“Who dares summon me?” Blue eyes with slitted pupils dancing with insanity rave your body up and down. A tongue flicks out, licking his lips as though imagining what you would taste like should he devour you. A single slip of your concentration would be all it takes for him to break from your ties to do so, this next part of your plan has to be approached very carefully.
“Loki Laufeyson, God of Chaos and Lies, I would like to strike a deal.” Your hands are sticky with blood where you sliced at your fingers, the red droplets feeding the gate with a part of your life source.
“Would you, now?” He seems greatly amused by your proposition. “I don’t usually make deals with mortals. You see, they can’t usually offer me something that I can’t get for myself. It’s disappointing, really.” He lets the threat hang in the air, unsaid.
You match his glare equally. Show no weakness. “I offer you a chance at revenge.”
He arches his eyebrows, tilting his head slightly in a look of skepticism. “And what does this entail?”
“The Asgardians have taken something from my people.” It is a delicate balance, providing just enough information to hook him into your game yet without enough for him to piece everything together on his own. “You know your way around the vault, correct?”
He finally regards you with the smallest smidgen of seriousness. “I have been banned from that place long ago. The second I step foot upon Asgardian soil we shall be swarmed with soldiers. Judging by the way you have warded this disgusting pit,” he gestures around your home, “I suspect that you wish our entrance and exit to be rather discreet.”
You don’t react to the disdain he bestows upon you. “Leave that to me. I let you into the vault, take my object and leave you to do as you wish.”
He hums in a way that indicates he’s seriously considering your offer. You don’t breath a sigh of relief or give any sign you are worried about your safety. “And what do I give you in exchange?”
“Teach me.” You pray you don’t sound desperate, hope that you don’t seem naive. The energy that holds the portal open is slowly draining you, the longer this conversation goes on, the weaker you feel.
A single, perfectly groomed eyebrow arches at your request. “Teach you.” He sounds incredulous, aghast that you think that you are deserving of his time. “If you need a few lessons in magick, girl, then how are you able to infiltrate Asgard when I am not.”
You hold your head up high, unwilling to let the sting you. “They are looking for you and your magick trail, not a human of little consequence. You need someone capable of warding your signature from notice.”
“And you think you can do that?” He folds his milky white hands together, his nails sharp and polished black.
“In exchange for the knowledge of the ancients,” You state firmly, the hunger for the primordial power heating your stomach.
He steps forth from your opening, the wards you have so meticulously placed holding him from coming further. “I might need a little more than a chauffeur.”
He’s coaxing for more. You’re prepared to deal. “I’m certain we can work something out.”
“Hopefully in a more comfortable position. These sigils are a lovely gesture, however, I shall be free if I wished in but a few moments. I don’t suppose you’ll offer me the pleasure of killing you?” He smiles, two fangs glimmering in the dusty sunlight from the window.
“Do we have a deal, Laufeyson?” You hold your hand out to shake over the pentagram markings on the floor.
You do not like the look he gives you, not at all. His smile is terrible and cruel, as though he is a wolf finding a stray lamb to tear the limbs off for the joy of watching something suffer and bleed. He takes your hand in both of his, daring you to try and pull away when the underside of your wrist starts burning. You stare at him evenly through the pain, inwardly cursing the tears that drip from your eyes from instinct. He lets go.
You pull back faster than necessary, inspecting the brand he seared into your skin. It’s a small snake, its body contorted into a ring. Its mouth is on its tale, eternally devouring itself. The skin around it is red and swelling.
“You’re mine, witch.”
You look up at him. His smile is too broad, too happy with your agreement. You raise your hand and smear your blood from his forehead, down his nose and lips, ending at his chin. He keeps his surprise at your boldness carefully disguised as boredom, but the way those eyes flicker at your scarlet fingers give him away. Your forthrightness is amusing to him.
“And you are mine.” You confirm the bargain. Taking your copper athame from its sheath, you mark a single scratch on the trap painted on the ground.
Stepping out, he takes a deep breath, as though he had been holding it in since you summoned him. The sickly pinkness in the skin around his eyes fades, as if suddenly cured by the Earth he steps on. His eyes dull, no longer sharp and reptilian, the pupils rounding and becoming more green… more humanlike. He begins to wander the ratty attic you’ve been calling home for the past year and a half.
Fresh herbs from the market hang along the windows to dry, splashes of color against the windows that are always blurry from the outside. A makeshift altar sits on the floor below the window, fresh flowers you pick every day to keep the energy up lay inside a small iron cauldron, your favorite wand resting up against it. A thin, clean mattress decorated with mismatched blankets put under a curtain you fashioned out of old fabric. Bookshelves line the walls, each one in a different state of chaos, some cobbled together with old boards you found laying by dumpsters. Books, new and old, bought and stolen only take up half of the shelves, the rest are your necessities. Jars of dried herbs, labeled in hasty permanent marker scrawl and in an order that could barely be considered organized. Scraps of fabric hold stones and gems that you have to dust now and then to keep them polished. Dried food such as cereal and bread sit up high where the mice can’t get them. Wards painted in various mediums decorate the sloping wooden walls, keeping you safe. It may look ugly to someone, but it is your home, and you are immensely proud of it.
Delicately, as to not hurt your sliced hand and throbbing wrist further, you start a pot of water on the hot pot you have on top of an old crate. Picking out some herbs to brew, you steal a look at your inhumane guest. “Any preference?” You ask, not sure how to approach your relationship from here. When he doesn’t answer, you haphazardly dump mint lemongrass, and honey into the boiling water. Glancing behind you as you stir the brew, you watch Loki poke around your summoning circle, checking the craftsmanship of the sigils. He seems begrudgingly impressed.
The hard part is over, then. The year you spent toiling away, trying desperately to come up with a plan on how best to hurt those who have injured you looks like it may actually happen. You don’t want to allow happiness to fill your soul just yet, but the disgusting claws of hope have begun to take hold of you. Hope is a weakness, and the bitter taste of hatred fills your mouth at how quickly you fall to its grip.
Careful not to touch the pan with your fingers, you pour the tea over a strainer, right into a mug. You set the cup on the low coffee table, gesturing to the pillow for him to sit. Without any complaint, he does, and once the two of you settle on the pads, the discussion begins.
“Are the lessons something you wish to happen before the infiltration or after?” He doesn’t touch his tea.
“Before.” You can’t go into Asgard of all places as you are now, maybe you are better than the average Earth witch, but that doesn’t mean that you can last three seconds against an Asgardian Mage.
“You can teleport us into Asgard, and I lead you to the vault. I believe that’s a mutually beneficial situation, witch. I don’t see why I should add teaching you how to master my power into the bargain unless of course, you do something for me in return.”
You take a sip of tea to cool your nerves. “What is your price?”
His crystalline eyes slide from your face and down your body, causing shivers to dance across your spine. “Many things, witch.”
“Enough words games, Laufeyson. What do you want from me?”
He lets his gaze meet yours briefly before resting on your stomach. “Your firstborn.”
“Or, if it would make you feel better, our firstborn.” His hand creeps towards yours, which is resting by your mug on the table. You pull back before your fingers touch. He continues, “I’ve had many lovers in the past, witch. My experience won’t be lacking. I’ll make it so pleasurable that you won’t remember your own name.”
Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. Of course, he has to make it hard for you. You hate yourself for even considering it.
Throat, dry and parched from sobbing. Screams of millions of tortured souls roaring in the distance. The lamps around you flicker as the ungodly screech of metal on metal causes you to cover your ears. Blood, snot, and tears smeared on your face. No one is here for you. Abandoned.
You look at this creature, Loki Laufeyson, the God of Chaos and Lies. You know the stories around him, what he does to his victims when he’s bored. You know that no child should be subjected to that misery. “No,” You say coldly, “I suppose we’ll just break in and break out, then. No lessons involved.”
But your silence told him that your resolve could be worn down given time. All he has to do is put his silver tongue to work, and you’ll be lured into bed. He glances to the mattress on the floor. Maybe not that bed. “Don’t be so hasty, pet. I’m willing to renegotiate at any time should you change your mind.”
You take his mug before he can take a sip, pouring its contents into yours, “I guarantee that I will not. Let’s move onto the plan, now.”
“There’s an object inside Stephen Strange’s mansion. Have you heard of him?”
His eye twitches. “Yes.”
“A wand that has enough power to transport us there.” The wound on your fingers where you sliced to get blood has begun throbbing. Before you can get up to get that healing paste you made, he grabs both your hands to inspect. You tense, fear rippling through your blood at what he could do to you. Maybe he’ll make good on his threat after all and eat you. You glance out at the window behind him, wondering if dying now would be fine.
Laying on the cold cement, begging Jesus, Allah, Buddha, anyone to take you. End it. No one does. No one lets you die.
No, not when you’re this close.
Instead of harming you, he brings your wrist up to his lips and licks the spot that still burns. You freeze. The air stands still. A coolness bleeds into your skin and around the wound, soothing the pain he caused. His blue eyes flicker up to yours, almost seeming green for a moment in the low light as the sun sets. He does the same for the cut along your fingers, licking the blood that crusted on the flesh. You don’t say anything for fear that he simply eats your fingertips. But he releases both your hands, even more unharmed than when he got them.
“There we go, all better.” His voice is almost tender, a switch so suddenly within him that your head is spinning. “I will be staying here from now on.”
“What?” You were so busy rubbing your now healed wrist you barely heard what he said. “Why can’t you go back to… wherever you were?”
“Because then I wouldn’t give our project the hands-on experience I am so well known for,” He purrs, leaning towards you from across the coffee table. “How do you mortals say it? One hundred and ten percent?”
You glare at him, trying to wriggle around his declaration. “I only have one bed.”
“That I’ll be sleeping in.”
“I would never commandeer your bed. We can share.”
You take a shaky breath, “If you dare try to rape-”
“I’m a monster of class, witch.” He arches his eyebrows, mildly disgusted that you would think so low of him.
You glare at him, mouth in a thin line. You know he’s enjoying this argument by the way his eyes grow wider, hands folding over themselves together on the table as if hiding something in plain view. Forget how this creature has billions of blood dripping from its fingers, you want to punch him in the face.
“Fine.” You grind out, “Fine.” This is fine. This is fine. This is fine. Eyes on the prize.
“Well then.” He gives you a dazzling, disgustingly smug smile. You want to rip those white teeth out from his gums. “What time do you usually go to sleep?”
Remember that meme that's two couples walking past each other and the guy from the first couple is turning around to oggle the other woman's butt while his girlfriend beholds his infidelity, annoyed?
So I'm the guy ogling the other lady's butt, and my girlfriend is all the other fics that I'm supposed to be working on. I'm sorry.
So I got this excellent idea for a Faustus-like Reader making a deal with a Devil-like Loki. Dear readers, tell me what you think! I live off comments and kudos.
You roll out of bed without sparing him a glance. Quickly slipping out of the old t-shirt and sweats you slept in, you pack up a spare set of clothes in a small gym bag and shove a protein bar into your mouth. When you glance at the bed, you notice Loki staring at you unabashedly with wide eyes. His shirt is off and laying somewhere, his shoes neatly set against the bed. His helmet is on the coffee table, in an almost laughably domesticated manner.
Without even offering a word of where you’ll be going for how long, you leave your attic and head down the stairs of the abandoned house you’ve taken for yourself. Wards that make people turn their heads when they look splatter in layers on the wall of the building facing the street. The house was scheduled for demolition, though your spells have managed to delay it, it’s not a permanent or thorough fix. But it’s good enough for a short period of time, which is all you need.
You head towards the YMCA. Using their showers to get this toxic city’s grit off your body may be a little inconvenient, but you’ve managed to snag a job where you work enough hours to afford food and books. The water spraying from the nozzle is freezing and tinted with rust, and there’s a chlorine smell that seems to always stick with you no matter how long it’s been since your last shower. You fear when this is over, an eternity later, you’ll still smell like the YMCA industrial cleaning chemicals.
