At Your Service (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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bakerstreet2015-11-12 01:57 pm
atyourservices) wrote in bakerstreet2015-11-12 01:57 pm
In Your Lap Meme
 Prompts
|
[1 for a coupl Dalish surrounded by shem, trying to keep the world from seemingly coming apart?]
Sorry so late, had a slight office emergency yesterday.
lyna_mahariel
- 2015-11-14 13:18 (UTC) - Expand[ Sam was making a point, and this point required a firm hand, pressed against the center of his brother's chest, shoving him hard back into his chair as he tried to stand. Sam's eyes flashed defiantly. If this was how they were going to play it, then fine, except they weren't playing. Oh, they were definitely not playing. Sam could handle his brother's usual challenges, his cocky threats and dares. Usually he just shrugged them off, but this? This was personal.
Sam climbed up, straddled Dean's lap boldly, one leg folded on either side of him, and flashed him a teasing, vicious sort of grin. He could do this. Oh, he could more than do this, he was going to own it.
Giving his hips a firm roll, Sam changed his grip, moving his hands across to Dean's shoulders, where he could hold tight to him to keep his balance as he writhed. ]
You can't fake this, [ He sneered, though there was no malice there, only lascivious teasing. ] I'm going to know right away, the second you get hard, and when you do I win.
Sam climbed up, straddled Dean's lap boldly, one leg folded on either side of him, and flashed him a teasing, vicious sort of grin. He could do this. Oh, he could more than do this, he was going to own it.
Giving his hips a firm roll, Sam changed his grip, moving his hands across to Dean's shoulders, where he could hold tight to him to keep his balance as he writhed. ]
You can't fake this, [ He sneered, though there was no malice there, only lascivious teasing. ] I'm going to know right away, the second you get hard, and when you do I win.
[some work better than others and I'll pass on 7. lemme know what you're interested in!]
[ The Viper's Nest is all but abandoned come wintertide. The majority of warriors who spent the summer training and bunking alongside one another have all returned to the warm comforts of an easier life in the city with its modern conveniences, or else migrated north to the Viking village where a community exists with a great deal more privacy.
That suits Loki just fine.
The longhouse is, well, long. With double-bunks set into the walls, lining the main walkways wherein fire-pits are entrenched, there is an abundance of furs and blankets to steal the pick of the litter from in building his own bed, a corner-ridden affair with wolf and bear a couple of dozen pelts thick for maximum comfort. He isn't Lorelei by a wide stretch but neither is he about to snub lavish freebies when abandoned by former owners. Inside this eight-foot cubbyhole, half-hidden by a draping curtain to let in the heat from the nearest pit where it floats over the tables and benches, lies a godling atop an Elvenking, letting wily filaments of sleep slowly take him further from the present. Gods don't sleep often or even for long unless, in the case of Loki and his brothers, some kind of imitation Odinforce is required, impressed upon them by sheer proximity as they grew from children. On Midgard, however, he fell into the habit of sleeping when Verity did whenever he was at the apartment, and when in the arms of a beautiful elf it isn't difficult to replicate the same desire to stay exactly where he is. Still, safe, quiet; a bit like a video-game character left dithering at a save point.
More specifically, straddling Thranduil with his face buried in the Sinda's shoulder to smother an unrepentant yawn. Having poured himself over Thranduil at some point like a cat without regard for personal boundaries, he gives a wriggle to resettle and winds his fingers back through sleek platinum locks, the soft blond hair and incredible source of heat that is the Elvenking reminding Loki that tomorrow he may well sleep alone.
A grumble rolls up from his chest, bare naked save for the slacks knotted about his hips. His lips drag over the pulse in a neck, lazily smearing a kiss in place. Was Thranduil sleeping? The guy always has his eyes open, anyway. Impossible to really know (and Loki is currently too comfortable to check). The bunk is one of the longer ones to accommodate tall fellows like the pair of them but it doesn't have a great deal of depth between its slats and the bed above. Maybe the Elvenking is uncomfortable? Lost in thought? His breathing gives away his wakefulness, at any rate.
Loki vaguely wishes he was a nice enough person to bother checking. ]
The covers have fallen off. Grab them?
[ Please is implied with a nuzzle. ]
That suits Loki just fine.
The longhouse is, well, long. With double-bunks set into the walls, lining the main walkways wherein fire-pits are entrenched, there is an abundance of furs and blankets to steal the pick of the litter from in building his own bed, a corner-ridden affair with wolf and bear a couple of dozen pelts thick for maximum comfort. He isn't Lorelei by a wide stretch but neither is he about to snub lavish freebies when abandoned by former owners. Inside this eight-foot cubbyhole, half-hidden by a draping curtain to let in the heat from the nearest pit where it floats over the tables and benches, lies a godling atop an Elvenking, letting wily filaments of sleep slowly take him further from the present. Gods don't sleep often or even for long unless, in the case of Loki and his brothers, some kind of imitation Odinforce is required, impressed upon them by sheer proximity as they grew from children. On Midgard, however, he fell into the habit of sleeping when Verity did whenever he was at the apartment, and when in the arms of a beautiful elf it isn't difficult to replicate the same desire to stay exactly where he is. Still, safe, quiet; a bit like a video-game character left dithering at a save point.
More specifically, straddling Thranduil with his face buried in the Sinda's shoulder to smother an unrepentant yawn. Having poured himself over Thranduil at some point like a cat without regard for personal boundaries, he gives a wriggle to resettle and winds his fingers back through sleek platinum locks, the soft blond hair and incredible source of heat that is the Elvenking reminding Loki that tomorrow he may well sleep alone.
