bakerstreet | A Picture is Worth... Meme.

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

A Picture is Worth.... Meme
This ain't your mama's meme. Forget your RNG, forget your tired old prompts.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
It's easy. Comment with your character. Then go comment around.
But instead of pre-filled prompts with words or numbers, you find a gif or image (any gif/image from any canon or scenario you please) that sets the scene.
The picture is the prompt.

WARNING: THIS POST WILL BE IMAGE HEAVY. AND POSSIBLY NSFW AND THERE MAY BE TRIGGERS.
Some images will not be able to be hidden behind cuts, so please be aware that triggery material may be found within.

If you post an image that is violent or sexual in nature please LINK it, do not embed it into the comment.

Feel free to use this template to stick your image in there.

Good resources for images/gifs are weheartit or tumblr. For not so safe for work gifs/images go here and here.

Original Meme here.

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[ If they are gods, do they not have the right of self-indulgence? Loki has spent his existence walking the lands created by his own footsteps; he has taught the mountains to tower, the trees to grow, the birds to sing. He taught the mortals to speak, to walk, to eat from the sacrificed beasts of the land. Is it not time for him to reap the fields he has sown?

If he is a god, it is his right.

And yet looking upon the spill of sunlit hair across his own naked white thighs, Loki feels less a god and more of a worm white upon the black earth, worthy of neither the warmth of Thor's hands or mouth. Or of the sweet comfort of his words, those that have already shown Loki's heart again what it means to be whole and unhurt.

Oh, perhaps one day he will be the consort of a great god-king, and he will eat of a table provided by the sun and the earth, by mortals who will always love their summer-king more than his silvered shadow.

And will Loki not be amongst their numbers, offering his body to slake and be slaked in turn? Will he not offer tribute with every glance askance? ]

Not yet. [ He says, softly. His body cants backwards, unsteady, trembling, and he barely manages to brace himself before he falls splayed against the narrow bed of Thor's crafting. His breath catches between his teeth. He speaks as if bespelled, the words spoken as if from a dream. ] The cold has sunk deep. Deeper than your reach.

[ And Loki dare not reach out and touch the golden hair, nor the rough cheek, for he knows that he would draw forth heat and love and succor more than even the summer-king can provide. Loki would drink him dry, and thus murder him with plaintive desire instead of hatred alone. ]

Hush, beloved. Be patient; I will warm you.

[ A rough voice, a promise made that perhaps he cannot keep, but Thor is reckless and relentless both, following Loki to where he has sprawled back against the simple mattress, made of clean linen and stuffed with down. Dried bunches of herbs fragrant between the sheets; a soft reddish-brown animal pelt which was once a gentle-eyed doe. He has lived simply here and sadly, but sweetly, too, filling his days with the quiet fulfillment of work and crafting. Now Loki lies upon the bed of the only home he could bear to make for himself, and he realizes now how he had always hoped to have his love in his arms here. How he had hoped to share its peace with him.

His mouth brushes at his inner thigh, his beard, and Thor nuzzles then at Loki's cock, kisses, noses and plays at the underside of the shaft; his hands brace themselves upon the bed with the beautiful, desolate lord of winter between them, and he climbs up the length of his body, pushes him down to the mattress, settles his own weight, the great breadth and length of his body down against him. Thor kisses him slowly, catching his face between his two hands, while all his body knows desire and wanting and more than that: the urge to shelter him, to caress and cradle him to wholeness.

He leans upward at last, rearing upright upon his knees, and Thor makes swift work of his own garments, stripping them away. Naked and golden, he bends again for another kiss, then shifts up against the headboard, drawing apart the pelt and sheets so that he and Loki might slip beneath them. ]

Come here, come lie in my arms.

[ Isolation has left him greedy for the sight of each shifting moment of bared skin, and yet his body remains a torn strip of vellum, sodden and frayed at the edges. Even the touch of mouth and tongue upon his cock had done little more than to draw out sunlit memory of a hundred such moments in the handful of months that summer and winter had once known communion.

Loki rises to his knees, crawling forward across the doeskin, the ladder of his spine shifting obscenely under the naked cloak of his skin; he draws himself upwards just enough to touch a palm to the warmth of Thor's shoulder, to sweep along the swell of it until his fingertips rest in the hollow of Thor's throat.

