bakerstreet | (no subject)

(no subject)

the shipping picture prompt meme
SIMILAR TO THE PICTURE PROMPT MEME & THE SMUT PICTURE PROMPT MEME ONLY FOR SHIPPING.

i. COMMENT WITH CHARACTER
ii. OTHERS LEAVE A PICTURE (OR TWO OR THREE....)
iii. REPLY TO THEM WITH A SETTING BASED ON THE IMAGES.

THIS POST WILL BE IMAGE HEAVY.

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[ That smile, so cunning and full of hidden meaning that Thor could never hope to translate, nearly gives him goosebumps, wary but still as Loki speaks. He eases into something more familiar when he hears his words, grumbling impatiently and giving his brother an impatient look. His free hand lifts to press against the side of Loki's throat, firm and and warm but commanding, as Thor cannot help but be most times.

He draws him closer yet. ] Do you mock me still, Loki? [ He's not angry, agitated slightly and on edge from his brother who somehow always seems to know more, a step ahead of him no matter how hard he tries. He supposes it's always been that way, since they were children, the brains and the brawn and that is why he know they can work well, cogs in a machine that when properly maintained could be unstoppable.

His fingers flex against Loki's skin, holding but not gripping tightly, never enough to injury, his long dark hair brushing in a fall across the backs of his knuckles. ]

[ Another entry in the never-ending list of all that Thor does not know: Loki finds comfort in the natural ease that Thor exudes. He has always been as flighty as the wind, but even the worst of gales cannot move the eternal earth below. Thor's hands on him shield him from that buffeting force, a comfort of childhood that hasn't yet been taken from him.

Thor's irritation only feeds Loki's amusement — had Thor not been anchoring him, he might have been frenetic with motion as well as the bandying of words. Loki tilts forward, a raven's pinion on an axis, drawn to Thor by an inexorable force.

He thinks of Jane Foster. Her delicate wrists, the vulnerable curve of her throat. How easily she might fit into all the hollow spaces that grief has riddled Thor with.

Loki's own lashes dip, a fan of shadows against the draugr-pale of his cheeks. ]

It need not be a tangible favor.

[ The frame of Loki's lashes on the sharp apples of his cheeks draw Thor's gaze, enough to snap that uncharacteristic steely calm that's settled over him. He tugs his brother closer yet, pressed long and lean against his sturdy chest, only a breath of hesitation before he's crushing his mouth to Loki's with no lack of desperation, no tenderness.

The hand on his neck slips up to grip a handful of ebony hair, fisted between his fingers, a few shades away from drawing pain. This favor is tangible enough, too tactile and too ripped open and bare, raw and exposed but he can't resist the pull. Loki's mouth is warmer than he anticipated beneath his own, sweeping his tongue across his lips, begging entrance. The crackle of energy between them is palpable but all directed from Loki, magic ripping from him into reality, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. He feels a chill even beneath his armor, the layers of tunic and cape, something more than a simple temperature change.

He's backing Loki up against a golden pillar behind him, flush against him, tired of arguing and banter. He's found a better use for their mouths now, more than just want, but need. ]

[ Loki lets out a shred of a murmur, a half-wrought attempt at Thor's name, caught between the cage of mouth and mouth — his eyes are wide and black, fixed to the storm that rages now across Thor's face. He hadn't expected this. (Another unwilling truth, locked in the silence of Loki's ribcage.) Thor has flown into another nest, with a hatchling mortal to care for; what need has he for the monster that his brother has shaped him into?

A great deal of need, apparently. Surprise is quickly replaced by triumph, and Loki's hands rise to press flat at the roundels of Thor's armor. He does not move to push Thor away, he simply thrills in the absence of space between them.

His mouth opens with nary a moment of hesitation, but Loki is no passive spectator in the proceedings: his own tongue is a lash, sharp as the words of its wont. He looses another murmur of sound, this one calculated to incite, when Thor yanks at his hair, the pain but another sliver of brightness in a moment near-blinding.

The woman will never know this: the full fury of her storm lord, brought to his true glory only by Loki's unworthy hands upon him.

(This is what he tells himself.) ]

[ Had Loki's response not matched Thor's in vigor and enthusiasm, he might've have nearly immediately pulled away, taken a frantic moment to consider what he's done, what they're doing, but his hands burn cold prints into his chest plate, impossible to feel through the armor but he imagines so regardless. He doesn't know if Loki means any of it, any sound or part of his mouth, if this is simply another game, filled with deception and lies, forever trying to come out on top, but in that moment he doesn't care, craves his harsh tongue, fierce and ungentle.

Jane is miles from his mind now, transfixed only on his wayward brother and his clever mouth, willing himself to drag his own away, down the curve of his jaw and up behind his ear, rasping that tender spot with his teeth, long hair shoved aside. ]

Loki. [ He breathes the syllables out against reddened skin, between gritted teeth as his hip shift forward, pressing and searching, too honest and eager for his own good, but he simply can't find it in himself to care, to consider the consequences, the lack of trust that lies between them now, shattered and without mend. ]

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