Archive of Our Own

“Are you drunk ?”

Stephen very clearly is and, regrettably, it’s not something he can hide easily. Even the simple task of standing up has ended up with him tripping over Cloak and landing face first onto the hall floor.

It’s not his most elegant moment.

He also hasn’t bothered getting up because, clearly, the most logical course of action here is to stay exactly where he is, a majestic bundle of limbs and magical cape. Standing up is out of the question, what with how much the room is spinning.

It’s not his fault, anyway. Wong had demanded that his presence was required at an interdimensional meeting with some other poor souls who had also chosen to follow the Vishanti and their ways. Maybe he’d had a bit more of the wine they’d poured to celebrate the alliance. There had been more than enough, after all, and it tasted so sweet . How was he to know that wine from another dimension would leave him in such a state?

“No,” he answers, unaware that his fib is an obvious one even if it had been tossed at someone who isn’t Loki . His voice is slightly muffled from where his face is pressed against the floorboards. “I’m just— Fuck. What does Peter always say?” A groan escapes his throat as Stephen struggles to follow the trail of his own thoughts. “Ahh…vibing. Yeah, I’m just vibing. I’m not drunk. I’ve never been drunk in my life.”

“Sure.” There’s not an ounce of sincerity in the god of mischief’s voice. He paces closer to the prone sorcerer. “I suppose you’ll easily be able to defend yourself from an apprentice looking to spar?” Orange sparks begin to form at Loki’s fingertips. “Vibing with what, anyway? A plank of despair?”

Stephen makes an offended sound, having thought himself to be quite convincing, thank you very much. He grunts and manages to untangle himself enough to stand, only doing so on the third try but he's sure that Loki hasn't noticed.

“Vibing with...none of your business,” he says, quite smug despite his sorry state. A frown follows as Stephen slowly catches up with Loki’s words, as if his suggestion requires a great deal of effort that he does not have at his disposal.

“Wait, you want to spar? Now?”

Dextrous fingers tease out an eldritch whip. Loki plays with the fizzing strand, drawing it out until he begins idly swinging it like a lasso. A nasty grin forms upon his face. “What’s the matter, Strange? Should you not always be prepared for battling the forces of darkness?”

"Even the forces of darkness know when to pick their moment," Stephen mumbles petulantly, like a child that's been told off and sent to do their chores. He rolls over, a sloppy spell performing the difficult task of bringing the sorcerer to his feet. He sways in place, but says nothing to acknowledge how unstable his balance is. "You're more like the forces of pain in the ass anyway."

Apparently Loki has no intention of playing fair. He sidesteps an invisible circle, seeming to bank on Stephen not being able to keep him properly in focus. “Oh, but this is wonderful,” he snickers. “The fun I can have with you so helpless.” 

He flicks out the whip.

“Am not helpless.” Stephen does try to dodge the attack. His attempt would have been a successful one, too, if he had better control of his body and movements. Under alcohol’s dizzying effects, however, he has no chance. He steps right instead of left and is entirely unable to stop the golden whip from circling his waist. “Wh-?! Hey! You’re cheating!”

“Am I?” Loki winds his end of the whip in easy motions around his wrist. Then he yanks it, pulling Stephen sharply toward him. He steps forward to meet him, right in his personal space, and cups Strange’s jaw in one hand, long, light fingers brushing his goatee. “I couldn’t possibly best you in your condition.”

“That’s right, you couldn’t,” Stephen retorts, as if he isn’t caught in the victor’s grip already. His eyes shine with something that is an odd mix of alcohol-induced glee and interest at Loki’s touch, the hitch in his breath an evident clue that whatever is happening here is something he’s enjoying.

Cloak decides to, at last, step in. It flutters around the pair, as if trying to determine what is happening and how it can help. 

Stephen’s grin widens. “See? Even if I were drunk, which I’m not, Cloak will always show up.”

The magical garment's collar moves in a way that resembles laughter, its shoulders twitching. With great horror, it occurs to Stephen that Cloak is not here to come to its master’s aid. No, it’s suddenly very clear that his trusted companion has a very different goal in mind. A swish this way and another that way and soon enough it’s managed to curl around the pair like a serpent.

“...What? No! No, no, no,” Stephen protests. “Cloak, noooo. Kick his ass!”

"For heaven's sake," Loki huffs, his hand now trapped under Stephen’s chin. The sizzle of the eldritch whip presses between them like a physical manifestation of their chemistry. He attempts to wriggle out but does little more than cause inconvenient friction between them. It's suddenly a lot warmer in here. "It seems your precocious relic has other ideas, doctor."

“Precocious…” Stephen grumbles, also struggling to get out of both Cloak’s hold and Loki’s whip. He can’t tell if it’s trapped them like this because it wants them to stop this little game or because it’s caught on to Stephen’s not-so-secret attraction to the other man. Regardless of the reason, the distance that separates him from Loki is very, very small and he is still very, very drunk. Fuck’s sake, why does he look even more handsome up close? Aren’t people supposed to have visible imperfections at this distance? Stephen’s mouth and body react before his brain can catch up to them, aided by the squirming feeling in his stomach and the friction between them. The alcohol might also be playing a part but he’s adamant to continue acting like he’s perfectly sober. 