A temptation, even now.

Yet the moment passes soon into silence, and Loki casts off his malice into the sea lapping at the rocky shore of his mind — there it sinks, hiding beneath the black waves until Loki would cast his net again to call it hence.

Now he slips beneath the warm drape proffered to him, his hand steady upon the join of golden throat to shoulder, and he spreads his knees to straddle the width of Thor's hips below. The heat rises to warm his skin as if the open flame of Thor's body lies a thousand leagues away, so deeply has the cold wrapped itself about winter's king. ]

Did they seek to leave your kingdom because they share the coldness of my heart? [ asks Loki Winterborn, his hands splayed upon Thor's chest, his head bowed, his hair a tumbling chaos of shadow. The words have no bearing on the graceful shift of movement wrought by the fragmented body upon Thor's great thighs. Yet he speaks like a child, with the same plaintive note that had once kept Thor near to him through summer breeze and winter blizzard both. ] The children. Our children.

[ Loki beds down against him, a vole shivering in its dark empty den while the storm rages all around, and Thor's arms closing around him are the shelter, or so he would have it; he pulls up the furs and blankets to cover them both, and draws the lord of winter with tender strength against him, wrapping as much of his own frame around him as he possibly can. The king of summer is risen for him, swelled by the depths of longing which have welled up within him again and turned themselves into a simmering heart of desire like the heart of an ember, but there is more patience in him, perhaps, than there was when he was young. He is satisfied enough, cradling Loki near.

For he has missed this intimacy perhaps most of all. Cool white skin, soft raven hair tickling his lips, the dip and ridge of a narrow spine, too stark against the translucent skin and muscle of his back. Narrow, sharp, hard, thin plains: this is Loki's body, the landscape of all the years of emptiness and hunger and rage. Thor strokes him with great hands holding great strength, made tender by his own grief. Tears come, silent and hot, trickling down his cheeks into his beard, and he weeps them unashamedly, only holding Loki still closer so that his black hair dampens and Thor's lips are pressed to the top of his head. ]

No. They had no coldness to them, though Autumn was solemn, and wished for solitude, and Spring sand as sweetly as you do, so that the dogs and the deer used to lay at her feet to listen. [ His voice is hoarse. ] They were strong, eager children. There was nothing for them here.

[ Loki remains quiet and dry-eyed, though his body is a hook cast into the bolstering strength of Thor about him. Every breath is full and hot with the scent of sun-warmed skin, of desire sharpened and polished for his focus alone. In the end, the summer-king had chosen foremost with his heart — the winter-king might have sneered upon the tears and the fool's paradise of generosity so freely given, but Loki himself only dips his lips to the golden arch of Thor's throat, so as to better leave his gleaming mark.

And his hands are as cruel as the mind that lies beyond the brackish green of Loki's eyes, but now they smooth and slide and press, across skin once more familiar than his own. When the weight of Thor's cock finally rests in the circle of his fingers, Loki looses a fragment of a sigh, stroking once and again the heated swell, remembering well the life and vigor Thor had once given him with the merest shift of his hips. ]

Will I never see them? [ asks Loki, after he has quieted the bile of jealous anger that had risen again — oh, that his children had shared his gifts and his terrors, and yet not once he had not been allowed to soothe and to share his own with them in turn. ]

[ Cold fingers stroke along his warm skin, so that Thor shivers remembering those hands upon him in the bed where he was sown by Loki's seed, a marriage bed in all but name, where he knew soft quiescent joy beneath the icy ardor of winter. Where he would lie, and Loki would come within him, and the long, slow, sweet fucking was as an endless stroking of his lord's cock into the warm yielding depths of him, a joining that would last hours, days, weeks before cool, plentiful seed flooded within him and he knew his own exhausted satiation. How dangerously seductive it had been to dwell in that bed, to wish to dwell in it forever, lost to sleep and dreaming in between the eternity of their joining.

