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Lovesong Of The Buzzard

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Tom awakens to the smell of peppermint.

He'd made the mistake of actually telling Loki that he smelled of peppermint once. Loki didn't like that. For the next week, everything Tom ate tasted like peppermint: steak, eggs, appletinis. He took an actual peppermint from the hotel's front desk in hopes that it would taste like real food, but no such luck. The worst bit of the prank wasn't even the monotony – though he did sorely miss the taste of salt by the end of it – no, the problem was that he'd subconsciously associated the flavor with Loki. It led to some very uncomfortable dinner parties.

That's why he wakes up hard. That, or it could be Loki's hand around his cock, pumping him languidly, coaxing him back into the real world. And Loki's hands are so unbearably soft, more so than his, as if Loki's never done a day of work in his life. This is probably a reasonable assumption.

He doesn't want to open his eyes just yet – he wants to savor the anticipation. He's waited three weeks since the last time; he can wait another minute.

Tom slowly assesses his surroundings, first flexing his wrists, finding them bound by some invisible force. He’s sitting upright. His legs are spread wider than he’d like and locked that way, giving Loki indiscriminate access to whatever his twisted little heart desires.

“Hello, Tom. I know you can hear me.”

“No, ‘m sleeping,” says Tom.

Loki squeezes his cock and Tom’s eyes snap open. “Dirty trick,” he grunts.

Loki’s smiling back at him -- not his usual, prince-of-darkness smile; he’s genuinely pleased with himself. Like the cat who got the cream, except that’s an awful metaphor and Tom really hopes Loki’s not reading his mind right now.

“I am,” Loki supplies helpfully. “And you’re an imbecile. Is that what you want to hear?”

“You should know if you’re in my head,” Tom snaps back. Well, he tries to be snappy, at least, but it’s sort of hard because he’s warm and sleepy right now. “And get out of there,” he adds. “I don’t like talking to you when you already know what I’m going to say.”

“You could keep your mouth shut,” Loki suggests.

Tom shakes his head. That’s a fate worse than death.
“Suit yourself,” says Loki. It’s clear that he’s not going anywhere.

It’s only after he’s gotten over the god’s ethereal beauty -- and yes, Tom is aware that he sounds ridiculous, but that’s what it is -- that he realizes he’s in his own hotel room this time. It’s a bit of a relief after the last visit, during which he had given Tom a guided tour of the Asgardian palace and then locked him in a broom cupboard while Loki feasted in the main hall. He’d gotten a blowjob out of it, still in the closet, but that was probably because Loki was aroused by his distress and not because he was sorry.

The hotel room isn’t necessarily nicer than the cupboard was, but at least it’s familiar territory. He’s bound in the cushioned desk chair, which Loki has relocated to the far corner of the room for some undoubtedly profound reason. The invisible restraints fascinated him at first, when Loki had tied him down and fucked him unconscious and then left the damn things on after he’d disappeared -- they released themselves exactly fifteen minutes before Tom’s Important Press Engagement, but he didn’t know they’d do that at the time. Now they’re so familiar that he doesn’t even bother testing their strength. Loki says the spell restrained a Helhound once, and Tom is oddly comforted by that notion.

He’s quite thoroughly stuck. Somehow, that’s nice.

Tom anticipates Loki’s snide comment just by the smirk twisting his features. “Shut up,” Tom says. “If you lecture me about humanity’s inherent subservience again, I swear I’ll--”

“Spill your worthless seed on my nice new tunic?”

“I will be very cross,” Tom finishes. He pauses. “And it’s not worthless.”

Loki huffs. “True. You could doubtlessly make a fortune selling it on the internet.”

Before Tom can come up with a witty retort, Loki squeezes him again. He inhales sharply at the twinge of pain that shoots up his spine -- and then groans in ecstasy as Loki continues stroking. “Wha--?” Tom grunts.

“I need you to come for this next part. I suppose I could use magic, but I enjoy this too much.”

