#Steve: why do you look so disappointed? hydration is important

[morganbritton132]

May we please have more "Steve's in a rare good mood moments"? 🥺 I love the way they love each other, ans everything about the EMTTS

 

If there is music playing in the house and it’s not a song from either of their Vecna playlists then it’s a good day. It’s a good mental health day. It’s a good brain day. Even though Eddie thinks that Steve has horrendous taste in music, nothing makes him happier than hearing it.

Someone asked Eddie a couple weeks ago what one of his favorite things about Steve is. And honestly, Eddie could spend the rest of his life telling people all the things that he loves about Steve, but he wants to show something specific.

He knows that Steve has been having a hard time lately with how some people on the internet are perceiving him. Eddie means it when he says that those people are idiots, but it bothers him too. It bothers him that people are misinterpreting someone as caring and loving as Steve.

He spends weeks trying to catch this specific moment that makes him fall in love all over again and one day, he comes home to the sound of music pouring out of the kitchen.

Eddie stands in the doorway with his phone, smiling.

Steve’s got his back to him as he cooks, shaking his hips to the music and singing along at a loud volume. Steve’s got a good voice, but Eddie loves these moments when he’s not subconscious about how he sounds. He loves the way he dances and how it hasn’t changed at all since all those high school parties.

When Steve turns around and spots Eddie, he points at him and sings, “You were born to be my baby and baby, I was made to be your man.”

Eddie laughs out loud when Steve dances over to him and pulls him further into the kitchen. The camera footage is a little shaky with them so close to each other, but right before the video cuts off, you can hear Steve say, “Dance with me, rockstar.”

[easyfoodnetwork]

Mushroom Hunting at the End of the World

Getty Images

While the rest of the country focused on something other than the forest floor, I started foraging for chanterelles

I’d been staring at the ground too long. That’s most of what foraging is, by the way. It’s ignoring the blue sky and the trees to focus your gaze on the dirt. I was walking through cobwebs, surveying the woodland floor for almost an hour, when I finally saw one: a tiny, pale chanterelle mushroom sticking up near the trail’s edge. It looked sickly, or at the very least elderly. Perhaps it was a sign that this section of the woods was untraveled, or maybe nobody had ever thought to pluck it from its habitat.

I peeled it from the ground with my paring knife and placed it into my netted, purple sack, which once housed grocery-store red onions. This lonely mushroom wasn’t the haul, mind you, but rather an indicator. When one chanterelle appears, more will follow. A few steps off the trail and they emerged in droves. Soon, my bag was filled with corpulent, spore-bearing fungi — big chanterelles with deep-orange hues and fantastical shapes, like something a Nintendo animator might draw.

Walking back with my giant bag of wild mushrooms, I ran into a couple, the first people I’d seen that day. We all scrambled to put on our masks at the distant sight of one another. “You get some chanties?” the man said in his familiar, spectacularly unusual Pittsburgh accent. “It’s a gold mine out there,” I said, trying unconsciously to disguise any hints of that same Pennsylvanian elocution. After they disappeared back into the woods, I put my mask in my pocket, where it stayed for the rest of the hike. For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

A few years back I had tasted some wild mushroom conserva courtesy of my cousin, Andy, during a trip to my hometown in Pennsylvania. Andy is a budding locavore, a self-taught forager, and a mad scientist in the kitchen. His passion is infectious. Eighty percent of the meat he consumes, he hunts himself. He cures venison and butchers whole pigs in his garage.

That first spoonful of Andy’s mushrooms, meaty chanterelles salted in a strainer, then simmered in white vinegar with gothic-looking thyme and peppercorns, is preserved in my mind, so much so that I can access that memory whenever I want. The dim lighting in my parents’ dining room, Andy standing in the kitchen with his arms confidently folded, the sound of the Mason jar lid spinning loose, and the immense joy of my first bite — stocky chanterelle mushrooms, piquant vinegar, gentle aromatics, and then the brilliant opulence of olive oil, used to preserve the mixture.

I asked Andy if I could take a jar of them back home to Los Angeles, and he obliged. Every so often, I unscrewed the lid for a small bite. I would close my eyes and feel the cold air in my hometown. If I listened carefully, I could hear the train whistles in the distance. Those mushrooms became a portal to my hometown, a culinary object so emotionally resonant, so distinct from the food I bought at my grocery store in California, that I always longed to forage and conserve a jar of my own.

I began to miss rural Pennsylvania as the pandemic encroached into summer. Like a lot of people, I felt trapped in the big city, and so in June, I went home. In Pennsylvania, everybody’s houses are set at a distance, but everyone barters home provisions, ranging from venison pastrami to crooked cucumbers to gargantuan zucchini. The summer is when the Amish sell sweet corn, and when the berry farms open their orchards. The old-timey ice cream shops end their winter break, and people start roasting whole pigs and marinated legs of lamb. It was also not lost on me that a hot, wet climate is the ideal condition for chanterelles, and that this would be the perfect time to chase that dragon: the jar of preserved mushrooms.

Once I began mushroom hunting, the calm followed. I embraced foraging, an oft-maligned word after the chef-bro boom of the 2010s. If your reaction is to recoil, you’re not alone. Before my mushroom-hunting days, I usually laughed when I saw the word “foraged” on a menu or in a magazine. Oh, did you really go out foraging, m’Lord?

The first time I went, I rode in the passenger seat of Andy’s car, down the winding rural roads of Amish country. To be honest, I didn’t immediately connect with foraging; the experience felt educational. Of course, when you’re dealing with something that can be either good in a stir-fry, consciousness-expanding, or deadly, education is important. Poisonous mushrooms actually look evil, though, an offer of good faith from Mother Nature. They often have a sinister gray or red color, with warts and scales reminiscent of the toxic fungi in fairy-tale illustrations. Andy made sure to teach me enough that I didn’t end up hallucinating through the woods — or, worse yet, dead.

