The first time the God of Lies entered Stark's bed, it was raw, aggressive instinct. There was nothing sophisticated; just tongue on skin and tight heat and yes. An escape, forcing his mind away and pushing himself in. It wasn't enough. They both needed, needed more. To enter that hazy grey zone, where the mind is only focused on the sparks of electricity shooting down the spine and the twisted heat in the stomach, the toe curling flash of white behind shut lids when the pressure hits right...there.
Maybe if the thrusts are hard enough or the pace quick enough then they can obliterate the past with the heat of gyrating bodies and the smell of sweat and sex. Delete it with the scattered pressure from nails and teeth, feeling the skin break and leaving piercing marks in their wake. Losing themselves enough to finally forget.
To forget who they were, merchant of death, what they've become, the fallen prince, and this desperate need to just stop remembering is sedated when Tony's hair is yanked and his muscles tighten around Loki's length and they both tumble into the thoughtless abyss they've been craving.