Splayed out against his dark sheets, Robin—Sparrow? Lark? No, Raven, he recalls suddenly, because he remembers thinking somewhere around drink number four that her name was appropriate with the hip length spill of black curls—Raven looks soft and flushed and delicious.
She's not quite naked, not with her garter belt, underwear, and delicate lace stockings, but she's close enough. There's plenty of smooth skin for him to run fingers over, feeling where she's surprisingly muscled beneath. Tony's mouth curls in a completely devious grin as he stares down at her, and she tilts her head against the pillows, a wicked grin of her own lighting up her face. It looks frighteningly familiar for a moment, before her voice interrupts his thoughts. "Are we waiting for something?" she asks. Innocence sounds like a weapon in her mouth, and she uses it well.
Tony rests his fingers at the hollow of her throat, and Raven breathes softly as he drags his fingers down between her breasts, down her navel, stopping at the edge of the garter belt and scraping his nails gently against the fabric as his fingers move towards her hips. She shivers faintly under the attention, but her green eyes are shuttered. "So tentative. I would have thought the infamous Tony Stark would have been more confident than this." She rolls her hips, an undulating motion, and the shutters open just barely to let a hint of a fever brightness escape.
Tony's grin doesn't relent an inch. "Trust me," he purrs, "Expectation is half the fun." He keeps his touch light. There are few things he likes more than getting a woman worked up, getting her wet and wanting and then delivering—and he always delivers as a point of pride. More than once, if he can help it. It's part of what makes him good at sex—and what makes it so much fun.
Just as Raven is shifting as much in impatience as want, Tony dips his head and presses an open-mouth kiss to her right nipple, thumbing at her left. She arches and it's all skin against skin for a few heady moments as Tony increases the suction. Raven's body is warm beneath his own and she lets out the tiniest moan as Tony's callused fingers rub at the soft flesh of her breasts. The sound pools down south with the rest of his blood, and he grins around her nipple, teeth scraping gently. It earns him a second moan, this one as much vibration as noise, and he can feel it wherever they're touching.
His laugh makes Raven pull him up none too gently and she kisses him like there's a war to be won, like this is something that needs teeth and force. Tony doesn't let her turn this into a battle of wills, not yet, not when he isn't the enemy. Instead he holds her down gently against the sheets and kisses deep, tongues tangling without lashing, teeth used to caress instead of drawing blood. It makes her surge up against him, strangely vulnerable, and Tony wants.
He pulls back, hands going to his slacks. Raven doesn't let him though, lashes hiding her eyes as she knocks away his hands and works the button herself, pushing them down Tony's hips and making him do an awkward wiggle to get out of them. It makes Raven laugh, surprisingly loud. It catches even her by surprise, and it makes her cover her mouth even though her eyes are still snickering at him. Tony makes a face at her, but comments, "It's about time. Seriously, if no one laughs at least once, I'm pretty sure you're not doing it right."
That makes Raven still for a moment, green eyes eerily luminous and haunting for a moment, but before Tony can ask her what's happened, she's chucking his pants off the bed with one hand and rubbing at his cock through his boxers with the other. Anything he was going to say gets lost in the choked sound of surprise that catches in his throat. Raven leans down and nips at his collarbone before laving over the skin with her tongue. She does it again, and again, and again, leaving a row of glistening red marks until Tony is gasping. He buries his hands in the black curtain of her hair tugging her up as she had him earlier, kissing her, losing himself in the sensation of her pliant mouth.
It's as delicious as earlier, the wine and whiskey they'd drunk hours ago almost completely gone, leaving nothing to taste but them. Her breasts soft against the cool metal of the arc reactor, her thighs tight around his hips, her mouth hot against his own, it all makes Tony fight to get a hand between them, trying to get rid of the last barriers between them. He meets Raven's long fingers en route and together they try not to make too much of a hash of getting rid of the vestiges of their clothing. Fumbling in the half-light, bodies unwilling to part, it takes them several minutes of breathed expletives and kisses and fingers on skin before they're finally, truly naked.
It makes Raven pause above him for a brief moment, the faintest sheen of sweat on her skin glimmering in the dim lighting of the room. The way her eyes watch him make his heart pound; for an instant he feels like an insect beneath her instead of merely naked before the feeling passes, leaving him vaguely uneasy. Those few remnants of fabric shouldn't make that much of a difference. They'd been little more than scraps of cloth, hiding nothing. Yet it can make all the difference, Tony knows well, because almost naked is still not completely naked.
That's how Raven looks—naked, her face stripped bare and Tony can't even begin to read the story there. He closes his eyes, because he doesn't want to, doesn't dare to. They're all looking for something, Tony more than most, and it seems like this woman is too much the same for Tony to handle. It makes something hot sting in his chest, unexpected and fierce. It makes him think of the arc reactor that everyone sees and few understand, it makes him think of Rhodey's face behind a silver mask, it makes him think of Pepper's shaking hands.
Almost on reflex, Tony's hands come up, cupping her breasts, and she closes her eyes and sways. He opens his mouth and then shuts it again, because there isn't anything to say and he knows it. Instead, he drags her down to the bed, shifting to sit between her thighs and his mouth replaces his hands on her breast as his fingers meander along the planes of her body. He wants to wipe that look off her face, carve it from his breast. He glances up and Raven has her head tipped back, long, pale throat exposed, her fingers knotted in Tony's covers as she arches. Little pants are escaping her that roll through her body and into his.
Tony's skin feels dangerously hot, and he uses his free hand to palm at his cock, shuddering a little at the way even the simple touch feels so good. His other hand ghosts over where Raven's thighs meet the rest of her body. Her panting turns into a sharp, "Please," that has Tony moving before he can think about it.