You hurt your face smiling, showing new people around, handing out lists of fitness classes, and dodge the Krav Maga teacher assistant’s insistent flirting. Payday, payday, payday, you chant in your head as you glance up at the clock every three seconds in the hope for a time warp. It took some finagling to figure out how the financials work on this planet and involved a little magick in convincing a small bank to open a checking account without any identification documents available.
Once you can abscond, you head over to a small grocer where you pick up some things to eat for dinner (and a huge ass bottle of hard liquor), hoping that Loki the God of Chaos and Lies can pull his own fucking weight while in your house. You open the bottle the moment you step out of the store for a few sips as you head back to your home.
You climb the stairs back to your attic, Loki waiting for you. He sits in a cushion nest you made besides a window, his clothes still half off, deep in a Magicka scroll from your homeworld. Once he’s finished with it, he sets it besides one of the piles next to him and picks up a book from another. He barely glances up to acknowledge your presence. “I suppose you would like to get started right away.”
You hold up a single finger, taking a few more big chugs of alcohol, the bitter taste burning your throat beautifully. The glass clunks loudly as you slam it down on the coffee table. “I do now.”
His eyes glance down to the bottle, then to the shelves where you keep most of your potions. Similarly shaped glass liters with labels scratched and painted over are the only evidence of your dangerous drinking habits. So what? You’ve been really into recycling lately, and it’s better to reuse your old stuff than to just go out and buy mason jars or some other stupid shit like that.
“Doctor Stephen Strange is going out on an escapade with some of his other super heroes tomorrow.” You get out the frozen salmon you bought from the store, slicing the package open and setting it on the tiny skillet that sits on the hot plate.
Loki stands and watches you cook on top of the old crate you’ve repurposed into a cabinet. His face twitches at the food you’re preparing.
“Don’t worry, old beast of chaos. None of it’s for you.” You’re lying; you did get a little extra for him. You don't like the look of disdain on his face, so if he’s going to put up a fuss, he can stay hungry. You add a swab of butter to the pan and sprinkle with some herbs from an old salsa jar. The smell in the house turns heavenly. “If you’re looking for a job to do you can open the window over there.”
“Will you give me a kiss in return?” He asks, arching his eyebrows suggestively. He thinks you are going to refuse.
You take another swig of liquor, then pour a bit over your fish. “Sure.” It’s a little reckless, but you want to see what would happen if you agree. Is he testing the waters? Is he playing games?
You don’t turn to look back at him to see if he does what you request. The soft squeal of the rusty hinges and the dewy breeze of the evening signals that he is doing as you asked. The gentle hands that touch your waist and the black nails that gently dig into the fabric of your ratty work shirt suggests he has every intent of collecting.
“My kiss?” He purrs into your ear. To say that his voice does nothing to your insides would be a lie. You feel a puddle forming in your core, and gods it would be so easy to give in. So easy to let him take you to bed and strip your clothes and kiss your bare skin all over.
But that would be admitting defeat, and if there’s one thing you hate more than the Asgardians, its either being wrong or giving up. So you reach over to your grocery bag and bring out a foil covered candy. “Here.” You hold it over your shoulder for him to take.
“What’s this?” He sounds confused for the first time since you’ve met him. You tick off a single victory point for yourself.
“A Chocolate Kiss. All yours, as per our deal.” You shake the small paper tail invitingly.
He makes a grunting noise, taking the piece of candy away from you. Once unwrapped, he pops it into his mouth and chews. “Garbage,” he proclaims, swallowing. “Do you have any more?”
“Whoa, Loki. I only give one kiss out on the first date. I’m a proper lady.” You take another sip of booze, the screams of your family finally leaving you alone.
“You may address me with my full title.” His arms wrap around your waist dangerously, claws now pinching into your flesh.
“I may? Thank you, Loki, of God of Silvertongued Lies, Beast of Chaos and Destruction.” You agree passively, making a mental note to just never address him at all in the future. Your fish is done, you flip it onto the plate and leave the second fillet raw in its package. You pull from his grasp and settle onto the table, getting out the hastily scrawled map you made while possessing a mouse within Strange’s mansion.
“The wand is here.” You point to an X on the map, eating your food with your other hand. Loki makes a face at your habit, sitting down in front of your wordlessly to listen.
“There are wards that prevent magical entrance. In fact, any Magick used within the walls will alert Strange of our presence. But there’s one shortcoming in the security.” You grin, loving how the most powerful sorcerers ever can sometimes forget that anything else exists, “It has minimal defenses against non-magick based attacks.”
Loki observes the way your mouth quirks up into a smug grin. “I’m assuming that you are well versed in such a feat?”
“Not really, but this is Earth. Cut a few wires, and everything goes down.” You’ve broken into multiple libraries before, just not entirely magick free. You’ve already researched the security company; it’s a simple matter of just entering the right code. You’ve watched him forget to enter it sometimes.
“And what is my role in this?”
“You come in with me and help disable the magick barrier. Then we teleport out into the middle of nowhere, and then we use mechanical means of transportation to come back so it’ll be harder to trace us.”
He cocks his head. You like the way his hair falls to the side, the way his eyes slightly narrow as he thinks. “You said he'd sense us if we use magick.”
“Which is why we hold off using any until the last possible second. You pull down the barrier while I ready the teleportation spell and we should be out of there in seconds, long before he can return.”
He nods slowly, reaching for your bottle of liquor. You let him lift it to his lips and take a sip, swiping his tongue around the head for a stray droplet of booze. He sets it back down on the table. Your move.
You continue to talk as though that didn’t happen, grabbing the bottle and taking another swig of your own. “We’ll leave tomorrow evening, be back before morning. Then you help plan the heist of the Asgardian vault.”
He tries to grab for your booze bottle again, but you lift it out of the way. He huffs, “That’s acceptable.”
“Good.” You get out some baby wipes and clean off your hands. “I’m going to bed. Do what you want, just don’t wake me.” You throw the wipes in the small trash bin to the side. Calmly, as though someone is not watching you with startling blue eyes, you change into your shorts and large t-shirt, tossing your bra onto the pile of clothes in the corner. You fall onto the bed, holding the blankets for dear life.
A while later, you feel him following you to bed. His body is tall, and he has to fold himself slightly to fit upon the mattress. Of course, he curves his body around you, not touching you but definitely there. You feel the way the air shifts as he breathes, the way his chest rises and falls against the covers. His hands don’t ‘accidentally’ brush against your bare skin. He keeps to himself the entire night.
When you wake, you repeat the process you had yesterday. Get up, find your bra, put on shoes and socks. As you go retrieve a protein bar, you see the fish you left laying on the counter is encased in a block of ice, keeping it fresh. You glance back at Loki, who is staring at you with, dare you say it, expectation? Your lips stay sealed shut, and you leave.
You meet with a private collector in downtown. He has an orb with a special inscription, in a language you haven’t even thought in for years. It brings all those ugly memories to the surface, but you force them down and pay him his due, a scroll in Kree Basic describing the Ancient Egyptians. It is a forgery, by your clever hand, of course, but the earth-dweller has no way of knowing that. You suppose it is technically a non-Earth relic, since you, someone not from Earth, made it. The trade goes so smoothly you almost feel bad for the old man.
You cradle the orb in your hand, checking carefully to make sure you aren’t followed. A few times a suspicious van crosses your path, so you quickly duck into an alley and scale up the side of the building, watching the street until it passes. Once you’re sure it’s gone, you discreetly make your way back to your home.
Loki is in the same position as when you came home yesterday. “What are you?” He asks, glancing at the thing in your hand.
“What are you?” You dodge, walking over to the half-empty liquor bottle and begin to finish it off.
He looks back at the book, putting on an air as though he couldn’t care less, “Just wondering. Not every day I find a witch living in such a pathetic hole as this. You could have taken a mansion, put the people in this city on their knees serving you.”
“Submit to me,” The figure demands to the survivors, “and be spared.”
“I’m not a tyrant.” You say, your voice low. You glance at the bottle on the table. Is the liquor gone already? The space between your eyes hurts. You need more.
“Awful waste of power, if you ask me,” he scoffs, looking back down to his book.
His eyes are too blue. It hurts to look at them, so you don’t look at him at all. You curl up on the ground and make tiny, hiccupy sobs.
“I like to think that I’m above mass murdering innocent people.” You flick an invisible piece of dust off your front.
He snorts like you’ve made the funniest joke, but you are quickly becoming accustomed to ignoring his jabs. You strip from your old ragged thrift shop clothes, walking over to a small wooden chest engraved with an unearthly metal. You open it slowly, looking down at the black cloth weaved by forgery dwarves.
“Interesting attire.” He murmurs, suddenly at your side. You shrug off the underwear you are wearing, letting Loki watch you.
You set the uniform box aside and open a longer, thinner box. A wicked looking battle axe lays inside in its velvet casing. You lift it up and test its weight; it has been somewhat long since you last touched your baby.
“Alright. Let’s go.” You say, turning back to Loki and giving him a bloodthirsty smile.
Hello, friends, I'm back. Thank you so every person who commented on my first chapter! The story is going to move very quickly; you'll be banging your sexy god in no time.
Next time, jealous Loki, easy peasy heist, and plenty of substance abuse.
“I have some concerns.” Loki looks up at the glaring mansion of Doctor Stephen Strange. He’s still wearing the regal Viking clothes that make him stand out worse than being fully armed. He wouldn’t change into anything else, and you didn’t put up an effort to argue.
“Sorry, the complaint box is full, try again later.” You fiddle with the needles in the lock. A satisfactory click causes your body to zing with excitement. Slowly, you open the door, glancing behind you to make sure no one is looking. It’s the dead of the night, and people avoid this house anyway. You slip in, holding it for Loki to follow.
His eyes scan the insides carefully while the alarm chirps its warning. You quickly punch in the code, disarming the electronic security system. “Alright, this is where the hard part begins,” you mutter, glancing about for traps. He gives you That Look. You glare at him. “For this little job, I mean.”
Shaking his head, he goes straight up the stairs. “The wand it up here, I can tell even without your map. It’s power sings, can you hear it?”
And you could. It was like a black hole, pulling you towards it. Slowly, almost terrified, you follow him up the stairs to a vast room full of dangerous relics and weapons and instruments of magick. The wand sits in a glass case, almost laughably ignorable in comparison to the others. Flashy, colorful things that boast of mastering elements, unleashing disease, and acidic smoke. The wand is a simple stick, made from a blackened wood. But you can feel it. You can feel it more than you can feel everything else.
“Get it out.” You demand, perfectly calm.
“Watch your tone with me, witch,” Loki snaps at you, holding his hand over the case. The lust in your eyes would worry any other being, but he instead… well, he doesn't find it endearing, but he no longer considers you something to throw away once he becomes bored.
Quickly as he can, which is remarkably fast, he is a god after all, he disarms the magick trap laid for trespassers and lifts the glass. You snatch your hand out and grab the wand faster than he could blink. Thunder roars somewhere in the distance, your smile turning into a sinister sneer.
“Hold onto me.” You begin the spell, warping time and space around you until you find where you’re going.
A blinding white light hits the two of you as you tear the universe apart to get to your destination. Loki still stands beside you, looking thoroughly exhilarated at your raw power. The two of you are surrounded by desert. The impossibly large moon overhead gives off enough light to see as the nearby lantern flickers on and off. A train rattles in the distance, still a few minutes away. You sit down on a metal bench, looking up at the unfamiliar constellation dotting the sky.
“Where are we?” Loki sounds legitimately lost.
You mentally strike another victory point for yourself before you answer. “An in-between. Every world has one; you just need to know where to find it.”
He nods, understanding. “The train is our mechanical transportation?”
“I already have tickets.” You pull them out of your pocket.
He sits down next to you, close enough to invade your space but not enough to be touching. He glances at you, head askew, eyes flicking up and down your face, body, and hands neatly folded over your wand. “Tell me about yourself.”
You stare stubbornly into the horizon. “There’s not much to tell.”
“So tell it.”
“Basic revenge story. Family and friends dead, need something for ultimate power. Happy?”
