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fanaticsnail · 2 months ago

Text

Entertain Me

Masterlist here

Word count: 1,800+

Art by @skullfacedlady, who this fic is dedicated to.

Synopsis: He was bored. He was tired. He was... Lonely. What is a giant to do, but make a nuisance of himself before entertainment was given to him by the hands of the wardens who placed him in his chains. And what pretty entertainment you make for him.

Themes: Loki (Elbaf) x f!reader (no pronouns, can be read as afab), oral (reader), dub con, mdni, NSFW, smut, 18+, size difference (large), dark themes (implied cannibalism).

Notes: I am in love with this terrible man.

Thump.

Rocks shook with each rolling shudder of the giant’s shoulders and spine meeting with the large boulder they were bound to. The banished prince had been placed in his cell to rot in for too long, and solitude had finally begun to consume him. He figured if he was bored, he might as well wreak havoc to the natural flora and fauna population above his confinement by causing a landslide or two with his great strength.

Or, perhaps, something could happen. Something like-... What was happening presently.

The gates of the side of his enclosure had swung wide, a body shoved in, and promptly closed and locked behind them. The smaller figure ran to the gate and screamed to let them out while rattling the bars. Their desperation caused Loki’s brow to arch beneath the bandages before he rose to take a better look at his little guest.

“Oh…? And what is this little runt…” Loki purred with the deep rumble of his thick baritone reverberating throughout the confined prison cell, “...something for me to chew on, perhaps? Something for me to eat?” In a few short strides, Loki approached, his new spark of entertainment, and crouched to bring the figure closer to his large, beaming smile.

“Come now,” he teased, leaning ever closer, “Let me take a closer look at my new little thing, hm? Step closer to me, sweet thing. Let me see what I get to pick out of my teeth later.”

You made yourself as small as you could be. Turning to face him, you sunk back into the bars of the cell and clawed at them in fear. Your hands shook in fear, alongside your lip quivering in petrification. Darting your eyes over his, you came to terms with the man that would be your death.

This was it.

This was where you would be laid to rest. Another skull that the banished prince would sit atop. Another skeleton he would use to pick his teeth with. Another snack he would consume to entertain his solitary confinement, hopefully pleasing him enough to no longer continue to cause damage to the local community above his enclosure by rattling the rockface.

“Do you not talk, little one?” He goaded you, wrapping one of his bound hands around your scantily clad body. Thick fingers easily closed in around your waist as he picked you up to bring you closer. “That's fine. You don't need to talk.” Loki hoisted you up into the air while using his other hand to rip the sheets of material covering your body.

“I just need you to scream.”

“No-!” You yelped while kicking your legs out from under you, “No! No, please-!” Tears welled in your eyes and fled over your lash line as you descended into his mouth. Helplessness overcame you as the giant lulled his tongue out and widened his jaw.

He was going to eat you. The banished prince of Elbaf was going to claim your soul and gnaw on your corpse until you perish. Loki was going to tug your limbs off and destroy the last semblance of yourself you-...

“...-Stop resisting. I'm not going to hurt you,” he barked gruffly up at you. Tugging your legs apart, he chuckled at the position of your exposed cunt quivering over his porus tongue. You shrieked as he placed you atop the slippery surface and dragged you backwards and forwards to settle you. “That's it. Little screams while you ride me.”

“W-While I what?” You scrambled forward, placing your hand on the bridge of his large nose to find ground. “W-What?”

Removing his tongue from your core, he breathed his confession into you with a smoothness you were not expecting from the giant. Careful and intimate whispers were fled from his lips like poetry recited before a betrothed lover, regardless of the content of his words.

“I want you to scream for me. A minor entertainment to me while I waste away beneath the kingdom,” he smiled while gently brushing the tip of his nose over your belly, “You can grind on my tongue and cum in my mouth, or I can fist my cock with you wrapped around it. The choice is yours, little runt. What is it going to be?”

