#tidings from thor

[thor-the-mighty]

The tales all tell of how wise my father was, but he never did learn how to raise a child without causing severe emotional trauma.

#shit post #tidings from thor #thor #thor odinson #loki #loki laufeyson #hela #hela odinsdottir

[magnusmodig]

headcanon/development qs /@bardicwine / no longer accepting !

╰┈➤ Would your muse use the word ‘brave’, about themselves? Should they?

||. Usually IF Thor describes himself at all, then Thor uses the word "mighty". ("Fortunately, I am mighty.") To the point where invoking "The Mighty Thor" is something of a rallying call. To equate yourself to Thor is to equate yourself to the definition of bravery. In basically every sense of the word. ( Namely: "strong in the face of fear; courageous. Having any sort of superiority or excellence. A challenge, defiance, bravado." )

Thor would probably prefer the word courageous.

 The quality of being confident, not afraid or easily intimidated, but without being incautious or inconsiderate.  The ability to maintain one's will or intent despite either the experience of fear, frailty, or frustration; or the occurrence of adversity, difficulty, defeat or reversal. Moral fortitude.  The ability to overcome one's fear, do or live things which one finds frightening. 

I don't think he'd use either brave or courageous as self-descriptors, though. ...Mostly because Thor tends to avoid describing himself. He's spent a bit TOO much time showboating to other's detriment to feel comfortable with anything past "mighty".

Either word is an apt descriptor of him, though, so he won't dispute it either.

#(i'm like completely confident that ppl unironically spread tidings of courage by saying 'may you have the courage of thor') #(that kind of a thing) #(which.... yeah honestly) #(thor'd probably say it too but mostly to encourage someone else less because he actually thinks he's All That) #( ooc . ) — stories that leap from the page . #( closed . ) — locked in father's vault . #( headcanon . ) — glory to the man who toils for his land . may it ever prosper . #bardicwine

[sytoran]

home is where the heart is ★ n.r

— 𝐓𝐖𝐎 ;; 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 & 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇

in which your married life with natasha romanoff is depicted through this comedy-drama series. with your dream job, three kids, and a plethora of friends, each day is blissful but all the more chaotic and unpredictable. (and ultimately, very horny.)

pairing ★ sub!wife!natasha x beefy!butch!reader

chapter summary ★ twitter's sole purpose is for you to thirst over your wife, the beach is a good place to spend time with your kids, and ogle at your wife in a bathing suit, but not a great a place to have sex. (lesson learnt).

warnings ★ (MINORS DNI) - explicit content, hard stuff: beach sex, doggy style, cunnilingus, daddy kink, SO MUCH thirsting

word count ★ 4.0k (get fed gremlins)

SERIES MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST

*****

In tandem with Tony Stark’s spontaneity, Steve Rogers’ unending enthusiasm, and the fact that you privately owned close to twenty beach resorts in New York alone, the lot of you and your other friends had a beach outing planned for that Sunday.

After the astronomically long time it took to get your kids dressed, beach toys packed, picnic dinner prepared, and everything loaded into the car, five happy L/N-Romanoffs finally kickstart their journey to the Westview Surfers’ Beach.

“SAND!” Emilia roars maniacally, once the five of you step foot onto the sandy shore. She’s gone like the ocean breeze, sprinting into the distance, grains of sand flying everywhere.

“Sea! Sea! Sea!” Emilio is equally as excited, already by the tide of the brilliantly blue ocean, following its ebb and flow with scampering feet and delighted cries. 

“Careful, Emilio!” Marina says, holding his hand, preventing her over excited brother from falling over. You can see the way she laughs along, kicking up water with her slippers.

Behind your eager children, you swing you and Natasha’s interlocked hands as you casually stroll along the beach, giving her a sweet smile. 

The sand that crunched beneath your feet was earthen and dry, such a gentle hue of gold, almost as grounding as the bright smile your wife returned.

“You look heavenly,” you murmur, bringing up the underside of your wife’s palm to press a gentle kiss to it. She flushes prettily, the sundress she’s adorning doing wonders to her skin tone and curves.

Natasha returns the softness, pressing into your side as you wrap a firm arm around her waist, hand cupping the curve of her motherly hips.

“Oy, lovebirds!”

At the sound of a distinctly familiar voice, you and Natasha spin around with bemused looks. From a distance, you can see Tony with a flamingo floatie around his hips, waving comically.

Next to him, the regular gang is sprawled across three separate picnic mats, conveniently hidden from the sun under several large beach umbrellas. 

Pepper is fixing up Tony’s floatie, to which Carol and Valkyrie snicker at from afar. Thor is asleep on the mats, taking up more than half the area. Laura is busy reading, with Clint probably gone to find seashells for the sandcastle Bucky and Steve are constructing. The kids make a long human chain from the shore to the sandcastle, scooping up buckets of water to make a trench.

“Aunty Y/N! Aunty Nat!” Nathaniel squeals, dropping his bucket, running over and leaping into your arms.

“What’s up, you little rascal?” you ask, laughing as the youngest Barton giggles. Natasha ruffles his head, waving at Lila. 

Morgan, being the same age as Emilia and Emilio, is already chatting excitedly with them and kicking up a loud racket. Marina joins Cooper in attaining bucketfuls of seawater.

“What’s up, my favourite lesbians?” Tony calls out to you and Natasha with outstretched arms, comically ignorant to the death-glare Valkyrie shoots him. 

Natasha rolls her eyes in faux annoyance, strolling past him and brightening up animatedly to chat with the ladies. You pat Tony’s back sympathetically. 

Your attention flits to an impressively large sandcastle with a sculpture of a mermaid on top, hand-crafted by Steve and Bucky. Leaning closer to Tony, you whisper, “Why does the mermaid kinda look like you?”

Leaving him to splutter at his intentionally uncanny resemblance to the mermaid, with a seashell bra and an elegant tail, you look up to see Clint coming back with his arms full of seashells. 

“Hi, Y/N!” He greets distractedly. In the midst of his frantic haste, Clint’s foot gets caught on a stray rock —

And the rest is a scene out of a comedy movie. 

The seashells go flying out of his arms, scattering onto the picnic mat and spraying sand everywhere, Clint loses his balance and flies forward, outstretched arms knock into the sandcastle, and everyone watches in horror as Steve and Bucky’s great unfinished symphony comes crumbling down, leaving only the head of Tony’s mermaid untouched.

A quiet hush falls. 

Bucky and Steve’s faces are morphed into disbelief and heartbreak, and Clint trembles in fear with sand in his mouth. Tony shudders at his beheaded mermaid, the ladies have their hands over their mouths, and Natasha fights battles in order not to burst out laughing. Thor sleeps unperturbed, and even the kids' racket has died down.

“Well,” you announce, breaking the stunned silence. “Who wants to go surfing?”

*****

As Natasha lazes in a beach chair, away from the gory scene of Steve and Bucky dunking Clint in the seawater, she watches you with a budding fire in her belly. 

Standing on the sand so casually, you have your hefty surfboard tucked under one arm, and Emilio in your other. You’re speaking to him with a roguish grin, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt flapping in the wind, tinted sunglasses pushed up to muss up your perfectly tousled hair. 

“You ready to ride the waves, bub?” 

“Yeah! I’m ready!”

Your wife swallows, thinking she was ready to ride something else.

Natasha crosses her legs unsubtly. It was honestly unfair, how indifferently attractive you were, like it was a state of being instead of a practised art. 

Perhaps it was her love for you and the longevity of your marriage that warped her perception of sexiness, but when you were casually strolling on the beach with that chiselled abdomen on display, who was she to be blamed?

“Y/N!” Natasha calls, sitting up slightly. There’s a devious little idea blooming in the back of her mind, and she feels like taking the bait, just for today.

You look up at your wife’s beckoning, and smile widely at her. Setting Emilio down gingerly and calling him a “little rascal”, you jog over to Natasha easily. 

When you flick your hair back, it glints in the sunlight, and so does the sheen of sweat under your sports bra, defining the cutting edges of your abdomen. Natasha has the criminal urge to rip off your swimming trunks there and then.

Despite your obliviousness, Natasha is more than well-aware of the stares you’re getting from young women and married women alike, momentarily disregarding their boyfriends and husbands to gawk at you.

“Damn, look at that fine specimen!”

“Ryan, why don’t you work out more?”

“There goes my heterosexuality.”

You get feasted upon hungry eyes like a slab of beef, likened to your beefiness, but it only makes Natasha’s possessiveness skyrocket.

“Hey, honey,” you say, settling on a low and inviting tone that has your wife blushing. You crouch down next to her beach chair, holding her hand in a sweet gesture. “What’s up?” 

You’re close to her, so close, and she can feel the heat radiating off you, and your distinct scent, and the overwhelming senses of want and need are washing over Natasha like those tidal waves in the ocean.

But well, Natasha knew more than a few ways to rile you up too.

“I think I want to go surfing too,” she lies through her teeth, having no inclination to partake in the sport. Natasha fakes a pout all too well, knowing it’s one of your many weaknesses. “But the sun’s really hot out there, so I need some help with the sunscreen.” 

It wasn’t like she’d have needed it, anyway. Just like that and you’re sold, ever the gentleman and the golden retriever, digging for the sunscreen in the duffel bag.

“Of course, honey,” you reply readily. “Is it the Banana Boat sunscreen, or is that the kids’ one? Oh wait, we have the SPF 50 one, I think that’s—”

Words trail off comically when you look back up at Natasha, gradually dying down completely.

Your wife has conveniently slid off her outer layer of a sheer white blouse, leaving her in just a matching two-piece set of an azure bathing suit. The top piece is held together with thin pieces of string, accentuating her chest in a tight cradle. The lack of coverage shows off the dip of her hips and her soft curves.