“Very.” He lies fluidly, wishing you weren’t so hardened. It would be so much easier to manipulate someone who was less drunk and more in touch with their emotions. He looks to where you stare, at the edges of the milky way. The rattle of the tracks becomes more violent as your ride pulls up into the station. The wind throws his hair from his face.
It looks like an ordinary train. It is an ordinary train. This stop is just a tiny blip in the long track between countryside that was just forgotten. No one gets off at this station. Only people like you get on. The car is mostly empty except for a sleeping person tucked in the far corner, so you slip your new wand into your sleeve and take an opposite seat side. Loki settles next to you even though he could literally sit anywhere else.
You fold your legs up to your chest and stare out the window. The train begins to accelerate. You begin to feel sick. It starts with the pain in between your eyes.
Its razer appendage makes a clickety-clack. It rips flesh apart with a loud wet smack.
You take a deep breath, counting to ten.
“Are you alright?” Loki asks, more concerned about his outfit than anything else. He’d rather not deal with vomit right now.
It catches you with a quick little wack.
“I’m fine.” You will not be rattled by that stupid nursery rhyme again. You see red splotches dance through your vision, the prayers of those around you hissing and murmuring fervently in your ears.
It’s prey screams and cries but won’t be back.
“Tickets, ma’am?” A conductor looks surprised to see you. Wordlessly, you pull them from your pocket and let him punch the paper.
“The dining car is in that direction if you need any-”
“Alcohol?” You ask, eyebrows raised.
“Um, beer, I think-”
“Oh, thank god.” You stand, pushing past him and walking briskly towards the car he pointed to. It’s empty except for the bartender, scrolling through something on her phone. You throw down a twenty dollar bill. “What’s the strongest shit you have?”
“Tequila,” She answers without hesitation, getting out a shot glass.
“I’m gonna need a little more than that.” You say, and she complies, getting a beer glass and filling it half full. You smack down another ten for a tip and chug the thing faster than you’ve done in awhile, getting back up and wandering back to where Loki is.
You glance up at the ETA of your station, rolling across a little screen overhead. It’s a bit more than an hour. You glance at your phone's clock, deciding that it might be a good idea to treat yourself after this. You did just steal one of Stephen Strange’s relics, after all. Loki finds you by the lavatory, leaning against the faux wood cabinet and staring out into the blurring landscape.
He stands silently in front of you. “You didn’t tell me where our stop was.”
“You have the tickets.” The sobs have silenced. You don’t feel the accusatory stares anymore.
He looks out of the window as well. He tries again, “You could have abandoned me.”
“I’m sure you have a way to track me.” You wonder if any more cocaine dealers are willing to do business with you after you ripped the arm off that one guy whose hand went too far up your thigh.
Loki stays silent for awhile. You stare up at the ticking clock, the minutes barely moving by. You already know how you’re going to reward yourself tonight.
The train screeches to a stop. The doors swish open, letting in the damp night air. You get out and check the time, sighing with relief that you have at least an hour left of easy prey to go home with before the nightclubs close. Loki steps alongside you, glancing around the station. The two of you made a deal not to use magic for a while, to stay off any radars that might be on high alert with your break-in. Instead of teleporting again, you start walking towards your house. It’s only about a mile and a half away from the central train station.
You glare at the corporate skyscrapers that rise from the ground like titanium giants, the hard base of bar music playing faintly in the distance. You eye someone in a suit, probably a CEO baby looking for a good time. He looks up, auburn hair, coal eyes, smiling in that drunk my-daddy-has-money kind of way. You mentally mark the street and keep walking.
You get to your home, go up the stairs. Loki’s hand brush against yours invitingly. “We should celebrate our victory.”
“Do what you want.” You dig through your clothes, finding that one romper your religious grandmother would skin you for wearing.
“What if I want to do you?” He’s close to you now, intimate but not touching. He wants you to reach for him first.
“No thanks.” You fold your battle clothes neatly and place them back into their chest. You find those stupid shoes with the heels and slip them on, looking at your reflection in the antique body-length mirror. Well, your butt looks nice in this outfit. You turn to Loki. “Do I look like a whore?”
He glares at you. “Yes.”
“Good.” You grab your wallet and flounce out, leaving him alone.
You horrible and disgusting and stupid witch. Loki glares at the door you shut behind yourself. How dare you. How dare you refuse him like that. You are supposed to be in awe of gods, not treat them like inconvenient business partners. How dare you.
Loki Laufeyson has magick of unimaginable magnitude. He has more power than Midgard’s Sorcerer Supremes, which he thinks he proved very well just now. And yet you don’t even offer him another glance but to dismiss him. Do you not know what he could do for you? Do you not see that he is a King of Gods? He has never had to ask for sex or a warm body to sleep by because both men and women trip over themselves to wedge into his life. He hasn’t once had to do anything more than suggest that he is willing to have someone.
But you. He has practically offered himself with a bow on top, and you run off to have some common rabble.
You come back once the sun peeks over the horizon, reeking of dozens of different alcohols, plant-based opiates, and worst of all, sex. Your sleeve is off your shoulder, your neckline slanted enough for him to see bite marks and hickeys along your breast and collarbone.
Muttering incoherently, you throw yourself down on your bed and writhe, trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. Your legs buck as you kick your shoes off with dangerous abandon, the heels sharp enough to kill a man. Loki rolls to the floor, watching you with slitted eyes as you make yourself at home, his teeth grinding with frustration. Once you’ve stopped flopping about like a fish, he slips back beneath the covers, turning to find you staring unblinkingly at him, pupils blown almost to the whites.
“Harry, I’ve told you I don’t do sleepovers.” Even though your words are slurring together, it’s the clearest thing you’ve said all night. The nerve, calling him another man’s name. Before he can open his mouth, you wrap your arms around his neck and give him a reckless kiss on the cheek, saying, “But I suppose I can make an exception for you.” There’s a fine white powder just under your nose.
He doesn’t protest. You shift so that you’re laying on top of him, wrapping your legs around his waist and putting your head against his chest. Awkwardly at first, he pats your back, becoming more assured with each stroke. Your soft, slow breathing of contentment make him feel warm inside. The warmth is anger, he convinces himself.
“You disgust me,” He whispers into your hair, half hoping you can hear him. He thinks he hates you a little bit.
“Get off my dick.” You mumble in response, not even knowing what you are supposed to be defensive about. His heartbeat lulls you into a restful sleep, your drugged mind unable to dream of nightmares and monsters.
Once certain you are asleep, Loki pushes you off of him. There you lay, arms and legs spread over your mattress, your unconscious body unaware that the polite thing to do when sharing a bed is to stay on your own damn side. You are entirely limp and almost devoid of any life signs, so he goes ahead and positions you to the side, in a comfortable arrangement that won't cause you to wake up with a stiff neck.
Holding his hand over your stomach, he feels for any pulse of life that tells of a pregnancy. Loki finds none. He’s not relieved because he cares if you have another baby with another man. He only cares that his sire takes president over anyone else’s. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about you.
Loki is only doing this to make sure his plans for you to have his child can aren’t set back by a year, he tells himself. He doesn’t care what you do so long as you have him a healthy baby.
He checks your ovaries. It might take a little work to impregnate you, given that your fun little habits appear to be slowly destroying your body from the inside out, but feeling the power inside you pulse with your heartbeat will make it all worthwhile. You think he would put this child in any kitchen wench that comes across his way? That would be, how do those Midgardians put it, downgrading. He’s after blood that bursts at the seams with magick, and though he would never admit it to anyone, just summoning him from across the universe is a feat unto itself. You’ll do nicely.
Maybe he’ll let you mother the child, if you can figure out how to behave yourself. He lays beside you, observing your facial features and wondering how much his baby will look like you. Will it have your eyes? Your fingers? That particular way your eyes twitch when you’re growing impatient?
You turn away from him, saying something about the bright flashing lights in the sky.
Maybe he should come up with a contingency plan, just in case.
Thank you all for your comments and kudos! They are all deeply appreciated.
You wake, your mouth and throat dry enough to ache. The sun pounds against your brain, your stomach churning with nervous apprehension. Slowly, because every movement sent unpleasant jolts through your body, you roll over to see if he’s still here. A part of you wishes he would just leave you alone. You have the wand, you try to bargain with yourself in the chance he isn’t here, do you really need to get into the Asgardian Vault?
Loki is standing in front of a window. Without turning to you, he says, “Are you aware that it is midday?”
You paw around for your junky cell phone, glancing at the opening screen. “I am now.” Shifting around, trying to find another comfortable position that doesn’t involve vomiting, you squint at his face. It’s too bright. “Is there something on your mind?”
He turns to you. Perfectly blank face, emotions so absent it’s almost terrifying to see. His eyes are almost tired as they look at you, mouth perfectly relaxed. It’s so disconcerting that your gaze begins to naturally dart around, trying to spot a trap. He tosses your orb in the air, catching it again as it falls. “I was just wondering when you were going to get off your ass and start working.” The way he says it makes the request sound perfectly reasonable, his carefully disguised tone not upset.
You sit up, wishing you could see clearly enough to deck him in the face. Your hangover today is something extraordinary, you must have almost overdosed on whatever that guy offered you last night. What was his name again? William? Warren?
Your stomach growls for food. It doesn’t matter anyway, you doubt you’ll ever walk that part of town again before you leave. A thin layer of sweat covers your entire body, whatever you took last night must have taken some toll on your system. You don’t remember much other than pretty colors, auburn hair, being bent over the side of a high-end car and fucking hard and wild. After he offered you some white powder in a bag and showed you how to take it, you remember cruising down a highway, top down and waving your arms in the wind. Then nothing.
The fish fillet from a few nights ago is peeking out of its ice case, unspoiled and ready to eat. You’re entirely prepared to eat it raw if you have to, you need to shovel something nutritious down your throat. Slowly, you get to your knees, then grab the plastic bag where you put your trash and vomit. There’s not a lot of your stomach to retch up, so it’s extra painful.
Shakily, you wipe your mouth. Water first. Loki watches you with the same kind of inhuman detachment, not caring in the slightest about your condition. A part of you is very thankful for that, you hate it when people pity you. You tie the bag, feeling slightly better, and set it into a plastic bowl so you can deal with it later. You wobble over to where you stash the water bottles, opening one and draining it in half a second.
Taking a deep breath, you work on making breakfast. Everything is too bright, you can barely see through blown out vision. Your sinuses especially ache for whatever reason, maybe it had to do with the white powder yesterday? You remember what’s-his-face snorting it up.
The fish crackles in the pan you wiped down with a paper towel to clean. You stare at the bubbles in the grease, a splatter smacking your arm. The spot burns, the pain a welcome distraction.
Once done, you sit at the table and eat like the undead. Slow. Methodic. You spare another glance at Loki and sees that he is still watching. Losing your patience, you ask, “Don’t you have anything better to do? Like planets to pillage and people to murder?”
His eyes narrow considerably. “Do you truly think you can speak to me however you please?”
You roll your head to one side, the joint letting out a nice pop. “Well so far the only thing you’ve done to discourage me was a hissy fit.”
Gone is the reverence you gave him when you first met. All a cleverly thrown together facade to make him feel that you could be worth his time. Loki’s mouth curls into a snarl, walking over to you. You make no movement to evade, only setting your place on the table and out of the way. You’re too tired and pain-ridden to care when his hand clasps around your throat, restricting your air flow.
Your eyes are already dead, he realizes as he threatens to squeeze further. He lifts you off the ground, your limp body merely giving up before it’s begun. He rams you against the wall, wishing you would struggle, whimper, at least squirm a bit to give him the satisfaction. Loki places his other hand around your neck, tightening his grip to hurt you more.
But you look at him with the face of someone who’s already accepted their fate. Your hands lay limply at your side, and you close your eyes. Your body jerks, but it’s involuntarily, giving him no contentment.
He releases his grip to leave room for your vocal cords to move. “I’ll grant you mercy if you beg me.” Leaning in against your ear, his voice the gentle caress of a lover’s. He leaves himself open, secretly hoping you’ll pull out a dagger to fight.
