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lokilickedme · 6 years ago

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Part 3 of Read By Loki Laufeyson - Fifty Shades of Grey

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own (no longer available there)

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: F/M

Fandom: Loki - Fandom, Loki (Marvel) - Fandom, The Avengers (MarvelMovies), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom

Relationship: Loki/His Book, Ana/Christian

Character: Loki, Loki Laufeyson, Loki (Marvel), Ana Steele, Christian Grey

Additional Tags: Explicit Language, this book deserves its own warning tag, one that says DON'T READ ME, Explicit Sexual Content, lame and exceedingly silly descriptions of sex acts

Series: Part 3 of Read by Loki Laufeyson

Stats: Originally Published 2016-02-27 Words: 3386 (original version)

Part One: The Night Manager

Part Two: High Rise

50 Shades of Grey, Read By Loki Laufeyson by lokilickedme

Summary: Loki reads 50 Shades and throws up multiple times. I would offer my apologies to E.L. James, but she doesn't deserve it.

Notes: See the end of the work for notes

This shitshow gets on the shaky road with a dedication that made the right side of my face twitch before the story even got started. It's dedicated to "the master of my universe" and as of right this very moment I'm ready to preemptively toss it into the bathroom, not as reading material for my next luxury soak, but as a replacement for the empty roll of toilet paper that I keep forgetting to run to the store for. Fuck me people, she didn't even capitalize "master" and ANY GOOD SUB KNOWS THAT NOT CAPITALIZING MASTER IS A MASSIVE SHOW OF DISRESPECT AND YOU DESERVE THE ASS BEATING YOU GET FOR IT - WITH ZERO AFTERCARE. Don't ask me how I know that, but go ahead and fight me, this is a hill I’m willing to die on. If this person is writing a book that's touted as an even remotely accurate accounting of a Dom/sub relationship, I can tell you right now, she doesn't know jack shit.

So I've read a couple of pages and I'm already looking around for my seizure meds when I realize I don't take seizure meds. I will after this, I might as well go ahead and call it in. I'm to the part about Wanda the Volkswagon when my anticipatory boner not only goes away, but retracts so far up into my scrotum as a result of the most horrendous writing I've seen this side of Thor's second grade book report on Anne of Green Gables that I'm thinking I might just be female now. I mean seriously? This hurts. I’m not even exaggerating, if you have a penis it’s going to draw up into your gall bladder. If you have a vulva it’s going to need a vat of Burt’s Bees Extra Moisture Replenishing Salve and a bottle of cranberry capsules. I’m not even female at the moment and this thing gave me a flaming UTI.

I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.

People, this is a published book. Someone got paid for this. It got made into a movie. I haven't even gotten to the sex yet and I'm already Google mapping monasteries within a one-hundred mile radius because I'm ready to take my vows. No, this book hasn't made me believe in a higher power. It has taken away my will to ever get laid again.

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor.

Holy fucking shitballs people, terminal velocity by its very definition means someone is going to die. Is this person wearing a pressurized speed suit? Do they hand them to you at the door before you go into the elevator? How does the building tolerate the mechanics of generating that kind of speed? And if by some random blessing by some random god who won't be getting any thanks from me she actually survived this trip to the twentieth floor, her brains would be leaking out her asshole. That's not the way to make a good first impression, sweetheart. Take the fucking stairs next time.

It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.

Yes, wow. Paralysis is rarely ever momentary darling, and it does ugly things to pretty girls. Like, rendering you a jelly-like heap on the floor because your muscles don't continue working while you're paralyzed. Paralysis sort of means your muscles have stopped working.

I've begun highlighting every word I come across that the author obviously doesn't know the definition to. Fake it till you make it, right darling? Five pages in and my yellow pen has died a violent death.

I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office. Double crap – me and my two left feet!

YOU.

HAVE.

GOT.

TO.

BE.

FUCKING.

KIDDING.

ME.

In what universe is this ridiculous cutesy sort of shit thought to be amusing? The cliches are giving me hemorrhoids. Me and my two left feet? Not that I'm an expert on Earth terminology and phrasing, but I'm fairly certain people stopped saying shit like that around 1962. And...I can't believe I'm being forced to say this, but - double crap?? I was already calling my brother a bilgesnipe’s vagina by the time I could crawl, I'm pretty sure the last time I said something as immature and amateurishly silly as double crap I was still in the womb and cursing in Morse Code. I may actually have even still been a sperm in my father's left testicle. How old is this writer?

