The Best Sort of Poison (M!A)
"Brother! Just the man I wished to see!" The goddess of thunder is placing an oddly suggestive emphasis on the word "man". - And batting her eyelashes like a lovestruck four-hundred-year old. Oh, the Odindottir has all the flirting subtlety of a trainwreck, and it's not at all improved by the way she puts her hand on his hip, suddenly invading his space, flushed with more than just mead. "I find myself wishing for such pleasurable company, that only you could provide!"
Thor's booming jolly was met with a slowly quirked eyebrow from her brother: amusement the furthest thing from Loki's mind as the trickster god wished for nothing more than to be quit of his sister, for her to remove her hands from his person, and to be holed up in his personal library with the most recent runic magic book that he had managed to find in one of the different realms.
"I am sure, sister, that you can find some other man to entertain you," he bit out, words terse and freely giving voice to his annoyance. He removed Thor's hands from his hip, pushing her away--irritated that it was he that she should turn to when drunk. "I have things that I must attend to. If nothing else, go to your bed and sleep off your drunken binge--for I am sure that you have once again been deep in your cups."