Two fingers slide into her body, and Raven clenches around them. "Fuck, fuck, yes," she breathes and when he doesn't move for a long second she shoves down on his fingers until they're buried inside of her. "No stopping now," she demands, and Tony can't argue with that, doesn't want to. He wants to slide inside her as easily as his fingers did; just the idea of being surrounded by that wet heat makes him tighten the grip he has on his cock.
He's going to make her come first, though.
Tony slides his fingers in a smooth rhythm in and out of her, slowly building up speed as he sucks at her nipples again. Her hips start rocking in the pace he set, one hand settling at the back of his head and pressing him more firmly against her chest. "More," she gasps on the heels of a moan. Her legs come up, one hooking around his waist to gain real leverage that lets her fuck down on his fingers. "Yes, yes," Raven whispers, then again louder. The sound pleases Tony, his cock aching, and he rewards her with a third finger and an even faster pace.
It's still a tease though, not quite enough to get her off, and from the way Raven is desperately rocking down onto his fingers and fighting him for every second of contact, she knows it. "I know you know where my clit is," she finally blurts out, command clear in her voice, "so—dear fuck!" Her voice cracks, then shatters, as Tony rubs at her clit before she's even finished speaking and she grinds against his hand with something like a plea in the back of her throat. "Yes, that, there, god don't stop!"
Tony doesn't lift his head from her breasts, though, and from the sounds Raven is making, she doesn't mind. She keeps clenching around his fingers, and she isn't even trying to keep pace with him now. Tony lets her do as she pleases, rubbing steadily against her clit. Tony can't keep himself from pressing against her, though, as much skin as contact as possible, sparking against his nerves. In between leaving marks on her chest, he breathes compliments against her skin, "so fucking beautiful" and "can't wait to fuck you, Jesus," and "come for me, Raven, come on."
Raven makes a sound that needs, and Tony doesn't know how she does it, but a blistering need of his own sinks beneath his skin and he rubs against her in a vain attempt at relief. "Raven," Tony groans. "Fuck."
She's so close he can feel it, the way her body is trembling, pushing up against him like she's trying to make a home in his chest the way his arc reactor has. Her nails rake at his back, points of pleasure and pain that Tony jerks at, her hands clutching at him. There's a litany of what sounds like his name spilling from her lips, but it's almost too wrecked to distinguish between the moans and the way her breath is hitching. "So close, so close," Tony says like a prayer, "Raven, please—Raven—"
She comes with a cry, body convulsing around his fingers, surging up and clinging to him. His fingers take over the work as her body freezes, succumbing to pleasure, working her through her orgasm until she releases, "Tony," with a groan and falls limply back against the bed.
Her breathing is ragged, her eyes unfocused, and every so often Raven shivers with an aftershock of pleasure. Just looking at her makes the lust that Tony had spent most of the evening pushing aside flare inside him and he shudders. He brings his soaked fingers up to his mouth, licking the taste of Raven from his hand, and his dick jumps at the heady flavor. He strokes himself as he sucks the last bit from his skin, sitting back on his heels. "God, you taste good," he mutters, more to himself than anything else.
He wants nothing more than to push into her slick opening, but first things first—he pulls a condom out from the side drawer and rolls it down over his cock. Then he leans over her, peppering kisses to her temples and jaw, smelling the faintest traces of something cool on her skin beneath the sweat as she slowly relaxes. It reminds Tony of nothing much as a clear, crisp winter day and it's possible to breathe the chill deeply. It's—it's probably a perfume, Tony thinks muzzily. "Mmmm," she hums absently, running her fingers through his hair. She's so clearly loose-limbed and pliant that it makes Tony want her more.
"Are you waiting for something?" Raven asks, but not until after Tony's half-convinced that he's died and this is hell. His cock is painfully hard and Raven's body would probably accept him easily, she's so lax. The thought of it is all he can focus on, so Tony startles at the sound of her voice; smug is probably the best descriptor, and Tony nips at her collarbone gently in retaliation. It makes her shift agreeably.
"Just wanted to make sure you were ready," Tony explains roughly, and then he can't hold back any longer. He pulls her legs up and holds them for just a second, meeting Raven's brilliant green eyes. For the first time all evening, they're soft and easy in a way that looks almost strange in the angular planes of her face, and that's it.
Tony enters Raven's tight heat in a smooth movement and groans, "Jesus fuck," at the feeling. It's just as it felt around his fingers—wet and warm and wanting, as greedy for his cock as it was for his fingers. He stays still, trying to let Raven get used to it, even as every synapse of his brain is screaming for him to move, to bury himself in her over and over again until he comes. He knows it sometimes takes a few minutes for women to stop feeling oversensitive and doesn't want to make this uncomfortable for Raven.
"I'm ready, I'm ready!" she hisses irritably before more than a second or two passes. "Just come on, you idiot. I want it, I want you to fuck me." She clenches purposefully around him and Tony jerks, the arms bracing him going rubbery for a moment.
"Yeah," Tony agrees shakily. He still has to start slow, though, or he's going to come, but despite his best intentions he can tell he doesn't have that long regardless. His hips start undulating, cock moving inside her and Raven lets out a quiet, pleased sound. He has to kiss her, and it's wet and messy with her pliancy and his desperation. He's impatient for it, and he starts fucking her faster before it's a conscious thought. She just accepts it, not quite properly aroused again but he can see how the way he grinds against her every time he's completely inside her is sending shivers of pleasure through her core.
He suddenly needs her to be as desperate as he is, so he makes a point of fucking her just fast enough that she can really feel it, that he can really feel it. Tony can see it in her face, when the pleasure stops washing over her and the desire starts to build again. It's another excuse to kiss her, to finally, finally fuck her as fast as he'd like, and the heated lust that's been coiling around him starts to draw in close.
"Yes, fuck, Tony," Raven is groaning and Tony's much the same, smearing the words, "Please, so close, please, Raven," against her lips, her temple, her throat. They're rocking against each other in complete abandon, because orgasm is winding tight in his abdomen, and Tony's needed this for what seems like forever. Raven just continues to give him what his body is craving and it's so good, she feels so good around him that it's almost too much to handle.