Coherent thoughts in your mindwires get severed as Natasha plays with the string on her bottom piece, nearly flashing you as the material slides down ever so slightly. Your throat dries up as her fingers trail a path over her tummy and cleavage. She plays with another bundle of string that keeps her chest barely covered, and the irresistible urge rises within you to undo it.

“My eyes are up here, y’know,” Natasha murmurs, laying on her side and looking at you through lowered lashes.

“I know where they are,” you answer hoarsely, gaze still fixated on your wife’s enticing cleavage.

The sheer amount of bare skin that Natasha is showing off has your remaining fragments of sanity falling to pieces. There’s no point even trying to hide the tent in your pants, poking uncomfortably against the fabric.

“Gonna help me lather sunscreen?” Natasha asks with a silky lilt to her voice, turning over on the beach chair. 

You groan out loud when you see the curve of your wife’s ass on display, her rounded bottom barely covered by a few measly pieces of material, all held together by flimsy strings and nothing else.

“Mhm,” you respond brainlessly, uncapping the bottle and rubbing your hands with a bountiful amount of the moisture, clearly in excess.

You begin applying your wife’s sunscreen with overzealous eagerness and desire. Large hands spread unnecessarily widely as you gain coverage over the soft skin of her back, trailing up and down and smearing the white moisture over her soft skin.

“Oh, that feels nice,” Natasha says airily, a dainty little sound that causes your cock to twitch in your shorts. 

The line down the middle of Natasha’s back is emphasised as she tenses and relaxes it. Like clockwork, you begin massaging your wife’s back to release the tension in her muscles.

“Y/N…” The breathy moan she lets out is pure heaven, dragged out from the depths of her throat, then lifting to a higher tone that washes over you in a sea of goosebumps.

Of course, your faux masseuse skillset is just a simple ploy to grope and knead at Natasha. Fat spills through your fingers as you spread your hands across her torso, as Natasha whines softly.

It wouldn’t take a genius to realise that the heat building between the two of you was not just due to the heatwaves under the beating, unforgiving sun.

Your frighteningly quickly-growing arousal only heightens when Natasha feels that her back is done and flips over. Face-to-face with her hefty mounds, a round belly, and the blown pupils of viridescent eyes — you lose the plot completely. 

Deft hands fly to your wife’s ample assets, squeezing her hips in sinful amounts and staking your claim. “You’re so pretty, baby,” you mumble, face buried into the crook of her neck, subtly mouthing at her neck.

“Mhm,” Natasha whines in agreement, but it turns into a gasp as your fingers slip underneath the material of her bra, plucking at hardened nipples in merciless haste.

You press down onto her, flat tongue and sharp teeth, licking a broad stripe up your wife’s exposed collarbone to the tender column of her neck.

Before you can taint clear skin with raging-purple bruises, you’re pulled away with a firm grip on the back of your neck. You look back up to see Natasha gazing at you sternly. 

“Let’s try not to perpetuate public sex while you are the owner of this place, with all our friends present, and the kids building sandcastles no less than ten feet away.”

Much to your disgruntlement, these factors weigh in heavily and overpower your body’s built-in “pretty-wife-need-to-worship” mechanic. Now, your shorts fill up a lot more space than need be, your shaft pressing hot and tight against your left leg, clearly visible.

You grumble, hands still clammy with sunblock, the ghost of Natasha’s warmth still interlaced between each of your fingers. “You’re a meanie,” you sulk, lust-driven adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Natasha looks at you with a wicked smile. “And you’re too susceptible, darling. Now, where’s my flask? I plan on staying plenty hydrated before watching you rough it out against the waves.”

Clearly put-off by not being able to fuck your wife in your public beach resort, you flip off a little kid who openly ogles at Natasha’s ass, much to your wife’s horror.

*****

“I’M NOT BUILT FOR THIS!” Tony screams, arms flailing, as he rides a shallow wave. His firmly implanted foot adds too much weight on the front of his neon yellow surfboard, and the over-eager man overturns comically as the current rushes.

You laugh out loud, Hawaiian shirt flapping in the wind, surfing past Tony in a smooth motion. “Stick to the flamingo floatie, little guy!”

Valkyrie barely dodges the splash Tony creates, nearly falling off her own board. “Fuck off, you cunt!” she yells, full-chested and deadly focused on the tide. From a distance in the shallower part of the ocean, a reprimanding “Language!” can be heard.

Natasha’s wading in the shallower waters with Laura, while Thor had opted to sun tan on the beach while watching the kids.

As a large wave approaches, Natasha watches with intent. Upon your wife’s new found attention, you mentally prepare yourself, determined to impress her, and perhaps get revenge for her prior ploy.

You manoeuvre deftly, putting weight on your back foot to stabilise as you approach the wave head-on. Three… two… one. You add even more weight on your back foot as you go around the back turn while gaining speed, garnering energy like a coiled spring.

As the wave reaches its full height, broad and steep, your calves release with impact, propelling up the barrel of the wave like a spring. The surfboard moves in effortless motion, anchored by your back foot, navigated by your right.  

The second you reach the lip of the wave, you find the sweet spot to execute the backside tail slide. You rotate your wide-set shoulders, swiftly switching the pressure to your front foot. 

Your surfboard glides off the surface for a split-second, turning mid-air — there’s a camera-worthy frame of damp hair, stray droplets, and focused eyes.

You slide back down at an oblique angle with purpose and precision, like a scene out of a movie, locking eyes with Natasha as the wave crashes behind you.

“Damn, Y/N!” Carol hoots, looking amazed as you surf back to the rest of the gang.

“That was crazy,” Steve adds, resting belly-down onto the surfboard, strikingly adorable for a hulking man.

“Gotta admit, that was pretty cool,” Tony comments, his head bobbing above the surface of the water and his surfboard nowhere to be found.

You laugh along with them, attempting to explain the technical jargon of how you did it. But as much as you appreciated your friends’ enthusiasm, there was ultimately only one person you sought validation from. 

“Hi,” you say to Natasha with a stupid smile, sitting on your surfboard, having escaped the rest. 

“That was very sexy of you,” your wife wastes no time in stating, as if she wasn’t five millimetres away from flashing you and killing you with her sexiness. 

Natasha is stuck on the image of your damp hair flying into place like a scene out of a superhero movie, unbuttoned shirt flailing up to expose your defined back and abdomen, concentration flashing in your eyes.

“Mhm,” you hum lowly. Fire burns low in your belly as you ogle your wife in her bathing suit, pulling her closer by the underside of her thighs.

In a moment of indiscretion, your left hand slips upwards and undoes the knot on Natasha’s bathing suit, letting the material slip from your fingers.

“Y/N!” Though blocked from view of the others as it was underwater, Natasha lets out a breathy gasp and presses into you. Her cunt, already soaked before, gets even wetter at the intrusion of seawater.

“Can I claim my prize?” you ask heavily, hot pants against your wife’s ear, driving her wild with the way your fingers slip through her folds to encroach on her entrance.

In no time at all, two of your fingers are at Natasha’s cunt, feeling slick even underwater, and you push in—

“Group picture!” Steve yells from a distance, as you and your wife effectively leap apart in the water, the heated moment dissipated into thin air. 

But it lingers, the arousal, swimming in the back of your consciousness as you smile for a group selfie. Bucky’s arm is around you but you thank the heavens for hiding your erection under the water.

You can tell Natasha feels the same, eyes locking on you even after Steve successfully takes the group picture. (After many attempts.)

“I’m gonna go check on the kids,” Natasha finally says, gesturing back as if she was going to walk back to shore. She’s expectant, waiting.

“And I think I’m gonna go check with her!” you add, chuckling awkwardly, beckoning backwards with your thumbs.

“Okay,” Steve says disbelievingly, eyes glimmering with knowing and just a little amusement. Tony is much less subtle in his sniggering, and Clint looks horrified at the prospect of doing it at the beach.

Tony claps you on the back as you walk past. “Use protection,” he whispers, and you fumble out a haphazard response. 

*****

Turns out, you and Natasha don’t even make it to a completely secluded area before you’re half-undressed and panting. 

And maybe that’s half the thrill, hidden in a secluded beach cave, with regular people roaming around just outside. You’re pressed skin-to-skin with each other and tuning out everything else.

You groan as you snap the strings of Natasha’s bathing suit off, finally, finally. Teardrop tits bounce in place, shaking with the impact of how hard you jerk against your wife, unbearably uncomfortable in the constraints of your boxers.

Natasha takes mercy on you, helping you to tug down your Calvin Clein briefs, watching with heady arousal as your shaft slaps against your six-pack, red and raw and leaking.

“Hurry up,” Natasha whines, bending over and clutching at a stray rock, ass in the air as she exposes her leaking cunt to you. 

“Fuck, baby,” you groan, grabbing onto her ass and slapping it just because you can. You sink deep into your wife, warmth and relief enveloping you as you bury yourself inside her.

The first thrust is like heaven, feeling the pulse and push of Natasha’s walls as she accommodates to take your size, stretching to a familiar extent because you’d made a nest in there for yourself. 

The second thrust takes you there, an insurgent amount of slick coating your cock, flooding the path you proceed to pummel into. “Natty,” you whine, groping at her ass and pulling it closer to you, hilt-deep with no signs of stopping.

“Mhm, daddy,” Natasha moans, walls fluttering around you as you pull out, trying to stop your escape. But then you thrust forward, again, warm and full and deep, and your wife wails beneath you.

Natasha lets this velvet sound from her throat, silky and coated in honey as she breathes reinvigorated life into your arousal.

“Fuck,” you growl, rutting your hips with more rigour. Natasha whines, wrists suspended behind her back with one of your hands as you have your way with her.

