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goodgirlofglory · 2 years

Text

By the herald of thunder /One-shot

Pairing: Thor x reader

Word count: 2,8k

Warnings: sweet and passionate love-making, SMUT, some rough Thor, oral (f receiving), brief hand job (blink and you’ll miss it), p in v, fluff, no I mean FLUFF! Sloppy, sticky fluff.

Summary: Thunder signals the arrival of your secret lover - the norse God of Thunder himself. He's a freequent visitor, but this time he leaves with something special.

Note: There've been a lot of exciting thunder storms in Norway this summer, and it made me think of what a secret affair with the crown prince of Asgard might feel like. This is pre the first Thor movie, when the Æsir were still only a myth amon the humans on Earth.

EDIT: WOOP WOOP there is now a sort of, sort of not sequel to this, Like lightning in a bottle. Check it out ;)

Your media consumption is your own responsibility, but I advise you not to engage if the content of the warnings upsets you. Minors DNI. Not beta-read, I live on the edge.

My work is not to be distributed outside this blog.

Likes, reblogs and replies are amaaaazing<333333

The classic, mythical herald of his appearing is thunder, but you usually feel it days before. Feel it as the warm summer air slowly becomes hot and heavy, laden with electricity and anticipation. It envelopes you as you go to work, read in your home, take in the groceries. Like a premonition of his embrace - heady and demanding.

When the first bolt of lightning strikes in the distance, your heart leaps into your throat.

He’s coming. Finally.

You know the nearest neighbors, about a mile away, gather in their windows to film the storm as it rages on, gaping in astonishment as the flashes of electric blue light come in more and more rapid succession, the following rumble shaking the roofs on every house in the parish.

Meanwhile, you pace your home restlessly, almost giddy, almost nervous, excitement bubbling in your blood. Every strike of lightning feels like his hand on your skin, the rumbling like his groans as he moves in you. Your knees turn shaky when the crack of thunder follows directly after the bolt that slashes across the sky just beyond the treeline across the field.

He’ll be here any minute.

Yes please, I need you.

When the rain unleashes like the drop of an anchor, you moan quietly, already feeling yourself slick up at the anticipation.

And then he’s standing on your lawn. Always appearing as if out of thin air. You wonder if he actually has the goat drawn carriage.

He’s so imposing just standing there, and your yearning reaches a breaking point. You shudder at the sight of his broad frame, dirt blond hair, wild and unbraided, his blue eyes shining brighter and more dangerously than any lightning bolt.

He crosses the lawn in bold strides, like he’s going into combat, and it almost feels like it too. It’s a battle you’re more than willing to meet him in.

You have no idea why he chose you, how he found you and why he keeps returning. It’s still hard to believe the Æsir even actually exist - and that you’re the only one who knows, the only one Thor, or any other norse god, have revealed themselves to in well over 900 years.

It all happened a year prior, after a particularly hard hitting thunderstorm saw him at your doorstep for the first time. He didn’t say a word that time, only looked his menacing and powerful self, but you instantly understood who he was.

You’d grown up with the stories. The myths and sagas. Your mother would always joke that “Thor was out and about with his goats” whenever thunderstorms raged, and you always laughed along with her. Never ever anticipating that the actual norse god of thunder would one day stand in your living room, silent and observing, as you stood before him in nothing but your night slip. What was even more absurd was how your body instantly roused at his intent stare, welcoming him with open arms and an overwhelming enthusiasm as he reached for you, wrapped his big, warm hand around your neck and pulled you into a bruising kiss.

You leave the door open for him now, intent on drawing him into your bedroom. You need him in your sheets, on the soft mattress where you can feel every bit of his juxtaposing hard, sculpted body.

Your nerves flare when he slowly and silently follows you up. You hear his footsteps behind you on the stairs, around the corner, and when you reach your bed, you turn to find him directly behind you, looming a good seven inches taller than you.

You’re riled up, your breath short and rapid, but you take a long inhale followed by a deep sigh as his scent fills your nose - musk and smoke and something foreign, a transcending sweetness - the very essence of his overnatural being, the Asgardian, the God.

You watch in enrapture as his hand slowly reaches up to graze a knuckle down your cheekbone. He holds the hammer in his other hand, and it seems to have a gravitational pull all of its own, fascinating and powerful as you feel its magnanimous weight even if you don’t look at it. One day you will gather the courage to ask to touch it, study it closer.

But not now. Now he lowers the hammer to thud against the floor.

“Have you missed me, little mortal one?” he asks in a voice as deep as the ocean. You stifle a whimper and nod.

It’s all a blur from there. Outside, the twilight air is cool and calm, the skies clear again. The storm continues in your bedroom. He’s on his knees between your legs on the bed, expertly feasting on you like a man starved, wringing out wave after wave of pleasure in you, hands bruising on your hips as he pins your wriggling form to his mouth.

You come with a cry, hands gripping his luscious hair, just clinging on to consciousness as he keeps your aching clit in his mouth long enough for a cramp to sieze your leg.

He let’s go, rubbing the cramp from your spasming leg as he coos gently, his lips quirking up into a fond smirk as he looks upon you.

