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It used to be customary for Heimdall to check the royal family before they retired for the night.The days have stretched since this tradition was upheld. A handful of years are mere moments to Heimdall, but recent times have seen much change. The family, the crown, the very existence of Asgard itself. It is with a mind towards tradition in dark times that Heimdall allows his gaze to turn this night.He sees Asgard’s prince trade uneasy drinks with the Valkyrie. Unsettled, but still for the time being.And he sees Asgard’s new king before a mirror. Fingers graze what was once Odin’s eye guard. The piece is now fixed to Thor as if the fates willed it.Thor carries himself publicly with stoicism befitting his new status. But without the eyes of his frightened people upon him, the strain shows. His shoulders bow, and weariness sags his skin. Thor is in pain, as they all are. His bruises are well on their way to healing, but their ache lingers in Thor’s bones. To Heimdall, Thor is a young man in the infancy of his crown. But the years are a weight on Thor’s back. Loss and blood stain his unsteady hands.Thor knocks back what spirit remains in his glass before retiring to his bed. He lies on his back, head buried in feather pillows. His good eye closes as his restless body upsets the sheets.When Thor lies still at last, it is with a body-humming sigh. His expression bears a softness that Heimdall has not seen in some time. Thor lays a hand on his stomach. A small furrow settles between his brows, his shirt rucked by his own disruptive touch. His torso is thick, a warrior’s build. His trousers sit low, and his fingers draw close.When Thor plucks his trousers open, Heimdall should turn away. But he does not, as Thor loosens his pants and rolls his manhood from within. Perhaps Thor's sadness holds Heimdall's gaze, exhaustion and grief on a warmed expression. Thor reaches for the jar on his nightstand, precision in the oiling of every fingers.Thor’s first touch bids an unsteady breath from his lips. Glistening stripes outline his thickened sex. Thor’s hips rise to fill his own fingers. A groan leaves his lips, quiet and hinged with sorrow. The furrow between Thor’s brows grows more pronounced.He touches himself as if his body lacks the strength for anything else. His wrist circles with the barest energy, and his hand wavers on every squeeze. Deeper lines carve into Thor's brow as his waist stutters from the mattress. Thor's groan is an exhale, the sound laboring from his mouth.From Thor’s tension rises a small smile. He forms silent words in the privacy of his own room. Heimdall moves at once.It has been only days upon the Ark, but Heimdall knows its passages by heart. He takes quiet, narrow corridors from his quarters to the left wing. It is empty in this part of the ship.Heimdall punches the entrance key that cues the door to the king's chambers to open. Thor's room is not locked, a fact Thor felt the need to share to the intimacy of his own quarters. Heimdall makes a point of locking the door behind him. “That was unwise,” he states. “You are beloved here, but a frightened few can do dangerous things.”In person, it is easier to hear the wet sound of Thor's hand. Thor gazes across the room through a mostly-lidded eye. “Far from the first time you've called me unwise.”“Yet the first time I have called you so as my king.” A faint smile plays on Heimdall’s expression. “You summoned me.”“I did not wish to be alone. I,” Thor chuckles, a touch strained, “suppose you'll find that unwise as well. Or unbecoming of a king.”“I find it neither,” Heimdall tells him.Thor's expression softens. “My friend, I presumed too much by hailing you. I-”“Tell me what you need,” Heimdall says.Thor is quiet a moment, perhaps lost in the sensation of his own touch.
“Your hands,” he answers. “...If you're willing. It's not an order, Heimdall.” The uncertainty of the request makes Heimdall clear on his response.At Thor's bedside, he gazes at his prostrated king. Thor blinks up at him, warmth across his cheeks. He leans into the hand that cups his face and combs through his short, jarring hair. “It will grow back,” Heimdall says.Thor's breath rushes out with a wet sound as he squeezes himself. “As will Asgard.” His voice thickens. “When we find our new home.”Heimdall draws fingers down his face. Thor's inhale catches at his touch, and when Heimdall grazes his lips he opens his mouth. Heimdall gives him what he desires; index, middle, and ring fingers slip inside. Thor's mouth is warm and moist. His lips close around Heimdall's fingers, nursing on the presence of another. Thor's eye is a daze of desire. When Heimdall's thumb scrapes his mouth, he gasps.“Let go,” Heimdall says, “my friend.” Only behind closed doors will he use this title. It makes Thor smile, as saliva-touched fingers stroke his jaw. His lips falter, a groan dribbling from his need-heavied tongue.Heimdall knows Thor spends by his face, he does not need to see the sudden arch of his waist. Thor's features twitch, and his head drops back. Heimdall leaves an imprint of wet fingers on his neck.“Thank you,” Thor says in a voice meant for worship. His damp hand dangles above a thigh like drying clothes. “What can I offer in return?”
He turns his tired gaze upward.Heimdall smiles. “A place by your side,” he replies, “and the favor returned if my king wakes tomorrow with a true smile on his lips.” His thumb crosses Thor's jaw.A nod answers. “My bed is yours if you desire it, Heimdall. And you will have my full attention in the morning.”“If your smile is true,” Heimdall says.“Of course,” Thor says with a weary chuckle. “Lie with me, please.” Heimdall is not in the practice of making his king ask twice.*The End*