Tony's balls draw up tight against his skin, and he just barely has time to muffle a shouted, "Raven!" against her throat before he's coming, coming, coming, the tight knot of pleasure unraveling all at once. Raven works against him for a moment, milking the last sparkling bits of ecstasy out of him while Tony mindlessly mouths at her skin, hips jerking a little.
Tony finally inhales, just barely falling to the side so he doesn't squish Raven. His mind is still fuzzy from his orgasm, and Raven's light touch against his chest, rubbing gently against one nipple only registers as a particularly delightful aftershock. He hums against her, loving the feeling. He basks in it for a long moment, letting it pulse under his skin. He pulls the condom off and ties it, sitting up just enough to toss it into the trash with the ease of long practice. It's another few seconds before he sits up properly, gazing down at Raven, who is still flushed, her nipples tight with desire and body still coiled.
His job isn't quite done yet.
Tony moves seamlessly down her slim form, aware of the way her black hair is curling damply around her ears, of the way her green eyes seem all the brighter with the color in her cheeks. It makes Tony shiver with a sudden chill. He pushes her legs apart, and Raven's lips open on a sharp inhale.
He grins at her, pleasure and comfortable sleepiness pulling at him. It makes his movements languid and graceful as he kisses up her thigh to her entrance, tongue darting inside. The sensation makes Raven's entire body jerk. "Oh God," she rasps shakily, and Tony knows it isn't going to take long. She's still wet and Tony sets to eating her out with abandon, tasting the strange bittersweetness of her. Raven may not be uncomfortably sensitive, but she is more sensitive than before, and every movement of Tony's tongue makes her breath catch on something very much like a sob. His fingers join his tongue, pulling a frantic plea from her lips as she rocks against him. Her fingers are tight in his hair, and Tony absently mourns the fact that he's old enough now that he won't be able to get hard for another hour at the earliest. With the sounds Raven is making, he would fuck her again in a heartbeat.
As before, though, it isn't enough just to have his fingers—four now, at a pace that doesn't give Raven a chance to catch her breath—and his mouth moves to her clit, flicking it lightly with his tongue in a way that makes Raven's entire body bow, back coming clean of the bed as she cries, "Tony!"
Even though she can't see it, Tony treats her to a shit-eating grin and sets to with a will, flicking at her clit, laving over it with long strokes of his tongue, never letting her settle into a single pattern. It has her begging in under a minute, broken words and curses and these noises making Tony grind his hips down against the bed just to make the pleasure spark through him again. "Yes, yes, almost, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop," she says like a mantra, straining for her orgasm.
Tony doesn't delay, mouth working against her clit, fingers fucking her, and his only regret is that he can't see from this angle the way her chest is surely heaving as she struggles to breathe, nipples tight. He likes breasts, always has, and Raven has an especially nice pair. He shakes the thought lose, driving into Raven. She's as close as she's saying she is, clenching erratically around him as before. It's not quite enough, though, not quite enough to send her over the edge and Tony grins.
Low in his throat, he hums as his tongue works against her clit, and she arches one final time before coming.
He doesn't stop, not in the least, even though he knows that every touch must be like an electric shock. She's jerking against him, voice thick with unrealized sobs that walk the fine line between not enough and too much. It's not until her voice goes hot and choked on, "Tony," for the second time that he pulls back, tongue flicking out to taste where Raven's wetness is spread out from nose to chin.
Raven looks gorgeous, mouth red and wrecked where she's bit her lips, green iris nearly swallowed by black pupil. She can't seem to get enough breath in her lungs, and Tony doesn't mind making it a little harder when he rubs a callused thumb over her nipple. Her entire body shudders. "God," she says, and Tony doesn't even try to disguise his smirk.
"That's not a 'stop'," he comments.
She throws a hand over her face, and uses the other to tug Tony down beside her. "This is." Her voice goes rich and dark for a moment, crawling against Tony's skin like a living thing. It's unnerving.
Still, Tony can work with that, so he rummages around for the sheet and pulls it up over them. He thinks he'd like to have sex with her once more before running off to his workshop—he can't get that look of strange vulnerability out of his head, and he wants to see it again if only so he can make it disappear, make Raven drown in pleasure. He's good at that.
Closing his eyes, he settles down to sleep, the curves of Raven's body against his own.
Loki shifts slowly, languidly, sated in a way he hasn't been in a while. He hasn't had sex for far longer than he cares to admit, and even then Stark was more thorough than most of the people he'd fucked. Even in his male form he can feel it, an undercurrent of curious comfort that makes it difficult to care about anything except more sex or sleep. He stretches, basking in the physical sensation for a long moment.
Then he moves, because while sex is an excellent perk, it's not the reason he went home with Stark last night. To be fair, upon leaving his current abode, he hadn't intended to see any of the Avengers at all, but Loki has ever been an opportunist at heart, and an excuse to get behind enemy lines isn't one he's going to pass up, even if it had required more than one spell to keep Stark from piecing together who it was that he'd taken into his bed. The man is as clever as everyone says, but it's well worth the risk. After all, Stark keeps far too many secrets in the mansion that would be better off kept in a more secure location. Things like his computers. Things like his armor.
Things like his heart.
The thought makes Loki smirk, dark and cruel.
He'll start with the arc reactor.
Long fingers reach out to where Stark is relaxed in sleep, the blue glow of the arc reactor throwing his features and the ceiling into harsh relief. Loki keeps his breath slow and calm, as if the body Stark expects to have in the bed with him is still walking through the land of dreams. He leans in close, though, having the opportunity to view it unmolested for the first time. It sits in Stark's chest in some sort of metal ring, a low humming just barely on the edge of hearing.
