R A N D O M || OS

10. (MCU) Loki - Of Sinners and Saints *

https://handmaiden-of-mischief.tumblr.com/

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Loki x female reader (the reader is Asgardian as well)

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | "Never leave the convent's sacred ground - for there is a monster hunting for you." This warning is the one thing your mother left you, written in a letter left with you on the steps of the convent's chapel when you were an infant. The sacred grounds are all you've known, the rules of the church that throttle you like a corset laced too tight. And the strange dreams gracing your sleep ever since you entered adulthood - of a stranger with sapphire eyes and raven hair. Nothing but dreams filling you with a longing you cannot put into words - until one night during midnight mass, you encounter the new priest, a beautiful stranger with sapphire eyes and raven hair. And he seems to recognize you as well.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 | a soulmate au with fairy tale vibes, Loki disguising himself as a priest, lots of smut and romance

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 10 k

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | SMUT (ONLY READ IF YOU'RE 18+ YEARS OLD!), unprotected sex (please be safe in real life and wear a condom!), masturbation, slight voyeurism, reader calling Loki Father once because she thinks he's a priest, sex in a church. It's getting blasphemous, lovelies, so buckle up and have your holy water at the ready.

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𝐀/𝐍: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬, 𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐨𝐮" 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩.𝐨.𝐯.

Branches whip her cheeks as she stumbles through the woods, the path ahead winding like a snake through the thicket, barely lit by the patches of moonlight which filter through the canopy of leaves forming the roof of the forest. Thorns tear at her cloak, and the fabric is ripped apart as she stumbles, her grip around the infant in her arms tightening – yet still, she doesn't slow down. She can't slow down. Not when she's so close.

Safety. She needs to get her to safety.

The new-born in her arms is still, as if she can sense the danger creeping through the tranquil night, the monstrous creature which will start hunting for her soon enough, with black magic curling through every crevice of the Nine Realms in search for what belongs to him, belongs with him, his mind as twisted and sharp like the tree branches jutting into the path to slash the fabric of her cloak and tear cuts into the skin of her cheeks.

Through the web of branches, she can see the lights in the distance, like benevolent faerie guiding her through the darkness of the forest as her tired legs carry her further and further through the thicket. A noise rips from the back of her throat, an outcry of relief mingling with a sob.

So close.

The forest gives way to a graveyard, the jagged wooden crosses and tombstones like silent onlookers as she stumbles along the gravelly path that leads up to the church which looms ahead like a silent guardian. The building is old. Ivy climbs up the northern wall like snakes, hacking roots into the cracks between the withered stones as if the forest were slowly reclaiming what has been stolen from it centuries ago.

Frost laces the air with every ragged breath she takes, and the tears which run down her face freeze in the cold air of the winter night.

And still, these tears keep running.