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Chapter Text

“...After these appeared / A crew who under names of old renown, / Osiris, Isis, Orus and their train / With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused / Fantastic Egypt and her priests…” - Paradise Lost, Book 1

When he returned from Afghanistan, nightmares of swirling sand and hideous heat taunting him from the dark recesses of his mind and threatening to consume him, they assumed it was because of the torture he received there courtesy of the Ten Rings. He never had the courage to tell anyone, never trusted anyone with the truth: Afghanistan was far too close to his real home.

He had escaped early, in his opinion, from his abusive family, refusing to take part in their games. They, in turn, tried to wipe his existence from Midgard but he was too beloved by his people. He scattered across the world, hiding, performing the rites of old in secret, feeling his strength wane as he was passed over in favor of others. When one day he finally failed to complete his ancient duty, he crossed over into the mortal plane, hoping God would grant him the death he desired.

Instead, he found himself in America under a new name rightfully given: Anthony Edward Stark.

Tony knew he had made a mistake when he felt a surge of power, making him stumble in surprise, and the taste of pomegranates sticky against his tongue much the same as the arc reactor sprung coconut and metal when replaced with a new core. Oh, when had he last tasted pomegranates, the sweet rush of a sacrifice earned through good works?

But now was not a time to get lost in memories, be they fond or otherwise. He scanned his teammates, covertly measuring the truth in their hearts and freezing once he found the one who knew. Unsurprisingly, when he switched sights, it was T’Challa whose wide eyes met his. He who was the Wakandan King-to-be, a man still in touch with the gods of old. He sighed, anticipating his motions but unable to prevent the man from completing what his traditions demanded.

He gets up from his seated position, drawing everyone’s eyes, and Tony tries not to scowl because he really did not want this to happen here--to happen ever--but he can’t help but feel a surge of joy that someone recognized him after all this time without prompting. T’Challa falls to his knees on the floor, pressing into the pose of Bast--Tony tries not to be too offended, but she is his Goddess being the Black Panther, and honestly, the warmth in his gut is too strong to be overpowered by the act of using the wrong pose.

“Anapa,” he murmurs, head low and eyes hooded. “Ennead-unyana, Makabongwe lowo okhokela abafileyo,” Son of the Ennead, blessed is he who leads the dead

He felt the rumble of a cackle in his chest, something he hadn’t done in eons because he had no reason to, and released it quietly, startling the rest of the Avengers, drawing Thor’s contemplation, but putting T’Challa at ease. High-pitched and barely within the frequency that most humans could hear, he knew it was off-putting to mortals unused to his nature.

“Nyana-Bast, lowo wayeza kuba ngukumkani, wena bayasikelelwa,” Son of Bast, he who would be king, you are blessed he returned.

“Did my father make it to the Greater Elsewhere?” T’Challa asked, trembling faintly. “If you are here, Anapa, did he make it?”

Tony strode over to him, noticing how the room seemed to part for him to do so even though everyone else was already seated, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Peace, nyana-Bast. I promise you he has been guided by Bast and Sekhmet in my place and he participates in the First and Last Hunt,” T’Challa’s gaze flickers up into his own, and he smiled down at him. “You do your ancestors proud, lowo elizukiswayo,” He who is honored

“Enkosi, Anapa,” T’Challa breathed with relief, actually bowing to him now. “Enkosi,” Thank you

“You can call me, Tony, T’Challa,” he said, unable to stop one last cackle from powering through. “Nothing’s changed,”

“No offense,” he began, rising to his feet but still keeping his head bowed in deference. “But you are a fool to believe that,” He made a sweeping gesture to the very alert and suspicious members of his team, movie-night completely forgotten and Tony sighed, falling into the seat he had been about to take.

“And whose fault is that, your highness?” he tossed back.

T’Challa’s lips quirked. “Yours entirely, UThixo ngubani le ndoda,” God who is man

“Friend Anthony, why did you not tell us you were of the Ennead?” Thor prompted, sensing the lull between the two.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he snapped, unable to prevent the roll of instinctual rage being so close to another member of a pantheon, even if of the wrong variety, now that he had gotten a little more juice. As much as he enjoyed the boost, there was a reason he hid. “I have shuffled off the bonds of godhood for a mortal coil as it pleased me better,”

“So you’re completely human,” Natasha pondered, eyes assessing him and taking in new data.

“Mortal,” he corrected, fighting the urge to raise his hackles at her unwanted hostile attention and transferring the restless energy into tapping his empty chest. “Never human. This body may be flesh and blood like yours, but the...spirit within is of a different order,”

“Come on,” he said, waving impatiently when no one said anything further. “You’re only getting tonight, so ask away,”

“Can you do anything cool?” Clint blurted his genuine excitement a balm to his frayed nerves. T’Challa moved to sit at his side, and the gratitude he felt made him slump in relief.

“My tech not cool enough for you, Hawkass?” he drawled, grinning at his indignant squawk. “No, not anymore,”

“What could you do?”

His lips slowly curled into a smirk, eyes sinking through his past good memories. “I could shapeshift. I weaved the ancient rites and guided my people into the afterlife of their belief. I protected the innocent and the young. I ate the hearts of men who forsake their gods and emptied their essence into the Burning Circle, delivered them to--” He shook himself to return to the present, far too close to speaking His name. “Well, you really don’t want to know,”

“Anubis,” Bruce said with a snap of his fingers.

Tony gave a nod. “That was one of my names,”

“How many names do you have?” he continued.

Tony scowled, and T’Challa pressed up against his side, soothing him once more. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, a faint growl accompanying his words like an echo. “I gave them all up when I became mortal,”

“Why did you?” Steve piped up, giving Tony a little shock.

Tony glanced at Thor. “I don’t know how other pantheons work, but mine,” His lips twisted into a grimace and he chuckled without warmth. “I suppose you could call it a pandemonium. In my time, we were hungry foul beasts, eager to wreak vengeance on the young new race of mortals and punish them for sins not their own. We were cruel in our kindness, vicious in our cruelty, and I did not want to be a part of that. I left just as the world was preparing for their so-called Messiah. I let the chaos cloak me until the gods of old thought me dead,”

“Just how old are you?” Bruce asked, eyes wide.

Tony shrugged. “A few millennium, one loses track over time,” Thor chuckled in agreement, and he felt his rage bank into a barely-there simmer. “Besides, what’s more important--I don’t look a day over fifty,” he continued, throwing a leer at his Science-Bro.

That seemed to break the spell of tension over the group, getting a few laughs when Tony proved he was still the same Tony they knew for better or worse. Quietly, privately, with a look at T’Challa, already so in tune with his moods, he wondered if that was going to be the case for long. 

Though he said he wouldn’t answer any more questions, that didn’t stop Clint from pestering him after bursts of research on the web and him responding.

“So, Wikipedia says you have a jackal for a head?”

