Author's note: Okay, I know I've said it before, but damn, I was totally floored by all the reviews for the previous chapter! :D Thank you so much, it's making me all gooey and mushy on the inside knowing that you guys are enjoying this story! ^^

And just to avoid any possible confusion – when we start this chapter, the rewind button has been pushed to make a little jump back in time, so that the last scene from the previous chapter can be retold from Loki's point of view.

"Really," Tony says, obviously not buying his feeble excuse for even a second. "Then what was that knife doing in your hand? Were you perhaps about to make a salad? Or practice Chinese paper cutting? Huh?"

He has no answer to offer. None that matters, anyway. He swallows, willing the man away. Though, making people disappear into thin air was something he could never do, not even with his magic still intact. And certainly mere wishful thinking isn't going to accomplish miracles of that magnitude.

Without warning, Tony's fist slams down hard on the tabletop, and Loki jumps, startled. "I said, what the fuck were you doing with that knife back there?" the man demands, impatient and annoyed.

I was just revelling in having an alternative to submitting to you.

It would be the truth. But he can't say that, of course.

"Speak up," the man insists, refusing to take his silence for an answer. "What led you to even consider this?"

Loki almost laughs at that. It would have been a bitter, self-depreciating laugh, ringing hollowly and mirthlessly. What led you to even consider this?

Is Tony being serious? Does he really expect and want Loki to offer an honest answer to that question?

Because I can't wait for you to make me your toy, to turn me into your little plaything.

And there is one question he is itching to ask Tony in return.

What on Odin's beard is it that you're waiting for?

But he holds his tongue, and dully watches a greyish stain on the floor instead.

The man takes another sip from his glass, and then nonchalantly leans back against the marble counter. "You know, it hasn't exactly slipped my notice how you've taken a deep dive head first into the land of eternal doom and gloom lately without bringing a return ticket. Mind telling me what prompted that?"

Loki wrinkles his eyebrows. It is an odd question to ask, and he isn't sure what Tony is playing at. Perhaps another one of his games, then, daring his slave to speak the truth so that he can then punish him for speaking out of turn.

And of course, he could say something else, make up whatever, give a non-committal answer. He's Loki the Liesmith, Loki the Silvertongue and all those other things they give him credit for. He could think up an appropriate answer to Tony's question that might not add another mark on his already long list of offences-to-be-punished-for.

Or he could opt for the truth. What does he have to lose? What is the worst Tony would do that the man hasn't already planned for him?

And that's when he decides that he's had enough. Asking is surely better than this terrible state of not-knowing, of constant, mind-numbing worrying and wondering and waiting.

So Loki looks up to face the man leaning against the kitchen counter, meeting with a pair of unrelenting brown eyes.

"When do you intend to claim your rights to bed me?" he asks as Tony takes another deep swallow from his glass, a strange sense of relief washing over him now that the question is out. If the answer is going to be here and now, then so be it, at least he won't have to walk around with this crushing weight of uncertainty on his shoulders anymore.

For a while, Loki wonders if Tony might be choking on that last gulp of alcohol, as he stands there frozen with eyes gone wide and mouth half-open in what looks like shocked agony, seemingly unable to get a word out.

Then the stillness is shattered by the crash of a glass falling to the ground, shards and liquid spraying all over the floor.

And Tony sounds and looks like he's still choking and gasping for air several long moments later when it appears he has gathered enough words to speak.

"What the heck did you just say?"

Yes, it was an inappropriate and ill-considered question, one he wasn't supposed to be asking and will most likely end up getting punished for. Slaves aren't entitled to request explanations from their masters, after all.

Still, he repeats himself. The question is already out, what harm can it do to speak it out into the open once more? He's already going to be punished for so many things that it makes little difference now.

"I was asking when you will finally claim your rights to bed me?" It's surprising that his voice can sound so calm and collected, in sharp contrast to what is simmering in the pit of his stomach – revulsion, disgust, and fe-. No, he futilely tries to assure himself, not fear. Revulsion and disgust.

However, instead of showing anger at the obviously improper question, Tony takes one – no, two – steps away from him, holding up his hands, palms facing out, eyes wide as saucers.

"Ookay, now, let's just hold our horses here for a sec. Time-out. Time-out." The last word is shouted rather than spoken as he makes slashing, horizontal movements with his hands. From where Loki is sitting, it almost looks as if a slight blush is creeping up Tony's cheeks, but that must surely be a trick of the fluorescent light the man is standing directly beneath.

