Snake Eyes 1
Warnings: noncon coercion, manipulation. Proceed with caution.
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Part of The Club AU
The smell of citrus wafts in the air as you slice into a bright green lime. The juice dribbles on your gloves as you bring the knife down over and over through the bumpy skin. You gather it all up in your hands and put it in the metal container.
You peel off the plastic gloves and dump them in the bin, moving the tray to its place in the bar and putting the lid atop it. You continue your prep work, checking the olives and refilling the toothpick dispenser. Thor stands nearby, neatly lining the shelves with the shining clean glasses wheeled in from the kitchen.
Your first week is coming to an end. You’re finally in the routine of it. You find the pre-opening lull to be the most enjoyable time. The servers, the cooks, and bouncers drift in and hang around chatting as they get ready for doors to open.
You go to the other end of the bar to grab a jar of marischino cherry and pause. You can hear voices from the backroom. You try not to eavesdrop but it sounds rather heated. You can’t really discern the syllables but the muffled slam makes you flinch.
“Ah yes, my brother is having his weekly tantrum,” Thor muses as he spins and shoves a few pitchers onto the shelves beneath the bar. “Don’t mind him, he always is finding something to despise.”
You smile at Thor awkwardly. You only met his brother once. The very man who hired you after a brief interview. One which went by so quick, you’re certain he doesn’t even remember hiring you.
“He does take this all rather serious,” Thor chuckles as he straightens his collar, the points wide as his muscled chest peeks out. “Always a bit high strung. You wouldn’t believe he once worked where you do now. He bought out the owner and here we are.”
“Oh, yeah, somehow I can’t picture that,” you murmur.
Thor laughs again, a rumble like thunder, and grabs the empty cart. He wheels it towards the kitchen door as you walk listlessly behind the bar, checking that every tap is clean, every hose is in its place. Hinges whine and a door swings open loudly.
“Fuck you!” Danica bellows as she charges out of the backroom, “fucking asshole!”
You stop and watch her dumbly. Her long legs shine with bronzer as she stomps across the room, her beautiful features contortein anger. She’s one of the several or so bottle girls that serve the private rooms and wears the usual get up; tight black shorts and sparkly croptop. You wonder what’s got her so worked up.
“I fucking quit,” she hollers before she disappears down the stairs.
You watch behind her, stunned. Wow. You weren’t expecting that at all.
“Can’t quit if you’ve already been fired, darling,” Loki’s voice carries after her, tugging your attention back to the doorway. “Gods, these girls.”
You quickly put your head down and pretend to be busy. You check the limes, even as you’ve just put them away. He strides to the other side of the bar and sighs, his shadow watching you until you raise your eyes.
“Hello, sir,” you say, “can I get you something?”
“Martini,” he demands curtly, “dry.”
You nod and quickly go about making his drink. You present it to him in the stemmed glass with the olive and pickled onion skewered on top. He turns it slowly and admires your handiwork. His eyes crawl up and meet yours.
“Come,” he gestures you out from behind the bar, “right here.”
He steps back and sips from the glass.
“Sir?”
“Don’t make me tell you twice or you can follow the other one out.”
You wipe your hands on a towel and lay it on the lower ledge of the bar. You come around as he shifts to face you, keeping his lips on the brim of the martini. He sets it aside as you approach and gives you an appraising look.
“Hmm,” he steps around the stool and grabs your shirt. You cry out as he tucks it under, raising it up your stomach.
“What are you doing–”
“Hush,” he quiets you and grabs the top of your shirt, splitting it for a generous view of your cleavage. You’re too surprised to resist as he reaches around you and undoes the apron, dragging it away from your waist, “very well, you’ll do.”
“What?”
“I’m short a bottle girl, I’m certain you can handle pouring,” he tosses the apron over the bar. “Tips are better, anyhow.”
“But, I need–” You point over the bar.
“Consider it a promotion,” he interjects as he checks his watch, “I’ve some very special guests arriving in the Cobra Lounge soon.”
“Sir, I–”
“Figure it out,” he flicks away your protest, “or you might consider updating your CV.”
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