I won't be around at all tomorrow, so this one is going up a little early :O Which also means that I'm behind in my "pre-writing to get ahead for Loki Month" plan… Fuck.
Here's my contribution for Prompt 4 (13th-16th February 2014): Loki's Relationships.
"The Hollow"
Disclaimer: Avengers, Thor, Loki, etc belong to Marvel, Stan Lee, et co. I make
no money from this and own nothing, don't sue.
Summary: Written for the 2014 Loki Month. Loki's relationships had always been tricky, dangerous things, but that's what Loki liked about them. They were like him. And anyway villains didn't get happy endings.
Warnings: Loki Month. Slash. Het. Canon Loki relationships. Loki/Tony Stark. Non-con. Mention of rape. Violence. Trickery. Loki warning for Loki. Character death. Angst. Unhappy ending. Violence.
Rating: NC-17.
A/N: You can't appreciate a good things until you've experienced the bad? Title is from the A Perfect Circle song of the same name.
XXX
Words:2,909
Chapter 1
Loki had been fifteen the first time he had kissed a girl. She had been beautiful, and older than him, and she had been Thor's friend Sif. She had kissed him on a dare, though Loki hadn't wanted to but hadn't dared refuse because after practically throwing a tantrum to be let attend the party he hadn't wanted to get kicked out. He had hated it, the press of her lips against his had made his mouth curl with distaste, and she stank of ale and tasted of it too and Loki had never been fond of the drink to begin with. It had been made worse by Fandral and Thor cat-calling in the background, their jeers making his insides twist with nerves.
Of course, he had taken his revenge upon her. He had acted coy and innocent, helpless and horribly embarrassed as he had allowed Sif to lead him from the room. When they were alone, she had been all hands and tongue, shedding clothes like a snake would shuck skin. Loki had allowed it, half terrified and half curious, because he had never done this before either. He had refused to give into the fear, had ignored his shaking hands and took himself in hand instead, stroking until he was fully hard. Sif had rode him, until they were both little more than writhing messes of flesh and lust, until they had both come and Loki had been relieved of his virginity.
He had lied about it of course, gone crying to his mother about not having wanted to, of not wanting to make Thor angry (as punishment for Thor's laughter at his fumbled kisses earlier). Frigga had been furious, Thor had too, consoling Loki both, while Sif was chastised and punished, stripped of her rank in the army and forced to apologize publicly to Loki and pay a fine (or go to prison).
She had always said it had served him right, what happened with Svaðilfari. That Loki had brought it on himself with his lies, the boy who cried 'Jotun' and was eaten by one long after the joke grew old.
Svaðilfari had been his second lover (if such a word could even be used to describe what had happened between them). Their mating had been brief and furious, nothing more than animal instincts and Loki's all-encompassing fear. He had tried to run, had tried to escape, but he had been too slow, too weak and stupid and foolish and he had been caught. Raped, and used, and sullied, and none in Asgard had pitied him for Sif's side of the story had always been the more believable one, and who's to say he wasn't lying again?
Angrboða had come next. The Jötun witch who had concealed herself as an Asgardian, and under the cover of their joined illusions had spawned him three monstrous children. Loki had killed her, but he consoled himself at night (when he was sad or lonely, or when his children still young used to cry out for their mother) with the knowledge that the Jötun spy would have tried to kill him eventually, and anyway, any death by Loki's hand was kinder than what would await her should Thor have found out. Thor had promised to hunt the monsters down and slay them all, after all.
When pregnant, Angrboða had always been furious, always quick to lash out with her fists, but Loki stayed because she carried his child. When she hadn't been pregnant, Loki's lust for her had been too strong to resist. There was someone who was as angry as him, as broken and destructive, and she had chosen him. She had never forced him, nor laughed at his fumbled attempts, for he had known not what he was doing (for Sif had been in charge that first time and Loki had done his best to forget about the second). But Loki had killed her anyway, because his relationships had always been tricky, dangerous things. Like him.
Countless nameless faces had followed in Angrboða's wake, pretty insipid girls all desperate to console the grieving widower. All of them stupid enough to believe that they could tame the trickster. Loki had thought them all pathetic, but they were offering themselves easily, and after a century as Angrboða's lover, Loki was well practiced in the art. He hadn't felt shame or nerves and with each wench he bedded he felt even less. It became an itch to be scratched, nothing more than that. There was no emotion, no connection; he could barely stand to look at half of them, but they kept his baser needs at bay so he tolerated them.
And then he met Sigyn.
