FIC: All the Devil's Men (Doom/Iron Man), M for Mature
Yes, I finally wrote Doom slash.
Title: All the Devil's Men
Fandom: Marvel Comics
Characters/Pairing: Doctor Doom/Iron Man (Victor/Tony)
Rating: M for Mature.
Warnings: Sex! And it's Doctor Doom slash. I repeat: Doctor Doom slash.
This is set during their adventure in Camelot, shortly before they returned to the present.
They'd been working on the time machine for hours, cannibalizing spare parts from each of their suits, and if Tony felt like a drink to settle his nerves, well he felt justified. He had no desire to remain trapped in the distant past -- yes, being a knight was a dream come true, and there were more than enough willing wenches at Camelot, but he preferred to spend his life in an era with readily available hot showers and drinks on the rocks.
So he gulped down a tankard of somewhat stale ale, and stumbled back in the workshop to find Doom still hard at work on the time machine. "Jesus, Doom," he slurred, "don't you ever take a break? Have a drink." He offered the tankard, which sloshed a bit from the leftover ale at the bottom.
Doom regarded him with that look of disdain and annoyance that Tony had become so familiar with. "I do not imbibe, Iron Man," Doom haughtily informed him, "and neither shall you, until the machine is completed and we are returned to our proper time."
Tony badly wanted to take a seat, but the chairs in the workshop would crack under the weight of his armor. So he settled for slumping against the wall. "Ah, lighten up. We'll get it up and runnin' in no time -- heh, no time..." His voice trailed off; he was drunker than he thought.
Doom drew himself up to his full height and loomed over him. "Doom is not amused by your inane prattling, minion!"
Tony stared up at him and blinked. "Anyone ever tell you you're sexy when you're like this?"
Shit. He hadn't meant to say that aloud.
Doom's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do not toy with me, Iron Man."
"Only if you asked me to," Tony blurted out, and resisted the temptation to slap his hand over his mouth-slit. He really was drunk off his ass. Trying to talk up Doctor Doom? Smooth move, Tony.
Doom did the last thing he expected -- he threw his head back, planted his hands on his hips, and laughed. "Hah! Slattern, you are loose-tongued and weak-minded tonight," he said. "And Doom does not ask -- he commands."
"Is that a threat?"
"That is a promise," Doom said, and something dangerous coiled in Tony's belly. He was tired of being in the suit, being pent up; he wanted to fuck, naked, on his hands and knees, crudely groping, panting, whispering meaningless filthy things into his lover's ear. His bloodstream was filled with alcohol, and that Latverian accent -- not quite Russian and not Greek, either, close to Wanda and Pietro's accents but not quite identical -- was titillating him. He studied the edges and angles of Doom's mask, that expressionless face, glinting cold metal in the firelight.
"Fuck, I'd love to see you without that thing on for once," Tony said.
He hoped for another booming laugh, but instead Doom went deathly silent, then stepped forward, raising one hand towards Tony, and for a moment he thought Doom meant to crush his skull for that comment. Instead, Doom grasped him by the faceplate and slammed him into the wall.
"Argh," snarled Tony as he fought against Doom's grip.
"Fool! You pompous ingrate, you will be taught your place!" Doom was furious; his eyes were dilated and wild. "If you would look upon Doom's face, then look!"
He ripped the mask off. This had the effect of making Tony stop shock-still; it did not have the effect of cooling his ardor.
Doom was scarred, but Tony had slept with people covered in scars, even facial scars. And these weren't keloids or discolored welts, but thin, spidery cracks, as though Doom's face (dark skinned, full lips -- a very handsome man, Tony dimly noted) had been shattered like a mirror, and then carefully put back together again. The overall effect was unnerving. And ruthlessly exciting.
"Gorgeous," breathed Tony.
Doom released him, and Tony stood shakily on his feet. Doom regarded him coldly, and Tony got the impression he was considering whether or not to seriously maim him for his drunken ramblings. "Get down on your knees," Doom commanded, "and worship your better."
Beneath his mask, Tony smirked. "Oh, is that how you like to pla-"
"Silence!"
