Archive of Our Own ^beta

Loki can't not say anything anymore.

He flicks his wrist to blink away the casting of his duplication hiding behind a golden pillar of the throne room, the lingering green specks of his magic going unseen by his parents. He squares his shoulders and pushes the doors open, poised to start a confident strut all the way to the throne. 

“It is only courteous of us to propose an option as well, the peace between the realms would-”

“Propose me.” 

Odin and Frigga both turn to watch him approach, hands splayed by his sides. Loki keeps his eyes trained on his father's shimmering eye-patch, part of the formal attire he wears to diplomatic meetings, knowing that if he were to look at his mother she would see right through him to the frantic beating of his heart trying to claw away at the leather of his vest.

“You just said it, each realm is sending a candidate, and Asgard can't be exempt-”

“When will you stop using your magic to eavesdrop-”

“Realistically, never. As I was saying-” Loki fiddles with his cape, swishing it to the side, hiding the nervous twitching of his fingers. “Asgard can't be exempt, because how would that absence look on the platter held by the vicious hand of the intergalactic rumor mill? I'm the most logical option. Second heir to the throne and a skilled sorcerer, so you're showing respect by sending out a direct heir but still securing a future king on our throne-”

Odin scoffs. “You'd be no match for the king of Midgard.” 

Loki can feel the words die in his throat along with the breath he was taking to keep pleading his case. He shifts his weight, torn between taking a step forward and a step back. The spike of hurt burrowing between his ribs rears its head with a leap towards the cutting edges of anger, his face twisting in a sneer.

“What, because I’m not your chosen golden boy? Tell me, Father, would Thor be a better match than me?” 

The moment Odin stands up from the throne, left eye twitching and mouth pressed in a thin line, Frigga treads between them, laying a hand on Loki’s clenched fist.

“You-”

“Don’t,” Frigga warns her husband, raising a finger when a crease appears between his eyebrows, signaling a retort on the tip of his tongue. “Loki is the most logical choice. You don’t want to risk offending Midgard’s court by not bringing forward a direct heir, and Loki has always been incredibly deft in matters of palace and politics.” She moves to stand right in front of Loki to shield him, facing Odin fully with her head held high, hand still gripping Loki’s fist behind her. “My son would be an excellent match for a king.” 

Odin regards her for a long moment, gaze slipping back to Loki. He nods minutely, sighing heavily and turning back towards the throne. Loki doesn’t notice his fist has relaxed in his mother’s hand until she squeezes his fingers, moving to stand beside him. 

“Asgard’s pick has been chosen, then.” Frigga presses, searching for a definitive confirmation from Odin. The All-father nods once, gesturing towards Loki. 

“Asgard will propose one of its crown princes at the next Council of the Nine. After all,” Loki clings back to his mother’s hand, turning to look at her for the first time as his father’s voice picks up volume and rings around the room. 

“King Mobius has the final say.”

There’s a mischievous sparkle in Frigga’s eyes when she turns to look at Loki as well, the corner of her lip lifting up in a way that makes Loki know without a doubt that yes, she can probably see the way his heart is currently digging away at his skin with a spoon trying to crawl out, but the shiver that travels up his back at her knowing look melts into an hesitant smile in response anyway. Maybe-

---

“Maybe this is a bad idea after all,” Mobius says, faking an exaggerated wince when a strand of his hair gets caught between the small, silver carved waves coasting the crown Verity puts on his head. She tugs on the corner of his mustache in response and he fake-winces again.

“Do I have to tell Casey to pull out the PowerPoints?”

Mobius slumps forward. “It’s good to further reinforce the stability of the kingdom and surveys have shown an overwhelming majority of the people would love a wedding.”

Verity tugs on his mustache again. “The people love you and they want to see you happy. The fact that we could get bonus political points is just an extra.”

“Pressured by my own court. Manipulated by my own advisors.” 

Verity rolls her eyes and nudges him towards the door. Mobius goes on, coating his doubts behind the most sarcastic tone he can hope to drip through his voice. “A middle-aged monarch having his pick out of eight whole candidates from eight realms and living out the rest of his reign with the most optimal spouse by his side? The serotonin is already producing itself.” 

“Rumor has it Alfheim will have Freyr himself as a candidate, he’s always going on about how distinguished the mustache makes you look.”

Mobius gives her a look, turning to nod at the guards dotting the corridor to the main hall of the palace where royalty from different points of the cosmos will soon arrive. “Just let me know if one of you is going to turn me into a llama next.”

“It’s been decades since The Emperor’s New Groove came out, Mobius.”

“And that’s what makes it a classic worth every rewatch.” 

Verity laughs, and Mobius feels his heart shed a little weight at the sound. He knows it’s a logical decision; it’s been years since his ascension to the throne after the last war that plagued the realms, and a marriage would give the kingdom the surety of someone else belonging to his house taking the reins if anything were to happen to him. Still, he is a tired, middle-aged monarch and he can’t quite shake away the feeling of being on the cusp of dooming someone to a partner, a life that has nothing they truly want except for a throne. 

His steps boom heavy on the marble floor, and he straightens up once they stride past the row of clocks measuring time in each of the realms, the one keeping Earth’s beat chiming when its hands meet to point at six; as if on cue, the first rainbow sparkles signaling the Bifrost opening start painting the air.

Verity nods at him. “Right on the dot.”

Mobius clicks his tongue. “Can’t risk wasting time, or it’ll waste you. Who knows that better than gods coming down on a mortal planet?” 

For a loud moment the Rainbow Bridge comes into view, stretching infinite beyond the solid walls of the palace; Mobius clears his throat of the anxious knot taking root in his chest, walking towards the center of the hall with a hand already outstretched to welcome his guests. He sure hopes Odin has brought along some asgardian wine.

---

“That’s, uh.” Mobius hesitates, chuckling awkwardly as Freyr kisses the back of his hand. Turns out the king of Alfheim had indeed shown up himself as a candidate for the nuptials, wearing nothing but a long, white tunic around his waist. “Incredibly kind of you, King Freyr.” Maybe Mobius ought to reconsider the mustache; while he tries to extract his hand from Freyr’s hold as diplomatically as he can, a scoff to his right catches his attention. 

“Did he seriously show up like that? Please.”

“That’s still the king of Alfheim you’re talking about.”

“That doesn’t excuse poor taste.”

