Author's note: So much fluff lately, let's see if it will continue in this chapter, or if we'll get something else… ^^
Morning hits him like a sledgehammer, and he groans as he rolls over to peer at the clock on his bedside table.
Not even ten. Still early, then. Yawning, he rolls back to his previous position, trying to lull himself back to sleep. He stayed up far too late yesterday, trudging away on various projects in his workshop, downing quite a few drinks – or perhaps it was bottles – in the process.
He doesn't really get hangovers that often anymore; his body seems to have acclimatized itself to his drinking binges over the years. But now it has obviously decided to protest against those habits rather insistently, leaving him with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like cat piss.
To top it off, he has another pressing problem as well, he soon notices. Not that it's an unusual state for him to wake up in, though, especially not after he's been drinking.
He deliberates with himself for a little while as to whether he should do something about the cock that's straining rather uncomfortably against his boxers or let things return to normal by themselves, but eventually opts for the former.
In his current rather pitiable morning-after state, he deserves something of a more pleasant variety to get the day started, after all.
He kicks the cover aside and then rolls over onto his back, his hand idly reaching down underneath the front of his boxers. Pulling his half-hard length out, he gives it a slow, lazy stroke, trying to conjure up some appropriate fantasy that will speed the process up.
The first thing that comes to mind is that Playboy centerfold whose name he can't quite recall, but that he thinks was Samantha or Savannah or something along that vein. Though, that's probably not her real name anyway, and it wasn't as if he ever bothered to ask. It was over a year ago that they met at some event that started with boring people making boring speeches and ended with the two of them fucking like crazy in a storage room down in the cellar.
Blond, buxom (though most of that was probably silicon), and legs a mile long, she was quite the sight to behold. Hazel eyes and a smile framed with thick, gorgeous lips that he pictures eagerly descending on his cock. At the mental image, he strokes himself indolently, trying to recall the feeling as those wet lips moved over him, tongue sliding over his erection as he breathlessly leant back against a wobbly pile of crates, pants in a crumbled heap at his feet.
A moment later, the blond head is bobbing up and down on his cock and he presses the back of his head into the pillow as his hand tightens its grip. She was good, he remembers, though perhaps not one of the best he's had. But she got an A for Awesome effort, at least, moaning like a seasoned porn star as she worked him over, taking him in almost to the hilt.
Another moment later, and that mop of hair is suddenly not blond anymore, but a deep jet black.
His breath hitches, but at this point it's too late to call things off. The fantasy refuses to turn back to into the Playboy model, instead insisting on transforming until the kneeling figure at his feet is none but the god of mischief himself in all his glory.
A part of him already knew what his initial fantasy would eventually turn into, but he was still powerless to stop it, and now he doesn't even want to.
Pushing away the guilt welling up inside of him, he watches before his inner eye as Loki sinfully licks over his length, green eyes staring up at him as they drink in the tell-tale signs of his pleasure.
His cock is glistening with wetness in the god's grip, and he doesn't know if it's mostly precum or saliva, but it doesn't matter as Loki's tongue is swirling over his head, exerting delicious pressure on the tip.
The fantasy is so beautiful, so irresistible, and his hand is moving almost frantically, drawing bursts of pleasure from his aching cock. He's so fucking hard, and not far off, so he moves his hand in unison with those imaginary lips, his pants echoing in his ears as he's imagining Loki sucking him like a vice, putting all his godly efforts into making him climax.
And does he ever, spurting all over his stomach with a throaty groan while imagining coming into that skilful, outer-worldly talented mouth. The pleasure rushing over him is overwhelming, powerful waves undulating through his body as he bucks and trashes on the mattress like an animal while riding out his release.
And then he lies there on the rumpled sheets, staring up into the ceiling as the last vestiges of pleasure are fading away, his cock returning to its usual state. Finally, he sighs contentedly, reaching out for a wad of the paper tissue that's stored on his bedside table, absent-mindedly wiping the stickiness off his hand and stomach.
