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He wakes up with a cock in his ass and a moan on his lips, hands bound above his head. For a short moment of disorientation, Tony panics and struggles against the hold and away from the pleasure giving cock. His breathing comes in short pants-he isn’t sure if it’s from exertion or fright-and he blinks furiously against the darkness that blinds him. His throat itches as he opens to call for JARVIS, anyone!
“Calm down, Stark. You blacked out for a few minutes,” a sultry voice says softly from above. If Tony concentrates, he can hear the faint worry in the tone. He blinks furiously and the familiar, sharp features come into focus. His blinks turn owlish as embarrassment flushes his skin—or maybe it’s from the cock driving deep into his ass, he’s no longer sure.
”God, Loki," he groans, “give a guy a warning next time. Yeah?” He looks above his head to see his hands bind together at the wrist by one of Loki’s larger hands. That explains a lot, he thinks as he pulls experimentally. Loki’s hold doesn’t relent.
Instead, the man—demi-god? Ex-supervillain? Or is it just supervillain? Sweet mercy, he can’t think with Loki’s incredibly long and sinuous body moving oh-so sensually above him—pulls his cock out slowly, teasing with a smirk and how Tony wishes he could wipe that look off his face, as he leans down to nibble on Tony’s lower lip.
“My apologies, Stark,” Loki whispers into his mouth, and god if Tony doesn’t find it incredibly hot. Even the arrogant tone in Loki’s ‘supposed’ apology turns something deep inside him into mush. And Tony seriously shouldn’t give in so easily, but the drag of Loki’s cock against his inner wall is pushing him toward an invisible edge and Loki knows this. He’s probably playing it with all he’s got because once he is almost out completely, Loki pushes back in with the same leisure, focusing on driving Tony wild with his kisses instead.
But seriously, monster cock up his ass—kind of hard to not notice. Tony stretches his spine to grind down against the slow thrust, hoping to speed up the process. Instead, he feels Loki smirk into the kiss as he pushes Tony up the bed, hands taut and body arching away from Loki’s cock. His other hand comes to a rest at Tony’s hip casually, but the strength behind it holds Tony still, unable to move unless Loki allows it.
The bastard simply goes back to leaving butterfly kisses at the edge of his mouth, nipping bruises on his lips, making filthy promises to his tongue and generally killing Tony slowly with desire. “Where’re your manners?” Loki drawls because that’s what he does best: torment for shits and giggles. “I was asking for your forgiveness, Stark.”
“Fuck you.” Loki tsk’s and everything comes to a complete halt, lips retreating and hip stopping. Tony whimpers, quickly craning his neck to recapture Loki’s lips in a desperate grasp with his own.
“I forgive you,” Tony cries into the kiss, suckling at Loki’s tongue like a lifeline. “Ple-please.” Because Tony isn’t above begging for what he wants, and Loki always knows exactly what buttons to push (the one buries deep in his ass, apparently).
“Truly?” The amusement isn’t lost to Tony but fuck if he cares.
He just wants Loki to resume (even at an excruciatingly slow rate because that’s better than nothing, better than Loki leaving him) because Tony’s slowly disintegrating inside out. There’s burning lava in his vein, his muscles, his everything and Loki’s the only one to sooth it. He thinks there’re tears in his eyes and he hopes Loki’ll wipe them, he feels his neck muscles aching from the awkward angle and he wishes for Loki to kiss away the pain. There’s a bruise forming where Loki’s hand rests on his hip and Tony knows that it’ll remain for at least a week. And Tony knows he’ll love it.
Because loving Loki isn’t a tender thing. It’s not fine dining and a nice walk on the beach. There’s no 2.5 kids and a dog and white, picket fence. He doesn’t expect bed of roses and whispered sweetness in the dark. It’s a turbulent affair, a tsunami of discord between opposing sides; the dichotomy of good and evil. Of fraternizing with the enemy and waking up to empty bed and going to sleep in a cold, lonely room. And there’re millions of reason why this isn’t a good idea. It’s not safe nor healthy; even he can tell with his nonexistent self-preservation and stunted emotion.
But it’s an addiction that Tony can’t break from. Because in the end, he’ll take the pain, he’ll endure against the sorrow, and he’ll receive whatever Loki has to give just so that he’ll have someone who won’t walk away from him--away from the damaged soul, the missing heart, the chipping core.
Because Loki understands him like no one else could.
Because Loki’s just as broken.
Tony gasps sharply when Loki drives deep into him with a single thrust, bringing him out of his daze. Just when Tony thinks that Loki is giving him a break, that he’ll continue with the motion, the demi-god pauses again, peering down at him haughtily, scrutinizing Tony’s response.
“Stark?”
