Work Text:
The crown prince of Asgard has always enjoyed the company of warriors. He values that which is direct in its honesty, forthright, bold and unflinching, and these things he finds and treasures in his companion Avengers. There will always be a rather battered corner of his heart reserved for cunning, guile and a wicked grin that is all too sharp, but he is a Prince; extravagant vices are to be expected of him.
It is the company of these heroes he treasures among all he has seen of Midgard, and so, as a Prince ought to do with those he calls his own, Thor has learned to see them in their own light, far brighter and more varied than the reflected effulgence of Asgard can render them.
And so where the Widow might, upon Asgard, be regarded as a liesmith and web-weaver nigh unto Loki's skills, he sees her staunch, iron core of honour and fierce loyalty, and knows her for a friend. And so where Hawkeye's distant, silent attacks might smack of cowardice in the Allfather's armies, Thor has seen a vast courage in his willingness to stand, knowing himself the weakest of their number, and never to complain of his vulnerability. And so where IronMan's bluster and charm might ring for a braggart's challenge in Valhalla's halls, Thor has seen the haunt of a great sin lurking beneath his careless taunts and heroic deeds, and knows him for a penitent knight of great courage indeed. And so where Doctor Banner might seem a timid bondsman, skilled in hand and yielding in manner, Thor has seen his moral center hold like a mountain against the great force of a madness which, upon any of the nine realms might justly name him monstrous. And so, in all his forms, Thor knows him for the gentlest of heroes.
It is only the Captain, he supposes, who might be taken in the halls of Asgard for just exactly the same sort of hero he is known to be here; brave, stalwart, true, a knight whose strength is honor, whose courage does not falter, whose shield holds fast over the weak of his world. No Asgardian would suppose Steven Rogers to be anything less, and were he born of Aesir and raised to manhood within the Allfather's realm, rest assured he would never allow less to be seen of him without demanding his honor's due of any who supposed him weak, or wavering beneath the weight of his duties.
And so Thor thinks it is best for them both that he has come to understand better of the man.
Their victory was hard-won today, their enemy one with a particular hatred for the Captain himself, and ready to strike without honour at any he might seek to shelter. The Son of Coul has warned that the tale-tellers of Midgard will speak of the battle harshly, and question whether it might be called a victory at all, having cost much and hurt many. Worst of all, the blood of their own was numbered in the tally. In all ways, it is the worst sort of battle for the Captain to bear, and it is for this reason that Thor seeks him out afterward. He is not surprised to find him in the training hall.
He watches at first, silent in the doorway, admiring the man's tight control that binds in the power of his fists to punish, but not to ruin his target. Rage simmers off his skin though, and it swirls in the air around him, a ferocious musk of fear and helpless frustration that Thor remembers all too well from his own younger days.
"Steven," he says, and pushes from the door as the man catches his hanging bag still and turns back a blazing glance. "Tony is well, the healers say; his arm is not broken, and the shock of the fall has not damaged him overly. They have bidden him rest."
The Captain scoffs, turns back to his bag and settles his foot behind him in a bracing stance. "He won't. He'll check himself out as soon as the nurse's back is turned. Probably go bar hopping before he heads home, too." Then he attacks again, and Thor can tell these blows fall harder than before. Steven knows that Thor is here now, after all, and so there is less need for self-control.
"Our friends agree, and they have gone to pass the time with him until the healer's draughts make him sleep," Thor tells him, circling the hanging bag, watching Steven's face for the flicker of eye, the flex of jaw. "He asks after you." Ah, there. A blow too great -- the chain snaps, and Thor catches the heavy bag in both hands before it flies to the wall. Sand leaks across his knuckles like a timid apology in the silence.
"I can't," Steven closes his eyes to admit this. "Not yet. I'm still too mad. I can't -- I won't be reasonable. I won't be fair to him. Not yet."
*Know your place, brother!* Thor's own seething voice haunts him quietly from a distance of years, and Thor nods, letting the bag slump to the floor.