All thoughts of prior consumption for nourishment had left your body, which was now overcome with a new unnerving curiosity. When he ripped your garments from you, you assumed it was due to digestion in his stomach acids - not to place your quivering and sensitive pussy on his body and watch you grind against it to meet your ecstasy. Absolutely not to swipe a tongue that matches the size from the top of your head to your toes, sliding seamlessly between your folds and forcing you towards your climax.

“T-... Tongue,” you whisper, turning your face away from the giant to hide your shame. He chuckled while moving to recline against the rockface he was lying bored against moments prior and settled down with you still in his grip. He took your form in a clawed grip and pressed you against his cheeks, slowly rubbing his face with your smaller frame while inhaling deeply.

“We… Are going to have so much fun together, little one,” he breathed deeply, enjoying the flush of your frightened skin against his revealed flesh, “That’s, if you do a good job.”

You shuddered, bracing your hands out in front of you to stabilise you against his face. At that expression, you gave him a puzzled look and rapidly batted your eyelashes in hasted succession.

“If I-?”

“-You are going to ride my tongue, little one,” he purred with a rasped growl in his tone, “And I am going to sit back and enjoy the show. Go on,” he rolled his shoulders against the pale boulders and lulled his head back on a nook within, “Entertain me.”

Without further warning, he thrust your body against his tongue, spreading your folds apart and dragging the porous surface against your cunt in a tentative lick. He held you firmly and adjusted your hands to perch on his nose and removed his hands completely from your body. Loki splayed himself out to the sides and focussed his breath while you steadied your mount on his tongue.

Furrowing your brows, you slowly gave a tested grind against his face, attempting to pay no mind to how large his teeth were to your much smaller frame. The fear continued to hold you back while you timidly began to rock to and fro on each follicle decorating his palate.

“Don't test me,” he growled with a muffled bark in his tone, “Ride my tongue and cum on it. Let me taste that sweetness you're hiding from me. Entertain me.” The rumble of his voice vibrated his tongue and forced a moan out of your lips at the shockwave pulsing through your body. True to form, you gripped his nose and began to form a steady rhythm grinding your pussy over his tongue.

You focussed on anything else: any other mirage your mind could focus on. Picturing your bedroom and placing a pillow between your thighs, you pretend to be back in that space against your mattress and grinding your cunt against the material. Slowly back and forward to chase the mounting pleasure of your clit caressing the cotton sheets instead of-.

“-That's it… that's it. Find that pace and ride me.”

You shook your head, finding the image of your bedroom to slowly dissipate in favor of reminding you where you truly were. You were not in your bedroom. You were not on your bed. You were not grinding your sensitive heat over a pillow and dampening it with your slick essence.

You were riding Loki, the banished prince of Elbaf, by grinding on his slippery tongue and feeling it pry your thighs apart with every thrust.

Loki’s cock lay untouched and throbbing in his pants, begging to be freed and pumped by one of his large fists. He felt the waves of lust come over him, but chose to rest his hands beside him, palms up and humble while his new little toy used him the way you pleased. Sensing the apprehension, he gave you a warning growl to refocus your momentum.

“Ride. Me.”

You gulped back your shame and bore down onto the bulbs and surface of his tongue, chasing your high and forcing yourself to focus. Do a good job, and he'll let you live. Entertain him, and he might treat you well. Cum on his tongue, give into the feeling, and feel the sparks of your muscles contract and throb against his palate.

The slippery organ began to feel good against your body. The feeling of giving yourself completely over to this primal urge caused you to cast aside all embarrassment and fear in favor of the sparks teetering in your vision. Your stomach bound in knots while your lips began to gasp and sigh softly.

“Louder.”

You flinched at the order, but obeyed the giant. Your sultry moans fled your lips while your clit dances against his muscle. Mewls and cries continued to flee you as you gripped hard on his nose. Your stomach flexed and thighs clenched around him, bucking wildly to chase that final wave as the coil inside you bound tight enough to break.

“Cum. Cum for me.”

