#valkyire

Thor is the same way. Only, where Brunnhilde keeps thoughts of her father locked up tight in her own head, Thor lets them spill out everywhere. Like the beer soaking into the light red fabric of his shirt, his emotions run out of his mouth and down his chest.

“…never thought he was a bad father,” Thor mumbles, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bar. He stands behind it, mixing shitty drinks for Brunnhilde to choke down. Which she does, like a champ. “Not even when I was afraid of him.”

Brunnhilde frowns. “I am not drunk enough to hear you talk about your complicated relationship with your dad,” she says, knocking back half of her glittery cocktail. She groans. Thor is no bartender. “Plus, my relationship with your dad is way worse. I mean, way worse.”

Thor lifts his head. His cheeks are flushed. In the starlight, his skin looks blue. But not his cheeks, not his lips. Those are the inciting shade of an apple, slick with morning dew. “Sorry,” he says, and Brunnhilde knows he means it. He doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean, not to her. “How old were you when you became a Valkyrie?”

Brunnhilde blinks at him. It takes a moment for her brain to retrieve the information. “I started training when I was 14.”

A smirk, lopsided and boyish, spreads over Thor’s face. “Train me.”

He’s pushing back off the bar and making his way around the other side of it before Brunnhilde can even process the words. The bar was once part of a larger dance club, or so they assumed, so there is a large tile floor open behind where Brunnhilde sits now. Tables and chairs, covered with tarp-like fabric, have been pushed out of the way. It’s the perfect place for a makeshift training room, she has to admit.

“C’mon, mighty Valkyrie,” Thor says. He grabs her elbow gently, turning the stool with her atop it. She’s just drunk enough that the movement makes her dizzy, so she reaches up to grab at Thor’s forearm for stability. “Woah, there.”

When the room stabilizes, Thor’s giving her a blinding grin. Brighter than the stars outside, he’s glowing. “Valkyries do not merely train,” she says, an echo of the words told to her by her captain so many years ago. She can still remember standing, shorter than every other girl that had shown up to try out, squinting through the sunlight at the woman who would become her greatest inspiration. “Your body will learn to break, your mind will learn to rebuild it. Can you handle it, your majesty?”

Somehow, this makes Thor look even more excited.

When Brunnhilde had first heard it, it had affected her just the same way.

They start off slow. Brunnhilde kicks his feet apart, forcing him into the proper stance. She grabs his wrists and brings them up, curls his fingers into fists, and takes a step back to examine her work. They’re both so beyond drunk that they’re not worth anything. He would be useless if she wanted to kill him, but she couldn’t inflict any damage if she wanted to, either.

“Good enough,” she says anyway. Thor beams. “I’m going to try to take you down. Keep your weight centered. Don’t try to take me down yet. Just keep yourself upright.”

Thor nods, and Brunnhilde rushes forward. She targets his weakest points, swinging a knee towards his kidneys. He absorbs the hit, wincing but never faltering. Just as he starts to grin, thinking he’s won, Brunnhilde drops down and swipes both his feet out from under him.

“Fuck!”

The impact of his body against the floor rattles the bottles on the bar shelves. Before he has a chance to get up, Brunnhilde swings a leg over his middle and straddles him. Her hands find the base of his throat. Not to choke him, just to remind him that she can.

“Tap out,” Brunnhilde says, not even winded. Thor gasps for breath under her. She feels his windpipe constrict under her palms. “C’mon, majesty. Get up so I can teach you how to properly—“

Thor’s hand is cupping the back of her head, and she’s staring up rather than down at him, now. Her legs are still wrapped around his middle, ass hovering off the ground. Thor’s body cages her in. He slides his hand out from beneath her hair, handling her with more care than anyone has in a long, long time.

The heavy thumping in her chest shocks her, the way it feels as though her heart is trying to burst free, trying to get to him. And oh god, are her hips lifting towards his? Is her mouth parted from shock, or to allow his tongue to slip inside?

Thor leans down, and all that erratic beating of her heart stops at once, but instead of pressing his lips to hers, he brings them to brush against her ear. “What was that, Valkyrie?”

Her body is on fire, skin alight. Alcohol dulling the senses must be a myth. She feels Thor’s barely-there touch in every corner of her body. She smells not just the booze that clings to his breath or the sweat on the back of his neck, but him. He smells like the air before a storm. He smells like anticipation.

“Thor…” she breathes, the want dripping from her voice.

He lifts his head until he’s hovering just inches above his face. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. His eyes rake over her face. Somehow he makes even stillness sinful.

When he finally speaks, he steals the breath from her lungs. “Teach me how to properly fuck a Valkyrie.”

“Gladly,” she breathes, then tilts her chin until her lips meet his.