Mobius laughs at the whispered back and forth, catching himself when Freyr glances back up, and he trails off in that slightly embarrassed chuckle again. Casey is standing behind him as he goes down the line, and he’s eternally grateful when he takes a step to the side with a bow, politely signaling Mobius, and Freyr by proxy, that they should really move along lest they be rude to the rest of the guests. “I’ll see you later at the banquet, King Freyr.” 

Casey leans close to him as they walk off. “Asgard’s prince is kinda right, he could have at least worn a shirt.”

Mobius mouths right? back at him a step before they reach Odin, imposing in his proud stance. Mobius reaches out to clasp the All-father’s hand in a strong grip, the other going up to his armor-clad shoulder. 

“Odin, you honor me with your presence.” 

“You honor the bond between the realms by choosing a consort among them, Mobius.” Odin breaks the handshake to open his palm and gesture towards the tall, leather-clad figure beside him. “Asgard brings forward its second crown prince, Loki Odinson.” 

Mobius knows the God of Mischief; he remembers those dark curls a little shorter, the sharp angles of his perfect face a little less heavy with tension, his smile a little less tight. He  glances at his father before turning his head to face him, bringing a hand to his chest. 

Mobius can feel his stomach swoop down somewhere on the ground, anchoring his feet stuck when Prince Loki’s green eyes meet his and they seem to sparkle alive, gleaming with the same twinkle Mobius remembers seeing in them when he stood outside the doors of the Valaskjalf palace years ago, stopping Odin from marching over the Bifrost with Asgard’s entire army by calling the All-father an idiot. Loki had been flanking his father, more reluctantly than his brother Thor if the way his shoulders had sagged down in apparent relief once Odin stood down had been anything to go by. Mobius had seen him elbowing Thor when he had finished yelling at Odin and looked around to gather his wits about him, meeting the Prince’s curious gaze for a fleeting moment.

And now here he was, bowing at the waist and breaking their staring match with a murmured, “My king.” 

Oh, this was bad. Really bad, as his increasing heart-rate could attest to. Ouroboros insisted on him wearing an almost-invisible device of his invention that kept track of Mobius’ vital signs, at least during formal meetings, a little paranoid about possible poisoning conspiracies. Mobius took a discreet deep breath trying to simmer down, lest the palace’s medical staff descend upon everyone at Ouroboros’ King Down! King Down! signal.

Odin grunts at the appellation, fixing his eye on his son. “I’m sure there are far less insolent candidates to consider.” His tone betrays a vein of annoyance in it that has Mobius narrowing his eyes, noting the way Loki’s smile gets even tighter around the corners of his lips. Calling Mobius his king in front of his actual, austere king sure is something- something that goes incredibly well with Mobius being incapable of not taking a chance to increase Odin’s annoyance.

Mobius bows back, nodding once at Loki and keeping his gaze on him as he speaks. “My prince. It’s a privilege to even be able to say that the God of Mischief himself would consider this marriage. After all,” Mobius feels a little flame light up in his chest when Loki’s face seems to soften, the dark green cape he’s wearing swishing a little behind him as he sways in place. Frankly, that’s adorable. “A little mischief might do this old man some good.” 

Mobius doesn’t even notice Casey clearing his throat behind him, trying to convince himself the light dusting of pink on Loki’s cheeks isn’t actually there. 

“You’re hardly old, my king.” Loki brings his hands behind his back, leaning a little down from his impressive height, as if getting closer to Mobius. Odin’s eye twitches at the repeated appellative. “Especially compared to us, if you’ll forgive my insolence once again. I recall the sun shining down on you- it has merely let the moon take its place. That’s what I would personally call a privilege.”

Sweet talker. Mobius resists the urge to bring a self-conscious hand up to his silver hair, but lets his amusement at Loki’s pleased smirk win through a smile of his own. Of course the God of Mischief is a sweet talker, Mobius. Focus. The voice in his head sounds suspiciously like Ravonna. She must be somewhere upstairs supervising and actually screaming in poor Ouroboros’ ears. 

Casey clears his throat louder this time, and Mobius snaps out of his daze with a shake of his head. The Svartálfaheimr delegation of two is next in line and they’re getting impatient. 

“See?” Mobius tells Odin as Casey touches his elbow to prompt him to move. Loki takes a step back to grab his cape and bow with a flourish this time, and Mobius huffs a laugh. “Mischief definitely does a heart some good.” 

–--

Loki leans on one of the pillars overlooking the garden of Midgard’s royal palace, nursing a glass of wine. He rolls his eyes at King Freyr making a show of dodging the swaying hand of the Nidavellir candidate for the marriage whose name Loki can’t quite remember, ducking down and complaining loudly about possibly spilling his drink on himself - which is exactly what happens in the next second. “My king!” Freyr’s royal assistant shouts, making haste at retrieving some napkins to dab at the king’s exposed chest.

Loki brings his index finger back down around his glass, tiny green sparks of magic dissolving in the air of the evening. His smug smirk freezes on his face when a chuckle comes from his left, and King Mobius’ eyes come into view, crinkling with mirth. 

“Oh, he really could have worn a shirt,” Mobius says, breaking Loki out of his I’ve-been-caught expression. 

“He must have thought defined abdominal muscles would give him an advantage. He surely isn’t among the far less insolent candidates to consider.” Something a little bitter creeps in Loki’s voice, and Mobius studies the way his long fingers grip the glass a fraction harder. 

“I assume Odin isn’t the warmest of fathers out there.” Mobius tries to be careful while keeping his tone low, not wanting to spook Loki away from the tiniest opening in his thoughts he had given out. “I’ve never had many opportunities to speak with you or Thor, which I’m sorry about. What’s life like on Asgard for one of its princes?”

“Not the warmest when you’re not the favorite prince,” Loki says, turning fully towards Mobius and with his back to the gardens, bustling with chatter. “Being the reason his hair has gone fully white certainly doesn’t help.” 

“You’re selling many cosmic conflicts short, I’m sure they’re the reason for some of the white hair as well.” Mobius sips his wine to clear his head from the fact that Loki is standing very close, but regrets it immediately when his green eyes drop down to follow the way his throat moves to swallow. 

“You calling him an idiot during the last one must have been the fatal blow to the last strand of color on his head, my king.” 

Mobius hums, taking another sip from his glass. “And every time I’ve seen him since I’m a little more convinced I was right to do so, this being no exception. Even the All-father has to be talked down to sometimes.” 