Tony cackled, mostly because it still unnerved Clint to hear, and continued eating his falafel--engaging in more of his native cuisine now that the truth was out. “Not quite. Canis anthus, African golden wolf. Same idea, though. Make the god of the afterlife have the head of a prominent scavenger of the dead,”

“Why are you always depicted as black, then?” he asked, practically bouncing on his heels.

He arched an eyebrow. “How easy do you think it would be to spot gold on yellow stone? From normal human eyes, not your sharpshooting ones,” he added, once he saw Clint open his mouth to argue. T’Challa took advantage of his distraction to steal a bite of his food.

“Remind me to make you Wakandan cuisine sometime,” he said, scrunching his nose in disapproval of the taste. To be fair, he did order this from some random take-out place as opposed to home-cooking and T’Challa must be used to expertly cooked meals. Still, his heart pounded at the sincerity. He wanted to howl.

He stamped that urge down quick, hopefully without the blush showing on his skin, and shrugged in response. “If that’s what you want, Bagheera,”

Fuck, the smile T’Challa gave made his heart skip a beat. Clint pretended to retch. “You guys are gross,”

“What do you actually do?”

“Hmm?” Tony asked, fiddling with schematics on his tablet. Steve told--more like ordered--him to be present at game-night, even if he didn’t actually want to play the often boring games that were chosen. Tonight was Mario Party, which gave him the lovely excuse of passing his role to someone else since there was a limit of 4 players per round. T’Challa, for once, wasn’t actually sitting by him--absorbed in game play as he was on the couch with Steve, Thor, and Nat--leaving Clint to saddle up next to him, Bruce to enjoy his La-Z-boy in peace, and Sam to tease Steve’s skills on the floor. Suffice to say, he was already a little distracted feeling the bond resonate with T’Challa’s presence and emotions without being within touching distance. He hadn’t had this close a bond with one of his followers, for lack of a better term, since the early days of his youth.

He was only mildly concerned.

“People give you a lot of titles: god of the afterlife, god of embalming, yadda yadda. So, what do you actually do--or what did you do before?”

“All of it,” he said distractedly, growling at his frozen screen. He would need to up the processing power on these Stark tablets. “Mainly, I was the protector of tombs and guide to the afterlife, the ‘guardian of the scales,’ I took up embalming after Osiris died the first time,”

“The first time?” he asked, voice rising in pitch slightly.

“Yeah, obviously, we’re gods, we can’t die unless granted it from the Big Daddy. Part of our Punishment,” he continued, rolling his eyes. Weird, the background noise seemed to shut off.

“What punishment?” Clint asked, sounding a little strangled. Tony didn’t pay him any mind because T’Challa decided to come over and join him. He beamed at his favorite human.

“Hey, Tiger, what’s up?” But T’Challa chose to carefully curl up around him first, looking deep into his eyes.

“Tony,” he said slowly. “What punishment?”

Oh. Oh no. He knew what this was, and it was bad, very bad, especially because he was supposed to be mortal and staying under the god radar, dammit! “Musa ukundibuza, intliziyo yam,” Do not ask me, my heart he murmured, ducking his head to hide his blush and also to break eye contact.

T’Challa’s eyes widened, he could see that much, but at least he didn’t move away. That made the ice grip in his chest melt somewhat, but that wasn’t what he was most afraid of. “Kutheni kungenjalo, ingcuka yam?” Why not, my wolf he whispered back, holding the side of his face. Tony turned away from the touch.

“Andifuni ukuba ukulahlekelwa wena,” he said, burying his face in T’Challa’s chest. “Andikwazindikhanyele, kodwa koyika...” I am afraid to lose you, I can not deny you, but I fear

“Andiqondi Tony,” I don’t understand he heard T’Challa say, fingers running through his hair and he wrapped his arms around T’Challa and squeezed once before looking back into his eyes.

“I, uh, I made you my high priest,” he confessed, knowing his ears must be burning. T’Challa’s skin flushed darker as well, and he gaped, but thankfully didn’t speed off into the sunset. Clint spun around to hiss at Thor.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer you, friend Clint,” Thor said, breaking the silence with a confused furrow. “We do not have such things on Asgard,”

That snapped T’Challa out of his funk. “It’s a sacred tradition,” he hedged. “It’s a privilege and honor to serve your god that few are offered, and each relationship is always unique,”

“But you’re not a god anymore,” Natasha said, mulling over the words like they tasted awful. Tony pointed to her and then tapped his nose, words failing, or more like, afraid that words would fail him if he tried to speak. “So why are you collecting...followers?”

Tony licked his lips. “It has to do with...biology,” he said, hoping that was vague enough. Natasha blinked and then smirked, and he nodded, feeling his blush grow. Clint darted back between them before he snorted.

“No. No way! You can’t be serious!” he said, getting louder in pitch before collapsing into laughter. Thor guffawed too, just a second behind, and Bruce was notably hiding his face in the book he brought that was shaking in conjunction with his shoulders.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to dumb it down for me, because I still don’t get it,” Sam said, Steve nodding his agreement. Tony sighed, but Natasha beat him to the punch.

“Tony’s going through god-puberty,” she stage-whispered. Now they got it.

“Oh,” Steve said dumbly, a little red himself, and Sam chuckled, doing his best to contain his amusement but in vain.

Tony sighed again, resting his forehead on T’Challa’s very solid chest, wondering what he had done so wrong that got him in this mess. T’Challa’s fingers carding through his hair were a soothing comfort to him, but his insides were a swirling mess of ice.

Because, while not entirely wrong, there was a more insidious truth to what was going on and it spelled nothing but trouble.

Chapter Text

It began like so many things began these days--Clint started it.

Tony tended to avoid group gatherings, especially when Thor was on-planet, since being in the presence of so many people that he fought beside, feeling the growth of genuine affection for him, reminded him of the hole in his chest--the spiritual one, not his arc reactor--left unhealed. He honestly didn’t know his place in the world anymore.

Yes, he blended quite well into the mortal scene, thankful that the Fates had chosen to place him in a role he could easily adapt to, but for all that he could play like it, he wasn’t human. And even though he could use his unimaginable wealth to ease his guilt for no longer being able to perform his divine duties by throwing money at the deceased, setting up charities and foundations to benefit the injured, he had no right to godhood. And, as always, the less he could say about his asshole family, the better. He had no desire to return to them or their expectations, even if it would ease the ache in his soul just to feel like he belonged again. Popularity as a mortal amongst humans was no balm, and with all ties to his source of godhood severed, even if the myth of Anubis was popular amongst some humans still, he could not receive their healing tithes. Better to forget it all, and pretend that the only name he ever had was Tony Stark.

Of course, this was much easier when Thor wasn’t calling doubt upon humans’ beliefs of religion and the gods.

Steve, designated Team-Leader and Mother-Hen, grew tired of his self-isolation in his workshop and dragged him down to at least partake in coffee while in the room if not actually join them for dinner. Because he was stubborn, he went solely for the coffee and was going to treat himself to a little mint too.