Through the warm haze shrouding his brain, Tom considers the implications of magical orgasms. It sounds like a rather lovely idea, and he’d quite like to try it sometime. He wonders--

“As many as you like,” Loki answers. “Or, rather, as many as I like. I’ve found that mortal men start begging me to stop after about ten.”

Tom groans at the thought. He definitely couldn’t get it up after--

“Oh, I do that for you. And keep your heart rate under control.” He laughs. “I had one fellow die that way, but don’t worry; I learned my lesson.” The want in Tom’s eyes must be apparent, because he adds, “Not today.”

Tom barely has time to be disappointed, because a moment later, he’s coming all over Loki’s nice new tunic.

Loki raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t do that,” he says.

Tom just watches him bleary-eyed.

Loki walks away for a second after that, maybe cleaning his tunic or something. It doesn’t matter much to Tom, because he’s drifting back into that comfortable place between sleep and wakefulness. A year ago, he never would have been comfortable enough to fall asleep with Loki in the room, but it comes as naturally now as the rain comes to Cambridge. He trusts Loki. He knows that doing so is an immensely bad idea, but he just can’t help himself.

Maybe he drifts off. Loki’s nimble fingers are toying with his still-soft cock, but Tom doesn’t bother opening his eyes to watch. He hopes Loki doesn’t have high expectations for his refractory time, because it’s going to be another twenty minutes at the very least.

“Don’t worry, I need you soft for this,” Loki says, voice low and quiet and startlingly close to Tom’s face.

He allows his eyes to drift open once more and is met with a small, reserved smile. That’s a red flag. “Why?” Tom asks suspiciously. Loki did say he needed him to come. What does he have in mind?

“I could try to explain. How well-rounded is your knowledge of human anatomy?”

Tom groans. “Let me guess; you’re going to do something I’ve never heard of to some part of me I didn’t know existed.” This has happened before, first with the rimming, which was rather embarrassing but felt stunningly good, and then with the -- um, that thing in his brain--

“The raphe nuclei,” Loki helpfully supplies.

“Right,” Tom mutters, glaring. Loki stimulated that thing through some complex procedure that boiled down to shocking the everloving hell out of Tom’s brain with magic. Tom had been less than happy about that -- he remembers cursing Loki, his bloodline, his galaxy -- but then the serotonin flooded his system and he surrendered. It wasn’t an orgasm; Tom doesn’t know what the hell it was, just an intense feeling of wellbeing that lasted for a good three hours. He spent that time curled up in Loki’s arms, listening to Loki despair the wretched state of the Nine Realms and smiling until his face hurt.

Tangentially related, Loki pierced Tom’s nipples once. Tom hadn’t liked that at first either, but Loki only left them in for a week and then healed them over because he thought Tom was playing with them too much. It almost makes up for Tom’s nonexistent rebellious teen years.

“Yes,” says Loki.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yes, I am going to do something you’ve never heard of before to a part of you that you didn’t know existed,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “And you’re going to like it.”

Tom grunts. “We’ll see.”

Loki’s only response is to step back a pace and brandish something shiny and terrifying in Tom’s face. “Do you know what this is?” He asks.

Tom can’t say he does. It’s a smooth, curved metal rod, less than a centimeter in diameter, maybe twenty in length. He shrugs. “Doesn’t look so bad.”

“That’s because you don’t know where it goes,” says Loki. He snaps his fingers and they’re immediately coated with something slick, which he uses to coat the rod.

Tom’s eyes widen as Loki takes his cock in hand. “No,” he breathes. “You can’t seriously--”

“You’ll need to hold completely still for this,” Loki says, rubbing the substance into Tom’s slit. Tom jumps -- he’s still sensitive.

“And if I refuse?”

Loki pauses his ministrations. “Well then, I suppose this will be much more fun for me.”

Tom closes his eyes again. He just -- he can’t look or he’s going to start hyperventilating. Loki’s hands are cold on his skin, the metal even colder as it presses gently against his slit, not quite in.

“You don’t want to watch?” Loki asks, the pout evident in his voice. Tom violently shakes his head.

Then the first centimeter slips in.