He closes his eyes, breathes out shaken, his cock heavily weighted in Loki's hand, hot and thick between the gentle stroke of cold fingers. His own hands delve into his hair and he draws the long black strands over his wet cheeks, over his lips, strands soft as silk. So much beauty still in the stark creature Loki has become, that he almost cannot bear it: and how easy it would be to vow himself again, to give his life once more into the hands of the prince of winter, to willingly lay body and spirit before him in recompense for the betrayals, the agonies of the past. ]

Surely they will seek you. Often they asked after their father.

[ He speaks murmuring at Loki's temple, and wraps him closer still in his arms. Broad arms, broad strength to hold him near. He shall never let him go again. ]

[ Perhaps he would not take it, were it to be offered so; no gift of body or spirit can ease the eternity of isolation that has frozen and shattered heart-blood once sweet and crimson with love. Perhaps it was folly to see himself as master, and the golden spread of summer's love upon his bed as mastered — for are they not god and god alike, sewn from the fabric of eternity, stitched through with silver and golden thread? Even now, when Loki curls his hand into a cool fist about the heft of Thor's cock, even now he is but a channel, a conduit, meant to carry the warmth of Thor's love within himself. There is no master between them, and thus neither can be mastered.

Loki knows this, beyond the corruption that his jealousy has inflicted. No longer can he call upon the ice and the snow to shackle Thor-king to himself; he had been a fool once to believe himself capable of overwhelming prophecy, but no longer will he descend into the same gaping chasm of complacency. ]

They will not see what you see. Your children, your people — they will look upon you with pity, not pride.

[ His tone a steady murmur, without inflection. His hand works still, his thumb pressing into the tender skin below the crown's ridge, his fingers spread and curled about the heavy heat of the shaft. His thigh rises below the drape of fur and linen, his leg hooking over Thor's, fitting them inextricably together. ]

And yet I do not love you enough to release you from your own folly. [ As he lifts his chin to seek a kiss, the light slants across his face, blanching the last of the color from his face. He looks as if he is wrought from marble, from ivory.

And in the next moment, Loki remembers the heat and the pain of lust. His breath falls from parted lips, soft and sibilant. ]

[ He has mastered and been mastered in turn. And knowing the both, he knows only that all love, all passion, all cruelty and heartbreak can come only from this shard of winter who rests in his arms, for no matter what they are to one another there is only each other. There is nothing else. That same spirit and body, the great heart which beats within his breast all cry out their hunger for Loki, the pain of their parting, with no hour of peace known to him since he tore himself from his beloved's side. So did Thor learn what love is. It is a shackle, to him, yet he wears this golden chain with sorrowful pride. To have been young and ignorant is the folly of a hundred years ago. He thought himself content, in those indolent years; he had never known what completion was.

So as Loki's fingers work steadily at the swell of his cock, a great tremor comes upon him like the earth shaking underfoot, but he neither urges nor retreats; his hands are tender as they cup Loki's face, as the winter presses near enough for the kiss, his lips parting easily under the spell of it. It is as though he never left Loki's bed. Yet it is all changed, and the weight of grief and betrayal lays between them, with Thor's strong hands and Loki's bitter love to reach between them.

He shifts, pushing the winter to his back, weighing him down from above. Thor kisses and kisses him, tender, thorough, patiently searching his mouth as though to learn anew the cold sweet taste of him. ]

They have seen a king broken and fled from his own palace. [ His voice comes heavy, his lips gently explore the sharp pale features of Loki's face. ] Now they will see him return and sit his throne with the winter in his arms. They will be as one, the summer and winter, they will be woven so tightly that none may part them, so that the snow falls to blanket the fertile fields and the sun warms the mountain peaks to falls of water.

[ Loki takes each kiss and crafts it anew, his tongue sliding past soft wind-chapped lips to taste again the warmth he had once nearly extinguished.

Master and mastered, mastered and master. The dark instincts within Loki's heart of ice sing to him, calling for the love he had once bound to himself beyond fate's cruelty, beyond even the safety of the summer-king and the babes that grew within his fertile body. He smothers them with sheer force of will, his teeth slotted together in a grimace.

And when Thor rises above him, the sunlight setting each strand of golden hair ablaze, Loki's hands cannot help but reach up to him, and to draw him again down for the comfort of skin against skin. The power of Thor's body comes with no insubstantial weight, and Loki feels like the spread of a butterfly pinned to the sheets below.