Blearily, as he waited for his coffee to brew--having the high-end models and particular tastes meant that he waited a tad longer--he took note of his feasting crew. It was all the usual, though Bruce was noticeably absent, plus Sam who’d kinda just been absorbed in by force of Steve’s will and T’Challa who was on loan for now while the hunt continued for the Winter Soldier. He gave him a nod, pleased to see it returned.

“So, like,” Clint began, shoving something into his mouth as he spoke and causing Tony to wrinkle his nose in disgust. “If Thor exists, and so do the Norse gods, does that mean the other ones, like Greek and Roman or Egyptian and Hindu ones, do too?”

Tony could feel the moment his spine turned into steel. “I still maintain that there’s only one God,” Steve muttered, much more polite in his eating. Tony was sure he was going to crush the mug he was holding with his bare hands. Luckily, the sound of it cracking was covered by the obnoxious beeping of his coffee-maker, and he could distract himself with pouring it out, adding a liberal amount of honey, if he had to suffer through this.

Natasha scoffed. “How does that even work? Humans came up with religion to explain natural phenomenon so if they all exist, why would they divvy up all of earth for specific hunting grounds?”

“Maybe they had a great war, and it was part of their treaty?” Sam offered, sounding completely unconvinced. “I don’t know man, that’s outside my field,”

“Perhaps the gods came to earth and individually chose people they favored and blessed,” T’Challa said, looking at Natasha from the corner of his eye socket. Fuck, Tony totally forgot about Wakanda’s very personal history with his cousins. He burned his tongue gulping down his drink to prevent anyone seeking his input next. “And perhaps religion progressed from there,”

“Doubtful,” she said. “Seems very arrogant to believe that we can offer supposed gods anything besides entertainment,”

“Well, Thor? You’re the resident god in question,” Clint asked, turning towards him. Tony snorted at the thought and covered it up with an overly-loud sip when people glanced at him. He winced at the heat, but at least he kept his cover, and they quickly forgot about him.

Thor either took the time to ponder the question--meaning he had no idea--or wonder if he was even allowed to answer as he finished chewing. “Aye, to my knowledge the other pantheons exist,” he started with a frown. “I have not met any, and reading your written history of my people, I doubt that your understanding of them is accurate,”

“Excellent, so there’s no point in discussing them,” Tony snarked, finishing his coffee so he could leave without Steve pouting at him the entire time. “Who would want to make an entire pantheon of gods angry at us because we don’t know what we’re talking about?”

“Wow, Tony, chill,” Clint said, eyebrows raised.

“I am chill,” he scowled, feeling claustrophobic now that everyone was watching him. “I just don’t want to mess with what we don’t understand--and neither should you--when it literally has the power to smite us all,”

“I didn’t peg you for the religious type,” Natasha mused, her own eyebrow quirked as well.

“I’m not,” he snapped.

“Then what’s your issue, it’s just some harmless fun,” Clint tried again.

His vision went red, and he broke the handle off of his mug before he could reign it in. “There’s never harmless fun when it comes to the gods,” he said darkly, feeling the broken edge of the ceramic handle press into his palm. “Haven’t you ever read your mythology?”

“Tony, are you alright?” Steve asked, at his side and gently plucking his broken cup from his hands and tossing it. When did he get there? He felt a hand towel being pressed into his split skin and hissed.

“Me, yeah, I’m fine, no worries, Cap,” he said, pulling out of his hold and applying pressure himself. “I’m going to have Brucie look at this for me, have fun with the rest of your dinner,”

He walked out, resolutely ignoring the silence and stares that accompanied him, cursing his inability to remain level-headed even now. But he wasn’t born that way. He didn’t get to be the god of the afterlife for his lack of caring, after all. In fact, he was kind of unique that way since no one else in his family wanted the job because it would require contact with the lowly humans. Not even--

He stopped to punch the wall with his bad hand--might as well mess it up some more, right?--and forced himself to exhale out those thoughts. No good dwelling on the past. Funny, because it seemed like that was all that he ever did.

“Sir?” JARVIS piped up, and he blinked himself into the present.

“I’m fine, Jay, thanks,” he answered, straightening up and continuing to walk towards Bruce’s lab.

To no one’s surprise, and blatant ignoring Steve’s likely admonishment of bringing up mythology when he was around, Clint just couldn’t let it go.

He was just walking in for his next Steve-mandated group session--this time for movie-night of an unspecified nature because the Capsicle knew that his curiosity would lead him to stay long enough to find out at least--when he heard Clint’s chattering, catching a few familiar names.

“I mean, T’Challa’s obvious, he’d be Bast, well, if he was a girl, that is,” Tony’s heart dropped into his stomach, and he paused just before crossing the threshold into everyone’s view. Even Steve’s cajoling and puppy-eyes weren’t enough to withstand this torture.

“I take no offense. It is an honor to be considered worthy of being the Panther God’s human comparison in any form,”

“...Right, well, anyway, this is neat! The god of storms is divided into two people, so Thor, you’d be the good one, Horus, and your brother would be Set because he’s cra--all about chaos,”

“Most fitting, I believe, for we are brothers and share many traits,” Thor answered, and boy, did he know nothing about the Ennead then.

“C’mon, guys, Tony’s gonna be here any minute and you know he doesn’t like this,” Steve chastised. He breathed in relief and, after hearing Clint’s perfunctory groaning but nothing more other than people shuffling about, he figured it was safe enough to spend his obligatory half-hour before returning to his workshop.

“Alright, people, the main event is here!” he said, plastering on a fake grin, eyeing the obvious open spot on the couch next to the assassins. He looked at Steve’s stern expression and rolled his eyes, but he would be a good boy and do as asked.

Except that Clint really had to go there and push his buttons. “Osiris,” he said, obviously intending not to be heard by anyone other than Nat.

Tony froze, fear and anger keeping him in place. He twitched. “What.”

Bad idea, that only encouraged him. “You, if you were an Egyptian god, you’d be Osiris,”

He flinched, he couldn’t help it. Steve, at least, tried to dissuade him with a low, “Clint,”

“No, listen, he asked! You all heard him, and Osiris is like the main event,”

“Sxi-w-n'i'imy-it,”Speak not of my father he growled from deep within his breast before he knew what was happening. Then all of a sudden, he staggered back from the sudden reaching into his spiritual hole, like someone beginning to stitch him back together, and the burst of taste--glorious pomegranates--in his mouth.

No one said anything when he eventually took T’Challa’s hand and guided them to his personal floor, but that also could have been because they were still trying to compose themselves and act like adults. Unlike the other floors for individual Avengers, his was an open floor plan, areas separated by half-walls aside from the bathroom. So, leading T’Challa onto his king-sized bed didn’t have quite the same impression it might in other circumstances. Which was good, because he was aiming to avoid that. The worst thing that could happen would be if he made T’Challa feel more uncomfortable in his new position or like he was obligated to perform sexual rituals--because that is so not what being his high priest is like at all.