Loki looks down at his feet, and Mobius reaches out to touch his elbow for a moment of what he hopes is understanding, retreating to give him the time he needs to look up again. When he does it's with a tiny smile; his shoulders have relaxed and he goes to speak before they both jump when over by the long table in the center Odin summons his spear to open up another case of asgardian wine, to the cheers of the guests. 

Mobius shakes his head. “I ought to thank you and him again for bringing some wine from Asgard. It’s one of my favorites.”

“I recall,” Loki says, eyes darting from side to side when Mobius answers with a curious, “Oh?”

“From one of your last visits to Asgard. I remember the palace staff preparing bottles of that same brand of wine.” 

“Thoughtful of you.” Mobius smiles, letting out a breath. He takes a tiny step closer to Loki, looking up at him even further. 

“Why are you here? Why consider this marriage?”

This time Loki’s gaze stays fixed on Mobius’, his curls moving gently with the evening breeze. He looks both ethereal and the most real thing Mobius has seen. 

“For a chance,” Loki says. 

At leaving Asgard? At a throne? Well. Mobius really wants to find out.

---

“The God of Mischief.” Ravonna repeats, deadpan. “You’re marrying the God of Mischief.”

“I’m marrying Loki Odinson, prince of Asgard, who happens to be the God of Mischief.”

“The God of Mischief, Mobius!” she shouts, Casey leaning away from her with a hand to his ear. “Do you know how many people he’s stabbed in the back? Just tell us you want to be the next one.”

“I’m sure it gets boring stabbing people, maybe he’ll come up with something else.”

Ravonna brings a hand to her forehead, groaning. “Why not King Freyr? Or-”

Casey leans close to Verity to stage-whisper, “I still can’t believe he showed up without a shirt.”

“-Princess Linnea? Or literally anyone else?”

Mobius stands up from the round table, walking towards the big window letting the sun shine through the council room. “Because I think Loki deserves a chance to get away from Asgard. I’m already chaining someone to an arranged marriage, if something good can come from it for them, it’s all gravy.” 

Ravonna looks at everyone still sitting at the table, wild hands gesturing towards Mobius. “He’s lost his mind.”

“I thought that happened when I let my advisors,” he gives them a pointed look, “convince me that this was a good idea. I’ve made my choice.” 

The silence that follows is filled by the beep of the small device Ouroboros insists on Mobius wearing; he has it hooked up to his laptop, tapping away at the keys, checking its log. Mobius can see the exact moment he realizes something and opens his mouth to say that something, so he just stares at him, shaking his head slowly. No need for them to know his heart was itching to race the hundred meter dash every time Loki looked his way.

“I think it’s a good choice,” Casey pipes up, hand held in in the hair as if asking for permission to speak. “I thought the tension was off the charts.” 

Ravonna splutters; Mobius pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes.

“You did, huh? Interesting.” Verity smirks, and alright, Mobius has had enough of this slander. 

“Send an instant missive to Asgard, see if they're amenable to open the Bifrost in a couple of hours. I’d like to tell him myself.”

---

Loki absolutely doesn’t run to the throne room when word gets to him about King Mobius being at the palace and requesting he speak to him; he sprints at best. Maybe a light jog. 

He stops in front of the closed doors and his gaze focuses on a curl fallen over his eyes so he hastily passes his hands through his hair, trying to tame it back. He feels embarrassment creep hot up his neck, trying to beat it to the punch by opening the doors himself instead of waiting for the guards. 

This time it isn’t only his father and mother turning to look at him as he stumbles up to them, but Mobius as well, smiling a gentle smile, hands behind his back, crown in place.

Mobius is already bowing when Loki is halfway to them, greeting him with a firm, “My prince.” 

“My king,” he replies, a little out of breath. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. You requested my presence?”

“I did,” Mobius says, extending a hand palm-up to him. “I wanted to ask you formally to do me the honor of marrying me.” 

Frigga gasps in delight, but it’s a distant sound over the ringing in Loki’s ears. He knows he’s lost the battle with the blood rushing to his cheeks, and he can’t quite hold Mobius' gaze without feeling twitches running up his spine. He lowers his head, looking at Mobius’ hand.

“Yes- yes, of course,” Loki breathes, hating how flustered he is. He’s a trickster. He should be able to control himself. “It’s you who’s doing me the honor of being your choice, my king.”

“Just Mobius will do.” His blue eyes soften, melting into a smile equally as soft. “Loki.”

Loki swallows; he puts his hand over the one Mobius has open for him to take, his palm warm against Loki’s slightly colder one. “Mobius.”

Odin is already talking to Frigga about the details for the wedding, something about wine and drapes and an unlimited supply of Iðunn’s apples for dessert, but Loki is still focused on the way Mobius is looking at him. Like he’s something worth keeping. 

“For that chance,” Mobius whispers. Loki holds his hand tight. 

---

They get married on a chilly autumn day, the midday sun blessing the gardens of Earth’s palace with fine ribbons of gold. They’re standing under the marble pillars of the porch, and Loki has probably never been this nervous about something before. 

He’s been working himself up about the fact that he’ll actually get to kiss Mobius the whole night, twirling his daggers in his hands. The memory of Mobius’ head advisor Ravonna’s face when she had seen him come into the palace with only the daggers as his luggage had been incredibly amusing. 

“What?” Mobius had told her, a hand on Loki’s back. “He says he can conjure whatever clothes he needs. The daggers are unique.”

Loki had smirked at her while they stared at each other, until Mobius low-whistled and prompted Ravonna to roll her eyes. 

“I predict chaos and possible blood-shedding.”

“No, really? Did the God of Mischief carrying two daggers tip you off?” Ravonna hissed, turning to lead them inside. 

“She’s fun to poke at.” Loki had leaned close to Mobius as they walked, whispering loudly so that Ravonna could hear as well. Mobius chuckled, bringing him closer still with the hand he had on his back.

“You should see when she gets really mad and the vein on her forehead pops out to say hello.”

The thing is, Loki has possibly, maybe carried a tiny torch for Mobius for a while. He’d seen him the first time as a prince with golden hair and a crooked nose, clad in armor and with fire blazing in his blue eyes, standing his ground facing Asgard’s army. He’d seen him since then as a king, a just king whose unique beauty was slowly turning silver over the times Asgard had hosted the Council of the Nine. He’d soaked up the tales and the rumors about Midgard’s beloved ruler, and the fascination he felt took a firm place in his chest. He’d still been in disbelief when news of Mobius searching for a spouse among the Realms had turned out to be official court news, he’d been ready to nag his father until sheer exasperation made him capitulate on his proposal- and then Mobius had actually chosen him with a twinkle in his eyes and an hand extended to him, and Loki gets to kiss him. 