Those eyes. Those damn eyes. You stare at him, and say, your voice barely a rasp of the breeze, “Go on, then. Finish what you began.”
You hate him. Of course you do, he’s surprised he hadn’t seen it before. It’s not the burning hate of someone who’s just met him. Nor is it the seeded hatred of someone who’s only heard stories of him, oh no. Your spite is something nurtured. Something so deeply rooted within you that it’s strangling you from the inside out.
He has no idea who you are.
And he shouldn’t care about this. He doesn’t.
Loki sets you down. “Eat the rest your food. We have work to do.”
You swallow thickly, your throat killing you threefold now. Glaring at him as he returns to his place at the window, you comply. You drink another water bottle, trying to figure out when the next time you can get some more liquor. Your stomach clenches together, another wave a nausea writhing to the surface.
“Why Asgard?” His voice jolts you out of your thoughts. It’s calculating, the wild missile of rage gone.
“Excuse me?” You know exactly what his question it. You place your empty plate on the tray where dirty dishes go until you can wash them.
“There are plenty of mass destruction weapons in the universe. Plenty of their enemies boast of great and terrible objects as well, so why would you target them specifically?” He suddenly sounds interested in you. Anyone less might be fooled into thinking they are forgiven.
“Because.” You come up with a lie that could be considered plausible, “I don’t see anyone else eager to make deals with the likes of me and have a thorough knowledge of the target.”
He knows that’s not the whole story. You know he knows. He knows you know he knows. You both glare at each other, at an impasse, until you sigh and wipe your fingers clean. “We’re not getting anywhere. All you need to do is trust me in that I’ll get you into the vault, alright?” You hold out the arm bearing his scar.
There’s no deception in your voice. He touches his mark with two fingers, at the rigged skin burned by his fire. “Yes.” He quickly jerks his hand back as though you’re dirty, adding, “just get me paper and ink. I’ll show you what you need to know.”
The vault itself is impossible to get into through magic. In fact, teleporting anywhere in Asgard can catch the attention of the Watcher, so like using magick in Stephen Strange’s home. So everything has to be ludicrously swift: you teleport in, Loki helps you unlock the wards, and the two of you go separate ways.
“Tell me where all the noteworthy things are.” You try to sound less demanding.
And he tells you of a sword that holds the powers of volcanoes, a spear that can pierce the heart of stars, an axe that can cut through squares of obsidian. He tells you of projectiles that can rip off the face of a planet, that can knock moons from orbit. And yet, none of the things he mentions to you of are what you want.
You stare out the window, mouth pressed into a thin line as he harshly scratches out a simple map of the labyrinth. He glances at you every now and then, to see any subtle reactions you may have. You give none.
“There’s a festival coming up in a week,” Loki says, “that will be the best time for us to break in. Everyone will be drinking and... partaking in the festivities.”
“What’s the festival celebrating?”
He makes a face, “Fertility.”
You snort, a coughing giggle that leaves your body without permission. Loki finds that, unfortunately, he likes that sound. “It’s going to be just short of a massive orgy.”
“And have you ever partaken in those certain festivities?” You waggle your eyebrows at him suggestively.
He makes a face, “Once, at the behest of my brother. I did not like it in the slightest.”
“Is this where you got, what did you say to me? Ample experience in sexual activities?” You take another sip of water, your stomach finally calm enough to not punish you anymore every time you do.
“No.” He looks at you with those red-rimmed eyes. “I have other ways of pulling people into my bed.”
“I bet you do.” You are still intensely uninterested. He fights a pang of annoyance building up in him, but another idea begins to form in his mind.
“Do you know what?” He realizes with sudden elation that he can just take advantage of your substance abuse, “I have an idea for a game.”
You are already suspicious. “What kind of game?”
He gives you the perfectly innocent smile of a viper. “A dangerous game to play, should you accept. Do you still have any more alcohol?”
Ahhh, he’s speaking your language now. “I was actually just about to get some. Why?”
“Fetch it. You’ll see.”
At his behest, you grab your bag and head back down to the street. It’s about a block to the nearest liquor store, where you show a simple piece of paper you’ve magicked to show whatever you want to show. Psychic Paper, some people call it. Surprisingly hard to make, but goes on the market for quite a bit if done right.
You glance down the isles, trying to locate something that will properly fuck him up. Quickly, you collect the amount of booze you hope will keep you knocked out for the week you’ll be stuck with him.
The man at the counter looks down at the copious amounts of liquor with wide eyes. “Planning a party?”
“Just ring me up, Laurens.” You throw a couple of twenties on the counter, noticing the box of condoms on the counter. Without breaking eye contact, you pick one up and stack it neatly on top of the bottles.
“Have fun,” Laurens says.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” You try to sound reasonable as you leave the store, back out into the ugly weather of the city. You walk back over to your apartment, where a really nice sports car is hanging out.
The boy with auburn hair steps out of the driver’s seat when he sees you. “Oh my god, wow! I thought you gave me a fake address.” His eyes are bright and grey, his expression wholly unruffled from last night. He must not have suffered the aftereffects as severely as you did.
You squint at him. “Maybe I did. Maybe this is a coincidence.”
He laughs, “Well then, the universe is in my favor. I’m glad to see you again, I just wanted to know how you were doing.”
“Better than this morning.” You aren’t puking your guts up anymore.
He places one of his hands in his designer jeans. “My friends have a party tonight, wanna come?”
You cock your head, mulling it over. “You got any more of that white stuff?”
“Coke? Yeah, want some?”
You give him a grin, “Let me take these upstairs. I’ll be right back down."
Loki stands in the middle of your apartment, glaring at you when you walk in. He stands tall, shoulders back; hands folded neatly in the front his waist. The dying sun washes his black and green clothing in gold and orange, the edges of his hair creating a halo effect around his head. His expression is carefully guarded, but regal. He looks princely. Beautiful, even.
“So.” His voice is clipped, cold, “To clarify what I just witnessed, you are going to be joining the child waiting for you on the street for another night of insanity.”
“And psychedelics.” You close the door behind you. “Which is the fun part.”
Tilting his head, his eyes rake across your body as though imagining what it felt like for the boy who held you in his arms last night. He takes a step towards you, almost like he’s trying to assert dominance once again. You straighten your back and don’t make any move, bracing yourself for another dose of pain he sees to deal you.
His fingers lightly touch your waist, just above the waistband of your jeans. He looks down on you, his lips so close to your forehead that if you shifted every so slightly, they would touch your skin.
“If it is forgetting the past you want, I could readily provide that.” He offers in a sultry voice, “I could send you to a new plane of pleasure you never knew existed. My magick can touch you in places no other lover could. My mouth on your neck, can you imagine? Marking you, so any other who dares look at you will know that you’ve been with a god.”
You stare ahead, not even sparing a glance for him.
“What do you prefer to call it? Soft, gentle lovemaking? Rough, wild fucking?” You feel the way his tongue swipes across his lips as he pauses for breath. “Would you like for me to bite you? Spank you? Do you enjoy pleasure with pain?”
You finally meet his eyes. “What’s gotten your panties all up in a bunch, God of Chaos and Lies?” You ask, cocking your head so that your mouth aligns with his. Your voice is low, the edges of your mouth wanting to tug up into a sneer, “Does it somehow bother you to see me with others? Does it bother you to know that the boy downstairs bent me over the hood of his car and rutted me until I screamed?”
This is a dangerous game you’re playing. You are already digging your grave, adding sex to the mix will make everything so much worse as soon as shit hits the fan. But there’s that one little part of you that’s been rearing its ugly head lately, the part of you that enjoys balancing on the edge of death, teetering on the line of safety. The part that’s just done with living, throwing yourself into danger and secretly hoping you’ll die.
And, all things considered, this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
“You’re pathetic.” He sounds almost angry. “You, with your power. Why do you stoop so low to find satisfaction? You could have someone worth your time.”
“Someone like you? Are you worth my time?” You hate how highly he thinks himself. You hate how he believes he is above everyone, how that somehow he has more of a right to exist than you merely because he can cast a few spells.
Face twitching at your jab; he refuses to give up. “You should be honored to have me.”
“Are you trying to tell me how to feel now?” You break the spell, moving from him to set down the bag of various inebriants. The car downstairs honks impatiently. “He’s waiting for me.”
“Tell him you won’t be making it,” Loki demands.
You glare at him, silently calculating how to handle this. There are two options, both with wildly different outcomes. You have little doubt that Loki is a skillful lover, he would do all he says to you and more. But the price tag that comes with it, all the hidden fees that accompany him could drag you below the surface. Anything that has to do with Loki Laufeyson is a slippery slope. The fact that he was so keen on you bearing his heir when you first made the deal hasn't slipped your mind. Everything is probably a perfectly fabricated scheme to put hisa baby into your belly.
William, Warren, maybe Malcolm? Whatever his name, he’s safe. He’s looking for a few nights of fun with someone who doesn’t want something long term. Tomorrow, maybe the next day, he’ll find someone else to catch his eye, and the two of you will part ways from a strangely symbiotic relationship. Plus he has that white stuff. Cocaine. That shit fucks you up in ways even alcohol can’t.
“I don’t see any reason to.” You pick out some herbs, setting them into your stone bowl and grinding them into a grainy mess. You put the paste into a cup and begin to boil water.
“Other than that your god tells you to?” His fingers are back at your waist; he’s now holding you from behind. His mouth is on the shell of your ear, his purring sending trembles through your body.
You are no god of mine, you don’t say. You pour the water into the paste cup, stirring it with a spoon and mumbling a spell. Magick birth control. You wouldn’t be here without it. It’s bitter, burning down your throat and creating bubbles in your stomach, sparking throughout your body and down into your uterus. Your gag reflex tries to activate, but you manage to keep the fluid down.
“I’ll be back before tomorrow.” The suicidal part of you wonders how far he’s willing to go to get what he wants.
Loki is above begging. He is above forcing himself upon others. His hands release you, simply watching you leave with those bitter poison eyes. He watches you get into the fancy car without a roof. He watches you give a kiss to the boy who drives it. That boy who probably doesn’t even know the raw power that touches him, the magick that is at his fingertips. The boy sees a girl to fuck when he should be bowing before you.
Loathing. That’s what he feels for you. That’s the disgusting, unfamiliar pressure he feels in his chest as the bright red vehicle drives off with you in it. This is fine; he just has to bide his time. He almost had you convinced; he could sense the way every cell in your body stood still for his touch. He felt the way your muscles melted when he whispered in your ear. You are attracted to him. You need to be given a reason to act on your desires.
He walks over to where he set the orb before, lifting it up into the sunlight. The language is unfamiliar to him; he guesses that it must be a code of some sort. He takes a piece of paper and traces the foreign letters, trying to make sense of the patterns and loops. A clue about where you come from has to do with this, somehow.
His lips are clumsy from drunkenness, hot, needy, as he pulls you into his lap. His phone blinks as text messages pop in, presumably from a friend asking where he is. He ignores them. So do you.
Instead of going to the party, he and you decided that it would be better to pull off into a secluded area and enjoy each other without the hassle of other people. It was mostly your idea; you aren’t a big party fan. You see them as an unfortunate necessity for meeting people who are willing to sleep with you.
You find out from the buzzing phone that his name is Harry Osborn. You were way off, but you doubt he would notice you murmuring a different name. You think you did when the two of you were going at it before. It’s not that kind of relationship.
His hands find your bra, pulling it off of you with the confidence of a conquistador, his tongue immediately going for your nipples. You moan, more for show than anything else, and arch your back. Swearing under your breath as your head bumps into the windshield, you push your fingers through his auburn hair to mess up that perfect arrangement.
That’s all you are good for. Destroying anything perfect in the universe.
You kiss Harry hard enough to hurt, making whimpering sounds to drown out the voices.
You return, true to your word, before morning.
“Did you enjoy it?” Loki Laufeyson doesn’t sound angry, but mildly curious.
