Author's note: Well, we haven't really had much of Loki's point of view lately, but here it finally is…

As Loki wakes up, it is from a fitful sleep, sheets wrinkled from his body tossing and turning during the night. He's been dreaming, but as he opens his eyes he has no clear memories of it, and only a lingering feeling of unpleasantness remains.

It takes a few seconds before he's aware of his surroundings, and then he considers closing his eyes again, perhaps going back to sleep even though he's not tired. What point is there in getting up anyway, when he doesn't have anything of even the slightest importance to do?

But he's too restless to remain lying on the bed, staring up into the ceiling. So he pushes the cover aside and places his bare feet on the floor, remaining on the edge of the bed for a few seconds while his stomach churns unpleasantly, before standing up and walking to the bathroom.

The cold water splashing against his face should feel refreshing, but it doesn't. It just feels cold.

He stands there hunched and with head bowed over the sink, grabbing the edges of it with both hands as the water drips off his face. The previous feeling of unpleasantness is giving way to a stronger wave of nausea and he swallows, though his mouth is dry and his throat feels chafed. So he just stands there staring down into the bowl of immaculate white porcelain, trying to find something to focus his mind on.

After a little while, the worst has passed, and he raises his head to look at himself in the mirror. The face staring back is pale, haggard, and empty. He is overcome by a sudden desire to smash his fist into the glass, shattering it into a thousand jagged little pieces, but he thinks better of it, and lowers the hand already half raised in preparation for the blow. Tony Stark would not be pleased to have Jarvis report that his slave has been smashing up his bathroom fittings, after all.

Tony Stark.

The name makes the memories from last evening return with full force, and he almost feels sick again.

So his master had demanded a foot massage. It was humiliating, yes, but given his current position it was just another added layer of debasement and ignominy that he was forced to endure. Nothing good would come out of refusing, he knew, so he submitted to this degradation too, as much as it hacked away at the tattered remnants of his pride. It was all part of the role he had no choice but to play, if he wanted to remain alive and breathing.

At first, that was all there was to it. Sitting there on the floor, doing his best to focus all his attention on the pure mechanical aspects – applying pressure, rubbing, kneading – in an attempt to keep at bay the pressing awareness of what he was really doing – massaging the bare feet of his master, like the lowly, simple slave he had been reduced to. But he preferred not to think about that, instead just concentrating on the movements of his own hands, letting his mind remove what he was doing from its humiliating context, like he was touching a mere object and nothing else.

But a careless glance upwards at the man lounging comfortable in the couch as his slave worked away at him, had given him pause. Though, given him pause was a mild way to put it. Rather made his throat constrict. He'd expected to be greeted with the kind of smug, self-satisfied expression that only the subjugation of a hated enemy would bring, but that's not what he had seen at all. No, the man's eyelids were closed and his head was thrown back, but what really caught his attention was the big, very noticeable bulge at the front of Tony's pants, a sign of his obvious arousal.

For a moment, the world stopped turning. Surely Tony couldn't…

But the proof was there, and only a couple of feet away from his own face to boot, much as he couldn't – didn't want to – believe it at first.

So was that it, was he to be turned into a bed slave after all, then?

He'd never expected that, not really. Not from Tony. The man just hated him too much for that.

But with frightening realization dawning, he supposed that it all made sense, now.

Every day since his arrival at Tony's tower, he'd been certain that this would surely be the day that Tony would start to mete out his long awaited revenge. But apart from some threats and bouts of humiliation, accompanied by some smug and air-of-obvious-superiority-filled gloating on Tony's part, there had been really nothing. No punches, no beatings, no broken bones, heck, not even as much as a slap to the face.

In a way, it was more unnerving because it was so contrary to what he had been expecting. And it didn't really give him any relief, only a sense of impending doom, as it meant that Tony must surely be plotting a more sinister kind of vengeance, one that he wouldn't spoil by handing out petty beatings in advance before laying down the royal grand slam.

Yet Tony had seemed so unperturbed, and Loki found that he had no way to read the man or figure out what he was up to.

Now, he supposes he knows, though.

And frankly, he would have preferred not to know.

The thought is too disturbing, too appalling. Too horrifying.