“Baby I’m gonna come,” you gasp, virility cloaking the way your abdomen presses up against Natasha, left hand encircling her neck to bring your hot mouth up to hers.

You’re hardly embarrassed for how fast you’re barrelling towards climax, as Natasha is in much more of the same position. She’s panting your name, clutching at the rocks with hard sand digging into her feet. Your cock nudges and prods into her sweet spots effortlessly, the result of countless sex experiences.

“M-me too,” she responds breathily, breaking off into a whine as you press heated, open-mouthed kisses along the line of her back, tasting the salt and sweat on your tongue.

Pleasure blossoms in your lower torso, creeping up the base of your shaft and working its way upwards. Hot arousal overflows from its constraints, and your teeth sinks into your bottom lip as you come, quick and hot and messy.

“Oh!” Natasha moans, high-pitched and sensitive, as you pluck at her ruby-hard nipples. It only takes a few more thrusts for her to reach release, dripping down your cock and her thighs.

“Mhm, nhn—” As your wife raises in pitch and volume, you stuff three fingers into her open mouth, giving her something to suck on and remain quiet. You continue with gentle thrusts, feeling thick white liquid flow out the side of Natasha’s ruined cunt.

“Needa taste you,” you suddenly grunt, hips bumping into Natasha’s ass. She babbles her agreement, despite being half-conscious in a state of post-orgasmic pleasure. 

Easily, you lift Natasha and set her down onto the sandy shore of the beach cave, where the tide is low and washes over your feet gently.

It’s a change of pace, a gradual end to your savage ravaging, slow and sensual, where the water meets the sand. You lower yourself between Natasha’s spread thighs, lips slightly parted and dripping with need.

Natasha swallows audibly, right hand twisting into your tousled hair, looking at you through hooded eyes and lowered lashes. 

Words are left unspoken between the two of you, the tension speaking for itself, as you retain eye contact while lowering your mouth onto Natasha’s pulsing cunt.

You take your last breath of the fresh sea salt air and summer breeze before drowning in unbridled desire. As if making out passionately, you eat your wife out, switching between licking and sucking.

Poetry is written between the lines — the lilt of Natasha’s hitched breath, the crease of her thighs where your fingertips drag across, the shallow water that wades over your feet in a cool decrescendo.

Your head dips down once more, warm and wet, and the sun melts into the horizon, glazing golden and liquid orange. 

With your tongue lodged fully inside your wife’s pussy, marking your inability to breathe, and wide hands spread firmly over Natasha’s thighs, the two of you converge in saintly devotion, hushed worship falling from her lips.

“Please, just like that, please, daddy, please.”

Just like that, and the ocean swallows you whole, taking you under Natasha’s hold inescapably. Your name is said in a breathless cry, lilting and pronounced, and you shudder between her clenched thighs.

“Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“I think there’s ocean water up my asshole.”

“Yeah, I got some sand up my vagina too.”

*****

and that's chapter two of 'hiwthi'! how did yall feel about the introduction of the rest of the cast? i personally enjoyed writing the build-up scenes the most. (sunscreen and surfing!) and for those keen on expanding the family dynamic, i'll be building on that in the next chapter!

reblog or i will take 292857192 years to post the next part

SERIES MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST

#⋆⭒˚｡★ home is where the heart is #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader smut #wlw smut #gxg smut #marvel smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha x reader smut #top reader #sub natasha romanoff #dom reader #bottom natasha romanoff #butch4femme #butch reader #femme4butch

[bones4thecats]

can I ask for Poseidon and Thor .

he heard someone singing and try to check who is it that sang. It's quite melodic and far much beautiful from any creature he ever heard or even humans

there he saw his wife, singing and dancing. the dance is quite beautiful and quite seductive in subtle way.

he didn't know that you have beautiful voice and good in dancing

as you turn around. you blush from mortified and embarrassment when you saw your husband been watching you.

ever since then, he will ask for your hand to dance and always sit around just to hear you sing

A/N: I loved writing this, it was super cute! Enjoy!!

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●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

🔱 He didn’t go out for stroll to often, but today seemed decent out and he had finished all of his work, so, why not?

🔱 Poseidon walked through the beach’s grounds and looked up from the ocean’s tides when he heard a song being sung

🔱 Initially, he believed it was a siren trying to tempt him into the waters, in which he always executed them for trying to tempt a God, and their leader

🔱 But when he looked out into the sea and didn’t see any scales turning into magnificent hair, he looked around in confusion

🔱 Who could be singing?

🔱 Poseidon walked around a large rock and small set of trees when he saw his S/O dancing around calmly while singing a calm song

🔱 A song that Hermes had played her the other day when he visited them

🔱 His cheeks heated up slightly as you sang the beautiful lyrics

🔱 When you turned around and saw him, you jumped and hide yourself behind the rock you were standing on

🔱 He lightly stepped behind and looked down at you, his trident de-summoned as he held a hand out to you

“ Would you like to continue your melody with another? “

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🌩️ Much like Poseidon, Thor was a busy God

🌩️ Odin had ordered Thor to take a few hours off to spend with you, because he knew how much work could strain a relationship

🌩️ Thor walked around the grounds of his residence when your melodic voice began to wrap through the trees and into his ears

🌩️ He walked up to where the sound came from and he smiled softly as he saw you dance around while singing a lovely song

🌩️ You sang and danced for a while after his arrival

🌩️ And when the second song ended along with your movements, you turned around to head back home, and that was when you saw your husband standing there smiling

🌩️ You squeaked and hide your face behind your hands as he chuckled

🌩️ Thor walked briskly up to you and pulled your hands away from your face with the words;

“ My love, would you like to continue this show with another? “

#Record of Ragnarok #RoR #Shuumatsu no Valkyrie #SnV #RoR Greek Pantheon #RoR Norse Pantheon #Record of Ragnarok Gods #RoR Gods #Record of Ragnarok x Reader #RoR x Reader #Shuumatsu no Valkyrie x Reader #SnV x Reader #RoR Greek Pantheon x Reader #RoR Norse Pantheon x Reader #RoR Gods x Reader #Record of Ragnarok Gods x Reader #S/O! Reader #GN! Reader #RoR Poseidon #RoR Poseidon x Reader #RoR Thor #RoR Thor x Reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 44

Joyous Walpurgisnacht: Part II

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Please share your screams in my ask or a reblog!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Laufeyson returns with a second drink. You still have your first, nursing it as you find your head spinning with the activity all around. As more guests stream through, raucous as they meet others they know, the stage hums and the speakers crackle to life. 

Bragi begins his set, a brief tidings for the event before he strums into a tune. You wiggle your foot to the beat, peering over at the full band behind the lead. It's all so big and bright.

You turn back, reaching for your glass, as Laufeyson draws from his own. He watches you over the brim, eyes traveling down your body, focusing on the movement of your foot. You still it and uncross your legs, setting your soles flat.

He puts his drink down, half-finished. You sit back and fold your hands in your lap, peering around evasively. He probably saw you slouching or was annoyed by your fidgeting. You blow out between your lips as the party blooms around you.

Voices thrum in ripples beneath the steady rhythms of the stage, hollers go up now and then, piquing your interest as you look over to see a group cluster. They stand around smaller tables framed by two chairs each. You can barely see those sitting at them moving small pieces around the board.

“Hnefatafl!” The cry goes up as Thor stands and the pieces scatter on the table before him. You quickly look away as his head pops up above his audience.

“An old game,” Laufeyson explains, “rather dry for an event like this.”

You raise your brows curiously. You’re almost tempted to ask him more but think better of it. He hardly seems interested. Distant thunks bring another roar from a crowd further down. You twist in your chair to see across the field large round boards set up. A man with blond hair hurls an axe towards the wood, embedding it. You flinch and face the table again.

“Chaos,” Laufeyson mutters.

“Yes,” you agree, your toe tapping on the grass until you stop it again.

You sink into a silence which exists only between you and him. The furor of the party crackles around you, circling you in a whirlwind. There in the eye of the storm, there is no sound. It is deafeningly hollow.

“Ahem,” the clearing of a throat and tap on your shoulder brings you around. Laufeyson looks over your head, fixing his posture as you face Odin, “hiding in the corner?”

“Not exactly, father,” Laufeyson says, once more taking up his drink.

“There is much to enjoy. Your mother’s put in so much effort, I’d for her to see you glowering like this,” Odin reproaches.

“I do not glower,” his son snips.

“Mm, yes, well, you are more than welcome to wallow alone,” Odin replies flippantly, “but you needn’t cast a cloud over others…” he shifts to face you, opening a hand to you, “might I be so humbled as to request a dance from the lovely lady?”

You look up at him and your mouth falls open, “dance? I don’t know… how.”

“Well, then it is a good thing I must take it slow,” Odin insists, “it isn’t so hard to learn.”

Laufeyson sighs and drains the last of his whiskey. He stands abruptly, “I need to top up.”

Odin eyes him tensely but doesn’t remark. He looks back to you, “you don’t need to sit in his shadow all night. One dance, fair maiden of Walpurgisnacht, I see you can barely contain yourself.”

You look down as his gaze falls to your foot, once more wiggling. You still it and accept his hand. You hope Laufeyson isn’t too upset. It is only his father after all, he can’t be too put out.

“Thank you,” you stand and let him lead you away.

Odin brings you amid the other dancers, on a flat white floor laid out over the grass. He guides you to face him and helps you place your hands before he hooks an arm around you. He’s gentle but firm in leading you, counting with the rhythm between directing you how to move your feet.

“That’s it, dear, you’re a natural,” he praises as you let the music guide you, “and a beauty. That dress is very becoming, though it pales on you. You look immaculate…” he continues to sway with you, “my son is a fool not to say it himself.”

“Odin,” you look past him sheepishly.