He’d paced the room adjacent to Mobius’ quarters he was given to temporarily stay in until the wedding, catching himself touching his lips at the thought. “Norns, I’m becoming Thor,” he had said to the resounding silence of the room, surrendering to a night of tossing and turning. 

And now the officiant is speaking, and he and Mobius are holding hands looking at each other and his palms feel sweaty, and he’s trying not to look down at Mobius’ lips-

“Your Majesty King Mobius of the House of Mobius, rightful ruler of the Realm of Earth, do you take Prince Loki of the House of Odinson, second heir to the Realm of Asgard, as your husband - pledging unto him to be his protector, his defender and sure resort, to honor and sustain him in fair and foul?”

“Yes, I do.” Mobius’ fingers move up a little from under Loki’s palm to under his wrists, and Loki thanks his formal attire for the leather bands hiding his pulse from him.

“Your Highness Loki of the House of Odinson, second heir to the Realm of Asgard, do you take His Majesty King Mobius of the House of Mobius, rightful ruler of the Realm of Earth, as your husband?” Loki nods, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. “Pledging unto him to be his protector, his defender and sure resort, to honor and sustain him in fair and foul?”

“I do.”

“You may seal this blessed union with a kiss.”

The guests are already cheering when Mobius slips his hands free and Loki has a moment of confusion amidst the veiled trepidation. His eyes widen when Mobius cups both his cheeks, slipping his fingers under the sides of his horned helmet, gently bringing him down to his height. And then- 

And then Loki feels the tickle of Mobius’ mustache on his skin first, closing his eyes on reflex when Mobius’ lips leave a kiss on his forehead. It lingers, and it feels almost tender, a little precious. Loki feels the warmth of it spread through him, and maybe it’s different than the kiss he’d lost sleep over, but no less capable of knotting his stomach. 

The cheering gets louder, and Loki raises his head to smile at his husband. 

---

“Brother,” Thor says, amused. “You look- besotted.”

Loki tears his eyes away from Mobius’ shaking hands with some other monarchs on the outskirts of the dancefloor of the reception to glare at his brother. “I do not.”

“You kind of do. There’s a glee in your eyes the same as when you scared me by turning into a snake the first time.” 

“I could reenact that right now.” 

Thor laughs, taking a swig out of his pint. “The effects of marrying your long-time crush.” 

Loki opens his mouth to argue against that statement but all that comes out is a, “He’s not my long-time crush!” with a whiny tone that only bickering with his brother could get out of him.

Thor tuts, putting a hand on his shoulder to draw him in a half-hug. “Huh-huh. But he’s your husband now. Congratulations, truly.” 

Thor puts his temple against his and Loki huffs his way into returning the hug. “Thank you, brother.” 

Loki can feel Thor smile, and he hugs him tighter until a tap on his shoulder makes him turn around to find his husband looking at them with something charmed reflected in the ocean of his eyes.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” he says, smiling at Thor. “May I steal my husband for a dance?”

---

The ghost of Mobius’ arm around his waist as he let himself be led into a slow dance while the reception started dying down is the last vivid thing he remembers along with the kiss his mother leaves on his cheek, Thor’s last crushing hug of the evening and his father’s nod of farewell. 

The silence that takes hold of their hands as they go up and up the palace’s staircase and the people following them slowly stop walking until they pass the guards on the corridor of the royal quarters and it’s just them is so sudden that Loki itches to fill it up. 

“I can’t believe Father thought golden drapes would work better than the emerald ones we chose, they looked lovely with the light of the sun-”

“They really did.” 

“And Brokkr, I didn’t quite appreciate how he was just lurking around-”

“Fairly suspicious.”

“Yes, quite- I do wonder if the Nidavellir prince was machinating something.” 

Mobius chuckles, and Loki focuses back on their surroundings when his husband goes to put his full weight on the heavy doors of his- well, their quarters. “After you.” 

Loki nods in thanks and takes a slow step inside; the rooms are much simpler than his had been on Asgard, filled with gold and opulence. They resemble the easiness Mobius seems to radiate, painted cozy with small cushions dotted on the windowsill framed by breezy curtains, bookshelves on the walls and a canopy bed with its green drapes drawn back. 

Loki stops once his eyes land on the bed, realizing that in torturing himself over kisses he’d overlooked the small detail of actual bed sharing. Mobius realizes his hesitation the moment he must see the blush Loki knows is on his face, cursing it to the Norns. 

Mobius clears his throat and moves to sit on the windowsill, the moonlight complimenting the silver strands of his hair. Neutral, giving him space. Loki wonders how he can read him so well. 

“I do hope your enthusiasm for green won’t wane, I know you said you could conjure any clothes you want, but I still went ahead and asked for some asgardian sleepwear, some more earth-style pajamas, tunics- it’s all in the armoire and all in shades of green-” He gestures towards the drapes by the bed as well. “I might have gone a little overboard.”

That’s- Loki carefully takes off his horned helmet, sighing in relief at the pressure leaving his head. He puts it down by his feet as he takes a seat next to Mobius, who in turn reaches for the helmet to put it up on a stool nearing the bed. 

“That’s aggravatingly kind of you.” 

Mobius looks at him with his chin up and his eyebrows raised. “Aggravatingly?”

“You shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble.”

“‘Course I should have. It’s the least I can do.”

He sounds so earnest that Loki can’t help but scooch closer, their thighs almost pressing together. “Can I ask-” he starts, gathering the nerve to look at Mobius in the eyes. 

“Why didn’t you kiss me?” 

When Mobius’ eyes widen Loki presses the issue. It’s one of his skills, after all. “On the lips, I mean.”

Mobius passes a nervous hand through his hair, his thigh twitching and ending up pressed on Loki’s. “I don’t want to make you- uncomfortable. We hadn’t discussed that before, and I know-” he gets up with a frustrated groan, standing in front of Loki, who chases the touch of his thigh with a stretch of his leg. 

“Loki, you don’t have to sleep with me. There’s an adjacent room with another bed, or you could have your own separate rooms, you know my court is small, they won’t talk. You- I want you to be comfortable. I know I'm not what you probably wanted out of a spouse, so if you ever-”

Loki’s spine coils so fast it looks like he's curling in on himself before shooting up on his feet; there it is. The fact the he could even hope Mobius would think of him differently than everyone else-

He moves a hand between their chests, inflicting shards in his voice. “I just swore to honor you. You think I'd do that to my own husband?”