"No," he agrees, dusting the sand from his hands and walking with measured, even steps to where the Captain stands with his hands curling and flexing as his chest bellows with breaths almost too large for him to contain. "I think you are wise to respect the barb of his tongue just now. Pain has made it free, and he is in some temper." He stops just out of reach, giving Steven every chance to refuse. "Much as you are."
Steven does not look away. His eyes as blue as any Aesir son's stay fixed upon Thor's face as his shoulders straighten to the silent offer between them. The restless hands curl tight, and then open, bruised flowers wrapped in linen and worry. He nods, a tiny twitch of his chin; no greater permission to be given. Nor would Thor dream of asking it -- there was a time not long ago, when he would not have imagined even this much. He takes the last step, sets both his hands upon Steven's shoulders, and then begins to push down.
He is a strong man, is the Captain, more powerful than any born of Midgard save the Hulk. It is no easy thing for even a prince of the Aesir to drive Steven Rogers to his knees, and were this a true battle between them, Thor knows he would be made to pay dearly for his victory before he won it. But this battle is not between them, Thor and Steven -- it is between Steven, his pride, and his burden of command, and it is not a fight which, after today, the Captain wishes much to win. But surrender does not come easily to him, and so Steven is groaning under the strain of Thor's grip, his teeth clenched in a face twisted and gleaming before his knees finally give way and he falls panting to the padded floor.
Thor tries not to think overly hard about the curl of warmth he feels in his belly as he steps close between Steven's parted knees and sweeps his hand through the tousled, sweat-damp hair. It had seemed abstract when Natasha had explained to him the strange dance of power and pain that Steven led between Clint and Tony -- that a strong man may sometimes need to surrender strength to one who might be trusted to give it back again. But here in this warm room redolent of need and rage, feeling the bones of Steven's very human skull beneath his palm and the tremor building in the muscles of his jaw and neck, it is an intimacy nothing short of dizzying.
"Yield to me," he says as Steven makes a noise in his throat, kin at once to sob, gasp, and plea. Then he lets his forehead drop to rest damply in the curve of Thor's hip. His breath is hot and fast even through the heavy weave of his breeches, and Thor can feel himself swell and harden at the gusting heat. "I will shelter you," he promises, easing the tension from Steven's neck with long, smooth strokes. "Be easy. Be easy."
There, at last, is the shuddering sigh he has learned to take for 'yes' in Steven's silence. Thor smiles as the weight against his hip increases, proud to be worthy of his comrade's trust even as he hungers for the swag this victory will make his, however briefly he might hold it.
"I have filled your bath, as you requested Prince Thor," Jarvis speaks from the walls of the room, his voice low and smooth in the silence. "The rest of the team have gone to SHIELD headquarters, and I have turned off the security cameras between the gymnasium and your quarters. Do you require anything else?"
Thor curls his hand around Steven's neck, considering. His breathing has eased, the pulse of blood beneath his skin slowed from its earlier charge. Yes. He catches Steven's hair in his grip, uses it to urge the man to his feet, just long enough to scoop him off of them, and turns for the door, saying, "Have a thrall bring the Captain's shield to my quarters, Jarvis."
Steven tenses in his arms, strains against Thor's grip for only a moment. Then he curls his face down into Thor's neck, as if seeking shelter in the fall of his hair before he yields another tiny nod. Yes, that too. And the heat in Thor's belly uncurls a little more, licks up from an ember to a flame and purrs in anticipation.
~*~
A man's obedience was a matter of oath and honor amoung the Aesir, and the threat of dishonor's stain weighed more heavily than any punitive law or threat of weregild. A warrior of the Aesir chose carefully whom he would serve for his lifetime, and even should his master prove without honor, so long as his service was paid within it, he might yet hope for welcome within either Odin's Valhalle or at Frigga's peaceful Hearthhall once his term of living had passed. But aside from the fealty and service he must give to his liegeholder, a warrior held fiercely to his power and his authority, -- so said the songs, ballads, and mead hall tales -- and raised fists and steel to any who sought to take, talk, or trick it from him.
