Chapter Text
“Loki, stop it.”
“Loki, please. I’m trying to read.”
“Loki, that –” he chuckled, “Hehe, he –” his giggles escalated, “Loki, stop! You know how ticklish I am!”
A flip of the page. The article was boring boring boring but Christine had asked for his help appraising it for a presentation and –
“Hey, don’t!” he tried shaking Loki off, but to dislodge his slippery husband off his ascent into his crotch was more difficult than he imagined, “This is hardly the time or the place, Loki!”
Loki slid down and Stephen heaved a sigh of relief, but yelped when a sudden sharp pain pricked him in his ankle – “Ow!! Loki!!!”
“What?” Loki stuck his head outside, a beret and painter’s brush in his hand. Here he was, getting painting lessons from the great Caravaggio himself (dead and in spirit form unfortunately, but no less talented) and his husband was making so much noise for someone who was supposed to be reading.
Stephen’s heart leapt to his throat. The pain quickly blossomed into a burning, prickling fire and in a matter of heartbeats agony erupted up his leg into his pelvis, all the way up to his heart as the venom coursed through his veins – and suddenly the ground was up and the sky was down.
“Not again, Strange!” Loki yelled. All hell broke loose as everyone scrambled in all directions either trying to catch the snake or get away from it.
“Urgh, green mamba venom is the worst! Tastes like putrified dog flesh fermented in fish guts!” Loki sucked and spat and sucked and spat some more – “I thought you’re supposed to be the doctor around here!”
“Sorry, darling.”
The world was getting cold.
His teeth chattered.
“I think I’m dying.”
“Yeah. Hold that pose. I’ll paint you later and you can send it back in time and pass it off as Caravaggio’s. You look so macabre.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m dying.”
“Uhuh. Your life insurance policy is in the second top dresser drawer, yes?”
“Loki…”
“Stephen. We’ve been married twenty years now. You still can’t tell me apart.”
“All snakes look the same…”
“Thanks.”