A thought oozes from the darkness, taking prominence with insidious strength. ]

And if I should forget myself even in your arms, and again take up my blade of malice? [ His hands shift, cupping Thor's face, stilling the flow of restless kisses. ] Will you have the strength to do what you must?

[ The door is left open; sunlight and warmth filter through the cracks in the crude logs which make this crude cottage, this little offering of gentle solace. The light warms his back, as his body warms Loki in turn better than any sheets or furs could do; and all around them is the pungent herbs and the scent of sweat and skin, drawn on every breath, a taste of life and desire and renewal. If Loki's words remind him of the shadows of their love, it is only that which Thor accepts and shoulders willingly as the burden of care. With life there is death, with joy there is grief, and with summer there is winter; they are vital to one another.

So Loki taught him. He leans down his head so that they rest brow to brow, reluctant to answer. He knows what he ought to say, yet this is the first truth and the last: that he cannot tear his life away from Loki's hands again, if the king of winter should want it. There is so little left to tear. ]

Once you bade me vow that I would never fall by your hand. I kept my oath; but please, my heart, do not ask me to keep it again.

[ His eyes open and he looks at Loki beneath him, held between Loki's hands. ]

Will you not vow yourself to me this time? That we will know and love one another, and that if the knowing should ever fade, better we fall together than be torn apart once again?

[ Once, an eternity past, Loki had believed himself capable of immolating thought and desire both. He had seen himself alone and forgotten, a creature whittled to naught but bone and blackened heart. He had reached within himself and found no song, no words worth speaking; he had thought himself meant only as fate's perpetrator of destruction.

Now, again, he'd thought to immolate hatred and malice instead, and thus find perpetuity for the verdant fields, for the children blossomed from his own seed. For Thor.

Because the world will suffer, if Thor falls. Loki has loved him and hated him beyond all others, and still one truth beats singularly in his heart: that no moment of birdsong, no wide open sky of blue, no wine or mead or sweet meltwater can compare to the warmth of Thor's embrace.

Loki's fingers spread, drifting over the curve of Thor's cheekbones, down the slope of his nose; his thumbs brush along the arch of eyebrows, down the strong jut of his chin. ]

Very well. [ he whispers, his voice a ruin of sound; his fingers are tracing the curl of Thor's mouth, restless, fervent. There is sorrow in him: old, quiet sorrow that has stripped the all other emotion from him. He lies as a corpse in Thor's arms, but still he smiles, still his eyes gleam wetly. ] Here I will remain, until winter and summer clasp hands and invoke oblivion's hospitality. I swear it upon the love I bear for you. [ His smile twists; his sorrow is like cold metal at his own throat. ] And so we shall damn all others to fall alongside what we have wrought.

Have no fear, beloved. [ His lips fall gentle upon the arch of Loki's cheekbone and at the corner of his eye, tasting the salt of tears; his kisses are like drops of rain. ] The world has changed, even as we have gone old; it is a harder place, and it will grow harder still, but mortal life will change itself as it must to persevere.

[ And if it should not? Then let all fade away to dust and shadow, as surely he and Loki must, for he cannot bear to live long in a world without the king of winter lain sweet and yielding in his arms.

Still Loki is a twisted creature, cold and quiet with sorrow, and Thor has known grief that weighs him as heavily as a stone. He has grown, he has changed himself to bear it, but the pain has worn him, printed lines and shadows upon his face, in his eyes. He will not go back to the palace but that Loki is there beside him, forever his consort; and this here will be their shelter, their solace, until strength is returned, until sorrow has faded and grown soft with the bittersweetness of memory. ]

Kiss me, my heart. [ he murmurs to him, as Loki's fingers trace his skin. ] Yield up your sweetness for me, as you did when we were young. I have not had your love upon me for so long, and I have ached so for you. We can know happiness again.

[ And why, indeed, should the king of winter wet his face with the sorrow of mortal men? Why shall his withered heart grow old and tender with grief fueled by thought of others outside of the meager reach of cold limb and body? He looked once into an eternity of solitude, and felt the reality cleave his mind from his body; has he not suffered injustice enough for a thousand thousand mortals, and all of their future blood and issue?

