Time To Dance - For Loki
"JARVIS, lights, thirty percent." His head is absolutely aching. pulsing behind his eyes to match the not-quite right heartbeat that twitched against the base of the reactor. There's no snappy answer from an AI that acts as if playing to Tony's fiddle is just another boring part of his daily tasks as the quirky robotic butler. "JARVIS, stop
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So who is crawling around the living quarters this early in the morning? Banging into things? And has four distinct feet?
Well, that would be Tony. And guest. Both drunk. And not bothering to stay quiet as they move through the condo right across from a room Tony does not keep locked or put dampeners on any more.
Tony's usuals for get over girlfriends tend to be people that resemble them. Oh, who is he kidding? Girlfriends? He's had very few in his life. One night stands are a little different. They don't require anything more than concent and a car trip home in the morning. Redheads, therefore, ought to be what Tony is with now.
Except he isn't. There's a too tall brunet with large hands and a somewhat masculine facial structure climbing onto Tony's lap in the living room instead.
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Though he didn't think Stark would be stupid enough to bring anyone home when there's a man who very much likes to torment him waiting there. A man waiting mirthfully in the dark, creeping forward in silence. And waiting. Letting them get along a bit. Why not? He'll interrupt when the moment is perfect, when it's most apt to be frustrating.
Doing as he is would be bad enough, funny enough, that annoyed, puppyish pout rewarding enough but since when has Loki Laufeyson ever settled for enough? He wants it all, everything, every last bit of nearly sadistic mirth he can pull out of the situation.
So he puts on another face. Another body. Recognisable, particularly around the eyes, but different. Clothing is replaced by one of the sheets from the bed, wrapped loosely about her frame and trailing behind her. Hair lightly tousled, eyes half-lidded so that when she does reach the doorway, when the light coming in the windows falls upon bedsheets and pale flesh and long, dark hair she looks the part perfectly, sleepy and confused, sighing softly and rubbing at one brilliantly green eye.
And then she freezes. Uncertain. Clutches the sheet to her with one hand and crosses the other over herself to rest against the doorjamb, shrinking back. "Tony?" she asks, just the faintest edge of mockery under the perfectly-tuned confusion, "Who's this?"
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Not Pepper. Just as gorgeous but definitely not Pepper. The girl in his lap scrambles up, trying to find her shirt and tugging down her much too short skirt all at the same time. "I'm sorry, I didn't-- I really had no idea he-- I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark--"
Tony wasn't thinking. Genius that he was, lust and drink can destroy all things. It's rather often that women tend to blend together for him. He can't remember names. Bust size, maybe. Faces? Almost never. His interest in them have to do with sensory stimulation. Hands, mouth, thighs... And yeah that's about it.
"Wait. Stay. I have no idea who-- or how you got in. Actually, Jarvis--"
But he's cut off ruining the game by the woman he brought home, slapping his face, her own tear stained. And now he's confused. "I really liked you!" she lamented and stalked out, half dressed.
Groaning, Tony rubs at his cheek and then props his chin on the back of the sofa and arches an eyebrow.
"You are... You're gorgeous. Sorry about her. Gone now." God who was she? God, why did he want her so damned much?
Yes. Tony Stark thinks with the wrong sense organ almost all the time.
"C'mere."
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She pads softly across the floor to stand in front of Tony, reaches out to take him by the chin, thumb resting on his lower lip just above that fading cut. She presses gently and lets her lips part. Oh, the things she could do to this man and he'd have no idea, not the slightest clue until it was too late.
That's surprisingly delicious, even if outsmarting the genius doesn't mean much when he's this incredibly drunk.
"You want me," she says, a statement, not a question. There's no uncertainty. Nor is there any hesitancy in the way she climbs up to straddle his lap, letting the sheet fall to pool about her hips.
Her hands find his in order to take them and settle them at her waist, the skin there just as unnaturally cool as her hands. to her he feels warm, burning, and she lets herself shiver. Her palms come to rest on his chest and she shifts her weight, looking down at Tony with a familiar amused curiosity.
"What do you think?" she asks. "Still want me to stay out of your bedroom?"
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In his lap, skin pale and delicate, she moves like she can read his mind, like she knows what he likes, what he wants. Fuck the too much alcohol in his system. This is real. It's too good to be anything but real and his already half hard cock springs to life against her supple inner thigh.