This was why, when he had first passed by the locked gymnasium door upon that long-ago night, heard the snap of the Captain's whip laced through Hawkeye's straining groan, and smelled blood and anguish seeping beneath the door, he had nearly very nearly risen to his teammate's rescue, and thus gravely wronged them both. Doctor Banner's timely intervention and halting explanations had saved him from that mistake. That night Thor had come away with the fact that sometimes a Midgardian warrior might allow a comrade to do him injury without any lessening of his honor, but he had not at all understood it.
It had damaged his faith in the Captain, made him hesitate and question when the battle-orders came through the speaking device on his helm. For it the Captain was so careless with the honor of one beneath his hand, how could he be trusted with the safety of any? It had damaged the Avengers' prowess in the field when Thor had begun, like IronMan, to disobey, to openly challenge, and to disregard the Captain's plans of attack. And at last, it had nearly led to Hawkeye being killed when Thor's attempts to shield the man from harm led a mighty enemy to his high lurking place. Natasha had called a Thynge between Thor and Stephen the very next day to settle the strife which lay so loud and so silent between them.
From the vantage of the present moment, Thor thinks the woman's wise intervention had come weeks too late. Still, she had, with a bluntness bordering on cruelty, laid out the problem between them, the consequences of failure, and illustrated how far beyond the honor of either man the matter really went. The Loki of his childhood could not have shamed Thor more soundly, and from the way Steven examined his hands while she spoke, the effect cut no less deeply with him. They were Princes of their worlds, whether crowned or no; guardians and warders of a greater thing than mere honor, and they shamed themselves by letting understanding fail between them.
And even understanding that, it had still taken Natasha's clear sight and brutal candor to finally make the matter clear. It all came down to the concept of 'assassin'. Asgard had them, the Wulfsarks, creepers in shadow and silence who do the work of armies when there is no honor to be had in bloodshed. The honor of the Odin's Wolves is a different thing to the flash of armor on the battlefield and the roar of blood and flying fire; it is a thing of shadow and silence, clean death and quick, without suffering or terror between the edge and the end. Thor understood killing without challenge, in an abstract sort of way, but it was not until Natasha explained the concept of penance to him that he really knew what cost such a way must demand of its warrior.
"He makes life and death calls on people who have no defense, kills people who don't even know he's there, and who wouldn't be able to stop it even if they did," she said, cool as an oracle in ivory and black leather. "Clint is a murderer. His targets are ordered by his superiors, and he's a good soldier, so he follows those orders, but in the end, it's still him who ends the life. He's still the one who wakes up to a crowd of dead faces sitting on his bed, all wanting to know why he had to kill them, or if there wasn't any other way."
"But if the terms of his service to his… to SHIELD included such work, then surely his honor stands clean of its stain." Thor does not like remembering his arguments too clearly. How blind they seem to him now. "The blame for those deaths passes to those who commanded them killed."
"That's something you know in your brain," Steven had corrected, stern and wary, "it doesn't help a fella's guts change how they feel. Sometimes a guy can't let go of a mistake until he feels like he's paid for it. And if there's nobody around he can trust to punish him, and be fair about it, then he'll get himself hurt looking to clear that tally." Thor did not know at that time why Steven should have glanced at Natasha then, but he did not miss the narrowing of her eyes when he did so.
Nor did he miss the curdling of guilt within his own belly, and the uncomfortable echo of a hundred thoughtless, painful things he had said to his brother before his exile had unmanned him, destroyed him, and made him up the stronger. Loki's exile had done much the same, in a horrible, jagged, and terrifying way, and Thor wondered, upon many a dark night alone, if even the apples of Idun could let him live long enough to outrun the guilt and pain of it.
But Thor had shoved his own pain aside, glad of the chance to focus on Clinton's. To save what was still in reach and not yearn after what had long since fallen beyond his grasp. "But to whip him," he had shaken his head, too righteous by half. "To treat a brave warrior who respects you as… a thrall! Worse than a thrall, to treat him as a beast…"
Steven had stirred, eyes sharpening to outrage. A part of Thor had been glad of that, of the chance that they might shout their truths at last and have done, but Natasha laid one hand on the Captain's knee, and he had restrained himself to silence.
