Guh. Thank you for being patient with my slow updates. I love you all. M for a reeeason!
Oh, I almost forgot. I went back and edited the chapters a bunch - mostly 1 & 2, the rest were just minor changes. I basically just made them more in character and less one-shot (since that's what it originally was).
If Tony Stark hated anything, it was confinement.
At first, all he felt was anger. Angry at Fury, angry at Jarvis' voice, angry at the way his coffee sloshed over the side of his mug when he put it down too quickly, angry at the unsatisfying noise it made when he hurled it against the concrete—it was like a constant, throbbing burn in the back of his mind, flaring through his veins, sparking without much cause.
Tony was angry with himself.
On Monday, he had taken the express elevator to his workshop, blasting AC/DC as loudly as he could stand, trying desperately not to think as he collapsed into his chair. As life would have it, an email from Fury himself made any sort of escape a short-lived dream.
On behalf of SHIELD and myself, you are forbidden from getting involved in this case in any way. If I so much as catch a trace of your IP on our systems, I will be putting a boot through your door. Please leave this to us.
You have too much personal investment in this to begin with. Clint and Natasha are the right agents for the job. For now, we need you in New York.
We're going to find her, Tony.
He had read it over a dozen times, words confirming what Banner had said earlier—all disbelief and bitter laughter, a hand running absently through his hair. Caged here like an animal. No information, no status report. Nothing but false hope.
It took two very long days, mapping out blueprints and fusing wires and designing circuits, loud music and coffee and slices of stale bread, short naps at his desk, enough to keep the gears turning, but the anger eventually subsided. The hateful, toxic burn had reduced itself to dull frustration, leaving behind emptiness, transforming into guilt and nausea and self-loathing—it was a familiar feeling; he knew he was stronger than last time, but last time, there wasn't someone else involved—least of all, Pepper Potts.
Bruce, the angel that he was, had rung him up to check on him—twice, actually, probably to make sure his guest hadn't snapped and thrown him out a window again—but aside from their brief encounters, Tony hadn't heard a single word from any of the Avengers. Not even Steve. Steve fucking Rogers and his optimistic bullshit.
It was probably Fury's doing, keeping him isolated, though part of him wondered if Bruce was somehow involved too—preventing any surprise visits to Stark Tower was really for the best right now, he had to admit—but despite it all, he couldn't help feel a twinge of something—hurt? Hadn't they heard about Pepper's disappearing act? Shouldn't they have called?
This is what he got for trying to make friends.
Above all, things felt surreal. So much had changed in a matter of days that he sometimes had a hard time convincing himself that this wasn't all some horribly real dream. Maybe he'd wake up and everyone would be standing around him, laughing and shaking their heads—"that's right, joke's on you, good one, guys"—but it never happened. Not that he expected it to.
Since Monday, he hadn't set foot upstairs. Hours flew by, designing, repairing, revising, tweaking—anything and everything to keep his mind off of the present, the clusterfuck his life had suddenly become. Not that he had much of a choice, with all the work that had been suddenly piled onto his plate.
He should have known it wouldn't be enough.
Fury had been laughably unsympathetic, sending him an endless stream of project updates, deadlines, modifications—maybe it had nothing to do with him, what with New York in a state of disrepair, but it sure felt like it was intentional.
Keeping him out of trouble. Asshole.
Stark Industries didn't run itself, either—with Pepper out of the picture, everything was suddenly being forwarded to him, and god was there a lot of paperwork. Tony hated paperwork.
And then there was Loki.
They had been avoiding each other completely—well, that was mostly a lie. Tony was doing most of the avoiding in this case, asking Jarvis for an update every once and a while, knowing that if anything out of the ordinary happened, he'd know in an instant. It felt like hiding.
Probably because it was.
More accurately, he was having trouble convincing himself to go upstairs and check up on the guy—"Hey, how are the injuries, need more gauze, and by the way, thanks for the blowjob"—yeah, no, not a good plan, unless he secretly wanted to have his throat slit in the middle of the night.
Instead, reminding himself that a Norse god could fend for himself, he remained in the shop, throwing himself into his work like he was Fury's bitch—god, he really was losing it, wasn't he?
Truthfully, the work was more than an obligation—it was a distraction. A distraction that was keeping him focused, productive—sober. He hadn't so much as touched the liquor cabinet in over 48 hours, and according to Jarvis, that was actually record book material.
He knew that it would be all too easy to shut everything out, to stop answering his emails, to snap his phone in half and lock himself in his workshop with a bottle of scotch and forget.
He didn't, though. Not a drop. Not at first.