“Yes.” You respond automatically, throwing yourself on the bed, “Pass me the whiskey.”
“Not until we go over the plans for the heist. We only have a few more days to plan, and you are not going to spend them in a drunken stupor.” He sounds like he is explaining to a toddler that they can’t have ten cookies. You grit your teeth and say nothing.
Loki comes and sits by you, holding up a map of the palace. “Do you have a plan?”
Your head pounds, your voice sounds like you’ve swallowed needles and your throat is shredded, “We teleport directly in front of the vault. You let us in. We part as unlikely friends, never to see each other again.”
He hums in thought. “Would you consider coming with me back to Jotunheim?”
“Probably not. Why.”
“I will admit, witch, you have a considerable amount of power. It intrigues me. To have someone like you fighting for their side, well, I may not have to be in every place at once. Good help is so hard to find these days, don’t you know.” He lays down, facing you with that stupidly handsome face, “Imagine what you can accomplish on my side. You need for revenge, say the word, and I will smite them.”
And for just the breadth of a second, you’re tempted to do just that. Say it. Say the name that causes you to convulse with anger, tell him what you’ve been seething about for years upon years. Maybe even add your own name too, you were never good enough to save those you cared about. Maybe you’ll start crying, wouldn’t that be stupid? Crying in front of the God of Chaos? There are thousands of reactions you could get from him. None of them seem appealing at the moment.
You turn your back on him, thinking. Just thinking about it makes you want to hurt someone. Yourself, maybe. And the only other person in the room; Loki.
You shift back so that you face him once more, then kiss him. Hard. Mercilessly. You are going to harm him in every way possible, and you are going to enjoy every second of it. Your nipples harden against him. Breaking the kiss for just a second, you toss away your shirt and bra, kneeling in front of his laying body, panting like an animal.
He sits up hastily, shock carefully swept under the rug and putting up a front of impartial assuredness. His eyes seem to flicker almost green, shifting to a lagoon blue that warms with the first hints of sunrise. “Is that a yes to my preposition?” He tries not to sound out of breath.
“No. It's a yes for tonight.” You kiss him again.
I did say fast burn... This is the fastest burn I can create. Sorry? You and Loki and going to do the do pretty hard in the next chapter. Some new revelations about the past are on their way as well, so be prepared!
Anyway, thank you all for your kudos and comments! I thrive on positive reinforcement.
His lips aren’t hot.
That’s the first thing you notice while pushing your tongue into his mouth. Loki’s body is significantly colder than your own, like you’re kissing a porcelain doll. You throw a leg over his lap, moving so that you straddle his waist, settling down over a half hard erection.
He hisses as you begin to grind on those tight leather pants. You hadn’t bothered throwing back on the ruined underwear from your previous outing, so your bare clit is already singing at the friction. His hands are braced at his sides; his head tilted back as he watches you with eyes that are losing their glaze as he recollects himself. You place your hands on either side of his neck, kissing him once more.
“Whore,” He states, eyebrows turning down. He disgusts himself for wanting you so badly. Wishing to take out some of his unbridled aggression on you, he grips your hips with his hands and tries to turn you around so he can fuck you like the bitch you are. But those hands you had placed around his throat close together, as though you were preparing for this.
“So what does that make you?” You lean to his ear, breathing your words like a sacred spell. Thumbs are stroking his adam's apple as his eyes widen in shock at your audacity, even more so about how he likes it.
Loki Laufeyson doesn’t kneel, and he doesn’t beg. This may not be the first time he’s been at the mercy of someone, but it is the first time he’s capable of leaving should he please. And he doesn’t. He is not sure he understands why he doesn’t merely rip your too disrespectful hands off you, except that he rather enjoys this sensation of perching on the precipice of danger. His erection digs in between your legs.
You know. You know with that sly smile as you nip the edge of his jawline, with the way you bite the shell of his ear. “If you don’t want it, I can always leave and find it somewhere else.” Your voice is enticing, confident, and full of promise. He looks into your pupil-blown eyes, notices how you still smell like that other boy’s cologne, and with the swipe of a finger, feels how wet you are for him. How hurting him gets you off. It’s the right kind of distastefulness that pumps blood into his cock.
“You better make this good, witch,” Loki rasps.
You remove your hands from your neck and shove him down into the mattress. Savage is the word to describe you, Loki decides, as you methodically tear at his shirt. The lights lining the street bleed through the closed window, washing your face in blues and yellows. The shadows make your cheeks gaunt, the devilish glimmer in your eyes give him a cause to almost be worried.
He is a god, he reassures himself. What can you do to hurt him?
You bite down at the flesh where his neck meets his shoulder, licking at the wound you make almost lovingly. The sting the night air brings when you separate from the mark causes him to snarl with delight. A hand pins him down at his throat, you other hand reaching from under your pillow to retrieve a sacred athame. As the carved runes in the metal glimmer in the moonlight, a memory tugs in the back of Loki’s mind. He’s seen it somewhere before. However, his mind fails him when you drag the tip harmlessly down the center of the chest.
“What are you going to do with that?” He murmurs.
“Shhhh,” You hush softly, raising your body off his waist to rake the razor edge down the front of his pants. Whatever is in the knife is beyond the run of the mill Midgardian metal, because it cuts open the front of his leathers. He feels the blade on the edge of his cock, the danger of the dear appendage being removed almost causes him to push you off him, even as you leave down to capture his mouth with yours once again.
“Scared, my lord?” You lick the edges of his lips, trying to tone down your own amused sneer but failing.
Yes, he decides, he most certainly hates you. Still, the way you moan when you throw your head back, the way you grind against his throbbing cock, the way you brace your hands on his shoulders keeps him from ending you. The way the light from the sunless dawn catches your hair, how your skin almost glows with the powers you possess. There’s no denying that you are pleasing to the eye, however infuriating you may be.
He doesn’t dignify your pathetic jab with a response, instead gripping your hips and sending you the most chilling glare that would put anyone else into cardiac arrest. It just turns you on more. He’s not had many lovers who wanted to dominate him as so thoroughly as you, but as he digs his fingers into your flesh while you attack his mouth with yours, he ponders. Perhaps there is a way to subtly condition you to submit to him, perhaps…
With that thought, he pulls at your hips when you break the kiss, urging your body forward, so the sweet wet cunt between your thighs hovers over his mouth. His cold told lashes out for a taste, his arms locking around your waist to keep his mouth steadily against your pussy. You watch him almost passively before closing your eyes and facing the ceiling, rocking back and forth. Your heavy breathing is the only sign that his ministrations bring pleasure, as well as the rhythmic grinding of your hips faltering into an unsteady frenzy.
And you cum. You cum because of him; you cum because of his silver tongue that has not failed him yet. Your cunt clenches and unclenches, your hot cum pouring from your slit. He sits suddenly, throwing your body back onto the mattress, skin still trembling from an orgasm.
“Did your boy bring you over the edge as fast as I?” He snarls at you, spreading your legs so he can look at the glistening mess he’s made between them.
Even when barely functioning after that sweet orgasm, you still have to clap that punk in his place. “How do you know I wasn’t thinking of him? Replacing your face with his?” You run a finger up your slit, ghostly shivers of your orgasm sparking through your body. “Thinking about how good he was, about his own tongue that made me cum over and over and over again. Oh,” you moan as obnoxiously as you can, exaggerating a hip buck, “Harry, Harry, baby, you make me so wet!”
Oh, you’ve pissed him off. He looks far more livid than you’ve ever seen him, and you laugh, laugh, with enticement. The audacity. The utter, and repulsive-
You pull him close and kiss him, no tongue, just the severe press of lips against each other so hard he feels your teeth. Using your feet, you kick the rest of his pants off his legs to free his movement. You grasp blindly for his cock, breaking the kiss so that you can light it up with your slick cunt, wrapping your legs around his waist to encourage him to move inside you.
“That’s it.” You gasp, arching your back, “Fuck. You make me so tight.”
He hates you. He hates how your body curves into his, hates the way you whimper when he rolls his hips. He detests your taste, the sweet nectar that still lingers on his lips, he abhors the way your nipples press hard into his skin. Loathes your delicious moans. Despises your hot cunt. You nauseate him.
He spills into your slit, right after your own orgasm. His load is significant, he decides it’s because it’s been a while since he's fucked. It’s not you. You don’t do this to him.
You push him off of you, rolling over and stealing all the blankets. He stares at you, too surprised to even feel anger about how quickly you dismissed him after sex. Most people- most people want reassurance that he (he almost throws up in his mouth) cares. If only you weren’t such a self-destructive back talking quim, he might enjoy keeping you around.
If only. He goes over the deal in his head over and over again as the sun rises, staring out the window. In typical fashion, the bargain he made forbade the two of you from harming each other physically without the other party’s consent.
He can’t outright kill you.
But oh, how he wants to.
Only a few more days, he tells himself again and again. Just a few more days. He crawls back over your body, his long since discarded clothes lay in various places as a reminder of what he’s done. Lowering himself over you, he kisses your sweaty forehead, then checks your womb. Nothing. Not that it means much at this stage, but he still feels a smidgen of disappointment. He tests your mind. Any less conscious and you would be dead.
“You are a loathsome creature, witch.” He says out loud to you, standing naked in this hellish home you’ve crafted for yourself. “I will find out who you are. And I will make you beg on your knees for me.”
Saying those things to you, even while you are dead asleep help him grasp some semblance of self-respect. He eyes the orb where you last left it, the hollow grooves casting oddly shaped shadows into the ground.
He takes it and holds it up to the light.
You wake, feeling almost dead to the world. You head pounds with a hangover from Hel, your body shaking with withdrawal from whatever Harry gave you last night. You shift away from the onslaught of sunlight streaming in through the windows, that spot in your pussy oozing with a level of relaxation you haven’t felt in awhile. Mm, you were well and meticulously fucked last night.
You open your eyes and see Loki, naked, staring at your orb just as intensely as before.
You sit up so fast something in your neck snaps. He sees your sudden movement and arches his eyes at you, “Don’t worry, everything we did was consensual. You asked for it, I delivered.”
Slowly the memories were returning. Ugh, that is it. No more cocaine while Loki is here, you can’t be held responsible for your actions while you are on that stuff. You lay back down and pull your covers over your head to block the rest of the world out.
“I’m curious, witch.” The makeshift bed shifts as he sits beside you, his arm draping over your lump shape in the blankets.
“No.” You don’t feel like speaking or looking or just acknowledging his presence at the moment.
“That ornament you traded those neatly handwritten manuscripts to that man for. Yes, I was watching you, don’t act all huffy. What exactly is its function?” He may as well try to ask, not like he has anything else to do.
You make a sound that was halfway between a grunt and a scream. He gets the message: fuck off. He leaves you to your slumber, staring at the other shelves of books along the walls.
Two more days.
Two more days.
Oh, ancients, he isn’t going to make it, is he?
It's midnight and I'm dead.
Here. Have this. I'm sorry I haven't been posting more... Just stuff and reasons that I'm sure everyone experiences.
Anyway as I'm sure you've gathered, I'm 10000% pro Sub Loki. So yes. Enjoy the shameless porn before we get back to the sorry excuse of a plot I have in store.
Killing is too good for you.
No, he wants you to worship him. And not the pathetic, praying kind of worship that the Midgardians barely do once a week. He wants ferver. Desperation. He wants your belly swollen with his baby.
You kneel in front of your altar, face completely blank. You are meditating, trying to clear your mind of all the shit that builds up within you. It never works. You always try. Quickly giving up, you mumble a request for the four quarters to bless your alter. The entities on this planet aren’t your patron spirits, but it never hurts to show respect for the place you stay at.
He watches every twitch of your hand. The things your eyes focus on first when you walk into the room, namely how you try your goddamn best to ignore him at every turn. He’s taken to setting your alcohol bottles next to him, so when you get home, you have to at least give him a nod before poisoning your liver.
Unlike Thor, you don’t drink to be social. You have no friends to speak of. The heavy binge drinking you allow yourself to do is to forget something. Occasionally he thinks he’ll see it in your eyes, the distant calamity that drives you to this self-destructing behavior. Then you’ll take another swig, and it will be gone.