The world split and shattered like a mirror against slate. Sparks of silver and rings of gold fizzed and erupted as your cum splashed onto his much larger tongue. You screamed out at the intensity while rocking, grinding and bucking to ride it out on your captor’s tongue - just as he had instructed you to do so.

Loki felt his cock twitch, sticky precum dampening his briefs and screaming for just a little touch. His eyes rolled back as he felt you use him completely, becoming hypnotised by the sweet melody spilling from your lips while you came hard. He could find himself coming quite accustomed to this pretty song thrust into his ears a few times a day - if not all day. Anything for a little entertainment in his captivity.

As you came down from your high against the giants tongue, you curled forward and slouched against his lips and nose. His tongue gave you a few lazy licks from ass to clit and back again to smear your slick over his to clean you. Slowly closing his lips, you felt the ridges of his smiling teeth below your spent cunt. Placing you on his upper lip, he steadied you while whispering softly up at you.

“Just you relax for a moment, little one,” he cooked at you, moving his hands over the buckles and furrs of his belt to unburden his cock from its confines, “Just you catch your breath.” He fished his achingly hard cock out of his pants and began to languidly stroke the engorged mass, smearing the precum over his shaft and chuckling as you recovered.

“We're going to have so much fun together.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @ane5e

#one piece #x reader #one piece spoilers #loki x reader #op loki #elbaf loki #loki elbaf #elbaf spoilers #banished prince loki #one piece smut #prince loki

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never-stranger · 1 month ago

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Title: Glory Burnished Bronze — Chapter One

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader (reader has wings)

Summary: After a mishap in a great battle, you are condemned as a traitor to Asgard, Vanaheim, and your own country. Centuries have passed of your incarceration in your kingdom, your magic suppressed by wards, your wings gone, but the magic falters and brings forth your freedom.

Your freedom is a catalyst for nothing but calamity.

The younger prince has a penchant for calamity.

Tags & Warnings: (For this chapter) Slow burn, Violence, Torture, Blood (for general tags, check it out on Ao3)

Forenote: This is gonna be a loooong one. big

Word Count: 3K+

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Asgard’s might is not one to be slighted. The Nine Realms cower before its shadow and their rulers immediately seek the Allfather’s rule for his judgement. Now the council surrounds you in dead silence within the walls of a bleak hall that is barely lit with torches. Metal-clad feet collide with the back of your legs, urging you to kneel. The chains rattle as you land. Your muscles are still sore from the throes of battle, but you dare not make a sound, refusing to grant them the pleasure.

Had you been taken here blindfolded, you wouldn’t be able to guess this place was in the Golden City. It was more run-down than its dungeons, much like it was reserved specifically to condemn the worst of criminals.

You train your eyes on Odin before you. He is dressed in his armour with his fingers wrapped around Gungnir. On one side is his wife who fails to stifle her emotions; the sorrow seeps through her eyes and her lips quiver slightly. Sentiment was one, cruelly stupid thing. She was not your friend, perhaps she was even less of an acquaintance than anyone else in the room.

On the other side are his sons. Thor’s gaze is downcast. He’d known you by name and title, but seeing the face of the crimes proved heavier than he’d anticipated, much more when it was the face of a woman about his age. This is why he could never be king, his younger brother next to him seethes.

Unlike the golden prince, he stares sharply. His face is inclined so he looks down at you as he stands on the platform with his family. He condemns you to scrutiny. He’d heard of your crimes and thought you no more than a fool, the magic in your veins was misplaced and could have gone to someone far more capable like himself. In his eyes you were a brutish warrior without foresight; how you were assigned to command a legion of enchanters was beyond him. Sending you to your death would be like rooting out weed plaguing Yggdrasil.

Even so, he swallows a swell in his throat when his father rejects the axe in favour of sentencing you to a lifetime of imprisonment.