“It is the truth. You are glowing and he is playing the troll, secreting you away from the light,” he tuts and shakes his head.

“It isn’t my party,” you utter.

“You belong here,” he insists, “don’t you think otherwise.”

“I am the house manager–” you rebuff.

“You aren’t,” he says, “my son didn’t get his senselessness from me. No, that is bred of mistrust. Fear, truly.”

“Odin, it’s true–”

“If he says it, it cannot be,” he counters, “when he looks at you, he is not looking at a house manager. He will claim I do not know him but he is my son. I see through him, it is only a pity he looks in the mirror and cannot do the same.”

You stare at the button of his vest. You don’t believe him. You don’t want to. You’re too afraid to think it could ever be true. Yet how can you tell him the truth? That would be humiliating. You are only half-right, your son wants more of me but only to sate his worst urges. It isn’t sentiment, it is convenience.

“Pardon,” a voice has you tripping over your own feet but Odin keeps you balanced, turning you as another figure stands close, “father, may I… take over?”

“Ah, but we are having such fun,” Odin taunts and twists you away from Laufeyson again.

“Yes, it seems so,” Laufeyson says thickly, “perhaps the next song…”

“Oh, don’t be so mopey,” Odin stops you as he chuckles, “I was only trying to pep you up, yes? It’s a party.” Odin raises your hand and kisses it gently, “thank you, dear, for humouring an old man.”

He stands straight and lets you go. He faces his son but you cannot see his expression, only the way Laufeyson’s eyes gleam back dangerously. Odin departs and Laufeyson’s attention flits onto you. He takes a step forward, once more looking you up and down.

The music ebbs and a new song begins. The soft plucking begins, then the reedy tone of a flute. Mr. Laufeyson offers his hand and you accept it, awkwardly coming closer as he sweeps his arm around you, his hand stretched over your lower back. He looks down to place his feet with yours before he begins. He is lithe and graceful, you feel otherwise.

“This is your song,” he says as the melody comes clearer.

You tweak an ear as you follow it, then lyrics begin.

“Moon River, wider than a mile…” 

Your heart pulses in recognition. You smile towards the stage. You didn’t expect him to truly do it but it’s wonderful.

“I like it,” Laufeyson says, “it is very… whimsical.”

You turn your head straight, focusing on your footwork, careful not to trod his feet, “it is.”

He’s silent as you feel his gaze upon you, bearing down. He must be annoyed by how you follow his lead, uncertain in your body. How pathetic; never had a birthday cake, never had a dance. You look up and gulp shakily.

You almost stop dead in your heels as you see something less than agitated in his expression. He is fixated on you without a trace of chagrin. His hand shifts on your back, his other on your hip as you hold his shoulder and his upper arm. He is handsome in the dimming approach of the evening.

“When I said before that you look nice,” he begins, “I was remiss. You look… beyond anything I could ever put into words. You are magnificent, pet.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you stutter, “well, you look very handsome as well.”

“I am not looking for compliments,” he dismisses, “and I think I owe you more than that.”

You don’t know what to say. Is it an apology? You don’t know entirely what he means. He’s had three glasses of whiskey, just like that night, and in the morning, he was just the same as before. You won’t count on the kindness he finds at the bottom of a bottle.

A sudden flash makes you squeak. You look over as Yvonne smiles over the large lens. You give a nervous giggle and brace Laufeyson tighter. He sweeps you away from the camera.

“Tomorrow, we will talk,” he avows, “but we can enjoy tonight. It is Walpurgisnacht and it is a new beginning.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He winces and exhales, “can I be Loki for tonight?”

“Loki,” you echo, “yes.”

As the song ends, the heat speckling in your skin licks to flames. You don’t know if it’s being so close or his constant gaze or the thought of tomorrow and whatever you might talk about. You’re sweating and you're uncomfortable and you need a breath.

“Excuse me, um, I need the bathroom,” you gently pull away. 

He reluctantly lets you go, his hand lingering on your hip as he points, “there, in the tents, I believe mother had facilities put up.”

“Thanks,” you offer a weak grin and step away from his grasp.

“I’ll be here,” he promises as you go.

You try not to hurry. You don’t want him to see how desperate you are to be away. It isn’t him, it’s you. This is all too much for you. It isn’t you. You’re not one of these people but they treat you like one. You’re just a poor girl born of cigarette ash.

You find your way to the tent housing the stalls. You take your time and try to collect yourself. Your nerves are tingling in your fingertips and where he held you; just along your lower back and your hip. It’s that urge that worries you, the one that made you think of resting your head on his shoulder.

You emerge and use the outdoor sinks set up in front of the stalls. You dry off and measure your breaths. You can do this. You go back down towards the fervour and as the night sets in, the large lights come to life and light the crowd.

You search the clusters of bodies. Where is Mr. Laufeyson? As you inch along the threshold, a shadow shifts to your right. You glance over but the figure disappears. You shake off the eerie sensation creeping down your spine and march forward into the tide of people.

You weave around bodies and tables, dizzy from the flurry all around you. You stagger as you’re nearly stampeded by a rowdy group of guests and you spin around to face a table in the far corner. There you find a scene that makes your heart plummet into your stomach.

You can’t stop yourself as you near the pair. Laufeyson, Loki, sits in a chair, two drinks on the table; his whiskey and another bright purple concoction. But beside him is Sif. She leans forward, her wrist clutched in his grasp as she whispers through the curve in her delicate lips. He stares back at her, eyes fiery, jaw locked.

“Loki, we had something good…” you hear her slither as you get closer. Her blue eyes dance over to you and her lips curl, “I still love you.”

She looks at him again and smashes her lips into his. He winces and turns his head, his gaze finding you as you stop, paralysed as you watch helplessly. You blink and swallow, wetting your lips as you bring your hand up to your sickened stomach.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You turn and race away on clacking heels. You don’t look back as you elbow through bodies, running without direction, without escape. You just need to be away from it. All of it.

You find the pathway into the garden, plunging into the brush as your heels wobble with each step. You stumble and grunt in frustration. You stop and bend to unbuckle the shoes, tossing them away before you hurry on.

You find the stone gazebo, lit only by moonlight, and throw yourself inside. You land on a stone bench and hang your head in the frame of an arched window. You deflate as you hunch over, trembling so much it hurts.

You won’t cry. Why would you do that? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Mr. Laufeyson only said you looked magnificent then turned around to kiss his ex-wife. And why wouldn’t she? She’s much more than you’ll ever be. She fits neatly into their puzzle.

“Ah, little maid,” the gazebo darkens as the moonlight disappears as if a clouds passed over the nocturnal guardian, “what is the matter?”

You sit up and shudder as Thor’s burly silhouette limns in silver. You brace the edge of the bench and stand.

“N-nothing, I was only… having a break, I should head back–”

“It is peaceful out here,” he says, unmoving as you gesture around him. He fills the entire doorway.

“Yeah, but er, I should–”

“How do you like Walpurgisnacht? Are you having fun?” He asks, propping and elbow against the stone.

“Sure, I guess.”

“And did you play any games?” he sneers.

You falter and lean back on one heel. You have a bad feeling. You wring your hands as the air breezes in, a shiver rattling you.

“No…”

“That is too bad. This is a day of fun! Games are fun, aren’t they?”

“Please, Thor, I have to get back–”

“Let’s play a game,” he ignores your protest and steps into the gazebo, “I know a special game.”

“Thor,” you croak as you glance towards the windows. You see the lights above the trees and hear the muted noise of the partygoers and Bragi’s tunes. You look back to him as he takes another step towards you.

“You can be the mouse…” he says, “and I shall be the cat.”

“No, please, I don’t want–”

“You best be nimble, mouse. for the cat is hungry,” he growls as he looms closer, “and ready to pounce!”

He lunges and you jump back. Your shoulder hits the wall and you cry out. You turn and feel around, nearly falling through the opposite doorway as your feet slip over the stone steps. You stumble at the bottom, slipping in the grass as twigs and stones poke into your bare soles.

You hear him behind you, laughing as he makes a steady but easy pursuit. You sprint across the small field towards the row of brush, skirt catching on bramble as you dive into the wilderness. You don’t know where you’re going, you just need to get away.

Your feet slip on moss as dirty sticks to your skin. You puff as you pump your arms, glancing back over your shoulder frantically. He isn’t running, but he is coming. You can hear him laughing.

You swerve around, towards the noise of the party. You just need to get back there. You need to find a path. You don’t know where you are, the further you go, the more lost you are. The noises fade further and further. Oh god, wrong way!

Suddenly, your toe hits something hard and you nosedive forward. You don’t have time to get your hands up as your face crunches into a thick trunk and you collapse to the ground. You roll over as you taste iron on your tongue. Ow.

You sit up and touch your throbbing nose. As you plant your feet to stand, you hear a rustle and suddenly, you’re pushed flat to your back. Thor snickers as he holds you down by your shoulders, straddling you beneath him as he huffs.

“Ah, I’ve caught you, mouse,” he taunts as you squirm and whimper, “now the cat must feast.”

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #dirty work #mcu #marvel #avengers #thor

[varijeri]

so i was watching Fit's stream and he was cleaning up a Federation outpost.... what's up with the outpost names huh? long post warning TL;DR at bottom.

