Loki X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Loki's POV (first Person) 'Girl With The Gold Earring' (Part 3)

I do partake in my constitutional, eventually, but I don't remember where I went.

I must have gone somewhere because my shoes are wet, a few blades of grass sticking to the toes.

The sun is almost all the way up now but, when I pad up the gravel driveway, the woman washing the steps is still there, stooped over her mop.

She's using the handle to prop herself up, and her shoes are wetter than mine are, the hem of her uniform hanging damply, stained dark a drab grey with soapy water. Her breath swirls in the frigid air, and, with a sinking feeling, I realise she's trying to angle herself to catch the feeble, powerless warmth of the early morning sun. 

The sight of her gives me mild chest pains. 

She's almost finished, and something in me urges me to talk to her because she'll be gone soon.

I wish I knew her so I could sketch her.

I want to sketch her in every light, in every style. In my head, like a swarm of butterflies, the plans and ideas explode, morphing, evolving and taking shape. There are thousands of them waiting to happen—a sketch of her cheek graced with moonlight, a painting of her eyes lit with sunbeams, a canvas filled with her hair tangled in a summer wind—

I have to have them all.

I want to collect them.

I could create them now, immediately, spend all day on them, all week, all month. No doubt her face will be branded onto the walls of my mind for the rest of my life like a framed portrait; its most prized possession.

I could sprint to my rooms clutching that image and—

And what?

I've sketched the servants before, but this feels different.

I've sketched Alfie's knobbled fingers working a darning needle—because the bones fascinate me, all their angles and joints and knots flicking about like spider's legs.

I've sketched the royal bakers' vast, muscled arms as they pummel the soft dough—because I'm entranced by the sweeping, exaggerated strokes.

I've sketched maid's thoughtful faces in secret as they wipe down the windows, and, from behind curtains, inked guard's glinting armour as they patrol the hallways.

But to sketch this woman—to possess an image of her beauty without her knowledge—it feels wrong.

I imagine myself hunched over my desk, caressing the curves of her face with a charcoal stick—

It makes my stomach twist itself into a disgusted, shameful fist. 

I do not know her, that is the problem.

I wish I did.

I could introduce myself. 

I urge my feet to take me to where she's dunking her mop into her bucket, but they're not doing what I want and my breath is coming out all fast and I keep walking until I've passed her because I am a coward. 

...

I can't settle on anything for the rest of the day.

I try to paint but end up boredly stirring the pigments, unable to decide where to put them.

I walk around my chambers like a caged beast before falling into my desk chair, one leg bouncing rhythmically under the table.

My desk is more of a bureau, with rows of carved drawers, and a wide, smooth wooden surface for writing letters.