“Fuck,” Tom breathes. For a moment, his entire world shrinks to this pinpoint of sensation. It feels -- not painful, just different. It must be the stress that’s making his hands shake, making sweat bead along his brow.

Loki works the rod in excruciatingly slowly, and Tom can do nothing but whimper.

“That feel good, hm? You like having your cock stuffed?” Loki coos. Tom’s never really sure when Loki’s mocking him. He whines in response. Loki pats his thigh reassuringly.

Once he gets past the bend, the rest of the rod seems to slip in by itself, as if Tom’s body wants it inside him. He can feel it deep -- impossibly deep -- and cool in contrast to his hot skin. Finally, he opens his eyes to see just the metal stopper bead resting on the tip of his cock, the rest of the instrument buried in him. Loki holds him in both hands, smiling.

“Oh,” is all Tom can manage. “Oh, wow.”

“Ever the poet,” Loki says, and Tom can’t even work up the energy to glare at him. “I knew you’d like it.”

He tries to shift in his seat, but Loki won’t let him, so instead he settles for tossing his sweat-damp hair out of his face. “I never said I liked it.”

“I’m in your head, remember?” Says Loki. “Besides, I know you better than you know yourself.” He leans in close and whispers, “You like getting filled up.”

Tom groans. Loki’s not wrong.

The slight motion as Loki moves to grip his balls sends sparks up Tom’s spine. Pressure somewhere inside him. Electricity. “Yes,” Tom whispers.

“You want me to move it?” Loki is infuriatingly calm, collected, and worst of all, clothed. Sometimes Tom thinks Loki is asexual; he seems to enjoy tormenting Tom infinitely more than he enjoys the actual sex -- but then Loki inevitably fucks him with such animalistic passion that Tom realizes it’s a stupid idea. A much more plausible explanation: Loki gets off on seeing Tom embarrassed, uncomfortable, or in pain. What he’s doing now falls into the first category.

“Tell me what you want, Tom.”

Tom doesn’t meet his eyes, staring pointedly at his open suitcase.

It’s only when Loki begins slowly stroking him that he realizes he’s hard again. It’s a personal best.

“That’s the best part,” Loki says, meeting his eyes. He’s on his knees at Tom’s feet and yet Tom still feels incredibly vulnerable. “It won’t come out until you’re soft again. And I could do this for hours.”

He squirms in his chair, but the restraints keep his lower half completely immobile. It strikes him that he doesn’t have to hold still of his own accord -- that, despite Loki’s sadistic streak, he wants Tom to enjoy this. Loki cares about him. The thought makes him rather light headed.

Abruptly, Loki removes his hand and stands up to circle around the back of the chair. Tom can’t see him for a moment and an irrational panic bubbles in his gut, but then there are hands in his hair and Loki wrenches his head back at an unnatural angle, looking down at him, jaw set. Tom’s breath catches in his chest.

“I could leave you here,” Loki hisses. “Or worse. I’ve got you tied down, exposed,” he pauses. “Stuffed.”

Tom inhales harshly through his nose, keeping his mouth shut. Loki twists Tom’s curls around his fingers.

“Don’t take this for granted.”

Loki releases his hair but keeps his fingers on Tom’s scalp. “I’m sorry,” Tom chokes, his voice restored. For the first time, he can actually feel Loki scouring his mind for any traces of deception, and he doesn’t like it. Loki’s presence tears him open, sifts through his thoughts and discards them, and something feels inherently wrong about sharing his head with someone else.

But that someone is Loki, he reminds himself. He knows this is a test. Tom does his best to stay calm and open. He lets feelings of trust and surrender flood his mind. After a moment that feels like an eternity, Loki pulls away. It bothers Tom that he can’t see him to judge his reaction. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

Loki steps back into his field of vision, and his composure is fully intact once again. “Quit your sniveling,” he says.

Tom allows himself to relax into the chair. “Did I--?”

“Your devotion is true,” Loki says, “Though idiotic. I can think of no worse candidate for your trust.”

And he allows a smile, eyes bright. “I suppose you plan to use it against me?” He’s not even being sarcastic.

