Altar

By: The Hatter Theory

Disclaimer: I don't own the right to concepts of characters created by Marvel

Thousands of reasons why.

Warm lips rested at the nape of his neck, hot mists of breath fanning over his skin only to chill with every inhale, an absence filled and created over and over again. Brown eyes looked out of the window at the city on the other side. A city to to call home, a city to protect.

A whole world to betray.

Thousands of reasons. Thousands of people dead, thousands hurt, thousands mourning.

Hands slipped under his shirt, cool and soft, the hands of someone that had never picked up a sword or a hammer, never held a welding torch and felt it coursing through his palm like a-

Like a god.

A shudder wracked his spine, trembled through him as the hands drifted to the line of hair below his navel, fingertips brushing over the coarseness, following the dip of muscle down, resting just beneath the waist of his jeans.

Thousands of reasons. Thousands of secrets, thousands of plans, thousands of mistakes.

Lips moved, hair grazed his neck and the slick burning of a tongue tip traced the shell of his ear, breath hot, light, echoing into his skull and sending blood rushing, throbbing. Heavy and tight, he felt his body responding even as he tried to ignore the temptation, the intentional, mocking tease of his base desires. Hands moved up, pulling the soft black jersey of his shirt up slowly, the fabric suddenly too tight, too warm, too stifling. Cool air rushed his skin, chilled the too hot flesh and made him shiver.

"You want," The voice whispered in his ear, for all the world a hiss despite it's lack of sibilance.

A thousand reasons not to, a thousand reasons to lie, a thousand reasons to stop.

"I want," He answered as the hands dragged nails over his chest, moved to circle fingers around the metal protrusion. A purring chuckle thrummed in his ear, his body twitching because it almost tickled, the sound moving over his skin and through him.

Sharp, the pain so sharp it was a white hot knife inside of him, a blade pushing through his back and into his heart, into his lungs and stomach and throat, blood vomiting from his mouth and nose with ragged splinters ripping him apart, climbing up and up, inching out like serrated stone, shredding him apart. Hot, bitter bile and gore, the sharp taste of metal poison blocked his throat, pushed into soft tissue and tore, kept sound nothing more than a grunting, pained gurgle.

His vision dimmed, hazed until the darkness formed spots of deeper darkness, swirling chaotically as his knees gave out and strong arms held him up, held him tight in a cage of whipcord muscle. His body spasmed, pleasure forgotten, want withered into nothingness as the agony bolted through muscle and bone, wracked him, pulled muscles like marionette strings and tugged taut. He felt them ready to snap, to rip apart beneath the pressure, knew his body was going into shock as the blood and stone fell from his lips to mix with tears he couldn't control.

One very good reason, a reason to call for help, to run, to fight.

He hadn't, and his body was writhing, seizing because of it, a yell starting in his chest and escaping as a cough while hands cupped his reactor, the light glowing brighter, glowing green because of that bastard.

Blood dribbled onto the floor, drip drip drip with clinks and clicks, mixing with the gurgle and the sound of pleasure in his ear. Pain swamped him, faded as his body numbed, his heart stopping in his chest, he was sure, knew it had to have except he could feel in thundering in his temples, pounding in his ears beneath, behind the sound of the satisfied groan.

Time stilled, blurred like the edges of his suite blurring, the edges of his consciousness, of his body, blurring as he slid to the floor, thumped to his knees, the arms around his chest, the god following him, cradling him close. Warm, warm, he shouldn't be able to feel the heat of the god's skin sweeping into him, shouldn't have been able to sense his muscles relaxing.

Dying, then. Dying and dead already in the god's arms.

The blood stopped, slick and congealing in his beard, clotting in his nose and crusting, flaking on his dry lips. Metal in his shredded mouth, on his swollen tongue. A rasping breath in his ear, shivers trembling as warm moist breath voided and stole it back, returning it.

Sensation and lingering pain, pain in his knees, his mouth, salt crusting his cheeks like stiff trails of ammonia that had left a blistering path in their wake.

Shuddering breath, shivering, choked exhales.

"Truths are my sacrifice," Loki's voice whispered in his ear, a purr of power and a surge of heat.

The arms disappeared, the body behind him vanished and he was falling forward, hands catching him before his face made contact with the floor. He coughed against, hocked out saliva and blood and metal. Shuddering, sweaty, body protesting the act of breathing, he stayed on his hands and knees for minutes, hours, staring at the blood and saliva, staring at the metal and the long drips on all three hanging from his lips, drooling out slowly.

"Crazy bastard," He spat, voice tainted and tinged with the nasal sound of snot and spittle.

Pushing himself up, he wobbled, wavered, vertigo pulling him down onto his ass, hand landing on the slick and sharp, pain jolting up his arm. Blinking darkness away, he looked down, brought his hand to his face.

Metal. Metal and blood and bile.

"Jarvis," He rasped, throat sore and aching, sore and feeling better than it had ten minutes before.

"Sir, I have already contacted the avengers."

"Scan," He muttered, looking at his hand and the metal sliver protruding from it.

Lights and an imagined pressure, too light to be the hands on his chest, on his stomach.

"Sir, it appears your enemy has removed the shrapnel and healed the area."

'Truths are my sacrifice.'

"Erase everything," Tony commanded. "Say it's Loki's fault."

"As you wish sir."

Tony fell back, waited for the others to arrive and find him laying in a pool of gore and spit, of bile and bits of shrapnel. His arc reactor still glowed green, damning evidence to explain, to give up.

A thousand reasons. A thousand betrayals. A thousand lies.

One truth to hide.

AN: -insertdoubletrollfacehere-