Loki's eyes slip shut, and he holds a hand just over the arc reactor. Power. Sheer power, thrumming through Stark's system and through Loki's own, something that tastes of metal and coconut at the back of Loki's throat. "Such friends he has," he purrs, and the thought of Thor's face when they find Stark's corpse makes his breath catch on a moan of pleasure as good as when Stark's tongue had been inside him. "So trusting of strangers, so curious, so foolish." The power is hissing through his veins as he pulls in the strange Midgardian magic and transforms it into something that he can use. The influx of power makes him flush, makes his skin prickle all over. "Are you all so overconfident, as he is?" he croons as the arc reactor struggles to compensate for Loki's draining.
Loki's hand comes to rest on top of the arc reactor, the lightest of touches, and Stark moves.
Loki finds himself being twisted away, surprise at the man's strength and speed out of the suit fatally slowing his reaction and allowing Stark to twist his arms up behind him, preventing Loki from gaining any leverage. It's a painful, well-practiced hold and Loki realizes instantly that he can only get out of if he dislocates at least one shoulder. Extraordinary strength is all well and good, but with Stark's full weight on him and no leverage, Loki isn't entirely sure how he's going to twist out of Stark's hold. Plans flash through his mind—he's got enough power singing beneath his skin that he could blast Stark back with unseen force, but that would bring Stark's teammates at a run. Stark is too close not to get caught up in the spell if Loki teleports, though, so perhaps he can knock Stark aside and teleport immediately—
"Oh, Christ," Stark is saying, and he's releasing Loki of his own free will. It makes the Trickster freeze against the tousled bed sheets. "Don't—fuck, I should have warned you, are you alright? Sorry. I just—I should have warned you, don't touch my arc reactor, not while I'm asleep. Are you hurt?" Stark's voice sounds frantic and worried, and his touch is feather-faint against Loki's shoulders as though he's expecting Loki to flinch or knock his hands away. "I can—"
"Shut up," Loki snaps out before he can stop himself. What is it with these humans and the constant, incessant, mindless chatter? It reminds him of Thor and his friends, forever speaking without anything to say. It makes him bare his teeth in a snarl that Stark can't see, and he wants to burn something. Stark is still hovering behind him, though, so he makes a production of stretching slowly. What little soreness there had been is already fading. Asgardians are faster healers than most, and if Stark can't often do lasting damage even in his suit, then he's certainly not going to do any lasting damage from a simple hold, effective though it was.
These creatures are so weak.
"Raven?" Stark sounds so shocked and confused that it almost disguises the budding fury at the heart of his words. Loki nearly commands him to shut his mouth or Loki would be only too pleased to do it for him, to gag him and investigate the muscles beneath skin with a blade before Stark's anger registers and an anger of his own flares.
His voice—it had been Loki's normal voice that he'd said Stark's name with, not the mild alto he'd adopted for the form of Raven. A stupid foolish mistake that's probably about to cost him. He pulls his power around him like a cloak, moving slowly and keeping his face hidden for as long as possible as the transformation back into a woman takes hold; she can play this off as a trick of the light, can still push her efforts forward, can still figure out a way to suck the arc reactor dry before moving on to the rest of the Avengers.
"Stop," Stark demands, and Loki's summoning more power because that's it, Loki's going to cut her losses and run before Stark can bring the Avengers down on Loki's head, but Stark's continuing to speak over her racing thoughts and what comes out of his mouth is, "Do you think you're the first shapeshifter I've seen?"
The words don't make sense for half a second because his voice is soft and calm rather than outraged. He should—he should be outraged at finding an imposter in his bed, should have been attacking. If Loki had tried this on an Asgardian and been discovered, having her mouth sewn shut would have been the least of her worries. "What?" she asks, stupidly. She turns before she can help herself, black curls falling over her shoulder but doing little to otherwise disguise the fact that she very decidedly lacks male genitalia. Her recovery is swift, however, and a coy smile steals over her face. "Come now, what a ridiculous notion," she laughs. There's a touch of harsh derision to the sound that Loki can't help.
Stark's eyes are cool and appraising as he climbs into the bed, sitting far enough away that Loki doesn't feel threatened, but an unavoidable presence nonetheless. Stark must see something on her face that she doesn't mean him to, because he smiles suddenly, sunny and bright without the harsh edge that's been there every other time Loki's seen that grin. "I said, you're not the first shapeshifter I've seen. The first I've slept with though, so be proud—you are one of the rare few who can claim that they've popped any of Tony Stark's cherries."
It is so unexpected that Loki pauses and looks—really looks—at Stark.
There is a mortal saying—curiosity killed the cat. More than once, Thor has said that Loki's greatest weakness is her curiosity. Loki believes little enough of what her brother says, but this rings truer than Loki cares to admit. It has always been this way—the driving need to understand the theory behind spell-work, to understand the effects of compliments, to understand the motions of good knife-work. To understand blood in the vein, heartbreak, danger, broken hope as though she could defend herself against it with understanding alone.
In another world, another lifetime, she might have been content to remain a scholar or a mage, to love knowledge for knowledge's own sake. Not this world, though, not here. Here she is a bringer of mischief and mayhem, one who would tear worlds asunder to see how the clockwork ticks.
The thought of it makes her shiver faintly, lips parting.
How she wants to take Anthony Stark apart piece by piece.
Curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back.
Living creatures cannot be understood by their parts alone, however, and Loki knows it well. Though she can see the flutter of Stark's pulse in his chest, and feel the faint echo of a heartbeat in the power she has stolen from the arc reactor, it is not enough. Thor's smile flashes through her mind for a moment and her fists clench hard enough to leave dark crescents before she can relax them.
Loki will not kill Stark—not yet, not until her curiosity is sated and she has reaped all she can from his mind. The thought of it makes her skin go hot.
"I—I'm not—" she stammers belatedly, but Stark waves it off.
