Work Text:
The night started in the living room and ended in the bedroom. Clothes - both Tony’s and Loki’s - are strewn haphazardly across the penthouse, draping furniture and lying in puddles on the floor. He’s up before Tony, he always is, and when he leaves his boyfriend is lying on his stomach, splayed out so he’s taking up half the bed. Loki scratches his stomach when he pads barefooted past the floor-to-ceiling windows, and he pauses to stare out at the city.
In the kitchen he opens the fridge, takes out the orange juice and drinks straight from the carton. JARVIS has already turned on the coffee machine, and when he turns, juice carton in hand, it’s dripping the coffee so strong it almost resembles molten tar into the pot. His limbs all have the telltale ache from last nights fucking marathon sex: the muscles in his stomach and back and thighs all twinge in protest, even when all he’s doing is putting some bread in the toaster. Without a mirror he knows that there are marks across his chest and back, framing his neck.
Loki starts picking up the pieces of abandoned clothing, shaking the wrinkles out and draping them over his arm. It’s strange but Loki likes the sheer domesticity of things the way they are now: cooking and cleaning and having sex that isn’t rough and tinged with hate. He bends over to get his boxers (Tony’s?) when he feels warm hands curling over his bare hips, a rough, sleep addled voice ghosting over his shoulders and saying, “You should really put some clothes on.” Tony’s left hand slips over his skin, thumb brushing over the curve of his ass and Loki hisses when there are suddenly two fingers in him.
“Still open from last night,” Tony says appraisingly. “Wet too.” He moans low and straightens up, twisting his upper body so he can pull him in for a kiss. His mouth is wet and hot, a smooth slide of tongue against his own, and it’s stunning to Loki, the way that Tony has this ability to get him going from zero to sixty just like that. When they get to the floor they’re half on the rug and half off it. The hardwood is cold underneath his back, contrasting deeply to the way that Tony is a solid, hot body on top of his. “Wanna take you right here,” he mouths into his neck, Arc Reactor throwing a cool blue glow onto his already pale skin.
“Nothing is stopping you,” Loki answers, fisting a hand into Tony’s hair. He has his fingers again, scissoring slowly before a third is pushed in along the others. “We-ell,” he starts to correct himself, vowel drawing out when Tony feel particularly vicious, dragging the pads of his fingers over his prostate. “You need l-”
“Lube?” Tony interrupts him and straightens up slightly, leans over and shoves a hand between the couch cushions, drawing back with a tube of lubricant clutched between his fingers. There are few things that surprise him, and the fact that Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist, keeps lube stashed in his sofa isn’t one of them. His teeth are almost startlingly white when he flashes a grin, twisting his fingers up into Loki once more before drawing them out and spreading a liberal amount onto his cock.
“No,” Tony says. “Nothing is stopping me because you want this so. Bad.” He punctuates his words by lining up and thrusting in, a smooth slide from start to finish. Loki tips his head back and grins breathlessly, because no-one talks to him quite the way Tony does, and especially not like this. “So desperate you walk around with nothing on and bend over at the drop of a hat.” He pauses for a moment, changing the angle and leaning over him so that his arms are bracketing him in, hands on the ground on either side of his head.
The silence is almost loud when he starts rocking into him, interrupted only by harsh breaths and the involuntary noises that are punched out of Loki. Tony noses along his jawline, tongue flicking out at his earlobe when he says, “If you want it so badly all you have to do is ask, baby.” If anyone were watching they’d see Tony Stark in all of his (in)famous glory, naked and tan skin shifting to accommodate the way the muscles in his entire body flex as he fucks him, head dropped low so that Loki’s lips brush against his forehead.
It’s almost too easy, the way he reaches down and grasps Loki’s dick firmly, thrusts harder to make him rock between his own cock and his fist and suddenly has a Norsk god shaking underneath him, coming in spurts across Tony’s fist and his own stomach. He loves this, the way right after an orgasm Loki goes loose and pliant, just hitching his legs further up. His fingers are scrabbling against the floor, gasping at the way it’s bordering the line of too much. He’s sore from last night, sore from now, and the way that Tony keeps going is almost overstimulation.
When he shifts the angle back so that he’s almost nailing his prostate on every slide back in Loki keens, voice hoarse. He cries stop but pulls on his hair at the same time, in the way that Tony knows really means more. When Tony comes, hot and wet painting across Loki’s insides, he comes too, comes again, one thin white ribbon that lands just short of his collarbone.
They lie side by side on the floor afterwards, sunlight slanting through the windows to illuminate dust particles that float through the air. Tony closes his eyes for a minute, catches his breath. He opens them again, opens them just on time to see Loki drag his finger through the mess of come on his stomach and then lick it off tepidly. The god does it again, only this time he thumbs at Tony’s lower lip, and Tony barely has control over his own actions when he’s opening his mouth and sucking on his fingers.
The corner of Loki’s mouth turns up in a smirk.