He took his hands into his lap and rubbed them because T’Challa was looking far too zombie-like for his own good. “Hey there, kitty-cat,” he said as soothingly as possible. “Penny for your thoughts? Although, with the inflation rate, it’d probably be more like a grand for your thoughts,”

He got a snort for his efforts, which was a good sign, right? “Intliziyo yam,” My heart he breathed. “Ingaba ucinga ntoni?” What do you think

“It is...hard for me to process, ingcuka yam,” My wolf T’Challa said, slow and unsure. He felt a whine tickle his throat. “I do not know what this means for me, for my people…”

Tony swallowed, trying not to broadcast just how much his next words were tearing his newly repaired hole apart just to think about, “You can always...reject the bond,” he rasped. “I know how much Bast means to you and--”

“No,” he said quietly but emphatically, hands gripping his tight. “I can honor you and my heritage at the same time, Anapa, never doubt that. I am honored that you would consider me,”

“Wena licace ngaphezu kweenkwenkwezi zezulu,” You are brighter than the stars in heaven he praised. “There was never anyone else,”

T’Challa’s smile only proved his statement correct, and the ache in his chest eased. “Even so, I do not know what you expect of me. Here, I am but the Black Panther and only for a short time before I must return to Wakanda. There, in my home, I have many roles. And, as King of my people, serving as the high priest to another god even if he is in mortal form would not be looked upon favorably,”

“I don’t need much,” Tony whispered. “I am only mortal, after all,” The lie felt bitter on his tongue--well, more like a semi-lie, half true; he was, indeed, mortal, but bonding enough with a person to warrant priesthood meant another aspect of his heritage he thought long lost was bleeding through--but he didn’t think T’Challa would react well to that news. Plus, he didn’t want to overwhelm the man with too much too soon. Especially not if he was already struggling somewhat with the idea of being his high priest.

“And what is that, Anapa?” he asked, light and almost flirty, hands playfully running up his arms.

“Whatever you want it to be,”

“Tony,” he admonished, those hands curling around his face. “Yiba ngqo kunye nam,” Be straight with me

Tony chuffed, nuzzling into his hold. “Stay with me, or let me follow you where you must roam. Offer me the food of your people, gift me the ambrosia of your smile. Fight alongside me if you can’t do it in my name. Aid me in honoring the dead,” he hesitated. “If you-ukuba anithanga engqondweni, waqubuda kum,” If you don’t mind, worship me

“Tony,” T’Challa said, reverently. His eyes flickered up to him, the rush of pomegranates in his mouth once more. “Andinangxaki,” I don’t mind

Tony ran a tongue over his blunt teeth, a moment spent mourning his lost abilities. He would have loved to see T’Challa marked so pretty by his original form. He squeezed the wrists by his face, settling for this, for now, body trembling with restraint. “I am a jealous god,” he warned, an otherworldly echo following him. “If you consent to worship me in this way, I will not tolerate any other to so much as touch your skin. But I will reward you generously for your devotion,”

“Tony,” T’Challa repeated, kissing his forehead. “What part of ‘andinangxaki’ do you not understand?”

With a full-on growl, Tony flipped them so that T’Challa was spread underneath him. He nosed his priest’s chin, scent-marking his neck and pressing burning kisses along his jaw. “Ungowam,” You are mine Tony proclaimed, before sinking his teeth over T’Challa’s collarbone and drawing blood. His priest hissed slightly, enduring the pain, and he rumbled with pleasure. What a good priest he would be.

He pulled off regretfully, sucking away at his imprint until it started to close up and heal. With an almost frantic energy, he shucked off his shirt carelessly. “Ndilume,” Bite me he rasped, gesturing to any part of his uncovered skin as T’Challa slowly sat up himself. He waited, with more patience than he actually felt, as T’Challa’s eyes roamed his skin looking for the perfect place to mark him in return.

At last, he decided, pulling Tony flush against him and biting down on his collarbone in a mirrored form. A warm burst of pride hit his chest, another aftertaste of pomegranates, and he bit his lip to keep the howl inside. “Athathe igazi lam,” Take my blood he said, instead, and once he felt his life-force cross over into T’Challa’s mouth, he kissed him soundly to seal the deal. A fire coursed through him and everything went white with pleasure.

He opened his eyes a few minutes later, smiling dopily at the completed bond, feeling T’Challa’s heart beat within his own chest. He cackled at his priest’s similarly astonied expression and curled beside him.

“Is it always like that?” he asked breathlessly, and Tony laughed.

“No,” he murmured, fingers swirling over his mark. “Only with you,”

T’Challa beamed at him and, for the first time in a very long time, it felt like he sat beside the cool Nile and sated the thirst in his soul.

Chapter Text

Despite the fact that they came to an agreement regarding high priest duties, Tony made sure after formalizing their bond that T’Challa spent as little energy as possible. Or tried to, anyway.

“It has to do with stabilizing the bond between us,” he tried to explain, sharp glare directed at T’Challa for ruining his work by getting up from his bed to sit at the table while he came back from tipping the poor intern heftily who delivered all the way up to his floor--still missing his shirt--loaded with several bags of take-out. And not all were from the same place, either. He let it slide because this was the Black Panther, after all, and started laying out their plates like he was head chef at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.

“I chose you and you accepted, and now I have to prove myself worthy of having you, like courting. My instincts are going to be concerned with protecting you and providing for all of your needs, and you might feel the same. It’s different for each priest and I am still mortal so I don’t know how that will affect our connection,”

“In Wakanda, we have a similar ceremony for coming of age,” T’Challa said, accepting the plate Tony delicately arranged for him and waiting for him to join. That sent a pleased thrill up his spine. “However, we have to prove ourselves by hunting and actually providing the meal we eat,”

Tony smirked at him, flopping beside him with his own plate less carefully attended to. “I’ve always considered myself--I guess you’d say--a modern man at heart. None of that uncivilized stuff,”

“I see that,” he deadpanned, lifting his meal.

“Are you saying I’m not meeting your needs, Ivory Jaguar?” he pouted. T’Challa flicked him on the nose and he nipped at his fingers playfully, feeling bright happiness radiate from the bond.

“Never, ingcuka yam,” he said, words and smile entirely too fond. Tony dropped his plate in favor of gripping the sides of his face and tasting the smile instead. After all, no human food could be better than that smile. In fact, nothing on Earth had ever fulfilled him in the same way as that smile does. He doesn’t know what it means, but he would be damned thrice over before he loses the man behind it all.

T’Challa chuckled into the kiss and he used the opportunity to suck on his tongue, pressing closer, forgetting his thoughts in the wonderful rush kissing brought him. T’Challa, meanwhile, apparently had the presence of mind to actually put his plate safely out of the way in the scant seconds before Tony crawled into his lap--which, rude, all his attention should be on Tony! But his priest made up for it, drawing a cross between a cackle and a pleased growl rumbling in his throat when he felt strong arms grip his hips and pull their bodies mate with one another.

