The shattered window wails, carrying the ghostly whispers of the wind. Tony stands a few feet back, staring, drink clutched in his hands. He wonders why the hole isn’t shaped like the cartoon figure of a running man, the outline of the his suit shining red and gold. Instead it is an amorphous hole. An anonymous, jagged mess.
Anyone could have been thrown through it.
He can’t look away from the blue of the sky that hangs unbroken above him. There is a brush of clod fingers across the back of his neck, perhaps just the memory of a place between death and the void, or perhaps something more.
“You think too much,” comes the whisper. It is smooth, cultured, and the breath that curls across the shell of his ear is warm.
Tony jerks away. His drink sloshes and pours onto his fingers, which he lifts and licks clean from habit.
The room is silent. There is no one behind him. The bar sits still and empty, overturned couches with legs reaching up toward the ceiling, the shattered floor gaping and papers scattering, tugged to and fro by the wind.
Voices. His mind must be going. They’d always told him he was crazy.
He’d nodded along and laughed because of course he was crazy, wasn’t that obvious? But he’d also thought that he was a different kind of crazy than the one they expected, the kind that came with laughter and brilliance and grudgingly admiring biographies.
Not voices.
He has just lift his drink again to take a sit when the voice comes again.
“Come now, Stark. Why do you run away?” Fingers curl around his arms and a body presses close to his back. It is one long line of hardness.
Tony has a second of stunned incomprehension to lean back into it before he pulls away, wrenching himself free and whirling round. He throws the glass and watches it fly throw the opening in the window, fall through the open space beyond and vanish over the city streets.
He knows that voice. Its identity lurks at the back of his mind, elusive as ever.
“That was good scotch,” he says to the empty room. “If you wanted a drink, all you had to do was ask.” Tony’s skin crawls with apprehension that he swallows down and hides.
There are a few heartbeats of silence, long enough for Tony’s heart to begin to settle and believe that he is alone.
Then the hands are back. They shove him from behind and he stumbles. He is grabbed and forced forward, all the way up against the wall, where he is pressed and half smothered. A hand holds the side of his face toward the wall, blocking his view of whoever is behind him.
The body that presses against him is hard, clothed in leather and armor, and the other man smells of sweat and ozone crackling through the air.
“I do not ask.” He is right there, lips brushing against Tony’s ear. His hand curls around the edge of Tony’s hip and Tony shivers, heat building in him. He twitches, a play at trying to get away. “Whatever I want, I take.”
The hand lifts from Tony’s face. He catches a glimpse of dark hair and the open sky beyond as the hands pull at his jeans. Loki – for it can only be him – pulls Tony’s jeans and briefs down just over the curve of his ass, far enough that he can run his fingers over the cheeks, nails brushing across the skin in a caress. Tony shivers and bucks back, away, but Loki is stronger than him – he is a god and Tony is nothing but human without his suit – and presses him to the wall.
Nausea curls in Tony’s stomach. He clenches his teeth together and struggles to reach around and get purchase on something, anything, that will allow him to get free.
“You asshole,” Tony hisses. “Aren’t you aliens supposed to have a sense of honor and chivalry? Let me go so I can fight you.”
Loki presses up against him, fingers digging into Tony’s ass. They work their way between the cheeks, deeper, and Tony shudders.
“Where would be the fun in that?” Loki sighs, his voice a parody of intimacy. Tony swallows hard at the feeling that rises in him at the low burr in Loki’s tone.
He twists, slamming his elbow back and turning, but into nothing.
He is free. The room is empty. Tony has a second for shocked disbelief before Loki is there again, a flash of green and black and gold that presses so close that it steals his breath away. He forces Tony’s back to the wall, the edges of his armor digging into Tony.
He can feel the hard line of Loki’s body all the way to his core. A flush crawls across his skin.
“Come now, Stark,” Loki laughs. “Play with me.”
His hand brushes across the edge of Tony’s t-shirt, pushing the edge back and curling around his cock. Tony jolts at the feeling that rushes through him. He is already half hard and hisses, pushing back at Loki. The other man doesn’t so much as budge.
Loki’s chuckle is buried in the curve of his throat and he rubs the edge of his nails down the bottom of Tony’s cock. Tony shudders.
“Get off,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
“Now, now,” Loki says. “Is that what you really want?”
With that, he drops to his knees and pushes Tony, unbalancing him. His breath is hot on Tony’s cock and his fingers dig into his hips, and without a pause to catch his breath he wraps his lips around Tony’s cockhead and sucks it in.
“Ah!” Tony’s head hits the wall behind him. His fingers scrabble against it and then come forward, seeking purchase in Loki’s hair. It is greased and tangled and Tony tries to pull him away, but only succeeds in pulling him closer.
Loki’s fingers move back, digging into his flesh and making Tony flinch, but the mouth wrapped around him is hot and mobile, lips tight and tongue truly silver and he can’t help the way his breath catches. He curls his fingers into Loki’s hair and thinks No but the only words that come to his lips are pleas that sound much more like Yes.
Loki moves forward, swallowing more of Tony’s cock and sending rough jolts of pleasure moving across his skin. Loki’s pale skin is smooth and unbroken, no matter that Tony remembers him beaten and bruised, flesh purpling and dark circles crowding the space under his eyes. This Loki is triumphant and wry, his eyes shining gold and green and blue, lips quirking up around Tony’s cock and magic sparking against Tony’s skin and swarming through him to cloud his senses.
It’s the magic, Tony thinks distantly. It must be. He feels drained, as if he can’t quite move, as if he isn’t even sure he wants to fight back anymore. Loki’s fingers slide between his cheeks and brush across his hole. He bucks up into Loki’s mouth, and Loki simply curls his lips tighter and swallows around Tony’s cock.
Tony’s eyes slip closed and he tugs at Loki, willing him closer as the heat that burns through him rises higher and hotter, sharp on the inside of his veins and sticking to the back of his throat. He gasps. The tip of Loki’s finger slips into his hole. There is a spring winding tighter within him, his muscles clenching and breath stuttering. He is hard and desperate, and Loki’s finger works deeper with a slow burn.
Tony gasps and peels his eyes open to look down toward Loki, see the colors burning in his eyes, and sees only his own sheets.
They are tangled around him, tented over his throbbing erection. Stripes of morning sun pour across the bed and burn into his eyes. He is alone.
Loki’s fingers are only a ghost, only in his mind.
Tony flinches back from himself and throws the sheets back, stumbling out of bed and into the bathroom. There he falls to his knees in front of the toilet and is sick, as the cold touch of the tile floor strips away the haze of his dreams.