Sector A's outpost names are derived from Slavic mythology; specifically special places from the myths. after searching these names online i found this website: https://meettheslavs.com/slavic-mythological-places/ taking from the website; 1. there's a "mystical mountain of Vitor" that's "built in heaven" and "hard to find because it changes its location as soon as the wind blows in a different direction". it's also said to have dragons living on it (this is the one Fit was sent to for repairs, and it also had weird blue draconic-looking creatures around it. it was also an icy mountain...) 2. there's a "Buyan/Bujan Island", described to "appear and disappear with the tides" and be the "dwelling place of three brothers, the Northern, Western and Eastern winds". 3. there's a "Kingdom of Opona", an "imaginary place [that] existed at the edge of the Earth which [ancient Russians] imagined as a flat plane." it was believed "free and happy [peasants]" lived in this country under a "true and just" ruler. 4. there's a "Vyraj/Viraj", a "resting place for the souls and spirits" AKA the equivalent of Heaven in Slavic mythology. it's "a place where birds find their retreat in the winter". (notably this outpost is inactive) 5. lastly there's a "Nav/Nawia", a "mysterious place for the souls of the dead", and "often interpreted as another version of the imaginary place Vyraj", so AKA Hell or the Underworld. (the Hell outpost is active but not the Heaven outpost???) If Outpost Vitor sort of matches the description from the myth, maybe the other outposts do too? so like Bujan is on an island in the sea, Opona is super far out in a village maybe, Viraj and Nawia i have no clue... Sector B's outpost names are derived from Norse mythology; specifically Norse gods. being a nerd i noticed this instantly which was what tipped me off to search up Sector A's names. taking from various sources, but mostly from their Wikipedia articles: 1. "Tyr" is an one-armed god representing justice and fair treaties despite being a god of war, who lost his arm in the process of binding Fenrir the wolf. he dies in Ragnarök. 2. "Odin/Woden/Wodan" is the ruler of Asgard, the All-Father, and the one-eyed god of wisdom war, and death. he presided over Valhalla, a sacred hall that housed dead warriors in preparation for Ragnarok. he dies in Ragnarök. 3. "Thor/Donar" is probably the most popular Norse god, the god of thunder. the embodiment of strength, he is the protector of the Æsir and the humans. he dies in Ragnarök. 4. "Máni" is the god of the Moon and brother of Sol, the goddess of the Sun. they is eternally chased by Skoll and Hati, two wolves who seek to plunge the world into chaos by eating the Sun and Moon. he dies in Ragnarök. 5. Outpost Frïja I believe is "Frigg", the Queen of Asgard and the goddess of marriage, family and motherhood. she lives in Ragnarök. notably, all five gods (and goddess) lend their names to days of the week (Máni -> Monday, Tyr -> Tuesday, Woden -> Wednesday, Thor -> Thursday, and Frigg -> Friday). none of these outposts are active, they are all inactive or under maintenance, so i'm inclined to believe these aren't as important right now as compared to Sector A... still, these outposts are named after Slavic and Norse myths for a reason possibly so these might be significant. Nothing particularly comes to mind but if anyone has any idea feel free to add on... TL;DR: Federation Outpost names from Fit's stream have Slavic/Norse mythology inspired names, possible significance?

#qsmp #qsmp liveblogging #qsmp theories #qsmp theory #qsmp fit #qsmp liveblog

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Due Diligence

Pairing: Minotaur!Thor x Reader

Warnings: Smut, Monsterfucking, Size-Kink, Minors DNI!

a/n: i’m coming back to re-claim my title as “Queen of the Monsterfuckers” 🫣 “Dóron mou” means “my gift”. please enjoy! divider by @firefly-graphics

As you stare breathlessly up into the dark you wonder briefly if you are awake, or if this too is a dream. Above you, the gems embedded in the distant cavern roof wink like stars. The greedy sound of your lover between your legs brings you crashing back down into your body, his thick, calloused fingers digging into the meat of your hips.

“Watch, dóron mou,” Thor mumbles against you, dragging his wide, flat tongue through your slick folds. He repeats himself firmly. “Watch.” His massive palms span almost the length of your thighs, and he kneads them possessively, cutting his eyes at you from between your legs.

You force yourself to focus on him, dragging your bleary, tear filled eyes down to his.As a reward, Thor rolls your swollen, overstimulated nub between his teeth. You squeal in response, bucking agains his face.

“Good.”

One hand scrabbles for purchase on the stone ledge beneath you, the other sinking into his soft blond hair. You rock against him, unable to help yourself as he chuckles.

“My greedy little present,” he hums, and you feel his lips curve as he laps again at your clit. “Greedy…” he trails off as you whine, your thighs tighten around his head. You card your fingers through his sandy hair, gripping his horns with both hands as you rock against his face.

Slowly, he lowers you back down to the ledge, cradling you like a doll against his massive chest. He dwarfs you easily, looming over your limp body as he inspects the sticky mess between your thighs.

You twitch and mewl when he drags his fingers through your sloppy cunt, and he hums softly, a smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

“Th-Thor,” you hiccough his name pathetically as he cups your chin, drawing his thumb across your trembling lower lip.

“What is it, Pet?” He asks, his blue eyes deceptively soft as he swirls his fingers around your clit. “Tell me.”

“P-please, I w-want—” You stumble over them clumsily, the words sticking together on your tongue.

“Oh dóron mou,” Thor croons, stamping one hoof against the stone in anticipation. “I know what it is you want.” You squeal as he presses against you, the thick, leaking head of his cock pressing hungrily into your belly. Though you have seen it before, you cannot help but peek down at the space between your bodies.

His torso is that of a man, still—mostly, the downy brown fur that covers his legs beginning just below his navel, growing thickly between his powerful thighs. His cock springs frol a dark tuft of fur, so thick around the base you couldn’t touch your thumb to your forefinger—something you had learned from experience.

A tremor of anticipation passes through you, and Thor’s nostrils flare.

“Come, my little gift. Let me feel you.” With one massive hand on your belly, Thor positions himself between your thighs, spreading them wide to accommodate the size of his hips. He presses himself against your cunt, groaning softly as he drags himself back and forth through your sticky folds. The head of his cock presses hard against your clit, and still more stars burst in front of your lidded eyes.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, his hips bucking as his eyes go wide with pleasure. His hands tighten around your hips as he moves against you. “I wonder…”

You are not left without explanation for long, gasping as his cock presses against your entrance. You gape up at him, wide eyed as he begins to press forward. The burning stretch of his entry brings tears to your eyes. They track down your cheeks as you gurgle up at him, drawing red lines down his chest and with your nails.

You’re so full you’re drowning in him, gasping for breath as the tide of sensation drags you under. It’s so sharp it borders on pain, the pleasure tearing up your spine to burst over your skin in waves. Thor leans over you to stroke at your sweaty face with gentle fingers, his own eyes fever bright as he grins down at you smugly.

“I told you we would fit, Pet.” He swallows your breathless gasp of pleasure eagerly, and you taste yourself on his lips. “It just took a little… diligence.”

😈

#chris hemsworth #chris hemsworth fanfiction #thor odinson #thor odinson fic #thor odinson imagine #thor odinson smut #thor odinson x reader #thor odinson x you #thor x reader #thor x you #thor smut #thor au #AU #boxofbonesfic #boxofbones drabbles #bones drabble #minotaur au

[noxcorvorum]

The train arrives, and the mechanisms leave, perhaps getting cosmically irradiated in the process, unable to see the collapse of yggdrasil before the metal of their bodies peels the scourge from their systems and the rainbows from their eyes, before aurora gets out of range of the exploding oil slick in colors unseen and imperceivable covering every planet like a shroud and bringing snapping mouths and hungry teeth and rending claws ripping into the fabric of space as loki and sigyn join each other in death and the bodies of the occupants of the ratatosk express spill into physical space, frey's corpse flayed and frayed and split at the seams, freyja fused with the wall, bones and flesh merged with metal dripping with golden-red, heimdall's empty sockets gazing at nothing and everything, seeing to all the edges of the corruption, tyr and garm entwined, tyr's new hand gripped by garm's sharpened teeth and garm's heart clutched in tyr's ragged fingers, odin's serpentine form slumped on the floor of the observation deck, single eye wide and staring out into the abyss as her blood tinged with acid and deadly rainbow drips from thor's borrowed hammer and mingles with his own where he lies nine steps from her corpse, and the knot of cosmic horror spreads, and spreads, and spreads until it encompasses yggdrasil and all its nine planets, and still it creeps forth. No one goes near yggdrasil, anymore. Just like fort galfridian, abandoned during its fall and left to rust and rot and burn and plummet into avalon, the yggdrasil system is left alone and watched and monitored as the squamous things creep closer. They seem to slow, as they get further out, but it never stops, an oil slick spreading infection and mutation and horror over everything it touches, for the flutes have stopped, the doors have opened, and azathoth awakens. The sole survivor, an inspector second class of the midgardian transport police, must move often and quickly, as they drip corruption behind them like a cloak, like so much water on soaked earth, and it spreads and screams and rips and rends if they do not leave whatever planet they stop at before it puts down roots. Everyone they encounter can tell they have been fundamentally changed, by the swirling colors in their eyes and the slight echoed song in their voice and the chromatic smudges that leak from their fingertips onto everything they touch. The void does not let them die, knitting their flesh and sealing their bones back together on a tide of vivid color and nauseous patterns. They take to music and storytelling, narrating the fall of their planetary system as a way to commemorate its existence, and as a warning to any who would listen of the distortion and decay raging its way forth, for they are herald and harbinger for the squamous things, and it will never let them go.

#the bifrost incident #the mechanisms #the mechs #tbi #i had some thoughts about tbi #lyfrassir edda

[lilliths-httyd-blog]

I feel like whenever movie-only fans talk about Astrid's character development they're always talking about her going from "angsty teen with anger issues" to "feminist tradwife if that makes sense" which i think is sad because astrid was genuinely at her best in the show and the comics. like her development from httyd 1/rob/dob into rtte/httyd 2/comics was outstanding. the flightmare episode?? and the time she punched a fucking slitherwing for thors sake. taunting drago bludvist!! THOR WHY WASN'T FIRE TIDES RELEASED??? and then in httyd 3/homecoming she's just. woman ig. idk i haven't seen homecoming and i saw httyd 3 once back when it was in theatres so I don't remember but. movie-only fans really are missing out on peak astrid. and honestly peak all-the-characters like all of them even hiccup imo.