“Hey, no,” Mobius keeps his voice soft, a firm whisper in contrast with Loki's hiss. He grabs the hand Loki still had hovering between them, holding it tight. “Loki, no. I just- I want you to be free. I saw hurt in you, and I still remember your relief back on Asgard years ago when Odin agreed to stop the charge. I don't want to trap you. If I can't give you what happiness means to you, I at least want you to have that relief.”

Loki lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You've given me a throne.” 

Mobius brings their entwined hands up towards Loki's cheek, holding them there. “Yeah,” he starts, and Loki can't see anything but clear sentiment in the waves of his eyes. “And you deserve everything else, too.”

Not what I would have wanted in a spouse, he thinks, a little hysterically. Of course the man had to go and genuinely offer him understanding and care and a chance at being whatever he wanted to be. Who else could I possibly want-

“Can I?” He says after what feels like a dancing twirl of time in pure molasses; Mobius startles, a confused sound escaping him. So Loki frees his hand and brings the other up towards Mobius’ head, where his crown is still set. “Can I?” He repeats. 

Mobius swallows and nods, inclining his head forward. “Yes- thank you.” 

Loki lifts the crown by the carved waves on its edges, waiting for Mobius to look up at him again. When he does Loki turns around, walking towards his helmet’s place of rest and looping the crown over one of the horns. He taps the metal for a beat. 

“I'd like to – stay here. Sleep here. With you.” 

---

“Head Advisor.” Loki smirks, reaching for the grapes at the breakfast table. 

“Your Majesty.” Ravonna glares, reaching for the butter knife. 

 “Alright,” says Mobius, reaching for the knife that isn't so blunt, taking it over to his side and out of their reach. “No better time than breakfast to smooth out our differences.” 

Verity rolls her eyes. “Can I have my toast first before they jump each other’s throats?”

Loki is kind of glad for Ravonna’s dislike of him; first, it’s entertaining to aggravate her, and second it gives him something else to focus on other than the fact that it’s been yet another morning where he’d found himself curled into Mobius, head pressed to his shoulder and one of Mobius’ arms secure around him, after they both went to sleep straight on their backs with a reasonable distance inbetween. 

The fact that Mobius strips him of his thoughts processes for long bursts of minutes, which is definitely too many, means he finds some extra glee in actually rubbing obnoxiousness with Ravonna; she’s the only one of Mobius’ advisors that has been openly hostile, although he does catch Verity, Casey and Ouroboros look at him with wariness occasionally. He can’t fault them for that; they love Mobius, it’s clear as day. Their priority is him. 

“If simply being on the look-out for your dead body with a stab wound in the back when I turn corners is having our differences, then we do have our differences.”

Loki laughs. “Believe me, stabbing people in the back gets old.” 

Mobius points a fork at Ravonna, the see? written in the lines around the up-turned corners of his mouth. 

“Much less stabbing the back of my own husband.” Loki continues, opening his palms in a placating gesture. “I intend to honor my vows. If you can’t trust that, which I understand, trust the mutual respect we share for the king.”

Ravonna finishes assessing him with a twitch of her eyebrow, clicking her tongue and going violently for the butter. “Very well. First order of business-”

Mobius catches his eye across the table as Ravonna speaks, and they share a smile that has something conspiratorially warm in it; Loki clears his throat and turns back to Ravonna when she mentions the most important meeting of the day.

“And of course there’s Jotunheim’s prince coming for a hearing today, that’s this afternoon.”

“Býleistr, yes. He’s a good kid, his request had a bit of an urgent tone. Prepare the balcony on the east side of the palace, the sun isn’t there at that hour and there should be enough of a breeze that it won’t be too uncomfortable for him.” Mobius addresses the last request to Casey, who nods and moves to stand. 

“Verity, ask O.B if there’s something else up his sleeve he can do to make Býleistr’s visit in the palace more Frost Giant-friendly, he’s been cooped up in his rooms.” 

Loki had stilled at the mention of Jotunheim, unfocusing out of the flurry around him, until he’d gotten up on reflex when Mobius did, reaching him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’d like for you to join me in the meeting.” 

Loki knows it’s logical, and yet he’s still tripped by the actual request. Ravonna has stopped on her way out the door, an ear tuned to hear his response. 

“Of- of course. A united front. I’ll be honored to be by your side.” 

Ravonna seems satisfied enough, resuming her exit. Mobius offers Loki his hand to rest his palm on, frowning when their skin makes contact.

“Hey, you okay? Your palm feels a little cold.” 

Norns, you can get through a meeting with the Jotunheim prince. Loki shakes his head, twisting his fingers as subtly as he can to hide the blue cracking out of his palm. “Must have been the window we left open last night.” 

Mobius doesn’t seem satisfied but gives him grace, leading him out. “Let’s see what could be troubling Býleistr.” 

---

“Thank you for receiving me, Your Highnesses.” Býleistr stands taller than the arches leading out to the balcony, ducking down to make his way outside as Mobius waves him off, an arm extended to point him to the table set up for them to sit at and the other on Loki’s hand. He’s been doing it absently all morning, as if to check his temperature himself. Loki keeps his hand lax, willing the quickness of his heart not to give way to a loss of control. 

“It’s our pleasure, Býleistr. I have to tell you, kid, I don’t know if it’s my old age getting the best of my worrywart heart, but I sensed something pressing in your request.” 

Trust Mobius to call a Frost Giant “kid” like he’s his long-lost nephew. “You’re not old,” Loki says with levity, mostly to get the frown out of Býleistr’s face. It seems to work when Loki faces him, rolling his eyes. “Can you believe he thinks he’s old? What are we, relics?” 

Mobius chuckles, and his eyes get that something that looks like the sun reflecting on the ocean they occasionally get when they look at him. “Sweetheart, you don’t look a day over six thousand.” 

The endearment slips out so easily that Loki’s skin decides to get goosebumps all over its surface. The last person to address him as something affectionate had been his mother; sweetheart-

“It’s all in moisturizing regularly, darling.” He quips back, gratified when Mobius reaches up to fiddle with his mustache as he smiles at him. We do that a lot, Loki thinks. Just smile at each other and forget for a bit about- 

“I must say, I’m truly happy to see such a well-made match. Congratulations again to you both.” 

-About everything else. They both break the spell and face Býleistr again, his red eyes twinkling. 

“Thank you, kid. I was pretty lucky.”