People in my hometown definitely don’t fall into the stereotype of knuckle-tatted, beanie-wearing “foragers,” but they’re pretty keen on the good mushroom spots. There’s an old Polish woman, for instance, whose stiff, territorial energy I can feel whenever I show up to Gaston Park the day after a rain. Because I didn’t want to move in on another gang’s turf, I had Andy show me a few of his favorite areas. Still, it didn’t feel right: These were his discoveries, not mine. I wanted to make my own way. I wanted that excitement of stumbling across a rare mushroom, of encountering a field of freshly sprouted chanterelles. I wanted to find my own mushroom haven, and so I went to Hell’s Hollow.

daveynin/Flickr

A view from the Hell’s Hollow Trail in McConnells Mill State Park, Pennsylvania

Hell’s Hollow is a national park and trail in New Castle, Pennsylvania, about a mile down the road from my childhood home. Apparently, it’s called Hell’s Hollow because some time ago a man fell asleep in those woods, and when he woke up, he was convinced that the place he was in was actually Hell. Are the woods deep and dark? Sure. Spooky at night? Yeah, of course. But, Hell? As in the place where sinners go and are tormented for eternity? Like, Satan-owned and -operated Hell? I scoff at the idea whenever I pass the old wooden sign for the trail. What kind of idiot would think that the woods is Hell? It’s beautiful out here. I mean look, there’s a flowing river. Why would the Devil keep a freshwater source in an eternity of suffering? Rule No. 1 of Hell must be to stay hydrated. Rule No. 2? No running.

Hell’s Hollow has been a constant throughout my life. When I was a kid, my mom and dad let me splash around the creek trying to catch minnows and small crabs. When I was 10, I gleefully collected rocks and declared that I was going to be a geologist (my family would be disappointed). As teens, my friends and I smoked shag weed and smashed cans of Mountain Dew together like Stone Cold Steve Austin there. The point is, I’ve been wandering around Hell’s Hollow my whole life, and it never dawned on me that I would ever find myself foraging there. But sure enough, it was my spot.

I did not expect hunting for mushrooms to clear my head the way it did. People say that about prep work, by the way. They say that peeling potatoes and kneading dough lets the mind wander and alleviates stress. But, to me, prep work is just that: work. Dicing onions pierces the eyes, lemon juice stings, and I will always associate chopping parsley with the incoming threat of a dinner rush at one of my restaurant jobs. When people say that cooking soothes the mind, they’re not taking into account all the people who do this shit for a living. What are those people supposed to do to get away from themselves? For me, I found that wandering in the woods alone with a sense of purpose was exactly the thing I needed to weather the fire tornado of anxiety the pandemic had produced.

The act of foraging, a completely unchanged activity in a pandemic, possesses the acute ability to make me forget about the state of things entirely. Specifically, it was easy to forget about a global virus. Hunting for mushrooms in the woods alone is already distanced; there are no guidelines to follow. Walk down the street in Los Angeles and you’re immediately reminded that restaurants are shut down and live performance spaces are shuttered. But in the woods? Go ahead — sneeze full force in any direction you please. Let off some steam, pal. You’ve earned it. Sure, I had a mask, but it stayed in my pocket on the off chance that I ran into another human being, though I was more likely to spot a deer.

When I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible.

This wasn’t just a way to pass time, mind you. These weren’t nature walks I was taking. There’s a sense of ambition at the core of mushroom hunting. Purpose, the thing so many of us have felt without this year, I suddenly possessed. When there’s purpose, there’s a sense of reward, and when I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible. All my energy is focused, my aim clear. Instead of staring at the ceiling in my studio apartment, I found myself scanning the ground for edible treasure. The dopamine you receive from finding a cluster of chanterelle mushrooms in the damp woods is immense, somehow both frivolous and survivalist. There’s a real sense of childlike treasure-hunting tied to foraging.

Take the elusive cauliflower mushroom, Sparassis, which is as rare as mushrooms come. They grow sporadically; their appearance is psychedelic and aquatic. It looks coral in a way, like a living, breathing self-sustaining organism that belongs at the bottom of the ocean. Jarring, then, to find one surrounded by leaves and mossy logs. The mushroom itself is wavy and ethereal, with petals like a flower. It’s so rare that when Andy and I found one, he jumped in the air with excitement. For seven years he had been hunting for a cauliflower mushroom, and he finally got it. His triumph felt like my triumph, and in a way, it was. Later, I fried the petals of the cauliflower mushroom in oil and ate them salted. The texture was outstanding and the flavor delicate, like a homemade noodle but with the specific earthiness of a fungus. “How many people are eating a cauliflower mushroom right now?” I thought.

I felt like jumping in the air like Andy when I spotted that lone, feeble chanterelle in Hell’s Hollow. To reach that first chantie was a hero’s journey, past a path that leads to a dazzling waterfall, down a steep hill, across a stream, and through a tunnel of decaying trees. The air starts to cool down and a trained nose can begin to smell the faint notes of mushrooms in the air. Clusters of chanterelles appear like small towns; they are golden trumpets that politely announce their presence with colorful glee. Oyster mushrooms grow shelf-like on the sides of trees, and chicken of the woods, these endlessly useful and tasty orange half-moons, light up your eyes like a gorgeous sunset. That’s the thing about wild mushrooms — once you see them, you can’t unsee them. After an education in foraging, you’ll be forever scanning your surroundings, trying to manifest treasure.

