Author's note: I'm not all too familiar with the whole American rating system, but I figured I might as well up the rating for this story from a T to an M, just in case. ;)
Few pleasures are greater in life than getting to sleep in without being disturbed by beeping alarm clocks or Jarvis making important announcements way too early in the morning. He digs an arm under his pillow, puffing it up into his face, not really wanting to wake up. He was having such a nice dream, and even though the jumbled and hazy images faded too quickly for him to actually remember any of it by now, the pleasant feeling lingers.
He rolls over onto his back, yawning and stretching stiff limbs that crack at the sudden movement. His sleepy mind notices that it would have been a much more pleasant morning if his feet hadn't felt so uncharacteristically sore. That dull, throbbing ache is something he could have done without.
However, he really could do with a foot mass-…
And then the memories from last night come crashing down on him, like a huge wave washing over a careless tourist stupidly lounging too close to the seashore. He already got a foot massage yesterday evening from the moping god living in his tower, and ended up sporting an erection big enough to shame a horse.
He rubs a hand over his face, as if that will somehow help brushing the awkward image away.
What the hell is wrong with him anyway? Loki is a crazy megalomaniac who had him defenestrated, to say nothing of the damage the god did to New York city, and here Tony is reacting like a teenage boy getting his first kiss at a school dance, and all that merely from getting his feet rubbed.
Alright, so Loki might have a nice face and a well-toned body and whatnot, but he's still Loki, goddammit. What on earth possessed his nether regions to react in such a preposterous way?
Ugh. He's really starting to lose it. Maybe he needs to get out more. Preferably to parties that don't suck, he amends after thinking about yesterday's tedious charity event.
Better to just forget about his whole thing, this embarrassing one-time lack of good judgement.
Rubbing the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes, he pushes the covers aside and gets up, wincing slightly as his abused feet take the full weight of his body. Ignoring the pain, he ambles into the bathroom, deciding a nice hot shower is exactly what he needs.
The warm tendrils of water are soothing, and he grabs one of the bottles from the shower ledge, popping the cap open and pouring a generous glob of gel into his palm. The yellowish substance soon turns into a thick, foamy lather as he rubs it into his shoulders and chest, and then further down over his stomach.
And as he stands there lathering himself up, a more feral and primitive part of his brain wakes up from hibernation and wants to play, and suddenly the hands moving over his body are not his own, but long-fingered and sleek, in the eye of his mind. They trail across skin warm from hot water and maybe something else, caressing and teasing as they explore.
His first conscious reaction is trying to shove the ridiculous images out of his mind, but the memory of a slender god standing in his living room all naked with his clothes in a heap at his feet gleefully inserts itself in his brain, refusing to be pushed aside, even though Tony tries to think about stock exchange indexes and baseball scores and where socks that disappear from the dryer go.
Despite his valiant efforts, his groin stirs, and even though his judgement should be better, Tony relents and gives in to his body's baser needs. No one can see him standing here in his shower cabin anyway, and even if they did, they'd probably think him fantasizing about some buxom blond fashion model. And it's not like he's never had inappropriate fantasies about people he wouldn't dream of touching in real life before, is it? No, it doesn't matter. Surely it doesn't matter. It's just a fantasy, and a little bit of day dreaming never hurt anyone, did it?
His brain is trying to rationalize, to goad him along this slippery trail of madness, though an ever-shrinking rational part of him tells him to lay off the mental crack, because this just isn't right.
Not that Tony has ever been one to care about what is considered right or not.
There is heat building down in his stomach, and it's spreading further downward by the second. His cock is already hard, and so he grabs the wet shaft, slowly trailing his palm over the heated skin.
The sensation travelling up his spine is almost electrical, like a short and sweet pulse stirring up other things as well. So he strokes a bit harder, a little faster, letting a soft groan escape his lips.
