Loki X Reader || Girl With The Gold Earring

24 | A Tenacious Tortoise

Every session started like that from then on.

Loki always bends down, taking a knee as though to propose, sometimes cupping the line of Y/N's jaw, or curling a finger about her chin. He'll ease her face close to his own as if to kiss her---but he never does. Every time, as if bumping into an invisible barrier, he comes to a halt, his cool breath grazing Y/N's skin through his parted lips.

At first, she'd thought he was messing with her; teasingly withholding his touch, knowing she's aching for it and revelling in her torment. But, a few kisses later, it dawned on her that his hesitation might be down to something else.

The way he catches himself before claiming her mouth---it's almost as if he's waiting for her to push him away. Surely, he must know she wants him? All of him; his pointy, curling smile when he's particularly pleased with himself, his slick, witty personality, his skin pale as freshly fallen snow and almost as cold.

Perhaps it's a gentlemanly act of courtesy---him waiting there for Y/N to eliminate those final few millimetres between their mouths? He doesn't want to overwhelm her, to appear too forward, too ravenous, too hungry.

But he seems ravenous---as soon as Y/N initiates the kiss, it's like she's granted him permission, or opened a flood gate. He bundles her up against the solidness of his chest like he needs her there, clutches her waist like he wants to touch her there, tilts his head like he's aching for the taste of her---whatever had been holding him back before completely forgotten.

So why does he never kiss her first?

Maybe he's giving her a chance to change her mind. After all, their kisses are not as simple as two people who love each other sharing a tender touch. They're not even the byproduct of a complicated friends-bordering-on-lovers relationship whose nature is yet unclear. There is no relationship. Every squeeze of Loki's hands, every flick of his pointy tongue, every press of his lips has been due to, because of, and for...

A painting. His reluctance to pounce on her---like Y/N so wishes he would---makes that fact glaringly obvious. It prods at her like a stone in her shoe.

-- ❈ --

"Ah, Y/N, there you are."

Y/N looked up from her dinner to find a heap of neatly-folded washing making its way carefully across the mess hall. She watched as it picked a path through the remaining diners before finally coming to a stop, Alfdis' little face popping out from one side.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something." The little old lady's tone was light, but there was something soft and apologetic behind her eyes that made Y/N nervous.

All the same, she swallowed her mouthful of what Yllva had advertised as stewed vegetables, and pulled on what she hoped appeared to be a welcoming smile. "Good news, I hope?"

The lines surrounding Alfdis' mouth shifted with the ghost of a frown as she brushed a few crumbs from the table and set her pile of laundry down. "I don't think it is, I'm afraid." She took a second to catch her breath, and Y/N wondered what was draining her; the burden of supporting a pile of linen equal to her in size, or the message she was about to deliver.

Y/N took a cup from the centre of the table and poured her a glass of water from the carafe. Alfdis took it gratefully, and perched on the bench at Y/N's side, postponing whatever task she was in the middle of. 

'Someone must have died,' Y/N thought grimly, and angled herself towards the older woman, who cupped her glass in her lap in both hands and moistened the thin dash of her upper lip.