She was beautiful, intelligent and she laughed when Loki told a joke or played a prank. All others glared disdainfully, sniffed haughtily, or occasionally allowed one side of their mouth to twitch in amusement before getting themselves under control; Sigyn threw her head back and laughed joyfully, delighted like a child, when Thor's armour turned pink and silver after he had pushed Loki aside so that he instead could speak to the pretty visitor. She had not come to visit either of them unfortunately, but rather Theoric, her beloved whom she had met while his regiment toured across Vanaheimr, keeping the peace and stealing the hearts of foreign maidens.
If Loki had been anyone else, he would have accepted her appologies and her bethrothal and turned his eyes elsewhere, but he was Loki, and Loki did what he wanted. It was easy enough to convince Theoric that there was a dispute in the market place; disguised as a gossiping servant, Loki passed the message along to another girl, loud enough for the guards to hear. Trolls awaited the Crimson Hawks along the path from the Palace to the market, and though many of them survived, Theoric was not so lucky. But he turned up to his wedding nonetheless, a little worse for wear, but smiling beneath his bruises, until Sigyn tip-towed up so that her husband could kiss his bride and Theoric's face shimmered away to reveal Loki's.
His banishment was well worth it, Loki had always thought. Sigyn as his faithful wife had gone with him and carried him twin sons, and for a time Loki even convinced himself that his wife had learnt to love him. He did not love her, not in the way she deserved at all. He cared for her, more than he would admit, almost as much as he cared for his children (though never as much as himself) and he had been in love with the idea of her, with the beautiful wife who loved him and laughed with him and did not distain him, but she had been so much more than he had expected. Loki had not liked what hid beneath Sigyn's pretty skin. She was devious (when times called for it), manipulating Odin like a seasoned pro, crying crocodile tears and batting her doe's eyes at all and sundry to get her way. She was tricky, like Loki was, easily twisting his already twisted words around to suit herself until Loki was tied in knots and forced to honour promises he had never even made. It was admirable, but there was something insincere about her even as she beguiled him that Loki could not tolerate, and when their sons were killed and Sigyn left him, Loki had almost been glad for it.
He mourned his sons, true; their loss was one he suffered terribly. But his wife was lucky to escape Odin (and Loki himself) with her life, for a poor fate had met each of Loki's past memorable lovers and that she had left him willingly spared Loki the hassle of murdering her. He might have actually regretted that, for she had been kind and true to him.
He spent years wandering alone, never truly content in his banishment, nor truly alone for there was always a willing body to fall into his bed. But he was lonely, and in his loneliness he made friends with his rage and his bitterness and his hate; he made friends with creatures that encompassed all of those things too. He started wars and riots and caused the deaths of untold hundreds. He snuck creatures into Asgard after Odin finally welcomed him home, and he set about dragging his golden brother down to his level. Banishment had not been what Loki had planned for, but his plans had always been as tricky as his relationships, and as dangerous, and Loki always had a contingency prepared.
He had taken the throne, and he had been usurped from it in time too. He had fallen and fallen, but he had stood tall again, waged war on Midgard this time, like his father before him, until once more defeat was upon him. It was in that moment that Loki realised what had been missing from all of his previous relationships. He had always been stronger, better, faster, smarter, wilier.
But here was a mortal who had outsmarted him, who had tricked all of the Earth (though of course Thor had fallen for it; the true test of his accomplishment was the red haired wench who believed his honey coated lies so effortlessly, her body language relaxed even as she kept up the pretence of eyeing Stark suspiciously). Iron Man was not a hero, despite how he carried himself. There was a… darkness to his gaze, made worse by his glimpsing the void between world, and there was a wariness in the lines of his face that spoke of deep mistrust for others. The curiosity that lit him up from the inside as he watched Loki heal from the injuries the Hulk had inflicted upon him made him look positively monstrous.
The curl of Stark's mouth was less plesant than it appeared, for Loki could read the meaning that lay beneath it, the words that went unspoken: you heal fast actually meant I can hurt you more than I can hurt anyone else; I can hurt you, the unspoken words that twisted Tony's smile with ill intent, meant I can't kill you but I can do anything else I want to you. It should have made him angry, it should have (maybe) made him wary, but instead it made Loki shudder with desire, stomach clenching in a way it hadn't in such a very long time. This was new to him, this depth of desire, the fear that accompanied it was not a fear of the unknown like that first time with Sif but rather a fear that he wouldn't come out on top (pun intended) and the fear that he'd like it.
