La la la, I'm up to seven chapters on Built Like a Moth, so here's a teaser of the first chapter
“Stark.”
A single word, like silk and ice. Tony’s eyes snap open and he swallows down an insane rush of panic; he looks up and is greeted with poisonous green eyes, gleaming inhumanly in the darkness of his bedroom.
“Loki.” He swallows hard and casts a glance about for anything in the immediate vicinity that could be used as a weapon against the god kneeling on his bed.
He looks... smaller than Tony recalled, and he realizes that Loki was without most of his armor, and hopefully, maybe, gods be willing (ha ha) he was also weaponless.
Not that the God of Mischief needed weapons if he wanted to take Tony to pieces in his own bed. Tony knows that Loki doesn’t, and that knowledge makes him feel more afraid than he can recall feeling in a long time. Of course, fear makes Tony babble like an asshole, and god or no god, Tony is Tony.
“Jesus, how long have you been watching me sleep? Is this your new plan of action, and if so, aren’t you missing some glitter? I thought they had you locked up in Asgard.”
Loki frowns at the missed pop culture reference, and laughs at the idea that he’d stay confined anywhere. The laugh is hitched, pained, as if he were having trouble catching the breath to make it.
“You promised me a drink, Man of Iron. Did you not? I’ve come to collect.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony bolts up, a startled laugh shaking through him, and he shoves at the god, who, not expecting such force from the smaller man, nearly falls from the bed in an unceremonious heap. He saves himself last minute by standing rather smoothly and casting a nasty look at the angry, near-helpless superhero tangled in a nest of expensive Egyptian linen sheets.
“No, I’m not.” Loki’s face splits into a crooked, broken grin that is more a feral flash of teeth than a sign of happiness. “After all I’ve gone through at the hands of my supposed brethren, I’d very much appreciate a strong drink.”
Now that he looks, really looks- and now that JARVIS has seen fit to actually turn on a fucking light, *Thanks for the warning, you dick*, Tony thinks, he can see that Loki is in fact entirely armorless, helmetless, and probably weaponless; he is clad in nothing but a pair of black leather trousers, a little worse for wear, and a green roughspun shirt with its laces undone. The shirt hangs oddly at his sides, torn and gaping in odd places about his lean frame.
His pale, thin shoulders gleam in the low light, and his collarbones play in stark relief against the rest of him. He looks... delicate. Delicate, fragile, and starved. A deep, angry red gash marrs his left cheek, and though it is obviously healing, from its width and the color of the blood congealing there it certainly would have laid his face open to the bone when it was fresh.
Blood edges along his shirt at the ribs. When Loki wraps his arms lightly around himself, scowling at Stark, Tony notices blood along his sides, just above his hips. It takes all the fun out of playing peek-a-boo with Loki’s rather marvelously flat stomach.
The more Tony looks, the more he takes in, the more uncomfortable he gets. Loki was an enemy, sure, but what in the hell had they been doing to him in his homeland? Torture? Thor hadn’t mentioned any shit like that.
“Looks like you got yourself a little fucked up on your glorious quest for freedom.”
Loki doesn’t reply, save for a twist of his mouth. He watches Tony with those green eyes, and Tony can see that he is swaying, ever so slightly, as if standing were an effort. He feels a little bad for shoving him, but then, Loki did throw him out of a damned window; surely a god can handle a shove.
Tony slips out of his bed, suddenly a touch self-conscious that he is clad in red and gold silk boxers (because fuck you, that’s why was Tony’s motto for his sleepwear) but then, fuck this guy if he thinks Tony would cover up or act apologetic for his state of undress. It’s his house, it’s his bed, and he’ll wear what he wants in the middle of the night when an uninvited god gatecrashes his one decent night’s sleep in forever.
Loki follows Tony’s form across the room to the bar on the other side of it. Tony feels his eyes on his skin and it’s definitely a weird sensation, and he’s not sure at all what it means. He’s a hell of a lot more comfortable with Loki trying to kill him, he realizes, or at the very least, being contained, with lots of monitors on him.
“Don’t fucking throw a knife at me, dude. You said you wanted a drink.”
“I had no intention of such,” Loki replied, and he is suddenly there, leaning heavily on the bar, facing Tony. His eyes have dark circles under them, and he really, truly looks like hell.
“Can’t you just walk somewhere? Shit!” Tony jumps back, hand flitting across his arc reactor in a nervous, self-protective motion. “I just woke up, for fuck’s sakes, don’t do that, have you no manners?”
“I wasn’t aware your mortal psyche was so very fragile, Stark,” Loki replied, rolling his eyes. He coughs, and there is blood on his curled hand when he’s done. He makes a face and wipes the blood away on his pants.
