Plurk Meme prompt drabble things [NSFW]

[thorforgottoshower]

HAL/HUNTSMAN - WALTZING

It was late - around the time most of the drunks were settling down to pass out on a corner or hobble off to their homes, and one lone, half sober minstrel sat under a tree, strumming gently at a mandolin idly, filling the quiet street with sweet, somber music. The huntsman thought back to the royal banquet of a few nights before, remembered how he'd seen Hal glide elegantly across a ballroom floor with various princesses or duchesses on his arm and Eric had sat at a corner, sipping wine and knowing, while he despised dancing itself, that even if he'd wanted, he couldn't sweep young, beautiful Hal across the floor and watch that charming smile light up on his lips. Not there.

Slowing his steps, the Huntsman wove his fingers through the prince's at his side and tugged him to stop in the street, giving a mild, sleepy-eyed smile for Hal's confused look as he tugged him forward, a hand slipping around his waist. A moment into Eric guiding him into the measured steps of a waltz, Hal'd head tilted back, letting out the sweet sort of laugh Eric lived to hear, and placed a hand on his shoulder, falling easily into the dance. The couldn't tell how long they twirled slowly around in a contented silence, there in the dirt street with mud still stuck to their boots, but eventually Hal's head would drop to Eric shoulder, his arms around his neck, and the waltz would turn to a gentle, rhythmic sway, the Huntsman bowing his head to press lips to Hal's temple, knowing this was far better than any stiff elegant ballroom - here he didn't have to share Hal's light, blissful smile against his chest with anyone, a thing saved only for him.


HAL/HUNTSMAN - SLEEPING ON SOMEONE

It's not often the Huntsman's able to keep his prince overnight, what with the responsibilities laid on his shoulders, yet there is the occasional nights Hal can give the excuse of a hunting trip or something similar and have his brothers vouch for him in the mean time. Eric's fingers carded lightly through the loose, bed-messed strands of hair laid against his chest, trying to decide what exactly he should call the shade of it while the moonlight played over it through a nearby window. A light sort of brown that still gleamed in the sunlight, some strands highlighted a near rust color - like autumn leaves - looking rich and vibrantly offset of pale, porcelain skin.

Hal's breath filters warm, soft and soothing across the bare skin of Eric's chest and he finds himself sighing at the tingle it leaves behind. On nights like this, he doesn't sleep much. He doesn't find himself needing to fight tiredness much, simply the will to watch the minor changes in Hal's expression and hear the soft noises he makes in his sleep - sighs, quiet hums, the occasional snore that has him chuckling - keeping him awake.


CATTY/JACKSON - INFATUATION

It had started as idle bickering, teasing, and as Catty kept up with him on it more and more, not pulling an appalled look like Lydia would if he was particularly condescending or scathing. Eventually it turned to Jackson sending her random texts to bitch about school, life, cars, various people they both knew, and Catty telling him to stop being such a whiner. At what point it hard turned from that to picking her up for random fast food runs, trips to the mall to shoot the shit and the occasionally aquarium visit, Jackson couldn't tell, but he'd noticed about three weeks after that Catty had somehow become the first person he phoned when something funny or annoying happened.

Or the one he'd call from the back seat of his Porsche after spending the last hour drinking and shooting lacrosse balls at a plastic hoop so he could have someone he could Not Talk About It with.

Jackson wouldn't admit it, because Jackson Whittemore doesn't go after people, they come to him and he decides whether or not they're worth his time. But he had a feeling it didn't even matter what he proclaimed he does and does not do because Catty always sees through his bullshit, with a small, half-quirked smile, patting him on the cheek as if to say 'there there, I won't tell your secret'.


MARION/JACKSON - STORYTELLING

"No shit, so then while he was running at me, this like 15 foot tall wolf-man, I shoved the grenade straight into his mouth--"
"Stiles told me they were molotovs and you guys didn't get there until the end..."
"Stiles is full of shit. So I shove it in his mouth and ducked behind the Ferrari--"
"I thought you drove a Porsche..."
"Whatever, stop interrupting. Do you want to know or not?"
"Okay, fine, go ahead."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"So then his head exploded like a fuzzy pinata and wolf guts flew everywhere."
"The end?"
"The end."
"That was a beautiful story, Jackson."
"You're damn right it was."
"You're also full of shit."
"Says the person who wasn't even there."
"Okay, honey, whatever you say."


