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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months

Text

The Sticking Point 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: It's Friday. I'll probably try to chill. Work is wild yall.

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

There's a silence, weighed between three; Thor, Jane, and yourself. You feel is crushing you, resting across your chest, constricting your throat. You put your gloved fingertips on the table and rise.

"Pawdon," you cringe at your own voice, "I must see to my mother…"

Thor rises, Jane doesn't bother as she pats her stomach. You leave without further pretense. Your skirts ruffle around your slippers as you flee without true purpose.

It's an excuse. Your mother wouldn't want to see you, to be reminded of the burden she's left with. Your betrothed and his parents can hardly think better of the circumstance. Yet you loathe to think how it should be if this contract is declared null.

You enter the corridor and turn aimless towards the center of the house. Apart from the few rooms you've been shown into, you haven't much sense for the layout of the house. Loki never troubled to guide you and your mother kept herself cloistered up in her grief.

You shuffle forward. Perhaps a breath of fresh air or if you go so far as your chambers, you might hide in there. You proceed through to the drawing room and give pause. Low timbres in mid-hush, from behind a door not quite shut.

Your name escape the space between frame and clasp. You go no further, instead tiptoeing to hide behind a broad bookshelf, just between the hidden office and the entrance. You tamp down your breaths and listen, knowing you shouldn't, knowing you can only regret to hear the unbridled truth.

"...she can hardly speak a word…"

"Perhaps it is that you don't allow her too. You've always been one to do overly much speaking," Odin retorts, "Loki, have you considered her demureness may be a blessing? That the sort you are would do better with one who listens before they talk, eh? You could learn–"

"Father, she is not what I was promised."

"She holds the same bearing and she is not hideous. She's rather becoming, I think–"

"Oh yes, then why don't you have her? Have you tired of the maid already?"

"Careful, boy," Odin growls, "do not be so petulant. If you could restrain yourself you might realise what you've been given."

"A dumb mute–"

There's a strike of flesh on flesh. A grunt and a snarl, each from a different throat.

"She is to be your wife. Do not sow bitterness in the soil. You should pity that she must put up with an ingrate such as yourself. You are getting exactly as I promised, you will have your vineyard in Kyri, you will have an estate in tears when her father is regrettably gone… what else can I give you? Shall I cut my heart out?"

"If I refuse, I have Jade Park. It is mine by right."

"You haven't any right if you do not provide an heir to it," Odin rebuffs.

"She is not the only duke's daughter–"

"Of a dozen, I'm sure, but cruel as it is to say, they aren't all in queue for a second born."

"You needn't remind me. Thor has his pick, he may do as he pleases, and I get scraps!" Loki blusters, "fine, father, if only to rid myself of your mighty hand. I will marry and you will be gone from my estate. By my right!"

You press yourself to the wall and clamp your lips shut as Loki storms out. He has his hand on his cheek for a moment before tearing his fingers away. He does not look back as he crosses the chamber, stomping through the next doorway just as he sends a standing vase crashing to the floor with an angry swipe.

You stay stuck to the wall as you hear softer steps. It's too late to flee but the Grand Duke calls you out before you can think of it. Odin says your name just as he peeks around the bookcase.

"Apologies you had to witness my son's tantrum. At his age, you'd think he'd be past all that," he slants his lips tritely.

"Pawdon, yaw gwace, I didn't mean to intwude–"

"It mightn't have been your mission but along the way you did make the choice. I don't fault you that, curiosity is dangerous," he shakes his head, "I am ashamed, lady, to think my son is so stubborn and uncouth. It isn't how I've brought him up."

"It's… it's fine, yaw gwace, I know I am not… expected."

"Eh, none of us are, are we?" He tugs on his cravat with irritation, "what say you? Shall I show you the splendors of Jade Park as my sons steeps in his childishness?"

"Yaw gwace?"

"I presume you've not been given the proper look around. I admit my son is rightly jilted by me. I was rather reluctant to hand this over. It has ever been my most treasured property but even second sons need some value… and second daughters…" he offers his arm as he turns, "besides, it's been some years since a pretty young lady adorned my arm."

You look at his sleeve then his flinty hair. He does not censor himself but his truth is not mean. It is only just that. It is what is. You tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow and thank him softly.

"I should thank you, lady," he pats your hand, "I can appreciate someone who reveres silence."

He sets off, tugging you into step. You keep pace, comforted and for the first, at ease in this strange place. This place you must call home.

"We'll save the gardens, I've a little secret for you there."

🔹

“I must return to be sure the banns are read at perish, as they will be here,” your mother points Doreen to her luggage chest with her fan, giving a silent order. “Oh, to think, I must attend my daughter’s grave in the same week I sit to hear the other engaged.”

You’re silent, patient. You know it’s better to let your mother ramble than to interrupt. If any one cared to hear it, you might admit you’re not dismayed to see her leave.

“Be sure you behave. Your father and I made an effort to keep you aware of etiquette. Do mind your manners,” she chides.

“Yes, motha.”

“Oh, and…” she gives you a tortured look, “try to choose your words carefully.”

