Loki X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Loki's POV (first person) 'Girl With The Gold Earring' (Part 1)

AUTHORS NOTE:

I'VE FINALLY DONE IT! People kept requesting this, and I didn't really know how I wanted to go about it until I heard a line the other day in a movie called The Terminal:

"He's so sick, he's so in love."

Idk, I just think that's how I imagine Loki when he saw Y/N.

Seeing as Loki is a frost giant, I decided to make up some lore and have fun imagining how his species might experience love. The idea of 'soulmates' is so tragic and powerful and fun to write, I decided to apply it to Jöttunns.

Imagine, if you will, that—biologically—Loki is wired to feel love for one single mate in his lifetime, and he can sense, perhaps with some kind of magic? When he has met that one person.

Jöttunns can, literally, fall in love at first sight.

Loki of course doesn't know he is a frost giant yet, so he has no idea this is what's happening to him.

I love the idea of him having never felt attraction before, for a thousand years, and then suddenly BOOM he sets eyes on Y/N and freaks out because he's feeling all these feelings for the first time. 

(Please note, I am not re-writing my entire book from Loki's POV, just a tiny teeny bit at the start. I find first-person books so so gross and cringe---it's a me problem 😅---so I've made this available as a 3rd person Loki POV as well (in this book))

...

The gold thread of my pillow case is pressing a red, knot-shaped groove onto my cheekbone. It's been doing that for at least forty minutes, yet I still haven't moved.

One of my pillows has slithered down in the night and I must have rolled onto it; the silk slippery and cold like a fish against my neck.

Blindly, I drag an arm up and grab at one of the curtains that creates a thick, velvet cage about my bed. My fingers catch a fistful of embroidery thread (scrunching a bejewelled peacock in my palm in the process) and I yank it aside, peeling open an eyelid.

The sun hasn't yet crested the windowsill, the semi-darkness drowning the golds and greens of my bed chambers into drab greys.

I'm not a morning person, by nature, but sometimes I go to bed early because there's nothing to do, so, naturally, I wake up early—but there's still nothing to do. I know that on a deep, instinctual level and yet I still keep doing it.

Swinging my legs out of bed, the marble floor meets my feet with the chill of ice. There used to be a rug there—I think it was red—but I kicked it under the bed. I like the cold. It wakes me up.

Stretching my arms up over my head, I stand before one of the full-length windows, leaning an elbow on the glass. My breath turns to fog against the pane, but only for half a second. 

The dawn is brightening into a milky sort of purple; the night-time mist meeting the scraggly clouds halfway and mixing into a foggy lump of moisture. It's so thick I can barely see to the end of The Walled Garden, the red bricks disappearing into the gloom in a way that would be magical—if I didn't know exactly what lies beyond. 

Way down below, a minuscule speck of a person mops the steps preceding The Palace's main entrance. They're just a beige boat on an ocean of golden slabs, their mop like a tiny, useless little oar. 

The height of sixteen floors is too dizzying to look at for long, and I draw away, padding aimlessly through to the living area of my quarters. 

The fire from yesterday is now just a heap of white ash, and I sweep a few stray cinders back into the gargantuan, gaping mouth of the hearth with the wire brush hanging on its special peg. Before bed, I'd finished the book I'd been reading with a glass of milk and some biscuits I'd borrowed from the kitchen. The milk is gone but as I place the book back on its shelf I nibble the last biscuit on the plate. It's turned stale, but it's buttery, and the jam filling is still pleasant enough.