Stark knew what he was thinking, Tony always knew though Loki never figured out how. Perhaps it was in the way he licked his lips as Stark's eyes travelled down the length of him, or how his fingers curled at his sides when Stark was just the little too much out of reach, or how Loki's spine would tense when a heavy hand grabbed the back of his neck just before he melted like a petted kitten, mewling and begging, whining like a bitch in heat as Iron Man (suit and all) hurt him until he screamed. Or perhaps it was how he always came crawling back for more. The way they kissed, like Tony was trying to eat him alive, devouring him in bits and pieces, saliva and tongue and teeth, biting at his lips and his jaw, teeth sharp against his tongue until they could both taste Loki's blood. The way they touched, perhaps, hands like vices around each other's waists or thighs, on shoulders or chins, behind Loki's neck like a dog that needed scolding.
This relationship was dangerous too, Loki knew, dangerous and tricky like all of his others, an endless cycle of hurt and violence and disappointment that just wouldn't – couldn't – end, for that was Loki's lot in life. And like all of the others this one for a time it filled up the hollow space inside of him. But it was more than that; more than lust, more than loneliness. There was feeling here, true feeling instead of infatuation, desire for Tony's thoughts and wants as well as his body.
There was love. It was as dark and dangerous as Loki was, cruel at times and needy at others, vicious like a rabid animal whenever Loki was uncomfortable with the depth of his feelings, as calm as an ocean always in motion, always churning even when he seemed at peace. Content when Tony whispered the words back with his voice soft and hands hard, pinning his hips down as Tony fucked into him, each thrust pushing the breath from Loki's lungs until all he could do was lay there with his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut.
He relished in it, savoured every moment, for who knew when it would end (it would end, it always ended, after all). He took all that Tony gave him, and gave in return, the back of his hand across Tony's mortal jaw; a punch to his stomach, denting the suit the human hid within; an explosion that rocked his Tower, crumbling bricks and mortar and crushing the screaming hoard of bystanders as Iron Man fought to save them. While he always seemed to come out the victor against the Avengers, Tony Stark never let him win. He used every advantage he had to keep Loki in check when they were alone together, and Loki loved it, loved the nerve of the human, the cheek, the daring and intelligence. He did not love so much being outwitted into keeping promises he had not intended to make, but unlike Sigyn, Tony was honest in his trickery: he did not hide behind a pretty face and fluttering eyelashes and pretend he had not meant to trick the trickster. He stood proudly, smugly grinning, and winked as Loki raged against his loss.
Loki loved that too, that Tony would stand unmoved in the face of his anger and rage, unblinking against Loki's hate and bitterness. He'd spew his own back at times, but like a mountain he never bowed when the wind howled at him. It was refreshing and exciting and wonderful, and Loki wanted to feel that way forever. So he went back to Asgard, and he begged and he pleaded and eventually he stole. A golden apple hidden in his pocket, Loki returned to Midgard and his lover and offered Anthony forever.
Villains didn't get happy endings; it was something Loki had come to terms with long ago. As a youngster, he had mourned his inability to connect with someone the way his parents had with each other; he had hated that he couldn't love. And then he had loved Angrboða and he had loved Sigyn and he had learnt that he hadn't truly loved at all until he met Tony Stark. But as he knew he loved, he knew that happily ever afters weren't intended for the likes of him, and he knew that he did not deserve happiness for what did he know about being happy? Loki, though, had hoped.
And how foolish of him to do so.
For Tony had turned him down. Told him no, and Loki hated himself for enjoying Tony's inability to be expected or assumed about. Loki should not have tried to guess the genius' reaction, for he had never been able to guess anything else about his reactions before: always doing the unexpected, always refusing to conform to the status quo. Anthony did not want forever; forever would have driven him mad. He had the here and the now and he had the world at his fingertips and he owned the ground beneath his feet and the skies above it and who could say that all of that wouldn't change in three hundred years, that Tony might end up at the mercy of someone else, or that Loki would not grow bored of their game and leave him alone and un-aging and lost in a future that had never been his to imagine.
It hadn't made him happy to do so, but Loki was too selfish to let him go. So they continued on as they were and the golden apple sat beside the first arc reactor he had ever built, on a desk in his lab, where no one else would ever see it.
Loki loved as much as he had ever loved, but now he hated as well, hated the rush of love he felt when his eyes landed on the mortal, hated how he enjoyed the human's screams when Loki crushed the Iron Man armour around his legs as Manhattan burnt around them, hated how he still bent and bowed and loved it when the mortal made him beg for his cock, fingers closed tight around his throat as Loki begged through choking breaths for more.
His relationships had always been tricky, dangerous things, like him, and cycles were, by virtue of their name and nature, unchanging. It was something that Loki couldn't help, a fate he couldn't escape for it was in his very nature, like a scorpion that couldn't help but sting even those who helped it. In time, the cycle would repeat itself once more.
In time, Loki would murder Tony too.
The End