“I believe The Swan will be best kept with us, Your Majesty,” a voice interjects. The voice you recognise comes from Rognvir, Fjaerheim’s spokesman speaking on behalf of its king. Glaring up at him, you see the flame in his silver eyes, burning of sorrow and anger. His greying hair threatens to catch fire, the crevices of his skin bury any semblance of empathy he has left. In his eyes, you were a traitor, a rogue warrior drunk on power that led to his son's untimely death on the battlefield. He tells himself it isn’t selfishness and he speaks purely out of concern for his country; that the power you wielded was deadly and could only bring forth more catastrophe.

“Do you suggest that Asgard falters in the task of keeping her bound?” The Allfather challenges.

“I dare not claim such a thing, my lord. But King Anundr reckons there is no greater punishment for treason than to be bound by one’s own people.”

When the One-Eyed King remains silent, the spokesman prods, “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Rognvir bows his head, a fist to his chest. “The capital of Vanaheim will be keeping the Aether in its vaults, Asgard has also collected its trophies. Consider this act a consolidation of our loyalty to your throne.”

“We are to trust that she remains tethered to the lands of Fjaerheim? Under the rule of her own people?”

“It is under our rule that she abused her power, something we do not take kindly. I myself, shall ensure the full extent of her punishment,” says the Fjaervakt bitterly.

The prince counts four heartbeats before his father nods.

Irony was lost on everyone else. Every man and every woman in the hall had blood on their hands, insurmountable lives taken by wielded blades, yet you… you were guilty.

The voice he had only once heard spoken soft and tenderly now screams and hollers, pleading for death. The thrashing of chains overcomes the sound of Gungnir striking the ground twice, signifying Odin’s ratification of his decision. Your wings spread out in distress, a last-ditch effort your body makes to shield you, it makes the guards behind you stumble.

The raven prince does not hear his father’s second command, so when a blade is brandished he thinks you’d been sentenced to death after all. But when it lands, it elicits a blood-curdling scream as the winged flesh falls on the floor. The action earns an echo of gasps, but the sound of blood rushing in your ears drowns them out.

Freedom was torn from you twice. No, it slips like liquid from your fingers, blood cascading down your skin to paint a grim picture. It clings to the dirt on your body, to your hair. The stench invades your nose; it’s taunting you. You’ve lost, you’ve lost.

Your forehead touches the ground as you suppress your sobs, but you do not have the luxury of time as you are dragged back to your feet. Darkness surrounds your sight until you can only focus on one man. Your prosecutor is the last man you see before the doors close. You curse him, you curse everyone who stood by and watched.

Gone are the days you’d led them to glory and countless victories. Forsaken by your own people; where once they’d bow in greeting, now they seemed satisfied to see you on your knees before them. It leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. These rats, how they’d scour to appease.

Fjaerheim was a disparaged state. For millennia on end, the Fjaervakt would throw themselves upon the Allfather’s feet, offering their greatest accomplishments to the god. With all of Asgard’s pretentiousness and grandeur, they’ve had to fight tooth and nail to prove themselves worthy of alliances and recognition. Such is true for the warriors of Fjaerheim for the most part. The enchanters, like you, were at least a little more reserved. Enchanters, witches, magic users alike had always been criticised for being arrogant in nature, but is it truly so arrogant to refrain from toiling every fleeting shred of praise?

It burns. You can’t quite tell what, but it does. Perhaps it’s everywhere on your body. All that’s left of your identity are the stubs on your shoulder blades that were once wings. With a hoarse throat and dehydration, no voice comes out as you’re dragged.

Loki looks down at himself and checks for blood. He wants to scrub off all the grime he had accumulated from this room alone, more so when he catches a glimpse of his mother whose eyes are filled with pity that should make him scowl. But her eyes only remind him of an afternoon from decades ago, years before war threatened to set loose.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” the raven prince scolds. His demeanour is as juvenile as any young man, a hand on his hip, his hair disordered in the wind. “This is a private sanctuary for my serpents.” His words are punctuated by the hissed agreements of the snakes. Some crawl on the ground, the others are wrapped around tree branches, but one of them seems content to be coiled around your arm.