"There's something else too," Natasha said, her voice cooler than before. "When a child grows up in adversity, in neglect or in abuse, sometimes the only way a child can gain any control over the pain in their life is to own it, to learn to love it." Thor had not hidden his horror at that, but the Widow had shown him no mercy which he did not deserve. "Clint was beaten as a child, abused physically and emotionally by the people who were supposed to be keeping him safe, loving him, and protecting him. So he learned to find pleasure in the middle of pain, and as an adult, he's realized that he can trust Steve to bring him to pleasure, but not to injury."
It was such a new notion, Thor had only been able to nod in silence. Then she had shocked him further with barely a curl of her smile. "Tony was neglected as a child, isolated and ignored, with nobody who cared enough to make him follow the rules. So he sees Steve's disciplines as proof that he's worthy of the effort to correct him. When Steve punishes him, it makes him feel like a real boy, who's loved and noticed, and valuable enough to spank when he's been bad."
That had been the tipping point, to realize that in his effort to protect one teammate, he had failed even to see the same matter happening to another. And if that could happen, if a warrior of such stature as Tony Stark, with such a jealous shieldmate as the Hulk at his back could willingly take himself low before his Captain's hand… Thor had to look to Natasha with shame suddenly, and realize that she was no less such a shieldmate to Clinton, who was a man of no less courage than any of them, and if she trusted Steven to lay hand to her own, then… Oh, by the Norns, he had dishonored them all.
~*~
"Be easy," Thor reminds him, taking one strong hand and picking loose the shredded binding around its knuckles, "you have no foes here, no need of armor." He does not imagine the thin creak of whine hidden in Steven's next breath. This is always the hardest part for him -- laying aside the strength he has fought so hard to win, letting himself be removed from the shelter of his own terrible competence. Thor cannot imagine the man a weakling -- as all agree that once he was -- but when he strips away the blue and red of Captain America's battle armor, Thor can see the ghost of that tiny, fragile boy shadowing Steven's eyes.
Clinton was beaten as a child, Thor muses as the tapes fall away and the bruised, bloodied knuckles beneath ooze in the air. Tony neglected, ignored. But you, Steven; abandoned to manhood when but a child yourself. A weaker soul than yours would surely have broken off low, grown cruel, canny, false and hateful, but not you, lion-eyed; oaken hand; lightning-shield. The kennings suit Steven even now; still and pliant as Thor reveals him to the light with reverent hands. His strength innate, but set by for now in trust as his filthy uniform fall away like the tough rind of a rare, pale fruit -- immaterial, irrelevant. There is a blush of pink emotion along Steven's cheeks and chest; a twitching swell of want in the manhood that lengthens toward the floor; a tremble of nerves in the bloodied hands that curl at his sides. Thor finds him entirely, perfectly beautiful.
There are bruises along his back -- Thor remembers a tumbling roll over the rubble-strewn streets. One knee is swollen awkwardly, but takes weight and bends with but a flinch as Thor removes Steven's boots. The knuckles he had bruised in the gymnasium have begun to heal already. It is, Thor knows now, in the rapid, clean healing of his body, that Steven has hid his heart-wounds all these many mortal years. He shakes his head, and then sets his lips gently to each sign of hurt, lingering over the heated, salty skin to feel the tart spike of pain fade just a little away. 'I know your strength,' he says, silent with each kiss, 'but I grieve to see your wounds.' He does not imagine the shiver Steven gives at each one, just as he does not imagine the curl of satisfaction in his own belly at having won the shivers from him.
When the thrall arrives as ordered, the door behind them whirs, sliding open. Thor has to catch at Steven's hips to still his man's violent flinch. "Stand!" he commands, thrusting to his feet and catching Steven's wrists back down to his sides and then taking hold of his chin to still that panicked, searching gaze. "If danger comes, Steven, I will meet it," he says once the blue settles on him again. "I protect what is mine." And here, he splays one hand over Steven's breastbone, just where the white star brands his armor. This time the shiver is deeper, rattling Steven's breath, rolling his eyes closed. It carries off still more of the tension when it evaporates, and beneath his palm, Thor can feel Steven's heartbeat ease just a little more.
