reach tentatively to touch it before recoiling.

“Thank you, it’s so nice,” you smile. “Erm, I was thinking…” you reach back and grab the first list, an asterisk next to one of the items, “gas money? Do you–”

“Oh,” you seal your lips and twist in the seat. You reach to exit out of the window but before you can, the screen is spun away from you.

Mr. Laufeyson angles the laptop towards him and bends to scan the screen. His eyebrow furrows and he looks at you in alarm.

“Did your stipend not go through? I will call the bank–”

You gulp, “it did, I just–”

He clicks and you grip the edge of the desk to keep from grabbing him. What is he doing? His eyes flit down the screen.

“You… you’re still paying for the fetid old beast?” He snarls.

“Mr. Laufeyson, he’s my dad–”

“A father who never once took you on a holiday? Or a simple road trip? Yes, he is a prize. If I knew my money would be siphoned into his ungrateful hands–”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you pout and rock in the chair, “I wasn’t trying to be bad.”

He huffs and stands, his hands going to his hips. He looks down at you and you wilt. He rolls his shoulders and drops his arms.

“I know you meant well,” he sighs and feels around his back, sliding his wallet from his pants pocket, “you will take the gold card for the trip.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I can’t–”

“You will,” he picks out the gold plastic and places it on the open laptop, “I cannot have my family thinking I pay you pennies."

231 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 3 months

Text

Don't Speak 43

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: Not this guy again.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You hole up in the room you’re allotted. You don’t quite know what to do with yourself. You don’t have much. Just your journal, the tablet, and the few garments you packed.

You pace, sit, stare out the window, pace again. You make yourself dizzy as you walk in circles. You fall onto the bed and huff. You still haven’t cracked. For some reason, that tingle in the corners of your eyes evaporated once alone. The agonized tugging in your chest remains but you can’t summon a single tear. It’s as if your body’s numbing itself to the pain.

You watch the time in the margin of the small screen. Closer and closer. Just after noon there’s a knock on the door. You go to it but don’t open as she speaks through the barrier. Ann. His wife. She asks if you’re hungry. You’re not. Just tired but painfully awake.

She tells you to come downstairs if you change your mind. You won’t. You can’t bring yourself to face her. Or to put it more truthfully, to face the truth.

You plug in the tablet as the battery dwindles. A few more hours. Closer and closer. It’s the only thing that keeps you going. For a moment, you doubt yourself. Is it wrong?

Evening darkens the windows. You nestle into the chair in the corner as you rest the tablet on your bent legs. You try to busy yourself with a matching game but you can’t focus. You sit in the shadows and wait and wait and wait.

It’s just you and the screen. That tenuous limbo stretching on and on. Then it pops up. That notification. The camera app interrupts your matches with an alert; ‘motion detected’.

You tap it without a thought. Your stomach twists and your throat squeezes tight. You bite down on your knuckle as the app loads. Your teeth pinch but you don’t care. This is it.

The front door closes as Andy steps onto the mat. He tilts his head as he listens, unaware of the camera across from him, just as you had been. He narrows his eyes but shrugs. He sets his bag down, just like he always does, and unbuttons his coat with a sigh.

He hangs it and looks over his shoulder again. He scratches his chin before he lifts a foot, taking off one boot than the other. He yawns and stretches his arms, rolling his shoulders. A low growl rumbles from his throat.

“Dove,” he calls out, “I hope you’re not working too hard…”

He disappears into the front room. That’s the thing, the camera is stagnant. You can’t see it all but you can hear it. You turn up the volume as you hunch down, ears pricked as you hear his distant voice.

“Honey?” There’s the clink of porcelain then frantic steps. He comes back to the edge of the frame, “Dove!”

He stops at the bottom of the stairs, close to the lens. You see the tension in his cheek, the tick in his jaw. That expression that used to make you wilt. He stomps upstairs, once more out of sight. You hold your breath as the corners of your lips curve.

“Fuck,” his voice precedes him as he barrels back down, his shoulder brushing the camera. “Dove–”

He chokes on his holler as he backs up and faces the small white box. The ‘speaker’. His omniscient companion. He scowls and grabs it, dislodging it from the wall. He brings it close, looking down the lens.

“What?” He whispers in confusion.