"Oookay," Tony quickly conceded. He dropped to his knees. From this angle Doom looked even taller and more powerful, like an angry god. Doom's dark eyes watched him from that curiously beautiful cracked face, and Tony could feel himself getting hard. Shit, he thought to himself, I'm more fucked up than I thought.
"Remove your gloves," Doom ordered him.
Tony's gauntlets clattered to the floor. Doom reached for his own belt, and a thrill went through Tony's whole body from his scalp to his toes. He hated Doom. He wanted to fuck his brains out. It was like every doomed relationship he'd ever had, distilled into pure adrenaline.
Doom did something that Tony couldn't see clearly to his belt, and that tunic billowed open more loosely. "Now," said Doom, as though he were merely gearing up for another monologue, "worship me, minion."
Tony's hands glided up the smooth metal plates covering Doom's legs to slip inside the fabric of his tunic. He had to fight past several layers of fabric and a codpiece to find -- oh, wow. Somehow the idea that Doom was a man and had a cock hadn't seemed organic to Tony before. He'd always perceived Doom as a force of pure malevolence who'd sprung into the world fully formed like a tin-plated Athena from Zeus' head, not a man of flesh and blood (and metal, and magic). His hands were much too dry, and he didn't dare remove his mask to spit on them. So Tony settled for gently stroking the swelling organ, dimly noting through his stupor that Doom was uncut. He is European, after all.
Doom's cock was the same sugar brown as his skin, and Tony had a mad desire to wrap his mouth and tongue around it, but he had just enough reason left to keep his mask (and his secret identity) intact. It didn't take long for Doom to become rock hard, and rock against Tony's hand. He was still eerily silent, staring down at Tony, his bisected upper lip twitching. "Fuck, yes," muttered Tony, and then Doom came into his hand in long, heavy spurts. "Beautiful. Fucking beautiful."
Doom made him wipe him off, then tuck him back into his tunic. "Now," he said at last, his voice annoyingly nonchalant, "back to the task at hand." He strode over to the time machine, laying near-forgotten on the table. Tony, who was still so hard he could cry, glared at him fiercely.
"You ever hear of 'all work and no play', Doom?"
Title: All the Devil's Men
Fandom: Marvel Comics
Characters/Pairing: Doctor Doom/Iron Man (Victor/Tony)
Rating: M for Mature.
Warnings: Sex! And it's Doctor Doom slash. I repeat: Doctor Doom slash.
This is set during their adventure in Camelot, shortly before they returned to the present.
They'd been working on the time machine for hours, cannibalizing spare parts from each of their suits, and if Tony felt like a drink to settle his nerves, well he felt justified. He had no desire to remain trapped in the distant past -- yes, being a knight was a dream come true, and there were more than enough willing wenches at Camelot, but he preferred to spend his life in an era with readily available hot showers and drinks on the rocks.
So he gulped down a tankard of somewhat stale ale, and stumbled back in the workshop to find Doom still hard at work on the time machine. "Jesus, Doom," he slurred, "don't you ever take a break? Have a drink." He offered the tankard, which sloshed a bit from the leftover ale at the bottom.
Doom regarded him with that look of disdain and annoyance that Tony had become so familiar with. "I do not imbibe, Iron Man," Doom haughtily informed him, "and neither shall you, until the machine is completed and we are returned to our proper time."
Tony badly wanted to take a seat, but the chairs in the workshop would crack under the weight of his armor. So he settled for slumping against the wall. "Ah, lighten up. We'll get it up and runnin' in no time -- heh, no time..." His voice trailed off; he was drunker than he thought.
Doom drew himself up to his full height and loomed over him. "Doom is not amused by your inane prattling, minion!"
Tony stared up at him and blinked. "Anyone ever tell you you're sexy when you're like this?"
Shit. He hadn't meant to say that aloud.
Doom's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do not toy with me, Iron Man."
"Only if you asked me to," Tony blurted out, and resisted the temptation to slap his hand over his mouth-slit. He really was drunk off his ass. Trying to talk up Doctor Doom? Smooth move, Tony.
