Author's note: Thanks for all your comments and reviews; it always makes me happy to read your thoughts and speculations! :) And so we move on to the next chapter…
Sometimes, parties are fun and interesting. This one, however, isn't, so Tony leaves early, martini still in hand as he heads down the dwindling stairway, legs almost steady.
He gulps down the remaining drops of his drink before turning the beautifully carved door handle, putting the empty glass on a coffee table he passes on the way out while wincing slightly in displeasure. Not even the drinks at this godforsaken party are halfway decent.
As he steps out into the fresh open air, the garden is brimming with guests chatting and laughing politely at unfunny jokes. Even though his head is spinning a little – despite the weakness of the drinks they've been serving – he easily recognizes the usual fawning voices of social climbers trying to move up the ladder, the flattery from those looking for company for the night, and the braggarts spinning more or less made-up tales trying to impress their conversation partners.
A part of him feels vaguely disgusted. Though maybe that's just the cheap alcohol.
He walks past the glimmer of fashionable dresses and the sharp black-and-white contrasts of stiff suits, having seen it so many times before. Sometimes, he's not sure why he even continues coming to these events. So what if he's a philanthropist and a genius and a hero, even they shouldn't have to be subjected to this much shallowness, be it in the name of charity or not.
He's not even sure for what noble cause this little event is held, and he doubts even half the people standing there gossiping and bragging under the colourful lanterns know. So it would seem he's in good company. Which he's about to leave.
"Going home so soon, Mr Stark?" a sultry voice says to his left, the words followed by a surprisingly strong grip on his elbow. He turns, and spots what he thinks is the hostess of the party. Miss Carter, or Crane, or something like that.
He smiles at the woman who must be over fifty but is eyeing him like she's a hungry lion and he's a piece of delicious meat, fresh from the kill. The woman smiles back, but all the botox pumped into her face makes it look like a stiff mask.
"I'm afraid so, Miss. I have important business to attend to early tomorrow," he lies, bending down to kiss the back of her hand.
The woman titters stupidly like a schoolgirl. "Perhaps some other time, then," she says hopefully.
"Perhaps," he agrees. No way, his brain thinks.
Having finally disentangled his arm from the vice-like grip crushing his elbow, he signals for a cab, relieved to finally get out of this place that's starting to feel like it's suffocating him.
The ride back home is mercifully quiet. The man behind the wheel is un-talkative for a New York taxi driver, and merely makes some passing commentary on the scenery outside, and then says something about his cat being sick and needing to be taken to the veterinary.
Tony only hums in agreement, glad when the car finally comes to a halt outside his home.
Having received his payment, the driver takes off with tires screeching against the concrete, perhaps afraid that his customer is going to change his mind and demand the change back on that one-hundred dollar bill he just got.
A couple of minutes later, he steps out of the elevator and into his living room, Jarvis helpfully turning the lights on for him. Glancing towards the liquor cabinet, he wonders if he should grab himself a whiskey as consolation for the cheap drinks he was forced to endure at the party, but then decides against it. He's too tired and his feet are hurting like crazy from standing around all evening in those new shoes that were perfectly comfortable when he tried them out in the store, but now feel as if they have shrunken at least two sizes in as many hours.
Abandoning the plans for a drink, he sinks down into the couch instead and with a contented sigh kicks his shoes off, glad to finally get rid of the toe-squeezing contraptions. Grimacing, he brings a foot up to his knee, gently massaging the aching sole. Shame Jarvis doesn't do foot massages, because he could sorely use one now.
The thought gives him pause. So maybe Jarvis is suffering from an unfortunate lack of hands, but there is someone else who could assist Tony in this little endeavour, isn't there?
Maybe it's the alcohol in him talking now, but he still grins to himself. Why not? If Loki is going to be living here on his expenses, the guy might as well make himself useful and earn his keep.
Besides, another lesson in humility never hurt someone as conceited as Loki.
Not like the god has anything better to do. He's probably just sulking somewhere in a corner anyway.
"Jarvis," he calls, "send Loki over here, will you?"
"At once, Mr Stark," comes the reply.
A couple of minutes later, Loki walks into the room. His hair is a bit dishevelled, and Tony wonders whether the god was sleeping when Jarvis called on him.
Oh well. Loki can sleep all night if he wants to, and all morning too, once Tony is through with him.
The god looks tired, like he hasn't slept in days. Tony studies him for a while. Stiff and rigid posture, like a cornered animal ready to strike out in order to protect itself. Suspicion and distrust carved into fine-chiselled features. An air of broken pride around him. Still, not bad-looking for a god of chaos and destruction…
"You wished to see me?" Loki finally interrupts Tony's private musings, apparently unnerved by the man's silent staring.