“I wasn’t aware you were such an asshole. Oh wait, yes, actually. I was. It’s sort of implied in God of Lies isn’t it?”
http://archiveofourown.org/works/429242/chapters/724590
A single word, like silk and ice. Tony’s eyes snap open and he swallows down an insane rush of panic; he looks up and is greeted with poisonous green eyes, gleaming inhumanly in the darkness of his bedroom.
“Loki.” He swallows hard and casts a glance about for anything in the immediate vicinity that could be used as a weapon against the god kneeling on his bed.
He looks... smaller than Tony recalled, and he realizes that Loki was without most of his armor, and hopefully, maybe, gods be willing (ha ha) he was also weaponless.
Not that the God of Mischief needed weapons if he wanted to take Tony to pieces in his own bed. Tony knows that Loki doesn’t, and that knowledge makes him feel more afraid than he can recall feeling in a long time. Of course, fear makes Tony babble like an asshole, and god or no god, Tony is Tony.
“Jesus, how long have you been watching me sleep? Is this your new plan of action, and if so, aren’t you missing some glitter? I thought they had you locked up in Asgard.”
Loki frowns at the missed pop culture reference, and laughs at the idea that he’d stay confined anywhere. The laugh is hitched, pained, as if he were having trouble catching the breath to make it.
“You promised me a drink, Man of Iron. Did you not? I’ve come to collect.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony bolts up, a startled laugh shaking through him, and he shoves at the god, who, not expecting such force from the smaller man, nearly falls from the bed in an unceremonious heap. He saves himself last minute by standing rather smoothly and casting a nasty look at the angry, near-helpless superhero tangled in a nest of expensive Egyptian linen sheets.
“No, I’m not.” Loki’s face splits into a crooked, broken grin that is more a feral flash of teeth than a sign of happiness. “After all I’ve gone through at the hands of my supposed brethren, I’d very much appreciate a strong drink.”
Now that he looks, really looks- and now that JARVIS has seen fit to actually turn on a fucking light, *Thanks for the warning, you dick*, Tony thinks, he can see that Loki is in fact entirely armorless, helmetless, and probably weaponless; he is clad in nothing but a pair of black leather trousers, a little worse for wear, and a green roughspun shirt with its laces undone. The shirt hangs oddly at his sides, torn and gaping in odd places about his lean frame.
His pale, thin shoulders gleam in the low light, and his collarbones play in stark relief against the rest of him. He looks... delicate. Delicate, fragile, and starved. A deep, angry red gash marrs his left cheek, and though it is obviously healing, from its width and the color of the blood congealing there it certainly would have laid his face open to the bone when it was fresh.
Blood edges along his shirt at the ribs. When Loki wraps his arms lightly around himself, scowling at Stark, Tony notices blood along his sides, just above his hips. It takes all the fun out of playing peek-a-boo with Loki’s rather marvelously flat stomach.
The more Tony looks, the more he takes in, the more uncomfortable he gets. Loki was an enemy, sure, but what in the hell had they been doing to him in his homeland? Torture? Thor hadn’t mentioned any shit like that.
“Looks like you got yourself a little fucked up on your glorious quest for freedom.”
Loki doesn’t reply, save for a twist of his mouth. He watches Tony with those green eyes, and Tony can see that he is swaying, ever so slightly, as if standing were an effort. He feels a little bad for shoving him, but then, Loki did throw him out of a damned window; surely a god can handle a shove.
Tony slips out of his bed, suddenly a touch self-conscious that he is clad in red and gold silk boxers (because fuck you, that’s why was Tony’s motto for his sleepwear) but then, fuck this guy if he thinks Tony would cover up or act apologetic for his state of undress. It’s his house, it’s his bed, and he’ll wear what he wants in the middle of the night when an uninvited god gatecrashes his one decent night’s sleep in forever.
Loki follows Tony’s form across the room to the bar on the other side of it. Tony feels his eyes on his skin and it’s definitely a weird sensation, and he’s not sure at all what it means. He’s a hell of a lot more comfortable with Loki trying to kill him, he realizes, or at the very least, being contained, with lots of monitors on him.
“Don’t fucking throw a knife at me, dude. You said you wanted a drink.”
“I had no intention of such,” Loki replied, and he is suddenly there, leaning heavily on the bar, facing Tony. His eyes have dark circles under them, and he really, truly looks like hell.
“Can’t you just walk somewhere? Shit!” Tony jumps back, hand flitting across his arc reactor in a nervous, self-protective motion. “I just woke up, for fuck’s sakes, don’t do that, have you no manners?”
“I wasn’t aware your mortal psyche was so very fragile, Stark,” Loki replied, rolling his eyes. He coughs, and there is blood on his curled hand when he’s done. He makes a face and wipes the blood away on his pants.
“I wasn’t aware you were such an asshole. Oh wait, yes, actually. I was. It’s sort of implied in God of Lies isn’t it?”
http://archiveofourown.org/works/429242/chapters/724590