Then, Tony seems to slump, and draws a deep breath and runs a hand over his mouth, sounding like he's mumbling something to himself, but the words are too muffled for Loki to hear. He then proceeds to say something in a more audible tone of voice, but apparently thinks better of it, as he cuts himself off before more than a few syllables are out. Finally, he expels a heavy sigh and then makes a new and more successful attempt at speaking.

"Now, I'm not familiar with Asgardian vernacular slang, but please tell me that 'bedding someone' has an entirely different meaning over where you come from. As in, not meaning sex. As in, not having anything whatsoever to do with the whole 'insert tab A into slot B' kind of thing," Tony all but blurts out, looking like he's just swallowed something bitter and unpleasant, something that he would just rather have spit out again.

Loki knits his brow in confusion. What else would he be talking about? Is Tony playing with him, making some sort of mockery out of him again?

The man doesn't wait for him to answer, though. Instead, he runs a hand through his messy hair, forcefully, like he's trying to rub away something sticky clinging to his scalp, and then continues to talk. Or, rather, sputter, as his face turns into a pained grimace.

"You actually thought I would…" he begins and then inhales deeply, strangely unsteady as if the floor under his feet is giving way under him. "Jesus Christ. That is so not gonna happen! Seriously, Rudolph, do I look like someone who enjoys sticking my finer body parts into places where they're not welcome?" There's a clear note of agitation in that voice, though it sounds like Tony is trying to fight it down, to remain cool and dispassionate but failing miserably. Finally, it appears he has given up and raises both his voice and his head as if he's no longer talking to Loki but to the heavens above, palms held upwards in an appealing fashion. "Sheesh! Just what on god's green Earth made you think I would ever do such a thing?"

Loki blinks a couple of times, trying to make sense of what Tony is saying, make it align with his notions of how his situation here in Stark Tower will inevitably play itself out, but it's like putting together a jigsaw puzzle filled with mismatched pieces. It just doesn't fit together.

Somehow, he's not so sure of things anymore.

But he wasn't mistaken about one thing. And as Tony stares at him, expecting him to say something, he latches onto that.

"You seemed… interested enough that day I gave you a foot massage."

"For crying out loud, if you haven't noticed, I'm a man!" There is agitated exasperation in Tony's voice, though Loki isn't sure exactly what has prompted it. "Perhaps you gods have such perfect control over your bodies that you don't ever get yourselves into situations like that, but I can assure you that we Midgardian males work on a totally different level. And that sort of thing happens to us in the supermarket check-out, at dinner with the in-laws, in the shower at the gym, everywhere! Some of us can hardly stand in the way of a gust of wind without it happening. Point is, it means nothing!"

It's like tipping a jar upside down and then putting it back upright again with the contents all dishevelled and rearranged. Now Tony's words have similarly tipped the world too, and Loki's still trying to make sense out of this new arrangement that is the result.

So he asks carefully, because he's not sure he can stomach it if it turns out that he has misunderstood and he receives the wrong answer.

"You… do not desire to bed me, then?" The question hangs in the air for a few seconds, teetering precariously like a raindrop on the tip of a leaf. Resolutely, he smothers the tiny, desperate flicker of hope threatening to well up; it is surely better to snuff it out now than having it extinguished completely a moment later.

Tony sighs as he leans heavily against the dark marble of the kitchen counter, shaking his head in consternation while making a grimace. "Look, princess, in case it hasn't occurred to you, I'm Tony Stark – billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist, the freaking Iron Man. Even one of those things would be enough to have more than my fair share of girls at any decent party blinking their eyelashes at me and clinging to my arm like superglue. Combine all of them, and that means more suitors than I can fend off with a pointy stick. I assure you, I have enough willing potential partners fawning at me. I don't need any unwilling ones." He fixes Loki with an inscrutable stare. "Besides, we have a word for that sort of thing here on planet Earth. And people who do that go to jail."

And somehow, Loki gets the bizarre feeling of being suddenly able to breath properly again, despite never previously having noticed any respiratory ailments. Like there's been a huge weight dragging him down that has now been magically lifted from his shoulders.

Then there's a long silence, and Loki dares a quick look into Tony's eyes and almost balks at what he sees.

There's no hate, anger, or disdain, or any of the other emotions that ought to be there.

In fact, there is only one thing.

Pity.

Well, at least that misunderstanding finally got cleared up. Though I doubt this means that everything will automatically be nice and peachy from now on…

Please review. :)