“You’ve made a mess, ingcuka yam,” T’Challa whispered, in between biting kisses at his throat and thumbing the mark on the right side of his collarbone. That, and his words, sent a possessive shiver up his spine. He needed to get this man into his bed, now. T’Challa seemed to be on the same page, even though he clucked at leaving the place in such a state.

“The cleaning crew will get to it,” he stated, all but dragging T’Challa back into his bed with alternating needy pushes and burning kisses.

“Tony, no--”

“Tony, yes!” he barked, pushing T’Challa back on his mattress and struggling impatiently to peel him out of his pants. “So perfect, need you now, intliziyo yam,”

Finally, the damn clothes obeyed his will--but not before he growled one last time at them in frustration. Modern clothes were perhaps the one thing he didn’t appreciate about the new age. They were very pretty and refined, yes, and it was so much more acceptable to wear fabric from so-deemed unclean beasts in all walks of life, but the damn buttons and zippers and belts were beyond annoying. It was so much easier to unwrap a shendyt--if one even bothered to undress completely and properly--and he cursed the binary that forced him into such restrictive clothing.

Never again, though. Tony would pay for the finest beadwork and dress T’Challa in a shendyt with his colors and symbols. He wondered if T’Challa would rather pair that with a traditional ingcawa of his people or if he could be convinced to go bare-chested with the skin of his own beast and adorned with umngqa that Tony made himself. He almost howled just thinking about it.

“Where did you go, ingcuka yam?” T’Challa asked, mouthing at his chest.

“Mm?” he said, enjoying the feeling for a moment. “I distracted myself with thinking how pretty you’d look all dressed up for me,”

“Forgive me if it sounds as if I’m complaining,” he said, shifting so that his arousal pressed against Tony very clearly through the thin fabric of his briefs. Tony whined airily. “But usually we humans do not think about putting more clothes on during sex,”

“Forgive me, intliziyo yam,” Tony breathed, setting his teeth into the same mold and rutting against his priest until T’Challa groaned and submitted to his whims. “Your form is so pleasing that I could not help but think of how much I wish to adorn you with the softest of fabrics and the brightest of beads. You worship me so well, you deserve to be rewarded and treasured by all who glance upon you. I forgot myself in the beauty of our future,”

“Anapa, I’ve no patience for sweet words,” T’Challa gritted out.

Tony slammed him back into the mattress and shucked them both of any remaining clothes, not caring if they were shredded in the process. He, too, was losing patience, but in a different manner.

“No?” he cackled briefly, slathering his hand with saliva before wrapping it around T’Challa’s cock and slowly pumping him. He leaned down to suckle at his neck as he gradually picked up the pace to torture his priest in the best way. “You do not wish to hear the honey of my words drip from my lips and feed you? You have no patience to feel the pleasure that only I can give to you, my priest? I shall fill you with my entire being and it will be as you have never known because you are mine now, only mine, and only I can give you what you need,”

“Yes, Tony, please,” he begged.

“Hmph,” Tony said, lifting himself up to survey his work and grinning when T’Challa whined shortly at losing contact with him. “You sound so pretty...I think you shall have my mouth,”

Without warning, Tony swallowed him half to hilt, making a pleased sound when T’Challa bucked his hips in surprise. “God, Tony,” he moaned, shivering when the genius hummed and increased the suction in response.

Slowly, agonizingly, Tony teased him to the edge as he worked his way down to nuzzle his pubic hair. But he was not the only one affected; Tony’s eyes glazed over with an almost half-drunk expression and his hands wandered to circle his anus before pressing his whole thumb in. T’Challa gasped, arching into the pressure, and the fire in Tony’s eyes made his heart beat faster.

“Tell me I’m the first to have you like this,” he growled, mouth slick and wet, thumb moving insistently inside him.

“You are!” he gasped. “I would not lie to you, ingcuka yam,”

Tony’s growl increased in volume anyway and he added another finger, slowly filling him up. He sucked a large mark over his hips as he worked his priest open. “Ungowam,” Mine he said, eyes looking black with how dilated his pupils were. “Uya kuthi igama lam!” You will say my name

“A-Anapa,” T’Challa breathed, barely able to notice how Tony’s nostrils flared at that.

“Thetha!” Speak he commanded, curling his fingers and making T’Challa cry out.

“Anapa!” he said much louder, feeling his throat vibrate with the intensity. Tony hummed, pulling his fingers out--much to T’Challa’s displeasure--and devoured his mouth until he felt bruised.

“Umlandeli wam, kumkani yam, intliziyo yam,” My follower, my king, my heart he spoke into T’Challa’s still open mouth, pushing his palm with some force over his chest and fingers curling their nails into where his teeth once marked. “Ndiza kuba nani ngonaphakade,” I will be with you forever

There was a rush of whiteness, the same as before, and T’Challa barely had time to process that Tony’s cock had slipped inside him, filling him to the brim, over the wave of pleasure. The next thing he knew, his ears were ringing with the echoes of Tony’s guttural howl, punctuated by the slick slapping noises of Tony’s hips snapping into him. His body had curled around Tony, limp and satisfied, bruises and love bites blooming over his skin, his own release covering his stomach even as Tony was powering through his own.

“With me again, pussycat?” Tony cackled, sounding a bit rough and shaky, arms starting to tremble with effort as the endorphin rush receded.

“Always,” he promised seriously, delighting in the way Tony’s eyes lit up in obvious glee. “Now let me get up or fetch me something to clean up the messes you’ve made today,”

The only answer he received was a whine, followed by a particularly heavy and sweaty body attempting to thoroughly pin down and cover every inch of his skin.

When Tony finally decided that he would allow T’Challa to leave his bedroom, much less his floor, and only because they had spent so long together isolated from the rest of the team that Steve must be going slightly insane with worry, he was barely a foot behind him the entire way. T’Challa rolled his eyes, a smile on his face anyway, as he went to greet the rest of the Avengers for their game night and Tony was doing well with the others’ casual touches, mostly because their marks were on display from the V-necks he dressed them in, until T’Challa got to Thor.

In an instant, he was at his side and growling, fingers gripping a misty-blue flail and twirling it despite its phantasmic state. He snapped, curling his lips into a sneer, bristling into a larger form, shadows of his former self stiff around his shoulders, the longer Thor met his eyes. “Mȝȝ,” See he commanded. “Sḏm,” Listen

T’Challa stepped into place beside him, blatantly showing off the curve of Tony’s teeth in his skin before Thor’s eyes lit up with understanding and the Thunderer slid his gaze downcast. “Ek sjá, ek hlyða,” I see, I hear Thor murmured. “Hinn yðarr,” This one of you

Tony straightened, tapering his growls into quiet snarls and his flail disassembled. He nodded, sneaking a hand around T’Challa possessively, and directing him into the corner of a couch without taking his eyes off the god. T’Challa rubbed his thumb over his mark on Tony, shutting up the subvocal growling he was still emitting. “This is not what I expected when you said you’d be jealous,” he said with no small amount of amusement.