LOKI/THOR - MAGIC

Some nights, restlessness would get to Thor and no amount of tossing and turn and sleeping droughts would have him settle into unconsciousness. It wasn't a matter of insomnia or troubled thoughts, the thunderer just merely would find himself with an excess of energy and no means to purge it. So even far into adult years, he would pull on a robe and wander across the palace, bare feet padding lightly against the cool marble flooring, and with a wooden creak, he'd push the door open to his brothers' room, peering into the shadows there. Somehow, Loki was always awake when he arrive - either because he knew he was coming by whatever means or just didn't sleep much himself. Thor would stand quietly at the door, head poked through, as it waiting for permission, and with a roll of his eyes and a quiet, exasperated sigh, Loki would motion him in.

They didn't speak because by now Loki well knew why he had come and Thor no longer needed to explain. He'd just crawl onto Loki's bed, hands pressing down against the soft furs covering it. They'd shift until Loki sat up against the headboard and Thor in front of him, slouched against his chest between his legs, Loki's chin brushing against the top of his head, and that's when Loki's hands would raise up in front of him. Slowly, soft lights conjured in the air before Thor's eyes - soothing, clear blues, vibrant greens and swirling reds and purples - sometimes vague patterns and sometimes forming recognizable figures. Loki's voice, quiet and smooth in that way it always was, sounded at his ear either reciting old stories from cultures he knew Thor hadn't bothered to research or sometimes just what seemed like nonsensical words in another language - Thor never really discerned it. What mattered was the voice at his ear, Loki's magic alive and thrumming and enchanting swirling around him, and the warmth at his back. It wouldn't be over twenty or so minutes before the crown prince would blink his eyes sluggishly, and shortly after, slump against the body behind him, lulled into a deep slumber.



SNOW/HUNTSMAN - SCARS

“Ow, watch it, woman.”
“Stop being a baby.”
“Stop sticking your fingers in open wounds.”
“I’m not.” But as she slaps the bandage on, she might make an extra point to smooth the cloth out excessively hard, the Huntsman giving her an irritated glare for the action. But he doesn’t actually mind as much as he puts on - he never does - a part of him enjoying the feeling of her hands on his skin and a moment of silence falls after as she dabs around the wound, unnecessary lingering but neither are about to comment on it. After a moment, Snow’s finger drift lightly across tanned, wore skin, tracing at another long, jagged scar on a bicep that looked to have healed years ago - which spoke of it’s severity in that it still remained such a prominent mark on his skin. He watches her hand, not protesting, and eventually a quiet mumble from from him. “From the war. Took a spear over the shield.”

A quiet hum of acknowledgement slips from Snow before she moves to the next, another old scar bisecting a collarbone, very close to his neck. He tilts his head slightly to allow her to trace it upwards onto his shoulder. “Bear. Almost took my head off.” A little snort comes from her and a twitch of a smile, imagining the Huntsman might have thought he could wrestle the thing if it had gotten so close. Stupid man. He raises an eyebrow at her, letting out a chuckle even as he protests. “Don’t smile. I could’ve died.”


CHIEF/CAPA - PRIVATE MOMENT

Capa's breath came from him and staggered jerks, trying to make as little noise as possible with his back pressed to the solid metal of Chief's suit behind him - the both of them having dove into a supply closet in the hospital when they'd heard something large and hulking thudding down the next hall. It's steps outside slowed, stalking, outside the thin, inch or so of plexi-wood that separated them from the horror beyond it and Capa's heart was pounding so loud in his chest he was sure the thing would hear it, and Cheif would definitely feel it through his arms holding Capa back from the door. Jaw screwing shut, he clenched his eyes tight and lifted his head a little urging himself to be still as fear screamed through him and it wasn't until a gloved hand squeeze quietly at his arm, Chief no doubt realizing Capa was losing his shit, that he let his eyes open in the dim of the closet and he felt his heart rate begin to slow.

His mind pulled at the memories of fitting Chief's armor back onto his chest after they'd emerged from the void - the two alone in the flashlight-lit dimness of the shipping crate turned lab as Chief sat in a chair, Capa leaning over a shoulder to fit the joints of the armor together at his shoulder. He'd hovered perhaps a little closer than he really needed to, and after the snap of the mechanism fitting together, his hands had lingered for a moment, fingertips brushing at the side of the soldier's neck before he pulled them away and he silently hoped he was as painfully obvious as he'd felt. He hadn't needed the hand placed on Chief's bicep to supposedly steady himself either, as he leaned to pressed together the joints at the side, but Capa's normally colder than usual fingers had curled against the muscle there - finding it out how smooth, warm and human his skin was beneath this metal shell he wore around all the time.

"Doctor?" Chief ends up having to shake Capa to bring him back to the present, the thing outside having passed, and Capa muttered a 'sorry' before pulling away from him and pushing the door open, silently hoping there wasn't anything inside that helmet that would tell how much his body heat had spiked in the last couple minutes.


