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He saunters over, gliding softly through the room and cutting through the tension with a sharpness that makes the agent’s heart stutter. His mouth is dry when the lankiness of the god is straddling his lap, the scent of brown liquor sweating from his pores. Intoxicating. No, toxic. He can’t help the way his eyes dance around Loki’s form. From the way his shirt hugs his chest with a translucent quality, hinting at curves and body hair; to the way his throat bobs and the veins in his neck strain; to the way his waves act as a curtain of oil to whatever act may transpire; to the way his eyes won’t leave his own.
He has to laugh. Squeeze his eyes shut and push at Loki’s arms that bar him to his chair. He only leans in closer, nosing—nearly nuzzling— his neck.
“Let me do what a trickster god is made for,” he slurs in a tone too confident to seem Loki enough to him.
In a voice strangled by longing, “And what is that exactly?” Mobius chuckles nervously. “Tricks? That can’t be too appealing. Endless silk handkerchiefs being pulled from...” he trails off, the image coming to mind being too gruesome to entertain.
That annoys him enough to give Mobius a bit more space. His hands leave his body, the loss stinging. Loki leans his hips onto his thighs. His gaze lingers on Mobius’ smile-stretched lips, though there is a lust missing from his eye. Much more full of distaste, they were.
With a roll of his eyes, “Why must everything be a joke to you-“
“Oh, you know that’s rich coming from you.” Imitating his accent, “Why must everything be a game to you? Why are you in my lap, man?” He’s still smiling, drawing out his words. Probably from his drinks. “Has every other plot fallen through? Do you really think that’s the way to earn my trust is through, through whatever...whatever this is. Is that what you think?”
“There! You can’t even say it! Two can play at your little psychoanalysis game. Why is it so difficult for you to take this seriously? It’s not even about love,” with disgust, “or whatever pathetic human emotion you may think this is about-“
“I was created by the Time Keepers. Does that make me human?” He’s shaking his head like he’s got this figured out.
“Essentially.”
“Then you’re as human as I am, yeah?” He leans back further in his chair, lazily planting his hand on Loki’s thigh after finishing his drink. Panic sets into his body. He can’t retract his hand like he’s been burnt or Loki will call his bluff. He can feel his palm growing increasingly sweaty as it rests on his pant leg. He tries to focus on the annoying little creases forming in his pants as he drags his fingers along Loki’s leg in a desperate effort to pull away. Biting his tongue smugly, Loki grabs his hand and guides it to his waist, closing some distance as he lays his head on Mobius’ chest. It’s heavy. He’s so warm. And seemingly small, even as his spine is curving awkwardly to compensate for their height difference.
“How much trouble do you get up to here?” His cheek moves against his shirt, his jaw cutting into his flesh.
“Trouble?” He laughs a little. He wants to reign it in, knows that Loki can see through it.
“I mean, there has to be the odd charming variant that’s doomed to a violent and horrific pruning. Seems like a perfect hookup situation, to be honest.”
“God, Loki, that’s awful! There may be no hope for you—not with those thoughts flying around up there.” He’s lost awareness of his roaming hand, absentmindedly feeling the texture of his clothing.
“Isn’t that what this is?”
“You’re not very charming,” he says, regaining a little more composure. He promises himself to not stop searching for Loki’s endgame in this situation. Even if his hands veer south.
“You’ve never done anything like this.” He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s narrating. His breath hastens, but he stays silent. Sins of omission. “There’s a lot more to living than jet skis.” He tugs at his skinny-tie, skillfully undoing a few buttons and resting his palm on his collarbone, thumb rubbing against his neck. His nose bumps into Mobius’ jaw, the hot puff of air on his skin sending a full-body shock through his core. “Just thought you should know.”
“This is such a pathetic attempt to gain autonomy,” he spits angrily, stretching away from Loki’s reach.
He rises from his lap, pouring another glass and downing it immediately. “Like you have any yourself. Wouldn’t you like to do the same?
Mobius rises from his chair, stalking to the other side of the room to shake off Loki’s scent. The weight of him. He’s near-goddamn-instantly regretting sharing that with Loki. Feels stupid for it. Feels like the first time he’s ever dealt with a Loki. Though this is the first incarnation of a Loki that feels real to him. Feels unnatural that he isn’t a part of the Sacred Timeline. This version is the one he deserves to live out. The one Loki can truly see himself in.
“No, actually. I’m perfectly omnipotent being an agent of this organization. More so than you may ever be, even with all the magic in the universe.”