"Yeah, you are," he says kindly. "I'm hardly going to yell at you for it." Stark'ss voice goes very sardonic for a moment, and there's a familiar darkness in his face. Too familiar, bitter defeat and starlight sits at the back of Loki's tongue. "If you were living under a rock, you may not have heard, but Anthony Stark isn't exactly picky about who—or what—he sleeps with."
The tone is something Loki viscerally recognizes from her youth in Asgard, the one that insinuates itself into one's chest and murmurs, "You are different, you are strange, you are false, you are wrong, you are not us." It is a hot ember in her breast, blackening her heart and bringing old wounds to life, wounds that had healed poorly and will ruin him given half the chance. From the way Stark's mouth twists with pain, he knows.
Loki releases her magic all at once before conscious thought can intrude, and her limbs lengthen, her hair shortens, her face grows more angular. None of the changes are incredibly substantial on their own, besides perhaps the new lack of breast and presence of penis, but its change enough. He just barely breaches Stark's mind, feeling the swirl of satisfaction at being correct, the hopefulness, the old pain that Loki knows like his own, and soothes away the suspicion and recognition of the person in front of him as Loki. It's not the first time this evening he's done so; Stark has a surprisingly clever mind, making leaps of logic few others would expect. This time, though, Loki sets it deeper, making the compulsion to ignore the similarities between the stranger in from of him and Loki more intense. Otherwise it's likely he will piece it together before Loki is ready for him to no matter how Loki redirects his thoughts. Stark is not as clever as Loki is, but he is nevertheless one of the few mortals who come even close to keeping apace of Loki's razor-edged mind.
He doesn't take the knowledge from him entirely, however. Loki wants Stark to know in the end. He wants Stark to realize later—to know that it was Loki he'd fucked, to know that it was Loki he'd comforted, to know that it was Loki that had gotten under his skin. If he cannot kill Stark without ruining any chance of being able to unravel that clever mind, he will gift Stark with this. Let it be a slow poison instead, seeping beneath Stark's skin that the enemy had been beside him and shown clemency. Let the awareness of the feel of Loki's mouth on Stark's skin, of the taste of Loki's womanhood, of the sound of Loki's pleasure be its own mark on Stark's soul long after the physical signs have faded.
Let him be remembered.
Loki takes in a deep breath and lets it out, still naked and exposed and waiting for Stark to speak. He smiles and it is all shadow and lust.
"You are gorgeous," Stark murmurs, and there's nothing approaching pity or disgust in his voice. He reaches out, fingers tracing the curve of Loki's face. Stark grins then, unapologetically. "Us weirdoes have to stick together, right?" He taps on his arc reactor. "You're not the only one, for what it's worth. More people than you'd think are interested in fucking a superhero until it turns out that we aren't all pinnacles of human perfection, even if they are a billionaire." Old wounds, again, and Loki doesn't comment on them. He wants to get under Stark's skin, but dark and too-sharp eyes are staring at him with a weight that makes it hard for Loki to breathe. He doesn't understand this, wants to pin Stark down and try to fuck the answers out of him even as in the same breath Loki needs to get him to stop speaking. "Never understood that. Sex is sex, no matter who you have it with or how often or what kind. I get called a man-slut all the time." He shrugs, "It's not my problem if I like sex and lots of it. As long as my partner, hell, partners want it too, who the fuck gets to care? That goes if you're man, woman, or tentacled creature." That finally makes Stark squint at him, just a little. "Though in this particular case, tentacled creature might be going a little fast for me."
The laugh sounds more like it's punched out of Loki, a harsh, huge noise that isn't so much joy as it is bizarre relief that drains all tension from his body. He thinks he should say something, but he doesn't know what, and Stark shrugs again and prevents Loki's lost silver tongue from turning Stark's confession into something awkward. Loki holds blood and fire close to his magic to steady himself. "So, do you still want me to call you Raven?"
"That is acceptable." Loki has to swallow twice before he manages it, but he does force the words out.
Stark moves forward with surprisingly sinuous grace, crowding into Loki's personal space, and fuck he hasn't touched someone like this, his own flesh bared for another's possession for many years. Second prince, least loved, Trickster and Liesmith, few would willingly step into the chambers of Loki, Lord of Mischief. He has worn other forms as a shield as much as a dagger. Stripping that away makes him feel almost...lost. Uncertain.
Stark is not. He doesn't give Loki more than an instant before Stark presses him back down against the bed, solid and inexorable, and kisses him.
Tony kisses Loki's male body with the same straightforward intensity that he'd used on his female one. He straddles Loki's waist, tongue slipping into his mouth, and Loki lets his own meet and do battle. Peace is not an option, for Loki must leave the memory of his lips imprinted on Tony's own. Nevertheless, the comparatively simple touch is eager in a way it wasn't before, eager and easy. Loki kisses Tony again and again, catching the man's lower lip between his teeth for just a moment as Tony makes a muffled little groan against his mouth.
It's victory, lightning withstood.
It makes Loki smirk, low and unforgiving and with one smooth movement, he rolls them both over until he's on top, until he can lean down and steal all the breath out of Tony Stark's body. He's settled down against Tony's hips, can feel interest stirring against his ass. He finally breaks their mouths apart, but moves immediately to Tony's throat, intent on the few spots of red that he'd created earlier. The hickey that he'd started is still faintly colored at the place where jaw meets throat, and he presses his open mouth against it, sucking at the mark as he just barely rocks his hips against Tony's own. It isn't enough to get either of them off, but the desire is there, simmering under smooth flesh.
He goes so far as to dare to bite gently at the burgeoning bruise on Tony's neck, snickering against his throat when the sharpness of Loki's teeth makes Tony jump and gasp. The dark bruise will be nearly impossible to cover or disguise, and satisfaction settles deep into Loki's chest, an aphrodisiac of its own. He wants to leave his touch everywhere on Tony, wants the clever man who has ruined his plans time and again, to feel it as he breathes, as his heart beats. Before Tony can protest the treatment, however, Loki's attention is back on Tony's mouth and they are kissing once more with abandon. Loki's fingers dig into the slick sweaty skin of Tony's arms, throat tight with want.