“Yes! I forgive you, now shut up and fuck me!” Tony growls, eyes ablaze with desire. “And stop calling me Stark if you ever want to come back h-uhgg—“ Loki pushes forward, somehow getting even deeper than balls-deep, and presses against the little nub inside of him, drawing stars behind his eyelids. Tony can’t remember when he closes them but he thanks God--Jesus, Loki, fuck! don’t stop--when Loki pulls out and surges back in without any hesitation.
Tony can’t tell if he’s thinking silently or moaning out loud.
“Your mouth will be the death of you,” Loki murmurs into his ears, biting and pulling at the lobes painfully, like he’s trying to make Tony into Loki’s personal van Gogh. Tony probably has something witty to say about that but the brutal snapping motion of Loki’s hips scramble his thoughts into a mess of numbers and equations and Loki.
Loki’s cock moving and stretching him, Loki’s hands holding him, Loki’s large frame above him, Loki’s hair, Loki’s eyes, Loki. Loki.
Loki.
“Loki! Sweet Je-Jesus!” There’s a plethora of words that spills from his mouth, there are moans that flitter out uninhibitedly, drool drips but none of the above can accurately describe the overwhelming sensations Loki’s creating in him. His toes try to curl into themselves, the arch of his spine would make Clint’s bow jealous, and the rubbing motion of Loki’s wash-board abs against his cock is teasingly delicious, just enough to keep him on the edge as his prostate is being assaulted by Loki continuously.
Tony thinks he can come with just Loki’s cock up his ass.
He feels himself blackening out from the pleasure for the second time that night. He feels the world fade around him as he’s teetering in and out of consciousness. Loki’s face, painted with sweat, is above him, Loki’s eyes are on him, Loki’s lips are moving; but Tony can’t focus. His muscles scream and his cock pulses.
Close.
He’s so close.
“Not yet, Anthony.” And fuck if he doesn’t used to hate that name! Used to hate it that it reminds him of his sordid past, of absent father and negligent mother, of empty mansion and soulless riches.
But there’s only love and marvel and adoration from Loki’s tone. Like Tony’s the only wonder that Loki admires. So much tenderness. So loved.
Loved. Loved.
Tony shivers violently. His hole clenches around the cock and Tony can feel Loki pulse in response. Loki’s movement loses its calculated motion and becomes erratic for a few passing seconds.
Just enough to stroke Tony’s ego because, yeah, he’s the mortal that makes the demi-god lose his composure—even if it’s only a few seconds.
“So close! Love, please,” Tony cries so desperately. Loki’s a cruel bastard because he rams deep inside Tony, pressing balls flat against him and dragging the smooth skin above his dick against the underside of Tony’s balls (‘cuz Loki’s a kinky bastard and likes to shave everywhere), stops and straightens up to stare down at Tony.
Tony cries.
He struggles against the hold on his hips, he yanks against the hand above his head, he pushes his body up against the hard miles of skin atop him but Loki simply stares. The pleasure haze slowly lessens just in time to catch Loki leaning down toward him. Despite his desire to reach up and receive whatever’s coming, his muscles protest against any further straining and Tony settles and peers at Loki through fluttering lashes. Loki’s lips touch his in the merest of caress, tender and sweet, like unspoken promises between the sheets.
But Tony doesn’t delude himself so he doesn’t reply in kind.
His body tenses but he keeps still.
“Is this not,” Loki begins, kissing the edge of his lips and trailing upward, “where.” He touches Tony’s cheek in passing and ends at his eyes, leaving kisses on the back of each eyelid, “you.” He lays a final kiss on Tony’s forehead, “belong, Anthony?”
Tony involuntarily shudders in response to the question. There’s a sensual edge to the familiar speech and despite the intimacy Loki is showing, the question raises Tony’s hackles. “Not the time for the subjugation speech, Loki.”
Loki pulls back like he’s burned, his eyes snapping to meet Tony’s in a questioning stare. Tony feels like he’s missing something, some vital information that has been lost during the translation between god and human speech.
He opens his mouth to apology, to request for an explanation, when Loki begins to move again. Instead, he can only moans. Unlike before, there’s a desperation to Loki’s movement. There’s now a blind purpose instead of well calculated drag of drawn-out pleasure.
“This is where you belong, Anthony,” Loki answers his own question. His words are punctuated in time with his thrust. His hands no longer hold Tony down, instead, they bracket on the sides of Tony’s head, holding him in a prison of sensual lust and wretched desperation.
“Now and eternity.” Thrust.
“Death. Ragnarok. Odin won’t be able to keep you from me.” Thrust. Thrust.
More than before, Tony’s helpless to do anything but brace against the onslaught of pleasure. His moans and Loki’s pants echo across the room in a symphony of desire. His hands, now free, come to wrap around Loki’s shoulder, holding him in Tony’s own prison.
“In your death, I’ll march into Valhalla, into Odin’s sanction and steal you.” Loki’s composure is fringing into total abandonment. “From my magic I’ll mold a body fit for a consort of a king, bending it and forming until everything in you screams mine,” Loki shoves in roughly. Behind his eyelids, Tony can see himself coming to life under Loki’s skillful fingers, feeling himself being molded into perfection before Loki’s careful scrutiny, being made into existent just for the prankster.