You nod. You know her meaning clearly. Avoid those syllables that underline your detriment.

“Good, good. Your father is devastated about your sister, you see? I must away.”

“I understand.”

“It isn’t so difficult to be a wife,” she comes close and looks you in your face, “it is part of being a woman. Give him an heir, or two, and you’ll have the rest of your life to be happy. Duty first.”

She touches your arm, squeezing it before she spins to remind Doreen not to forget her chain of pearls left on the vanity. You tuck your chin down and bite your lip.

Duty. What if your husband doesn’t do his? What if he cannot? If he is so repulsed by you, you might not even have the chance to provide him an heir.

🔹

As your mother departs, the Grand Duke and Duchess remain. The first son and Lady Jane take their leave as well, insisting on having the expectant wife home in case of a sudden labour. Even with a few additional guests, the house feels empty. You have only your novels and Doreen, and she is reticent company, a hard line drawn between you by status.

You tire of the pages. You’ve read them a dozen times at least. All of your books are well worn and near memorised. It’s easier to live in your head where you do not sound like a fool.

You approach the door and ponder without. You have a yearning to explore but a fear of what lays outside. You’ve never been much for social graces; you have neither tact nor eloquence. You tend to shy away and forget your posture.

You clutch the handle, battling your fear. You pull the door open, assured by the silence of the corridor, and emerge. You look right, then left, and turn to the former. You wander down to the door you recalled from your stroll with Odin.

The dark oak with the long vertical handles that spiraled at the top. You ease one open, edging quietly into the darkness within. You should’ve brought a candlestick but the windows allow enough light to limn the shelves and upholstered chairs around a single low table.

You wade through the dull hue and stop before a shelf nearest the window, shifting a book to read the spine. Swift. You’ve not read anything by that author. You slide it loose and flip back the cover and flutter past the front page; A Tale of a Tub imprinted into the sheet.

You squint as you turn to the first page of cramped font. You bend your neck and turn towards a light, not realising the glow moves towards you, only focus on the unraveling of letters before you. A shadow nears until you are drawn up by its umbrous presence.

“Oh!” You gasp in surprise.

Loki looks down his nose as he holds a candlestick. You peer past him to the dark rectangle of the doorway that leads to the attached sitting room. You give a sheepish look to the floor as he reaches for the book in your hand. You let him slide it free, his thumb hooked over the pages before he snaps it shut in his hand.

“Satire. A musing of theology and science. Hardly a woman’s novel,” he remands. “My mother may have something to your preference.”

You take a step back and look at the window, the sun yellow and warm through the pane. You bring one hand up your arm to pinch your sleeve nervously. He is cold and you will never be used to it. A whole life to be spent in the tempest of his distaste.

“Funny, you should be repulsed by me?” He snorts.

You face him and feel the crease between your brows. He lets his eyes drift to the ceiling and gives a scoff. He spins on his heel and sets the candlestick on a tall table between the shelves.

“Let us not pretend either of us are happy. Even if you say little, it is written across your face. I saw it the moment we met. Then I heard you speak and I knew it was all a great joke on my behalf.”

You frown and squeeze your arm, keeping your arm bent across your front, like a shield, “what did you see… when we met?”

He shoves the book back on the shelf. You watch the fabric of his vest strain between his shoulders, almost admire how he’s folded his sleeves to the elbow, though the tops remain bloused. He tilts his head and strides along the wall of books.

“You act so innocent. I don’t believe it, not like the rest. You sit and pout and mope, expecting everyone to coddle you, to feel bad for you. I do not.”

“I do not act–”

“You lie like any woman does. Let us be clear, my wife will not lie. Not to me.” He turns and crosses his arms, leaning on the bookshelf, hooking one foot over the other. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “You will be quiet unless given leave to speak. I needn’t be further embarrassed. My father and brother have always made certain I am derided, you will not join them.”

“Loki–”

“Lord Laufeyson, husband, nothing else. Not your companion, not some kindred spirit, not anything but a convenience. A duty,” he raises a long finger as he speaks, “once I get a child on you, then we will be very much as we were before. Separate. Can you understand me?”

You bite down as hard as you can, until your jaw hurts. He speaks to you in the same tone your father used when he was agitated. He treats you like a child and yet, as Odin said, he acts like one himself. Spoiled and mean.

“I am not stupid, yaw gwace,” you say.

He narrows his eyes and stands straight, gripping his hips as he glares at you, “we’ve said all we need to say. You may go.”

You don’t move. Not right away. You don’t know why you don’t. Your heart is drumming and your ears are tingling.

“I am dismissing you,” he sneers.

You stare. Still regardless of the sharpness to his lilt.

He pulls his hands off his hips and balls them, posturing as he takes a step forward. You wince as a spasm of anger tics in his cheek.

You let the tension out of your jaw and drop your arm straight. You surrender but you do not hang your head as you turn to leave. You walk stiffly towards the door. As you reach it, he speaks again.

“Do not come in here again,” he bids.

You do not answer. You don’t argue. You don’t look back. You just go.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #the sticking point #au #mcu #marvel #thor #jane foster #odin #frigga #avengers

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