Unfortunately, Tony knew himself better than that.
The work wasn't enough. It was a temporary solution, a weak attempt at a fix—it was too easy to let his mind wander, too simple to second guess himself, asking questions that had no answers—where was she? Was she hurt, alive, even? And here he was, supposedly some kind of hero, unable to so much as protect the one person who mattered the most. It was irrational, but Tony couldn't shut out the voice in the back of his mind.
Useless. Trapped. Your fault.
Maybe the anger hadn't disappeared after all.
On the third night, Tony found himself slumped over in the corner of the workshop, the floor littered with metal shards and scraps of wire, remnants of the prototype for some robotic arm upgrade he couldn't bring himself to care about.
His stomach felt tight. All of the panic, the frustration, the worry—for three days, he had bottled it all up, gritting his teeth and resigning himself to silence. It was too much. The isolation was tearing at his mind like sharp nails; he wanted to yell like an emotionally disturbed teenager.
Instead, he was here, hair matted in his eyes, fist closed tightly around the neck of a bottle, the two swigs he had taken making his head buzz and his eyes flutter shut. God, it felt good.
Of course, as the universe would have it, peace wasn't an option. Maybe Jarvis had ratted him out, maybe Loki had just sensed it with his magical bullshit—he couldn't bring himself to care, because the elevator was hissing open; a tall, dark form was approaching him, and he had to press the bottle to his lips to avoid groaning audibly.
Bad timing was an understatement.
"Stark."
Loki was hovering over him, but Tony didn't lift his head, face level with glittering, black fabric.
"Nice pants."
"Did you expect me to remain without clothing?"
Oh, so that's how this was going to go.
"Would've given Jarvis an eyeful."
For a few minutes, Loki just stood there, still and quiet. It was unnerving.
"Can I help you, or are you just going to stand there and be creepy?" he snapped, growing tense with the silence.
Loki still said nothing, and for a moment he thought that he was going to turn around and leave—instead, he just sighed, soft and frustrated, lowering himself to sit on the floor, sweeping away bits of metal to clear the spot to the right of Tony.
"It is not wise to drown your problems in alcohol."
An obvious callback.
"Yeah? What exactly do you know about drinking, princess?"
Loki sneered. "More than you."
"Prove it." Tony knew that was dangerous territory, that there were few stupider things he could have said at that moment, but the third shot he'd taken was making the words easier.
Loki only laughed, pale fingers wrapping around the base of the bottle, tugging it away from Tony's grip.
"It'll dull the pain, unless you Asgaridans are immune."
"Oh, I assure you, we are not—however, I can also assure you that we are used to much more...powerful brews."
"Give it a try. C'mon." Dangerous, dangerous—but hey, getting drunk with the God of Mischief would definitely be another item off his bucket list.
When Loki didn't immediately answer, Tony shifted, turning, finally facing him for the first time, ready to make another jibe—instead, he stopped when he made eye contact. Loki's eyes were cold, piercing green and hard, and not at all amused.
Tony hesitated. "Or, you know, you could give it back. That's perfectly okay, too."
There was a surprising amount of vulnerability to his voice when he spoke. "I am cursed, Stark. Chitauri magic still pervades my being."
So there was a reason for his sudden appearance.
"Yeah?"
"It was curious, when I made my escape—unusual, even, that I should feel such a drain on my mind, such a blackness in my heart." He paused to set the bottle down, out of reach. "The nightmares were not without cause—I have been cursed from the beginning, and it has followed me here."
Loki turned slightly, returning the gaze in a way that kinda left Tony's mouth dry.
"Sounds like hell."
"I have been attempting to break it, unsuccessful albeit not without progress. It is making my wounds slow to heal."
Loki's voice was threatening to break, a trace of emotion to it that Tony didn't think possible coming from someone so collected and cold. It was clear that this curse was no joke—it had weakened the god, it was powerful enough to evoke such a change—and here Loki was, sitting beside him, sharing this...weakness, this vulnerability.
It was too much to handle. He couldn't deal with this, not right now, and he'd never know why he said it—but honestly, when did he ever think before he acted? So he laughed.
"Great. Why should I care?"
Tony could tell from the way Loki's eyes darkened, how his body shrunk back ever so slightly that the words must have been like a slap across the face—he felt a twinge of regret, but he could only lean over, taking back the bottle of scotch, watching Loki eye him as he took another drink and relaxed against the wall.
In an instant, Loki had snatched the bottle from his hands again, glaring.
"Oh, gonna join me now?"