“Um. Actually–” I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.

I'm sorry but I really don't even know where to start. The Um. Actually- ? Or the I'm a monkey's uncle? Maybe it's the staccato pacing? The elementary school sentence structure? The fact that all but one sentence of that paragraph has the word I in it, sometimes multiple times? She placed her hand in his and they shook - sort of like I'm shaking right now. It's the seizures this damn travesty has provoked, honestly I should sue the author for my prescription costs. And if that girl's eyelids matched her heart rate then I'm just envisioning one of those blinky-eyed cupie dolls strapped to a paint mixing machine.

“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” He raises an eyebrow at me. I flush.

Yes darling, always do a courtesy flush when the stench is really vomit-inducing. Like now. I'm not even going to ask if this conversation is taking place in a bathroom because I can tell you honestly, the bathroom is right where it belongs.

His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel...or something.

Something...like, maybe shit, perhaps?

I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo -

No darling, trust me, it's not. A tattoo is something you draw on your body, there's no pounding involved unless you've done the drawing on your vagina. And if you’re referring to the drum beat, then you should just say so because frankly this is meant to be a sex book and your readers aren’t going to be interested in Googling your sophomoric attempts at using interesting words. And just as an aside, most humans are going to think of a Scottish marching band when you use that word in that context, and the last thing you want your readers thinking about while you’re sliding into a smut scene is men in plaid skirts blowing bagpipes.

I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking -

Hold on a second, I wasn't aware I was in this book? I must have been drunk. I'm not sure that I would consent to this idiocy even if I was soused off my gourd, so I think I'm going to be filing a second lawsuit for character theft.

- and he’s here. Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go figure.

Yes, go figure sweetiepie. Everybody, even handsome people, need replacement U-joints for their toilets. They come in handy when you're trying to flush books.

Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.

Honey, cognitive functions aren't a part of your body, they're a part of your brain. So unless your head fell off while you were walking around in Clayton's Hardware Store, I doubt this happened. If it did, my condolences to Mr Clayton and the other shoppers, I know how traumatic that can be.

And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain –

You mean the whole thing?

- probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: He’s here to see you.

I just had another seizure. It’s a sex book darling, stop trying to use seventy-five cent Merriam Webster words and settle for something along the lines of My fucking head exploded - trust me, at this point your readers will relate to that far more than to the concept of subconscious thought. Or any thought at all. And we all know it’s highly unlikely Miss Double Crap Wanda-driving headless-in-Clayton’s-Hardware store is capable of coming up with a term like medulla oblongata after that terminal velocity elevator ride.

No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.

And now your head is completely empty, much like the author's, because that poorly constructed series of sentences was all that was rattling around in there.

For the sake of moving this along, because I have something to say about literally every fucking sentence in this roll of rough-ass toilet paper, I'm going to skip to the first round of sex and see if anything improves. Because that's what people do when things aren't going well, isn't it? They have sex and see if it gets better? And then if it doesn't, you kick them out and finish up with a fresh pack of batteries and a few minutes of Skinamax and when you wake up in the morning it'll be a whole new day, sunshine. Because honestly, I just got to the part where her cheeks went the color of the Communist Manifesto and if I don't get to some penis and vagina action I'm going to kill myself. Besides that, all this double crap inner monologue is starting to make my ballsack clench up.

So alright people, I've got my lube and my right hand ready, let's get this party started shall we?

"Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that?

Well it certainly wasn't me. Having medulla oblongata issues again, are we sweetheart?

His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly. “No, Anastasia it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck... hard."

Finally, someone steps up. Is that the sound of zippers headed south I hear?

"Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.”