This time when he breaks the kiss, he shifts down Tony's body, the arc reactor's light painting Loki's skin in shades of white-blue. The slide of their limbs together has them both moaning low in the back of their throats. Loki presses his forehead to Tony's chest, where strong muscles are evident beneath swarthy skin. His own fingers are not callused, not in the same manner Tony's are; once upon a time, he'd have had his own set of toughened skin from the weapons that had been a part of his daily life on Asgard, but they'd faded as Loki reverted almost entirely to magical strength.
He traces absent patterns on the hairless skin of Tony's chest, feeling the faint prickles where it has started to grow back in. It's a curious sensation, until Loki realizes that the arc reactor is probably the cause—maintenance of the machine would be easier without hair involved, and having a single patch clean shaven didn't make as much sense as getting rid of it all. It's a queer realization to have, and suddenly the skin beneath Loki's mouth is so much more—more something.
He mouths along the edge of the arc reactor, and Tony stills beneath him. "I don't—there isn't much feeling there, in places," he cautions, but Loki can sense he means something else. "It's fine."
Loki draws his head back, attempting to parse what Tony is trying to say. "I don't mind," he offers, surprised to find that he actually doesn't. The arc reactor is as close to pure power in a human body that Loki has ever seen. Tony has found a way to circumvent his lack of inherent magic and create wondrous things despite the so-called barriers between sorcery and science. It's the sort of ingenuity that could have put Tony in a seat of power—might yet, if Tony can release the false promises of truth and justice.
Loki tucks away the thought for later.
"Alright," Tony relents uncertainly and Loki takes that as permission.
Loki bows his head again, and delicately touches his lips to the center of the machinery, breathing in the energy the device gives off. Eyes half-lidded, Loki investigates where skin meets metal, healing around the smooth apparatus that cradles the arc reactor. He can practically smell the old agony, where bone and muscle and skin had been removed to make room for the arc reactor's home. Loki is no stranger to steep costs, and he sucks gently at the scarring. Tony makes a tiny broken noise, and Loki does it again in a slightly different area. Tony is right—some places appear to have little to no feeling, but others make him catch his breath at the sensitivity. Loki works his way around the metal heart until he has discovered every place that makes Tony shudder, gasp, moan, arch into Loki's touch.
Loki lingers there, long fingers and teeth turning Tony into a shivering wreck with surprising ease. Has no one done this before, gloried in this dedication to power and the will it took to rest it in the flesh of his own breast? It makes Loki fiercely glad that he is the first, that this is his.
"Incredible," he whispers against the tender flesh, and Tony chokes.
"'M not—" he tries, but Loki doesn't let him finish that statement, biting none too gently at the edge of the arc reactor, where he'd found Tony to be particularly sensitive. Tony lets out a shocked sound, like he can't tell whether Loki's teeth against his skin had felt good or not. Loki's tongue soothes over the bruise that will surely be there, and Tony's hips stutter against him. "Please, Raven, please," Tony rasps, heady desperation that Loki can taste. Tony is at Loki's mercy, as much for his continued life as for this bone-deep pleasure.
"Yes," Loki breathes back, a merciful god.
He continues his way down Tony's body, granting kisses as he pleases, rarely lingering now because he wants Tony to fall to pieces for him, wants to pull his orgasm out of him through sheer force of will. As dangerous as Tony Stark is, Loki can reduce this creature wholly to sensation and desire, and long after Loki has left, Tony will be unable to forget this night or him.
Loki has claimed him.
He nuzzles at Tony's hipbone, the heat of the man's cock so close to him that it sinks beneath his skin. "I would like to suck you off," he says conversationally.
Tony makes a raw sound, hips thrusting into the air, and he has to breathe heavily for a second or two before he can reply, "Fuck, Raven, your mouth," which isn't technically an agreement, but is probably as capable as Tony is of giving permission at the moment.
Loki seals his lips over the very tip of Tony's cock. At the heat and suction of Loki's mouth, a flood of bitter and salty precome fills his mouth as Tony throws a hand over his eyes. Tony tosses his head back, struggling to catch his breath. Loki refuses to let him, however, mouth slipping lower as his tongue draws random patterns against the delicate foreskin. He rubs it directly beneath Tony's glans, too, making Tony push up into Loki's mouth with reckless abandon.
"Fuck, sorry." Tony sounds destroyed, like Loki's mouth on his dick has stolen everything that matters except this: warmth, and wetness, and the desire to come. The power of it all is a living thing under Loki's skin, and the arc reactor outlines Tony's wild pulse in pure light. "Raven—Raven—"
Loki just hums tunelessly, tugging one of Tony's hands onto his head. Tony's grip is painful for a moment before his fingers relax and he gently drags Loki down his cock. Loki's right hand keeps Tony's hips down, but his left is fondling his balls, a barely-there caress that Tony very evidently doesn't know how to handle. His legs are trembling where they press into Loki's body. Tony doesn't force his head down, just works with Loki because he can't move his hips against Loki's superior strength.
He isn't quite fucking Loki's mouth, doesn't quite have that control, and he knows it. Tony is begging Loki for release. It's a litany of, "Please, yes, yes, fuck, don't stop," and "Raven, Raven, Raven," like he can't tell which prayer will give him the white-hot rush of pleasure he's seeking.
Loki's mouth continues to slide up and down Tony's cock, relentless, letting Tony strain for his orgasm. "God!" The word is accompanied by Tony fighting against his grip, trying to buck into the heat hidden behind Loki's lips, but Loki has too good a grip and Tony subsides, gasping and mindlessly rocking up as though he doesn't even realize what he's doing. His pupils are enormous, Loki can just barely see from his current position, Tony now gazing down at him with lust and desire.