He allows himself a full day to sort out his feelings about sex. Or, more specifically, his feelings about sex with you. He’s decided that although he hates you explicitly, the games the two of you are playing is entertaining. Well, infuriating, but the closest thing to entertainment since he walked into this cesspool city.
He’s decided he wants more.
You don’t protest when he crawls up to you in the night, curving his body around yours, pressing a kiss on the back of your neck. You don’t say anything when his arm slides around your waist, teasing the elastic of your underwear. Your breathing shallows, bending at the waist to grind into his erection.
“Say you want it,” He murmurs in your ear, “Tell me you want me to fuck you raw.”
You hum, refusing to budge on your stance as the alpha. “Are you sure this shouldn’t be the other way ‘round?” Removing his hand from your waist, you wriggle around to face him. “Because it seems like you are the one who wants to be fucked raw.”
Gritting his teeth, he snarls, “You will do as I say. Beg.”
“No.” You palm his crotch, bulging beneath his undergarments. “If begging is your thing, then you can do it yourself.”
“Whore,” Loki mutters, kissing you hard on the mouth. “You are disgusting.” It feels better to say that out loud when you can hear.
“Then why are you so hard for me?” You whisper with a level of allure he cannot comprehend. How is it that you are so horrendously infuriating yet he wants those hands wrapped around his cock? Why does he want you to whisper those words of degradation to him as though he is nothing?
You answer for him, leg wrapping around his waist and straddling his body. “This what you want.”
“Liar.” He rasps, hands on your legs, holding you in place. The dagger presses into his skin, drawing blood.
“Then push me off. Tell me that you don’t want this. Tell me,” you lean down and lick the rust red from his wound, “to stop.”
He says nothing.
You buck once over his crotch; he hisses with pleasure. “You need subjugation, yes, but not the way you claim. You have been abused by people so much that you still crave to be beaten like a dog. No matter how high and mighty as you think you are.” You pull out your athame, trailing to blade down his bare chest while he watches. “ You, Loki, Son of Laufey, the Silvertongued God of Lies, Trickery, and Chaos, wish to submit to someone just as desperately as you say you want dominance over all.”
“Shut your mouth, witch.” He breathes heavily, glaring at you with those almost green eyes.
“Say it. Tell me to stop, tell me to get off of you.” You challenge, cutting another wound into his flesh. “Tell me that you don’t love it when I hurt you.”
He glares at you, hatred burning his chest, hating to give you the satisfaction of winning. Your flesh sings for him, his cock throbbing against your clothed cunt. You stomach is bare, and he imagines it filled to the brim with his seed. He reassures himself that this is just to put his child into your womb, though the sick part of him whispers that you are right: this is what he wants, to be defiled by someone beneath him. You are repulsive, and he loves it.
He is never going to admit it out loud.
You moan softly, grinding against his cock, knife glinting in the night. “Fuck, oh, I remember your cock sliding in and out of me. So hard, so wet with my slick.”
Every thrum of his chest pounds in his erection painfully as you rock back and forth.
“You bucked your hips into me, remember? You wanted it.” You set the knife aside, sliding onto your stomach, nipping at his skin. “There we go. Hands to yourself, godling, unless you want me to stop.”
He complies without even thinking. Hands to his sides, sitting up so he can watch you with rapt and lustful eyes. You pull down his undergarments, looking up at him with that despicable smirk. His cock springs free. That filthy tongue lashes out and swipes across his tip, precum dripping down its side.
Taking his cock into your mouth, you begin to suck just the head, running your tongue around the tip. His lungs vanish as you release him from your mouth and kiss it with those chapped lips, the edges of your teeth reminding him that this is not a position of servitude. His spine fails him as you deepthroat his cock, your jaw closing almost too tight to be comfortable.
Nails dig into his sides, your hands bracing on his hips to keep the both of you steady. At the sharpness, he bucks into you. You reduce him to this simpering, hot, mess of a god. He has never once allowed himself to feel so helpless. He hates it; he hates that he loves it.
You pull back, holding his erection in place so you can lick from the underside of base to tip, suck at the skin between the hilt and balls, fuck him with your mouth and the edges of your teeth to remind him that you’re the one calling the shots.
White hot sperm pours into your mouth when he cums. You swallow it, the filthy whore you are, and move up to kiss him, shoving your tongue into his mouth to remind him how equally dirty he is. The salt from his seed tastes bitter on his own lips.
You push him back down on the mattress, hands on either shoulder. “Tell me you hate me,” You breathe against his mouth, your voice low and excited. “Tell me how much you despise me. I know you do, say it.”
Those words carve something in his chest, something he didn’t think he had. “You are a repulsive creature, witch.”
Reddish crescents form on his shoulders as you dig your nails into his flesh. You stand, letting off your pants and underwear so you could grind on him skin on skin. “Do that thing with your mouth again. Make me cum, Liesmith; it’s only fair.” Your fingers come down again on his neck. “Touch me.”
He brings his index finger up to touch your clit, rubbing in slow, gentle circles, bringing his other hand up for support. He dips two fingers into your wanting cunt, pumping in and out of your wet. “Keep going, Liesmith. That’s it.” You move your hips to add the friction, not even bothering to meet his eyes, not even when you cum.
Left with a second erection, he watches you, almost pouting, as you curl up into a ball and sleep. Not even bothering to spare him a second glance. A few lovers ago he might have been thankful for the lack of needy cuddles, but with you… It’s disconcerting. A reminder oft how unnecessary he is to you.
He falls asleep, the exhausted, near-death kind of sleep he is almost a stranger to, refusing even to try to beg for attention and staying on his side.
When he wakes, he sees you tuck a small red vial on a chain underneath your clothes. You are dressed in that black battle uniform, axe strapped to your back. “Good morning, princess. Ready to play?”
The sky clouds, as though mourning for you before you even leave. It’s now or never. He stands, summoning his own clothes and slipping them on. You move the mattress, tipping it onto its side against the wall so you can draw your runes on the floor. You take your athame and begin carving the symbols onto the floor, asking that the Four Quarters to bless and purify the space.
“Now, for the disguise, as I was promised?” He arches his eyebrows at you when you look up from your alter.
You walk over to the ready-made potion on one of your shelves, licking your fingers and dipping them into the jar. Out comes a sweet smelling, glowing liquid that you smear across his face without warning. You spit into the rest of the concoction and hand him the jar. “Apply every two to three hours.”
“Lovely.” He comments, tucking it into his jacket.
You pull out the wand and close your eyes, feeling the buildup of power within you. The blood infused with Asgardian magick you licked off Loki’s body flows inside you, boosting your abilities and giving you easier access to the wand. You channel it carefully, thinking of the destination, and one vomit-inducing wormhole later, you stand in the front of the Asgardian Vault.
“Astounding. You actually did it.” Loki gazes at the giant safe, looking up and down the ends of the hallways as though searching for some sort of trick. He turns back to you and actually smiles, a joyful kind of smile that you wish to cut off his face.
“Don’t look at me like that,” You snap, “Open the goddamn door.” Nerves are fritzing through every cell; you are so close. So close.
“Patience, they don’t know I’m here.” He opens the door with a simple spell. “I see security hasn’t gone up a smidgen. Can count on Thor for being a failure as always.”
You enter, eyes wildly scanning around. Against his instinct, he follows you into the hall of the vault. You ignore him, of course, searching almost rabidly for something specific.
“They have added a few things here and there, interesting.” He comments, hoping to receive some kind of acknowledgment from you.
You point into a chamber, “There.” It’s dark but dry. Clean. This is a new section, recently built. Ah, so you are looking for a recent addition to Asgard’s weapon selection, that makes sense.
He steps inside, turning around to look at you. Something is distinctly wrong. You stand just outside, in the hall, hands in your pockets, dead eyes staring back at him as if he’s nothing to you. Almost smug. Anger causes your magick to glow within your veins. And then you smile, as though finally, finally something good has happened in your life. “A deal’s a deal.” You say, your voice loud and firm.
You aren’t talking to him.
And the trap has sprung before he has a chance to react, a force field of unimaginable power separating you from his wrath. He bangs his fist against the fizzing energy, yelling profanities that would have made his mother have him whipped. His hands burn, the scent of charring flesh sickening his stomach.
Thor steps up next to you, looking into the jail cell with eyes of reluctance. He turns to you, speaking something that over the dull roar of the machinery trapping him, he can’t hear. Of course. Thor. Loki gnashes his teeth so hard together they almost break. You bitch, you whore, you fucking cunt, he’ll kill you, that womb be damned, he’ll remove your limbs one by one and rip open your intestines.
He will have his time. And he will enjoy it.
Recent addition! Plot twist! Intrigue! Please enjoy.
Gosh, this is fun to write. I hope you all enjoy reading. Thank you as always for your kudos and comments, they are always appreciated beyond belief.
“What do you mean, I can’t have the fucking Soul Stone?” You spit, your voice becoming more and more loud with every word.
Thor at least has the decency to fear you. “That wasn’t the original deal-”
“Yes, it was,” You snap, “Do you think because your the king of Ass-gard that you are allowed to back out of your deals? Do you think that just because you have a special hammer, that gives you permission to be a fucking-”
“Enough, Witch.” One of his guards steps forward, but Thor holds up his hand.
“The Soul Stone was stolen mere days ago, by mercenaries,” Thor admits, “And I apologize for it. Greatly. You can look at some of the other-”
“AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO TELL ME.” You’re shouting, rage exploding through you. Everyone in a ten-foot radius of you is shoved backwards, your eyes aglow with an ancient power. “YOU DID NOT WONDER, THAT, PERHAPS, I WOULD NOT BE PLEASED WITH THIS INFORMATION SO LATE IN THE GAME.”
Thor stands his ground, “We needed Loki locked up more than we needed you to be happy.”
“ You goddamn son of a fucking -” You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Okay, okay, no need to go off the rails. This is a small, minor inconvenience. Small minor inconvenience. You can take care of this. “Excuse me, Thor. I am not exactly in a fabulous place right now.” You pace towards what looks like to be the Infinity Gauntlet, though you know for certain it is a fake. The guards watch you with wary eyes.
“I am truly sorry,” Thor says, as though that makes the slightest bit of a difference. “Stay for a few days, please. It’s the least we can do for this feat you have managed. We can discuss retrieving another weapon for you.”
“Sure. Sure, whatever. I want a private bath. And a fuck ton of whatever kind of hard liquor you have.”
And so you say “ sure” again because you can’t say fuck you. You rub your serpent's mark, anger pouring in your heart.
And that’s how you end up on Asgard.
Your room is magnificent, unlike anything you have ever allowed yourself before. You hate everything about it. A bed you can safely toss and turn around due to your horrible nightmares. A stone wall you can punch physically and not destroy in your fits of anger. The room itself is big enough to train your body and mind, and most things are already nailed to the floor at your insistence in case of… accidents. And oh, look, a balcony you can jump off of should you choose to end it all. You check over the edge, and yeah. That fall will definitely kill you. Nice.
Food arrives by servants, a feast of calories that’s so wasteful you want to vomit just by looking at it, but you eat. Every goddamn bite. For those who can’t, and for those who won’t ever again.
At least the booze is good. True to its name, it actually burns when you swallow like you’re drinking magma. It’s a welcome distraction from the shitstorm you just put yourself in.
Loki fucking Laufeyson, captured by your dirty hands.
Someone would be rolling in their grave. Especially since you- goddamn it. Especially since you fucked him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Drink, sleep, fuck to forget. He was ready and practically begging for you to wring his perfect little neck.
And it was good. There was nothing wrong with the sex itself. Your insides still have a lingering soreness from his cock that you rode like a joystick. You jump on the bed, your mind on the way his pants came out in rasps after you strangled him. The spot between your legs becomes damp when you remember how he gripped your waist for dear life.