Tony is treated to having his hands moved for him and while that is fine for a single moment, it's not enough for him. He presses his lips to get throat -- she's so cold, he needs to warm her -- and moves his hands to cup her breasts. Tailor made for him, he thinks, her nipples pressing into his palms. Christ. Christ, he's going to lose it!
Pressing his mouth to the underside of her chin, she speaks. Again. And--
Oh that makes his eyes snap open. "What did-- what did you say?"
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Oh, this is altogether too funny. And intriguing. Will it end, once he's worked it out? Once his drink-addled brain puts all the evidence together into a coherent whole? Oh, most likely. Most likely. And that's a shame, in a sense. "But fine: I asked you if you still want me to stay out of your bedroom. Mine is perfectly available, of course, if you don't mind the cameras."
She laughs softly at that idea. "You're lucky you had Jarvis shut off S.H.I.E.L.D.'s surveillance, aren't you? I'm certain Fury would have quite a few choice things to say about this."
Compromised. Laughable. Loki's hardly done a thing to Tony. This isn't like Barton. This isn't a trick so much as the inevitable result of putting two irreverent, amoral madmen in a room together and waiting. Of course they were going to try to drive one another madder.
"In fact under the circumstances, I think it best that this particular face of mine remain our little secret," she says softly. "My gift to you, Tony Stark."
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He flips the woman onto her back and follows her too, face cradled in her breasts as he strips away the sheets.
A good look at her makes his mouth water and the wetness against his thigh where he presses down on her is.. Cold.
It's all a little too cold, like Loki's touch on his chest last week and-- His erection throbs as sobriety is forced upon him. He swallows.
"Jarvis, where's Loki?"
The answer is not what he wants. "I think that should be obvious, sir."
"Fuck."
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"But you have the general idea." She slings her leg over Tony's waist and runs her fingers through his hair, sighing. Yes, shame. Shame how this has to go. But quite a laugh. The things he says when drunk will be fodder for wicked jokes and snide comments for ages.
"It was just a bit of a laugh at first, true. I only wanted to frighten her off. Frustrate you. I saw what she looked like, though. I saw how you looked at me. I hear the things you say. If you want me out of your system, surely this is the best way to go about accomplishing that." She seizes his hand and pulls it to her lips, which she brushes thoughtfully over his knuckles before taking one gently between her teeth a moment, releasing it again only to speak.
"I won't even be upset when you're done with me by morning. This is an expedient arrangement. Efficient. And I want you." She doesn't mind admitting it. It isn't as though it means much, just desire, which is common and hardly worth the weight which humans tend to place upon it. She's wanted countless hundreds of people, mortal and immortal, throughout her lifetime.
Perhaps Stark is rather different than most. Perhaps this is more interesting than most other trysts have been in the past. That doesn't change the fundamentals.
This is just about feeling good. Relieving tension. And it does, and will.
Loki slips Tony's forefinger into her mouth, eyes fixed on his as she awaits the answer.
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He's a little too rough pulling his finger from her mouth, the velvet of her tongue against the simulation of his penis is overwhelming and the wince he gives in response exaggerated because of that. He kisses her instead, kisses her as if his every move there after might kill him and he's unwilling to die without his tongue in her mouth or her teeth on his lower lip.
When he enters her, wallet fumbled for to get the condom, pants tossed over the back of the couch, it's like heaven, a writer chalet by the fire, ice dripping down his back after a sprint. The sensation is fantastic and luckily for them both, drink does not diminish Tony's ability in this act. He leaves his shirt on, of course, but everything else is skin to skin, sex to sex, and he revels in the wickedness of it.
He's vocal too. Flattering. Whispering the things he feels as he feels them.
There will be regret in the morning but for now it is triumph.
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That Tony is talkative even now doesn't surprise her in the least. When is he not? She takes it as invitation to be equally vocal, equally wicked and filthy and delighted. She's no passive lover in any sense, not shy with hands and mouth nor reluctant to brace her foot against the couch and push up to meet him thrust for thrust.
If anything, in fact, she's aggressive, greedily uninhibited, free with demands and encouraging words and once a sharp smack to the bottom. And when it's over, once she's come, arching up against him and clamping rhythmically down around him as she moans his name (unnecessary, not inspired, just praise), and once he's followed her, thrusts growing erratic and then fading away entirely, she laughs. She laughs, breathless and in no small way delighted because this is unexpected, isn't it?
Yes, not precisely how she'd anticipated the evening might go, though no objections, no complaints, not from her.
"There," she says, hand slipping under Tony's shirt to lazily stroke his lower back, "not so terrible, hm? Don't worry, I won't tell a soul."