Tony huffed, but let his eyes linger over his priest. “The team’s human, I trust them not to touch my stuff. Plus, with you and my suits, I could totally take any one of them down,”

“Hey!” Clint yelled, no longer a silent spectator. “Not true!”

Tony lazily glanced at him. “You still run away when I cackle,” he drawled.

“He’s got a point,” Natasha said, passing by Clint to seat herself by the two. “We should test that theory of yours, sometime. See just how much of a ‘boost’ T’Challa is giving you,” Tony considered it. It could be potentially useful not only for himself, but the team, to see his new limits. However, he didn’t want them to find out about his other ancestry by accident, and especially not in a situation where his bloodlust could take over and really hurt them before he could reign himself in.

That was the real problem. Even after all these years, even in a mortal body, he did not trust himself not to fall prey to the instincts of his ancestry. It was the kind of thing that time could never erase because it sang in his blood always, never ceasing, only ignored and denied. Plus, growing up under Howard and Stane’s warmongering did nothing to curb those ancient feelings and he, foolishly, indulged for a time thinking his mortal frame could not rival his original depth, could not tap into what he left behind. How wrong he was.

“And Thor?” T’Challa interrupted his thoughts, relieving the dark turn they began to take.

“My instincts recognize Thor as a threat,” he answered, feeling more at ease now with Thor taking a floor seat. He did feel sort of bad because it was clear the guy came from a pantheon whose social structure was much different, but their bond was too new for him to be anything but overzealous and he’d never feel guilty for that. “He’s a fellow god with no familial connection--not that that would stop me either, I almost fought my mother once over a priestess we were both courting--and he already took something I claimed before, though, to be fair, I didn’t know Loki was his brother at the time.

“But, the point is, he’s probably stronger than me and he’s infringed on my territory recently, so it’ll be a few more decades at least of being shield-brothers before I can trust him around something so personal and intimate--sorry, buddy,”

Thor chuckled. “I take no offense. We may have a different background, but I am honored that my skills are regarded so highly as to be a threat to your well-being,”

“Warrior-cultures, am I right?” Tony muttered to T’Challa, cuddling up to him with a sigh.

“You are a part of one, Tony,” T’Challa reminded gently, carding his fingers through Tony’s hair.

“Blasphemy!” he cried, drawing his fingers over sensitive spots until T’Challa was very obviously trying not to moan. “I kept my nose out of that business; I had my hands full with all the dead they kept sending me anyway,”

“Knock it off, Tony,” Steve chided, flicking his ear as he settled into a spot. “PG-13 on game night, please,”

“Yeah,” Clint piped up, balancing on top of the couch. “It’s not like the whole tower didn’t hear you howling in pleasure earlier, you dog,”

“What?” Tony jerked with a squeak, face flushing. T’Challa glanced at him in appraisal.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know, that was so loud even I could hear it,” Clint continued.

Tony groaned. “I thought that was in my head,” he said weakly.

“Do not worry, ingcuka yam, I didn’t mind it,” T’Challa said, smiling down at him.

“That’s so embarrassing,” he whined. “I haven’t done that since I was a pup!”

“No, no way!” Clint nearly shrieked. “Cap, time-out on game night, Tony needs to tell us about his childhood--I mean, his puppyhood!” He finished in between snickers. Tony rolled his eyes.

“No,” he huffed, feeling more than a little uncomfortable again. “Let’s just start game night. C’mon, Brucie, it was your pick, what are we playing?”

“Actually, I am curious about what your childhood must have been like...if you’re willing to tell, that is,” Bruce mumbled almost sheepishly from the other corner of the couch by Natasha.

Even though it was Bruce asking, and nicely at that, the interest that all of them--even Steve though he’d never admit it--had in their eyes while looking at him set his teeth on edge. T’Challa placed his palm over the mark he bore and he settled somewhat with his grounding calm.

“Fine,” he bit out eventually, giving Clint a muted glare. “What do you want to know--and no more dog jokes, birdbrain,”

“Aw, that’s not fair! How come you get to make jokes and I don’t?” he whined.

“Because when you do it, it’s a slur,” he barked before he could reign in his bitterness. He sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose and continuing past the awkwardness that fell. “Okay, look, if you want to understand anything I’m about to say, you have to know that my real childhood isn’t anything like you’ve probably imagined or what’s been written down.

“Egyptian gods, the Ennead, whatever you want to call my pantheon, didn’t just pop into existence or descend from the stars as an alien race like Bast likes to say sometimes,” he added with a look to T’Challa. “The truth is we’re very much like you, except my grandfather got us all cursed by--I guess our version of the All-Father. I’m not going to point fingers and say what he did was completely wrong or that the punishment was justified, but my family is a little unique compared to other pantheons because of my grandfather’s actions.

“We’re immortal, though we can suffer death, and are forced into two skins: man and beast. First geners, like my grandfather, and his followers like my mom and dad--you’d know them as Osiris and Nephthys--are forever stuck in animal forms, although they can and do appear very humanoid. The rest of us, well, we were whelped in our animal form,” Tony sneered at the memory. “Our ‘Great Father’ thought it would teach us to spend our first century or so as mere beasts instead of in our true glory, with our wings clipped,”

“Wings?” Steve prompted.

Tony winced. “It’s a metaphor, Cap. I don’t actually have wings,” he paused and offered him a sardonic smile. “We’re gods, not angels.

“Anyway, so yes, technically, I didn’t have a ‘childhood’, because I was born as a wolf pup. And, yes, I do have memories from when I was that young. I’m not fond of reliving them if I can help it,” he finished, rubbing at T’Challa’s hand still over his mark. “I’m not fond of reliving most of them, to be quite frank,”

Bruce nodded as if that made sense, which, given the parallels between their histories, maybe it did. Although, the Hulk didn’t really compare to his background in terms of damage or duration. Not to make light of Bruce’s struggle, but when you were indoctrinated into a cult of hate the way he was, with seemingly limitless power, for thousands of years, there was bound to be a disparity.

“Do you have any memories worth reliving, ingcuka yam?” T’Challa asked words light for all their sorrowful connotation.

Tony automatically went to deny but paused, tilting his head in consideration. “There were...good times,” he said, hesitantly. “Not everything was all bad, it’s just--tainted because I know now just how ugly things were...and how much I contributed to them,”

“But you escaped,” Natasha pointed out meaningfully and some of the edge eased out of him.

“I did,” he said with relief.

“Tell us how?” she continued, meeting his gaze but keeping her body language low. He licked his lips and nodded slightly. Steve made some kind of noise in the background and starting quietly putting away what would have been tonight’s game.