“There, there, pet,” he teases, “I’ve barely started.”

He mounts you, sliding his thick thighs, golden tanned with soft, blond hair, between your legs as he lays you on your back on the bed, and you almost blush at the normality of it all, how much you secretly fantasize about a domestic life with him, knowing it’s impossible. You reach for his cock, bold in your dazed condition, still riding the high of your orgasm. He lets you fondle him for a moment, grunting lowly as he watches you wrap your fingers around his girth and slide the soft foreskin up and down the veiny shaft.

He’s endowed like a god too, the size of his cock dwarfing your fingers, the head purple, shining with a generous leakage at the top. You salivate at the feel of him.

“Please,” you sigh.

He hums.

“Yes, kærasta,” he responds, and you flush all anew at the norse term of endearment, rolling off his tongue with smooth, foreign sounding vocals and crisp, rolling consonants.

He gently swats your hand away, and you can feel the air grow thicker as he slides further in between your legs, his burly form pushing you to fold almost in half, your knees almost to your chest, exposing you to his rapidly darkening gaze while pinning you under his mercy. You’d die to stay here. The atmosphere in the room crackles, and you swear you smell fresh summer rain as he aligns himself. You can see his tenderness and control slipping from him, his muscles rippling, his brows furrowing as he pushes inside you.

You want it so badly, everything he will give you. His wrath, his force, his passion - everything.

And then, in an otherworldly image that always steals your breath, sparks of white and blue sizzle to life on his skin, licking up his arms, over his chest, running along his knuckles and swooping over his golden head.

He slams inside you, invading your quivering walls with as much force as you can take - and then some. He sets a brutal pace from the get go, and it’s all you can do to hold on. Your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head as he brutalizes your body, but you want to watch him. Want to watch his mouth open on a pleasured groan, his nostrils flare as the heady smell of sex fills the air, watch his brows furrow as he stares at where you’re joined.

Your next orgasm explodes out of you in no time, and you would be embarrassed if Thor didn’t encourage it with muttered praises in old norse.

“That’s it, sæti.”

“Yes, let me hear you, elskan mín.”

“Take it, ástin.”

He flips you over, making you straddle his hips in an obscene spread, and pounds you from underneath, holding you close to his chest, his fist in your hair, his groans in your ear.

It’s overwhelming, obliterating.

His warm hands seem to send zaps of electricity wherever he touches you, and for all you know, he might literally be.

You whine as his pace slows, turning into a filthy grind as he reaches deeper, pulling you down by the hips to meet his as he spears you on his rock hard cock. He licks his thumb, gives you a wicked grin when you whimper, knowing exactly what he is doing, and then his thumb is circling your clit harshly, pulling another, earth shattering orgasm out of you. He groans as you shake on top of him, tears of pleasure springing in your eyes. His teeth latch onto your throat and your eyes roll back into your head now.

Moments, minutes, hours.

Pleasure, pressure, overstimulation, pain.

You float through it all as Thor picks you apart, the crack of a new thunderstorm sounding outside your home as he continues as virile as before, growing more and more feral. Your wetness gushes out of you at one point, coating his stomach and thighs, and he groans triumphantly, hands squeezing your hips appreciatively as you convulse on him.

It's all part of being the god of thunders lover. He isn't satisfied until your a fucked-out puddle beneath him, and his libido is quite literally of a different world. You pride yourself on being able to keep up with him, let him unleash it all and taking everything he gives (if only barely), and he often praises you for it, swearing you are the only one of his human lovers to ever take all his might.

In the early morning sun he mounts you from above, as you lay in a heap of shivering limbs on your stomach, and you half-moan, half-whine as his cock again spears into your weeping, puffy and overstimulated pussy. The marks from his mouth and teeth litter your body, your nipples as spit slick and swollen, the skin on the inside of your thighs rubbed raw from his beard, bruises the shape and size of his fingertips along your shoulders, arms, hips, thighs and legs. You're covered in his saliva, his sweat, your own sweat and your slick. His balls, abnormally massive like the rest of him, slap wet and full on your clit as he goes, sending jolts of sensation deep into your body and out to your limbs.

You lay pliant for him as he nears his peak, the position of him plowing you into the mattress so devastatingly and deliciously primal, his pace feral, his sounds animalistic, and craning your neck, you see his entire eyes alight with the cold, blue color of lightning. It’s all possibly barbaric.

This is it. This is the god of thunder, revealing himself for you in these tiny moments, no doubt controlled for so long in order to not risk serious injury to you. You relish in it, the sheer magnitude of the moment, feeling like you’re in the presence of a miracle as he fucks you raw, teethering on the edge of the most glorious peril.

You keen as he rams your already pounded flesh, a pulsing orgasm wrecking you as your whole body struggles between the overwhelming need to get away and simultaneously, to get more.

When he comes, it’s like the whole earth shifts, the room shaking on its foundation. He downright growls. It’s absurd, but you imagine you’re actually floating up from the mattress, weightless even as he pins you down by one hand on your neck and the other on your hip. The air leaves your lungs, instead filled by that same, addictive feel of electricity, sizzling along every nerve ending in your body as his cock pulses again and again inside you, filling you to the brim with his hot spend. He pushes impossibly deeper with another severe grunt, and you hear the squelching sound as his cum leaks out around his girth, cheeks blazing at the thought of him marking you so severely inside and out, claiming you, ruining you for any human man.

