[ Meanwhile, Tony makes himself comfortable, straddling Loki’s lap, muscular thighs wrapped around his lithe waist. Sometimes, he reminds himself of a koala, always clingy and touchy. Luckily, Loki doesn’t seem to mind. ]
It’s not like I haven’t done it before—or will do it again.
[ He shot Loki a shit-eating smirk. ]
[He takes a moment to find optimum comfort position, before those thin, pianists fingers, whisp atop his waist; only one leaving to tracing patterns aside his collarbones; daringly close to the reactor at points.]
I wouldn’t expect anything less.
[He’ll take a glance toward whatever Tony’s prepared, before he leans forward, merely to pressure his lips to the hollow of Tony’s neck, just chastely.]
Just try not to forget the hors d'oeurves.
Removing his hand from the glass, he blinked a few times, trying to process what Loki had just said. There was absolutely no reason why the God of Mischief would ever really need any personal information about him.
Then again, Loki was a sadist. He enjoyed this, enjoyed this far more than Tony would ever be able to comprehend.
Surprisingly, Tony thought of the people disappearing and being possessed before himself, and decided he’d agree to Loki’s terms. Pacing a few times, rubbing his goatee, the billionaire began to speak.
“There’s not much to know about me that people don’t already.”
That was a lie. There were plenty of secrets that Tony had stored away to deepest, darkest corners and crevasses of his mind, stored away to avoid the scrutiny of others and himself.
God fucking shit. Why me? They picked me when they have Natasha and Steve and fuck, even Bruce. I’m just a mess.
For what seemed like an utter age, Loki was glaring amusedly into Tony’s eyes, and they had this… searching appeal to them. Utterly searching, piercing, and rooting through Tony’s very being. His soul.
Till they snapped away. Down to his chest, and the lack of glow from the Arc Reactor that… was not there.
“Are you not supposed to glow from your chest, Stark?” he asked, gaze revolving back up again. Lasers, they were like. Two, emerald, lasers.
Loki’s own hand sank after, though the way he stood, the way he held himself, every part of how he stood and looked and the odd, crooked smile on his thin thin lips was… almost… horror esque. Horror worthy.
“Yes or no, Stark. Your director Fury is waiting, is he not?”