It would be an easy thing to slide that palm upward, to cup the throat in curling fingers, turn the chin aloft and take his pleasure of those damply parted lips. And so after very little thought, Thor does exactly that, and takes a savage joy in the soft, helpless sound his kiss startles free.
He gathers Steven in close, tight to his body, aware and annoyed at his armor's bulk for exactly as long as it takes for the armor to remove itself from his displeasure. Even the leather and cloth that remains is more than he wants between them, but Thor finds himself unwilling to release the man, or to stop kissing him as he feels the resistance drain away into sweetly open compliance and timid reciprocation. The hunger in him rises to the lure, and Thor finds he is pressing his man back over the fold of his arms, lifting, curving his spine to jut hip to hip, and trap Steven's thrust in the crease of his thighs until he can feel the man's every thought dissolving into shudders of sensation and need.
Then, only then does he allow space between them. Only then does he withdraw from his feast of peach-soft lips and nimble tongue, pulling back to look with pride upon the signs of his mastery there. Steven's eyes droop low, hazed and dark beneath the weight of surrender; his cheeks glow with heat, and his lips shine slick and swollen. Entirely beautiful, Thor's belly decides with a purr. He does not say so aloud, knowing that Steven's humility would struggle with the simple praise and rattle the peace Thor has so enjoyed creating.
Instead, he draws Steven back to the floor again, seating him upon his heels, knees spread, cock hanging long and low, but rising to the inexorable beat of his heart. Thor quickens it with a firm caress, weighs the flesh in his hand as it hardens to his touch, and smiles to hear the breath catch on a groan in Steven's throat. Its head lifts proud and red against Steven's belly when Thor at last lets it go.
It is quick work to remove what remains of his clothing then. Boots and shirt flung aside to the waiting thrall in the corner, but he pauses at the ties that hold his breeches up, noting the furtive glimmer of Steven's eyes as they follow his fingers. Not fearful, those eyes but hopeful and shy, struggling, as Steven always seems to do, against the pleasure and comfort he takes in giving suck.
But Thor is accustomed to worship, both as a Prince, and in his callow youth, as a God, and he puts the cloth aside to offer himself to Steven's mouth with grace befitting. "Taste," he murmurs, combing his fingers through short golden strands as a heated gust of want escapes the parting lips to curl around his manhood for a second before lips and tongue eagerly follow.
Oh, this is no hardship. This is no sacrifice at all, to thrust himself into such willing heat, skating past even teeth and pressing tongue to nudge, just nudge at the gates of Steven's throat, to feel the spasm around him before he pulls back, and to wonder if his man would not open even there to his will, were Thor to demand it. He would. Thor looks down into watering eyes and knows it; so great is the heart behind them that it cannot help but prove its courage at every turn, great and small. Steven would yield to him even here, if only because he will yield to Thor Odinson of Asgard, but never to pain or fear.
But it is not Thor's will today, nor is it what Steven, so shaken by his battle-rage, needs. And so he anchors Steven's head rather than driving it, tips his own face to the ceiling and hums his approval. He might choose to make a gift of his release thusly, could he not still feel the ghost of tension waiting in the cords of Steven's neck as it flexes under his hand. The taste of him will not be enough to banish them for long, and so Thor curls his fingers tight and pulls his man's mouth from him with a wet, hungry sound.
"Bide," he answers the flash of confusion and worry that greets him as Steven's eyes open again. Thor smoothes the strong line of cheek and jaw as he withdraws his hand, allowing his thumb to be caught briefly between those damp lips, tooth-scraped, gently held for but a heartbeat, and then released. Steven's eyes lower, concern bleeding away into sleepy, patient pleasure as Thor paints the wetness across the plump width of his lips, making them shine. "Bide…" and that order is, perhaps, more for himself than for his man.