Nope, my mistake. Zippers firmly holding north. How far is this fellow going to count? Do people actually do that cheesy little “Firstly, secondly” speech tic all the way up to thirdly? I usually only get to secondly before someone pops me in the mouth. Somehow I have no trouble envisioning this obviously anal retentive Christian fellow proceeding right along to fourthly, fifthly, sixthly, seventhly...perhaps he has a numbers fetish to go along with that paperwork obsession of his. If this is foreplay I'm leaving because math was never my strong point and I’ll be damned if I’m going to relive the hell of ninth grade just to get a two page smut scene. If you want to have sex with me we get to firstly, I point to my zipper, and the game is on. But he does get points for being forthright enough to come right out up front with the admission that he's such a rough fucker there have to be contracts involved. Kudos my man. Too bad he wrecked it by planting that playroom visual immediately after, because now all I can think about is a toybox full of Legos and a plastic xylophone. Even I can't make anything kinky out of that.

My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so... hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified. “You want to play on your Xbox?”

Yes darling, Fuck hard! It sounds like a Bruce Willis movie, only this time he's not in an office building crawling through the ceiling or on an airplane fighting off terrorists, he's tied to a bed while Bonnie Bedelia drips hot wax on his scrotes. It's a real shame we lost Alan Rickman, I'd give anything to see Hans Gruber standing at the foot of the bed in a leather corset intoning Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker just one more time.

As for playing on his Xbox, the Sims have a "whoo hoo" function. That's all I'm going to say about that.

- it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition. Holy fuck.

Ah yes, the good old days of the Inquisition. I had quite a wonderful time during that era, it was a sado-masochistic wet dream. And no, I wasn't an Inquisitor...I worked as a volunteer equipment tester for the Vatican. There wasn't a steel spiked ball cage or 360-degree nipple twister that earned my seal of approval until I screamed for my mommy. Something tells me this pansy-ass little ninny isn't going to make it past the electroshock vulva clamps before she's crying for every matriarchal figure in her family all the way back to the Charlemagne era.

“It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.” “Okay, and what do I get out of this?” He shrugs and looks almost apologetic. “Me,” he says simply.

Um...no. Just no. Unequivocally NO. That isn't how it works, E.L. James. Not in the slightest. In a true Dom/sub relationship the submissive receives every bit as much as the Dominant, and there is no two ways around that. Anything less is bullshit and whoever you're trying to force-feed this lie to should leave running and punch you in the crotch on the way out. I sincerely hope anyone reading this nonsense is doing so on a dare and not because they want to learn about D/s dynamics, because you're obviously not going to learn anything from this book except how to be a lip-biting ningnong who doesn't do much more than chat merrily with herself inside her medulla oblongata while mentally spouting double crap! on repeat every thirty-seven seconds. And any respect I had for this Grey fellow for being up front about his sexual preferences just went out the window, which coincidentally is where the lip-biting ningnong should be headed. Like he said - you could still run for the hills.

Skipping ahead...skipping ahead...my god are these idiots ever going to do it? I'm on page 194 and so far the closest they've come to coitus is when he almost ejaculated in his pants in an apoplectic rage when she told him she was a virgin.

“Ah,” I groan.

Ack, I puke.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, a look of pure pleasure on his face, and I practically convulse. He reaches up and tugs the duvet off the bed, then pushes me gently so I fall on to the mattress.

I'm practically convulsing too darling, but unfortunately not with pleasure. I need more anti-seizure meds, I've already gone through the entire bottle. I'll be starting on the Xanax next and then it’s another call to my HMO.

I’m panting... wanting.

I'm vomiting...heaving.

Not taking his eyes off mine, again he runs his tongue along my instep and then his teeth. Shit. I groan... how can I feel this, there?

Hold up a second - this is a man who is so persnickety he pulls the duvet off the bed before he lets her set her ass on it, but now less than a page later he's just removed her sneaker and is licking the bottom of her sweaty all-day Converse encased foot? My capacity for suspension of disbelief is not only wavering at this point, it’s pretty much died a slow and painful death. Which is what I feel like I’m doing. And if a man is holding eye contact while licking the bottom of your foot, he’s either upside down or your leg is so high up in the air he could be looking up your hooch and seeing himself through your left nostril.

“How do you make yourself come? I want to see.” I shake my head. “I don’t,” I mumble.

I call bullshit. She’s twenty-one, a virgin, and has never diddled herself? That’s about as likely as me never having had intercourse with a horse.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs. His teeth close around my nipple, and his thumb and finger pull hard, and I fall apart in his hands, my body convulsing and shattering into a thousand pieces.