"That's right. I have a little task for you to perform tonight."
The frown of suspicion on the god's face deepens. "And what might this task consist of?" comes the wary question.
Tony raises a foot in Loki's direction and wiggles his toes at him. "You see, I've had the misfortune of spending this evening standing around in way too small shoes at a charity event thrown by some lady who only cared about the opportunity to frolic around with the rich and mighty of this city. The food was terrible and the drinks weren't even worth watering the plants with. And to top it all off, now my feet are killing me. So what I'd like right now, Reindeer Games, is for you to give me a foot massage."
The look on Loki's face is, of course, priceless. Tony can see how the god is trying his darndest to keep up his neutral, semi-humble facade, almost failing for a moment as his upper lip curls upward in distaste, but he quickly reins it in and smoothes the grimace out, though his hands are still clenched into tight fists.
"A foot massage," he repeats blandly, as if trying to gauge if he's heard correctly without actually sounding like he's questioning the order.
"That's right. Glad you're catching on so quickly," Tony says pleasantly, wiggling his toes again as his stomach gives a little anticipatory twist. Serves the bastard right for throwing him out the window. A foot massage is a small price to pay for that.
A few seconds tick by, during which Tony bets that Loki is going through some serious internal struggle, but eventually overcoming the resistance. Without uttering a word, the god kneels down on the floor in front of the couch, taking Tony's left foot into his long-fingered hands and lets the heel rest against his thigh while he removes the sock.
And Tony has to admit, as the god sets to work, that Loki is good. Which is pretty surprising, because arrogant jerks like Loki aren't the kind of guys who would usually spend a lot of time giving foot massages. But the god's fingers move deftly over the soles of his feet, thumbs pressing into all the sore spots and aches, and Tony lets a sigh of pleased contentment slip from his lips.
"Damn, you're good at this, Rudolph," he admits. "If I'd known you were this skilled, I would have made you do this long ago."
Loki offers no response, merely continues to knead Tony's feet, his head down and face concealed by dark strands of hair. Obviously, he is not enjoying this one bit.
Tony is, though. Loki's hands are strong yet soft, almost sensual in their touch, and Tony lets his head fall back towards the back of the coach, enjoying the feeling of palms rubbing out the soreness. He's tired, and even though the drinks he's had were pathetically weak, there's still some alcohol-induced fogginess in his brain. Letting his eyelids close shut, he gives in to the pleasant sensations, truly relaxing for the first time in the day.
It doesn't take long before he's drifting in and out of consciousness, the occasional pressure against a particularly aching spot pushing his mind back to the brink of clarity every now and then, but soon he half-slumbers again, head filled with haphazard images blending fantasy and memories with reality. The hands moving over his skin are deceptively soft, almost like a lover's caress, and the dreamy pictures in his head mix with imagery of dark hair and green eyes into a swirling whirl stream of confusion. Beneath him, the coach seems to float away, leaving only the sensation of hands pressing against skin. And it feels so good.
He suddenly awakes from his little reverie with a startle, jolted awake by a stab of not entirely unpleasant pain as a thumb presses against a sore spot.
And that's when he notices it.
He's sporting an erection, and not a half-assed one either. No, it's full-fledged, rock hard and straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal demanding to be let out.
Oh fuck.
His eyes go wide. Just how long has he been in this state? His first instinctive reaction is to throw a look at the god kneading away at his feet, but thankfully, Loki is still in the same position with his head bowed down and doesn't seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. Well, thank God for small graces.
Grimacing, he looks around for a pillow, a blanket, for something that will hide his predicament. But there's nothing within grabbing distance, and his pants are too tight and his shirt too short to hide his obvious arousal.
For a moment, he panics. What if Loki decides to take a moment to raise his head, to actually lift his eyes from the floor? There's no way he's going to not notice Tony's current status – horny like a slavering hound dog, and all from getting a foot massage by the god of mischief himself.
Tony isn't one to blush easily, but right now he can feel his cheeks burning hot like the Sahara desert. There's only one way out of this – fleeing the scene like a criminal running from a cold-blooded murder.
Abruptly standing up, he pushes Loki aside, almost stumbling over the huddled figure in his eagerness to get his back turned to the god as quickly as possible. "I think – uh – that's my phone ringing," he manages before marching out of the room with brisk steps, leaving a still kneeling Loki behind him on the floor.
And Tony decides he really needs to have a serious talk about certain things with his most precious body part.
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