Loki X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Loki's POV (first person) (Girl With The Golden Earring' (Part 2)

I've meandered down two floors, the view from the fourteenth still high above the clouds.

I can already smell breakfast cooking, the scent of it making my nose wrinkle.

It's a pungent mixture of what seems to be bacon rashers, smoked fish, crepes, and fried dough. Individually, each dish grilling and boiling and sizzling away would be more than appetising, but together, all heaped on top of each other, they smell like the bucket of leftovers we toss into the pig pen.

There will only be three of us at the table for breakfast—I think Thor is still taking care of his business on Midgard—yet the palace chefs will cook enough for a banquet.

They have done this since the beginning of time, and will presumably do it until the end.

Apparently, Thor and I are the first in our bloodline to develop Shame. Mother might have too, when she married into the family, but she hasn't hassled Father to put a stop to the tradition, so how ashamed could she be?

Both Thor and I developed different ways of dealing with this guilt emotionally; his being to stuff his face with as much of it as possible to save it from the bin, and mine is to avoid the whole thing altogether.

I consider myself a scavenger (this is the second time I have compared myself to a crow—for those of you who are counting). I live mainly off of nuts, fruit, and sweet treats I can snaffle from the kitchen staff, which I hide in my rooms until such a time as I wish to consume them.

Despite the smell, eating will give me something to do, so I follow the confusing scent to the kitchen.

There are several kitchens in The Palace. They grow off the dining hall like tumours, and each one serves a different purpose. This kitchen is for everyday meal-prep and is constantly oozing smells, ringing with clattering pans, and breathing steam and smoke from the fires and pots—like a beating heart, it never stops.

Presently, with barely several hours until breakfast is due to be laid out on the vast oak table, the kitchen is abuzz with activity. As I peek around the door, I am invisible; men and women in white linen rushing past me carrying trays and bubbling pots and barking orders to each other.

On the other side of the room, her broad back to me, the head chef is piping jam into little envelopes of pastry, her elbows protruding at two stiff angles.

Her name is Helga and she's perfectly nice, but she calls me 'Young Master Odinson' no matter how many times I ask her not to. I'll ask "How is the morning treating you, Helga?"

And she'll say "Most pleasantly, Master Odinson."

And I'll say "How are things amongst the servants, Helga?"

And she'll say "Perfectly well, master Odinson'."

That's not a conversation, is it?

That's the problem with servants. They'll all obey any order you give them, unless that order is to treat you like a person.

I'm not awake enough yet to navigate small talk so I creep inside quietly, although there's really no need.

The sound of eggs frying in several different skillets is enough to mask my footsteps, and I approach the trolley of heaped plates waiting to be sent out to the dining room.

They'll leave at six forty-five on the dot.

Helga has timed it perfectly, preparing the cold dishes first and leaving gaps for the hot dishes that will be placed down just before the cart is whisked out the door.

Already, there are pink and white, miniature cakes as big as my thumbnail, scotch eggs presented on beds of green leaves, a stack of fruit-stained parchment-thin, crispy tartlets—