THOR/CHIEF - STORYTELLING

Nights on the Charon had turned into something that felt very much like nightfall on a camp, when Thor had been out on quests with Sif, the Warriors 3 and some other brave men - a fire quietly burying in a tin can between them as Thor took pulls from the strange Midgardian ale he’d found in one of the cargo holds. But more so than that, it was the stories that really solidified the feel - Chief listening attentively as Thor went on about raids of the frost giants and great wars he’d been part of and the proper means of downing the Bilge Snipe. Chief himself didn’t often offer up many stories, and Thor still didn’t really understand what ‘classified’ meant, but he’d known Phil, Son of Coul, to have thrown the term around a few times, and the Son of Coul was one he greatly respected and if it had been something important to him than he wouldn’t mind Chief keeping his stories to himself in the same manner.

Still, even with less stories from the metal soldier’s side, Thor had more than enough to fill the silence, and was more than happy to go into great detail, even occasionally giving voices to some of the people in the stories and the monsters he fought too, hand gestures growing more wild and ridiculous the more he drank. After even a week of this, Chief was sure to have gained an extensive knowledge of Asgard’s culture, battle practices, and war history. And each night before retiring to bed, the thunderer would lift himself from his seat, give Chief a hearty slap on the back that might have knocked over normal men and waved him goodnight with a grin and happy shouted ‘Until tomorrow, my friend’... possibly waking another asleep on the first couple decks down..


CAPA/MARION - SLEEPING ON SOMEONE

Capa wasn’t really sure where the giant wolf had come from and he wasn’t about to ask it because, hello, wolf. But he’d stayed painfully still as the thing approached, nerves on edge and mind screaming a little, sure it was going to attack him, up until it just... flopped into his lap. Uhm. For about twenty minutes, Capa didn’t move, afraid of waking it, but eventually, his eye caught a small patch of red on the beast’s fur, noticing a gash over one of it’s front legs. He had his medical kit beside him and he thought to react for it, but... he wasn’t qualified as a medical doctor to begin with, let alone a veterinarian. And what if the antiseptic stung and the thing woke, all growling and snapping at him? It would really suck to have his face clawed off right now.

Eventually, after staring at the wound for a long moment, he decided fuck it, and pulled up the kit to unpack it. A moment later, a cloth was soaked in something to clean the wound and he set at it, ever so gently, stopping any time a twitch or small movement came from the animal, because oh sweet science he did not want to die by wolf mauling. It took a while, but eventually it was clean and he spent the next thirty minutes or so holding gauze against it, because what medical tape would stick to fur? When the wolf eventually woke back up, Capa watched it glance to the wound at it’s leg and then to Capa, as if it knew Capa had been the one to patch it up. For a second, he was sure his face was going to get bitten off, but then there was just a fuzzy sort of headbutt in thanks and the animal wandered off.

It was the strangest experience Capa had had to date.


SNOW/HUNTSMAN - WALTZING

“I’m not wearing anything frilly.” He grumbled, then cursed a second later as he stepped on Snow’s toe for what must have been the third time in the last ten minutes. Patient as a saint, the princess shook her head and attempted to suppress a smile, not commenting on his terrible dancing skills.

“I’m not asking you to, Huntsman.” She comments, holding her head regally high as she guides him along the floor. He should really be the one leading this, but telling him to would result in him standing still in the middle of the room, staring at her with a wry frown, so until he knew the steps correctly, Snow had a hand around his waist and guided his to her shoulder, while she attempted to lead from over a foot below him. “So long as you do not where your grime covered leather.”

He snorted at that and tripped up once more, a quiet ‘shit’ hissed out, which he gets a prompt pinch in the side for, frown deepening to a scowl. “I like my grime covered leather.”

“Well I don’t and it’s my ball.” Noticing his head tilted down, eyes locked on his boots as he shuffles around the room after him, Snow brings a hand up to tilt his chin to lift. She’s told you not to look at your feet while you dance, Huntsman, stop it. The hand lingers there for a moment, before smoothing over his jaw, texture of his scruff a pleasant kind of tickle under her palm. She won’t tell him to shave as well, because as much as she may complain about it, she likes the roughened look of him. “So your grime covered leather stays home.”

A small, intimate sort of half-smile pulls at his lips, one few other people see besides Snow. Stepping back, he surprises her with sending her into a flourish sort of twirl, pulling a giggle from the princess before he tugs her back to his chest, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before resuming. “Yes, My Queen.”


THOR/LOKI - INNOCENCE

When Thor was first introduced to Loki, at first he’d vehemently complained, saying he didn’t want a brother, afraid his parents’ attention would wander to the new baby and he’d be forgotten - Thor was never good at sharing. “No! I don’t want him!” He’d pouted when Frigga had asked if he wanted to hold Loki, but all it had taken was one of Thor’s aunts chuckling lightly at his side, reaching for the beautifully emerald eyed child as she spoke. “Then maybe I will take him. Would you like that, little Loki?” Thor paused for a moment, mulling it over. He decided it didn’t sit well with him that the pale little thing that met his eyes and reached a little hand toward him, cooing lightly, would be taken away. After all, Loki was his brother and if anyone should have him, he should.

