#I hate tagging stories skksk

[helahades]

Worthy, Yes

(A Thor Odinson Drabble)

the vibes: husband thor. he’s happy and content and healed and loved. dad Thor. break your back thor. loves you like he’s always falling in love for the first time. his mom is alive.

note: this is just a lil thing for me to get back into writing. and i love thor and endgame was so wrong to him. so here! ♥️

warnings: fem reader. a bit of trauma related talk. vague smut. mentions of his losses and feeling undeserving. mention of reader being pregnant with one of the children.

word count: about 1.4k

—

As he enters your home again, for the millionth time, he eases the main door shut behind him. He’s a soft father, and indulges each child as they run back to the porch, saying they forgot a hug. When the third and final blows you both a kiss, they all scamper across the driveway to where Freya is waiting.

The excited questions of your children curl into sweet, summer air before fading from you, this time for the last time. You hear as they are helped into the car, and their whoops when they are promised sweet treats before bed.

The car retreats, and Thor holds up his hands as he steps away from the door, smiling warmly, as if to say “We’re free!”

“We have the place to ourselves,” you beam from the couch, giddy with longing, “even if just for the night���.

“Then let's not waste any time, sweet wife.”

When he’s happy—when he’s deeply and soulfully content with love, when it just overcomes him, he can’t help but wax poetic. He muses about a soulmate, though his mother calls it something different, and tells you how you complete him. Tells you how much he loves to make love to you, and how he would make you round with another child, if it were in the cards, if it was what either of you wanted, even if just to have a longer happy ending with you.

It doesn’t make any sense. You wonder if he’s drunk on it. The smoothness of the summer sky. Is it clear, or are there so many clouds, the difference evades? The concept is poetic in how it mimics his healing. You’re glad he loves you, and his love is a truth as evident as the knocking of the headboard onto a wall worn with marks from many past nights.

He carried you to bed long ago, and he loves you not fast nor slow, but with powerful thrusts that have you clutching at his forearms. He watches himself disappear inside your wetness, just for a bit, before training his adoring gaze onto your eyes. It’s almost too much, the directness of his eyes, or it would be, had he not always chased this connection to you every night you shared a bed.

On a particularly hard thrust, you gasp and drag your nails down his sides, pulling a shudder from him, and the warmth of his tummy presses against yours. It is no longer the hard ridges of an overzealous warrior, but the softness of a family man and father, finally resting. The softness of a cook that tastes so much of his own foods, and moans in encouragement at the taste of yours. Running the pads of your fingers over the softness of it, you think of his kiss the cook apron that stretches around him. You think of when you gave him head while concrete scratched at your knees as he grilled, the massive smoker being your only cover from neighbors.

You push your hands into his hair and think about how he would let you braid it during your first pregnancy. Your hormones led you to cry with anticipation, excited to meet your daughter, and devastated you could not yet hold her. You would brush his hair, and he would encourage it, keeping you close so that he could keep you balanced. Your husband. Your eternal and cosmic love.

Rolling as one, suddenly, you’re on top, and you gently push him back as he is about to sit up and cradle you in his arms, no doubt planning to do most of the work, chasing your euphoria. Your hips roll and curve and bunch against his in a soft, mismatched way, in the comfortable way you can languidly chase pleasure with someone who loves you. Then, you find a bouncing rhythm, born from years of familiarity,and his hands find the flesh of your hips, and he squeezes, pulling you closer.

You push your hands up against his belly to find purchase, a balance on the sea of his now upward thrusting, and you smooth a hand over his happy trail, then two over his chest. He’s beautiful, and his heart melts when he finds you admiring.

How could you not? Then, you need your mouth on him, so you’re dismounting, aching at the loss of his thick length as you pull it from you.

You kiss everywhere. Lips for last. Then you’re taking him in your mouth, ears carefully tuned to catch each catch of breath, skin receiving the heat that rolls off of him when he is stimulated, each nerve alive with the pleasure his magic pushes into you.

Lying back, and just slightly propped up by the pillows, his whole body relaxes, deep groans fading into soft moans as you suck gently at the tip of his uncut cock.

Tipping your head up, you take a moment to appreciate the sight of him pliant to you, before using one hand wrapped just under the head, wet with both precum and your saliva, to pull down slowly, revealing the wide and sensitive tip as his foreskin exposes it.

His hips are rolling, body shifting, and you cannot bring yourself to tease him into behaving. It is too lovely to see him so comfortable, so unapologetic as he chases his pleasure because he trusts you.

You kiss him. From tip to base, then base to tip, as short breaths signal restraint, and his hands seek you. Bliss. Quiet. Almost.

When you take him in your mouth, it’s slow. He wonders how the plumpness of your lips is so soft and sweet, and how it never stops feeling so new.

Wet and warm and silky—and now, he feels the texture of your tongue licking along him with each dip of your head, with each gentle pulse of your mouth.

He closes his eyes because he can. Because even though he would prefer to see you, something is too lovely to let go about this: Your moans are soft and greedy like the pleasure you’re chasing is your own… because in some way it is. He processes somewhere the sounds of buzzing, of humming, of thrumming distant processes like the air conditioner.

They haven’t stopped for you like they seemed to when you were both younger—they shouldn’t, because now, you’ve both built a world of your own, which goes at its own speed.

It doesn’t care if the clothes are still in the dryer, or if there are a few cups in the sink. It pauses only for the catches of breath, for the confirmation of pleasure, for the fond gazes.

He feels it building. When he was younger, the brink of orgasm was a cliffs edge. He would shake with anticipation. Sometimes—he cannot help that he still does. But it isn’t something to catch in his hands like it will run away. It is gentle and safe, like a low ocean tide rolling stronger still. Safe, yes. Because he’s with you, and you’re a sure guide. You’re the moment.

His groans start to crackle at the edges, and he opens his eyes up, tilts his head just a bit to see the lewd motions of your head bobbing. His hips shift just slightly, and you can’t help but chuckle at his tells.

Your thumb strokes softly at the skin that bridges his tummy to his right hip, and he’s cumming hot spurts into your mouth, with one hand still curving around, jerking his cock right under your mouth, milking every bit of his pleasure.

Deep, resonating, earthquake grunts and groans escape the broad chamber of his chest. Something about the cum over your hand, the bit you couldn’t catch, appeals to something strange in him.

After you slowly release him from your mouth, there is a lighting quick spurt of just a little bit more, and you squeal with delight.

He smiles sheepishly, only for you, and with a rolling appreciation of you. For your openness. For allowing strange pleasures. For being so present, that he knows closed eyes do not mean he will wake without you.

He thought the multiple losses, all the family stolen, were consequence for a lifetime of war. He thought they were the end, that the fates ruled he should not have family.

As you crawl over to kiss him, eyes full of stars, he’s sure. This is perfect. And finally, yes, he deserves it.

—

thank you!

tags: @spacelabrathor @inthorantine @xbuchananbarnes @saintsebastian-stan @tropicalcap @threeminutesoflife @peachyteabuck @mariahthelioness29 @thorsthot @hurricanerin @venusbarnes @damienwitcher @avintagekiss24 @allaboardthereadingrailroad