Before you realize it, you are touching yourself. Touching yourself while thinking of him. You should feel vile about masturbating to that killer, yet for whatever reason, you don’t. Especially with the way you think of him, all tied up and whimpering for you. Wrist bound over his head so he can’t touch you with those murderer’s hands. You’ll carve your name into his chest and lick up the blood from the cuts.
Your cunt is already slick with anticipation as you imagine him keening towards you, begging you to hurt him just a little bit more. Rubbing gentle circles around your clit sets you off as you think of his open mouth, tongue out to catch any bit of cum that you give him.
You pant with relief and exhaustion, rolling yourself under the covers to try and catch some sleep.
The next day Thor sends someone to fetch you. FETCH. Like you are somehow becoming his dog, to call and send away as he pleases. Hands cackling with energy, you step firmly into his throne room where he and that other blond guy are chatting up a storm.
“You wanted to see me?” You ask through gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes.” Thor shifts, at least looking slightly uncomfortable. “Loki has refused to speak to anyone.”
“Great. Thanks for keeping me updated. And by ‘thanks for keeping me updated,’ I mean, sire, that I don’t give a flying fuck.” It is so hard to pretend like you don’t despise him, even more so than Loki. Thor’s face is so similar to Odin’s. So similar to the face that screwed your people over in the ass. It is terribly difficult to decide who you hate more.
“He had a scepter once, infused with one of the infinity stones you seek. Do you remember?” Thor asks, “I know they have it on Midgard somewhere. Loki supposedly can sense its power, if he doesn’t have it already.”
“Why are you telling me this.” It can’t be out of the goodness of his heart.
“His hideout. He’s been staying somewhere for the past many years, a place that not even Heimdall can see. If you find it, you may also find the scepter. And I can help you retrieve it.” Thor gives you a sad smile. “I truly am sorry we had to omit some things in our deal.” He steps out to the window, his lips thin in thought. Before you have a chance to duck out and escape, he adds, “I am not my father. Every day without him burns, it is true. However, I am learning some things about him I wish I never had to know. Things that he did that are forever etched in our history.” He turns towards you, giving you a hesitant smile. “I know some things can’t be forgiven, but perhaps I can make it up to you.”
You resist rolling your eyes at his pretty words, instead focusing on those biceps bulging from his armor. “Yes, perhaps you can.” You return his smile, colder and more calculated. “Thank you.”
“Thor says you have vital information.” You stand in front of him, arms crossed, as though you did not betray him so terribly. You’ve recently bathed, your skin scrubbed within an inch of its life. Asgardian clothes on your body as though you are one of them. How easily you seem to have forgotten him, what he can do to you. “And that, apparently, you only wish to speak with me.”
“I’ve been thinking about our deal.” Loki sits on the floor, head against the wall. “Congratulations are in order, I believe. You’ve fooled the Liesmith himself to walk right into his cage.”
You open a bottle of ink, tracing a silence spell on the wall to keep prying ears from hearing your conversation. “Tell me about your scepter.”
“Is that what my brother promised you, witch?” Loki asks, the epitome of calm. “Power? A place by his side? Is that why you refused my own offer?”
“You lost it somewhere on Midgard,” You remember debating about stealing it, but that would have opened a bucketful of worms, and you didn’t want to risk. And you had Thor’s promise of the Soul Stone, so it didn’t seem to matter.
“What’s wrong? Did he not hold his part of the bargain?” This brings him some semblance of joy, to know that you were also double-crossed.
You stare at him for a second, then decide aloud, “This was a mistake.” You stand, turning to leave the room. Loki watches you go spitefully, just now realizing that he hadn’t even thought to harm you in any way.
You return a day later; your facial expression firmly turned down.
“What’s wrong?” He mocks, “Everything not going according to plan?”
The orb you bought is in your hands. You toss it into the air, then catch it once more. “I never once told you how much I hate you, did I?” You set it down on the table, pulling out your ink bottle and opening the lid. “You were just laying it down all over me, remember? I’m repulsive; I disgust you?” You dip your finger into the bottle and begin to write something on the desk. “I thought I should let you know that it goes both ways. That before you thought to despise me, I loathed every breath you took. Every time I look at you, I want to kill you. I had to put myself in a drunken stupor to keep from letting it show.” Blank ink splatters on the marble floor, sizzling into the stone.
“So why did you fuck me?” He asks, not moving to see what you are doing.
You pause, deliberating on your response, before saying, “Good question.”
Loki doesn’t allow himself to feel the pain each word you speak causes him. He cocks his head, putting up a show of indifference, and saying, “What brought this on, witch? Did I hurt your boyfriend? Is that why you dislike me?”
You look up. Emotionless. Void. And you walk out, leaving the orb and the ink behind on the table.
He stands, walking over to where you were working, and sees a cipher for the code upon the sphere. Without anything else to do in this ridiculous cell, he quickly goes to work shifting the gears on the outside to line up just correctly as you instructed. It takes him until late, long after his nightly meal comes before he manages to get all the pieces in just the right place.
It clicks open. A hologram appears above one of the halves. People are screaming, running, hiding. A figure stands above them, a figure dressed in green with glowing blue eyes. Loki suddenly feels sick, shivering with the memories of the torture he once endured.
“Lovely day for you all to die, isn’t it?” Hologram Loki says pleasantly.
Creatures pour from the surrounding ships. Animals of darkness from a pocket in reality, who know nothing but how to consume the matter around them. Slobbering masses of darkness and teeth, overwhelming the population who had no time to prepare. Anyone directly in the street is quickly eaten.
Hologram Loki laughs and laughs at the terror around him. In the corner, a little girl is in the street, crouched over a shredded corpse of an adult. An innocence so quickly destroyed within moments. Her bright dress unknowingly attracts the creatures, easily spotting her against the carnage of the streets. She turns to where the hologram is taping, her face wet with blood and tears.
You hold your hands over your ears and scream. You power bursts forth, as though a bomb went off inside you, and the hologram cuts off. Strange letters of distress, a request for aid. And the Holo begins again. The him from Before. Blue-eyed and sick. Beasts of an underworld. You. Sobbing. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. He turns it off, not even remembering how many times he has watched it, and lays down.
The memories of being held under the water's surface, fighting for breath, trying his damnedest not to let something, someone know that he is suffering. He falls asleep on his bed, a real bed, better than the one you had.
He wakes to find you sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the table from him. Your muddy boots are on the table, specks of dirt screaming against the immaculate white. You play with a knife in your hands, twisting it around while watching him passively. He waits for you to fill the silence, to snap at him, to scream at him, to hurt him, but you do nothing. That’s somehow worse than everything else.
“Good morning.” He tries to get a reaction from you, sitting up in his cell. Bitterness swells in his throat.
The only reaction you give to the confirmation is tilting your head back slightly. Breakfast for two is on the table, a large bottle of Elven Firewater already half drained by your feet.
Your shirt would be so easy to strip off by eager hands, he thinks, then curses himself. You haven’t so easily gotten under his skin; he won’t allow himself to fantasize about you. You deserve to die by his blades for this betrayal.
“So.” He allows himself to speak, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Hello! I hope that plot twist was able to knock at least of a few of you off your butts. Once again, thank you for your kudos and comments! As always, they are deeply appreciated.
Entirely unruffled, you take a roll and shove part of it into your mouth. “You got it made in this room, I’ll admit. Food from a fancy cook, twice a day. Booze if you want. Fresh clothes. Someone to wash your sheets once a week. Perhaps I should invest in mass genocide to have this excellent treatment, too.”
He sits in front of you, a bright crimson sign painted on the wall, a candle burning on the floor near it, several herbs laid out in an intricate pattern. You’ve been busy while he slept. The runes keep the sounds from leaving the room, which means you want a private audience with him. Interesting.
He pours himself a glass of wine, which at first he is a little off put by the alcohol so early in the morning before remembering who he is dealing with. He takes a sip, then takes every ounce of self-control he has not to cough at the burning liquid sliding down his throat. He swallows, loudly, and schools his facial expression into a carefree glare. A challenge.
You set your knife down on the table, pick up your own goblet that is filled to the brim, and down it within seconds. You slam the metal cup down and arch your eyebrows at him. “So. Liesmith. I have a business proposition for you.”
“Is that so?” The audacity you possess is astounding.
“I hear that you left your scepter on Terra, Midgard, whatever. And that it has one of those fancy ‘Infinity Stones,’ which gives it its power.” You’re already pouring yourself another goblet of wine. “Help me find it.”
He leans back, studying your face carefully. “Ah. My brother did not help you as promised, did he?” He reaches over and snags your wrist, the one with his mark. He holds it up to the light, admiring the detail he put into the serpent.
“This wasn’t a normal burn, you know.” The urge to brag about his craftsmanship comes with seeing it once more. “Frostbite. I froze the part of your skin until it was terribly damaged.”
“I can have it removed.” You don’t attempt to pull your hand back. You watch him with those carefully cold eyes and that twitching, beautiful mouth.
He kisses it to gauge your reaction. You make none, so he lets you go. “You aren’t any fun today, are you?”
“What would make it worth your time?” You say instead because you are afraid. Afraid that if he kisses you again, you’ll have him right here on this table for anyone to see. You’ll make him lick at your cunt until you cum, and he’ll be begging, begging you to hurt him a little more.
“I am afraid that since our last deal, my rates have gone up. The hazards of dealing with witches, don’t you know. They stab you so easily in the back.” He smiles at you, no joy in his gaze.
“What do you want?” You don’t want to know.
“Your baby.” He leaves no room for arguments, no ifs ands or buts.
You make no move, make no facial expression to express your disdain. You stand up, booze in hand, taking another roll and shoving it into your mouth. “Bye.” Your mouth is full, and you turn to leave.
He watches you go, lips pressed into a thin line. Something inside him stirs unpleasantly.
Thor is delighted to spar with you.
You see him practicing while staring listlessly over your balcony. The blond man does not wield his hammer as he hits wooden targets with beautiful violence, instead opting for a sword. Without much thought, you haul yourself over the edge and haphazardly climb down the side of the wall. You land with as much grace as someone with alcohol instead of blood running through their veins. Though you think you are significantly stealthy, Thor is already facing you with a bewildered look on his face.
“My lady.” He nods in your direction, eyebrows furrowed. “Can I be of service to you?”
“Highness,” You greet back, “Hello. My hands have been itching for a fight six months now. You know Midgardians, usually so breakable. Would you mind terribly if I join you?”
He glances at you up and down and tosses his weapon away. “Very well. Hand to hand?”
You smile, nod your assent, and begin. He’s strong, stronger than you could ever hope to be. You have to harness your speed and mind, dodging his attacks and looking for an opening. You see the punch coming, you see it aimed for your stomach, and instead of only stepping back and tilting, you let it get you in the stomach.
Everything goes black, you feel any kind of oxygen molecule in your lungs flee as an unstoppable force nearly launches your guts out your back. Pain is your reality, and everything else fades into blissful nothingness. You are nothing, you think nothing, you hear nothing. Blood tangs your mouth. You may vomit once your body isn’t utterly paralyzed.
“My lady?” You hear something far away call for your name.
“That’s me,” You wheeze, your vision coming back so hard everything is too much, too bright.
“Do you need me to call you a medic?” He cradles you in his arms. When did that happen? His hair is golden in the sunlight, sickeningly perfect to look at.
You run your tongue over your teeth, feeling thoroughly lucky to have them all there. “I’m fine.” Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
“I forget, sometimes, how not everyone is as sturdy as an Asgardian.” He admits, patting your knee.
“You are telling me,” deep breath, your lungs have lost a lot of air capacity, “that even an Asgardian can take that and walk away fine?”
“Perhaps not.” His mouth twitches upward into a smile. “I have a larger than average amount of strength.”
I hope that’s not the only larger-than-average thing you have. “You absolutely do.” You hope you aren’t laying it on too thick, but Thor isn’t what you would call intellectually gifted. He puffs up slightly at your words, his smile that of a puppy. How sweet, you think, almost distastefully. You feel a loathing for kind people, the reasons for which you don’t quite understand.
