Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.
Summary: you are the resident tech and fly on the wall, until you’re not. (short!reader)
Characters: Thor, this reader is known as Stormie.
Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜
💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼
The floor is quiet. The leadership meeting typically offers a respite from the usual buzz. You go through your task list, checking off each, checking in on those of other techs you're waiting on. Always a delay, always an excuse.
As you weave through your work, the conference room lets out. You check the clock, surprised at how early it is. It's usually at least forty minutes longer. Too bad.
There's a murmur across the room and you can't help but be irked by the low baritone creeping through the air. You glance over as Mr. Odinson speaks with a woman who used to work a few desks down. She looks agitated as he can barely look at her.
To your chagrin, he's watching you. She pulls his attention back before you can react. You quickly turn back to your screen. He probably wasn't looking at you.
His voice continues to pervade the space as it so often does. You peer over at two figures looming around the conference room door. One you know, Odinson's brother. A gloomy man without much consideration for others.
You get up and cross the space. You're overwhelmed by all the sudden activity and people who don't belong. There's still a ruckus sounding from the meeting room. Of course those in charge don't abide a tight schedule. You don't envy the PAs and their babysitting jobs.
You go into the break room. You have your thermos but you just need space. You're relieved to find it empty and exhale. You could do your job from home, for the most part. No one listens. No one hears.
"Ah, there she is. The woman I'm in need of," Odinson's voice has you spinning to face him.
You give a tight-lipped expression as you resist an all out scowl, "sir, I was just going back to my desk--"
"I've a more important task at hand," he interjects. You're not much of a talker, but you're not overly fond of being spoken over.
"Oh, sir, I have a task list--"
"Bah, some intern can see to maintenance," he waves off with his large hand. "This is much more intriguing."
You're not interested. Excitement is not for you. You keep things orderly, predictable, safe. You don't show your agitation and merely nod.
"Alright, but I do have some projects--"
"Not buts. Come. Get your bag."
You hesitate. "My bag?"
"Yes, we must hurry," he claps his hands and you flinch. "I'm already behind. Those meetings always do go overly long."
He bounces on his heel and turns, strutting out without further argument. Oh boy. This can't be good. Most days, you rarely leave your desk. A bathroom break here or there, maybe to get some water, but you avoid anything more. Even when there are donuts in the breakroom. The sugar just makes you sleepy.
You cautiously go back out to your desk and sit. You're a bit shocked. Can't he find someone else? There are a dozen techs who would be slathering to be his lap dog. You're certain whatever he has in mind hardly requires IT. One of his manager buddies could sort him out.
You calmly shut down your computer and tuck your thermos in your bag. It doesn't feel right. Packing up this early. It makes your ears itchy. This isn't how it goes. This isn't what you were ready for today.
"Come, let us go," Odinson reappears as he checks his watch.
"Sir," you stand and take your jacket, folded neatly over the back of your chair. You hook your bag over your other shoulder. "How long--"
"So curious. Let's face our adventure head on," he insists as he ushers you ahead of him.
You're glad your back is to him as you lead him between the other desks, though you aren't happy for the prying glances. The flirty temps and the gossipy seniors are all watching. From the outside, this must look rather strange. You doubt any of these people even recognise you.
You step into the elevator and as he gets on, you swear he makes it dip before the doors close. He turns to stand side by side with you, close even as no one else joins you. A man his size must make most spaces seem cramped. He taps the button down to the parking garage. You scrunch up your mouth.
"Sir, is this the Harriford office again? I thought Scott--"
"Ah, you have so many questions. Consider it a special assignment," he explains. "I will be sure a premium is added to your next cheque."
"Sir," you begin.
"Please, Thor, as I prefer it. It is only just us, after all."
How could you forget? Just you and him. You sink into resignation with the descent of the elevator.
As the compartment stops at the bottom, he waves you out first. You stop just outside the doors as you are disoriented by the large garage. He brushes your lower back and points across the lot. You shift away from his touch.
He leads you over to his car. A luxury car in a regal red. He opens the door for you and you chew down your anxiety. You get in the seat and search for the belt, finding it at an awkward angle that has you twist to reach it it. He gets in the driver's side and sighs. His legs are too long even as his seat is pushed much further back than your own.
"Ah, little one," he says as he starts the engine with the push of a button, "did I mention that blouse is rather... pretty."
You frown and look down. Beige and brown stripes. Not exactly Vogue material. Thrifted and unstained. Your standard.
Your shoulders rise and inch, "thank you, sir."
He grips the wheel and backs out, so fast you grip the door, hugging your bag in your other arm. He swoops around and redirects, speeding through the rows and slamming his brakes as he swerves around. He's an awful driver.
He comes to the ramp and you're pushed into the seat as he revs up into the sunlight. You suppress a groan. He's just as reckless as you would expect.
"Never fear, little one, I would not let you get hurt," he assures you and chuckles. "Isn't it nice to get out of the office?"
No. You just breathe and keep a tight hold on the door. The few responses you can think of aren't appropriate. You can only hope that this is a quick job.
