Work Text:
Tony:
Shall I compare thee to a wrench untamed?
Thou art more shiny, and much less temperate.
Thou lookest better spread out on my workbench.
Ye stub my delicate toes too often
(And you are worse, you do it on purpose).
Foul-tempered though ye are, I admit
Ye both look sleek.
Ye share a core of steel, and are both cold
As strong and lonely things are wont to be;
A chill warmed easily with a caring hold (by me).
Ye are both practical; made for
Screwing things the likes of bolts (or me).
And oh, ye both expand when hot
Ye are both long, and hard when... okay, I'll stop.
Loki:
Stark, there are these things called poetic forms
You could employ, for sake of mine fine eyes
You think, to quote, 'surpass artistic norms'
And deny not- such feeble futile lies
I do not tolerate from you. Shall I
In turn compare thee to a wrench untamed?
Thou art far denser, and less deftly lie;
Compared to thee a wrench could feel more shamed.
Yet in the ways of Earth, ere it decays
Must I see thee grow frail and fade away;
Another risk I take to earn more days
Though any price for this I gladly pay.
So long as lies I spin for Iðunn's tree
So may live thee, and this wakes life in me.