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His suit is perfect. As is his hair, his posture, and his wolfish grin. He makes them swoon and babble, all but falling at his feet with raw desire to please him.
Because he was their king.
Not the king they needed, no, but the king they craved. The king who walks across their backs, kissing babies and women and, oh yes, sometimes men. He kisses everyone who catches his eye and is deserving enough.
Tonight, no one is deserving, but they still bask in his presence and every excuse to touch him is made. A stumble, a simple brush of their fingers across the back of his hand as they reach for their glass and it’s pathetic, hilarious.
He loves it. He breathes it in, feeding off of their hunger.
And as the lights of the innocent go dark across the city, Tony Stark tosses his head back and roars.
He was born into this world late, which should have been the first sign that something was wrong. But no, Maria and Howard Stark didn’t see his shell’s heart stop, never noticed how still that tiny body was when the doctor pulled him out and cleaned away the fluids. They were too caught up in the bundle of joy they expected, what they thought they deserved, to notice their baby was born dead.
Which was not skin off his back, seeing as the little soul was already off to be sorted back into the world again, and he happily took over a body that would simply be tossed away anyway. He happily bid his chained life goodbye at last. Decades upon decades of being the caged animal, and finally he was free to live again.
Or so he thought.
Howard was not the father he needed, or wanted, or liked, or killed. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter the days when the man’s stubbornness pushed Tony’s final button and—oh, how he wanted to kill him, then. But he never did, and he grew, and they fought, and Tony (he accepted this name because it was quite charming to have a single syllable name, for once) promised himself that he would never grow attached to these mortals.
But he did, and when Maria died, he cried for the first time in over 4 thousand years.
It hurt. It actually hurt.
Now
Tony plays with his crown when he gets bored. It’s not visible to the human eye, which he finds amusing sometimes because, oh, how they would scream if they saw his true form in all its glory. A crown of thorns, of fire. Sometimes it was a crown of moonlight, and even now he loves chasing her soft rays across the sea when he goes flying at night. It’s beautiful and terrifying, just like himself.
He is a genius. Always was smarter than his Father, no matter which incarnation one refers to. He follows the role set before him, relishes the title Merchant of Death for a short while, before he gets the rude awakening of thislifetime, and is forced to consider whether or not he is willing to be found by those who hunt him and lose this last chance at a life.
And what is a life without heart? He was a demon, not a fucking monster.
As it happens, his body is still susceptible to stupid things like metal embedded in his chest, doing things he dislikes very much. He takes care of most of it, but there’s witnesses and now he’s fitted with a huge, clunky rock in his chest thanks to some misplaced gestures of who-knows-what from a man he doesn’t even remember. Tony can’t just rip it out and fix himself, he has an image to keep up. Plus, there’s something about it, something vulnerable and real that he sort of needs. It reminds him that he’s no longer caged. Pain is freedom.
Tony Stark has a heart.
When the damn thing goes all strange on him, he has no idea how to fix it and he’s a fucking genius who should know how to fix it and maybe that’s why he loses touch with himself for a while there. Yeah, that’s totally why.
He has friends who aren’t amused by his ‘loss of touch’. He doesn’t care.
Pain is freedom, after all. They should thank him for making them feel alive.
Tony doesn’t pull out his crown as much these days. Things have become hideously domestic around him, and he’s looking for a way out. Technically, this means he should spreading his wings (literal and metaphorical) and putting the good Father’s name to shame, or some bullshit like that. But he’s not, not at all. He’s just standing here, slowly growing more restless and irritate as the friend-turned-more drinks champagne and celebrities some pointless achievement that he made.
The banter grows old, and thank the stars, there’s a delicious interruption in the form of a god he’s never known.
And what a huge shame that is, because he’s beautiful.
Tony watches the clips left for him by Coulson, taking it all in one pearl of information at a time. He teaches himself thermonuclear astrophysics and admires Hulk’s raw power while teasing the idea of pushing the man to his limits. A being like that deserves a little challenge, if only to let off some steam.
Tony grins, packs up his things, and goes off to greet his welcomed distraction.
Loki is so loud and angry, it almost makes Tony laugh. He really is a god, Tony knows, because he’s heard this speech before.
