Author's note: Well, I suppose it's about time for some guilt-tripping!Tony…
Okay, so that was without a doubt one of the most embarrassing and uncomfortable conversations he remembers having in his forty-something years of life. Ever. Even worse than the talk – or lecture – his father had given him after that one time in second grade when Tony's teacher caught him pissing in the gym bag of one of his jerk extraordinaire classmates (who totally deserved it).
He eyes the tools and various devices strewn across the scratched surface of his workbench; perhaps he should get the jumbled heaps sorted out. Some of the tools are even out of order, but he's never bothered to sort the non-functional apparatuses out from the still useful ones, relying on his memory to tell him which ones work or not.
He grabs one of the most often-used pieces of the disorganized equipment. It's an arc welder; he even built one of his first suits using this tool. Slowly, he turns it around in his grasp, letting his palm slide across a handle smooth but dirty from frequent use, remembering the early days he spent in his workshop welding and hammering, soldering and fitting sleek sheets of metal together. And even though he hasn't forgotten how that particular time came with its own share of issues, just like all periods of his life seem wont to do, in hindsight they seem like luxuriously problem-free days.
Because back then, he didn't have a god-turned-slave lounging around in his tower like an unwanted pet. Whom he, Tony, has the hots for, like he's an at-puberty's-threshold schoolboy lusting after the pretty, popular girl a few years his elder living right across the street.
To make matters even worse, the object of his attraction knows all about it. And Tony, always the suave and the self-confident, can't help but feeling like a total idiot that his desire was so obvious. Like a neon sign on freaking Broadway, with a blinking arrow pointing right at him. That's him alright, the sex-crazed pervert, lookie here, everyone.
Groaning, he runs a dirty, greasy hand through his hair, not caring about the grimy smears of oil his fingers are leaving behind. It will wash out. He can just go upstairs and have a shower, and oh yeah, why doesn't he jerk himself off to the image of a naked Norse god too while he's at it, huh, just for good measure?
Ugh. And here he thought that he had been discrete, acting all prim and proper around the god. But of course, there was that one little indiscretion (as in, a raging hard-on) thwarting his plans, and Loki had noticed, drawing his own conclusions about how things were about to play themselves out.
Simply thinking about it makes that flush starting to creep up his cheeks again. Annoyed, he snatches the welding mask hanging on the wall, accidentally bumping it into some other equipment that falls to the floor with a loud clang, but he ignores it and places the protective gear over his head, fastening the straps securely in place. The murky, metallic smell has a certain familiarity to it that usually calms his nerves like oil poured onto stormy waters. He's spent countless of hours behind this well-worn mask, immersing himself in his work when the outside world has become too much for him to deal with.
The glow of the arc welder takes up most of his field of vision as he turns it on, and despite his heavy gear, he can still sense some of the heat protruding from the white-hot flame only a foot away from his masked face.
So he sets to work on the half-finished pieces of metal left from the last session, bursts of embers spraying over his workbench as he fits two sharp edges together. The hard metal melts, yielding to the relentless onslaught of laser-sharp heat.
Usually, this kind of focused precision work would help take his mind of things, but today the little self-therapy session doesn't seem to be working very effectively. His mind keeps drifting back to the conversation from an hour ago, the look that Loki was giving him, the fear and worry in his eyes.
No wonder Loki has been avoiding him for the last few days. He still can't quite fathom that the god actually expected him to-
And then, Tony realises that he really has no idea of how things work back in Asgard. Sure Thor has given long-winded monologues about the marvels that are the realm of the Aesir, but those have all been tales filled to the brim with glorious battles and lavish feasts, of high adventure and magic and unearthly wonders. He's never said much about the darker, the less pleasant sides of Asgardian society. Such as slavery, or the punishment of their criminals.
Somehow, Tony feels that such a highly developed race as the Aesir should have other ways to handle these things.
The arc welder is sending showers of glittering sparks around him, as if he's getting his own little private firework display right here in his workshop. The two pieces of metal on the workbench have reluctantly melted into one, and Tony turns the arc welder off, leaving the still hot steel plate on the bench to cool off.
His face feels flushed as he removes the mask, and it's not just because of the heat from the welder flame or from being enclosed in the stuffy headgear. No, it's that unpleasant feeling of shame, something he rarely feels, mixed in with a fair helping of awkward discomfort.
So he'd be the first one to admit (well, to himself, anyway) that he's spent more than one evening by himself wondering what it would be like to have that lean, muscular body writhing under his in ecstasy, hear that haughty but cultured voice moan his name, watch the fine-chiselled face contort with pleasure. But those were private fantasies, and he was certain they'd remain just that.
But now, Loki has called him out on it. He's read Tony like an open book, exposed his desire like it was the most evident thing in the world, clear for anyone with half an eye to see.
That's bad enough in itself, of course, but he could probably have lived with that. What makes this whole matter a tenfold worse, however, what is for all intents and purposes a jug of table salt poured into an open wound, is that Loki expected him to act on those desires using force.
And what makes it a hundredfold worse – those expectations had driven Loki to a point where he was considering putting an end to everything. There is a chill in his bones at the thought; what if it had gotten that far? What if Loki had actually cut his wrists open and bled out before Tony could stop it? Of course, then he would never have found out the reason for it, but still… even if Loki is a war criminal and a whole bunch of other things, the idea that he might have killed himself over his misguided expectations of what Tony was going to do to him is just too disturbing to even contemplate.