Of course, he should feel ashamed of himself, jerking off to someone who is currently lying all injured and bruised up in bed, on top of everything else that is making Loki a very much improper fantasy. Though, right now those feelings fail to fully manifest themselves, dozing like lacklustre, half-hearted guilty consciences in the back of his head.
Heck, it's not as if Loki is going to find out about his private indiscretions anyway or as if Tony is ever going to act on those fantasies, so what difference does it really make? At least, that's what he's trying to tell himself, though he can hear the lack of conviction in his own inner voice.
Oh well. What's done is done, and what he needs more than anything right now is a shower, not a guilty conscience.
He rolls rather than pushes himself out of bed, stretching his limbs as he ambles towards the door, a swarm of evil headache fairies still swinging their little hammers inside his skull.
Yeah, it will be really nice to soak in a hot shower for a while, he thinks as he saunters down the short stretch of corridor leading towards the bathroom. It's only a turn of corners and…
… and suddenly Loki is standing there in front of him, impossibly materializing out of nowhere.
They both freeze on the spot like deer in headlights. And then they remain standing there, neither of them moving as if they think that if they just keep perfectly still and pretend like nothing just happened, the last few seconds are going to rewind themselves and then play out in a much more non-embarrassing fashion. Preferably with all participants fully clothed.
And of course – Loki hasn't been up and running since landing himself in that bed with bruises that would have made a blue-spotted salamander jealous, but Murphy's law clearly dictates that he should pick the very moment to leave it when Tony is unashamedly prancing around in the full monty.
It's totally one of those Kodak moments, if you by 'Kodak moment' mean Crowning Moment of Awkwardness.
Loki looks surprised, or maybe shocked would be a more proper description. And Tony can't decide whether he feels more stupid or embarrassed, but it's probably a fair toss-up.
Not that he normally feels self-conscious being naked in front of others, but when it's Loki of all people... yeah, totally awkward. Probably the last person in the world he should be flashing himself for like this.
"Uh, just on my way to the shower," he finally manages, quickly pushing past the god while feeling like an idiot. If Loki only knew what he'd been doing only minutes ago, what he had been fantasizing about, or why he's even naked in the first place when he normally sleeps in his underwear…
He quickly covers the last few steps to the bathroom, glad to finally put a wall between the god and his own naked self. So apparently the universe or karma or whatever cosmic ass-holery that is running the show thought him too unrepentant for his illicit fantasies, and decided to punish him like this; that's really the only explanation.
And it sure knew what it was doing, because he doesn't think he's ever felt as guilty about those fantasies as he's doing right now.
He watches out of the corner of an eye as Tony disappears behind the corner, followed by the dull thud of a door closing, and then the sound of water being turned on. For some reason, his face feels flushed, like he's been out in the sunlight for too long.
It's the first time he's seen Tony naked, and he has to admit that even though the sight was surprising, it was not … unappealing.
And he thinks there might be a part of him that wouldn't have minded if Tony hadn't left so quickly for the shower so he could have watched the sight for a little while longer, and the realization only takes him slightly by surprise.
He suddenly remembers the gentle fingers combing through his hair as it was cut a while ago, and with that memory comes the pondering whether the man is as gentle in… other pursuits as well. Somehow, the concept doesn't seem so terribly foreign and alien anymore. And a part of him wonders if he, perhaps, might one day even want to find out the answer to that question for himself.
He stands there for a while, staring at the empty spot that Tony had been occupying mere moments ago, before continuing on to where he was going. Even so, the thoughts keep swirling in his head, refusing to leave him alone.
And he can't help but wonder – what it would be like to touch Tony. How it would feel to run his fingers down that chest with the arc reactor embedded in it. If his neatly trimmed beard is soft or as scratchy as it looks.
That, and a million other things as well.
Well, I figured it was time for a tiny little bit of porn. Hope you enjoyed. ^^
Please review. :)