‘There are no men like me.’
He really wants to laugh. But those should-be-pretty eyes are on his, drugged out on power and persuasion. Clouded and unhappy.
It bothers him that he can’t see the real god under all the pollution.
“Your move, Reindeer Games.”
His move is, indeed, a smart one. But it’s boring and things don’t get exciting again until—oh what a lucky day—another unknown god shows up. Tony loves the challenge, loves playing with little godlings like the olden days. He feels 2,000 again, taunting and smashing and it’s all good fun, really, until that stupid monkey of Howard’s has to ruin it.
Then it’s all talking. Blah Blah Blah.
Tony watches little Chaos pace in his cell before sitting down and going still. He can’t hold back a grin. It was too perfect, this beautiful predator has arrived just in time to make this miserable world a little more fun.
Someone tells him what to do. He does it, begrudgingly, and mostly because he has a chance to poke at the green thing. The beast who, he finds, is not as volatile as he had initially thought, but much more interesting as a man than a monster. He apologizes—in his own way—for thinking of Banner as such, by offering food. He’s nice like that.
The monkey ruins the mood, again.
At least thing’s are interesting.
Oh, they really do get interesting. Mostly when Tony finally gets the god to himself and shakes off that damned suit of his. He prefers flying with his wings, personally, but that wasn’t exactly accepted by, well, anyone. He was Ironman, yadda yadda.
“Please tell me you’re going to appeal to my humanity,” the god drawls, grin as wide as the gap between Steve Roger’s two brain cells.
“Uh, actually I’m planning to talk to you.”
“And what sort of ‘talking’ were you thinking?” the god asks, stalking slowly closer. “Perhaps you should have left your armor on for that.”
Tony shrugs, sniffing the bottle in his hands. “Yeah. It’s seen a bit of mileage and It really chafes in the shoulder-blade area. Would you like a drink?”
Loki doesn’t even blink those blue eyes of his, which annoys Tony for some reason. No, not some reason, he knows why.
“You know, you remind me of someone,” he says, pouring himself a drink, since the god didn’t seem to have even noticed his kind offer. “Someone I hate.”
“I am flattered,” Loki sneers, and Tony doesn’t miss those long fingers tightening around the scepter.
“Well,” Tony continues, trotting down the steps towards him. “It was a love-hate kind of thing. Really complicated, lots of fire and screaming and I think a horse was involved.”
And that was definitely no longer a smile, fake or threatening or not. Horses, Tony reminds himself, are a touchy subject. What fun.
“You mock me, you witless mortal?” he growls, meeting Tony half away and towering over him.
“See, that’s where you’re dead wrong.”
Loki flashes that grin again, and the scepter is rising to his chest. “Oh? Tell me, ant, just how clever do you think you can be when you’re slave to me?”
The little ‘tink!’ noise the blade makes upon contact with the arc reactor nearly throws Tony to the floor with laughter. He hums when Loki pokes him again, and looks up at the delightfully confuddled expression on the god’s face. He was just so… cute.
“This usually works.”
“Well, see, you’re wrong about the whole mortal thing, and really, you should be thankful you can’t do shit with that glow stick of yours, because—”
Tony does finally laugh, once he’s mid air and surrounded by falling glass. His wings break the flesh in a flash of welcomed pain, as usual, and Tony swoops up without a single fuck left to give.
The time was now, there would be no other chance to make himself a real throne, not in this world where time dragged on and on, and they would be so surprised. This god could be freed of the power holding him, just as Tony had freed himself, and by his side, they could be kings.
Real kings.
Loki’s expression when Tony lands with a crunch of broken glass underfoot is priceless, and he kind of wants to kiss it right off of him. He doesn’t. Not right now.
Instead, he has a proposition for him that Loki really can’t pass up.
“So, about this throne you were looking for…”
Loki’s suit is perfect. As is his hair, his posture, and his sharp grin. He makes them swoon and babble, all but falling to his feet with raw desire to please him. Not that they can, only he can do that for him, now.
Because they were kings.
He loves it. He breathes it in, basking in the glow of those clever, green eyes.
And as the world trembles at their feet, Tony Stark tosses his head back and laughs.