“And me as well.” Loki refuses to have him have the last syrupy word. 

“What can we help you with?”

Býleistr hesitates, placing his palms on the table, the blue of his skin darker in the shade. “King Mobius, you’ve always been a friend to Jotunheim and that’s something we hardly forget. You must forgive me if I’m too presumptuous to come to you with this, but in light of King Loki being a sorcerer as well, I-” he lets out a frustrated huff.

“Is perhaps something wrong with the magical balance of the planet?” Loki asks, blunt. 

“Not- wrong, per se.” Býleistr says. “Some of our temple priests have noticed the magic source wavering slightly on occasion. Some have said it might be tampering from the outside, some have said it’s simply the course of non-linear magic. Thank you,” he hurries to say as Mobius hands him an ice-cold drink of water from the pitcher on the table. 

Loki hums, thinking back on his studies about Jothunheim’s magical structure. He leans on the back of his chair as Mobius does the same, addressing Býleistr’s unspoken suspicion gently.

“And you’ve come here in case this tampering from the outside is more than an assumption.” 

“Yes. My father has alway held you in high regard, King Mobius, and I don’t hesitate to do the same. I have no doubt that a request for aid here would be met with no other sideways intent.”

“You can always be sure of that, Býleistr.” Mobius leans forward to look the Frost Giant in the eye, making sure his point comes across. “I’m no more than a mortal without a trace of magic, and I usually would have sent word for trusted sorcerers to consult, but-” 

Loki is already looking at him when Mobius turns, taking a deep breath. “No one more capable and that I could trust more is right here. Sweetheart, what are your thoughts?”

It hits Loki the truth of that statement and the power Mobius is handing him without a second thought, still giving him space to put the bundle down if he feels his footing is unsure. 

He nods, resolute. “Jothunheim’s magic force should be self-sustainable virtually forever. I’d be happy to analyze the problem myself.” 

Býleistr slumps in relief, catching himself when he extends his hand to them. Mobius tuts, shaking it anyways, the hair on his arm standing up from the cold. Loki has a slight moment of panic before he shrinks back behind Mobius, plastering a smile on his face towards the Frost Giant prince. 

“Thank you, truly. It’s a relief.”

“What are we here for if not to help? Don’t mention it, kid.”

---

“Pea’s that uncomfortable, my prince?” 

Loki pauses in his nth-attempt to toss and turn without bringing down the whole bed, confused. “What?” he whispers back, the spell of the night hard to break.

“Old Earth’s tale, a princess gets tested to see if she’s a real princess by sleeping on twenty mattresses with a pea hidden beneath them.” 

“Why are Midgard’s tales always so silly?” 

“Oh come on, all of them?” Mobius twists to reach the bedside lamp with a huff, and Loki resists the urge to hide under the blankets. He turns his face up to look at Mobius glancing down at him instead. 

“Talk to me.” 

“About what.”

“There’s clearly something troubling you. You’re usually well on your way to snuggle me at this point in the night.” 

Loki does hide his face under his pillow this time around. “I am not.”

“You’re like a cat,” Mobius brings the pillow down until only Loki’s eyes peek through. “A kitten at times.” 

Loki chooses childishness and pushes Mobius’ face away with a wine. His husband just laughs, catching his hand and bringing the other down to frame his head. 

“I’m serious,” he whispers again. “Talk to me.”

Loki sighs deeply, turning to bring his knees up to his stomach. “There might- there is, something I should tell you.” 

Mobius brings his fingers down through his dark hair. “I’m listening.” 

“There’s a reason why-” Loki starts fiddling with the little green threads of the blankets. “I’ve never been Father’s favorite son.” He gives himself a few moments to feel Mobius’ fingers in his curls before he goes on.

“He found me, on Jotunheim, during one of the first conflicts between the realms.” He stops to swallow, eyes fixed on the blankets. “He took me as a bargaining chip in case other conflicts should arise, but then- peace came along, and you, and-” he feels his eyes get glassy to his shame. “And I’ve always been just this.”

He forces his fingers to let go of the blankets, bringing his hand up and letting it go blue. White marks raise along the watercolor of his skin, lining his knuckles. He realizes he has his eyes squeezed shut as if waiting to be struck with a shout of disgust when all that happens is the mattress shifting underneath him and a warm hand catching his. 

“A marvel.” Mobius breathes, and there’s wonder in his voice. That can’t be right. Loki opens an eye first, and he knows it’s gone red by the gasp Mobius lets out, eyes shining with enchantment. 

“Mobius, I’m- I’m half Frost Giant, look at me-”

“I am looking at you.” The hand in his hair moves down in favor of cupping his cheek, tender as every look Mobius gives him. “Loki, you’re a marvel.” 

Loki feels unbearably warm despite his skin going cold, and the breath he takes snaps the tight coil of emotion in his chest. He doesn’t think; he surges up against Mobius and takes a kiss from his lips. 

The moment he pulls back with an apology on his tongue and the faint ghost of Mobius’ mustache on his upper lip, Mobius slides his hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, bringing him back against him. Loki opens his mouth almost immediately to deepen the kiss, pushing Mobius down on the bed. It’s bliss for he doesn’t know how long, finally, he thinks, and then a palm scorches over his heaving chest. 

“Sweetheart, shh.” Mobius soothes against his lips, nudging his crooked nose against Loki’s. “It’s alright. Breathe.” 

Loki does as he’s told, shifting his weight, realizing he’d throw a leg over Mobius to pin him down himself. He stares at the man under him, the dark curtain of his hair shielding them from everything that might come knocking. Mobius moves to hug him, a firm arm around his back, and the other tugging his face in the space between his neck and shoulder. Loki goes pliant with his own hand over Mobius’s heart, lulled by the drawl of his voice. “That’s it, you’re good. You’re so good.” 

Loki settles down and he feels as if his body is made of water, moved up and down by the steady rise and fall of Mobius’ chest, a leg bracketed between his. When he turns his face to press his cheek to Mobius’ chest he sees his hand up close, gone back to a pale pink. 

“A little blueberry.” Mobius says, pushing the hair at Loki’s temples behind his ears. Loki sticks his chin on Mobius’ chest, digging down. 

“Call me that again, see if you ever get another kiss.” 

Mobius laughs and nuzzles close, leaving a kiss on his forehead with so much more weight now than the one he sealed their marriage with. 

“Remind me to call Odin an idiot again next time we see him.”

Loki smiles.

---

If you ask anyone that sets foot into the palace, they’re unbearable. 