Once more, his hand turns into that of another, another with green eyes and dark hair that is standing behind him with his fingers wrapped around his cock, squeezing, rubbing, and stroking. It's forbidden, taboo, and perhaps that's why the image is so oddly enticing, sending him into new heights of arousal. The imaginary body behind him is pressing against his back, sinfully slithering and coiling against him like the folds of a snake, threatening to ensnare him. And he doesn't want to get un-ensnared, only more deeply tangled into that exotic presence. The hand rubs harder and more insistently, fuelling his desire further.
His breathing is speeding up, but the water drumming against the shower cabin walls is drowning the sound out. He feels like he's drowning too, in that enticing and vivid image his brain is conjuring, of something that can of course never happen but is tantalizing all the same.
Panting, he puts an arm up against the wall to support his trembling body, resting his forehead against the crook of his elbow. The water raining down on his back feels almost like caresses, soft but insistent, like his imaginary partner is touching him all over at once.
Waves of pleasure are rolling through him as he touches himself, feeling his cock twitch eagerly as the tension builds up to increasingly higher levels. Almost there…
A few more tugs is all it takes, and his body is wracked by shudders as he comes, shaking and moaning as he spurts over the glass of the cabin wall.
Then, he just remains standing there, head resting against the arm still propped up, as rivulets of water are flowing down his body and converging again on the cabin floor, swirling as they're sucked down the drain. For some time, he only remains frozen, panting, watching as the clear water gets mixed with an opaque white as the spray from the showerhead cleans the wall off.
He draws a deep breath, running a hand over his face as he slowly pushes himself up from his hunched position. Damn, that was better than anything he's had in months. And that's counting real, actual sex, too.
His hands are still a bit unsteady as he turns the water off and steps out of the shower cabin door, grabbing one of the huge towels off the shiny chromium-plated rack next to him. Giddily, he wipes the soft cloth over his body, and then runs it through his wet hair, sending little droplets of water all around him like a rain-soaked dog.
Once he's satisfactorily dry, he sloppily folds the towel in two and dispositions it back over the rack.
Then he stops, coming back to his senses once more as he finds himself standing there naked in the middle of the bathroom floor, hormones and adrenaline and horniness back to normal Tony Stark levels.
Did he just get off on a sexual fantasy involving Loki?
And a better question yet, what the hell is wrong with him?
Tony has seldom been one to be ashamed for anything sexually related, including his own fantasies, but this time even he is startled. It's like he's just engaged in something intrinsically shameful – which he supposes he has, in a way – a fancy that no normal person should consider touching with a ten feet pole.
The idea is so ridiculous – he's just jerked himself off to a fantasy about the god of mischief, the very same god who also happens to be his freaking slave – that a small, crazed fit of laughter is threatening to well up in his throat, but he chokes it down, overcome by a wave of disgust and aversion.
So his body has just decided to take note of the fact that Loki might be physically attractive, but the guy is still Loki. Jerk, bastard, megalomaniac, crazy… and undeniably hot.
Alright, this is ridiculous; even though his body has never been one to suppress its own desires, this has to stop. There are millions, heck, billions, of sexual partners on this planet that are more appropriate than Loki.
Fine, so this was a one-time mishap, a far-fetched experimentation on his part, he tries to calm himself, attempting to appeal to the more rational part of his brain. Not the reptilian one that is only concerned with pleasure and lust and desire and that thinks that Loki makes for an excellent sexual fantasy.
So he's experimented, and now he's going to put that little daydream to rest. He's Tony Stark – there are plenty of things he can fantasise about, or put into practice, should he so desire. There certainly isn't a lack of willing partners.
Even if no one has quite the same mesmerizing greenish gleam in their eyes.
He shakes his head, as if trying to dispel the memories of this shower cabin incident, but all he manages is to add even more water to the puddles already pooling on the floor.
And the most ridiculous part is the thought of Loki somehow finding out about this.
The god would laugh himself to death, no doubt.
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