Huh. And here all this time I’ve been laboring under the delusion that more was required than just two short paragraphs worth of nipple play. This girl is a physical wonder, her nipples are clitorises. Clitori? Clitterati? However you say multiple clits. I know playing with them feels nice and I’ve made more than one maiden squirm with a few well placed sucks and a pinch or two, but this girl was climaxing before he even got her out of her brassiere. Someone get her a job at the Kinsey Institute.

Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor.

I hope they didn’t land on the duvet, he went to such trouble to keep it from getting mussed.

Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. Holy cow...

Rather like a jack-in-the-box, I’m envisioning. Holy cow indeed. Twist the handle and Pop Goes The Weasel plays while you wait in panicked anticipation for that horrid little clown to burst out of the hinged metal box and scare the shit out of you. Well, he did say playroom, didn’t he. Oh, and boxers and briefs are two entirely different things, my dear. The further we get into this silly little tale the more convincing my sneaking suspicion that the author has never actually met a man before.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele” he murmurs as he positions the head of his erection at the entrance of my sex.

I’m sorry, I know I’m an adult and all but I’m giggling like a sixth grade girl that wandered into the wrong locker room at school. And for the record, I know exactly what that sounds like because I’ve done it. But this...this is just...holy fucking hell with twice the fire and ten times the brimstone, that sentence up there just chemically castrated me. The head of his erection at the entrance of her sex. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume it means he put his cock on her pussy and we’ll call it fair and move along.

“Hard, he whispers, and he slams into me. “Aargh!” I cry -

To quote Miss Steele, holy fuck! His dick is so big it’s turned her into a pirate!

He speeds up. I moan, and he pounds on, picking up speed, merciless, a relentless rhythm, and I keep up, meeting his thrusts.

Is anyone else envisioning these two jogging through the park playing bongos? Just me? Okay. Oh and for future reference, because I assume this world isn’t lucky enough to escape at least three sequels to this travesty, no sentence should have as many commas as it has words unless the person speaking it is being punched in the mouth between each syllable.

Two orgasms...coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine, wow.

Darling if the spin cycle on my washing machine made anything come apart at the seams I’d be at Home Depot demanding they make good on the warranty. Which, something tells me, you should be doing with this new man of yours.

He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic. My insides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.

I looked up infinitesimally, mainly because I’ve never actually seen it in print before and it’s such a strange looking word. I laughed so hard my Xanax came out my nose when Google offered up this definition: immeasurably small, exceedingly little, less than an assignable quantity. To give it a meaning, it must usually be compared to another infinitesimal object in the same context. Mr Grey, I do believe your tight coochied little virgin just called your dick tiny.

“You. Are. Mine. Come for me, baby,” he growls. His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice. My body convulses around him, the precipice. My body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress.

Well damn, I have to say I’m impressed, both with the uncanny power this fellow’s voice has to make orgasms happen from out of thin air, as well as this girl’s ability to climax on demand after never having done so in her entire life previous to this encounter. That’s three times now she’s “shattered into a million pieces” all over the fucking bed - thank god he had the presence of mind to toss the duvet on the floor, because those stains would never come out. He’d probably be getting a visit from the local police as soon as Mrs Fratelli at the dry cleaners got a good look at it. And I don’t know about anyone else but I really want to hear this “garbled version” of his name that she called out into the mattress. No, really. I want to hear it because I’m imagining something like what went down in the Caves of Caerbannog when the Knights were debating the pronunciation of the last word written on the wall. Does that make Ana’s orgasms the sexual equivalent of the Black Beast of Argh?

I’ll wait for you to hit Google on that one. Go ahead, I’ll wait. I’ve got all the time in the world. I still have six hours of studio time booked and this travesty of a novel is now residing in stall #2 in the mens room and I’m sitting here playing with the roll of toilet paper I stole. It was a worthwhile trade. The word Charmin printed four million times on these little squares in infinitely more intellectually stimulating than that undigested goat’s dinner we were reading.

Fifty shades of TP’ing E.L. James’s house, anyone?

End Notes: All passages in italics are the property of E.L. James, and as far as I’m concerned she can keep them.

#Loki Reads #50 Shades of Grey

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