“They’re unberable,” Verity says, as Mobius and Loki argue. 

“I told you the tension was off the charts,” Casey shakes his head, amused.

“Can’t I be worried about my husband going alone to check out possible magical imbalances on another planet?” Mobius says, hands on his hips.

“Not when your husband is me, a sorcerer and a god that can actually withstand cold temperatures.”

“How do you think I go to Jotunheim when the need arises? I’ve got equipment! O.B-made equipment!”

“Why bother poor Ouroboros when I’ll be gone thirty minutes at best? We’ve worked out with Býleistr that he’ll receive me right outside the temple to check out the source right away.”

Loki shuffles even closer to Mobius, almost no breaths of space between them. He catches his hands in his. “Why should I let you suffer? Let me go, I’ll return soon.”

Mobius is starting to yield on the point when O.B perks up, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It is a rather heavy thermal suit to prepare.” 

“Fine,” Mobius sighs. “But more than thirty minutes and I’m coming after you, thermal suit or no thermal suit.”

Loki smiles, ducking his head down. “Understood, my king.”

“Stop flirting already, Jotunheim is ready to open the way through.” Verity says when a beep comes from one of the many monitors she’s standing behind. 

“Can’t even be married around here,” Mobius complains, throwing Loki a wink, who rolls his eyes in return but still lifts up Mobius hand to leave a kiss on his palm.

“I’ll be back soon.” 

“Be safe,” Mobius says, satisfied when Loki looks back over his shoulder to nod at him and disappear in a flurry of blinding lights. 

---

Loki’s surprised when Ravonna turns to ask him if he’s alright during the debrief meeting they have upon his return from Jotunheim. 

“I am, yes. There was just- something that didn’t quite add up.” He feels Mobius put a hand on his knee, squeezing it in encouragement.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“The magic flowed, but there were hiccups along its wavelength every couple of minutes. It felt like- when you put a hand under a stream of water, interrupting its flow.” 

“So it’s being corrupted.” 

Loki tilts his head, pensive. “I thought I caught a magical signature on the last hiccup I felt.”

Ravonna frowns. “You’re suspicious.” 

“I have had the fortune of studying the magic of the realms under my Mother’s tutelage, and the best way I can describe it is that every flow of magic has a shade. The one I caught among Jothunheim’s magic core felt- lighter. Brighter.” 

Mobius shares a look with Ravonna, who nods and turns to make a note on her minute-keeping journal for each meeting they have.

“I’m by no means a skilled sorcerer, but the only light magic that comes to mind is that of Svartálfaheimr.” Mobius says, scrubbing a hand on his tired face. 

“O.B, up our off-planet monitoring, keep a closer eye on Jotunheim and keep ‘em posted. Ravonna, get in contact with Princess Linnea. I want to request a meeting with the Svartálfaheimr regent.” 

---

“You should wear the crown more often,” Loki muses, placing the crown in question on Mobius’ head, letting his fingers linger through his silver hair. “You’re handsome.”

“Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure you’re the only person in the realms that thinks that.” 

“Did you seriously forget Freyr parading around here asking for your hand in marriage without a shirt? I sure didn’t, darling.” Loki says with a twist of his lips, taking Mobius’ arm to head over the main hall. “You’re handsome, deal with it.” 

Mobius laughs, nudging him with his shoulder. “I’ll tell you what I can’t deal with, and that’s having you beside me. You’re so beautiful I have to blink at least twice when I see you first thing in the morning.” 

Loki stops him by bearing down on his arm, tilting his chin up for a quick kiss. He can’t resist nuzzling his face against his mustache, interrupted by Casey walking towards them.

“Sorry, Your Highnesses - Princess Linnea is in the main hall.”

Loki starts losing time from that point forward; the walk over the main hall seems to last a minute, enough to take in Linnea’s tall, cloaked figure standing in the smack middle of the hall. He sees her take the hood down letting her white hair flow free, while Mobius steps ahead to greet her and Loki isn’t touching him anymore. 

“Linnea, thank you- for-” 

That’s all it takes. Mobius’ outstretched hand goes slack and he stops in his tracks, and Loki can see a thin trail of blood going down the left corner of his mouth. The breath gets punched out of him as he falls on one knee, still trying to keep balance. 

“No!” Loki throws himself forward, in time to catch the bundle of light leaving Mobius’ chest and returning to Linnea’s hands as he shoves Mobius back against him. She looks at him with a cruel grin, already moving her hands to open a portal behind her. 

“You don’t deserve the throne of Midgard- a half Frost Giant, a bastard. Feel this pain,” she says, and Loki feels frozen with fear, struggling to get words out, get help, squeezing Mobius harder, when he feels mad footsteps rushing down the corridor and the clanking of armors. 

“Seize her!” Ravonna shouts, Verity hot on her heels with a sword in hand. 

“I’ll come back for you.” Linnea leaves behind her a last look of contempt before raising a hand to buy herself time with a forceful blast of energy towards the guards rushing at her. The moment she puts the hood of her cloak back over her hair - she’s gone. 

Everything stops. Loki feels a rush of something hot making him lighthead, tears down his cheeks. “Mobius,” he punches out, turning to fully kneel on the floor, both arms down on the ground to hold Mobius’ head. His eyes are closed and his breathing is so shallow- 

“Mobius!”

---

“Leave us!” Loki shouts towards the frantic beating on the doors of their rooms, distraught. He keeps pacing the edges of the bed, the green of his magic going haywire, trying to touch Mobius, to heal him, but he was never one for healing- he was for chaos, and pain-

“Darling, open your eyes. Open your eyes.” He murmurs, the glow of his hands around Mobius’ cheeks making him seem even paler. 

“Loki! Open up!” It’s Verity this time, but Loki can’t bring himself to open the door and leave Mobius fragile to- to everything else. This happened in their own palace. 

“I’ll heal him! I will, just- please-” He breaks off in a panicked breath when the slow movement of Mobius’ chest seems to stop for a fraction of a second. He thinks he’s hallucinating out of fear when he hears another knock on the wooden doors, a single one, followed by a voice he knows at a visceral level.

“My son. Loki, let us in. Let me help.” 

“M-mom? Mother?” Loki looks towards the doors, unable to actually walk away from Mobius. He aims a stream of magic to lift up the barrier he put in place to lock them in, the click of the lock stilling the air before the doors open, and his family is there. 

