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When a remarkably hung-over Tony Stark awoke, if was to discover that his incredibly sexy god of mischief was not in bed beside him. Glaring around the room in annoyance, he discovered that said trickster was seated at the desk opposite the bed of their penthouse hotel room, perusing a sheet of paper.
A very naked trickster, perusing a very official-looking sheet of paper.
“Stark," Loki began, hearing the billionaire stir behind him. "Are you aware that we are married?"
"Are you aware that we aren't?" The genius shot back sarcastically, thoroughly confused. There was this nagging feeling...
“Well, Anthony, according to this Midgardian marriage license, we are."
The statement was flat, almost bored in tone. The god of mischief was calm and collected, not in the least upset. He was an immortal deity - what harm could a dalliance of perhaps fifty years possibly do? At very least it would be amusing, and delightfully chaotic.
“What?!" Tony squawked, before instantly regretting his choice of volume and clutching at his pounding head.
“Indeed," Loki continued, "and if I am not mistaken, our Asgardian bond has also been forged.” He indicated the gold ring on his fourth finger, tapping the surface lightly. Faint green runes, ancient Norse symbols, glowed around the outside - an answering glow came from the matching ring that Tony wore.
“What. The. Hell.” The billionaire groaned, staring at the ring in disbelief.
A five month covert relationship with the god of chaos: things had gone as smoothly as they could have, and it just figured that something would eventually go spectacularly wrong. Why'd it have to be now?
“Well, dear husband, as the Midgardians say, “what happens in Vegas...”. I'm sure that you are familiar with the phrase?"
Tony was fully aware of the phrase, but it wasn't supposed to have happened to him, dammit. He was a champion at holding his liquor. How he could possibly have gotten that intoxicated was beyond even him. It would have taken what, a few entire bottles of scotch?
Loki seemed to be reading his mind. “Yes, Stark. Two and a half bottles, and you practically hauled me to the chapel. A decent establishment - by the name of St. Saxby's, I believe."
St. Saxby's. For the love of - this just got better and better. Getting hitched to Public Enemy #1 while drunk in Las Vegas, at a chapel where the cheapest ceremony would run you a good three mil.
“Gah." Tony was at the point where he wasn't really up to mustering coherent words.
Sensing the other's distress, Loki rose to his feet. A wave of his hand, and he was dressed in a knee length silk tunic (and nothing else). A second wave, and he now held a glass of fizzy red liquid.
“Drink this, Anthony. It may help. Either that, or it will dissolve your skeleton and leave you as a formless pile of flesh and organs"
Either option sounded equally appealing to the billionaire, who took the glass and downed the contents in two gulps. It tasted something like a cross between carrots, chocolate, and tequila, with a hint of curry.
“Holy hell that's disgusting!” The genius exclaimed, gagging slightly as he gasped for breath. Even so, he could feel the hangover melting away, clarity restored to his mind and all of the pain leaving his body.
“Disgusting but effective, you'll find. Every drop of alcohol and every effect that it had on your fragile mortal body has vanished completely.”
“Oh thank- wait what?!” Tony's sigh of relief turned into a screech of horror. “You do realize what this means, right? There's now no proof that I was drunk, so I can't get this fiasco annulled!”
Annulled. Ha. As if an Asgardian bond could be broken so easily. (Of course, he didn't know this yet).
His voice was filled with unadulterated panic. Tony Stark was a playboy by nature, and this went against every fibre of his being. In more than twenty years of womanizing (and manizing), he had been lucky - THIS had never happened. Now it had, and that infuriatingly hot god of mischief had just made it inescapable.
(Well, unless he wanted half his fortune to end up in the trickster's pocket.)
“And why would you want this to end, Anthony?" Loki purred, sending a rush of blood to the billionaire's groin.
“Now, the great Man of Iron can claim to have redeemed me, tamed the trickster just as I have tamed him. What greater badge of honor could exist in this realm?" It wasn't physically possible for said trickster to be any more smug than he was at that moment.
"You son of a b-" Tony bit his tongue at the last moment, realizing that he would prefer to keep his guts on the inside of his body. "We're stuck like this for the immediate future - I hope this fits into your grand plan, because it doesn't fucking fit into mine.”
“Fucking?" Loki wrinkled his nose as he repeated the vulgar word. "Indeed, as husbands, we would certainly be free to do so more often, with both Midgardian and Asgardian commitment to justify every minute.”
Oh for fuck's sakes, Tony wanted to say, but he didn't. The trickster actually had a point - a minuscule one, but a point nonetheless. (Minuscule was not the word to describe either man's massive attributes).
“Fine,” Tony replied, tone aggravated. “Get your ass back over here, and get that shirt off before I rip it off. I am going to make sure I enjoy every last minute of this.”
Smirking, Loki swayed gracefully over to the foot of the bed, discarding his tunic over his head in a smooth motion. Crawling up the bed, gaze predatory, he moved to straddle the playboy.
“WHO will be the one enjoying this, Anthony dear?"
Tony swallowed heavily, hardening with every passing second. Oh yes. The sex was ten times better than perfect when his trickster was being prissy. Oh hell yes.
What followed was about three and a quarter hours of mind-blowingly perfect sex, complete with screams so loud that half the hotel building could hear exactly how well Tony was pleasuring the god - Tony was quieter, but even more thoroughly satisfied.
Half-unconscious, tangled between sticky sheets in an exhausted sex coma, neither man was in any mood to budge. Perhaps, Tony mused, this wouldn’t be that bad, at least as a temporary sort of deal. Loki was thinking roughly the same thing, only perhaps he was envisioning something a tad less temporary.
Bliss. Honeymoon sex-coma bliss.
It was about then that Stark's phone rang; caller ID Nick Fury.
The whole world went from multiple-orgasm-perfect to hellish-nightmare-awful in ten seconds flat, and it would only get worse from there.
I wish I was kidding.
FIN