You want to laugh. You want him to hear you laughing. But that fear he feels is nothing compared to the terror he instilled in you. Not just of him, but yourself. He made you afraid of your own skin, your own mind, your very being. In that moment, he can’t know even an ounce of the torture he put your through.

“How does it feel?” You whisper. “How does it feel?!” Your voice comes louder, “asshole!”

Your feet slip off the cushion and the tablet falls flat. You clap your hand over your mouth, hoping you weren’t careless enough to be heard past the walls. Your heart races as your breath burns in your throat.

“Dove!” Andy snarls at the camera, “come back. Right now. I forgive you, you can still come ba–”

You black the screen and his pleas mute. Just like he did to you. He never heard ‘no’. He never heard ‘enough’. You grip the edges of the lifeless tablet and shudder weakly.

“Sweetheart,” Dr. Kemp’s voice jolts you from your trance. You look up at him, horrified. How long had he been there? “Dinner’s ready. Come meet the kids.” He keeps his hand on the door as his silhouette is limned from behind. “They’re gonna love you.”

🕊️

“Harper, Avery,” Ann’s voice is firm, almost scary as she interrupts the children’s argument over something called Bluey, “we have a guest, please.”

You sit quietly at the other side of the table, on an island all your own. Steve sits at one end of the table, Ann the other, and the two children sit shoulder to shoulder on the other side. You look at your plate and push around the peas, mixing them into the mashed potatoes.

“Everything alright?” Ann asks. As you look up, you find her watching your fork.

“Yes,” you murmur with a tiny nod, sinking your chin back down as you try to fade out of existence.

Steve clears his throat. You wince and scoops up a mix of peas and potato. You force it into your mouth. You don’t want to be rude. Besides, chewing is a good excuse not to answer any more questions.

“What is she doing here?” The boy, Harper flings flecks of potato around his plate as he smashes his fork into the soft heap.

“That’s not a very nice question,” Steve girds. “She’s a friend, she doesn’t need a reason to be here.”

“Jasmine, Jasmine!” Avery chimes as she tilts her head back and forth.

“Avery,” Ann snips, “don’t you say that name.”

The little girl snaps her mouth shut and blinks in fright. You peek over at Ann as she forces a smile and shakes her head, the pretty flip of her blond hair brushing against her shoulders. She meets your eyes with a pretty laugh.

“We don’t like to talk about the past.”

“I’m sorry, mommy,” Avery babbles.

“It’s okay, honey, but you know Jasmine wasn’t nice,” Ann trills, her eyes clinging to you. “She was a nanny,” she lowers her voice, “and she really liked my style, mm. You know, sticky fingers.”

You nod as you glean her meaning. A thief. You squirm and take another bite. You hope she doesn’t suspect you of anything like that. You would never touch anything of hers. Ever.

Your eyes flit over to Steve. You find him watching you. His cheeks dimple with content.

“Like she says, leave the past in the past,” he sighs, “the kids are in school now and we found a private day care for date nights. It all worked out in the end. It always does.”

You try to smile and swallow tightly. You reach for the glass of water and gulp. The potatoes are garlicky and the peas shriveled and dry.

“It will, honey,” Ann adds on. “Now you’re here and you can start working on you.”

“What?” Harper crinkles his nose.

“Nothing to worry about,” Steve dismisses, “so, kids, tell me about school. How much trouble did you get in?”

You can’t help but wallow in dejection. You never had that. A father that cared about your day. You doubt you’ll ever have a husband to kiss your cheek. The only man who ever loved you, hurt you in ways no one else ever did. He never cared about you, just what he could get from you.

The food turns bitter on your tongue. You eat without tasting, stare without seeing, and suddenly, you’re alone. It’s only the clink of a plate that brings you back. You look up as Ann takes your empty plate.

“Hungry?” She preens.

“Oh, um, can I help?” You go to grab the plate but she keeps it out of your grasp.

“No, honey, you’re our guest. You just…” she bats her lashes as you as her pretty cheeks bulb and her lips pull taut beneath her pink lipstick. She reaches to pet your cheek, “just relax, okay? You’re safe, now.”

You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t. You find it hard to even look at her. She’s so perfect and pristine. Of course Steve loves her. You’re so stupid!

You look across the table at the empty chairs and hear the kids giggling and stomping in the next room. Steve’s deep timbre rumbles under their chirpy tones. You stand up numbly and sidle out from in front of the chair.

“If you need to go lay down, you go ahead,” she squeezes your shoulder, “the kids can be so rambunctious.”

