Tom Hiddleston & Loki Imagines (xReader)

Captive

I come out of my trance-like state so suddenly that I feel a literal bump. I feel like I've been dropped bodily back into the steel chair. My head snaps up abruptly. Had I started to drift off to sleep?

My sight is blurry, the way it would be if something had been pressed against my eyes. As it clears, I see that nothing around me looks to have changed. I'm still at the table; the candle is still burning; the quill is limp in my fingers.

The single difference is the new sound: a ringing in my head. Like the high-pitched squeal of an old-time TV that hasn't been tuned, but worse. ​​​​​​A dull throb of a headache threatens to explode into a full-blown migraine; I can't tell if it's from the ringing or from... whatever it was that Loki had done to my mind.

"Quite possibly both."

I suck in a sharp breath, not having expected a response.

He speaks from directly behind me. Close enough to make my hair stand on end. Loki seems to enjoy making my skin crawl and my anxiety spike. He's doing a bloody good job of it, too.

My head pounds viciously. I rub my temples, trying to relieve it at least a little.

"Your physiology will accustom itself to these sensations. Mortals are not often gifted with visions; not this kind, at any rate. Your weak little brain is adjusting. Give it time. And speaking of," I heard a grin in his glib, well-modulated voice— "You've been hard at work for quite a while, pet. Let me see what you've done so far."

'Quite a while'? What, has he been here the whole time? Watching?

Creep.

"No, not the whole time; I have far more important endeavors to oversee. I only waste my time with you during the critical points."

Rude.

"Almost as rude as the name you have just called me," he retorts.

I clench my jaw, willing myself to stay silent as I glare directly ahead.

A leather-clad arm reaches around me, coming uncomfortably close to touching my shoulder. The pale hand picking up the two-inch-thick stack of parchment on the table in front of me.

As he takes the papers, I look down at the quill held loosely between my fingers. I don't remember writing a single word, much less the hundred-odd pages Loki was now thumbing through. They seem to be filled front and back, from what I can see... which makes me wonder how my hand isn't absolutely killing me. It cramped badly after filling out a three-sheet job application last year; but here I've written what, one hundred ninety-eight pages? And it's perfectly fine.

"Preservation spell," Loki mumbles above my head, obviously still listening to my thoughts. He sounds bored as he explains. "While entranced, you enter into a state of physical stasis, feeling neither weariness, nor hunger, nor anything else. This allows for maximum efficiency, with minimal interruptions."

I... what? So I'm practically a zombie?

"More or less." The parchment rustles as he inspects each sheet. "Your handwriting is deplorable," he mumbles after several moments of disgruntled shuffling, more to himself than to me.

As if I can do anything about that. From his explanation, I'm not even what can be considered conscious while writing. He's lucky he can read it at all.

But it's his 'quite a while' comment that really bothers me. More than the legibility complaint. Gripping the quill for moral support, I lick my lips, which were dry and beginning to burn a little. "How long have I been—"