God, no. Thor would murder them both if word ever got out.
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The reactor in his chest vibrates against her belly and his large hands lightly trace patterns against the curve of her hips. He's not going to say a word. She can torment him, bring this up forever, use it as blackmail--
Oh well. The liesmith can lie. Tony is contented. He falls asleep against her, not exactly a smart thing to do with a used condom leaking onto the hardwood and in the middle of his living room, but it is what it is.
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In time she drifts off too, not into sleep, of which she's more or less had her fill of late, but into something more meditative. Mindless sensation, a relaxation like the unfocusing of an eye. The hum of the arc reactor and the pulsing of Tony's heart beneath it blend into larger things, the energy flowing through the building and beyond, the currents of the ocean, of the Hudson river, bigger, all oceans, the grind and collapse and rebirth of tectonic plates, the dizzying and exhilarating velocity and spin of the planet drifting through her consciousness, minimally filtered and minimally processed.
Not because she needs to. Not because it means anything or helps anyone or harms them. Because she can. And she lingers for the same reasons. Tomorrow, perhaps, they can get to work. Tomorrow she can turn over old friends and allies to those who would see them locked up or dead because she's hit upon something new. It's alright. They'd do the same to her.
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If her eyes weren't Loki's, he'd have a better time of it, but that green is unmistakeable. It's grass green. Beer bottle green. Green straight out of a Carola marker box. And having them on him when he game-- He scrubs off that image too.
"Sir, phone for you. I believe it's. Ms. Potts."
"Aww fuck." He wants to bash his head in. "Tell her I'm busy and yes to whatever she wants."
Assuming it's about the company, Tony goes for the easy way out. One day he may learn-- No, actually, likely not. He presses his palms to either side of the spray and, feet apart, leans into the water.
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And it had worked out well, in her opinion. She's quite content when she drifts off to shower in her own little cell, sheets gathered about her. It's mostly for the sake of the cameras mounted in there that she becomes he again, and clothed. Their little secret.
The sheets get piled back onto the bed and there's a show of much yawning and scratching as Loki makes his way to the shower, plodding a bit grumpily to cover his good mood. There's no need to hide it when he comes back out again, though, past the cameras and into the incrementally more private part of the building.
Incrementally more private, but also much more shared, which he supposes is why Tony is still hiding. An unfortunate fact in and of itself, if not terribly surprising, but made all the more unfortunate by Loki's next destination: the kitchen.
Or maybe it's not so unfortunate. He expects he could eat the man entire at the moment. Sex always does make him hungry.
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Nope. Eyes still a midnight brown, espresso like the liquid filling his cup.
He makes a very hasty retreat in a pair of pajama bottoms and a tank top. The ring of the device keeping him alive shines a lovely shade of blue. He manages not to run out but it's close enough.
That afternoon and Loki's in the livingroom on the sofa he'd been planning to face plant into. He retreats again. Dinner time, and he's at the bar, fiddling with something. Tony forgoes the pre-dinner boozing and locks himself in his workshop for the night. Loki is not out of his system. He's poisoned him.
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The third disappearance, this time into the workshop, has him snorting and shaking his head. If he had any idea of what was really going on in Tony's head, he'd be laughing. Laughing, and probably slipping off to wait in his bed, since that particular restriction had really only explicitly involved following, not preceding.
But he doesn't. He makes his silent way into the workshop instead, barriers and locked doors nothing to a man who can slip through matter and spacetime like it's nothing at all. It seems they'll have to talk, which is ridiculous, frankly, but there it is. Shame.
"I had thought you of all people would be the least likely to subscribe to the more antiquarian human notions of sex, but clearly I was mistaken," he says moments after arrival, voice dry. "So: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pursued you."
Loki moves to stand across from Tony and fixes him with an indecipherable look.
"Now, would you like to have a look at some of Victor von Doom's robots?" he asks, tapping his forehead. A peace offering in more than one sense. Fury is bound to be getting antsy too.
Tony will likely already have seen what Loki can do with holographic projections, so what he'll produce if his little gesture is accepted shouldn't be terribly surprising. Information he doesn't have, not strictly. His knowledge of electronics and mechanics is mediocre, though far better than his brother's. What he does have is a near-perfect memory, and he's seen Doom's doppelgänger robots during several stages of their production. He can offer a lineup. It isn't a perfect solution, but it's a better look at the inner workings of the machines than anyone ever would have had before, given the self-destruct feature.
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