The Age of Frost

by ragnarok-and-roll-it

Frostiron. It's 1973. 19 year old Tony Stark, whose living on the road and out of his car with his best friend Pepper after a falling out with his father, falls into the glam rock scene courtesy of one beautiful and strange Loki Lauff, who lives dangerously and is more dangerous than Tony can even begin to imagine. Warnings for drugs, sex, violence, the slowest burn, & rock n roll.

1. Chapter 1

Loki Lauff and the Age of Frost?

Fuck.

Originally that 'fuck' was breathed out in an irritated smoke-white sigh on the part of one Tony Stark.

That was three weeks ago.

Tony Stark is damn good looking, and he knows it. He's gone from the fuck so skinny he fit neatly between the math textbook and the history textbook so outdated that it hadn't been updated since four years before segregation was outlawed, in a locker that smelled like mothballs and sweaty jock-straps, to a goddamn brick house. It didn't matter how much he liked star wars or machines or experimenting with them. He can kick the snot out of anyone.

Chicks dig that.

So much, in fact, that, at only nineteen, he's punched more v-cards than Bruce Lee had punched people in the face.

So the fact that his sort-of-maybe-kind-of-girlfriend is so stuck on this Loki Laughs and his Frosty calendars (and has been for a month!) when she should be stuck on him makes him want to switch professions, from professional V-card puncher to professional face-puncher.

"Did you know that he's English?'

Asks Pepper at least three times a week. And the way she says 'English' sounds more like she's really asking if Tony knows that Loki Lauff is some kind of bonafide alien sex god from the planet Ass.

Tony starts picturing Yoda covered in writhing, wiggling penises and starts to feel slightly sick.

"I mean, outside of his record I've never really heard him talk, you know? I bet it sounds so cool, you know? And he plays like four instrum…."

Tony can see Yoda rising from the swamps of Dagobah covered in writhing, wiggling penises, swamp slime cascading off the heads and being flung all over the walls of his minds' eye.

"I think this Mary J is English. I could ream a dude for a scone." He says and physically cowers a little lower on the park bench, to keep the swamp discharge on the walls of his mind's eye to a minimum.

"And, like, I heard he, well, he writes all of the band's songs and it's all about this tragic character, it's like Shakespeare and he's so intellectual about his music…"

Tony closes his eyes, lights up, inhales, and returns to his thoughts about the be-cocked Yoda. At least it's not girl talk with Pepper. He'd taken them all the way to this secluded park bench under a bridge to smoke a J and hopefully get a base or two—like any Casanova would. It may have only been mids, but he couldn't help but feel like he was wasting his smoke.

"…and he's so tall!"

Pepper says tall like, you know what? Tony doesn't care what she says it like because she can sit on it. Loki Toffee or whatever the hell he's called can be intellectual or english or made of goddamn stardust or be from the planet ass or whatever he wants to be, and Pepper can moon over him till time clocks out, but he cannot be tall.

All 5'8 of him feels ready to explode.

Tony thinks he must have teleported or something, because the next thing he knows he's standing by the duck pond and Pepper is calling after him. He feels her hand on his arm and shoves it off. She tries to talk to him but he doesn't want to hear it.

A part of Tony figures he should be used to coming up short.

The becocked Yoda in his minds' eye chortles at the pun and he bangs his head against the steering wheel.

'Bad brain!' He mutters to himself before tossing a "I hope you and the Iceman are happy together." At Pepper before trying to drive away. She's holding onto the door.

"Tony! Stop! The park's miles away from anywhere! What he fuck are you doing?" She calls and he shrugs before speeding out of the parking lot.

It takes Tony about three hours to realize what an asshole he was, but by then he's half asleep on the bar at some Tavern or another, with a bottle of beer half in his hand and half out. He's doing his damnedest to clean the place out. It's almost midnight by the time he remembers that he can't afford to do that anymore.

At this rate he's going to have to move to a new city just to be able to get into bars at all.

He bangs his forehead against the bar, hoping to concuss his animal brain into silence for at least fifteen minutes, and starts to plan his escape.