“What, are these your chambers as well then?” You snap.

He clenches his fists to your amusement. “Leave before I call the guards.”

“I somehow doubt you’ll need them to cast me out, Odinson,” you address the snake on your arm more so than him as you lift it close to your face to look in its eyes, stroking the scales gently. “Besides, I could ask them to bring me to Frigga and she’ll tell them she had let me drop by.”

“These little things… all bark and no bite.” You dare a glance at him. He looks at you contemplatively. Why in the Nine Realms would his mother let a bird into a snake enclosure? Let alone his very own!

He takes a few steps in your direction, making sure to crush leaves in its wake. “You are its prey, had you been smaller they all would have clambered for a taste.”

“Had I been a bird, I wouldn’t even be here to have this conversation,” you say dryly. “I would have better things to do apart from all the politics and these pretentious… royal engagements.”

Kølldottir. Daughter of Køll, he remembered. Though he’d never cared for your given name until now. Perhaps his mother would be inclined to tell him

They called you a swan. But it makes him wonder. You held no grace of one… did you even have wings? Though he knew the Fjaervakt could hide their wings, you still seemed to be awfully… ordinary.

You crouch closer to the ground, softly cooing at the wicked little thing. He watches as it loosens from you, making a line towards him. He almost laughs at how obedient such a creature known for its stubbornness was.

The snake nuzzles his boots, akin to a feline’s gesture of affection. He picks it up as delicately as how you settled it down. His mouth opens to question you, but he looks up to see the sanctuary empty, no hint of a presence apart from the hissing of snakes.

The next time he’d seen you, he was an ambassador visiting your kingdom. You knelt before the throne, a blade being graced softly on your shoulders. You were being anointed as the next Cardinal Enchanter.

“Brother,”

Silence.

“They wait for us at the victory banquet.”

Serpents plague your dreams. Though a mere fragment of your imagination, the hissing seems too thrum in your eardrums. The ruthless predator strikes a bird, and in another moment that bird is you. It’s coiling around your frail form, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You hear a call, pleading, calling out your name.

You search for it. There is no longer a snake as you soar over the battlefield. Wings stumble, but something else keeps you steady. You can feel it wrapping around your throat, warring with your mind, heart, and soul. The skies above are obscured, perhaps it was of your doing. But with the dark magic crawling into your eyes, clawing at your vision, it’s hard to see.

The magic drenches your fingertips, tainted black, the veins on your forearms, closing into your pulse points, darkening and threatening to consume you whole

You hear it again, it’s closer, but fainter.

��Father?”

When you wake on the cold stone, you take a breath as though you had just drowned. All you see are the same ecru bricked walls, the same dark, eerie marble floors and the torches that keep the temperature bearable at most. The cell was spacious and high, as though to mock your freedom to walk, but not to fly. There were runes inlaid on the ground, carved in a circular motion. They are the ones holding you tethered here. You had no chains, but you could feel the weight of the wards casted on your shoulders. They fatigue you and stifle your magic all the same.

There is no telling of the time, you were underground with no windows or gaps to peek through. They had granted you the luxury of books, half of the cell was a large bookshelf but to compare the quantity with the lifetime you would live here… No, you had finished the books before a decade had passed.

Once, you had laughed to yourself remembering Rognvir’s words about ensuring your full punishment. You had assumed it would be a lifetime of physical torture. But no. This. This was your punishment. An inescapable feeling of languor, the incessant boredom as life moves on without you, depriving you of meals. You felt the hunger, the starvation, but it did not kill you as you wish it would have.

But even this feat did not last long as one night Rognvir entered your cage. He’d grown frail and older. The greys of his hair spread into his skin, his eyes are dull and he holds a cane. With him was an enchanter, whose face was obscured from your view.