Someone coughs. The two of you glance up quickly to see a chambermaid fiddling with the folds of her dress. “Your Highness…” She glances are you, adding hastily, “my lady.”
“Yes, what is it?” Thor asks, off-put.
She looks at you, sideways, bewildered by something that led her to this encounter. “The guards say that Loki has become very volatile and we fear nothing will calm him down.”
You realize that they are both looking at you, an expectation on both of their faces. You pinch your side in an attempt to make yourself sober. “Is there something you would like me to do about it?” Oh, no. No no no no no. They are not turning you into a nursemaid for the rambunctious psychopath.
Thor looks over at you, apologetic. “My lady, would you be so inclined?”
You do your best not to look as though you just swallowed curdled milk. Thor’s attachment to his brother, even after all of his betrayals, is baffling. If the bastard were your family, you would have removed his limbs long ago. But you put on a smile, blood probably staining your teeth from the punch a few moments ago. The way Loki had looked at his brother when you first locked him into the cage… You could work with that. “Would you care to come with me, your highness?”
Thor looks a little worried by your proposition, taking a moment to mull it over. “I’m not sure that my brother would be so happy to see me.”
You decide not to push it. “Very well, sire. I’ll take my leave of you, then.” You bow slightly, bending only your waist.
“My lady,” Thor calls after you before you leave his sight. “Please, won’t you join us in the hall for dinner tonight?”
Your lips twitch upwards of their own volition. “An invite from the king? I dare not refuse it.”
The walk back to Loki’s cell is long, far to long for you to be alone with your own thoughts. You taste the air, feeling the pulsing energy pound through the ground of this world. Asgard is something made entirely of some ancient power, it tingles in your fingertips as you swing your arms, as though rubbing against carpet to shock yourself.
People stare at you as you pass, open and without shame. Whispers run through the court like jackrabbits, spreading and breeding and growing into something barely recognizable. A witch, a goddess, an ancient being beyond their scope of understanding. You kill young men and bathe in their blood for your everlasting beauty. Even Loki, the Liesmith, has fallen to your guiles.
Ridiculous. All of it. On the one hand, though, it’s rather hilarious to see what the people of Asgard cook up on their free time, so you listen every time you hear your name whispered.
Loki’s room is an absolute mess, tables overturned, food tray scattered on the floor, shattered to pieces. He stands in front of the force field that keeps him trapped, completely immaculate. His mouth twitches upwards in a smile when he sees you, and you immediately start feeling nervous. When you get nervous, you lash out.
“Liesmith.” Saying his name only gives him power, so you use his other nicknames. Cute little things like ‘horse fucker’ and ‘worm’ come to mind. Stepping through the door frame which appears for only a second, you look him up and down. The urge to piss him off becomes unbearable to ignore, so you test the waters for how to get him. “Your brother invited me on a date tonight.”
That gets the desired reaction from him. He instantly becomes sullen, though doing his best to keep his face neutral. “Is that so?”
“Yes. And maybe later in the night, who knows?” You shrug, putting the table upright so you can have something to lean against. You cross your arms, arching your eyebrows and taking stock of the exact damages throughout the cell. “I see you’ve been busy being a punk ass bitch.”
“I beg your pardon?” He snaps, agast.
You begin to clean up his mess, hoping doing so will unsettle him. Bending over to pick up some shattered bits of glass, you give him a nice view of your thighs and ass. Then you move on to picking up the chairs and setting them upright, setting a leg back into one of them. He watches you curiously, not moving from his spot.
Once everything is clean, you nod with satisfaction, then leave just to bewilder him. He watches you go, mouth twitching and eyes blazing with directionless rage.
A servant girl is waiting for you in your room, with a dress.
“No,” You say, flopping onto the bed.
“My lady,” the girl implores timidly, “The king wishes that you join him for dinner tonight, and, um, sent this for you.”
“I’ll join him, but I’ll rip out my own arms before wearing…” You look it over, the pearls and the silks and just the utter flamboyancy of it. “That.”
The girl immediately becomes pale. “Um, ma’am, if you don’t like it, I’m so sorry, I’m sure we can-”
You wave your arm at her impatiently, “Whatever. Something in black. Nothing fancy.”
She nods, her head bobbing like a chicken and her eyes wide. She takes the dress and darts off, returning a few minutes later with something more to your liking.
“It’s, um, a mourning dress.” The girl admits, handing it to you.
“Well, it’s perfect for me. Thanks, I guess.” You glance over at her, still standing at your door with her hands folded in front of her. “You can leave if you-”
The maid bolts out of the room as though you threatened to hang her.
Sighing with exhaustion at just the thought of going down to socialize, you slip the dress over your head and walk over to the mirror to check yourself. Nice. Some of it hangs strangely on you since it hasn’t been tailored yet, but you suppose it will have to do.
You begin your descent from your room to the banquet hall.
All eyes turn to look at you as you descend the stairs. You are a nightmare swathed in black, a vision of death and decay. You are lost from the funeral you never attended, the echoes of the deceased screams burning in the back of your mind.
You deserve to join them.
To be polite, you curtsey in front of Thor, you know, the king of this golden clusterfuck of a city. You greet him with a surgery smile. A few wary glances shoot your way, followed by some downright murderous glares when Thor grins at you with pure joy at seeing you.
“My lady,” He greets, turning to you, glass in hand, “How does this evening treat you?” You hear the undertone in his voice, which asks how his brother behaved.
You manage to keep your eyes from twitching, reaching over to a passing servant and gracefully snagging a flute of what you think it champagne. You take a few of what you hope are ladylike sips, the bubbles sliding over your tongue soothingly as the alcohol begins to make its way down your stomach. “All is well, your majesty.”
He sees straight through your lie, as you didn’t try very hard to be convincing. Though he mentions nothing further, you know from his look you are going to be cornered later for a more personal pep talk. Unfortunate. You’re certain to snag another flute of alcohol.
No one here is particularly fond of you, which you do not mind much. You wander over to the bar, a sea of people parting to avoid accidentally brushing against you. Although you couldn’t care less if people think you’re the personification of the Asgardian Holocaust or something, you know you need to start making allies with people if you want to play the system right. You find a good position to stick at so all the good gossip flows to you.
After an hour or so of hugging the wall, someone had the balls to approach you. A handsome devil, probably who hasn’t ever heard the word ‘no’ spoken aloud to him. Golden hair, green eyes, tall and beautiful. You know his type, the kind that gets around to any pair of legs that open to him. Maybe even going further than that.
Your eyes meet his, and the corner of your lips tug upward in a half smile. He hands you a flute of Asgardian Champagne.
“How is this evening treating you, my lady?”
You take a sip of the sweet bubbling liquid. “Just fine,” you lie fluidly, hating every second of standing here like a sweet painted doll.
He asks you a few more questions about yourself, which you either deflect gracefully or blatantly lie. As the case with all men of lower caliber, it is laughingly simple to get him to talk only about himself. You bat your eyes and give him your smiles of false promises and empty affection. It’s the song and dance you can do blindfolded and deaf, raking your hooks under his skin and pulling him towards you until you hear those words you’ve been aiming for all night.
“Why don’t I give you a personalized tour?”
Your smile grows, noticeably sinister only to those who know you intimately. “I would appreciate that greatly.”
The oaf smears his essence all over you in a way that can only be described as ridiculously pathetic. He takes no trouble thrusting into you, ignoring anything but his own desires to fuck a willing cunt.
You almost have half a mind to toss him off of you without a shred of pity, but you didn’t drag this twat out here to bring you pleasure. With your nimble fingers, you shred a piece of fine hair from his head. Snaking your hand back around to the back of your bodice, you manage to find a pocket to store the lock-in.
As expected, he spills into you within minutes of beginning. “Do you like it?” He moans like an animal, the only communication he’s attempted since you’ve begun.
Sparing none of his pride, you push him away and give him a look that you believe effectively communicate your feelings about that intercourse. And with that, you leave him and the party behind to go visit the moping trickster god.
The cell is dark, save for a faint honey-colored glow emanating from where the walls meet the floor. Everything is back in its proper place, and since you can’t imagine any of the guards coming in the trickster god’s cell to tidy up, Loki himself must have done it. Amusing.
A blanket wrapped lump is rolled up against the sleeping mat, raven locks of hair spilling out and tumbling over the edge. You want to wrap your fingers in it and pull, just to see his reaction.
Instead, you pick up a leftover goblet from his dinner, drain the wine, and toss it at the wall just above his head. “Wake up, you dumb fuck.”
“First of all; how dare you address a god as ‘dumb fuck.’” Loki sits up, bitter dark crescents under his eye. Oh, how his irises burn and glitter with their hatred for you, thick with danger and murderous contempt. “Second of all, witch, there had better be nothing short of a miracle for you to wake me at this disgusting hour.”
You throw the gob of hair at him, sticky from the mix of fluids exchanged between you and that pretty boy.
He looks at you, your disheveled appearance, and back at the lock of hair. The two of you make contact, and you think you can mark the precise second of when Loki Laufeyson, God of Lies and Trickery, Scourge of Asgard, and King of Snaky Business, nearly launches his spirit to the astral plane upon the realization of what exactly he is holding.
With no other choice but to try and make a power move of his own, he holds onto the hair and musters a look of indifference. “Do tell me that the only reason you woke me was to further torment me in my predicament?”
“It’s for a spell.” You say, feeling light a giddy from the booze.
“Allow me to guess- you plan on using this to make me appear as someone else.” Loki’s tone becomes condescending. “You can’t be serious. Thor could sense me miles away.”
Oh, if only he weren’t such a cunt, he would be so attractive to you even when you aren’t shitfaced drunk. It’s a shame that you can only think about fucking him when you were inhibited and still horny from a different, less desirable fucking. “I know that literally everyone else looks stupid in the eyes of the esteemed Loki, but I assure you otherwise.” You figure in the haze of your mind that straddling him would make a decent power move, so you do. Your skirt bunches at the waist, leaving your bare legs in easy view. “This isn’t for something as mediocre as a disguise, Liesmith, you ought to know me better than that by now,” your voice lowers to a purr.
He gazes over your shoulder, like a petulant child refusing to make eye contact.
“About six thousand years ago, give or take a millennium,” You gently rock your hips, the friction barely satiating your body, “there was a war. There’s always a war, but this one was between two factions who practice magic. Blah blah blah, details details, but the underline here is that one of the higher mages, through a serious channeling of black magic, was able to replicate one of the opposing forces’ high generals.”
You take a nip at his ear, enjoy the sound of his breath sucking into his chest. You can almost hear brain try to think of everything but how that sweet place between your thighs rocks back and forth. “This spell isn’t a simple disguise, Liesmith. You absorb their essence and, for a time, and you become that person.”
He looks at you, then, his mouth only a hair’s width from yours. “Seems I should stop underestimating you.” His tone is laced with a quiet rage that you so very enjoy stoking.
“The fact that it took you this long to figure out means that you’re losing your touch, Liesmith.” You lean forward, brushing your lips against his cheekbone. “Your pride will be your downfall.”
How he leans into your kiss ever so slightly doesn’t escape your notice, nor the steady stiffening of his crotch. You take the hand not holding the gob of hair and set it on your thigh, guiding it gently below the fabric of your dress. His fingers seem to waste no time snaking around to your ass, his eyes bitter with lust.
“I get you out, you help me find the Soul Stone.” You take his wrist and hold it firmly, “That is the deal. Take it or leave it.”
He takes a moment to deliberate. “You say that you can smuggle me out... Transforming me into…” He looks down at the hair.
His face twitches. “That other potion you made before you arrived…”
You give him an innocent smile. “Wasn’t even a potion. Clear jello.”
His face twitches as he reaches over and sets the lock of hair onto a drawer top. “I suppose then, we need a way to finalize our deal.”
You’re surprised that he merely rolled over without more of a fight, which of course immediately dissolves into suspicion because that means he has something up his sleeve, something that he’s not pretending to hide from you.
But you’ll play this song and dance as long as it leads you to where you want to go.