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cha-melodius · 11 months ago

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Aaaaaaah congrats on 100 fics! I’m so excited that you’re doing this! Can I request Lokius in a western/cowboy setting?

(You were a prophet when you sent this back in August, Old West Lokius is quite the in vogue thing now lol. I hope you enjoy!)

Ain't No Place for a Better Man

(3k, M; read it below or on AO3)

They’ve had easier jobs, that’s for damned sure.

Protecting an entire train of stagecoaches was always going to be a strain on his crew, especially through this territory. They’re good, but they’re not that good. Mobius should have insisted that the client cough up the money to bring on another couple of folks, but they’d been reluctant and Mobius hadn’t wanted to risk the job going to someone else. And really, against most bandits, they’d probably have been fine.

They weren’t up against most bandits, though.

Mobius flips a blood-streaked silver dollar at the barkeep and collects a bottle of whiskey and four glasses in return without a single word exchanged. His crew is damn-near legendary in these parts; people vacate ‘their’ table when they enter the saloon, tip their hats when they pass on the road, and generally treat them with the kind of wary respect they’ve worked hard to cultivate. Mobius’ crew may be nominally ‘good’ guys, but a hard world makes hard people, especially ones who are hired to protect what passes for civilization out west.

Verity grunts in appreciation when he deposits the glasses on the table and sloshes a generous helping of whiskey in each one. Wincing a little as he leans forward, Mobius pushes two across to the others then settles back into the rickety chair. He tosses his hat on the table and kicks his feet up next to it, crossing them at the ankles and ignoring the dirty looks from the barkeep. The burn of cheap whiskey flows down his throat and spreads out in his chest, dulling the ache of what’s probably a bruised rib.

“How do you think he found out they were moving the gold?” Casey asks, fidgeting with his glass. Twitchy guy, but surprisingly good with a rifle. He’d been riding with the trailing coach on the job and had caught the butt end of a pistol to the face when they’d been boarded, which is now darkening to a mottled purple across his cheekbone. Hadn’t gotten shot, though, which was a small blessing.

“How does he always? He’s got his ways,” Mobius returns with a shrug. “Weren’t one of us.”

“Obviously,” Verity snorts. “Slippery bastard has his fingers in plenty of pies, and people are easily bought. What I don’t get is how no one has managed to shoot him off his horse yet.”

Mobius snorts. “You’re the marksman, Ver. You tell me.”

“Swear he’s goddamn magic. One of them spirits. No one should be able to dodge all those bullets.”

“I assure you, he’s just a man.”

“And how exactly do you know, Mobius?” Verity counters, a too-shrewd look on her face.

Mobius blinks at her slowly and takes another sip of his drink. “Didya forget how I got this?” he asks, tugging aside the collar of his shirt to reveal an ugly scar twisting just under his collarbone. “He was flesh and blood when he drove that dagger into me.”

She looks chastened, but not completely convinced. “Could be he takes human form sometimes,” she mutters into her drink.

“I heard of spirits like that,” Casey puts in. “One of the girls at the Mariposa was tellin’ me about this guy who comes in—”

“Enough,” Mobius says. His voice isn’t particularly loud or sharp, but everyone falls silent nonetheless. “You tell these stories, you let him get in your head. He ain’t a spirit, or a witch, or whatever else has been said about ‘im. Bleeds as red as the rest of us. Now,” he says, swinging his legs off the table and throwing back the rest of his whiskey, “I’m beat. And I’m takin’ this with me.” He grabs the bottle of whiskey off the table, ignoring their protests, and tugs his hat back on before he turns and walks away.

His steps are onerous as he climbs the stairs leading to the rooms over the saloon, heavy with a deep weariness he can’t seem to shake off these days. He’s getting too old for this shit, that’s for certain, but there’s something else weighing him down that he’d rather forget about in the bottom of this whiskey bottle tonight. He takes another swig as he kicks open the door to his usual room, only to find it already occupied.

The black-clad figure is little more than a lump, sitting hunched over in a chair next to the a small table with his hat pulled down low so that the broad brim of it hides his face from view. He doesn’t react when Mobius enters—unconscious or dead or just uninterested in the newcomer is difficult to say. Mobius’ hand is on his pistol before he knows he’s moving, even as something familiar twinges in his mind at the shape of the man’s shoulders.

“Think you’re in the wrong room, buddy,” he says evenly. “This one’s spoken for.”

The man looks up, a curtain of dark hair falling back from his face, and his lips twist into a wry smile. “I’m exactly where I intend to be, in fact.”

“Shit,” Mobius swears, his hand falling away from his gun as he takes another long swig from the bottle. Kicking the door shut behind him, he pulls his hat off and tosses it onto one of the bed posts. “You know they’re all downstairs, right? This is the last goddamn place you should be.”

“Didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

“What are you doing here, Loki?” Mobius sighs.

“I can’t want to see you?” Loki asks, trying for flippant and falling short by a mile.

As Mobius draws closer, he can see that Loki’s even paler than usual—which is really saying something—and he’s still hunched over, clutching his shoulder. Mobius reaches out and gently takes hold of Loki’s slender wrist, tugging his hand away and sucking in a breath when it comes away covered in red.

