Loki did partake in his constitutional, eventually, but he doesn't remember where he went.
He figures he must have gone somewhere because his shoes are wet, a few blades of grass sticking to the toes.
The sun is almost all the way up now but, when he pads 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 Loki's, 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, Loki realises she's trying to angle herself to catch the feeble, powerless warmth of the early morning sun.
The sight of her gives him mild chest pains.
She's almost finished, and something in him urges him to talk to her because she'll be gone soon.
He finds himself wishing he knew her so he could sketch her.
He wants to sketch her in every light, in every style. In his 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—
He has to have them all.
He wants to collect them.
He 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 his mind for the rest of his life like a framed portrait; its most prized possession.
He could sprint to his rooms clutching that image and—
And what?
He's sketched the servants before, but this feels different.
He's sketched Alfie's knobbled fingers working a darning needle—because the bones fascinate him, all their angles and joints and knots flicking about like spider's legs.
He's sketched the royal bakers' vast, muscled arms as they pummel the soft dough—because he's entranced by the sweeping, exaggerated strokes.
He's 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.
He imagines himself hunched over his desk, caressing the curves of her face with a charcoal stick—
It makes his stomach twist itself into a disgusted, shameful fist.
He does not know her, that is the problem.
He wishes he did.
He should introduce himself.
He urges his feet to take him to where she's dunking her mop into her bucket, but they're not doing what he wants and his breath is coming out all fast and he keeps walking until he's passed her because he is a coward.
...
Loki can't settle on anything for the rest of the day.
He tries to paint, but ends up boredly stirring the pigments, unable to decide where to put them.
He stalks around his chambers like a caged beast before falling into his desk chair, one leg bouncing rhythmically under the table.
His desk is more of a bureau, with rows of carved drawers and a wide, smooth wooden surface for writing letters.
YOU ARE READING
Loki X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇
Fanfiction🔞 Mostly tasteful, steamy, atmospheric smut so far 😅 Some stuff set on Earth, some on Asgard. Loki's Jöttunn form included 🧊❄️. I do take requests 💬