Tony didn't really register what had happened until he heard the sharp break of glass against concrete, saw Loki's arm extended and empty. The god's gaze was ice, but Tony could feel the rage bubbling up inside him, and he pushed all fear to the back of his mind, shoving Loki's shoulder and catching him off-guard so that he was forced to catch himself with his hand.
"You asshole. That was very expensive, imported—"
"Are you so weak, so pathetic that you must seek solace in such indulgence? Is this what you call peace?"
Tony turned away, laughing bitterly.
"You wouldn't understand. You don't—it's Pepper."
Loki scoffed, and it took a lot of willpower not to punch him square in the face.
"How ludicrous. I understand suffering, you insolent mortal, the kind of suffering than you could not even begin to fathom—"
"No, not torture—you've clearly got that one under your belt. A+ in that class, I get it. But you're—you don't know what this is like, to lose the one person who—"
He stopped himself from going further down that road, forcing himself to lower his voice, though it was still pained and sharp.
"Knowing that they're somewhere, alone, that you can't do shit about it. You and your hatred—the numb, calculating mask you put on for the rest of the world—"
Loki cut him off, words dripping with venom, his face a mere inch from Tony's own as he spoke. "I am the God of Mischief; immortal, centuries of knowledge, pain and loss that your finite consciousness could not comprehend—and here you are, bold enough to wave this minor plight, this...woman around as though it is any more significant than the dirt on my boot? Pathetic."
Tony swallowed hard, realizing that he'd hit a nerve—Loki spoke with a terrifying passion, eyes wide and full of anguish.
"You know nothing about me, Tony Stark. Nothing."
"Bullshit, Loki. Bullshit." He was yelling, now—Loki was pushing his buttons like it was a game.
"After all of this, after everything we've—here you are, you spit out a lie as flimsy as that?"
He sighed, trying to soften his voice, unable to tear his eyes from Loki's, blaming the scotch.
"I know the way you like to wrap one arm around your chest when you sleep, keeping yourself guarded. I've heard you talk about Thor and Odin and other names I can't remember, mumbling into your pillow—I've held you, I've whispered things into your ear to—"
"Be silent." It was almost a shriek.
Tony had never been good at taking orders.
"I do know you, Loki, more than you'll ever adm—"
His words were caught in his throat as he felt a strong hand gripping him by his jaw, tight and unrelenting. It felt so much like on the day of the battle, but this time, there was no window for him to be thrown out of.
Instead, Loki slammed him into the concrete floor, causing his head to spin, coughing and sputtering. Such strength—clearly the healing was going better than he'd let on.
Tony was inching backwards, scrambling to get up, preparing to yell for Jarvis, but he stopped short when he felt a sudden weight on his thighs.
"What are you—"
"Be silent."
Loki was straddling him, pinning his arms to his sides without restraint, eyes ablaze and murderous—quite possibly the hottest thing Tony had ever seen.
He knew he should've been afraid for his life; somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him to grab his briefcase, to struggle or to fight back, but he hadn't moved an inch. Instead, he tried to catch his breath, letting his eyes roam over taut muscle, lingering on the pale column of Loki's neck as his chest rose and fell.
After about six seconds, he felt Loki hesitate, loosening his hold just enough that Tony was able to pull his arms free. What he should have done in that brief moment of power involved a nearby wrench and a phone call to SHIELD. Instead, his hands flew to the back of Loki's head, fingernails raking the line of his jaw as he pulled forcefully downward, crushing their mouths together, messy and rough, teeth against teeth.
Loki groaned—groaned—into the kiss, and Tony decided, right there, that he needed to hear more of that noise. His fingers buried themselves deeper into the god's dark hair, pressing firmly against the curve of his skull as he guided their mouths closer together.
For a while, that was all there was—their tongues sliding together, sucking and biting, warm breath and unrestrained desperation.
Loki finally broke the kiss, leaning back and leaving Tony gasping for air. Those emerald eyes darkened when Tony ran his palms roughly up the cool skin of Loki's stomach, pushing up his shirt, thumbs tracing muscle and bone. How such a lethal gaze could be that sexy, he would never know, but at the moment, he was really more concerned with removing as many articles of clothing as he could from this position.
The gesture was briefly returned, sending a chill down Tony's spine as long fingers grazed his sides. However, in one swift movement, Loki had gripped the fabric of his shirt and torn it open with inhuman ease—that could not become a habit, he had some very expensive shirts—and as the arc reactor created a wash of blue light, he could have sworn he saw that bastard lick his lips.
