Seduction is but a child's game to Loki. He mastered the art of it centuries ago, ruthlessly using it to wheedle out his whims, his wants, his needs... He knows how to read people, knows how to play the part, how to transform himself into everything they'd ever dreamed of. It is a simple task really, as natural to him as breathing. Even for a philanderer such as Tony Stark. Men like him are no different from any other at heart, merely requiring a different method of attraction and entrapment.

There is something new, rising up on the earth. Loki knows this. He can feel it, almost taste the force of it bubbling beneath the surface, unrealized, when he scrys the world of midgard. And Tony Stark lies at the center. He is the heart of this new entity, and if Loki wants to win this war then he needs to know. What is it that is coming? He will beguile from him the information, overthrow it, and then all will know what fools they had been to neglect him.

It's curious, Loki thinks. He sits, perched atop a stool in a midgardian tavern in womanly form, listening to the dull patter of rain and brisk footsteps from the nearby window. Every once in a while the door swings open, letting in small bursts of frigid air and fragments of conversation from the passersby.

…and don't forget about the... …to lower the opportunity cost by five percent… …no, not right now dear…

So many tiny, insignificant people, moving about with such purpose. The mother, the actor, the lawyer, all with their own petty dreams. Do they not know how little their lives matter in the grand scope of the universe?

But it is no matter. There are more important things now to be done. Loki shakes herself mentally, pulling out of her thoughts and back to the task at hand. The target is still here, she notes with a glance. Good.

Her eyes glide over to Stark's across the bar as if just having noticed him, glittering with prospect as he acknowledges her gaze. She proffers him a wry smile, and he returns it. He would be here, she knew, on this celebratory day of fathers, in search of strong drink and a lithe body to rut against.

"Another please, thank you," she bids the bartender as Stark approaches. He slides up next to her.

"On me." He smiles, only a few cents flat of the charm that he is famed for, and slips down several notes of currency.

Loki smirks ruefully back at him. "Generous of you." He is handsomer in person than she'd gathered from her research, even with glassy eyes and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. Shame that that the same cannot be said for his wit. In the end, he is just like all the other sad little mortals, absorbed in the sentiment of a meaningless holiday. Loki lets out a small sigh of disappointment, misconstrued as melancholy, and raises her glass.

"To the incompetency of fathers," she says, and draws the cup to her lips. She eyes him over the rim, sipping quietly. This day means nothing to her, of course, and even if it did, she would never show true vulnerability to someone so menial. But he will be looking, today, for an easy bodily comfort. And if she can add a shared bitterness to that, the feeling of being understood without having to say a word, well then, he won't be able to resist.

And it seems to be working, because he slurs back, "You and me both, sweetheart," and copies her gesture. Loki takes the opportunity to lean towards him, resting her chin on folded hands.

"I would not be adverse to a… distraction," she purrs, looking up at him from beneath dark lashes. Stark laughs, a coarse, throaty sound that is dry from the spirits, but his dark eyes bore back down into hers.

"Cut right to the chase, don't you." The voice is warm in her ear, full of suggestion and possibility.

"Oh, Mr. Stark," Loki smiles, "But of course."

He doesn't kiss her until they are in the privacy of his home, kisses her with such fervor and misery that she almost feels sorry for him. Pitiful creature, she thinks, mirroring him to cover up her impassivity. But then he moves his mouth a certain way, and oh, the thought blurs away. She returns the favor, brushing back hotly with her tongue. The corners of her lips twitch upward as he groans against her open mouth. You sought to best to God of Mischief?

She smiles, amused. But she lets him push her down onto the bed, grasping at his belt buckle as they begin strip each other of their clothing. She ignores his expensive silk button-down for the most part, only undoing the first notch to press a wet tongue to his collarbone. This is an unknown variable to her, and although she is curious as to the power source that lies beneath, it is not essential to her plan, and she would not risk a negative reaction that could stall any progress with the man. She leaves it to him to keep or remove as he wishes.

Smirking up at him, she takes his now naked length in her palm. Yes, she thinks pleasedly as a gasp escapes his lips. Yes, he is far from the least desirable of beings she has seduced over the years. And a skilled lover too, as he is proving to be.

Yes. Deft fingers part her cleft, and she trembles with the suddenness of it, mouth attaching itself to the angled planes of his throat. Yes, she will be enjoying this game.

It is several hours later, when the both of them are thoroughly used and spent, that she finally rolls off the bed and reclaims her scattered clothes. Stark watches her with mild half interest. He is still wearing his shirt, now rumpled and damp with sweat. "Something the matter?" Loki asks.

"Oh, no, nothing the matter." He cocks his head. "People just aren't usually so quick to up and leave." Loki hums noncommittally. So the women he beds try to prolong their stay as long as possible. They cling to this, the ambience of his wealth. They cling to him, the infamous Tony Stark. Ah, the folly of the proletariat. Her lip curls in distaste, but she hides it from him.

"I don't do staying." She tosses her long waves over her shoulder as she zips up her dress. "It's not in my nature. However, if ever we should encounter each other again," she pauses again to throw her coat over her shoulders, "I would not be adverse to a… repetition, of this tryst. Perhaps under less dismal circumstances." She grins derisively at him, moving towards the far end of the room. "Good night, Mr. Stark." She closes the door behind her. Free from his sight, she sighs once, cheerily, before vanishing into the night air, leaving him alone in the dark with his afflictions.