“You took a bullet today.”

“Astute observation,” Loki returns dryly. “I fear that Verity of yours is going to shoot me dead one day.”

Mobius squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, forcing his hand not to tremble. “She’d like that.”

“And you, Mobius?”

“Don’t you dare ask me that, Loki.”

Loki bows his head again, and Mobius turns away before he accidentally says something powerfully stupid. He steps out into the hallway and flags down a maid for a basin, a rag, and some clean water—well, clean as it gets, anyway—then returns to dig through the saddlebag slung over the foot rail of the bed for the sewing kit within, the one that’s mended more flesh than fabric. He leaves it on the table next to Loki along with the whiskey and goes to fetch the basin and water at the sound of a light knock on the door. The legs of the other chair grate loudly against the rough wooden floor as he pulls it around in front of Loki and settles into it, close enough that their knees are knocking together where they’re interleaved.

The silence stretches out between them, somehow heavy with unspoken words and comfortable all at once, even as Loki flinches when Mobius pushes his jacket off his shoulders, even as Mobius’ fingers find a familiar path in the buttons of his shirt, even as Mobius takes another swig of the whiskey before passing it to Loki. A subtle shine to the fabric of his black shirt is the only visible trace of blood on it, but when Mobius carefully peels it away from the wound, the bright red staining his pale skin tells another story. The disturbance brings a fresh surge of blood oozing to the surface, and Mobius pretends that he doesn’t notice Loki trembling under his hands.

He works with movements far gentler than most people would think him capable of, and the water in the basin steadily darkens as he cleans around the wound. Even though Mobius’ attention is focused on his work, he can tell Loki is watching him raptly the entire time, his eyes fixed on Mobius’ face, until Mobius pulls out the long forceps he keeps in the kit just for this purpose. Only then does his trepidation show on his face, the knowledge of what’s coming only too familiar at this point. Mobius shoves the whiskey bottle at him again, and Loki dutifully drinks before handing it back. The muscle of his jaw jumps when Mobius pours a glug of the alcohol over the wound, but his stoicism is put to the test under the assault of the forceps. Loki inhales sharply and turns his face to the ceiling when Mobius goes digging for the bullet, as if that might hide the tears welling in his eyes.

Fortunately, the bullet comes out easily along with the bit of shirt that it pulled in with it. The unassuming hunk of lead clinks dully when Mobius drops it into the basin, the sound of it a bleak reminder of how close he’d come to losing Loki entirely. Another few inches…

Mobius shoves the thought out of his head. He can’t let his mind travel down those roads, not when he needs his hands steady to finish this hellish task. One thing at a time, one stitch at a time, until the hole in Loki’s shoulder is finally closed and Mobius lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He rinses his own hands, then dampens the rag again and carefully takes Loki’s, gently wiping the now-dried blood from his skin as best as he can manage.

Loki’s head is bowed when he finishes, and Mobius reaches out with both hands to cup the sides of his face. His expression is impassive, but dried tears streak his cheeks, leaving pale tracks through the dirt and grime, and Mobius can’t help but rub his thumb through them in an ineffectual attempt at wiping them away.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he says, barely more than a murmur. He lets one corner of his mouth tug upward. “Gonna take more than that to take out the legendary Loki Odinson.”

Something fractures in Loki’s expression. “Mobius—”

“Shhh,” Mobius hushes, pressing a thumb to his lips.

Then he pulls his thumb away, leans closer, and presses their lips together instead.

It’s chaste at first, the barest brush of contact, but a moment later Loki is gasping into it, almost a sob, and his hands come up to curl desperately in Mobius’ shirt. He deepens the kiss hungrily, his teeth tugging at Mobius’ lips and tongue licking into his mouth, until the angle becomes untenable and he’s climbing into Mobius’ lap instead.

“Loki, you can’t—” Mobius protests, but can’t is not a concept that Loki is well-versed in, and he’s swallowing down the rest before Mobius can put voice to it.

He kisses Mobius like a drowning man in the desert slaking his thirst with Mobius’ lips, sinking his good hand into grey locks to pull them ever closer together. Mobius’ hands find the narrow dip of his waist without really meaning to, only that he could never resist that spot, the way Loki’s wiry muscles flex under his grip, the soft smoothness of his skin under hard calloused palms. His own shirt long discarded, Loki sets to work on Mobius’ instead, and despite the way his cock is definitely taking an interest, Mobius stills Loki’s hands with one of his own.

“I just sewed you up,” he scolds, a frown settling into his features.

Loki has the audacity to look annoyed. “And now I’m fine, can we move along—”

“You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Mm, not in my nature,” Loki says bluntly, leaning for another kiss before Mobius can reply. “That’s why I’m here,” he murmurs against Mobius’ lips, “because I know you’ll take care of me.”

“Loki,” Mobius exhales on a shuddery breath, squeezing his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to choke him.

A moment later, Loki’s forehead contacts his, and he brushes their noses together. “Please, Mobius,” he whispers into the narrow space between them. “I could have died today—”

“I know,” Mobius grinds out.