#astrid hofferson #fuck thw #httyd #riders of berk #defenders of berk #race to the edge

[saltsicklover]

Dear 201 - Fan Mail Pt. 5

Title: Dear 201 - Fan Mail Pt. 5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2650

Rating: T

Warnings: Drinking, anger, fucking angst. Steve Rogers is a fucking asshole. 

-- To be continued. I hope you enjoy! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list :) --

Disclaimer: I do not own Bucky Barnes, or anything related to Marvel within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that may contain mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

Three little numbers both thrill and terrify Bucky in equal measure- he started to see the numbers everywhere after he received the letter from Ace. The news didn't seem to surprise Steve or Sam in the way it did Bucky. Steve has always been one to take news like a shot of neat whisky, the information flowing into him, burning, but on the outside he still remains stoic. Sam, on the other hand, seemed to take the news like the beach takes the tide, the news rolling over him like he had known it was coming, something he had come to learn already. As Bucky told him the news, the waves of his voice washed over him and he welcomed them like an old friend. 

After the news broke, Bucky kept his next move close to his chest like a winning poker hand. The chips of his decision twirl threw his fingers, folding over his knuckles as he waits for his turn to bid. Sam has urged him to move decide, to write faster, to move faster. Bucky doesn't let the words get to him. 

One night after too much alcohol stolen from Thor, the Asgardian liquor coursing through their systems, Steve tells Bucky to leave it be- to quit writing all together. 

"Seriously, Buck, you don't need the headache of all this," Steve mumbles a bit, speaking more to himself than to Bucky who is splayed out on the couch across from him. 

"What did you say?" Bucky questions him, his brows furrowing. He pulls his focus from the letters he has been rifling through, the letters from her. 

"You don't need to write her anymore," Steve says as a matter of fact, "You don't need to deal with this anymore," He doesn't bother looking at Bucky, if he would he doesn't think he could stop his eyes from rolling. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on his glass, swirling the liquid around with a gentle twist of his wrist. He watches the amber colored concoction move around the glass, his attention better spent on that than he friend and the situation Buck finds himself in. Steve has deemed it ridiculous, too good to be true, a flat out fucking lie. 

"Deal with what, exactly, Steve?" Bucky sits up now, clutching the letters a little tighter. The paper bunches under his touch, the new wrinkles spreading like roots through the words. 

"This, this shit, Bucky!" Steve raises his voice; it echoes through the room, bristling over Bucky's form, striking a nerve. 

"Excuse me?" Bucky manages, the words spit from his lips full of venom and animosity. His body tightens, the tendons in his neck pulling tight as he squares his shoulders with a bit too much force. He sets his jaw, teeth threatening to grind together to release some of the anger that is taking over his veins with pump of his heart, the tension in the air scalding this insides with each breath he draws. 

Bucky would go to war for this woman, the mystery he has come to adore who lays just on the other side of the postal route, the stamp, the words, the ink. He hadn't thought about it until this very moment, Steve's words spurring something inside of Bucky, his chest burning at the thought of losing his 'Warmest Regards", the thought causes nausea to swim through Bucky, sweat overtaking his skin with pinpricks of anxiety. 

Steve turns his face up, eyes coming up to see the sweat collecting on Bucky's brow. Bucky is almost seething, his body threating to vibrate with anger. "You know what, don't even bother finishing that sentence," Bucky corrects, holding a flat hand out to Steve as if to say 'stop'. Bucky shakes his head, bangs falling forward, concealing the band of sweat that coats his skin. 

He wants to blame the alcohol for Steve's words, for the anger that poured out of them and into Bucky. He wrings his hands, letters sitting haphazardly in his lap. He wants to blame the alcohol for the way his heart seems to be imprinting itself on the inside of his ribcage and the way his hands shake. For the sweat that seems to have taken over his body, chilling him with a sense of sickness. But the only thing he can blame the alcohol for is the fact that it started their evening together in the first place. 

What started as a night to just let go and relax from the strenuous missions and never ending paperwork has turned into honesty hour that has left Bucky feeling sick to his stomach, both from the anger and the liquor he decided couldn't touch him. But now the room spins and his best friend sits across from him, eyes burning into his own. 

"I just mean, what if this is all some sort of ploy to get something out of you? What if whoever is writing you isn't this girl that claims to be on the other side. What if they aren't a barber in Hell's Kitchen? What if they are just in this for money or fame or for the story? Hell, what if they are some terrorist or threat trying to get close to you in order to bring us down? What then, Buck?" Steve's words bite and there is nothing too soothe the marks they leave in Bucky. His chest aches, and Steve's does too; the aches blooming from original sources but crippling each man with a dull pain that doesn't seem to subside. 

Bucky runs his hand over his sternum, pressing hard with his knuckles, trying to counter the ache with pressure from the outside. Steve knocks back the rest of his drink, tasting like honey but burning all the way down. This time he grimaces. Bucky does too, stomach acid burning in his chest. 

Words halt, the world seems to, too. It's like everything has slowed, each movement, each beat of Bucky's heart, each thought that creeps into Bucky's mind that tells him he isn't good enough to have someone write to him- someone so soft and full of love, full of light, on the other side of the paper with ink stained fingertips. Someone like that would be too good for him, he thinks, maybe Steve is right. 

The world resumes speed when a glass leaves Bucky's hand, one he didn't realize he had picked up until the shattered pieces of crystal mingle with the leftover honey flavored amber that resided at the bottom of the glass moments before. The shards look like constellations, each sharp point sparkling in the light of the living room. They beg to be touched, the blade like corners glimmering as the men eye the new universe that has been created on the floor between them. 

"Weren't you the one telling me all those weeks ago that a letter was coming for me? Aren't you the one who couldn't contain their excitement along with me every single time another letter showed up with my name on it? Weren't you the one cheering me on through this? What the fuck happened, Steve?" Bucky sounds almost defeated, burying his head in his hands. He grips at his hair tightly, knuckles threatening to turn white under the pressure. 

Steve can't seem to make his brain work, his mind refusing to form thoughts that would do any good at defending himself. Bucky is right, he thinks- he knows. All those weeks ago when Bucky received that first letter, Steve memorized the pride that burst through his chest at the sight. He remembers the smile that adorned his friend's face just moments before the photo. Steve also remembers the steam that filled his lungs as he was forced to hear Bucky sob just a few feet away, unable to do anything to make the hurt stop. 

Bucky is his best friend, and all those years ago Steve sent Bucky over the beam first shortly after rescuing him, putting his own safety, his own life on the line to make sure Bucky got out first. It was then he decided Bucky's life was the most important thing and just the mere idea of Bucky getting hurt, or heaven forbid getting himself killed, because he got himself in too deep with a 'pen pal' makes Steve physically sick. 

Again, neither men dare to speak, each having voiced their concern. Nobody ever said airing out grievances was easy. They both sit their, their words hanging in the air, dense with meaning. They feel almost suffocating, the sentences wrapping themselves around each man and squeezing. Maybe that's the way it's suppose to feel- the protection of a best friend constricting itself around the body until there is no space to breathe. 

Tears begin to prick at the corners of Bucky's eyes, a heat coming up his chest cavity, a sob threatening to escape his gritted teeth. The sight hurts Steve but he makes no move to correct it, to sooth his friend or to speak. Everything is out on the table, and it needs to stay that way. 

Instead, he pushes himself up, the room swaying around him. It has been a long time since he's been drunk, and maybe it needs to be a long time before it happens again. Steve steps over the shards shakily, moving towards his quarters. He stops just before rounding the corner, daring to look back at the scene he is leaving behind him. 

Bucky sits frozen, an unreadable expression written into the lines of his face. His brows are furrowed, a deep line tracing itself on the skin between his brows. His lips are pulled into a tight line, teeth no doubt clenched together to keep a sob from escaping. A few tears have spilled themselves over the Bucky's face, wet, warm trails coasting down his cheeks. The tears fall from his chin. He closes his eyes, chancing a deep breath to steady himself. 

"I just want you safe, Buck," Steve whispers, his voice barely audible, but Bucky hears it. He knows Bucky hears it because a small noise somewhere between a whimper and a cry comes out strangled and falls from his lips. 

Steve disappears, leaving Bucky a broken mess on the couch, a universe of broken glass in front of him. A sight that would surely break even a tough man- that exact thought keeping Steve from turning around again. The truth hurts, he repeats to himself, over and over and over. He repeats it not only to justify the hurt he has caused but the hurt that has bound itself to his insides, squeezing with each low and ragged breathe. 

In some twisted way, Steve thought that if he could hurt Bucky before she could, maybe it would hurt less. Maybe, if Steve thought it was a bad idea, Bucky wouldn't write her back, or maybe he would, just to tell her to never contact him again. Maybe its the jealousy that thrums through Steve at the thought of losing a friend, or maybe it's because he can't stand to see Bucky get close to someone when there is no one in the world that is bidding for his attention.

Steve gets letters, sure. But they are mostly from old women and family's he has saved or reunited. He also gets mail from children who have come to idolize him and he gets mail asking him to participate at local schools and to make appearances. They all want something or are thanking him for something he has already done, his time and energy already given.   

It's supposed to be Steve and Bucky till the end of the line and women never got in the way of that before, but they way Bucky looks at those letters, his eyes lighting up at the words gives Steve pause. Bucky has never been this way about a women before and hell, maybe Steve should learn to be happy for his friend but instead the jealousy just eats away at him form the inside out. 