The god of thunder turns tender after his love-making, gathering you gently into his warm embrace, his fingertips grazing tenderly where they earlier gripped hard enough to hurt. He kisses your fluttering shut eyelids softly, licking the stray tears on your cheek in a bizarre, intimate manner, his hand big enough to engulf the entire side of your face.

You sleep, blissfully sore and tingling in his arms.

It varies how long he stays on his visits, but it’s always woefully too short in your mind. He always sleeps with you, lulling you with his deep snore and steadily rising and sinking chest to your back.

In the beginning, he didn’t say much between awakening and leaving, and you were always left wondering if you’d ever see him again. Now, he talks. After waking up in his arms well into the afternoon, he tells you tales of his home, of his ludacris adventures. Whenever you guess a detail right, scrambling to remember the myths your mother told you as a child, he looks at you with a sort of puzzled pride that has you breathing funny. And he enquires about your life, listening intently, asking questions about mundane, human things like toasters, public transit and platform boots. You realize he has a certain fondness for earth and humanity not exactly shared by the rest of his people, and it melts your heart to hear him talk with such a protective tone.

You laze around in bed, caressing and studying each other's bodies, Thor making it his mission to find every point on your body that either makes you squirm, giggle og sigh.

And you always braid his hair before he leaves. It started out rather coincidentally. You’d been absentmindedly playing with some of his golden locks at one of his visits, listening to him tell the tale of a stolen hammer and a wedding dress. He’d abruptly stopped speaking, and looking up you’d caught his neutral, but intense stare at your hands, where you’d made a small braid in his hair.

“Oh, um, sorry, I guess I…” you’d trailed off, feeling a bit embarrassed. This was a god in your bed, after all, who were you to take liberties?

“Would you do it to the rest?” he asked when you trailed off, and you recognised the amused interest in his shining eyes.

Whenever he reappeared at your doorstep for another night of sheer, explosive bliss, his hair was usually loose. At first, you thought maybe he used it as a type of timeframe, coming back to visit you when the last braid was finally untangled. You stopped securing them after that, hoping he would come back more frequently as the braids lasted for a shorter time. But then he sometimes reappeared even before the braids were completely undone, prompting a surge of possessive pride in your chest.

You sit up in bed now, braiding away, relishing the feel of his velvety, thick and shining blond hair in your hands - the color like spun gold, soft as you imagine a cloud would feel like in the palm of your hand. His head is in your lap, your leg draped over his shoulder. He idly strokes up and down the ridge of your foot, squeezing a toe now and then to see you jolt and smile despite yourself, responding with a dashing flash of his white, straight teeth, blinding you with his beauty.

“I was wondering, sweet one,” he starts, and you relinquish the braiding to give him your full attention, detecting to your astonishment some hesitation in his voice. “Would you bestow me a lock of your own hair, and braid it in with mine? And secure it fast, for I’d be loath to lose it,” he continues after a beat, meeting your eyes steadily even as he speaks slowly and a bit haltingly.

It is your turn to halt now, stuttering, flashing hot, feeling your face heat rapidly, your heart in your throat suddenly. He probably sees right through you, but you doubt he would ever understand how much the request means to you. You nod, letting your face split open on your sudden happiness.

Your hair, in his, for everyone to see, for the whole of Asgard to see. God, you would give anything for this man.

“I’d love that,” you manage to whisper, needing to give him a just answer.

He smiles again, reaching up and pulling your head down to kiss you tenderly on the lips, sementing the moment, sementing the emotions in your heart.

You get a pair of scissors, let Thor choose the lock he wants (he chooses one from the nape of your neck, one he says he’d noticed before because of its particular curl) and then braid it into a small braid at his front, where he can easily pull it out to see it. He easily picks you up and arranges you across his lap as he sits with his back to the headboard, watching you as you braid. You feel his eyes flit across your face, but you steel your focus. This is quite suddenly, intensely important, the most important task of your life.

His cock, however, growing hard against your belly as you work away, is entirely too difficult to ignore. Both naked, flush together, you wiggle subtly as your body stirrs to attention, and his face becomes shrewd as he watches you, not moving an inch, his hands resting firmly on your hips as you distractedly squirm against him.

You stubbornly finish the braid even as your heartbeat picks up. Securing it tightly with a rubber band (he’ll love shoving that off to his friends) you rest your own hands above his on your hips with a triumphant smile, and he chuckles amused at you.

He fondles the braid with a soft smile on his features, bringing it to his lips to kiss it softly.

“I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for this,” he says with an undercurrent in his voice. There’s that zap of energy again, and suddenly, there’s the smell of fresh rain in the air.

Note: When I tell you I was OBSESSED with this man ten years ago?? And his brother the frost bite?? Insane

EDIT: here is the sequel

#thor fanfiction #thor x reader #thor x y/n #thor fanfic #thor smut #thor fluff #thor mcu #thor norse mythology

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