“You always talk so fancy, so high and mighty. Makes me wonder what it would take to get you to talk dirty.” His eyes shine with playful malice, having no idea where he’s going with these words but letting his lips shape them anyway. He can care about consequences tomorrow.

Loki ceases trying to escape Cloak's grasp and stills, his gaze fixing steadily to Stephen's. "Hardly an appropriate thing to ask of one's apprentice. If it weren't that I were an incredible overachiever, I'd say it were an abuse of power. Regardless," he purrs, "what vulgarities would you have me curl my tongue around? Are you curious about the many long, hard fucks I have indulged in back on my own world? Or here, among mortals? Does a sorcerer's cock engorge at the mere thought of every lick, every suck, every drawn-out moan I have elicited, wondering what it would be like with the god of mischief himself?"

Well.

Stephen's brows rise high, the alcohol in his blood making it very easy for a touch of red to sit on his cheeks as he listens.

Either Loki doesn't need much encouragement to begin spilling filthy words or...perhaps the secret need to feel the other man's hands on his body has been mutual this entire time. A very inappropriate need, yes, as Loki has pointed out, but one Stephen has been hiding for far too long.

Loki’s words spark his desire so rapidly that Stephen can’t stop the feeling from filtering through his connection to Cloak. The garment responds eagerly by tightening its hold on the pair, and for a moment Stephen believes that they won't be released until this interaction is resolved by kissing each other's lips off. He blinks, gaze dropping to Loki’s lips. Oh, yes. He has a few suggestions in mind.

"I'd have you curl your tongue around something else. Or, to show you that this is no abuse of power, I could curl my own tongue around whatever you desire? Perhaps while you tell me all about those long, hard fucks of yours, yeah?"

Loki’s eyes practically gleam. In the tight space between them, his hand tilts to let his fingertips rest delicately at Stephen’s throat. "Perhaps when we're done here, your darling Cloak can take us somewhere a little more private?" he whispers, lips a millimetre apart.

Despite wanting to slam their mouths together, Stephen lets this moment drag on. He can feel Loki’s breath ghosting over his lips, closer than he’s ever had him before. There is still a chance to stop this from happening, if he really wanted to. It would be the most rational course of action here. A pity Stephen has no interest in doing anything rational right now.

“Well, if Cloak is on board then I–”

His words are cut off as their magical bonds tighten once more, urging their lips to finally meet.

There is no resistance from Loki, only fuelling the kiss's fire. The god’s mouth parts hungrily, making a feint of devouring him, only to withhold and make a further teasing grin.

Stephen follows him blindly into the trap, a whine dancing in his throat when he is denied the kiss he had been eager to sink into. Still...this is nice. Loki is nice. Very, very nice. As chaste as the kiss is being kept, it's still perfectly able to have him weak at the knees.

A smirk plays upon Loki's lips. "Cloak, to Stephen's room, if you please?"

"Uh, no, Cloak only listens to me," Stephen pipes in as he clumsily tries to steal another kiss. Cloak decides that this is the perfect moment to show that it follows its own agenda, untangling itself with an elegant swish and releasing the pair. Or, at least, it releases Loki. Stephen has barely a handful of seconds to realise what's happening, stumbling terribly as he tries not to fall, before Cloak is wrapping itself around him again. A corner of the fabric taps pointedly on the whip still secured around the sorcerer's torso, a message that is clearly not directed at Stephen.

Smiling in self-satisfaction, Loki turns on his heel, holding the end of the whip like a leash. "Come along." He leads the way from the hall to the upper Sanctum. 

Stephen is oddly delighted by this, being dragged away like some sort of prize. He pretends to resist, of course, giving a wriggle here and an annoyed grunt there, but otherwise he just lets it happen. He wishes he could be drunk enough to not remember any of this, once it’s over. As it is, and if one is to keep his damned luck in mind, he's going to be very embarrassed tomorrow morning when his memories catch up with him, regardless of the outcome.

Cloak, as it obediently follows Loki, is careful not to let its master knock into anything on the way until they reach his room. 

Stephen expects to be carried inside as the door is opened, but they draw to a stop at the threshold. He struggles impatiently.

"Alright. We're here. I want attention now, thanks."

Just inside the door, Loki faces him, expression deceptively soft. He leans in and presses one more gentle kiss to Stephen's lips. As he does so, the whip disintegrates to the ether.

"Ask me again on the morrow," he murmurs —

— a split second before green magic pulses at his palms and Stephen finds himself cast in slow motion upon his bed. 

“Wh–! Hey!” Stephen squawks the moment his back hits the mattress, still squirming to regain freedom. Cloak keeps itself securely tied around him and Stephen makes the horrendous discovery that it won’t release him at all. Which is extremely unfair. He wants his kisses from Loki and he wants them now . “This isn’t what we–! Loki!”

"Goodnight, Stephen." Loki wiggles his fingers in a wave and then he's gone.

Stephen lets his head fall dramatically against the pillows, knowing any further protesting would be wasted now that he’s been left alone. All the thrashing has also left him dizzy, the numbing effects of the alcohol urging him to sleep.

Bastard.

Gorgeous sexy bastard.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” he mumbles as his eyes slowly close, unaware of how Cloak readjusts itself to act as a blanket. “Yeah…tomorrow.”