Doom did the last thing he expected -- he threw his head back, planted his hands on his hips, and laughed. "Hah! Slattern, you are loose-tongued and weak-minded tonight," he said. "And Doom does not ask -- he commands."
"Is that a threat?"
"That is a promise," Doom said, and something dangerous coiled in Tony's belly. He was tired of being in the suit, being pent up; he wanted to fuck, naked, on his hands and knees, crudely groping, panting, whispering meaningless filthy things into his lover's ear. His bloodstream was filled with alcohol, and that Latverian accent -- not quite Russian and not Greek, either, close to Wanda and Pietro's accents but not quite identical -- was titillating him. He studied the edges and angles of Doom's mask, that expressionless face, glinting cold metal in the firelight.
"Fuck, I'd love to see you without that thing on for once," Tony said.
He hoped for another booming laugh, but instead Doom went deathly silent, then stepped forward, raising one hand towards Tony, and for a moment he thought Doom meant to crush his skull for that comment. Instead, Doom grasped him by the faceplate and slammed him into the wall.
"Argh," snarled Tony as he fought against Doom's grip.
"Fool! You pompous ingrate, you will be taught your place!" Doom was furious; his eyes were dilated and wild. "If you would look upon Doom's face, then look!"
He ripped the mask off. This had the effect of making Tony stop shock-still; it did not have the effect of cooling his ardor.
Doom was scarred, but Tony had slept with people covered in scars, even facial scars. And these weren't keloids or discolored welts, but thin, spidery cracks, as though Doom's face (dark skinned, full lips -- a very handsome man, Tony dimly noted) had been shattered like a mirror, and then carefully put back together again. The overall effect was unnerving. And ruthlessly exciting.
"Gorgeous," breathed Tony.
Doom released him, and Tony stood shakily on his feet. Doom regarded him coldly, and Tony got the impression he was considering whether or not to seriously maim him for his drunken ramblings. "Get down on your knees," Doom commanded, "and worship your better."
Beneath his mask, Tony smirked. "Oh, is that how you like to pla-"
"Silence!"
"Oookay," Tony quickly conceded. He dropped to his knees. From this angle Doom looked even taller and more powerful, like an angry god. Doom's dark eyes watched him from that curiously beautiful cracked face, and Tony could feel himself getting hard. Shit, he thought to himself, I'm more fucked up than I thought.
"Remove your gloves," Doom ordered him.
Tony's gauntlets clattered to the floor. Doom reached for his own belt, and a thrill went through Tony's whole body from his scalp to his toes. He hated Doom. He wanted to fuck his brains out. It was like every doomed relationship he'd ever had, distilled into pure adrenaline.
Doom did something that Tony couldn't see clearly to his belt, and that tunic billowed open more loosely. "Now," said Doom, as though he were merely gearing up for another monologue, "worship me, minion."
Tony's hands glided up the smooth metal plates covering Doom's legs to slip inside the fabric of his tunic. He had to fight past several layers of fabric and a codpiece to find -- oh, wow. Somehow the idea that Doom was a man and had a cock hadn't seemed organic to Tony before. He'd always perceived Doom as a force of pure malevolence who'd sprung into the world fully formed like a tin-plated Athena from Zeus' head, not a man of flesh and blood (and metal, and magic). His hands were much too dry, and he didn't dare remove his mask to spit on them. So Tony settled for gently stroking the swelling organ, dimly noting through his stupor that Doom was uncut. He is European, after all.
Doom's cock was the same sugar brown as his skin, and Tony had a mad desire to wrap his mouth and tongue around it, but he had just enough reason left to keep his mask (and his secret identity) intact. It didn't take long for Doom to become rock hard, and rock against Tony's hand. He was still eerily silent, staring down at Tony, his bisected upper lip twitching. "Fuck, yes," muttered Tony, and then Doom came into his hand in long, heavy spurts. "Beautiful. Fucking beautiful."
Doom made him wipe him off, then tuck him back into his tunic. "Now," he said at last, his voice annoyingly nonchalant, "back to the task at hand." He strode over to the time machine, laying near-forgotten on the table. Tony, who was still so hard he could cry, glared at him fiercely.
"You ever hear of 'all work and no play', Doom?"