Loki would torture Tony, would break him, but not—not yet. Not tonight, when Loki is feeling merciful, when he wants Tony to remember this pleasure, when the arc reactor's heartbeat is thrumming inside Loki's body.
Curiosity and need is electricity on the back of his throat, mingling with the taste of Tony and making his chest ache.
"Tony," he moans around Tony's cock, an instinctive word that escapes him before he can think the better of it.
"Fuck, Raven—" Tony's balls draw up tight against his skin, and he's coming like it's been dragged out of him, in long pulses. Loki just keeps his mouth on him, swallowing, letting Tony stay buried in the wet heat.
He doesn't think about the way he wishes Tony had cried his true name.
Afterwards, Tony can't make his voice work, but Loki doesn't care. He licks gently at Tony's skin, cleaning up the traces of come that had escaped, relishing the taste and the texture because he will remember too. He will remember how he turned this creature of intelligence into one of passion. He will remember that he chose to be merciful.
Emotions are knotting up in his chest, and Loki wants to scream from the force of them. He wants to wreck something, dismantle it piece by piece until the scent of blood is thick in the air and his entire body is thrumming with magic. Tony—Stark's—skin is hot where it touches his own, a brand. There is no more clemency in Loki, not anymore, nothing but madness and pain—
Tony yanks him up and slips his tongue between Loki's teeth, interrupting his thoughts. Tony seeks out every last bit of his seed, sucking on Loki's tongue like it is ambrosia. Loki gasps, and Tony swallows it, pushing Loki down so that Tony can clamber on top of him. Despite the way Loki can feel Tony's body pulsing with pleasure, he's not yet satisfied, but Loki doesn't know what he wants.
"I want to make you come." Tony turns the words into a command, and Loki realizes he spoke aloud. "Anything you want. Anything, Raven."
Loki cannot stand too much, the hot and heavy feeling in his breast making it difficult to breathe. He doesn't understand, and it's less curiosity than it is confusion that makes him stop breathing at the way Tony's soft gaze lingers. It's—Loki tries to think of blood and starlight and gold but Tony doesn't let him, is kissing his cheeks, his temples, his nose, his lips. Tony repeats, "What do you want?" so eager to give this to him.
"Your life," is what Loki means to say, and what comes out is, "Your hand." He cannot—the confusion is fading and Loki simply needs to know because he can't survive this without it.
Tony makes a noise of agreement, hovering above Loki's outstretched form like he can't get enough. "So gorgeous," he comments, and it's so matter of fact that Loki starts a little. Tony grins and then leans down, starting slow. Tony's kisses are languid, yet deep enough that Loki can't resist them. Their fingers are entwined, Tony using some of his weight to keep them pinned down as their tongues tangle. Loki arches up into the heat of Tony, trying to bring their hips into contact.
Tony's just out of reach, though, and Loki makes a frustrated little noise against Tony's mouth. Still, when Tony breaks their lips apart, he makes an even more frustrated noise that melts into one of unadulterated pleasure as Tony sucks at the edge of Loki's jaw, his pulse, his collarbone. Tony's hands pull away from Loki's only to go to his waist, running up and down his ribs and chest, rubbing at his nipples. The calluses are rough against his skin, catching on sensitive skin. Tony notices each and every shift in Loki's body and returns to those spots again and again. Soon Loki has an entire collection of erogenous zones that Tony had discovered—at the base of his ribcage, a spot just to the left of his nipple, at the joining of his arm and chest.
Loki can't do more than take it, take the way Tony's focused pleasure is burning inside him. Tony makes calming noises, and it's only then that Loki can hear the, "Ah, ah, ah," that is escaping each time he exhales. He tries to strangle it, to keep the embarrassing sounds locked in his chest, but the best he manages is to mute them.
"And we haven't even gotten to the good stuff," Tony chuckles against his throat.
"Then—ngh—get, uh, get to the...fuck—get to the good stuff," Loki moans around the way Tony keeps stroking his hipbones, mouth edging down to pick up where his fingers left off on Loki's nipples. His brain is nothing but yes and please and Tony. It ought to be awful and it's, well, it's anything but.
One of Tony's hands leaves his hip, and traces random patterns along the crease where Loki's thigh meets his body, inching closer to his cock by slow degrees. Loki tries to force Tony to hurry up, but Tony's weight has him trapped, and Loki doesn't even know when that happened.
When it finally seems unavoidable that Tony's finally going to put his hand, worn and warm, on his cock, Tony's fingers slip behind his balls, stroking at his perineum and Loki's body bows. The wordless gasps are back, and Tony looks too pleased for his own good, whenever Loki can see Tony past the need that has turned Loki's every nerve into a live wire. "Tony, ngh, please."
Tony leans down close to Loki's ear. His fingers are still patiently running over the soft skin behind Loki's balls, the rest of his weight still keeping Loki pinned, as though Loki has enough presence of mind to do more than plead and drink in the feel of Tony's body against his own. "So delicious, just like this," he murmurs, "Gonna make you want it so bad, gonna make you come."
Loki's throat is too tight to come up with a response, so he just breathes raggedly against Tony's throat, pushing against his hand. "Make the best noises," Tony mumbles. He finally moves his hand to Loki's balls, which are heavy with want. Loki is desperately hoping that Tony isn't going to linger there, because he can't—
Loki practically convulses when Tony strokes his cock in a single smooth movement. It almost feels like too much. He keeps his face tucked against Tony's throat, sucking at already bruised and reddened skin to keep his whimpers to a minimum. Tony allows him that, and doesn't make any effort to drag things out. Instead, Tony's hand is tight and a little dry, the slightest edge of rawness making Loki whine and buck into Tony's grip.
"Come on, Raven," Tony soothes. "Come for me, just do it, so close, so close." He speeds up his hand, and Loki is almost there, so close to orgasm that it's physically painful.