He pushed his way past his mother’s legs, shoving in front of the aunt threatening to steal his new baby brother from him and pulled himself up so he could see over the mattress. “No! He’s mine!” The little golden son proclaimed defiantly and pulled at the edges of the blanket Loki was swaddled up in to drag him over. Careful, Frigga had chided between giggles at Thor’s pouting indecisiveness. The weeks after that, Thor had been inseparable from Loki, so much so Frigga had to send him from the room when he needed changing or feeding. He could be seen carrying him around the palace, from room to room, talking in rambling sentences as he informed Loki of this and that and what he was allowed to play with and what was Thor’s but maybe if Loki was nice, and since Thor was such a good big brother, he would let Loki have it too. When anyone else went to pick him up, even his father, Thor would scowl at them and tell them ‘Careful!’ as if they were so much more likely to harm little Loki than him. And at night, even after Frigga had tried so hard to move him to his own room, Thor would settle into Loki’s crib with him, watching, almost entranced, as the baby would giggle and grasp a hand around Thor’s finger and tug at his hair. He made a promise then and there that he wouldn’t let anyone else take his baby brother from him. Loki was his and everyone everywhere should know that.


HAL/HUNTSMAN - LUXURY

Huntsman wasn’t a particular fan of the public baths when Hal did take him. He was right in that some people that really shouldn’t be walking around in only a towel were and he got the odd feeling he was being stared at on occasion. But what bothered him more so than that, more so than being half nude around a bunch of strangers and random attendants trying to give him shoulder massages, was that people were staring at Hal. It was easy enough to see and whether it was because everyone there knew he was Harry, Prince of Wales, of the fact that they could all see just as easily as him how Hal’s skin glistened with the thin sheen of humidity covering it, making thin muscles and sinew shine under certain like, how his long, slender legs dangled elegantly and tempting as he swung a foot idly from the bench he sat at. And beyond that, how his neck bent beautiful, muscles softly pulling and skin outlined by small, wet trails the droplets from his hair made, down the curves of his throat to pool around the hollow of his throat or collarbones - any time he turned his head to speak to someone, bent to pick something up, threw his head back in near on musical laughter.

And Huntsman wanted to punch everyone in the room that he could see noticing that.

Poins would likely come first, as the man kept clapping Hal’s naked shoulders, pulling that sweet laughter from him, sitting way too close for Eric to be comfortable with as petulantly jealous as the Huntsman was feeling at the moment. But he couldn’t pounce Hal here in front of everyone and he couldn’t walk over a press him against a wall and mark his deliciously warm, wet skin territorially and have the man gasp under him, head thrown back.

And worse than that, he couldn’t even entertain those thoughts for too long, because it would begin to be painfully obvious to those around him what exactly was going through his head as he stared intensely at the young prince. Towels are a terrible thing and public near on nudity is a terrible thing and baths should be between two people, two people named Hal and Eric and Poins should be thrown from a rooftop his he slaps a hand on Hal’s knee one more time.

As if noticing the silent fury going on in his dear friend Huntsman, Hal stopped mid-sentence in the witty story he was expounding on to Poins and another bath goer, eyeing Eric a little sidelong as he sat against the far wall, hands very firmly in his lap. He politely excused himself from his company, waving a hand as Poins as he almost followed, and tilted a head towards another section of the room, indicating that the Huntsman should follow. He led him to one of the round, wooden tubs and discarded his towel to the side, perhaps purposefully knowing Eric was still behind him, before slipping easily into the water with a quiet sigh. A hand waved the Huntsman after him and he soon followed suit.

“I hate your friend.” The man grumbled as he settled next to him. The bath was more off center of the room, in a corner more dimly lit and Eric felt Hal’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him to turn his back to him.

“You hate everyone.” Spoken with a lilted laugh, Eric pleased now to have that all his own.

Long fingers began to knead at the muscles of his shoulders, massaging the tension that had built there slowly out of his frame and, even grumbling, the Huntsman bowed his head, letting out a pleased sigh at the contact. “I hate him very particularly.”

“Shh.” A quiet pinch to his shoulder and Eric was quiet, just enjoying the feel of Hal’s hands on his skin. Yes, now the Huntsman could actually enjoy the bath, and maybe later attempt to sneakily jerk off Hal under the water and watch with a smirk as he tried to keep up a visage of propriety. But that would be about all the value Eric saw in the overly luxurious baths, preferring, for most of the future, to just find a nice, remote hot spring.