The woman's in a little black dress, slinky and sloe-eyed, and it's not like Tony doesn't know who she is, thanks to the EMR sensor currently vibrating like a tiny june bug in his nape. (Subcutaneous implant. Uncomfortable, but necessary.) Norse gods tend to give off certain kinds of radiation. Very specific kinds of radiation.
But this particular Norse god doesn't know that, and what she - he - doesn't know, can't hurt the Avengers.
Plus, Tony needs some goddamn intel. Close-up readings can't do any harm.
Okay, so that's... really close-up. Really, really close-up.
Tony is starting to get why the Asgardians had to seal up that mouth.
It's fucking talented -
When the pretty thing starts asking questions, Tony goes along with them, since, hey. Whatever, right? It's not like he's going to tell her anything important, just the usual PR spiel that gets girls wet between the thighs.
This girl's different, though. Of course she is.
She lays her hand on his reactor, and Tony feels this chill that may be psychosomatic or actual Frost Giant mojo, and if it makes him arch and come so hard he briefly blacks out, then that's just something he'll keep to himself.
"What does it feel like, not having a heart?" she asks.
"I don't know," he gasps. "You tell me."
Maybe he shouldn't have said that.
"Oh, fuck," he says, when the chill goes beyond cold to something sharp, something that lances through his chest like a fucking knife, and for some insane reason he's hard again, helplessly hard, and staring up into a pair of narrow, vicious, poison-green eyes.
"You know me," growls Loki, and it's - well, it's Loki. Almost seven feet and however many hundreds of pounds of heavy, armored Norse god. The edges of that armor press into Tony's naked skin nearly enough to cut, and -
Tony's still hard. Why is he still hard?
Eh, bodies. What can you do?
"Yeah, I know."
"You're tricky," says Loki, and his eyes glitter. "For a human."
"That supposed to be a compliment? Whoa, shit, it totally is, isn't it? What, have you fallen for me, now? Is this a thing? 'Cause I don't do things. I - " He swallows his own words when Loki shoves down on his shoulders, and Tony seriously wonders if his clavicles are gonna break, and maybe this would be a good time to call JARVIS.
Loki pushes his thumbs in against either side of Tony's windpipe, almost enough to crush it, and forces Tony's head back until he's kissing him.
Cold and biting, literally and metaphorically, and oily, somehow, and weird, and hot -
Cold and hot -
Tony's dick is leaking pre-come -
He can't breathe -
"Enough of your games, mortal," hisses Loki, tongue long and blue-tinged and forked, teeth near enough to fangs to leave slight indentations along Tony's throat. "Time for mine."
And then, Loki goes down on him.
That horned helmet is damned convenient, actually. Very, very convenient, especially when your hands need something to grab onto instead of scrabbling uselessly in the sheets, and especially when it gives you the leverage to fuck up into a mouth that dances away, away and back, like the devil's, laughing all the while.
Tony hasn't ever been laughed at in bed, before. Unless he counts Pepper. Which he won't, unless he wants to end up dead by incredibly obscure legalese, and -
Fuck. That. Mouth -
"Just a rag doll, aren't you?" And Loki's flipping him over, just like that, pulling Tony's arms back and up, in a move that would almost certainly dislocate his joints if he didn't habitually spar with the best warriors on Earth (and, occasionally, Asgard). "But a clever rag doll. Very clever. Tell me, what were you looking for? Why did you go along with it?"
"With what?" Tony croaks, because he can't speak properly with a bruised windpipe, and Loki chuckles, sounding pleased and psychotic and dangerously affectionate, and Tony -
Tony comes all over himself the moment Loki thrusts into him.
It's like his head explodes, and his body keeps going into shivering, uncontrollable chills, electricity sparking along his skin and making his hair stand on end, and it's like being fucked into a state of static shock, or by static shock, and the physics of it is -
The physics -
He hopes he's damn well getting those readings. He'll smash the sensor with his least favorite paperweight if the little fucker doesn't work.
JARVIS had better be getting all this down -
Like Loki is.
Loki is -
Tony's scrabbling. He is scrabbling, uselessly, even, and he's coming again, and again, and there's a continuous, rasping, ragged sound that it takes him a while to identify as his own voice -
Thankfully, it isn't saying anything intelligible -
"Tell me," says Loki, and Tony moans, and he -
He's blacking out, for sure, he's -
He's blacking out.
Two nights, three days and numerous rounds of room service later, the girl in the little black dress leans down to kiss him goodbye, smiling the sweetest smile. She hasn't gotten the answers she was looking for, but she has gotten a fabulous fuck - several, in fact - so she's got a reason to be smiling. Bitch.
"It was real good, Tony," she says. "You were real good to me."
"Mmh." Tony doesn't get up. Then again, Tony can't get up, because his ass is the aftermath of a war-zone - it's the ground zero of a fucking Jotunn invasion - and his arms and legs don't work like limbs probably can and should. He can barely remember what limbs should work like.
Dummy. He'd programmed Dummy -
Spare parts -
Do humans have spare parts?
Not unless Bruce grows them. Or Tony builds them.
He needs to get back to the lab. Needs to analyze all that data.
He really should call JARVIS.
"Jrrrrvss," he mumbles into his sweaty elbow, still unable to move.
"Sir?" asks JARVIS, politely enquiring as always, from the subcutaneous implant. "Do you require assistance?"
"Very well, sir. I shall send Ms. Potts."
Great. Death by legalese, here we - heh - come.