"Ah, Tony, Tony!" Loki smears the words against Tony's skin like he can etch them there to remain long after tonight has passed. His voice is breathless, choked, and damp. Tony's free hand is pressing behind his balls again, a shadow of sensation that seems to make the hand on his cock that much more.
"Yes, come now, for me," Tony croons. "So close, Loki, so close—"
Loki comes with a mangled prayer to Tony on his lips, hips jerking as his semen spills everywhere. Tony doesn't stop until he begs, "Tony, Tony," because the stimulation is crossing into the border of too much, far too much, and he can't bear it. His throat is wrecked, he can feel the bruises and scratches littering his body.
It feels glorious.
The ecstasy is beating in time with his heart, muting the edges of his world. Even the soft feeling of Tony's breath against his temple causes a tiny swell of sparkling pleasure in his veins. A sated tiredness is throbbing with the pleasure as well, one that threatens to pull him under. He is relaxed in a way he hasn't been in so long and it feels simple and good.
Tony moves, eventually, and that's the signal for Loki to come back to the land of the living. "What—" he croaks, and Tony shushes him.
"I'm just going to get a washcloth." A pair of lips are pressed to his temple, and then the bed shifts. Long moments pass, and there's the sound of the toilet being flushed, water being run, and Tony eventually comes padding back in. There's a low amused laugh; Loki hasn't moved. Washcloth in hand, Tony drops a kiss on the corner of Loki's mouth, surprisingly sweet, and then there's a hot washcloth cleaning off the worst of the semen and sweat from Loki's body, leaving Loki absolutely boneless.
He watches through slitted eyes as Tony goes back to dump the washcloth in the bathroom before returning and climbing in next to Loki. With a sigh, Tony arranges himself around Loki, arm over his waist and Loki tucks his head into the curve of Tony's throat. It's—fuck.
Tony's fingers rub little circles against his spine, lulling Loki towards sleep. Tony's arc reactor is pressed against his chest, and every time Loki inhales he can taste the energy thick on his tongue. It's strangely soothing instead of jarring, but he resists sleep because it's time and past that Loki left. This indulgence has gone on long enough.
He will—he'll at least wait for Tony to fall asleep. There's no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself with a hasty exit. So he basks in the solid heat of Tony's body against his own, sequesters it deep in his chest for restless nights.
There comes a time where he can no longer put it off, however, and he slinks from bed. He pauses long enough to stare down at Tony, whose features are young and peaceful in sleep as they aren't when he's awake. Even the light of the arc reactor, faintly marred by the way Tony is curled beneath the covers, can't ruin that. It's such a strange thing to see, when Loki is most often immersed in Tony's rage. Loki still wants to understand how this man works, understand why the power humming beneath his skin remains kept there except for when it's being put to use in the Iron Man suit.
He cannot have.
His fingers come up and tap against the bruise that's starting to form at the base of his throat, and a surge of sharp pleasure comes with each touch. Memory, that is what he will have, and nothing else. This was a risky enough endeavor, and has gained him nothing in his plans to subjugate this paltry realm.
Still, the echo of Tony's rough fingers around his cock makes him shiver, the phantom press of their mouths together, the throaty tenor of Tony's voice as he'd crooned the words, "Yes, come now, for me. So close, Loki, so close—"
Ah—Loki's lips part, and the smile that lights up his face is delighted and childish in equal parts. So he knew, and still he—Loki finds himself growing hard, just a little, at the thought. He wants to know, wants to shake Tony awake and tie him to his bed and peel back his skin so he can see the workings beneath. He wants to taste the heartbeat of the arc reactor with Tony gazing up at him, gaze hot and hooded. He wants to stare at Tony across the field of battle and suck every drop of blood and grit from his skin.
Loki is curious, and he may wreck Tony in the process, but oh what a beautiful wreck it will be. He presses his nails against the growing bruise on his throat hard enough that a bead of bright blood wells from the wound; Loki licks it from his fingers without ever turning his eyes from Tony's prone form.
Loki leaves ten digits scrawled on a piece of paper on Tony's bedside. If he doesn't call, then Loki can return to breaking him piece by piece to see how he will shatter beneath Loki's touch. If Tony does...well, then.
Tony Stark is a creature of power. Loki will not forget. This is a beginning, not an ending.
Smiling, power singing in his veins, Loki gifts Tony with one last mercy: a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth that is stained crimson with blood.
Once Tony actually manages to fall asleep, he doesn't awaken well. He's never mastered the ability to go from completely asleep to completely awake without either caffeine or adrenaline flooding his system. He needs his lifeblood, coffee, to become a person capable of speaking in more than grunts and gestures.
So it's strange that he awakens instantly, still curled beneath the covers. He lays there for a moment or two in confusion before his mind catches up with his body. He's sore, pleasantly so, and every time he shifts he can faintly feel the marks that Loki left on his skin.
The marks that Loki left on his skin.
Tony's hand flies to his mouth, where the blood there is still wet, against all odds. He draws his fingers away as he remembers, and the tang of iron is rich in his mouth. It's—holy fuck. Loki, here, last night. In his bed. How had he not known? The answer comes to him almost immediately and he feels foolish, skin hot. Magic, of course, Loki is a master of it. His thoughts come fast and sharp as he pieces everything together, how natural it had been at the end, to say Loki, how much he wanted—Tony has to catch his breath. His hands tremble until he rests them against the arc reactor as though reassuring himself of its existence.
Tony really isn't sure what to do, and his fingers come once more to rest over the smudge of blood on his face.
He shifts, sitting up, and catches sight of a slip of paper on the bedside table. He lifts it, reading the elegantly formed numbers. An almost hysterical laugh catches in his chest—a note. The God of Mischief left him a note after fucking him. Tony really, really isn't sure what to do.
He remembers the press of Loki's face against his throat, his scent, his pleading moans, the naked vulnerability in his face. He remembers that Loki is a consummate liar and trickster. He remembers the feel of Loki's hand on his arc reactor.
He shivers, and reaches for his phone.