Peter’s strength, although perfectly able to match Thor’s, is still new. While the other has had his entire existence to grow along with his power, Peter has not had the benefit of time. His grip seems to waver, a horrible tremble along his arm that very nearly costs him the entire match, before he gains what was lost again with a growl.

“Ha…nearly got me,” he laughs, both to boost his own confidence and to cover that moment of near-loss. “But I’ve got this in the bag.”

He makes eye contact, brows furrowed in concentration and lips curled into a challenging grin. Leaning forward, Peter tries to apply more pressure, eager to win and eager to win fast.

The near-win has Thor re-focus his efforts: with victory seemingly so close his competitive urge resurfaces past the flicker of desire, only to then waver at the growl. He exhales sharply, hoping his reaction is not too obvious, but it gives him a fresh idea.

By now, win or lose, he feels he’s going to be enjoying himself.

Though his sibling is often credited with unsportsmanlike behaviour, Thor’s not averse to misbehaviour over such little contests as these. He elects to, more or less, play a game of chicken. Holding Peter’s gaze, he similarly leans in ever closer, lets his voice turn breathier. “Is that so? Because I think you forgot something.”

The trickster's grin melted into a rictus of dismay as he was snatched by his wiser sibling. He struggled at once in the steel grip, regardless of its futility.

"Thor, no! No! Now listen! You're doing nothing to prove you're anything but reliant on brute strength if you do this. What if someone's already in the pool? You'll get thrown out. Thor! THOR!"

Seemingly deaf to his sibling’s protests, Thor marched down the stairs towards the pool with an increasingly jaunty step. With victory quite literally in his grasp, he seemed cheerful enough to commit to more than he’d intended: after all, now he’d received such a dressing-down from the owner there was little more they could do save eject them from the place entirely.

“Don’t worry, brother,” Thor replied with a chuckle, and he picked up the pace ominously, “it will be well worth it!” With the run-up now well established, Thor jumped into the pool with Loki still in his grasp.

Stephen is glad to not know how much Loki’s knives do or don’t hurt, but another devastating sneeze halts any attempt at a funny remark. It’s a force like no other, making all of the shelves in the Sanctum tremble and knocking around their contents. He hears artefacts topple over and fall to the ground in another room, but no sounds of smashing or breaking that might be immediately concerning. No, Stephen leaves checking the damage for later, Thor’s injury being a greater priority. Besides, he’s had to grip on to the other’s arms to avoid being knocked off his feet.

“...Don’t worry about it,” he answers, forcing his brain to focus on anything else that isn’t the shape of Thor’s biceps under his palms.

“Okay, so, just to make things clear, magic can’t heal a regular injury, much less a magical one and whatever is making…all this happen. I can use spells to help close the injury where my hands won’t do much, but I’m going to have to keep you here a few hours to find out what’s going on. Is that alright with you?”

“Mmh, I suppose there isn’t much choice otherwise,” Thor replies with a wry smirk, though the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s not the first (nor likely to be the last) time he’s been cursed or enchanted, but the sense of powerlessness it leaves, to be beholden to some mystical power his body can’t help but obey, leaves him frustrated and ill at ease. He’s already restless, but he supposes the company makes up for the time it will take.

Oh, and he supposes the expertise he actually came seeking.

“Thank you, Stephen: I’m not entirely certain what could happen if I leave it unchecked. I have a feeling that it’s only going to get worse: I don’t recall…” A somewhat guilty glance was spared to the toppled contents of the room. “…I don’t recall it being quite this bad an hour past.”

Mismatched eyes flick down to the sorcerer’s hands, and their placement. At last true good humour returns to his face. “You’re welcome to let go any time, by the way. I know I said it’s worsening, but I don’t feel another sneeze coming on just yet.”

thinking about him… (thor)

🗡 - "You may hate me from what you've heard about me. Despise me, even. I don't blame you, brother, but Odin made me the person I am today, @araedi."

The thunderer regards his sister with a resigned air; judgement and hostility seem to have eroded to a weariness he is often loathe to show.  “I don’t despise you,” he says, at length, “though I hate the damage that has been done to our people in the name of conquest." After all, despite the childhood of familiarity which was stolen from them, how could he not afford her the same chances he had ever given Loki? He meets her gaze. "Odin may have shaped you, but you are more than his child. I think it’s about time both of us get to decide how we make ourselves.”

“i hate my siblings” rip to you but i would kill and die for my brother

The Hoopty touched down on a landing site that overlooked the brilliant waters of Asgard with a gentle rumble. Carol admired the view, but found herself wondering if the realm ever experienced bad weather. She’d never heard of Asgard experiencing storms or fog, and the view times she’d passed by, it had always been a shimmering beacon of gold and magic. Not once had she seen it tarnished or dull… though, there’d been a rumour about elves attacking the city a while ago.

Idle thoughts pushed aside, Carol stepped down the ramp and ventured into the city. As much as she’d loved to explore the realm, she didn’t have time. She needed to find Thor and convince him to come with her… or convince his father to order him to come along? Honestly, she wasn’t the most experienced with royal families, so she didn’t know which would happen. She’d been nervous that Odin would deny her request to even meet with Thor, but that hadn’t happened. Instead, he’d sent for his son and asked her to wait.

So she did, in a private hall she’d been directed to after speaking with the king. It was a beautiful room. Grand pillars supported the vaulted ceilings, and walls sporting all sorts of wondrous tapestries showcasing what she presumed were great moments in Asgardian history. Opposite it, there was a balcony that ran the length of the area, letting in the sun through parted drapes.

She hadn’t been waiting long before the doors opened, pulled aside by guards who’d been so composed she scarcely noticed their presence.

Carol wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting upon meeting Thor. She’d given the file Fury had on him a cursory glance, but beyond that hadn’t found the time to read more about him. He was a god, wielded a magic hammer, and his brother had tried to conquer Earth. 

Seeing him now, he did look the part. He towered over her, walked with a confidence born from both power and skill. 

“Your Highness,” she greeted him, a flicker of a smirk playing on her lips, “I’m Carol Danvers. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in, I’m in a little bit of a jam and Fury said you might be able to help.”

When first Odin had informed him of the upcoming audience, curiosity had far outweighed any reticence to offer aid. Details had been scant but sufficient to assure him that something significant was afoot; with this Carol’s links to both the wider universe and Midgard he was invariably intrigued, and duty, regardless, bid he do his utmost were there need of his aid.

Striding down corridors he recalled so often racing down as a child (then storming through in his adolescence), Thor instinctually made an assessment of the stranger on approach. He had given little thought to the nature of whom he had assumed to be a messenger or delegate: nothing about her seemed to suggest she was merely here to carry words back to Fury. Indeed, she radiated an innate confidence: a surety of self he would easily have attributed to any Asgardian warrior. At once he relaxed – this would not be the manner of formal conversation he so dreaded, after all.

Her greeting drew a polite tilt of the head in acknowledgement, amusement shining in his eyes. “Ah yes, Fury is a good man. Well met, Carol Danvers: Thor Odinson, at your service, and you are most welcome here in Asgard.”

Offering a large hand to shake, he then gestured towards ornately carved chairs as indication she was welcome to sit, and moved to do so himself. “I must admit, flattering though it is, I’m curious why Fury recommended me of all people for this task when he has access to so many. What is the situation?”

Blessed yule and happy solstice!