Loki cocks his head but doesn’t answer. Instead, he kneels. Tom will never get over the image of Loki kneeling -- it’s such an inherent contradiction. Everything about Loki is a contradiction. He gets the feeling that, were Loki the one tied to the chair, he would still be in control.

Loki strokes him back to full hardness, which doesn’t take much effort at all, and then squeezes almost but not quite to the point of pain. Tom groans -- he can feel the rod move inside him. Loki grins predatorily. “Now, where were we?”

And here, Tom faces a dilemma: this is normally when Loki expects him to start begging. Tom was absolutely humiliated the first time Loki forced it out of him --

Loki smirks at the memory. “Oh, please, need you inside me,” he whimpers in an unsettlingly accurate imitation of Tom’s bedroom voice. Tom glares.

Anyway, the first time had been mortifying, but he’s quickly learned that begging -- debasing himself in general, really -- is a requirement for getting what he wants from Loki. It’s just, he has no idea what to ask for this time, because he has no idea what he wants.

“I think you do,” says Loki. Maintaining eye contact the entire time, he grasps the rod between forefinger and thumb and slides it a few centimeters out, and then, just as slowly, back in. Tom's eyes roll back in his head.

“That,” he gasps. “Do that.” He isn't coherent enough for anything better.

Loki smirks and draws the rod out once more, thrusting it back in as Tom whimpers. He knows Loki loves seeing him like this, strung out and overwhelmed, and though he realizes that he's probably only around to satiate Loki's control issues, he doesn't mind. Loki can control him all he likes if this is how he's going to do it.

“You like that?” Loki asks, breathless, pupils blown. “You like it when I fuck your cock?”

And Loki absolutely should not be allowed to say those words in that order. Yes, Loki has a dirty mouth, but this takes the cake, especially in combination with what he's – what he's doing. Tom can't even think it. “Yes,” he pants. “Fuck yes.”

The sensation is completely overwhelming, being penetrated so intimately. He's never felt so close to Loki, so connected--

He regrets it the moment he thinks it, but Loki doesn't reprimand him this time, though he does press the rod cruelly deep, making Tom shudder. None of this feels good, if he's telling the truth, but it doesn't feel bad – it just feels intense. That's the best word he can think of, the best word he knows in any language. Maybe Loki can come up with something better. Tom comes up with intense.

It's going to make him come nonetheless.

“Can I?” He asks. He doesn't know if he's asking permission or asking if it's physically possible, but the answer to both questions is the same.

“Yes,” Loki says, eyes still on him. It would worry Tom that he's not looking at what he's doing, but Loki moves the rod with such practiced ease that he doesn't dare comment. Besides, sex with Loki is no fun if he feels safe.

Tom gathers his thoughts well enough to speak. “Can – can you touch me?”

“No,” Loki says. He presses the rod in deep and begins a series of minute thrusts right against – against whatever, whatever it is that makes this feel so damn good – and Tom comes.

It's like nothing he's ever felt before. He comes so hard it's almost painful, and he tries to close his eyes but literally can't – Loki is keeping them open -- and Loki maintains eye contact throughout the entire thing which is just creepy--

“Fuck,” Tom moans. “Loki, fuck, fuck--”

Loki shushes him.

It isn't until he's shuddered through the aftershocks, until he's completely spent and he doesn't even notice that the restraints are gone, that Loki slides the rod out of him.

The next time he wakes up he's on the bed and no longer marinating in his own bodily fluids, which is a nice change of pace. He lazily rolls over, rubbing his face against the cool bedding.

“Loki?” Tom calls, not really expecting a reply.

He's pleasantly surprised. “Be quiet,” Loki calls from the bathroom. There's water running. Is he... is he seriously bathing?

The water shuts off. “I'm not,” Loki says, emerging from the bathroom fully clothed. “You are. Come along.”

The water soothes his aching muscles. Loki washes his hair with gentle hands. He starts thinking about that, about how considerate Loki has been lately, about how maybe he actually feels something for Tom--

Loki backhands him, and Tom belatedly realizes that he's still in his head. It stings, but his heart's not in it. Tom smiles.