[ 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.
[Somewhat proud hues seem linked onto the form afore him. He has no reason to look away.]
That is the idea, pet.
Pet.
[He wrinkles his nose at that, as he leans on his toes a bit to put the apron back.]
Alright, sit. There’s a possibility that I want to come in your lap.
[And he’ll enjoy his view, because he can,of course; brows quirking a little, the familiar old smirk simply taking hold of his lips and twisting them once more.]
[He doesn’t even answer. He just, obediently, sits on the nearest stool.]
And here’s me believing you always wanted to do that. I’m hurt you’d only say of it now.
… I must admit, I do feel rather special with that.
Aren’t you the most exquisite little creature in my life?
Oh, Mr. Loki, you’re going to make me blush.
[Tony chuckles, untying the apron from around his neck.]
[Somewhat proud hues seem linked onto the form afore him. He has no reason to look away.]
That is the idea, pet.
You know, it’s nothing special, just stuffed shells, sauce. Apple pie’s for desert. But they’re slamming.
… I must admit, I do feel rather special with that.
Aren’t you the most exquisite little creature in my life?
… - you spoil me far too much.
“… the filmography around this time is ridiculously overplayed, the theme is far too repetitive, the presents are given with no true meaning aside petty greed and ‘candy’ can be consumed whatever time of year.”
“… Shut up. Christmas is the best, and everything you say is irrelevant. You’re just a Grinch. Let’s watch A Year Without a Santa Claus.”
”-… let’s not.“
” - I hate Christmas.”
“But movies."
"And candy. And presents. What’s wrong with you?”
“… the filmography around this time is ridiculously overplayed, the theme is far too repetitive, the presents are given with no true meaning aside petty greed and ‘candy’ can be consumed whatever time of year.”
Tony sees no contempt in those emerald irises, sees nothing in the darkness behind his eyelids. He only moves closer, curling up onto the life force that’s slowly but surely killing him from the inside up, wrapping his arms around him. Grogginess is making everything heavy, like he’s underwater.
He remembers the bucket of water then, remembers being shoved in it, remembers screaming and struggling and begging. That’s enough to stop him from falling fully asleep then.
“Not that different, honey,” the endearment is said with no sarcasm inflicted, because it’s natural now. Loki’s name tastes like honey on his tongue and so does the skin of his hand as he brings in to his mouth to kiss.
Maybe he’s just imagining that.
“Mhm.”
A beat.
“I love you.”
Oh, he’s doing so valiantly. Each word strung to a perfect sentence, each little tipping over the edge, each-
… ah.
Well, he… should have been expecting that.
When dressed in wool, when cloaked by beauty and physique, when conforming honey-esque words and letting spring rise in Tony’s bones; letting the shimmer of grace light him like revelation; when shadowed by tall, chalk white angel wings; how can anyone refuse?
How is anyone safe from the beautiful adversary?
And despite his inking of sorrow, he curls a hand around the side of Tony’s sliding-to-slumber face, caressing it, admiring and praising it; a lean forward, to ghost his pale, cool lips, to the very outline of his lips.
“And I you.”
But they’re words spoken in his ear, to deliver the fastest shot of the drug he calls his voice; and they’re spoken with a faint, faint, smirk.
Because he knows that Tony, in a very naive sense of the word, does, indeed, love him. And by ‘naive sense of the word’, he knows it’s an intoxication. The drug addict adores the drug they’re giving their life to.
And he certainly hopes Tony’s slipped into peaceful slumber, leaving the mastermind; to think; back coming to rest against the headboard. By tomorrow, the company will be in a state of confusion, and other companies, in 'uproar’ with the 'vulgarity of Stark Industries’.
And he can’t wait.