“And yet, with all of that power, you still want simplicity. No, crave. Lust for mediocrity, don’t you?” Loki lets his glass fall to the commercially tiled floor with a crash. Mobius turns sharply. Attention. “Isn’t that what I am? I can see why I’m so interesting to you. Inferior in every way, hm? Something to take apart and make sense of before destroying. Make me see all of my faulty wirings before sending me to the shredder?”
“Yep. Totally. You figured it all out, Loki. Do you want a gold star? Incredible. There may be something of worth in you after all!” He laughs cruelly. “That’s what you want to hear, right? Takes all of the blame from you, lets you believe that the faults that you see in yourself aren’t actually there. Just feeble jabs from a human, of all things.”
He can feel Loki’s eyes raking over him. They stick to his anger-flushed neck. There’s a hunger. The way he’s looking at him has him reevaluating the words that left his mouth. Did they? This doesn’t seem like the appropriate reaction, and if it is, then he has unearthed something much more intriguing than anything in the past few hours.
He says nothing. Asks with squinted eyes and a questioning smirk, ‘what’s this?’
Loki’s lips part.
Impatient for a response, Mobius turns his back to him.
A mistake in hindsight.
Before he can even blink, there are hands on his shoulders that twist him around and slam him against the wall. Fingers find his collar and grip like they were the reins to Mobius himself. He grabs for Loki’s aggressive hands to shove him off, but he just turns his attention to pinning his wrists to the wall. Their faces are close. He has a sort of animal quality.
“Go on. Say more,” he whispers breathlessly.
Mobius sighs. “No, I’m not.” He rests his forehead against Loki’s. “I’m not feeding into your self-deprecation. Neither of us needs that right now. I’m sorry.” He knows Loki isn’t going to reciprocate the apology (because he’s immature and childish and unrelenting and stubborn and-), but he doesn’t want to hear a sorry from him. Finds the strangest longing to get him away from all of this. Foolish, really. To escape time. “Are you going to let me go or...”
“No, I don’t think I will.” He gives his wrists a squeeze while slithering towards his ear, faces cheek to cheek. “We have unfinished business.”
Mobius gives a huff of a laugh. “Business? Of what exactly?”
“Of life, Mobius,” is all he whispers before giving the shell of his ear a soft peck. The sensation makes his body jerk in response, Loki cooing and shushing him only making him thrash more. It feels juvenile to be this touch starved. It deviates from his purpose to experience things like this, so it’s understandable. It doesn’t make him feel any better about it, though. “Oh dear, he’s blushing,” Loki giggles.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, taking in a large breath. “Kiss me.”
“I think I’m just fine down here. Teasing you.” He feels Loki’s lips curve into a smile against his neck before returning to kisses. He opens his mouth, that damned mouth, on his throat, dragging his teeth and his tongue along his pulse point. He swears his knees are going out from under him.
“Please,” he whispers.
“You like this, don’t you? Lost control, a wild variant mauling you against the wall? I can get into it. Do you want to beg for me? Beg for a god’s blessing.” The thought of a blessing from Loki isn’t the most appealing, but he begs nevertheless. Trying to get what he wants while being bound by surprisingly strong hands. He knows if the moment struck, he could break free and take what was his, but knew that being held in Loki’s hands is exactly where he wanted to be.
All of his best pleas fall on deaf ears as Loki continues giving him shivers with his skilled tongue. “Just fucking kiss me.”
Loki smirks at that, but obliges. Pressing his lips to Mobius’, he loses his focus and lets his hands drift to his shoulder and the side of his head. Mobius ditches the opportunity to flip Loki against the wall and tangles his fingers in his belt loops. He isn’t breathing. He knows he should be, but he can’t. God, this must be awful for him. Apparently, he’s doing something right because Loki groans, pressing his body closer.
“Open,” is all he says.
He looks up into Loki’s blown eyes as he drops his jaw. His tongue licks into his mouth while Mobius stays still for him. He’s just leaning over him, tasting him like some foreign plateau offered to him on Asgard. That pleasure sinks deep, like it’s growing so large that it’s breaking him open. Molten lava. Then, unable to restrain himself, he crushes his mouth against Loki’s. He sucks on his tongue and hears, with horror and delight, their sounds of gratification melding together in the echoey room like the flavors of wine in a rounded glass. They both explore the caverns of each other’s mouths, competitive and comrade-like. It appears in his head again as a bullet lodged in his skull, what’s your endgame?