The old man moves closer to your shelves, examining the titles available as though to distract himself while the enchanter positions themself. You deserved this, yes. No one could come to rescue you, but he needed to be sure. His son died a quick, albeit painful death. Many of the souls sent to Valhalla were also on your hands. It was in his hands to make sure you died slowly.

And if you dared to break free, you would know it was a greater mistake.

When the enchanter speaks, their voice is distorted, but the words are clear and clawing at your heart.

O, sacred fates heed me

Carry these words to the tree

By the laws that bind the ancient realms

By the wrath of the gods be sound

For no hand to lift you from the ground

May your touch bring forth flames

For fire shall be your bane

Bound by the wrath of Hel

Till the flames seethe and yearn

You could have sworn you’d seen the face of your hexer. At least, the teary eyes and the apology on their tongue.

A fire that shifts, should the heart discern

The curse shall linger to who you hold dear

When hearts entwine shall it disappear

You would pass the centuries in a cycle of slumber and wake. You’d grown tired of reading the same titles, of pacing the same grounds. Sleep merely felt like the blink of an eye as you lay unmoving on the ground. Numb. Your eyes would open, then close again. But without a clock, you were oblivious to how much time would have passed. You could only feel it by how sore your body has grown, perhaps how your hair had grown to reach your feet.

Slumber takes you in full. You do not dream, nor hear the faint crackling of torches.

You do not hear the seal groaning above.

But you feel the rain cascading down your skin.

The Raven was not in high spirits.

Even less as he had just returned from subduing an illegal operation in the north, only to return home with his presence being requested immediately before the Allfather. No hero’s welcome, perhaps a sliver of it in the form of a salute from awaiting soldiers. He gives them a nod as he dismounts his horse, his party of enchanters follow suit. Only to be followed by the Allmother’s servant, Mendel, hastily making his way to the prince to blabber all the way into the palace.

“...There are a myriad of preparations to be made in the upcoming months, my lord, plenty of which the Queen has requested your assistance with. The Annual Arcane Tournament, too, is within the fortnight–”

“First, I am welcomed with a request from the King. Now you nag me all the way to him with matters that are of no concern at the moment. Do you mean to tell me the King wishes to talk of these fatuous preparations on the throne? By fate, I hope it won’t be a waste of time as you are making it sound like.” The prince halts in his tracks to give the servant a pointed glare as he speaks. Mendel feels the frostbite nip his skin, the prince’s icy glare freezing him into place before quickly melting as the forest’s winter peeled his gaze away to will his feet further into the corridors.

“First things first, Mendel. I shall attend to my mother later. What urgency requires my presence upon the throne room this early noon?” Though weary, he has returned to his princely demeanour. The events of the earlier morning slowly fade into the depths of his mind. But they linger nonetheless, in his mind and in the droplets of blood on his leathers.

The prince and all his wonders, thinks. Kingly duties were primarily only of Thor’s concern as the heir, it seems this concern exceeds beyond.

The pair stops before the grand doors as the prince awaits his answer.

“A messenger from Vanaheim, my lord.”

Before Loki could voice his contempt, the grand doors swing open, and a herald announces his arrival. The lingering echo rings in his ears. It makes him wince.

He scurries into the room, leaving Mendel behind. He does not see the servant bowing as the doors close.

Upon reaching the foot of the stairs to the platform the thrones lay upon, Loki heaps a small show of reverence himself, bowing to his hips, a fist to his heart before making his way to his mother’s side. Mother and son exchange fond gazes before awaiting their special guest.

They do not wait for long.

“The messenger Bernhard of Vanaheim!” Bellows the herald.

Bernhard was of lesser stature, as most of the Vanir were compared to the Aesir. He scampers into the throne room, unfashionably urgent. His hair was unkempt, ginger splayed all over his face, eyebrows furrowed into an expression of distress. His skin was darker, too, evidence of Vanaheim’s closest star warming its lands. He had barely made it to the foot of the platform before he fell to his knees. Both of them. As opposed to the tradition being only one. The momentum from when he ran inside makes him glide half an inch onto the carpet.