“You may not believe it, but I didn’t really get along with my family,” he offered a bleak smile that didn’t take Natasha’s excellent spy-skills to see through. “I was the first child after--I was the first born of my parents’ generation and I wasn’t made up of the same stuff that they were--too much like my grandfather, I guess, which no one was happy about. There was a lot of...infighting in my pantheon at the time of my birth, and the last thing they needed was for some young pup to cause more trouble by asking the wrong questions--and all of my questions were the wrong kind according to them.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Tony continued, swallowing thickly even as the words kept pouring out seemingly without any say from him. He cast his gaze downward unable to so much as glance at any one of his new family, his skin feeling like it was crawling with the weight of his sins too much. “I still did...bad things. I still hurt people because that’s just what we did; we were so angry--and I guess that’s why the Fates chose this form for me--”

“Tony,” T’Challa chided softly, pressing his thumb harder against the mark placed on his collarbone. Tony sucked in a breath, closing his eyes briefly before exhaling.

“I was--am--more emotional, ah, ‘passionate’ than my family was. I took my duties seriously--well, um, it was specifically the unofficial ones that they disliked so much. I wasn’t quite 100 percent honest about why I’m depicted as black,” he added, hesitantly looking at Clint. Thankfully, the archer just looked curious more than anything. “Black has connotations of life, emotion, humanity--the Egyptians believed it was honoring me but, uh, my family didn’t think it so...flattering.

“I was crowned god of the afterlife because of it; no one in my family wanted to deal with humans that intimately and, by consequence, my grandfather. He’s...intense and kind of a big deal,”

“I thought you said your father, Osiris, was the guy in charge?” Bruce questioned, brow furrowed.

Tony cleared his throat, reaching for T’Challa’s hand to grip tightly. “Sort of. My dad is like the commander of us all, but he reports to my grandfather ultimately. Gramps is...well, he’s kinda still in exile at the moment,”

“Exile?” Clint repeated.

“Punishment,” Tony tossed back. “It’s supposed to last forever, and he is the one that got us in trouble in the first place,”

“What did he do?” he asked, a small amount of awe lacing his voice. Tony squeezed T’Challa’s hand hard enough to make his priest consider wincing.

“No.” he all but growled, a touch of the otherworldly in his. Clint winced.

“Let’s, uh,” Steve attempted, with a polite cough. “Let’s get back to the point, shall we?”

Tony sighed, forcing himself to concentrate. “So, I had a reputation for being too free-thinking, I was too close to humans--even though they were the ones that gave that job to me--and I had a realization that I was indoctrinated into something I didn’t want to be a part of anymore. By that time, a few thousand years had passed and I had no idea how I could leave--plus, my newly gained conscience made me feel guilty about leaving my post, my people, in the hands of my family just so I could on the off-chance be free of them myself.

“But, as another millennium passed, I started to notice a change in my family. While not exactly altruistic of them, they also started caring about their roles as gods. Mostly because they began to realize that people really believed in them as gods and that granted them power, power beyond what they were used to when they actually attempted to fulfill their roles, and they got infatuated with it. Some of them,” he said, a weak but honest smile appearing on his lips faintly. “Some actually became sort of decent and I almost forgot my plan to leave.

“There’s a sort of loophole in our Punishment--that is, immortality is the punishment. If the Great and Powerful Oz decides that it’s no longer necessary, we could all become mortal and die for good. I don’t really understand it, I mean, why would you keep your enemies alive to potentially come back and haunt you? That’s not how I would--

“Anyway,” he cut himself off, releasing T’Challa’s hand to cross his arms in front of him. “I took advantage of that, kept a low profile, busied myself with my role, and started losing contact with the rest of my family, waiting for my chance. I doubt they ever noticed. Then, this Jesus guy appeared and started ruffling everyone’s feathers, not just my family’s--although, Gramps was particularly not happy with this guy stealing his thunder--and I used their distraction as a cover for my escape.

“I broke my main temple and, uh, well,” he paused, shifting uncomfortably at the thought of the Avengers’ reactions to his next statement. “I tore my heart out and left it on the ruins of my altar.”

“Tony!” Steve admonished.

He snorted. “I’m obviously fine, Cap,” he said, raising his brow and giving himself a pointed once-over. “Besides, it’s not the first time it’s happened to me--”

“What?!” Clint shrieked. Even Thor and Natasha flinched at the imagery. T’Challa frowned in thought.

“I wasn’t well-liked all the time,” he repeated dryly. “Tearing one’s heart out is a sure way to kill someone--and, more importantly, it takes awhile to recover. Though, complete and total dismemberment is the longest process--but it’s not like I had anyone to help fake my true death so that was out, naturally,”

“But why?” Steve pressed.

Tony rolled his eyes and recrossed his arms. “It had to be believable, Steve. Leaving an Egyptian’s heart out of the death ritual means that their akh--their life essence--can’t cross over into the afterlife--the longer the heart is separated from burial with the body, the harder it is to return to any form of life and more likely for Oz to notice and pass judgement on us once more. So, by the time the gods noticed I was deceased, it could have been feasibly too late for me--which is exactly what I wanted them to believe,”

“How do you come to know this, ingcuka yam?” T’Challa asked softly. Tony deflated and bit his lip.

“I...Inpewt died that way,” he rasped, heart pounding with pain. T’Challa winced beside him, making an aborted motion to rub at his chest.

“Who was she?” Natasha whispered. Tony flinched anyway.

“She was my protector,” He took in a shaky breath. “And my wife.” The sudden stillness and quiet intakes was like a shot going off but he barely noticed that, lost in his own memories.

“My mother set me up with her, making her from clay to be my perfect partner, in the hopes that I’d ‘settle down’ in the way they wanted. It worked...just not exactly as planned. Osiris grew angry with me one day, for one reason or another, I wasn’t there--a lot of people had just died so I was a little busy--Inpewt defended me in my place but she spoke out of turn and insulted him in front of the rest of the Ennead...and my grandfather. It was an unforgivable offense, apparently--he sent me away,”

Bile rose in his throat and his hands started to shake even as he tripped over his tongue. “I was happy to go, I thought I was finally fitting in then--back when I still wanted to. I came home and--her ka was always weak because she wasn’t--her magic can only do so much--the blood--I couldn’t--her heart was just--it was too late, her akh--”

He stood up, turning his back to everyone and running weak hands down his face and through his hair in aggravated nerves. T’Challa rose up almost immediately after and place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he rasped to everyone. “But I can’t do this,”

He left back to his own floor, his priest only a step behind him, before he could hear anyone’s response--sympathetic or pitying or otherwise.

“You loved her,” T’Challa stated as soon as the door shut behind him as if that final blockade was all that preserved their privacy from the team.

“T’Challa,” Tony growled, a warning even as he curled his shoulders forward and kept his back to his priest.