Has anyone ever thought so low of him? Sure, Tony Stark might be many things – self-absorbed, narcissistic, reckless, self-destructive, borderline alcoholic, lewd and lascivious, to mention a few things most often cited to his detriment – but he sure as heck isn't a fucking rapist.
The whole thing is just on a whole special level of wrong, the magnitude of which he has never encountered before. More wrong than ketchup on ice cream, a swastika adorning the Capsicle's shield, or going an entire week without alcohol.
He imagines, for what time around he isn't sure, his hand sliding under Loki's faded T-shirt, trailing across the abs, up to his chest, smooth skin against his palm, feeling the just barely discernible flutter of a speeding heart. His groin twitches at the mental image, and he feels a sharp sting of guilt. It's wrong and inappropriate, in every sense of the word. The guy he's mentally drooling over expected him to fucking rape him. Though he didn't use those exact words, but the essence was still the same.
Is that what happens to slaves in Asgard? True, Loki had mentioned something about bed slaves, but he hadn't really reflected much further on the subject, but sort of relegated it to the back of his mind. In hindsight, it was stupid and thoughtless of him to have done so, even if he had had no idea then of the consequences that would follow. Not even in his wildest dream would he ever have thought that Loki would have expected such things from him. Perhaps he should have considered that notion, but it never even entered his mind, and because of his failure to at all entertain how things might be done in Asgard, he'd led someone to believe he would take advantage and abuse him in the worst possible ways.
Somehow, the glorious gilded halls that Thor has spoken so lovingly and appreciatively of seem like they have lost their shiny sparkle in the sinister shadows cast by recent events. And Odin, the ruler of these halls, willingly sentenced his son – adopted or not – to such a fate, rather than simply having him imprisoned or whatever it is that usually happens to Asgardian criminals?
And here Tony thought that the universe gave him a shitty dad.
His fingers absent-mindedly play around with a fastener lying forlorn and forgotten on the bench, trying to make the little piece of metal spin on its own axis like a top. But the thing is uncooperative and slips against the surface, skidding away over the edge and falls to the floor with a soft clang. He doesn't bend down to pick it up.
The look in Loki's eyes as he asked Tony his one-million dollar question still haunts him, like a stubborn ghost refusing to leave him alone. A volatile mixture of despair and disgust, incongruously coupled with weary resignation. And there was definitely fear in there, too, though Tony could see the god doing his best to hide it.
And no, he does not relish the idea of having to stand face to face with the god again, though he knows that he has no choice in the matter. Loki is unfortunately his house guest for an indeterminate future, so he can't go around sneaking behind corners and tripping on his toes hoping to avoid the guy. The whole situation is just fucked up, and on so many levels it's not even funny. And he's not even sure what's the worst part – how Odin is pinning for a 'worst dad of the year' award, his own messed-up fantasies of having his way with the green-eyed god in his charge, Loki knowing about Tony getting hard for him, being pegged for a rapist, his indiscretions having driven the god to considering offing himself – or the look he'd seen in Loki's haggard eyes.
That… look.
And remembering that look, that's when Tony comes to a decision – that despite everything, Loki has been punished enough.
It's no fun beating on someone who has already been pummelled into the ground.
Once more, he sits there on the window sill, one leg restlessly dangling, the other drawn up to his knees. He wonders if the sky has always been this blue or if it just looks like it from up here. He never recalls paying much attention to it in the past, before his freedom got taken away. Perhaps it's always looked like this, and he just doesn't remember.
Perhaps it doesn't matter.
He itches to go outside. But that's not possible, of course, He is to remain here in this cage of glass and steel, locked away from the rest of the world. The world he tried to conquer, lay under his feet. No, there's no way that Tony would ever let him venture outside of these walls, and why should he?
Tony.
The words the man spoke earlier are still vivid in his mind, as is the pity he saw pooling in those dark eyes. The sort of look reserved for weak, deplorable creatures not worthy of godly or even human dignity. Loki doesn't want pity, he never did.
Though, he supposes it's still preferable to certain other things.
But the previous sense of heady relief is still lingering, as if his body is floating rather than being the usual lump of mortal flesh and bone that he has slowly started to grow accustomed to. So it would seem that Tony has no intention of bedding him then, of claiming the rights that always come with the ownership of a slave.
The threat that has been hanging over him for so long, making him nauseous with dread, is gone, dispelled like childhood's imagined monsters with the break of dawn. And all it took was a few words from Tony, a reassurance he'd never dreamed he would be getting. Because, what reason would there be for that?
Of course, there are still all those punishments waiting, but perhaps he can deal with them as long as he knows that this won't be coming.
No, whatever awaits him here, whatever is still to come, at least it won't be that.
It came fully unexpectedly, from out of left field while he was standing in the far right corner looking somewhere else entirely. And it made little sense, because what else use would he be to Tony? The man already has his computers and fancy technology to take care of most menial tasks usually handled by slaves in Asgard, so he doesn't need Loki for that. But it would have been the perfect opportunity for revenge, for personal gratification and satisfaction – and yet Tony has decided to pass up on it for his own inexplicable reasons.
Perhaps it's some kind of odd Midgardian sentiment, maybe it's something else. He doesn't know, but it doesn't matter. No reason or explanation is necessary, as long as he won't have to fear being turned into Tony's bed slave.
The man is confusing, a strange enigma. Especially since there is one detail that Loki did take note of.
Tony never denied wanting to bed him.
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