The thrall beeps at him, impatient when his breeches fall across the arm in which it holds the Captain's shield. Thor turns to glare before remembering that the expression is wasted on a machine. Not even its creator has much respect for its intelligence, and so Thor does not trouble himself either. He merely points to the bed when it makes as if to offer the shield to him, and turns back to the important matter at hand.
Steven's eyes are on the machine now as it rolls across the room, taking his shield that much farther from his reach. Thor can see his mind struggling upward from the pleasure to follow, girding itself with worry and duty like a beardless squire stealing his master's armor. And like that squire, a cuff to the ear brings his attention squarely back around to his place, though outrage burns in his gaze until Thor crouches to press his lips to the reddened spot, and whisper the reminder. "I protect what is mine, Steven," he murmurs, tasting salt and heat and hunger against his lips. "And you are mine to protect. Yes?"
The nod, he expects. The murmur of, "Yes," he does not. Steven's way in surrender is silence -- hoarding even his wordless cries until Thor has all but unmade him, and even then struggling to contain every groan and gasp. Never yet had he spoken one word after being forced to kneel, never until now.
Thor cannot help the swell of grateful pride that splits his face into a grin at that unexpected triumph. "I will shelter you," he promises, gathering his man close into a kiss that winds them both with desire before it is through. "You will come to no harm." He lifts his man into his arms to stand, and brushes aside a small, guilty wish that the body in his arms could be smaller, wiry and dark.
The water rises up, warm and steaming about them, hip-deep and hot as a thermal spring thanks to Tony's Midgardian wizardry. Thor scruples not to honor the man's skills by enjoying the luxury whenever he can, but most particularly, he enjoys the uncoiling sigh that expands Steven's chest as Thor carries him down into the swell and lets him drift, held from sinking only by one arm beneath his shoulders. Neither of them are so soft as to be buoyant, but when Steven tips back his head to the water and lays bare his throat it is a signal needing no translation from any tongue.
Thor scoops water up to wash the last lingering grit and doubt from Steven's smooth, golden skin -- soft and unmarked as a child's, no matter how many wounds have split it. The throat-pulse he finds with his fingers and palm holds a steady, easy lope, no wary flinch at Thor's touch, and this, this was what he sought beneath the surrender -- this trust, this faith more implicit than mere obedience, and far more precious than worship. Grateful in full measure, Thor smoothes away the lines of ash and regret from Steven's proud cheeks, sweat and frustration from his brow, combing each tainted stroke into his drifting hair and away, until his expression drifts, as his body does, somewhere between pleasure and peace.
Were it not for the persistent thrust of Steven's desire, hovering red and emphatic over his belly in the clouding water, Thor might almost consider his work to be done, and settle them both into a nest of furs and sleep. But truth be known, he hungers not less himself, and there is, perhaps, something to be said for the expectations of the conquered; Steven's pride would not, perhaps, thank Thor for a gentle, stroking completion. Not after the violence and fear that had brought them to this pass today.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, a little thrilled when Steven colours at the praise, but does not turn his face away, or hide his lovely, hungry eyes. Thor kisses him again, and soundly before setting his man on his feet and turning him toward the steps with a nudge. The fire in his belly is crackling now, and wants better traction than wet tiles and water can provide. The trembling hiss Steven yields as Thor dries his erection and the taut bollocks behind it is evidence enough that the impatience is mutual.
"Go to my bed," Thor says as he circles behind to stroke the beaded water from Steven's neck and shoulders. "Set the shield against the wall, and await me there." There is far more expectation in the command than the words would imply to anyone idly watching, but between the two of them, the meaning is plain. The painted side of the shield faces out to the room -- a trophy, not a tool -- and it is not within his reach as Steven lays himself face down to the rumpled blankets and soft furs, and folds both hands beneath his cheek to wait.
Entirely, and perfectly beautiful.
Thor is no mage, nor ever has been, but there are some simple magics that even children in Asgard learn to master. This is one of them; a minor charm to lift water from the skin lest the winter air give too much chill. It feels a little like a hot, scouring wind, and in his aroused state, Thor finds himself biting back a groan at the sensation. He takes himself in hand, not for pleasure, but restraint as he notices that Steven's hips are shifting against the softness beneath him -- slight, stealthy movements of stretch and shiver that make the light flow across his fair skin like gold.
