spirit and spark | darcy/steve, asgardian warriors
It was hard, keeping himself focused on battle when all he wanted to do was watch her.
Lady Sif had trained her well, and it showed – they called her the Herald, valiant and virtuous and victorious in every battle she fought and in every war she waged, and today was no different. He might have been the commander of Asgard’s calvary, the one who lead the charges and assigned orders, but Darcy – Lady Darcy, she was the heart. She was their brightness and spirit and spark, and aside from himself she was always the first to arrive and last to leave. His heart skipped a beat, and he absently knocked aside an unlucky invader as he watched her laugh, loud and bright as she danced around her foes like free flowing water.
She was a valkyrie without wings, fury and war bellowing from her lips. She was terrifying and breathtaking and awe-inspiring, blood and dirt smeared across her cheeks, straining against the sharp teeth bared in a smile. She was the moons and suns and stars, everything and anything all at once, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
And the best thing?
She was his, and he was hers.
They came together, as they always did, after.
There was something about the blood lust and battle hunger that edged them just over the precipice, something that made Steven forget his customary courtesy and gentleness in favor of taking his sweet fucking time. And she knew why, of course – as much as he loved to watch her charge into battle, he hated it at the same time.
He would die for her in a heartbeat, but it was her duty as a warrior to protect him. It was altogether too common for them to gravitate towards each other in battle, and more often than not one of them would take a hit meant for the other, but she had a habit of acting first and then thinking later. It was a habit that manifested itself in the multitude of scars, scattered across her skin like ripped lacework and faded filigree.
And so, she let him pin her down to their bed as he teased and taunted, watching her with sharp, piercing eyes as she screamed and begged and pleaded for him to let her come. She let him hold her wrists in his hands, let him mark her with his teeth and tongue and touch, to reassure him that she was still here – she was alive and awake and whole and here, with him.
“Gods,” she moaned, her back arching in an effort to take him deeper, to bring him closer. “Steve, please.”
“Just a little longer,” he murmured, thrusting slow and deep as she strained against his hold, his shoulders hunched with the effort of holding himself back. “You’re doing so well, kjære.”
She could feel the telltale warmth, pooling in her spine and abdomen and thighs, muscles tensing as she tried to stave off her climax. And Steve finally – finally – leant down, pressing his bare chest into hers, and whispered, “Come for me, elskede.”
She forced herself to keep her eyes open, watching as he let himself pound into her, pushing her into another orgasm as he came, throwing his head back. She traced the long lines of his neck, the flush settling high on his pale skin, and the shape of his mouth, fallen open as he groaned her name, and she wondered again how she came to be so lucky.
He stayed there, pressing his mouth to her lips and caressing the bruises he had sucked into her skin. As she kissed him back, she remembered what he looked like as he stood up from amongst the fallen enemy, shield and sword in hand. His eyes had met hers, lighting up with a bright, gorgeous blue, and he sent her a brilliant smile, one reserved only for her.
Her heart sang, and this – this was a love that would beat her passion for battle and combat and war, any day, any time.
He was hers, and she was his.