VIOLENCE|||FETISH

Something cold creeps along her shoulders, something that anywhere else would put her off, that would be a danger sign. But it’s a different cold, this way, a half-jealousy to hear that he had so dearly treasured the violation of another, and a sickness coiling her stomach that violation is something she should be jealous of, all things considered.

Is there pride, too? Maybe. It comes with the sickness. All the reverence he ascribes to Elektra, she realizes he’s taking away and giving to her instead. Lester thinks of her as something worthwhile, something more than that. That makes it bearable, him coming into her space, it makes it easier for her to let him touch her, though it’s still hard for her to meet his eyes at all.

She does it anyway and wonders if he can tell how deep Osborn’s gotten into her, because if his narrative’s about stealing from the devil, then Loki fits in now.

“I can’t get away,” she breathes before she knows it, and it even feels like bile coming out. She knows exactly what Lester’s said to her, she knows what he means because it’s the only way he could have ever said it. Loki’s not sure how to accept it, either, but he’s the closest thing she has to freedom, the closest she ever got to death and the closest she’ll ever be, spilling into his hands just like he says. It makes her want to, right now, want to come apart, undone, lose her breath and her blood and feel that and stop feeling anything else. “He’s made it so I can’t.”

He still can’t wrap his head around the idea that Osborn has managed to trap a god. Then again, a year or two ago he wouldn’t have been able to imagine himself trapped in the fucker’s slimy green hands, either. 

There’s a moment where Loki’s not really sure what it is she’s looking at as she fumbles with the package, her hands shaking. It’s metal, and the shine is gone from it, black and brown and rust eating its edges; after a few seconds of uncertain staring, she realizes that it’s a sai.

Why would he give her a sai, let alone one so worn by time and use—from the strong scent of iron, perhaps by blood? Why would it be significant enough? But she knows, of course, that Lester’s not only the part of him that she knows. Yes, she remembers, he’s one of the Hell’s Kitchen crowd, and this sai—she recognizes the make of it, now. It must have belonged, at the very least, to Elektra Natchios, and god only knows what was done with it for Lester to treasure the deed. Loki has her immediate suspicions, but that still leaves the question of why he’d give it to her.

Loki doesn’t even take it out of the box. Instead, she closes it again carefully, and takes it to her dresser, setting it down carefully. It’s still a gift, even if one that she doesn’t understand. “Thank you,” she says, still subdued and quiet, though there’s a faint curiosity there now.

He stays silent for a while longer. 

He knows what to say, he just doesn’t know how. He’s not even sure if he should, but he also knows he’s in too deep to go back now. His shoulders rise as he takes in a breath, falling slowly as he exhales it. 

“I love watching her bleed,” he starts. “At first I thought it was because she belonged to the Devil. I loved knowing I could take things away from him. He might beat me every time we cross paths, but when it counts, I can take away his heart.” 

He pauses, reaching up to rub at the faint stubble along his jaw. 

“But it’s more than that,” he continues. “She could have been so much more if not for that soft hearted fuck. The way she moves in a fight, and god, the way she opened up to me that day.” He closes his eyes, leaning back on his hands as the ghost of a smile crosses his lips. 

“Even now I can still feel the heat pouring onto my hands...” He opens his eyes, leveling his gaze right at Loki. “There’s something beautiful about opening someone up and watching their life spill out into your lap. It’s art.”

He stands up, moving across the room. His fingers brush the outside of the box, and his gaze never leaves Loki’s face. 

“I tucked this away in a closet because I always thought no one else could be so beautiful when I used it on ‘em,” he says. He reaches up to brush fingers against her cheek, noticing as if for the first time just how green her eyes are. 

this is the kinda shit i sign up for. pls, pls, pls go on.

sincerely, ur biggest fan 

Something about this feels like a trick.

There’s nothing Loki can do to get rid of the feeling, either. For the past few months all of her ‘gifts’ have been from Norman, and have been designed specifically to trap her into obligation. The fact that Lester, usually so direct and unhesitant, doesn’t look at her—well, that doesn’t help.

But if she can’t trust him, who can she trust? so she nods, steps aside, and lets him into her rooms. Her lack of care is evident there, too, somewhere in the concurrent proof of Norman’s lavish attention, other boxes and packages strewn about, a few bottles to boot as well when she can’t get herself to sleep any other way. It’s not like Lester can judge her for it too harshly. His rooms are worse.

She closes the door and leans back against it, clutching her robe closed around her, box held carefully, nestled in the crook of one arm. Loki doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything, resting for a moment before she puts herself to the task of opening the damn thing.

It occurs to him as she starts opening the box that usually there’s a note with something like this. Or, something spoken verbally about what it is, and why it’s being gifted, even if it’s just a simple ‘this made me think of you’. 

None of that feels appropriate for this, but he does know there’s going to, at the least need to be an explanation. 

He’s well aware how out of character this seems, and he’s half wondering if maybe he should just stop everything now and blame his behavior on the latest round of meds Norman’s been shoving down his throat. 

The knock startles her so thoroughly that Loki jumps out of her reverie, accidentally sweeps a bottle of perfume off of her dresser with an errant arm, but it takes her a moment to register what’s happened. Her hands move carefully to her face, her eyes drift slowly towards the mirror, and she processes that someone’s knocked on the door.

Norman. It has to be Norman.

It has to be Norman, because he’s not bothered with her for a few weeks now, but if it’s Norman, then what makes it worse is that his absence shows. When she’s used to him, Loki can stick to routine. She can shower and do her face and dress herself, but right now when there’s been a chance to rest, she looks like hell. Her face is pale, colorless, there are bags under her eyes—it’s almost like her age is starting to show, and that’s a bad sign.

She can feel it already. Norman coming in and telling her that she looks terrible, no, that she looks sick, because he’ll sound sympathetic. It’ll be an excuse for him to crowd her again, pretending to ‘take care’ of her. But she doesn’t have a choice, and she pulls her robe tight around herself, gets up and slowly pads over to the door.

But when she opens it, it’s not Norman.

Loki stares blankly for a few moments, still needing the time to interpret what she sees, put images through into thought. “Lester,” she says, and her voice is even hoarse from disuse. He usually just barges in. She’s more used to that from him—something must be wrong if he’s knocking. “What’s going on?”

She looks shitty, and he knows why. 

Part of him wants to yell at her; grab her by the collar and drag her into the room, to remind her she is a fucking god and that no mortal man should be able to control her, but that’s not why he came. 

So he remains silent. 

Finally, he shifts the box. 

“I ain’t big on presents,” he says. He tries his best, but he’s unable to meet her gaze. Something about this feels oddly intimate for him, and there’s still the slightest sliver of doubt in the back of his mind. 

He holds the box out to her. 

✿  five times my muse almost texted yours, and the one time they did.

▲  five time my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they did.

☠  five times my muse thought about hitting yours, and the one time they did.

★  five times my muse though yours looked breath-taking, and the one time they voice it.

❤  five times my muse says they don’t love yours, and the one time they admit it.

▼  five times my muse has caught yours getting off, and the one time they help out.

♫  five times my muse swears it’s not a date, and the one time it maybe is.

☪  five times our muses almost hold hands, and the one time they do.

☁  five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it.