When Bucky finally pulls himself from the couch he is shaking, tears stain his skin dry and cracking. He walks past the glass, the discarded crystal left to lay in waste on the floor. The whole universe in the shards becoming increasingly less important with each step Bucky takes towards his quarters. 

He manages to pen a letter through his shaking, the lines of his letters wobbly. A few stray tears manage to fall onto the paper the ink smearing under them. 

"Dear 201, I need to know that you are real. I need to know that you aren't just some sort of conspiracy or threat trying to get close enough to me to burn everything that surrounds me to the ground. 

I need you to be real because I have this blurry image of you in my head that I need to make clear. I need to focus into all the details of you and commit them to memory. Each little, beautiful, imperfect piece. I crave the sight of you in your entirety.

I need to hear your laugh- I need to know if it sounds like pure joy blooming into the world. I need to hold your hands, to see the wear and calloses that adorn them. I need to know how your hand feels wrapped in mine when we shake the first time we meet. I need to know if it will ground me in the way your letters do. I crave you in your pieces and parts. 

Most of all, I need you to be real because you are the best damn thing that has happened to me in years and if you aren't real- hell, if you aren't real, I don't know what I would make of myself. 

With too much hope and heartache- Bucky Barnes" 

Before the war, Bucky knew how to talk to women. Each dip of his voice and brush of a well placed finger had any women swooning over him. He had his pick, each and every time, knowing just what to say to earn himself a kiss at the end of the night. But never before this moment has he poured his heart out in its entirety. 

There is nothing left in him to say- hell, there is nothing left in him to feel. He is now too barren to think or hope or cry. Every single piece of him now lies written in dark ink, the letters smudged and imperfect. There is no blood left in his chest, his heart now pumping electricity alone and it courses through him, numbing his already sore being with each mingling prickle. 

The tear drops have dried now, but the paper is wrinkled where they once fell. The markings like gravestones for the hurt and hope that poured out of him, not only from his pen but from his heart. 

He doesn't think twice about sending it, he doesn't have to. Like words spoken to gods, it was sent the moment it was said. The words are meant to be heard; there isn't a thing in the universe that can stop such a cosmic circumstance. 

Sleep takes Bucky the moment his head hits the pillow, the catharsis of the evening allowing his body to rest. He sleeps on his mattress tonight, the blankets wrapping his body like a shroud. He sleeps like the dead as there is nothing left in him to keep him awake. 

Steve doesn't sleep. Instead, he drinks, letting the Asgardian liquor continue to numb his senses. The room spins around him as sickness snakes itself through his body, making itself at home in the deepest parts of him. 

Maybe that's how it is supposed to feel when you bare your soul to another. Honesty being rewarded with rest and respite while envious anger is rewarded with anguish in equal measure. 

TAG LIST 

@vicmc624 @cjand10 @songoficecreamandfireworks @crazymusicgirl104

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x fem reader #avengers x reader #bucky barnes fluff #marvel x reader #bucky barnes angst #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanficiton #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers

[thor-the-mighty]

I need to admit something. I have been intentionally keeping Fandral and Stark apart out of fear of what would happen if they were to meet.

#shit post #tidings from thor #thor #thor odinson #tony stark #fandral #fandral the dashing

[magnusmodig]

@clxscdeyes / following (x.)

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐄'𝐒 shores was to remain each day suffocating in the wake of his own absence within the nine realms. his dreams , if they could ever be called that , recalled their sunken faces covered in dirt , blood , grime and ash. then recalled still how hands had clung to his cape , soiling the the fabric as he'd tolled the names of the dead , the lost , and those who had survived. perhaps another all-father might rave , beside himself at the audacity of commoner's dirtied hands and rivers of tears. but all thor had seen then was the grief of his people. cold and dark and heavy. he felt in himself the weight of every loss as though it were his own. ( if he was asgard's molten gold , his cape the same red of asgard's once-proud banners , then thor felt that the dust and dirt to stain his royal hem was fitting . asgard the people wept for their legion dead. it was thor's burden to bear the striking lash of each name he added to it. )

each day was counted in mortal months , weeks , days and hours. and for each sorry , sordid day spent far away from his people thor could only rue the moment they had looked up and found in him their golden child.

he couldn't escape this planet. even as it fell ill all around him he could do nothing to sway the tide of the "nightmare moss'" infestation. still , thor would not rest contented with that. the aevum realm was hardly one of his own , but he had alighted upon it all the same. and so he would toil against the tides of reckoning that consumed the isle beneath the light of the blue moon.

his work had led him first to the archives with his brother. then deep into the decrepit ruins with his flame-haired friend. but thor would not rest with such little known and such little done , and carved out in himself the WILL to continue as exhaustion foxed the edges of his mind. ( he felt them. his people . like shadows lingering just outside his vision . like hands clawing and clinging to his boots / pants / cape — ) he turned a corner on his return to the guild headquarters. behind the trunk of one tree and slumped against the next , the mangled corpse of an asgardian child , befelled by surtur's infernal flames , eyes accusatory and wide open and mouth agape with the whisper of asgard's scorn upon her lips – leering at him. the mighty thor faltered. blinked.

there was no asgardian girl. there was— another.

❝  — ᛒᚬᚴᚴᛁᚱ . ❞ ( damn . ) one foot fell before the other. in a rush of movement he had snapped mossy tendrils from his boot and crouched at her side in an instant. ❝  child, ❞ he called. then , placed a hand upon her shoulder. ( shook it as lightly as he could - aware of a primordial strength within his fingertips that could move mountains . ) ❝  luna. this is no place to rest. not at this time , young one. ❞

#( ic . ) — son of odin . the crown is a heavy burden for thee . #( closed . ) — locked in father's vault . #hypnum insomnum / act one #hypnum insomnum / 2024 #clxscdeyes #clxscdeyes / o2 #(//INHALES//) #(//SCREAMS at my own novella length starter/drabble-reply) #(don't bother to match length i just needed to Set his Mindset for my own sake and oh boy is he Not Okay)

[journeysfable]

Ok so I found some interesting stuff I think?

I was just watching a clip and Fit was sent on a mission and found this book full of outpost names and I paused and searched them up and...

all of Sector A is named after mythical utopian (except for 1) locations from Slavic folklore and all of Sector B is named after Norse gods I think.

Vitor-A name that means champion. Also maybe a mountain in Slavic mythology that was made in heaven and frequently changes locations Bujan-(Buyan) A mythical island paradise that appears and reappears with the tide. Opona-(the kingdom of Opona) A utopia where peasants are no longer oppressed and live happily under the rule of a pure and just tsar Viraj-(Iriy) The place human souls in the form of birds fly to for winter Nawia-(Nav) The underworld. Basically the result of Christianity's influence on Iriy. Also its where souls that died tragic deaths go. They're jealous of the living and become monsters. Tyr-The Norse god of war Wodan-Odin. Donar-Thor Mani-Possibly the Norse god of the moon? Frija-Either Freya or Frigg

-

I really want to talk about Sector A cause it has some really strong connections to Quesadilla Island.

(pretty much all the info I got was from wikipedia, excluding Vitor, which I only found one source for)

Vitor is a mysterious mountain that changes location with the wind. Apparently dragons live on it. And it was created in heaven by the god of thunder and war, Perun.

Bujan is really interesting. It reminds me of Quesadilla Island a lot. It's a paradise and home to three brothers, The West, East, and North Wind. It's also home to The Deathless, who hid his immortality/soul in an egg and then hid that egg in a tree. It's also said the island was made in heaven by Perun. There's also a legend that there's a stone with healing properties guarded by a bird and serpent. (also note that an "strong east wind" was a reason for evacuation of the outpost. (If the two white and one black Curucuhos are brothers that correspond to the wind, did one of them go berserk?))

The Kingdom of Opona is a utopia where all the peasants are no longer oppressed and live happily under a white Tsar.

Vyraj is the place where human souls, in the form of birds, go to for winter, before returning to be reborn (sometimes the returning souls are carried by storks and nightjars)

So yea I just think all this is interesting.

Also this probably is a coincidence but Odin is charge of preparing fallen warriors, the Einherjar, for Ragnarok and for a split second I started wondering if the island was like Valhalla and that's why it's so fucked up and full of things that can one shot you if you aren't wearing armor. Or maybe Etoiles is like an Einherjar. He keeps being told to protect something... Or maybe I need to chill out and read an actual fucking book for a little bit.

Small thing but I spelled Einherjar right on my first try :D am proud of myself.

#qsmp

[experimentjr]

THE MAN HIMSELF IS REDESIGNED!!!

Father of men; gautr of men; allfather; the aged gautr; delight of Frigg; eagle head; attacking rider; lord of Æsir; friend of wealth; enemy of the wolf; baldr's father; flaming eye; speak shaker, flashing eye and etc are but a few of Odin's many epithets. Father of Thor, Baldr ou Meili, Höðr, Heimdallr, Vali, Hermóðr, Hildólfr, Nepr, Sigi, Sigrlami, Skjöldr, Ítreksjóð, Sæmingr, Gauti, Vegdagr, Viglek, Winta, Casere, Saxnōt and many more, he is as old as is wise and as wise as he is power-hunger.

Son of Borr, he and his brother's Vili and Vé were the ones that slayed Ymir and from his body, created Asgard, Midgard and some other realms as well. With the flood that came with Ymir's death, Odin was also the indirect killer of hundreds of other giants in the great flood. With the Earth deity he'd created with a part of Ymir's flesh, he had Thor. With the tides, he had Heimdallr. With Frigg/Freyja, he had Baldr and Höðr. With Gríðr he had Váli and Víðarr and some many more with countless women.