As I carried back my sack of mushrooms that first time, I thought about that man who woke up in Hell’s Hollow in the night. How must he have felt? Aimless, one would assume. Probably searching for a way out of the darkness. Disoriented, without a clue where he might be in relation to the outside world. Maybe that’s what Hell is. Maybe it’s quite simply feeling lost and alone. The pandemic can feel like that, as though you’re traversing an endless dark wilderness hoping to catch a light in the distance that’ll guide you back to society. But is that a new feeling? Hasn’t it always been that way? Maybe all of life has just been wandering in the dark.

Anyway, I’m glad to be walking through the woods with a purpose.

Danny Palumbo is a comedian and writer living in Los Angeles.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2JUbLZq https://ift.tt/3korg8w

Getty Images

While the rest of the country focused on something other than the forest floor, I started foraging for chanterelles

I’d been staring at the ground too long. That’s most of what foraging is, by the way. It’s ignoring the blue sky and the trees to focus your gaze on the dirt. I was walking through cobwebs, surveying the woodland floor for almost an hour, when I finally saw one: a tiny, pale chanterelle mushroom sticking up near the trail’s edge. It looked sickly, or at the very least elderly. Perhaps it was a sign that this section of the woods was untraveled, or maybe nobody had ever thought to pluck it from its habitat.

I peeled it from the ground with my paring knife and placed it into my netted, purple sack, which once housed grocery-store red onions. This lonely mushroom wasn’t the haul, mind you, but rather an indicator. When one chanterelle appears, more will follow. A few steps off the trail and they emerged in droves. Soon, my bag was filled with corpulent, spore-bearing fungi — big chanterelles with deep-orange hues and fantastical shapes, like something a Nintendo animator might draw.

Walking back with my giant bag of wild mushrooms, I ran into a couple, the first people I’d seen that day. We all scrambled to put on our masks at the distant sight of one another. “You get some chanties?” the man said in his familiar, spectacularly unusual Pittsburgh accent. “It’s a gold mine out there,” I said, trying unconsciously to disguise any hints of that same Pennsylvanian elocution. After they disappeared back into the woods, I put my mask in my pocket, where it stayed for the rest of the hike. For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

A few years back I had tasted some wild mushroom conserva courtesy of my cousin, Andy, during a trip to my hometown in Pennsylvania. Andy is a budding locavore, a self-taught forager, and a mad scientist in the kitchen. His passion is infectious. Eighty percent of the meat he consumes, he hunts himself. He cures venison and butchers whole pigs in his garage.

That first spoonful of Andy’s mushrooms, meaty chanterelles salted in a strainer, then simmered in white vinegar with gothic-looking thyme and peppercorns, is preserved in my mind, so much so that I can access that memory whenever I want. The dim lighting in my parents’ dining room, Andy standing in the kitchen with his arms confidently folded, the sound of the Mason jar lid spinning loose, and the immense joy of my first bite — stocky chanterelle mushrooms, piquant vinegar, gentle aromatics, and then the brilliant opulence of olive oil, used to preserve the mixture.

I asked Andy if I could take a jar of them back home to Los Angeles, and he obliged. Every so often, I unscrewed the lid for a small bite. I would close my eyes and feel the cold air in my hometown. If I listened carefully, I could hear the train whistles in the distance. Those mushrooms became a portal to my hometown, a culinary object so emotionally resonant, so distinct from the food I bought at my grocery store in California, that I always longed to forage and conserve a jar of my own.

I began to miss rural Pennsylvania as the pandemic encroached into summer. Like a lot of people, I felt trapped in the big city, and so in June, I went home. In Pennsylvania, everybody’s houses are set at a distance, but everyone barters home provisions, ranging from venison pastrami to crooked cucumbers to gargantuan zucchini. The summer is when the Amish sell sweet corn, and when the berry farms open their orchards. The old-timey ice cream shops end their winter break, and people start roasting whole pigs and marinated legs of lamb. It was also not lost on me that a hot, wet climate is the ideal condition for chanterelles, and that this would be the perfect time to chase that dragon: the jar of preserved mushrooms.

Once I began mushroom hunting, the calm followed. I embraced foraging, an oft-maligned word after the chef-bro boom of the 2010s. If your reaction is to recoil, you’re not alone. Before my mushroom-hunting days, I usually laughed when I saw the word “foraged” on a menu or in a magazine. Oh, did you really go out foraging, m’Lord?

The first time I went, I rode in the passenger seat of Andy’s car, down the winding rural roads of Amish country. To be honest, I didn’t immediately connect with foraging; the experience felt educational. Of course, when you’re dealing with something that can be either good in a stir-fry, consciousness-expanding, or deadly, education is important. Poisonous mushrooms actually look evil, though, an offer of good faith from Mother Nature. They often have a sinister gray or red color, with warts and scales reminiscent of the toxic fungi in fairy-tale illustrations. Andy made sure to teach me enough that I didn’t end up hallucinating through the woods — or, worse yet, dead.