Of course, he knows that this is the fate of many slaves. If he'd been one in Asgard, it would most likely have happened to him too, sooner or later. But that doesn't make the prospect any easier to deal with.

His stomach heaves again, and he finds himself gripping the edge of the sink once more, steadying himself as he turns away from the hollowed-eyed face that is his reflection staring back at him. In the fluorescent glow of the bathroom lamp above his head, it looks sickly and pale.

So Tony is planning on bedding him, then, using him like a lowly plaything. This has to be the royal grand slam the man is planning, to make his enemy suffer this ultimate degradation.

The final thing that Tony will take away from him, after having already denied him everything else – his freedom, his own clothing, his name. And now, Tony will rob him even of this.

And the worst part is, there's not a thing he can do about it. If he were, by some off-chance, to slip under the radar of the multi-layered security systems that Tony has set up, including the ever-vigilant Jarvis, and escape from the tower and from Tony, he would still not be off the hook. Because Heimdall is watching him, the guardian of the rainbow bridge is keeping an eye out, and even if the human myths about Asgard aren't entirely true – Heimdall can't simultaneously see everything that goes on in all the Nine Realms, of course – the magic humming through the chains he's wearing makes sure that Heimdall will easily spot his whereabouts whenever he decides to turn his attention onto Midgard. And recapturing the escaped slave will be a child's game for the Aesir, with the magic beacons on his wrists broadcasting his position to anyone with even the slightest inkling of magical competence.

And he knows what kind of fate he will be taken back to, should he try to escape his punishment. He'll be brought back to the dungeons of Asgard, where he will face gruesome torture, no doubt with the prison guards including, on the side, that which Tony has in mind for him. Until it kills him, which will take a long time with his godly powers restored (which they would no doubt grant him back, to make the torture last).

Fighting is hardly an option either. Harm or kill another human being again, and you will suffer the same fate as an escape attempt will bring. Those words are etched clearly into his mind, spoken several times to him before he was sent off to Midgard, as if the court thought he was too dull to understand them the first time.

There is no way out of this, and it makes him feel sick and disgusted and appalled. And other things as well that he doesn't want to put a name to, but that would have his fingers trembling, had they not been clutching the bathroom furniture in a firm grip.

Tony wants to make him suffer as he breaks him. Just like the unappetizing tales he's heard on rare occasions shared around the campfire, whispered by warriors drunk on mead and on victory, of the more unsavoury things that sometimes would take place during the aftermath of battle. How it's been known to happen that not all enemies are given the honour of a quick death from the blow of a sword. How it is sometimes more satisfying to humiliate and subjugate the enemy before granting him the final embrace of death.

Not things that one would dare mentioning in any sort of decent company, and very few ever admitted to such, but sometimes it still happened, when there was too much hate, too much desire for revenge. The ultimate vanquishing and subjugation, leaving the enemy broken and shattered.

And he should have known, should have realized it from the start that that was what Tony was planning for him. Especially after having noticed the odd way the man was staring at him that time when he undressed to put on the Midgardian clothing; he should have known just where that look would eventually lead. For someone who prides himself so much on his intellect as Loki, he should have seen it coming a mile away, rather than sticking his head into the sand, ignoring the possibility this would happen.

His insides make another little twist, churning miserably. Yesterday, it would seem that he was saved by the ringing of Tony's telephone, but this intermission will surely not repeat itself next time.

The picture in his mind resurfaces again, the image of Tony languidly stretching himself out on the couch, his arousal mounting at the sight of Loki debasing himself at the man's feet.

So this is how he will spend his days here, then, as Tony's plaything, his little pleasure toy. And if he doesn't submit, if he tries to fight, or escape, he'll be sent back to Asgard to endure even worse. No way out. Angrily, he pounds a fist against the mirror, but there's not enough force in his swing to break it, so he only remains standing in that position with his clenched hand against the glass, forehead resting against his arm, eyes closed in exasperation.

No way out.

Only two seconds later, Jarvis' calm voice is ringing in his ears. "Please refrain from trying to break the bathroom fittings, Mr Laufeyson, or I will be forced to report your doings to Mr Stark."

Tony really has no clue, has he…

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