Odin sits atop the royal throne, hand massaging circles into his beard as he consider the turns his life had taken recently.
The Frost Giants had invaded his palace, had killed his guards. But that was nothing worth waging a war over. But his sons had been thirsty for blood, thirsty for the power of Odin's own crown.
He takes that same crown from his head, rotating it in a slow circle for examination.
It is truly worthy of a king. The crown is of solid gold, just as most of the castle's amenities. It is artfully encrusted with jewels, lacking no glamour in their own brilliance. He runs a hand over the edges of the points, which are sharp, seeming to catch the light as the finest razorblade would.
With a hearty chortle, Odin is reminded of the time he had charged at a Jotun, bent at the hips, to impale the creature in its chest. The crown had stuck there, in the Jotun's chest cavity, until, with a powerful grunt, Odin had yanked it free. He had placed the crown proudly upon his head once more, eyes closed as he indulged in the feeling of thick Jotun blood drooling down his face, over his lips.
Since then, the royal crown had been polished and restored to its former wonder. And it is indeed wonderful.
Odin giggles humorlessly, running his fingertips down his own face. The crown is, of course, dull in comparison to the king's radiance.
None of its jewels could ever hope to rival the godly sapphire shining out of Odin's remaining eye. Odin's smile would always lighten up the room more sufficiently than some glamorous piece of jewelry. His pale, Asgardian skin is smoother to the touch than the gilded crown. And, much unlike the lifeless crown, Odin is capable of growing a beard whiter than snow. Odin shakes his head, setting the crown gently upon his hair once more.
Yes, the crown is very lucky to sit upon Odin's head.
"You're welcome," he whispers to the inanimate headdress.
Odin sighs, resting his chin in his palm. He could marvel at himself for hours. He has before, actually. He had summoned a mirror to the throne, and he stared at himself for half of a day. Only once Frigga had found him did he realize he was so close to the mirror that his drool had started to spill down the glass.
What was it that Frigga had told him? "I think you're beautiful, too,"? "Please teach me how to look more like you,"? "Forgive me for having the ignorance to not pay mind to your brilliance sooner,"? No, no, she had said—
"My husband, the king of Asgard, a complete and utter narcissist."
Snapping from the memory, Odin leaps from the throne. He wishes to scoff at the ancient accusation, to refute the lies of his wife. But, looking back on that lazy day of gazing longingly at his own reflection, Odin accepts that he is indeed acting like a narcissist. He heaves a sigh.
"Oh, what to do?" he thinks aloud. He cannot allow his people to think of him as a vain, self-obsessed beauty queen—although he is without a doubt a beauty. No, he would have to take action.
Odin nods solemnly, conscious of his next move. He will have to do exactly what he would do to either of his sons. Odin is in need of a disciplinary spanking.
At that moment, his wife slips into the throne room through the grand double doors. Before he has time to compare his own looks to the sorry ones of the inferior door, he reminds himself of what needs to be done.
"Frigga! My, er… lovely wife!" he calls. "Just as I was in dire need of you!" Frigga arches an eyebrow, and Odin quells the urge to tell her she needs to pluck them again.
"In need of me? What for?" Odins shifts, trying to put his need into words.
"Well, this is very out of the ordinary. But, I found myself feeling unacceptably narcissistic—after all, I am a man who commands respect-, and... I am in need of punishment."
Frigga's eyes widen, but she slowly comes forward all the same.
"You wish for me to… punish you?" she asks. Odin nods hesitantly.
"Yes, that is the only way for me to learn my lesson." Frigga looks unsure, wringing her hands. Her long fingers twist themselves, and Odin begins to think condescendingly of her spindly digits.
He shakes his head to clear it.
"How would I go about punishing you?" Odin fidgets with the sleeve of his robes.
"I require your spanks, Frigga."
"Oh!" she says, mouth falling open. Odin feels heat rise to his gorgeous face.
"Are you up to the job, my queen? I cannot have my people thinking that I'm vain..." Frigga nods determinedly, glad that they're finally addressing this issue.
"Of course. What needs to be done must be done."
"Excellent!" Odin strides back to the throne followed by a somewhat apprehensive Frigga. He bends over the arm of the throne, tush readied in the air.
"Oh, I don't know. I've never been the one to do the spanking." Odin peers over his shoulder at her.
"It is easy. You've seen me do this to unruly guards before, yes? Just imitate me," he advises her.
"I am not capable of all that wild yowling…" Odin rolls his eye.
"Skip the battle cries, then. Proceed, Frigga. I need this."
With a shrug, Frigga raises her hand above her head. She brings it down on Odin's clothed hindquarters, and a slap echoes. She repeats this multiple times, trying harder and harder with each strike, but Odin doesn't squirm or whine at all.
"What are you doing back there, stroking a kitten?! I've been bad, Frigga!" She halts in her spanking, hands hovering fretfully.
"I'm trying, I'm trying!" she says. She brings her hand down several more times, even changing position for better leverage. Odin growls, straightening up.
"Oh, it's no use!" he cries. "You don't have the proper strength for this task!"
"I'm not good at this," agrees Frigga. "Perhaps we should ask Heimdall?" she suggests. Odin shakes his head.
"No, Heimdall is too busy. We'll have to improvise." Then, something occurs to him. Only Odin can properly discipline himself. He needs to spank himself.
"I understand," he mutters. "I have to do it myself."
Without further ado, Odin tilts himself over the throne again. He stretches his hand backwards and, bracing himself, slaps his own rear.
The pain is instantaneous. He snarls in agony, and Frigga skitters away from the throne in fright. He does not relent, spanking himself over and over again, teeth clenched tight.
The sight isn't pretty. The king has fallen onto his back, legs raised in the air. His hands reach backwards, both of them, and they wreak havoc on his posterior. His hands take turns smacking his rump, his face tinted tomato-red. His voice is torn between crying out in pain and scolding himself in furious, nearly incomprehensible yelps.
Frigga glances nervously at the door, praying that nobody walks in on the horrific sight.
Eventually, Odin collapses onto his side, his hands and butt all very sore. A silence stretches on between him and his wife.
"Have… have you learned your lesson?" tries Frigga. He nods slowly, moaning in affirmation.
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