People in my hometown definitely don’t fall into the stereotype of knuckle-tatted, beanie-wearing “foragers,” but they’re pretty keen on the good mushroom spots. There’s an old Polish woman, for instance, whose stiff, territorial energy I can feel whenever I show up to Gaston Park the day after a rain. Because I didn’t want to move in on another gang’s turf, I had Andy show me a few of his favorite areas. Still, it didn’t feel right: These were his discoveries, not mine. I wanted to make my own way. I wanted that excitement of stumbling across a rare mushroom, of encountering a field of freshly sprouted chanterelles. I wanted to find my own mushroom haven, and so I went to Hell’s Hollow.

daveynin/Flickr

A view from the Hell’s Hollow Trail in McConnells Mill State Park, Pennsylvania

Hell’s Hollow is a national park and trail in New Castle, Pennsylvania, about a mile down the road from my childhood home. Apparently, it’s called Hell’s Hollow because some time ago a man fell asleep in those woods, and when he woke up, he was convinced that the place he was in was actually Hell. Are the woods deep and dark? Sure. Spooky at night? Yeah, of course. But, Hell? As in the place where sinners go and are tormented for eternity? Like, Satan-owned and -operated Hell? I scoff at the idea whenever I pass the old wooden sign for the trail. What kind of idiot would think that the woods is Hell? It’s beautiful out here. I mean look, there’s a flowing river. Why would the Devil keep a freshwater source in an eternity of suffering? Rule No. 1 of Hell must be to stay hydrated. Rule No. 2? No running.

Hell’s Hollow has been a constant throughout my life. When I was a kid, my mom and dad let me splash around the creek trying to catch minnows and small crabs. When I was 10, I gleefully collected rocks and declared that I was going to be a geologist (my family would be disappointed). As teens, my friends and I smoked shag weed and smashed cans of Mountain Dew together like Stone Cold Steve Austin there. The point is, I’ve been wandering around Hell’s Hollow my whole life, and it never dawned on me that I would ever find myself foraging there. But sure enough, it was my spot.

I did not expect hunting for mushrooms to clear my head the way it did. People say that about prep work, by the way. They say that peeling potatoes and kneading dough lets the mind wander and alleviates stress. But, to me, prep work is just that: work. Dicing onions pierces the eyes, lemon juice stings, and I will always associate chopping parsley with the incoming threat of a dinner rush at one of my restaurant jobs. When people say that cooking soothes the mind, they’re not taking into account all the people who do this shit for a living. What are those people supposed to do to get away from themselves? For me, I found that wandering in the woods alone with a sense of purpose was exactly the thing I needed to weather the fire tornado of anxiety the pandemic had produced.

The act of foraging, a completely unchanged activity in a pandemic, possesses the acute ability to make me forget about the state of things entirely. Specifically, it was easy to forget about a global virus. Hunting for mushrooms in the woods alone is already distanced; there are no guidelines to follow. Walk down the street in Los Angeles and you’re immediately reminded that restaurants are shut down and live performance spaces are shuttered. But in the woods? Go ahead — sneeze full force in any direction you please. Let off some steam, pal. You’ve earned it. Sure, I had a mask, but it stayed in my pocket on the off chance that I ran into another human being, though I was more likely to spot a deer.

When I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible.

This wasn’t just a way to pass time, mind you. These weren’t nature walks I was taking. There’s a sense of ambition at the core of mushroom hunting. Purpose, the thing so many of us have felt without this year, I suddenly possessed. When there’s purpose, there’s a sense of reward, and when I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible. All my energy is focused, my aim clear. Instead of staring at the ceiling in my studio apartment, I found myself scanning the ground for edible treasure. The dopamine you receive from finding a cluster of chanterelle mushrooms in the damp woods is immense, somehow both frivolous and survivalist. There’s a real sense of childlike treasure-hunting tied to foraging.

Take the elusive cauliflower mushroom, Sparassis, which is as rare as mushrooms come. They grow sporadically; their appearance is psychedelic and aquatic. It looks coral in a way, like a living, breathing self-sustaining organism that belongs at the bottom of the ocean. Jarring, then, to find one surrounded by leaves and mossy logs. The mushroom itself is wavy and ethereal, with petals like a flower. It’s so rare that when Andy and I found one, he jumped in the air with excitement. For seven years he had been hunting for a cauliflower mushroom, and he finally got it. His triumph felt like my triumph, and in a way, it was. Later, I fried the petals of the cauliflower mushroom in oil and ate them salted. The texture was outstanding and the flavor delicate, like a homemade noodle but with the specific earthiness of a fungus. “How many people are eating a cauliflower mushroom right now?” I thought.

I felt like jumping in the air like Andy when I spotted that lone, feeble chanterelle in Hell’s Hollow. To reach that first chantie was a hero’s journey, past a path that leads to a dazzling waterfall, down a steep hill, across a stream, and through a tunnel of decaying trees. The air starts to cool down and a trained nose can begin to smell the faint notes of mushrooms in the air. Clusters of chanterelles appear like small towns; they are golden trumpets that politely announce their presence with colorful glee. Oyster mushrooms grow shelf-like on the sides of trees, and chicken of the woods, these endlessly useful and tasty orange half-moons, light up your eyes like a gorgeous sunset. That’s the thing about wild mushrooms — once you see them, you can’t unsee them. After an education in foraging, you’ll be forever scanning your surroundings, trying to manifest treasure.

As I carried back my sack of mushrooms that first time, I thought about that man who woke up in Hell’s Hollow in the night. How must he have felt? Aimless, one would assume. Probably searching for a way out of the darkness. Disoriented, without a clue where he might be in relation to the outside world. Maybe that’s what Hell is. Maybe it’s quite simply feeling lost and alone. The pandemic can feel like that, as though you’re traversing an endless dark wilderness hoping to catch a light in the distance that’ll guide you back to society. But is that a new feeling? Hasn’t it always been that way? Maybe all of life has just been wandering in the dark.

Anyway, I’m glad to be walking through the woods with a purpose.