Yet still a shard of truth-glass aches in his soft underbelly, a shard of innocence and of fortitude, a shard of a child once sweet and chaste, and Loki cannot forget entire what it meant to care for more than Thor-king and Loki-king. He was born to rule, and ruling is no selfish endeavor.

Loki draws up Thor's great hand, and presses it to the bared knotted scar of the runes once carved into his chest. There is magic in this, too, for the touch sends a spiraling warmth into Loki's very bones. ] What, then, is happiness? [ asks the king of the frost, and he smiles through the tears that freeze upon his downturned face. His hair tumbling into his face, he kisses the narrowing of Thor's wrist, down the twist of his vein, into the bend of his elbow, greedy for the warmth of skin. ] Teach me, beloved. [ he murmurs, cradling Thor's arm to his chest. ] I feel it in the touch of your hands upon me, but still its meaning flees from my grasping mind. I am again your willing and eager pupil, as I was so many years ago.

[ Thor wants so badly to bury himself in the heart of these woods, to forgo kingship for the sake of his love, to take in selfishness what he has been denied for so long. The pain of it, the pain of a broken heart has been more than he knows how to bear. Yet Loki will not have him, that he is not a king crowned and wise and glorious, and in Thor's heart he knows it must be so, that the domain of summer is bound within him, and withers without him. Does he not know it? Did he not give his own children for mankind's need?

But here he will have solace and sweetness, for a time; here he and Loki will find one another out of the wind, out of the storm, until necessity recalls them to the heart of their joined kingdoms.

He caresses the ruins of his own name, then caresses Loki's beautiful, ruined face, the gaunt hollowness of his features, the tears cold upon his cheeks. He kisses them so that they melt to the warmth of his own lips. He rolls them over again, urges Loki down to his back in the warm embrace of sheets and furs, and reaches for fragrant oil. ]

Spread your legs, sweet one. [ he whispers, his voice a wrench of longing.

A quick slick of his cock is all he desires. His fingers press between Loki's legs and open him insistently, slipping within the beloved cleft of his body, the eager yielding. ]

[ Loki would name his summer-king a fool and worse, if he knew the meandering paths of thought newly traversed. They were made to be kings, and gods, but is it not the right of the divine to forge their own causeways, and to build their own cities of bone and gemstones and ash?

Oh, he will name himself a consort in the service of the summer-king's realms, but never will Loki rise from the shadows with only joy and succor upon his heart. The mortals will suffer for their part in this parody of love, until they too learn to fear the winter as well as they love the summer.

Thor has wrought for them a humble palace of solace and sweetness, indeed, for all its worth; yet Loki falls back against the furs and blinks away the ice of his tears without tearing himself away from the creature of hatred and loneliness that he has become. If Thor would love him, he cannot turn away from the past that has changed them both.

So Loki spreads his legs and tilts his face up for a kiss; so he smiles with terror and grief and malice braided into the fabric of his heart. ]

Enough. [ he whispers, drawing Thor to him with the strength of his arms and the vice of his spread thighs. ] I have waited long enough. Come.

[ He touches his brow to Loki's, closes his eyes, presses his lips to his cheek to taste the frozen salt of tears. ]

Can I give you no comfort first?

[ Is there to be no easing, no sweetness between them? No tenderness in the ruins of their hearts? No matter. If love is a ferocious, malicious thing, it is still love, and he is still swelled with it, body and heart. Thor cups Loki's thighs to spread them still wider for himself, his hips nudging between. He brings his slickened cock to the yielding hole, mounts and thrusts.

At once buried, at once so sweetly sheathed, his mouth covering Loki's to swallow his very breath, and Thor catches his legs at the crook of his elbows to hold them apart for him. His body slides, his hips hitch and thrust, the old sturdy frame of the bed creaking beneath the strength of the motion, the surge of his body against Loki's. Once he was young and his fucking was full of life and vigor and joy. Now he is an older creature, in the prime of strength and fertility, thrusting deep into the familiar hungry clasp of the winter's body, thrusting steadily and hard, brutal certainty in his hands.

