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Loki Laufeyson, Odinson, whoever's son he's claiming to be this time around, is known most commonly as the God Of Mischief. David prefers the God Of Being a Treacherous Little Dick. But Hel; who gives a damn what he thinks?
Also, apparently, patron saint of various popular sex positions-- and he might not be the most emotionally attuned guy on the planet, but if that line wasn't a come-on then David is hanging up his genius card and going to work in McDonalds.
"'Definitely no booze'..." David murmurs to himself, as the nearest wall slips just out of his grasp and he lurches awkwardly left to steady himself. "Fuck 'definitely no booze'. Of course you spiked the punch you little shi..."
He trails off.
The door in front of him has a brass 134 on it; the same as the one booked against an L. Laufeyson and the zip code of the Avengers' mansion on the hotel's kindergarden plaything excuse for a computer system downstairs in reception. David bites the inside corner of his lip. Ouch. It stings more than he intended.
His fist hovers over the door. He very almost knocks and then catches himself-- pulls his wallet out the inside pocket of his jacket instead. Hey. He doesn't get too many chances to utilise this particular skillset these days, alright?
The room is in darkness when David eases the door closed behind him once more. And of course Loki bagged himself a suite. Because he's a fucking Asgardian Prince, isn't he? Despite the stabbing headache it causes him, David rolls his eyes, toeing his shoes off and padding through the lounge towards the next door, illuminated in the hazy glow from the fairylights strung up outside. It seems strange that the God of Raucous Orgies would keep to a civilised bedtime. But then, maybe he isn't sleeping alone. David presses the back of his hand against his mouth. Stupid this is stupid stupid this is stupid stupid stupid begins the gleeful singsong in his head and it takes all his will-power to ignore it, pressing his fingertips to the bedroom door and pushing, just slightly.
"...You know. For a few minutes there I really thought you would go back to your party."
Loki is in bed, on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He doesn't look up as David eases himself over the threshold, amusement twisting his consonants.
Treacherous. Little. Dick.
"Your party." David corrects through his teeth. "Because obviously screwing over the people who thought they were your friends and almost getting them killed can be rectified with a bout of alcohol-soaked revelling."
He hears Loki laugh. "'Tis the Asgardian way. Just ask my brother. He's the King of inappropriate revels."
Loki pushes the hair back from his eyes. Eyes that still glitter unnervingly in the near darkness, something like a warning. Though David supposes if the Satan-chic headpiece their resident trickster is so fond of wearing hasn't put him off then he probably deserves everything he gets.
"Aren't you too proud to fall into bed with the first traitor to proposition you?" He asks, smirk slicing open the corner of his mouth. David shrugs:
"Who says you're the first? It's New Years, after all." His fingers are playing with the button of his jacket, and he pops it open before he can think about it too much; watches Loki's gaze flicker.
"Surely you don't hate yourself as much as all that?" He muses. "What have you done? Snogged a teammate in a moment of crisis? Hardly genocide. Trust me."
David doesn't have time for this.
"You're pining after Billy Kaplan."
That makes him turn his head. Loki blinks at him. "Where on Midgard did you get that from?"
David sighs. He does get so bored of explaining.
"Goodness attracts you. Naivete. Those behaviours you abandoned a coupla centuries back and can't seem to re-learn, no matter how hard you try."
"...Did you miss the four months when I was playing you all for the saps you are?"
"And the self-loathing," David waves a hand "course, you can empathise with that. You could comfort each other on cold nights--"
"--You forget: this consciousness is ten hundred years old. I'm over teenage crushes."
"Then help me get over mine."
Downstairs the party is still sprawling on, dragging the new year out into something maybe just the wrong side of desperate. David can feel it, thudding against the floorboards under his feet, seeping through the walls. All that strained-tight optimism. Drunken laughter. Awful music too loud and too hard. Fitting, really.
He shrugs again, and watches Loki watching him with something unreadable in his eyes until suddenly, he drags back the sheets and swings his legs round to sit on the edge of the mattress. David bites his lips together; can't help how his eyes wander. Loki looks jarringly normal without his usual Asgardian fancy dress. He sleeps in his underwear, apparently, long pale legs very white in a slice of moonlight. Loose night shirt slipping down surprisingly broad shoulders. David can see the blue veins spidering his forearms.
He takes his glasses off; slips them into his jacket pocket as the other boy pulls himself smirkingly to his feet to take a couple of steps into David's personal space.
Breathe. And breathe, David schools himself, holding Loki's gaze, features so close they smudge at the edges. His eyes are unearthly green, really, he thinks, and then chastises himself with obviously.
Maybe his eyebrow quirks. Then, with far less fanfare than David's racing heart suggests, they're kissing; Loki's lips pressed against his.
Instinctively, David curls his hands in the hem of the other boy's shirt. His skin is cool where David's knuckles press against it. Taut stomach. Dusting of hair below his navel. An alien. A god, he says. And a boy. Another boy.
And yeah, that's still the part his mom would be clutching her pearls at.
The floorboards under his feet seem to be spinning away from him, but he tries to force himself to kiss back, open his lips under Loki's searching tongue. This close David can almost feel the crazy seeping out of his pores. Something on his skin: centuries of living wild crammed into a twenty year old body; morals made of elastic, black nails and nine realms of magic.
Loki's hands tug at the shoulders of David's jacket; it gives a soft sigh of surrender as it slips to the floor.
"Fuck." He sniffs a laugh: "You have no idea do you?"
"It's nice that you're assimilating some local curse words." David breathes, tasting otherworldliness on his lips and already feeling that ache deep in his stomach; deeper than that. "You're like a proper Manhattenite. Aside from, y'know, all the ye olde Norse royalty shit."
Loki grins, eyelashes a black smudge in the darkness, and David tries not to react to the proximity of him, his fingers working his belt undone with the lazy skill of a well-trained pick-pocket.
"...Fuck." He pronounces again, rolling the word off his tongue, and David feels the blood pounding against his eardrums and leans forward to catch Loki's lip with his teeth before he can speak again, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to force himself into the moment, and not another several universes away staring into the look of dismay on Teddy Altman's face.