“Thanks, i… think I will.”

You pad off and stop just in the archway to the front room. You peer through and see the kids playing on the floor; Avery brushing the hair of her doll and Harper bashing trucks together as Steve pushes around another. He sits on the floor with them. He’s too good for you, you knew that all along.

He looks up and catches your eye. He smiles bigger and you make yourself walk away. You continue upstairs and into the room. Not your room, the room they allow you. Just like before. You’re just another burden.

You go to the bed and move the tablet from where you left it on the pillow. You keep yourself from putting it on the night table and slide back the cover. There’s an endless slew of notifications. Messages in all caps; emails notifying of you a new rating on your Etsy shop. Bubble after bubble.

Andy. His texts swing between pleading and anger. From accusations to desperate declarations of love. In one, he says he needs you so bad, in the next, he calls you ungrateful.

You flip to your inbox and tap the link to your shop. Every item ranked one star. All the way down. Long comments about being a scam or low quality or just profanity from top to bottom. It’s no coincidence.

You clap the cover over the screen and set it aside. You’ve burned that bridge but you don’t mind the smoke. Better than standing in the flame.

You lay down, flat and feelingless. You stare at the ceiling until your eyes close on their own. You’re so so tired. You let yourself drift into a shallow sleep, the sort where the world exists just beyond a see-through curtain. Light, sound, and noise sifts through the cloudy layer of your subconscious.

The door snaps shut and you sit up with a gasp. For a moment, you’re back in the room at Andy’s house. It’s him standing at the foot of the bed, fuming as he snarls at you, ready to pounce. You shake off the daze and see clearly.

Ann stands with two glasses in her hands. The golden wine streams with bubbles as she smirks at you. You gulp and pull your legs up, folding them before you.

“Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, “I was hoping we could have some girl time while Steve puts the kids to bed.”

“Oh,” you frown. You're confused. You only just met her and she’s acting like your best friend. She’s too good to be true, just like her husband. Husband. Ugh.

“I had some pinot and I don’t usually have someone to share with,” she comes up the side of the bed and sits, holding out a glass.

“Well, er, I…” you accept it by the stem and stare through the yellow contents. “Thank you.”

“I checked with Steve that you’re not on anything it would interact with,” she assures.

You hold back a wince. Right, you’re still just patient to her. You’re surprised she let you sit at the same table as her children. You bring the brim towards your lips.

“Cheers,” she stops you and outstretches her arm.

“Cheers,” you clink your glass before rescinding it, greedily sipping. You remember not everything was so dire when you drank just enough.

She sips daintily, watching you over the crystal. She draws her lips away, a pink stain on the glass. Your cheeks are hot as you wait for her to look away. Does she hate you? Can she see right through you? Does she know about all those dumb emotions you’re drowning in?

She sighs and leans to place her glass next to your table. She sits back, planting her hand on the mattress as she angles herself toward you. She brings a knee up onto the mattress. You drink to calm your nerves.

“You are so pretty,” she says. You nearly choke as you sit up rigidly. Disbelief arches your brows and rounds your eyes. “Really, you are.”

“Um, thanks, you are too,” you eke out.

“You think so?” She challenges.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter.

“What makes me pretty?”

You shake your head, you don’t know what she means. You frown. “I don’t know… you… you’re makeup and… your hair. You… you have nice eyes.”

“Sweetie, you’re so cute,” she trills, “I could do you up. Put some makeup on you too, do your hair…” she touches your cheek again, brushing her knuckles along your skin. “You could put on something sexy.”

You grip the wine glass tight and pull away from her touch. You set the glass with hes and turn to push away. She catches your arm and rips you back. You whimper as she covers your mouth and pushes you down onto your back.

She bends over you and hushes you, her breath tinged with wine. She hovers her mouth just above her hand as she smothers you with her palm. You whine and curl your fingers around the blankets.

“You’re okay, sweetie,” she purrs, “just relax. You wanna be ready for him, don’t you?”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head as you murmur into her palm.

“Let me help you out,” she trails her other hand down your stomach, poking along the front of your pants and dipping beneath, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You lock up. You couldn’t move if you tried. This can’t be happening. It doesn’t make any sense. Why would she do this? Why would Steve let her? He wouldn’t, right? She can see right through you and your childish crush. She’s just trying to scare you away.

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