The thought was fleeting; Loki had lowered his head, flattening his slender form against Tony, being sure to press their hips together as he sucked open-mouthed kisses across the now bared flesh. They were anything but soft, and Tony knew that there would be bruises, but now he felt a warm tongue drawing circles along his pelvis, and he couldn't help but gasp, hips jerking at the sensitive touch.
Loki didn't tease or take his time, undoing the clasp of his belt and tugging on the oil-stained jeans until they were at Tony's knees, swallowing him easily and without hesitation, causing Tony to bite down on his lip hard enough to taste blood.
"F—fuck, Loki, fucking christ—," he managed to breathe, voice ragged and tight with pleasure, toes curling and fists clenched. Loki responds by sucking hard, head rising and falling, hands spread like starfish over his hips, wandering downward to stroke the inside of Tony's thighs. Tony groaned, deep in his throat, hips bucking again, unable to control himself.
Loki slowly raised his head, hand still tugging slowly at Tony's length, mouth curved into a smirk. "Oh, how vulnerable you are."
Tony narrowed his eyes at the comment. It was true—here he was, shirt torn and pants halfway off, at the mercy of a murderous deity—a deity.
"You get off on it, I can tell," he murmured, pushing Loki away firmly, pulling his legs towards his chest to peel off his jeans and what remained of his t-shirt. Loki followed suit, and Tony's breath hitched when he rose to his knees, gazing down at Loki's swollen lips—he was panting, eyes swimming with desire, and oh, what the hell. Murder didn't sound so bad right now.
"Did I say you could stop?"
Tony's voice was commanding and lustful, and he must have done something right—almost immediately, Loki bent down, taking his cock into that wonderful mouth again, tongue swirling slowly around the head. The new angle caused him to shudder, moaning slightly as Loki's hands gripped his ass, nails leaving marks. He copied the motion, fisting Loki's hair, holding it out of his face, feeling his orgasm building.
He jerked his hips reflexively, pulling Loki's mouth farther down his length, hesitating slightly at the small, muffled noise that Loki made. Just days ago, he was barely able to walk—was this painful?
When he paused, the god seemed to read his mind, understanding. Tony promptly abandoned all concern when Loki practically devoured his cock, feeling the head brush the back of his throat, letting out a surprised moan. Eyes fluttering shut, he tightened his grip on the god's silky hair, letting himself thrust forward into Loki's warm, inviting mouth, panting and speeding up as he felt tongue repeatedly grazing his head, just the right amount of pressure and suction and oh—oh christ.
"L—Loki, oh, fuck, babe,"—the sensation was overwhelming, and he came with a loud groan, dropping to his hands and knees, gasping. "That was—"
"Did I say you could stop?"
Tony looked up, and Loki was hovering over him, breathing heavily, lips glistening with his come, and if anyone were to say that there was a more erotic thing in the universe, he wasn't convinced.
He couldn't help himself—leaning forward, he pulled Loki's chest flush to his own, pressing their lips together, hungrily licking inside his mouth and sucking on his bottom lip. It caused Loki to flinch, and he started to wiggle out of Tony's arms, but he only held Loki tighter, a hand snaking down to grip his cock as he growled into his dark hair. "Let me make you feel good."
"St—ah..."
Any further protest ceased when Tony began to slowly drag his hand along Loki's entire length, hard and slick with precome. He pushed Loki backwards, mirroring their earlier position, tongue and lips dancing across pale skin as he continued to stroke, making sure to avoid bandages and bruises. He knew he was being an absolute tease, but it was too enjoyable—Loki was writhing, eyes shut and hands gripping Tony's shoulders like they were the last thing on earth, emitting tiny moans every time Tony's mouth grazed the base of his shaft.
"Do not—ah—torture me like this," Loki managed to gasp, pulling on Tony's shoulders, trying to guide him to where he needed his mouth the most.
Tony gently bit his thigh in response, mouth dragging in an agonizingly slow fashion up Loki's shaft, grinning in satisfaction as he felt Loki shaking beneath him. Giving in, he took Loki into his mouth, sucking gently and letting his tongue press rhythmically against the underside, and in seconds, Loki's hand were in his hair, tugging hard, cock throbbing as he sighed through his climax, a long, throaty sigh, and Tony could've sworn he heard his first name somewhere in there.
Neither of them had the energy to pull themselves off of the floor—Tony blamed the alcohol and the exhaustion, but when Loki pressed his face into Tony's arm, one arm draped lazily over his shoulder, the other clutched tightly to his own chest, he decided that yeah, okay, maybe this could become a thing again.
As far as distractions went, this kinda blew work out of the water, anyway.