Thor pads to the bed, kneels upon it and presses one hand between Steven's sacral dimples, stilling all movement beneath his weight. And this is another spell many youths in Asgard learn; a spell to make a man flow as does a maid, uncoiling to touch, welcoming another into him without fierce pain. He does not choose this often with Steven, knowing how magic worries his long-held notions of God and the world, but they are both grown impatient with hunger tonight.
"Flow for me," he incants, and Steven bucks and writhes, groaning beneath his hand until Thor lays himself along his man, shoulder to hip, legs tangled to pull Steven's wide and reveal him to Thor's searching fingers. Two easily and deeply upon the first breach. Steven sucks a hard breath that knows nothing of pain, and turns his head to mouth eagerly at the hand Thor has braced over his own. Thor gives him two fingers to suckle and three to ride, rolling his own hips, thrusting gently between bath-warm flank and thick fur beneath it. His want is sharpening now from appetite to need, tension coiling inside his joints, purring like lightning in his veins, for the power in play between his hands now is no less heady than Mjolnir's stormfire.
When he rolls to cover his man at last, the sinking thrust that joins them is no less electric; fire in the spine, sparks behind the eyes, the caroling howl of winds or blood in the ears. Thor stills to savor it; feels the taut, panting body beneath him tremble; feels the racing of Steven's mortal heart in the heated flesh clamped around him; feels after a moment, in the fluttering release of that grip, the last ounce of surrender his man has to give. And now he has given it, Steven can do nothing more but take.
Thor presses one last kiss to the tender skin at his neck; equal parts promise, threat, and gratitude, then he takes his weight upon his hands, spreads his knees for traction, and puts the strength of his back to good use. Steven's fingers claw the furs, soft, urgent moans barely muffled until Thor leans low and searches out his ear for one fierce bite, grinning at the wail, grunting at the clench. He hears his man's climax looming close in the breathy gasps, half-pleas and whimpers far beyond the reach of reserve, feels it in the knotting of muscles beneath his chest, in the rush of wet silken heat around him, and a sudden, rhythmic spasm that drags his own release from him in a crashing, blinding roar.
When his head stops spinning, Thor is not surprised to find there are tears upon his cheeks, nor to feel Steven's quivering take on the furtive quality of weeping as the stress escapes him now by every means it can. This first release is often the hardest, Thor has learned, and the strong man's tears no longer alarm him as they did once. Still seated and not quite inclined to soften, he rolls them to the side, presses one knee up behind Steven's, and pushes in again, gently now and easily. He offers his fingers again, brushing open bitten lips and pressing needless words from the heated tongue behind them, and rocks them both in slow, comfortable union until they both are hard and red and greedy once more.
~*~
And Thor will follow him without question, standing at his back to meet all comers, the more sure of his Captain's strength for having accepted his surrender. But that will be later, and later may wait. This twilit now finds Thor's back cooled by the gentle curve of a shield that does not warm to the touch, his lap warmed by the weight of a man burning far too hot for the ice that imprisoned him, and his mind far, far away.
He thinks on his brother, and wonders what penance might possibly soothe a soul driven to betrayal on every hand. He thinks upon his childhood and wonders if he mightn't better have understood the privilege of his great strength had he learned earlier how to be weak, and when to be soft. He thinks upon his King and father, alone upon his golden eagle's vantage, beyond reach or question of any other; he thinks upon the weight of a kingdom, of a people, of a world resting upon those wide and ancient shoulders. He thinks of his father's sudden sleepings, his mother's calm withdrawal from any chamber of war, of Heimdall, inscrutable and mighty, the Bifrost answering the commands of no other than he. He thinks of nine realms, ten kings, and his father's face, shattered with rage when Thor was cast down Yggdrasil in shame.
But Odin is wise, and the cost of that wisdom writ plainly on his face, echoed in song and story for every child to know and revere. Surely there is someone before whom Asgard's king does not fear to bend… surely.