Chapter Text
You were a servant in the royal palace of Asgard, a personal attendant to the younger prince, which you were more than grateful for, your low station qualifying you for only the most menial of tasks. Your mother had often told you as a young girl that your looks compared to the most elegant of princesses, and that they would one day allow you to rise above your station. You had never believed her, resigning yourself to the life that had been dealt you, until during an excursion, you had been hand-chosen by the prince, due to a difficult situation that you had happened to be there for. It was all purely chance, though your mother insisted that the gods had granted you this opportunity. Gods or not, you would make the most of the situation, glad to every day have the chance to see the raven-haired prince, Loki.
When the prince did not need you, you would retreat to your room, sit in the library, or, if the weather so permitted, outside and draw. Your sketchbook had many pictures through it, many of landscapes, or unknown characters, but most different pictures of the prince. They were highly detailed, ranging from looks of anger to the softest smiles that made your heart melt.
The weather was pleasant today, so you sat on one of the garden benches, and resumed one of your drawings of the Prince. He was looking at the person in front of the drawing with a face of pure admiration, his mouth stretched into a half smile, and you continued to work on his hair, and face, wanting to get every detail possible correct, though you were having a few problems. Your moments of drawing put you at peace, and you soon matched the expression that you had drawn on the paper.
You felt a presence behind you, and you carefully put down your pencil. It leaned in close and you tensed, not used to the invasion of personal space. Your face blushed, and you looked to the side to see who was behind you. Squeaking, you jumped, the sketchbook falling from your lap, when you realized who was behind you.
“Your highness, I-”
He had picked up your sketchbook, and flipped through, looking at it questioningly.
“You drew these, did you not?”
“Yes, sir.” You looked down at the ground, mortified.
“They are quite good.” He walked over behind you, pulling all of your hair over to one side, and leaned in close. You could feel his hot breath on your neck and ear, and you shivered, your heart beating faster. “You're quite talented.”
“Th-thank you.”
He went back to the picture you were on, and handed you your pencil.
“Perhaps I can help.” He sat next to you, and turned to face you, the expression on his face the one from the notebook, and you, unknowing of what to say, resumed your work, finishing every detail to a near perfect likeness of the man before you. When you were finished, you showed him the photo, to which he nodded thoughtfully.
He took the book from you and set it down, leaning to you once more. He whispered to you.
“Dear maiden, draw this.” He pulled you to him, running one hand through your hair, the other holding your chin gently, as he kisses your cheek. You face goes red, and you suddenly loose your breath. When he back up again, you smile, looking up at him as he stands.
“I must take my leave as there are matters I must attend to. I shall return later, maiden.”
He walked off, leaving you with a whole new subject of things to draw.