“Mom,” he repeats, and Frigga gathers her dress up to rush towards him, kneeling down to catch him in a hug. “My son, I’m here- we’re here, it will be alright. Let me help.” 

Loki looks over his mother’s shoulder up at his father and brother, the blond of their bowed heads a blur through his tears. 

“Mobius’ Head Advisor sent an emergency signal.” Odin starts, voice heavy. Thor shifts, coming up to Loki to touch his hair gently. “I’m sorry, son. Your heart glows golden with the love you nurtured. Let us help that heart.”

Loki can feel the sob tear its way out of him, and he nods, torn between staying in his mother’s embrace and facing up again to explain what he knows. “It was- Princess Linnea, what reason could Svartálfaheimr possibly have for this, and Jotunheim- it’s an enchantment I can’t heal, Mother, I can’t-”

His mother shushes him, shifting so that they’re both facing the bed. The gentle glow of her magic washes over Mobius, a calm azure subduing the wild specks of green fluttering around his husband’s body. 

“She knew I’m half-jotun,” he says blankly, watching the way Mobius’ hand twitches. Thor goes to put a hand on his shoulder. 

“We’ve discovered a net of spies in Asgard last night,” he clenches his fist, a braided strand of hair falling over his eyes. “It dates back- months. Since your wedding. It’s been our failure, brother, and I’m so sorry.” 

Loki turns to face both Thor and his father, fear giving way to anger. “I’ve found traces of light magic corrupting the flow of energy on Jotunheim.” 

Frigga takes advantage of his minute shift of focus to let go of him and place both hands over Mobius, standing up with a resolute frown on her face. 

Odin looks over at the horned helmet resting on the small table by the window, the light catching its gold. Loki follows his line of sight, moving to touch Mobius’ crown fallen over the edge of the bed. 

“Linnea must have wanted Midgard more than we could imagine. If you’ve found Svartálfaheimr’s magical signature corrupting Jothunheim’s vital force, and she made sure to mention your heritage- she must be planning to strike Jotunheim as well as Mobius and let you take the fall for both.” 

“Brother,” Thor waits for Loki to look at him, nodding once. “Take the helmet. Come with us to settle this.” 

Loki grips Mobius’ crown harder; his thighs are trembling and his lips are dry, yet he feels- numb. The steady hum of his mother’s magic holds his attention for a while, and she must sense it because she turns to look at him with nothing but certainty in her eyes. So he stands slowly, and he doesn’t even have to look beyond the doors to know that Ravonna is there. 

“Ravonna, send word to Jothunheim to be on constant lookout.” He walks over to his helmet, picking it up and putting Mobius’ crown in its place. “We’ll deal with the threat to the peace of the realms.”

---

“I’d sooner die than see a throne as important as Midgard go to a bastard,” Linnea spits, pinned back by Mjöllnir, its handle held under her head by Thor. “It was supposed to be me! I was supposed to be chosen and secure a strong House for my realm after my father’s death-” she chokes out, and Loki presses his lips together, fingers moving slowly to keep his magic on her. “Kill me and be done with it!”

Loki clenches his fist, emerald going darker and pushing her head further back. The fire of surrendering to the despair he’s carrying tucked closely to his heart licks at him with burning flames, but the coolness of the ocean of the eyes he longs to see look at him stops his hand.

“No,” he says, and crosses his hands at the wrists. His magic flows down from her neck to her arms, binding her still. “No. It’s not what my husband would have wanted.” 

“Father,” he calls, and Odin looks back at him, spear in hand. “I entrust her to Asgard’s cells.” 

She bares her teeth as Thor nods, looking up, and calling for Heimdall.

---

There’s silence up the staircase of their palace; it’s late on Midgard when he gets back, the night stretching deep in dark ribbons encompassing the air. Loki drags himself forward, cape brushing the floor, an exhaustion so deep in his bones he feels it pour out of his skin. His head feels heavy with the helmet. He- hopes that he’s done what Mobius would have wanted. Mobius, someone who always strove for  justice, for the last kind move to play, who was lying in their bed down the corridor Loki’s standing at the start of-

“My husband.” 

The whisper travels undisturbed to Loki’s chest, his head coming up so fast the edge of the helmet catches the skin of his neck. He sees nothing else but Mobius standing before the open doors of their rooms, slightly limping his way towards him.

“Mobius-” Loki starts, willing his own legs to move. “Mobius!” He takes off down the corridor, planting his heels when he reaches Mobius, careful to take him in his arms, unable to resist holding him as tight as he can.

“Hey, blueberry. It’s okay, I’m alright- you’re okay, c’mon.” Mobius keeps whispering to him, hugging him back, hands going up to the helmet. He lifts it from Loki’s head with as much tenderness as ever, keeping it clutched in one hand, the other going up to Loki’s face.  “Let me- there you are, sweetheart.” 

Loki knows there’s tears down his cheeks, and he huffs out a laugh, folding himself down to hide his face in Mobius’ neck, hands firm around his husband’s face. “You’re alright, you’re-”

“Perfectly fine, I’ll be good as new in a couple of days. Your Mother says she’ll be by again tomorrow morning.” Mobius lifts his face up with a finger under his chin, smiling at him. “I see where you get your infinite knowledge from.” 

Loki laughs again, filled with gratitude. He sways them both in place, hands up to Mobius’ face, the edge of his thumb brushing the thin line of dried blood still there. The moment the disbelief dies down he takes a breath. “I’ll never let this happen again- you’re- I’ve loved you too long to lose you like this.”

“You won’t,” Mobius says, “I promise you. I’m so sorry I scared you this bad, sweetheart.” 

Loki shakes his head, pushing his forehead against Mobius’, who draws him down in a soft kiss, letting Loki lead him where he wants him most, as close to him as he can get. When the kiss fades their touches don’t, and Loki trails presses of his lips down the crooked bridge of Mobius’ nose. 

“Speaking of too long,” Mobius starts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Frigga told me a couple of things. You totally had a crush on me.” 

Loki can’t even muster up the will to be mad, glad to see his husband smile, serene. He can muster up annoyance for the sake of annoyance, though. He looks upwards for maximum effect.

“Mobius, we’re married and rule Midgard together.”

“Still, it’s a little embarrassing. Just a tiny bit.” 

“I’ll show you embarrassing,” Loki says, bending his knees to lift Mobius by the hips. 

“What- are you implying it’s embarrassing to be carried? In my own fragile state! Well I never-”

Loki grins, the horns of his helmet digging in his back, safely held in Mobius’ hold. Peace it is.