Forever his, now. In love or in bitterness, bound to him, vowed to him, Loki will be his thrall now and forevermore, his lover and consort. ]

Edited 2012-12-25 02:46 (UTC)

[ What use has Loki for comfort?

No, better the painful truth driven deep into his mind and body. Better that Thor lay his hands upon him and leave bruises dark below skin. Better that their bodies forget the love of old and forge chain-links a thousand times stronger and a thousand times heavier.

Past the wandering judgment of all the mortals that would look, there beyond the mountains crowned with snow, there Loki will tuck their memories. The sky will heal over the rent they have left in its black flesh, and beyond the scarred surface will be joy enough for a lifetime. One day, when they need it most, it will be waiting for them.

So Loki holds Thor close, not as the starved creature grown cold in his own hatred, but as a body holds a body — for the animal need of warmth and of succor alone. What need has he for comfort, when he has the pain made steady by Thor's hands? ]

Later. [ says Loki, ice upon his breath, but they are words meant not to soothe himself, but for Thor instead. ] Afterwards.

Afterwards. [ he echoes, his voice caught breathless with longing and with pleasure and with pain, his cock thrust deep within Loki, slick and full, plunging, plundering steadily, taking and taking of all the sweetness his prince of winter could offer him. Never again his king, not here. That must never be; never again must Loki place his hands on him in mastery, or make Thor spread his golden thighs and yield himself for him, for surely he will forget and forgo his own kingship for all the sweetness of being Loki's thrall, and thus wither away to nothing once more.

So he will master instead, and bind Loki to him, and keep the winter ever beside the throne of summer, leashed to his loving hand, that if cold and pain and darkness should follow him that too will be Thor's to rein short.

His body lays heavily upon Loki's, his kisses as ruthless and plundering as his cock, as his strong arms holding Loki's thighs apart. How sweet this soft tight hole which clasps around him, sweeter than any other lover's Thor has ever known, for no matter who shared his bed there was always an emptiness, a hollowness in being with them, a rift within him where his beloved had been. Eventually he withdrew from the palace to this ascetic's hut and taken no lovers at all. Solitude was preferable, when he could not have the one he loved. ]

My heart. [ His lips brush Loki's softly, his hips drive relentlessly forth. He has never felt so potent, so full of power and life as when the prince of winter is spread beneath him. Perhaps there will be more children for them yet; perhaps this time he will sow his beloved instead, and see him ripe as summer fruit hanging heavy upon the vine. ]

A garden, perhaps. For the winter-king to tend.

[ says Loki, his voice a whisper. He laughs, soft and sharp, and yet there is sweetness in the curl of his mouth as he drinks from Thor's lips. ]

With blooms of ice and vines of black frost.

[ His breath catches when Thor bears him hence; he shifts like the ripple of light upon rushing water, fitting himself into Thor's hands. ]

There, a scant patch of land where I may pour my cruelty forth without consequence. [ And his legs hitch upwards, tightening about Thor's torso, dragging each thrust to its brutal apex. Once, he had shattered Thor apart upon his bed of white fur — today, he will allow Thor to do the same to him. He needs no master but that of Thor's warmth weighing inescapable upon him, no pleasure other than the thrust of Thor's body upon his own. He speaks breathlessly and without thought, his mind lost in his body's yearning. ]

The ugliest garden ever to grow. Will you allow it?

If you wish it so.

[ A groan, a straining, Thor piercing deep and ruthless, plunging within his sweet errant lover, the dark creature he once fled from, whose body between his hands is all he has ever wanted. Loki's white thighs are tight around his body, binding him, binding himself to Thor. He is ever to be his, now, to be shackled to him, the leash round his throat, the end in Thor's hands. To kneel at his feet and have pleasure from his hand, only from his hand. ]

But by your crafting, my love— [ Breathless, Thor takes his mouth with a brief hot plunge of his tongue, taking and taking of the cold sweet taste of him, and then speaking again: ] By your crafting I can only imagine it beautiful.

[ The twisting ice and vine, the black soil, the glitter of frost. Perhaps Loki will lead him through it hand in hand, and show him all his creation, and lay himself down upon the hard cold earth to be loved. ]

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A Picture is Worth... Meme.

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