“What concerns of Vanaheim requires Asgard’s counsel, Bernhard? Speak,” commands Odin, ever the king he is.

“Fjaerheim is in a state of unrest. Their magic has dwindled, though we know not why.” Bernhard’s voice trembles. He’d heard of the king’s wrath in tales and did not wish to witness it for himself. What he’d just stated was merely the tip of the iceberg.

The king has moved in his seat. If intrigue was a scent, he’d reek of it. “Continue.”

“The capital of Vanaheim has lost the Aether.”

The brothers look at each other, the atmosphere hardens and a bead of sweat drops on the ground. But the messenger continues.

“The former Cardinal Enchanter of Fjaerheim–” he clears his throat. “The last who wielded the Aether has been set free.”

The Wraith.

The Lady of the Swans.

Odin grasps Gungnir tightly, the messenger prepares himself for a strike that does not come. Perhaps the Allfather wasn’t as merciless as he’d been told.

“Fjaerheim has granted her freedom?” The irritability leaks from Odin’s voice. They’d sworn full sentence five hundred years ago, surely they would have known better than to rescind loyalty now.

“N-no, sire. At least not from what we have been told. The weakening of Fjaerheim’s magic is to blame. The spells that kept her tethered faltered with its people. But the council suspects that the Fjaervakt are keeping something from us, perhaps they seek to reap more of their sovereignty from the capital of Vanaheim, they say.”

“Does the council surmise a connection between these events?”

“As we presume the prisoner has no means of escaping or retrieving the Aether without wings, nor magic, it’s quite hard to tell, sire. Unless she has someone from the outside, which too isn’t completely out of the question.”

The Wraith , yes. A handful remained loyal to you despite your sentence, and some still lived at present. Even Loki could remember their faces, how they were somehow frozen into contortion expressing indefinite derisiveness whenever they stepped foot into the Golden Palace. They scorned the King, but never enough to raise an impression.

The idea was on the tip of his tongue, but Thor beat him to it– “Then we shall find her. Before she makes allies, we’ll be sure to have her,” He turns to his brother, “you and I, and our men. We’d make a formidable search party.”

Loki rolls his eyes, his hands tighten behind him as he clears his throat. “With your permission, father?”

The hopeful look in Bernhard’s eyes does not escape the sights of the king and his youngest son. In hindsight the idea seemed rash, but would there be anyone else so willing to take the quest?

Was The Wraith as vulnerable as they say? Or are they merely imploring for action to be taken. Either way, his sons were capable, he knew that far. Should they find her, you, you’d be returned to Asgard to where you rightfully belonged. Fjaerheim took you as a prize, a cruel symbol of loyalty to the Golden Kingdom. But they’d failed.

The thought lingers, but he keeps it at bay. Your power, the Aether. No one else had wielded it for so long before losing their minds or deteriorating physically. With that kind of power how, had you stood for so long? And with that kind of power within an arm’s reach from him…

“Very well. The princes of Asgard shall lead a search party to seek out the prisoner. Thor shall take five of his best men, and Loki shall take five of his best enchanters–”

“I’ll fare perfectly fine with just two.”

“...Two of his best enchanters, and Vanaheim and Fjaerheim can provide as much as they deem fit for this venture.” The Allfather moves in his seat, leaning forward. “However, I duly suggest to simmer down any animosity between the two nations for the time this shall take place. Asgard and Vanaheim are powerful, but only the Fjaervakt can be certain of their own lands.”

“Of course, sire.”

“Then it is settled.” Two thuds of a spear resound.

Bernhard rises from his knees and graces the family with one last bow.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Afternote: Just reuploading progress from my Ao3!!! what are your favourite Loki headcanons? I really like the idea that he has a snake sanctuary somewhere. Also that he transforms into a snake when he doesn’t feel like talking to people lolll

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki x reader slowburn #loki of asgard #loki angst #prince loki #fem reader

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