With his hunger for power and knowledge, he gave his hunger for meat in exchange for two of Veðrfölnir's children Huginn and Muninn so he could be updated from the realms of everything; he exchanged of one of his eyes to drink from Mímisbrunnr; he stole from Suttungr's kingdom the mead of poetry and tricked Gunnlöð, who was guarding the mead into letting him take a sip from each night he spent with her. Three nights were spent and three sips he took, but each sip he took, each one of the three barrels he emptied and left the kingdom, leaving Gunnlöð bearing his child. These were only few of his countless stories after knowledge and power and maybe more will come in the future >:) but only future will tell.

He is designed at last!!! Dang I wanted so much to redesign Odin and he finally looks more overbearing, along his spear that looks way more powerful now, but he is not the last god that will be redesigned so keep in touch with my posts and even P4TR30N for exclusive and early content >:D

OLD ODIN

#hilda #hilda netflix #hilda the series #hilda the show #hilda fanart #hilda au #au #alternate universe #oc #original character #odin #allfather #all father #lord of Æsir #gungnir #huginn #muninn #cloak #spear #hilda and the allmother #hilda and the all mother #exjr original

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Detour 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Thor

Summary: You find yourself stranded in a small village.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You leave the table almost as soon as you clear your plate. A single course is well enough to tide you over. After the day you’ve had, your fatigue is more pressing than your hunger.

You retreat up to your assigned suite and check to be sure the door is locked. You sigh as you pull sleeping clothes from your suitcase and take them into the bathroom. If you must be here, you will get what little benefit can be found.

You pour yourself another glass of wine and set it on the corner of the tub as it fills with steamy water. You ease yourself and soak in the rising depths, muscles coaxed free of tension. You shut off the faucet and recline, closing your eyes as you bask in the heat. You move only to sip from your glass, draining it as the water cools.

You get out, pruned and suitably drowsy. You pull on the satin shorts and matching camisole and slip into the fluffy linens on the bed. You moan as you sink beneath the down and the hazy night closes in on you, head foggy with the aid of wine. Just one night and you’ll be rid of this forsaken village.

Your sleep is uninterrupted as the alcohol seeps from your veins. You wake, with the shadow of a headache and a gurgle in your stomach. You get up to pluck a bottle of water from the small fridge and scroll through your phone. You have no signal.

You set up the single brew machine for a coffee and as you wait for your fare, you use the room phone to dial the mechanics number. It takes several attempts to get an answer. You are already agitated and painfully more awake by the minutes.

You give your name before you begin, “I’m calling to check on my car.”

“Ah, yes, hm,” he replies buoyantly, “miss, it is bad news–”

“Bad news? Can’t you just patch it so I can drive to the next city? Please, I’m certain they will have the part there–”

“Can’t be patched,” he says plainly, “you wouldn’t make it up the first hill.”

“Well, then, why don’t you drive into the city and retrieve the part I need? That sounds like a solution. I’ll pay for your gas–”

“Miss, I’ve called to all the shops in the county, they don’t have the right axel. It’s being shipped–”

“Shipped?!” The exclamation reverberates in your skull, “shipped? How long will that take?”

“Er, best case, two to three days, worst, a week–”

“A week? That’s the last of my vacation,” you cry, “it isn’t fair! It simply must be fixed–”

“I’m sorry, miss, it’s bad luck,” he drawls.

“Bad luck? Bad luck!?” Before you can explode, you stop yourself and slam the phone down. You do so several times before letting the receiver rest in the cradle. Blast this place!

You forget the coffee waiting for you and tear open your suitcase. You furiously go through your entire routine; makeup, clothes, hair. You might be stuck in this backwoods but you won’t let it rub off on you. You slip into a pair of heels and storm out with the room card clutched in your fist.

You nearly tumble down the staircase and grab onto the banister to keep yourself upright. You stomp, with echoing clicks, across the lobby to the front desk. You cross your arms against the edge as… Dana? Smiles back at you.

“I must speak with your manager.”

“My manager?” She tilts her head, “I… you mean Thor?”

“Whoever is in charge, I don’t care,” you insist, “it is urgent.”

“Um, sure, I’ll just radio him,” she chirps. You turn away before your agitation gets the best of you. Her chipper demeanour, her curved lips, you could claw her damn dumb eyes out. You hear a crackles as she speaks into a hand radio, “Thor, when you have a moment, can you pop up to the front?”

There’s a pause before she gets a response, “certainly, sweetheart, you got something special for me?”

She giggles and the radio beeps again, “Thor, it’s a guest issue.”

You shake your head and pace around the airy space. You wouldn’t call it hideous. It’s antiquated but refined. The plinthed vases, the statues better suited to a romanticist aesthetic, and the intermingled runic markings clash yet not egregiously so.

“Ah, I knew it would be you, lady,” Thor boisterously bounces in from behind the staircase, “have you a chance to try our continental?”

“I am not here to talk about burnt bacon,” you chide as you face him. He approaches, stopping a bit too close for comfort.

“Alright, your wish is my command, what is it now?” He crosses his arms and you mirror him, raising your chin defiantly.

“You are going to drive me to the city. Now.”

“Me?” He scoffs, “and why would I do that?”

“I have money. I will pay for your gas and even a gratuity for your time. I’m certain you haven’t anything too important calling for you here–”

“Can’t,” he rejects you simply.

“Can’t?” You repeat, “you must.”

“I run a hotel, I’m not a valet,” he shrugs and drops his arms.

“You–” you stop your true thoughts from spilling out, “Why not?”

“Well,” he raises a thick finger, “I do have obligations here.”

“Oh, sure, you must,” you peer around at the empty lobby.

“A party. It’s my birthday,” he announces proudly, “so I can’t just up and drive to the city. I have things to do. But, since you’re stuck here, you’re welcome to attend–”

“A party? Aren’t you a bit old?”

“Never too old for fun,” he counters, “let your hair down, there’ll be lots of wine… and me.”

“I’d rather drown myself,” you hiss.

He booms with laughter and claps his hands, “oh, you are… delightful. Now, as much as I enjoy our banter, I do have a long list to get through. As it is, invitation stands. We could even make a game of, see who might dislodge the iron rod from your ass.”

Your hand flies out before you can think. You very nearly miss for how tall he is but your palm strikes his cheek hotly, the strike tingly in your palm as you rescind your arm. You stomp your heel down and snarl.

“How dare you, sir!”

He blinks and slowly brings his fingertips to his pinkened cheek. His brows lower and his blue eyes glow, the smile falling from his lips.

“You don’t speak to a lady like that,” you snip.

“If I see a lady, I’ll try to remember,” he retorts.

You scoff, several times. Your nostrils flare as you jut out your chin, “you are a beast.”

His face creases again as his grin slowly blooms. He winks, “oh, I certainly can be,” he growls.

You shake your head and twist on your heel, strutting away as you ball up your hands. You cannot believe him. Absolutely abhorrent.

“If you didn’t want me to notice your ass,” he calls after you, “you wouldn’t wag it around like a bitch in heat.”

You gasp as you stop at the bottom of the staircase. You glare back at him as he chuckles. You’re speechless. You’ve never been spoken to so grossly.

“Charming,” you sneer and turn yourself straight.

You don’t deserve this. You shouldn’t be stranded in this bodunk hole. You should be in the city, at the museum, at brunch! You surely shouldn’t be accosted by this animal who calls himself a man.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #drabble #au #backwoods au #series #the detour #avengers #mcu #marvel

[springlibrary]

Here is a quick navigation to all my stories if you so wish to read them. 

I mostly write dark/explicit fics but I do have some lighter stuff in there.

Please read warnings provided before proceeding to read a fic.

Turn on notifications for this blog to stay up to date with my work.

Game of Thrones

Jorah Mormont

MARVEL

Vision

Loki

Thor

Bucky Barnes

Steve Rogers

Tony Stark

Other MCU Characters

Good for Us (Bruce Banner x F!Reader)

Orange Juice and Kisses (Bruce Banner x Natasha Romanoff)

No Loose Ends (Bucky Barnes x F!Reader)

Sebastian Stan Characters

No One Special (Dark!Lee Bodecker x F!Reader) — You were never special to Lee. To him, you were simply one of them.

The Guardian (SoftDark!Lee Bodecker x F!Reader, Dark!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader) — Sheriff Bodecker is always there to save you even when you think he isn’t.

Should’ve (Dark!Lee Bodecker x F!Reader) — You begin to regret leaving your home in the midst of your punishment.

From Blue to Green (Dark!Lee Bodecker x F!Reader) — Your husband’s jealousy forces you to enter another chapter in your life.

Dead End (Dark!Lee Bodecker x F!Reader)

— You bump into the sheriff during one of your runs.

Tom Hiddleston Characters

Against the Tide (Dark!Biker!James Conrad x F!Reader) — Your life takes an unexpected turn as the leader of the biker gang that took over your town sets his eyes on you.

Radio Silence (Dark!Jonathan Pine x Agent!F!Reader) — Your mission to capture Jonathan Pine goes sideways in the most unexpected way.

Pedro Pascal Characters

House Arrest (Dark!Joel Miller x F!Reader) — Your mom goes to attend a work conference for a couple of days, leaving you home alone with her husband.

On the Lookout (Dark!Joel Miller x F!Reader) — The excitement rolling through your veins as a new ranger in Jackson County turns into fear when you realize the true intentions of your partner.

Home Sweet Home (Dark!Joel Miller x F!Reader) — Ellie finds out about your relationship with Joel in the worst way possible.

Thicker than Water (Dark!Joel Miller x F!Reader) — You’re Tommy’s girl but Joel wants to make you his.

Rebound (Dark!Joel Miller x F!Reader) — Your night of wallowing in your misery takes a different turn when your dad’s best friend bumps into you at the bar. 

Chris Evans Characters

Within the Shadows — Secrets are revealed amidst the celebration of your brother’s ascent to underboss.

#beanie's masterlist