“I’ll steal you away and keep you in my palace of ice.”
He can feel the power in Loki’s words, feels Loki’s magic seeping through his skin and unfolding into the surrounding, feels Loki’s losing grip on his control. There’s a different sensation in Loki’s movement. A sliver of cold and ice washes through his body from the inside and it takes Tony a few second to realize Loki’s cock’s temperature is lowering alarmingly fast. Tony bows up to get away from the foreign feeling and into Loki’s cold body. He snaps his eyes open to the bleeding red of Loki’s eyes.
“Dress you in my color.” The grin encroaching onto Loki’s bluing face speaks of destruction and pain, and any normal person would be scared away. Tony simply pushes up to pull Loki deeper into his arms; or is Loki sloping down? Loki’s lips press against the vital junctions between Tony’s neck and shoulder. Tony shudders against the coldness and tilts his head the other way.
Offering.
Surrendering.
“Keep you close just for my entertainment.” Behind them, Tony can see his room shifting. The sleek, modern design of tempered glass and black walls fading away as the color blue bleeds and spreads, warping into tall columns of ice. The ceiling stretches up and away, decorated carvings adorn every corners as large windows come into being. In the haze of his mind, Tony can see the long stretched land fill with ice and desolation, barren and endless under the darkened sky.
His bed’s colder and wilder.
A room fits for an Ice King.
And Loki’s words finally catch up to him.
“N-Not a pet!” Tony grunts, hating how wretched he sounds, barely forming words, when Loki’s conjuring up an entire palace into being.
Loki chuckles into his neck. The cold breathe caresses the probably bruised spot, making Tony spasm violently. Loki’s cock is coming fast and wild. Tony knows the end is coming. He grabs Loki in a blind purchase.
Something is scrapping against his nipples, cold and unyielding. His right foot is caught on something, thick and heavy. Sound of metal chain echoes in the background but Tony can only focus on the fringe he climbing toward. Closer and higher and almost and—
There!
He comes with Loki’s name on his lips, his body strains entirely in the air, barely balancing, and white, pearly strings of come stand out vividly against Loki’s blue skin. Loki quickly follows with a loud grunt as he forces his cock deep into Tony. His eyes squeeze shut and his body remains motionless for a few second before collapsing on top of the mortal.
“Anthony,” Tony hears. So soft and revered. A lifeline. A lasting hope.
Then Loki rolls off to allow Tony to catch his breathe. Tony pants heavily, giddy on adrenaline rush and whatever else Loki has overdosed him with. His hands come to rest on his chest, an unconscious move to make sure his arc reactor’s still functioning, when they touch metal chains. Questioning, Tony pulls them up to inspect. There’re blue gems the size of marble balls with a series of symbols carved on. Tony runs his thumb across them, feeling the ridges they create with a questioning stare.
“They’re my essence of being.” Loki’s voice is rough. “My code, if you will.”
When Tony looks over to Loki’s blue form—Jotunheim, if he remembers correctly (Of course he remembers correctly, he’s a genius after all)—he can see the same symbols etch across Loki’s skin: a series of scratches and marks in some precise directions.
Tony opens his mouth, wanting to ask why the demi-god deem to decorate him with his own symbols when something catches his eyes. Sitting up and lifting his right foot, Tony stares at the shackle wrapping around his ankle with disbelief. He pulls the chain and the familiar sound of metal resonates through the room.
“Did you, uh--” Tony’s lost for words. He can feel the amusement oozing off the immortal beside him, “—cuff me to the bed?”
There’s a coldness that’s washing over him. Before Tony knows it, a collar with the same extravagant marks wraps around his neck, a delicate metal chain extrudes from the front and the other end is in Loki’s hand. Loki pulls him forward and Tony fumbles into Loki’s space.
“Mine,” Loki whispers sinfully into his ears and everything comes into perspective. The 'subjugation' speech. The chains. The marks.
Tony laughs, because there isn’t anything else he could do. “There’s better way to say you love me, you know.”
Loki pulls back, the same ‘burned’ expression from before paints across his face. Like he isn’t aware of his own affection. Tony isn't known to be shy so he pushes forward, the sound of the chains is reassuring and the weight of the collar is encouraging. He leans in for a kiss and this time, Loki is still.
“Like, I love you,” he says into the kiss. It’s soft and gentle against cold lips. When he leans back, Loki’s gone and his magic is dwindling. The columns and the windows and the barren wasteland fade away. Tony lies back on the mattress, his hands are holding onto the disappearing neckpiece and touching the vanishing collar. His foot shakes rhythmically against the heavy hold of the cuff.
It’s not a safe nor healthy relationship. But it’s his version of the picket fence.
And for once, the cold seeping into his bone is warm and comforting.