It’s a messy, drunken kiss, their first. But it doesn’t occur to Brunnhilde to mind, doesn’t even occur to her to note the significance of first, not yet.

They shouldn’t be doing this on the floor. If she were to put her hand down, she’d probably be touching at least 3 layers of grime and sticky residue, but Brunnhilde can’t find it in herself to be disgusted. Not when the king of Asgard’s deft fingers are sliding her pants down over her hips. Not when he’s grabbing the backs of her knees, prying them open, placing them over his shoulders.

He’s a devotee at the altar. His mouth makes a scalding path from her right knee up to her thigh. Pulsing, intoxicating heat runs through her core.

It takes every ounce of strength she has to keep from squirming away from him. She wants this, so badly it hurts, so badly that it scares her. Thor must sense it, because he leans back, dragging his hands up from behind her knees to rest on her hips. His fingertips press into her skin, just hard enough for her to feel it, for it to ground her.

The moment slows. Brunnhilde lifts her head to see the top of Thor’s, trying to memorize the sight of Asgard’s young king buried between her thighs. It’s a beautiful thing. The stars wink at her from behind his head. She reaches down and tangles her fingers in his cropped hair, dragging her nails over his scalp. Thor moans, to her delight.

Thor’s mouth finally makes contact with her core, eliciting a strangled moan of her own. Her grip on his hair tightens. It’s been a long time since anyone had gone down on her. Her hookups on Sakaar tended to be short and sweet, just good enough to take the edge off, never good enough to take the same person twice.

When Thor’s tongue moves against her, licking a fat stripe from her entrance to her swollen clit, she thinks she may be ruined. He laps at her steadily with a skilled tongue. How much experience has he had, she wonders? How many maidens had he cut his teeth on? How many court ladies came undone beneath him the same way she feels herself breaking now?

She is overtaken with the urge to ask him. As if his history is hers for the taking. She wants to understand. He moves his tongue, the stiff peak of it, in a quick circle. Who taught him that? When did he learn?

Brunnhilde writhes against the floor, wishing despite the grime that she was naked. In her drunkenness, it takes her a long moment to realize she can be. She can be, without even disturbing Thor’s so-very-important work. So she leans up, pulling her tank top over her head, exposing her tiny lace bra. It had been found in a pile of similarly useless pretty things in some closet, thoroughly washed, and given to her by a blushing Thor.

He had guessed her size.

This was always going to happen.

Thor had begun working his way under her skin from the moment she first laid eyes on him. He was always going to get this close. She was always going to put up a little fight, then let him.

It’s inevitable when his tongue pushes inside her. More than just the cliche of right, it feels as though he was always there. Just out of reach.

One of his hands abandons her hips and slides down. A long, slender finger traces the curves and lines of her lower lips. A second spreads her open, giving Thor that much more access. A groan falls from her lips.

“Is this,” Thor breathes, pausing in the middle of his sentence to wrap his lips around her clit and suck, then pull away again, “the proper way, hm? To fuck a Valkyire?”

Brunnhilde hums. “It’s one of many proper ways.”

Thor laughs against her, then continues his work. Those deft fingers slip one by one inside of her, widening to stretch her. It feels glorious. For a long while, he doesn’t move them in or out. Instead, he alternates between curling upwards and opening her up.

She hurtles towards orgasm almost embarrassingly quickly. As she feels the first build, she’s already aching for another. She wants him in every way she can get him. She craves his weight on top of her body, the sight of him beneath her, the burn of him deep inside.

Pathetic, she feels pathetic for just a moment. A visit from her sober mind. A reminder that she is unworthy of this, and that she will inevitably ruin Thor by contact, that they’re both just drunk and horny and none of it will mean anything come hangover and morning.

But then she comes, and the thoughts are banished.

For a moment. (A longer moment than usual, at least.)

When Brunnhilde comes down, she pulls her hands out of Thor’s hair. She inspects her nails, subtly, to make sure she hasn’t drawn blood. Thor presses one last kiss to her clit, then slides his fingers out of her. He brings those two fingers to his lips and licks them clean.

Brunnhilde almost melts into the metal floor.

Thor presses the palms of his hands into the stiff muscles of her thighs, massaging as he asks, “Are you okay to keep going?”

Brunnhilde leans up, pressing her lips to his. She tastes herself there, amongst the liquor and sweat. She had planned on pulling back to tell him, “Yes.”, but the longer she kisses him, the less she wants to stop. It’s enough answer as anything, though, when she slips her hand into the waistband of his pants. Thor groans against her lips when she finds his cock.

She snickers, pulls back. “Not so cocky now, are you?”

Thor meets her gaze. There’s not an ounce of amusement in his one remaining eye, only want. Then he smiles into a kiss and clutches her hips again. “I’m all yours, Val.”

Brunnhilde believes every word.

“Let’s find a bedroom, then, shall we?”