Danny Palumbo is a comedian and writer living in Los Angeles.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2JUbLZq via Blogger https://ift.tt/38Dk0DK

[gaytonystark]

Road Trip

Pairing: Thor x Reader Words: 2.5k A/N: Me? Actually writing something? It’s more likely than you think. Anyways, here’s a smutty thor fic that nobody asked for and I hope you all like it!!! Please let me know if you do since this is the first fic I’ve posted in quite a while and I’m actually pretty happy with it. I’m not usually a big smut person, but this just seemed to fit so enjoy and lemme know what y’all think :)

“Y/N, wake up.” Thor said softly, rousing you from your deep sleep. “It’s time to go.” He punctuated this with an equally soft kiss on your temple, which you quickly batted away.

“Just five more minutes, mom.” You groaned as pulled the covers closer to you. “I don’t wanna go to school today.”

“What-no it’s time for our road trip.” Thor said, the excitement clear in his voice even as he whispered to get you out of bed.

As you comprehended what he said, you began to regain consciousness. “Road trip? You mean we can go now?” You hastily sat up in bed when his words finally sank in and you joined Thor in his excitement.

“That’s right, today’s the day.” Thor’s excitement only grew when you threw the covers off of you and bounded to the bathroom to get ready. “We are finally going off the grid.”

“I’ve been waiting for this day for months!” You shouted from the sink as you splashed some water on your face to help get you a little more wide awake. “This is it, babe, no distractions for two whole weeks.” You walked out of the bathroom to pull out your duffle bag that you’ve had packed for days now. “It’s just gonna be you, me, and the open road for the next fourteen days. Do you think you can handle all that?”

“Nobody can handle you, that’s why I’m completely enamored with you, Y/N.” Thor came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you stuffed the last few things you would need in your already overstuffed bag and planted a kiss on the top of your head.

You leaned into his hold and you would have let things escalate from there if you didn’t have a schedule to stick to. You turned around in his arms and held his face in his hands and you noticed he looked somewhat disappointed before you flashed him a cheeky grin.“We can’t get distracted today, Lord of Thunder, besides we have the next two weeks for that.”

“You’re right,” Thor conceded, “we’ve got no time to waste.” He pulled away from your grasp after giving you a quick peck on the cheek and grabbed his own bags from under the bed.

“Okay, I think I’ve got everything I need and I stole the keys to Tony’s car, you know the red one that I really like so we should be just about ready to go.” You said, pulling out the shiny set of keys from where they were hiding in your pillow case and chucked them to Thor.

He caught them effortlessly as he hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. “And I gave Steve the number to the burner phone you picked up and instructed him to only call us if it is an absolute emergency.”

“Perfect and I told Steve if he calls us while we’re off the grid, I will personally deliver the footage I have of him when you got him so drunk he started crying while he sang the Star Spangled Banner outside the compound to every news station in America.”

“Then it sounds like we have everything we need.” He said, a boyish grin on his handsome face as he took your bag as well and lead you down to the compound’s garage.

You walked among the expanse of vehicles until you found the one you were looking for. Parked at the far end was a beautiful vintage cherry red mustang convertible and you couldn’t wait to plant your ass in that passenger seat. “Here she is, the car that’s gonna take us to Los Angeles, California. What a beauty.”

“You really are.” He whispered in your ear, leaving a rush of heat across your face.

Thor threw your bags in the trunk and you hopped into your seat, an excited grin planted firmly on your face. His own giddiness was radiating off of him as he drove you both off of the compound, freedom in the air as it whipped past your face. You leaned over and kissed his cheek before you loaded the mixtape you made into the cassette player.

“This is the perfect road trip playlist to get us across the country.” You proclaimed proudly over the sound of air whipping past you. The rising sun cast an unearthly glow across your unearthly boyfriend and you couldn’t help but stare. “Hey, I’m really happy we’re finally doing this.”

“Me too.” Thor beamed at you before he reached over and squeezed your thigh, his gaze returning to the road before you.

There was only one other car pumping gas at the station you pulled into and you were grateful for the shade provided from the warm summer sun. You looked around at your surroundings and noted the desolate expanse and how different it was from what you had back home. It was refreshing and you would have taken comfort in it if you weren’t drawing to the conclusion that you were absolutely and positively lost.

You turned back to the map you had splayed out on the hood of the car, scratching your head in thought as Thor filled up the gas tank at the pump. “Hon, I hate to say it, but I think we’re lost.” You said uneasily.

Thor popped the cap back on the gas tank as he walked over to where you were looking over the map with a confused look on your face. “We can’t be too lost. All we have to do is figure which part of Indiana we’re in and get back on the main highway.” He gestured vaguely at the crinkled map and you got the idea that he wasn’t all that confident about your whereabouts as he wanted you to think.

“Indiana? I thought we were in Ohio.” You gave him a funny look before you both burst into a fit of giggles. That was the thing you loved most about Thor. He never took anything too seriously and there wasn’t a situation you couldn’t get through together so there was never any point in letting things get out of hand.

“Alright then,” He started when you both managed to regain your composure, “you head inside and replenish our snack supply while I try to figure out which state we’ve managed to lose ourselves in.”

“Sounds like a plan.” You conceded as you reached into the glove box for your wallet before pulling Thor down to your level to leave a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

Casually strolling through the lowly stocked aisles, you picked up Thor’s favorites along with your most loved road trip munchies. The pickings were slim, but you still managed to fill the rickety shopping basket with the necessities and then some. You were preoccupied with paying for your finds that you hadn’t noticed Thor was making some new friends outside. He was chatting amicably with two young ladies, who no doubt recognized the God of Thunder from the news, gesturing to the map wildly and then to you who had finished paying for your junk food.

