Work Text:
Tousled black curls flew in the wind and the man- infamously known as the “God of Mischief”- gave a mental pat on the back and a vaguely frightening smirk to himself.
Another day, another haul.
Living on the waters that stay salty, vast and all-seeing was rather satisfying and Loki couldn’t ask for anything more (lies).
He was neck-deep in the fulfilment of his life (lies again).
He had everything he needed and then some more (blatant lies).
He was content and never bored with his travels and hobbies (the lies seem to be growing wilder than thorn bushes that are given impeccable care).
To himself, though, he has no qualms about accepting the facts, hell, calling himself out, even. He was so done with the monotony and he craved for something new, something far more adventurous than his usual run-of-the-mill treachery and looting.
From the corner of his eyes, Loki could see his cousin sister herd the crewmates to their work after a brief respite. After all, they were tactically retreating (Loki cringed) after some big shot from the Army had stumbled on Loki’s operation. Stumbled being the keyword because he undoubtedly believes that no one in the Army is smart enough to think and lay a glance at him, let alone set an elaborate trap.
“By the Gods,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, somewhat disturbed by his train of thought, “I must be so deprived of amusement if I’m thinking about the Army of all godforsaken things.”
Alas to say, it took a plank piece to the head and a clearly mocking eyebrow from Sylvie to clear his head and throw the dirtiest look he could (while still seeming dignified) to his sister and the matter was put out of his mind.
The plans for the ships of an important merchant group were coming along very well and both Loki and Sylvie were glad that there wouldn’t be any additional problems. They already have enough problems in the shape of lack of funds, rapidly finishing provisions, the aftermath of the last uprising (Loki still remembers that day like it was yesterday- it was a messy affair, alright) and now the bloody Army. Then again, if the plans they’ve made end up being a complete success, the entire crew will have a lot fewer issues on their hands.
But frankly? He needed a new hobby.
The pub in the little coastal town was characteristically packed, the throes of drunks and gambling addicts pushing at each other trying to make space for each other.
Loki and his crew had made their niche on the centre table, all the while declaring themselves to be the best team to play a little wager. Sylvie, on the other hand, having a little bit of self-awareness, knew that she might not be able to hold too much liquor and had retreated to her room upstairs, away from the bustle at the bar, not before telling Loki and the others to take care.
Drunk Loki was a boisterous one and it was not long after Sylvie’s departure that he’d riled up an arse who thought he’d seen Loki cheat while laying out his cards (he did, but this fool couldn’t possibly have seen it, no way).
“Are you really so drunk out of your head that you’re seeing things that aren’t there?” mocked Loki, a smile on his face that made the other individual wanna smack him until that smile disappears.
“Shut up, you fucking-”
“Ahh- mind your language, you blithering idiot. You have no liberty to talk to me, of all people, in that tone of voice. How,” he paused, the disdain crystal-clear in his mannerisms, “ tasteless .”
“You little-” The man snarled. “I’ll show you tasteless!”
He attempted to drop a punch but drunk or not, Loki was a superior fighter. The demigod, as he called himself, dodged the sloppy hit and delivered a swift blow to the side of the other person’s neck with a force he couldn’t control. The man fell, clutching the hurt area and passed out as he crumpled to the floor.
With a dangerous smirk on his face, Loki looked around at the gobsmacked people and revelled in the silence that had descended. He called out, “Anyone else who has anything to add?”
Then, turning to the bartender, he mock-whispered, gesturing towards the fallen man, “Clear this up, will you? There’s trash lying right there.”
That was when he realized that none of the faces looked like they found this fight funny.
Loki let out an embarrassing squawk of protest when he found himself being bundled to one of the rooms (that he did pay for but still, their audacity to shove him around) inside the establishment by two people who looked like guards.
“I’m a feared pirate! Is this how you treat me? I-”
He was pushed in and he heard the door get bolted from outside.
“HOW DARE YOU!”
An hour later, Loki felt just as petulant as he did before when the door unbolted. A man, nay - an accountant, really ( they are a different breed, Sylvie, honestly )- stepped in without paying heed to the literal God of Mischief sitting right there and then locked the door from inside. The man in the tan-coloured jacket then turned around, his eyes shut, then sighed and Loki’s heart somehow did a small lurch.
What? What in the world-
The weird (but hot) little man with his weird (why is that also hot?) moustache slowly opened his eyes, did a double-take and then proceeded to look around in the room with barely disguised awkwardness. Suddenly, Loki found the silver-haired man with the crooked tie very fascinating. Most people would give him long-drawn glances of distrust, lust, fear, or a mix of all these- then this man walks in, perhaps trying to get away from the crowd, and runs a cursory eye over him and ignores him? What is he? Some sort of-
Loki’s introspection was broken when the folksy dope pulled up a nearby chair and said, “I’m Mobius.”
Mobius would say he was surprised when the man sitting in front of him pouted just a bit and jerked his head to look away from the hand Mobius had offered, but he wasn’t. If anything, the man looked like an overgrown (very attractive though) baby who was busy sitting out their tantrums. Mobius almost wanted to laugh, but he controlled it. It wouldn’t do any good to be rude to people , he thought, when the man in the green robes- robes? - spoke up.
“Loki. God of Mischief.”
Mobius sucked in a breath and the God of Mi- Loki turned to look at him. This was the man who has been running him ragged for the past year and he’s so close- right next to him and Mobius could do nothing because he has no means of catching this minx once and for all.
Mobius is pretty good at reading people but something about this man made his heart race in excitement and uneasiness all at once; he couldn’t decipher a single thing about him- his mannerisms, his words, his anything.
It scared Mobius, not that he’d let a challenge like this put him down.
The agent engaged the pirate in a conversation about the most random things. Loki could say for a fact that it had been far too long since he’d had a company that’d listen to his rambling and pipe in with thoughts that follow his line of thinking.
A few hours into the conversation and the mutual admiration rose ten-fold, and there was nothing that either of them could do about it.
They stopped when the agent fell asleep, his hand on the pirate’s elbow, just touching softly. In a moment of vulnerability, Loki lightly brushed away a stray lock of hair on the sleeping man’s forehead and pulled his hand back immediately. He unbolted the door and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
When Mobius woke up, he found his bag of money gone. The keys of his house and an elaborately designed dagger was lying on the desk by the bed, where he’d lain, with a note beside it.
The note read, Thanks for the lovely chat, Agent. It was a pleasure talking to you. Yours in mischief, Loki. with a crude drawing of something that was supposed to be his face. Probably.
The man was torn between exasperation and admiration.
The God of Mischief will be the death of him.