“Tony,” he mocked, not unkindly. He heard the steps he took--intentional, his racing mind provided, he was a warrior of Wakanda, the Black Panther, he never made noise like that unless he wanted to be heard--but even that did not prepare him for the feel of his hand weighing its claim heavily on his soul and his shoulder. T’Challa turned him around, making them face each other, before he repeated himself, neither a true question or a statement but yet both simultaneously, “You loved her,”

His heart clenched but he couldn’t tell the origin of the cause. T’Challa’s face projected nothing but his serene calm as usual, if disrupted by some concern, but his voice was off. There was something in it that made those innocuous words ring in his head; he couldn’t think clearly enough to sort it out. His first guess would be jealousy--but, this was T’Challa they were talking about.

“She was mine,” he heard himself say. He blinked, disoriented, and tried to focus on their bond to anchor him in the present. “She was my first high priest--the first one to believe in me...Of course I loved her,”

T’Challa’s eyes shuddered close and he felt the echo of pain and sorrow briefly, lifting the darkness in his thoughts and spirits, warmed by the depth of his priest’s affection. Tony reached for him, pressing his palm against the mark he laid. “I loved her, T’Challa, but I gave my heart to you,” he murmured.

Yes, Tony was a genius but, if hard-pressed, he would admit that Wakanda was host to entire groups of people just as smart, if not smarter, than he was and their king was no slacker either. T’Challa’s eyes opened immediately, blown wide. “A-Anapa,” he stuttered, looking close to shaking. “I do not--”

“Shh,” Tony interrupted, dragging them both to sit on his couch. “Breath, intliziyo yam. Don’t overthink it,”

“Don’t--Tony!” T’Challa startled, but didn’t jerk away from his touch and even sat down close to him. “I may not know everything about your culture and history, but I understand the implications,”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said ruefully, continuing before T’Challa could misunderstand him further. “I’m fully mortal now, I’m getting older, and the superhero business isn’t the safest one out there. I know what will happen to me when I die for good...can you blame me for wanting to stick around a little bit longer, especially when that means I’ll get to be with you? Besides, it will totally piss Bast off if I haunt Wakanda,”

“I am sure that was no small motivating factor,” he rumbled in response before sighing. “Is that why our connection is so...powerful?”

Tony hesitated. “Yes and no. Our bond is naturally strong because you are a true priest, not one I had to select to fulfill my needs...But it definitely helps,”

“How else does it affect us?”

Tony was silent for a moment and T’Challa’s face darkened with every second. “It’s not like that,” he protested. “You share a part of my heart, my akh and ka specifically, like The Search For Spock--you have seen that, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Tony, I am aware of Star Trek,” T’Challa said exasperatedly, rolling his eyes, but the fondness was there. “It is one of your favourite shows, after all,”

“Aw,” he cooed, rubbing noses with his priest. “You really do like me!”

“Tony, please,” But he was smiling now.

“Right, well, it’s mostly symbolic while I’m still alive. Just supposed to be kind of romantic, you know,” he shrugged. “I like you, a lot, I want to keep you while I can,”

T’Challa put his palm over his claiming bite just as Tony had done moments before. “I, too, have a deep regard for you and the last thing I would do is leave you, in any capacity,”

“I believe you believe that,” he said deprecatingly. “So, other than giving me the chance to haunt you before I’m forced to move on, it just literally strengthens both of us. Your worship gives me power and because you own a literal part of me, it gives you power, too,”

“That still doesn’t make complete sense. You’re hiding something from me,” T’Challa said, eyebrow raised and staring deep into Tony’s eyes, searching. Tony froze and T’Challa sighed. “But I will not press the matter until you are ready, ingcuka yam,”

Tony pressed kisses to his knuckles, softening the rest of his expression. “I’d say thank you, but that would be incriminating,” he teased. T’Challa rolled his eyes.

“Tell me the rest,” he said instead, content, for now, to put off this conversation.

“Hmm?” Tony almost purred, rubbing his cheeks against the knuckles he had kissed.

“You didn’t finish your story of how you escaped,” he prompted.

“Right,” Tony screwed his eyes and flipped through his mind. “Uh, so I faked my death and hid for a few centuries in unpopulated areas, places that no one in my family would ever tread simply because there was nothing there for them. No humans to either torture or convert, no point to visit; they didn’t like venturing outside their zones of influence--which is why they used to send me, well, that and--”

He cut himself off with a cough. “That’s not...you’re easy to get distracted in talking to,” he said with a faint hint of accusation.

T’Challa smiled brilliantly. “I would apologize, but that would be incriminating,” he returned, watching the final bits of weariness from before start to bleed out from Tony’s eyes. “I do not think the blame is solely mine, Tony. I believe a part of you wishes to tell someone the whole truth,”

“I see what you’re doing there,” he said with a little side-eye and then sighed. “But you’re not wrong. There’s...a lot I would like to get off my chest, but it’s ugly and I’m afraid--”

“Kuphela xa ulungele,” Only when you are ready T’Challa repeated, pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead. “It can wait, I promise,”

Tony’s stomach swirled--whether from butterflies or something else he wasn’t too sure--but he moved to rest his head on his priest’s shoulder. “Time passed, I hid, but I was still a god and I was--I am proud to serve my people. So I continued to do so when I could get away with it. I still presided over funerals and guided my people to the afterlife--dead men tell no tales, after all,” T’Challa could feel the way his lips curled through his shirt. “But it got...harder. Osiris started to spread rumours of my death--my abandonment of my people--and less and less followers believed in me,”

Tony placed a hand over his chest, plucking at invisible strings. “My power depleted, and when my last true follower died, it was like my heart had left me with a hole. I still had ‘juice,’ but it was draining faster and faster. Then, one day when I could not use my ba to flit past the realms, I made the final prayer and hoped the Man in the Sky would finally end my suffering.

“He didn’t, obviously. I was reborn as me now, though I didn’t regain my memories until well into my teenaged years--a gift, to help me stay undercover, no doubt--and the rest isn’t all that different than my Wikipedia page,” Tony lifted his head up to look T’Challa in the eye. “It felt like a curse. Was I really so bad to be doomed to repeat my existence nearly over again--this time without my gifts but the enduring ache of knowing what I had lost? What did I do that was so wrong?”

He winced. “Alright, poor wording, fair enough, but I tried my best in the role I was cast--the first time and the second time. It didn’t occur to me until Afghanistan that maybe I was being given a second chance with a clean slate--to prove that, with all my history and all of the temptation around me, I would choose to overcome my limitations,” His smile grew wry. “To prove that Tony Stark has a heart,”

T’Challa flicked him on the nose and Tony made an affronted cross between a squeak and a scoff. “That was unbearably corny, and you know it,”

“What? I’m not allowed to be corny?” he sniffed, rubbing his nose with an affected pout.

“No,” T’Challa said, unable to keep his lips from twitching. Tony grinned, looking ready to pounce on his prey, as his mouth dropped open to reply. But whatever it is he might have said was cut off by the warning blare of the Avengers call to assemble.