“Y/N! I think I’ve managed to un-lose us.” Thor said excitedly as you unloaded your stuff in the car. “These nice girls have informed me that we are, indeed in Ohio and that the highway is just a few miles south, we just got a little off track.” He pointed to the girls in question and they waved at you politely, obviously unable to believe their luck.

“Really? That’s awesome, thank you so much for your help.” You gushed, tucking your food away so you could properly thank your guides. “You have to let us repay you somehow.”

“Actually, we were hoping we could get a picture?” One of the girls asked sheepishly, holding up her phone for emphasis.

“Of course, it’s the least we could do.” You replied earnestly as you took the phone from her hands and opened the camera app. “Right, babe?”

“Absolutely!” Thor said as he positioned himself in between the girls with his classic dorky grin and flashed a peace sign. You snapped a few shots of the three of them before you returned the phone to its owner. “I’m sure we all look great and thank you, once more for your help. We are indebted to you and your companion.” Thor took the hand of the girl who owned the phone and planted a soft kiss on top of it before doing the same to her friend. They immediately became flustered and quickly headed back to their car, allowing you to continue on your journey.

“You’re such a flirt.” You teased as you pulled Thor in for a chaste kiss. He let you go when you pulled away and gave your ass a little pinch when you turned to get into the car. “Well I’m not above using my godly wiles to get what I need.”

“Oh don’t I know it.” You said with a flirtatious wink. “Now if you’re done whoring yourself out, we have a road trip to get back to.”

Once you were both buckled in, you threw on your sunglasses and busted out a can of Pringles as Thor pulled out of the gas station. The sun was still high in the sky and you had a long way to go before you reached the next roadside attraction, but you both managed to pass the time without getting too bored. It also helped that you two could just ride in silence when there was nothing to say without it feeling awkward or uncomfortable.

Thor insisted on driving the entire time, citing his godly ability to remain sharp and ability to go longer without sleep. You appreciated the fact that he took up the responsibility so you committed yourself to being the best co-pilot you could possibly be. To you, this meant providing endless amounts of snack, always having water on hand to keep him adequately hydrated, and making sure an awesome mix was playing at all times. Your final duty was the most important, however, and you tried to only perform it when absolutely necessary so the novelty wouldn’t wear off: Blow jobs on the open road.

The sun was beginning to set on the horizon and you could tell morale was getting low. Thor wouldn’t say it, but driving wasn’t the most exciting thing in the world to him and you really wanted to show him how much you appreciate him. You saw your opportunity as less cars filled the road and more stars appeared in the sky. He had his arm around you so you had perfect access to his lower body. You pressed into his side a little more and nuzzled into his neck, leaving a trail of kisses.

Thor leaned into your touch as a low groan grumbled from within his chest. You left a few more kisses before your hand began to slowly make its way down his chest and into his lap. His legs tensed just a bit at your touch when you found his hardening bulge and massaged it through his jeans.

“Y/N, what do you think you’re doing?” He asked cautiously when you began to undo the button and zipper.

“Shh, just focus on the road, baby.” You hushed him innocently as you freed his now throbbing member from the restrictive material of his jeans and used the pre cum that was already leaking from his tip to work your hand up and down his length.

Once you had sufficiently jerked him off, you dragged your tongue up the length of his cock making sure it was sufficiently wet. Then you lowered your lips onto him before taking him in all the way, nearly unhinging your jaw in the process. To say he was well endowed was an understatement, but that never stopped you.

Thor let out a strangled groan at the feel of your wet mouth on his hard cock and released some of the tension from earlier. You gagged as you took him deeper into your mouth and hit the back of your throat. Once you found a comfortable position, you began moving your mouth up and down. Soon enough, the sloppy, wet sound of you going down on your boyfriend drowned out whatever was playing on the stereo. Your jaw was getting sore and you weren’t doing your neck any favors either, but you were determined to get him to finish.

With one hand on the wheel, Thor reached down with the other to grab a fistful of your hair to push you down as deep as you could go and bucked his hips up in an effort to help you reach a new depth. You swallowed around him when he pushed you back down to his base and he let out your name in a guttural moan that was music to your ears. Your eyes began to water and your gags became less controlled and Thor loved every moment of it.

“Fuck, Y/N, don’t stop-!” He sputtered between gasps. It’s hard to respond when you have a dick in your mouth, so you murmured something you hoped would convey to him that you would not stop until he was ready. The vibrations only added to the onslaught of pleasure he was feeling and you could feel his impending release.

“I’m-gonna come-!” He said between strangled moans that only served to spur you on. “Don’t stop!”

You jerked him off with both hands in tune with what your mouth was doing to speed up his orgasm with the varying pressures. Within moments of doing so, you felt his body spasm beneath you as he came in your mouth. He filled your throat with his release and you swallowed it down, ignoring the slightly bitter taste of it. You gagged once more as you worked him through his orgasm and finally removed your head from his lap.

“That was just incredible, Y/N.” Thor said, a little breathlessly while you cleaned yourself up as best you could.

“Stop it, you’re gonna make me blush.” You joked, but you were also beaming with pride as he adjusted himself back into his jeans. Once you were settled back into your seat, he reached an arm over your shoulders and pulled you back up into his side.

“I’ll be sure to return the favor at our next pit stop.” He said in a low voice that sent shivers up your spine. That man never went back on his word and suddenly, you couldn’t wait to be off the road again.

He pressed a loving kiss to the crown of your head and you sighed in content, enjoying just being where you were. The lights from passing cars lit up Thor’s face briefly and you took a moment to admire the man you loved so much. Your jaw ached, your wrists were sore, but your heart was more full than ever.