A grumble rolls up from his chest, bare naked save for the slacks knotted about his hips. His lips drag over the pulse in a neck, lazily smearing a kiss in place. Was Thranduil sleeping? The guy always has his eyes open, anyway. Impossible to really know (and Loki is currently too comfortable to check). The bunk is one of the longer ones to accommodate tall fellows like the pair of them but it doesn't have a great deal of depth between its slats and the bed above. Maybe the Elvenking is uncomfortable? Lost in thought? His breathing gives away his wakefulness, at any rate.
Loki vaguely wishes he was a nice enough person to bother checking. ]
The covers have fallen off. Grab them?
[ Please is implied with a nuzzle. ]
[Always up for some lapsitting canon and cross canon from other sports anime too.]
[ Sif is a different woman after a battle. When her blood still sings the savage melodies of blood and steel and fire she cannot be the calm and composed protector of Asgard that she always strives to be.
This is when she feasts for days, and in drunken revelry endangers both others and herself because it makes her feel so alive, and because during those precious days she does not have to pretend that she is not a wild thing. She can let her blood run so hot that she sometimes thinks it would burn whoever might spill it.
It is, perhaps, a good thing that she still never attempts poetry.
She is not drunk now, at least not on anything except victory, but that is enough to do what she would otherwise never have. She follows Thor into his tent rather than going to his own, shedding her armor there with practiced ease and no shame. They have fought together for centuries, this is not the first time they have had to undress together. She knows his body as well as any woman he might have lain with, even if she has never been one of them, much as she has wanted to.
The time has never been right, and perhaps it isn't right now either but she still sits down on his lap as if it is nothing, as if she does it all the time. ]
It is good to fight with you again.
[ She was furious with him for leaving them. For refusing his legacy.
She still is angry with him, because he is the king that Asgard needs and deserves. But this... in truth, this is all she has ever wanted for herself, as a woman and not as a subject of Asgard.
She just wants the blood and the fire and him. ]
This is when she feasts for days, and in drunken revelry endangers both others and herself because it makes her feel so alive, and because during those precious days she does not have to pretend that she is not a wild thing. She can let her blood run so hot that she sometimes thinks it would burn whoever might spill it.
It is, perhaps, a good thing that she still never attempts poetry.
She is not drunk now, at least not on anything except victory, but that is enough to do what she would otherwise never have. She follows Thor into his tent rather than going to his own, shedding her armor there with practiced ease and no shame. They have fought together for centuries, this is not the first time they have had to undress together. She knows his body as well as any woman he might have lain with, even if she has never been one of them, much as she has wanted to.
The time has never been right, and perhaps it isn't right now either but she still sits down on his lap as if it is nothing, as if she does it all the time. ]
It is good to fight with you again.
[ She was furious with him for leaving them. For refusing his legacy.
She still is angry with him, because he is the king that Asgard needs and deserves. But this... in truth, this is all she has ever wanted for herself, as a woman and not as a subject of Asgard.
She just wants the blood and the fire and him. ]
( the club owner is perfectly friendly when he takes her aside that night before her show. amiable, and even a little concerned, though likely that has far more to do with the money (or lack of) that the club's pulling in on any given night. significant others really aren't allowed to be in the club, he tells her, and that's approximately where she stops listening. he's outlining the reasons it's bad for business, and she's trying to decide if "significant others" is really the most accurate term.
either way, it all amounts to the same thing. a hurried text to j: don't come in tonight. i'll make it up to you later. -s
a couple hours and a few pills later, sarah stumbles through the front door of her (their?) apartment, clad in ripped jean shorts and the yellow zip-up hoodie that's become something like a signature, strawberry blonde wig still firmly in place. )
Hey! ( a bright exclamation, a little louder than intended, but can she really help it if she's excited to see her girlfriend? significant other, she thinks, and almost dissolves into laughter. almost. instead, she drops her purse against the wall with a muffled thud, before crawling onto the bed and right on top of the brunette, who doesn't look remotely as happy as sarah feels. ) I brought you a present.
either way, it all amounts to the same thing. a hurried text to j: don't come in tonight. i'll make it up to you later. -s
a couple hours and a few pills later, sarah stumbles through the front door of her (their?) apartment, clad in ripped jean shorts and the yellow zip-up hoodie that's become something like a signature, strawberry blonde wig still firmly in place. )
Hey! ( a bright exclamation, a little louder than intended, but can she really help it if she's excited to see her girlfriend? significant other, she thinks, and almost dissolves into laughter. almost. instead, she drops her purse against the wall with a muffled thud, before crawling onto the bed and right on top of the brunette, who doesn't look remotely as happy as sarah feels. ) I brought you a present.
Forced to take public transportation was bad enough, but now there wasn't even space on the bench for her to sit! Elle huffed and crossed her arms, not accepting that fact for a moment. Eyes glanced between each person currently sitting as she pondered. Elderly... Elderly... creeper... aha, rock star? It didn't matter, at least he looked like he smelled nice.
Without a word she walked over, kitten heels clicking on the sidewalk until she sat down... in his lap. She gave a sweet smile. "Hi. Is this seat taken?" That was her attempt at breaking the ice. "Sorry, sweety, but my Pradas are killing me. I just have to sit down. Plus, I'm petite so..." She shrugged as though that made everything perfectly normal.
Without a word she walked over, kitten heels clicking on the sidewalk until she sat down... in his lap. She gave a sweet smile. "Hi. Is this seat taken?" That was her attempt at breaking the ice. "Sorry, sweety, but my Pradas are killing me. I just have to sit down. Plus, I'm petite so..." She shrugged as though that made everything perfectly normal.
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