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The game of pretending
The first time had been Loki's.
He had appeared in his bedroom, with blood on his body and a grin that emphasized the wild madness in his eyes, wounded from a fight on who knew which planet, because Tony and the other Avengers hadn't seen him for days.
He had trapped his wrists above his head with fingers that were like cold steel, only to start tormenting Tony's ear with his tongue and his breath.
“Where are your teammates, now, Stark?”
“Let's say that, if they were here, you would already be a decoration on a wall.”
The god's free hand had found place around his neck, a gentle hold that had given Tony the sudden awareness of how close he was to his own death.
“And yet, who knows, maybe you are the one who will meet such fate”.
The hand had strengthened his grip in warning, before going lower.
“In this position you look more willing to fuck me than to kill me,” Tony had replied, but a moment later he had shivered when he had felt as light as feathers fingers tracing the shape of his Reactor, and then Loki had laughed, wild and beautiful even with the bent armor, the messy hair and the blood on his face and body.
“You might be right, Stark.”
He had fucked him until Tony had screamed in the silence that was enveloping his Tower, drawing scorching hot paths on his skin with his nails and tongue, savoring his moans and muffled curses, while he watched Tony coming under him, stained by his blood.
The second time had been his.
Tony had come to the god after they had managed to capture him. It was a temporary situation, he had known it since the start, because Loki would escape again as soon as he recovered enough of his powers, but Thor had said that the chains they had used to restrain him had been enchanted by dwarfs, so that they would be able to block both his magic and his divine strength. That meant that for a few, precious hours, Loki would be helpless and his.
“Are you feeling lonely, Rock of Ages?”
He hadn't given him the time to answer, reaching immediately for his lips, devouring his mouth with his teeth and tongue in a kiss that soon had tasted like blood.
When he had pulled back, the god had showed him a dangerous rage lurking in his eyes.
“Be careful, Stark. You know you are not able to keep me here forever.”
Tony had smiled at him, savoring his helpless fury while he forced him to turn around and face the wall, before unfastening those absurd leather pants that only Loki was able to wear without turning out to be ridiculous.
Despite his wounds being still red and visible and the glares he was sending to him even while he was pressed against the wall, the god was already aroused.
Tony had grabbed his half erection in the exact moment he had bitten into his shoulder, leaving the mark of his teeth on Loki's pale skin.
“I'm not a forever kind of guy.” He had forced the god to bend forward a little. “I'd rather seize the day.”
And then he had thrust into him, moaning with no restrictions while he felt the god so tight and enraged and his.
The third time hadn't belonged to anyone.
They had found themselves fighting against each other in a battle where the other Avengers had already been defeated. They had ended up in a desert place, fighting with their teeth in place of fists and weapons and magic, tearing their clothes apart and biting and touching each other and widening their respective wounds. Tony had ridden him with no coercion or words, searching for his pleasure in the god laying under him, with the pieces of his broken armor all around them, the horned helm all cracked and bent and the mark of Loki's nails on his hips.
Then there had been the forth time, when Loki had forced him to kneel, his scepter against Tony's head as a tangible threat, and he had found his satisfaction in Tony's mouth without giving him anything. And then the fifth, when Tony had drawn him into a trap, his science finding a way to block the god's magic, and so he had undressed him in an icy darkness, and Loki had growled and moaned and hissed words of hate and revenge in the long minutes when he had truly been at his mercy, before his powers overcame Tony's new invention and let a burning scar on his skin as a warning.
And then the sixth time and the seventh, until they had lost count.
It had always been about power, between them. Bites in place of kisses, nails in place of caresses, and bruises and scratches and sex that left them aching like they had fought against each other instead of having fucked.
Nights that they filled in hatred to erase what had become dangerously close to a routine, the knowledge that they would be able to find each other with their eyes closed, that they had learned to recognize each other's breathing.
It had always been about power, nothing more than that, nothing important. It was how the thing between them had been born, so they told themselves that it would always be that way.
And in that game of illusion they played to themselves, they could pretend that it didn't matter.