Tagging some pals: @arrow-guy @lady-thor-foster @pocmarvelworks @noshitstark @avengersandlovers @thorodinsvn

[leisurelypanda]

December 21st came before they knew it. School had let out a few days ago and Steve had been relaxing with Thor, enjoying the break together while they could. The mood was marred by the sadness that he felt at Thor going away but he tried to put on a brave face and enjoy the time he had with Thor before he had to leave. Logically, he knew that Thor wasn’t leaving for long, but he couldn’t help the disappointment that refused to abate.

Steve did not take his anxiety medicine that morning, but he did take his meds with him in case he needed them. He was genuinely curious about the drinking aspect of the holiday, even if he only planned on having one or two drinks. Nothing major. Steve definitely didn’t plan on ever becoming drunk.

When he arrived at Thor’s house early that afternoon he was surprised at how… festive it looked. There was a large, ornate wreath on the door decorated with holly, pine cones, and red ribbons that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. It was beautiful and, shockingly, real. He could smell the evergreen and the pine from it. It was somewhat strange, honestly. People had wreaths and Christmas trees but in his experience they were always plastic. No one really had the money to buy an authentic tree or wreath every year. Except Thor, apparently.

Once he was inside he was hit with the sense of déjà vu. It was so different. Like during Samhain, the entryway was decorated completely differently from the usual. There was holly hanging from the chandelier and more wreaths decorated the walls. Holly hung from archways where connecting rooms and from the windows. Various kinds of branches, some normal bare and some with some kind of red berries adorned the walls as well. And in the center of the foyer, there was an alter like before, decorated with the various kind of plants in the home and a pair of small figurines, one of an elderly man and the other of a woman. It was beautiful.

“Steve,” Thor greeted him warmly. He leaned down to kiss him. Steve could taste… honey and some other kinds of warm spices on his lips. “Blessed Yule.”

“Blessed Yule, babe,” he mimicked. “You all really go all out for your holidays, don’t you?”

Thor smiled proudly. “Yes, but could the same not be said of most people when observing their religious holidays?”

“I don’t know. I’m not religious, but it’s beautiful,” he said. Thor smiled.

“Come, we were just about to start decorating the tree,” he said, taking his hand and dragging him through to the living room. Steve gaped at the sight. An enormous tree stood proudly in the room reaching up to the high ceiling. There was even a ladder so that decorations could be placed on the upper branches that couldn’t be reached. And it was gorgeous. Odin was at the top of the ladder stringing lights around the tree while Mr. Baker held the ladder steady. Frigga turned as they entered the room and smiled.

“Welcome Steve,” she said, hugging him warmly. “Blessed Yule.”

Steve repeated the greeting dutifully.

“You’re just in time to help us celebrate,” she said, leading him to the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? We have some eggnog, the nonalcoholic and the alcoholic kind, some mead, beer, glogg--”

“Grog?” he asked.

“No, glogg,” she corrected. “It’s a red wine mulled with spices like cinnamon, clove, orange, cardamom, ginger. It’s a Swedish specialty. It’s delicious.”

She poured a bit in a mug and offered it to him. It was a good thing that his medication was a mild tranquilizer rather than a full blown antianxiety medication like he had when he first started out. He could certainly smell the spices she mentioned, though he wasn’t familiar with most of their flavors. He took a cautious sip. It was sweeter than he expected. The spices didn’t overwhelm the drink and he found that he liked it quite a bit.

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s very good.”

“Do you want some more?” she asked. He nodded. She took his mug and added a mixture of raisins and almonds before she poured the drink into the mug and topped it with cranberries. Steve took a sip. It was sweeter than before and the flavors of the fruits and almonds added to the appeal.

“Do take it easy, though,” she warned. “It’s stronger than it seems. We don’t want you drinking more than you are ready for.”

He sipped it more carefully and returned to the living room. The lights were almost finished being wrapped around the tree.

“So what’s the story behind Yule, anyway?” Steve asked. “Is it similar to Christmas at all?”

“In some ways,” Thor said. “Most religions have some kind of celebration around the winter solstice to celebrate the end of the darkest night and return of the light.”

“Is that why there’s so many lights for Christmas?” Steve asked.

“Well most Christmas traditions come from Yule in some way,” he replied. “Like the tree, the wreaths, hanging up lights, and the mistletoe, of course.”

“Mistletoe is from Yule?” Steve asked with a smile. “I don’t remember that from elementary school.”

“I will be happy to… fill the gaps in your education,” Thor murmured as he pressed a kiss to Steve’s lips. Maybe it was the wine, but Steve’s smile grew.

“I look forward to it,” he whispered.

“Will you two stop snogging for a second and plug in the lights?” Odin shouted from the top of the tree. Thor chuckled lowly before he left to do as requested. The tree lit up in a brilliant display of golden lights and the Odinson household cheered. Odin ambled down the ladder and the family gathered around to start decorating. Frigga handed Steve some ribbons to tie around the branches.

The whole process took about an hour and a half between the drinking, the singing, and the actual decorating. Steve was surprised to learn that Thor was the only one in the family who couldn’t sing. He was also the one who sang the loudest, drowning out everyone else. Steve found himself laughing with his hands covering his ears at the display. Thor made a show at pouting and sang even louder.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Please have mercy! My ears!”

“You cannot silence my golden pipes!” Thor protested. He continued singing the little holiday diddy at the top of his lungs. Steve was saved by the grace of Frigga, who told him to be quiet and make himself useful by putting some more decorations on the tree. She also handed him a couple more ornaments.

“Enjoying yourself, dear?” she asked.

“As long as Thor isn’t singing,” he laughed. She laughed with him.

“I’m sure I don’t know where he gets it,” she said. “No one else in the family is so atrocious at singing, yet he is the one who enjoys it the most.”