“—so I need you to fuck me until both you and I forget about it.”

Mobius can’t deny it’s an appealing prospect. “But your shoulder—”

“You’ll be careful,” Loki cuts him off. His lips twist wryly. “You’re always careful with me, even when you shouldn’t be.”

For two people who are constantly at odds, Mobius has always been terrible at saying no to him. He doesn’t manage it now, either. “Alright,” he surrenders, his hands already sliding over Loki’s back, lingering in the dip of his spine. “Alright.”

It’s not easy, between Loki’s shoulder and Mobius’ own injuries, but Mobius takes his time. He presses endless kisses to Loki’s skin, perfect in its imperfection, marred by countless scars inflicted over the years. Some by Mobius’ own hand; more by his crew, including the starburst that will form at his shoulder, no matter how neatly Mobius stitches it closed. If Mobius had his way, he’d never gain another one.

In this, Mobius knows he’s destined to be disappointed. Instead, he focuses making sure the pleasure overwhelms the pain, in treasuring every moment like it might be the last. He works Loki open with endless care—well, Loki wasn’t wrong—sinks into the impossible heat of him, rolls their bodies together as Loki urges him on, chasing the moments where they are just this. Not opponents, not adversaries, but two men seeking comfort in each other’s arms, finding what solace they can in a hard world.

In the aftermath, Loki tucks himself against Mobius’ side, pillowing his head on his shoulder, leaving no trace of space between their bodies. He’s unusually quiet, and Mobius doesn’t know if it’s just the trials of the day or something else weighing on him.

Loki’s hand moves idly over his chest, eventually finding the very scar under the collarbone Mobius had showed off earlier that evening. “Do you remember this day?” he asks, trailing a finger over the gnarled flesh.

“Are you asking if I remember the day you stabbed me in the chest?” Mobius returns incredulously.

Loki shrugs. “You’ve had closer calls.”

“Not from someone I love.”

Loki’s hand stills, not unexpectedly. It’s not the first time Mobius has said it, but he doesn’t deploy it often. It tends to make Loki… skittish.

“You didn’t know me back then,” Loki says eventually as he spreads his palm out over Mobius’ heart.

“I know you coulda killed me, but you didn’t.”

“I fear you’ve always made me soft, Mobius,” Loki murmurs, like a confession pressed against his skin.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is in this life.”

“Don’t have to be,” Mobius says. “Not all the time, anyway.”

That, apparently, was a step too far. Or maybe this was always going to be the end of their limited time tonight. Loki doesn’t reply for a long moment, letting the statement hang in the air, then his hand curls into a loose fist.

“I should go before anyone finds out I’m here,” he says. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and grips the edge of the mattress tightly. “I’ve already lingered too long.”

“You don’t have to run,” Mobius tries.

Loki laughs, without a single goddamn trace of humor in it, as he stands and grabs his trousers off the floor, tugging them on and doing up the buttons. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” Mobius insists. He sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I have contacts. People in the marshal’s office, they could get you a deal—”

“And what makes you think I want a deal?” Loki snaps, though a second later his shoulders sag. “I appreciate that you’re willing to stick your neck out for me. I do. But just because you’re on the side of law and order doesn’t mean you’re in the right.” He bends down snag his shirt off the floor, wincing as he tugs the bloodstained garment on. “How do you think your employer got all that gold, hm? It certainly wasn’t by asking nicely.”

This is not the first time they’ve had a similar argument.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. The law says it’s his,” Mobius answers with a shrug. “You expect me to believe you’re stealin’ out of some kind of highfalutin moral righteousness?”

Loki flashes him a wicked smile as his long fingers fasten his shirt. “Of course not. I’m stealing it because I want it. Which I’m fairly certain is also true of the man who’s paying you.” Once he’s finished with the buttons, he crosses back over to the bed and stands between Mobius’ legs, lifting a hand to the corner of Mobius’ jaw as he stares down at him. “You and I, we’re not all that different, in the end.”

Mobius slides his hands under the loose tails of his shirt until his palms find warm skin again. “In that case, if I asked you, again, to come join me…”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Loki murmurs, bending down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. “I can’t. Not— not yet.”

“I’m never gonna stop asking, you know,” Mobius tells him.

A melancholy smile tips onto Loki’s lips. “You’d break my heart if you did.”

That, right there, is why Mobius will never be strong enough to end this. It’s the hope that kills you, so they say.

“When will I see you again?” he asks instead.

“When’s your next job?” Loki jokes. Or not. It might not be a joke.

“Not funny,” Mobius huffs.

“I’ll find you,” Loki tells him, then quickly adds, “not during a job, all right? I’ll always find you.”

It shouldn’t be so comforting. Nothing is certain in this life—especially not for men like them—and yet this, he’s come to rely on. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

“All right,” Loki promises. “just for you.”

#lokius #loki x mobius #loki laufeyson #mobius m. mobius #cowboy loki #cowboy mobius #western au #lokius fanfic #lokius fic #my fic #chamel's fandom fest

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