“I would have thought that he would have a good baritone voice or something,” Steve said.

“Well, he has a bad baritone,” she said with a smile.

“I can hear you, you know,” Thor shouted from the other side from the tree.

“You know it’s rude to eavesdrop, babe,” Steve replied.

“So is gossip,” he said, coming around the tree. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. “So where does that leave us?”

Steve giggled. He was on his second mug of the glogg. Thor became suddenly serious and took the mug from his hand and set it aside.

“My love, I think you have had enough of that for now,” he said. Mr. Baker appeared with a tall glass of water. “Please, drink all of this.”

“Why?” he said as he took the glass.

“It will help keep you hydrated,” he answered. Steve took a gulp of the water.

“So what do you do on Yule?” he asked. “Why’s it important?”

“Well in Norse tradition, it’s a time of honoring Baldr,” Thor explained.

“Who is Baldr?”

“He was the god of light and the sun,” Thor said. “He was also the most beautiful and beloved of the gods. His mother Frigga, who was skilled in divining the fates of all things and in changing them, saw that he would be killed. To prevent this from happening, she sought out every living thing and made them swear that they would not harm him.

“After this, the gods would entertain themselves by hurling objects at him and laughing when the fell harmlessly to the ground. They marveled at his invincibility. One god saw their folly: Loki. He went to Frigga and asked her if there was any being that she had neglected to ask for the oath in her quest. She confessed that she had neglected to ask one thing: mistletoe. She said that it was such a small, harmless plant that she did not think it would pose a threat.

“So Loki took some mistletoe and fashioned a spear from it. He gave it to the blind god of darkness, Baldr’s brother, Hodr, and convinced him to throw it at Baldr while the gods were celebrating. The spear pierced him and he fell down dead. All the gods mourned him so much that they decided that one of them should go down to Helheim, the land of the dead, to beg its queen, Hel, to restore the dead god to life.

“She agreed, on the condition that every living thing that loved him, mourned for him. So the gods went out to get everyone to mourn for him. But one being did not, a giantess who lived in a cave. She refused, saying that Hel should be allowed to keep what was hers. And so Baldr remained in Helheim. Legend says that when Ragnarok, the last battle, is complete, Baldr will return to lead the world back to the light.”

Steve whistled then he looked at Loki. “Why’d you kill him, man?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Loki replied with a sly grin. “My god killed him. That I share his name is coincidental.”

“Your god?”

“We all honor the gods,” Frigga explained. “But each of us has one or two that we pay special attention. Loki honors his namesake.”

“You named your son after the trickster god?” Steve asked, bemused.

“There’s an important lesson in the story,” she said. “Frigga went through all that trouble to change fate, and then the gods decided to test it. Don’t flirt with death and act surprised if she returns her affections.”

“So what does this have to do with Yule?” Steve asked.

“We remember, mourn, and honor Baldr on the longest night of the year,” Frigga said. “Then we celebrate and await his return at the beginning of the new cycle when Ragnarok is over.”

“It usually involves drinking, feasting, and staying up until sunrise,” Thor said cheerfully. “Oaths are taken very seriously at Yule, too.”

“That’s the best part,” Loki said. “Seeing what promises you can get out of people.”

“We’re staying up all night?” Steve asked. He looked down at his glass. He seemed to have drank it all during Thor’s story.

“If you’re up for it,” Odin said, glowering at him from the tree. That sounded like a challenge if Steve had ever heard one. And Steve was not about to let Thor’s grumpy father get the last laugh. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he seemed braver for some reason.

“The question is,” Steve said. “Are you up for it, old man?”

Whistles and cheers sounded from the others as Steve and Odin stared each other down, not unlike the last time it happened. Then, to his surprise, Odin smiled. Not out of approval, but as an acceptance of the challenge. Steve had a feeling that this would be an interesting night. -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some hours later, after dinner had been consumed, The family went off in different directions to see to their own festivities. Odin and Frigga went around the house burning something Thor called smudge sticks that filled the house with scents like rosemary, pine, and cedar. It might not be Christmas, but it certainly smelled like it. Loki was sewing something called poppets to look like gingerbread people, which Thor said were meant to attract something during the new year, like love, prosperity, or protection.

“So what do you do?” Steve asked Thor. they were sitting on the couch admiring the tree. Thor was on his 5th drink, whereas Steve had decided he was done for the night at his third. HI shead was clearing up and he decided that while the buzz was interesting, he had no real interest in experiencing drunkenness. He was afraid of what could happen. But he trust Thor enough that he was mostly relaxed around him while he was drinking.

“Well, I do have a personal favorite,” he said. He set his drink down on the coffee table and held up some kind of weed. He wiggled his eyebrows.

“What is that?” Steve said. “And why do you seem excited about it?”

“Mistletoe,” Thor said. Steve immediately blushed. “You know the tradition, yes?”

Steve pressed a light, teasing kiss to Thor’s lips.

“Happy?” he asked, his voice lower and huskier than he meant it. Thor pouted.

“You tease,” he whined. Steve grinned and pressed another longer kiss to his lips. Thor returned it gently, opening his mouth to grant Steve access. Steve straddled his lover’s hips to get better leverage. His lover’s hands immediately went to his back and wandered down until one found its perch on the curve of his ass and the other groped his thigh. He could taste the honey and cinnamon on his tongue from the mead he’d been drinking. It was… intoxicating.

Thor bucked his hips and Steve gasped as he felt Thor’s arousal against his own. His jeans were suddenly very uncomfortable. He tugged at Thor’s hair, urging him on--

Someone cleared their throat. Steve practically jumped off Thor. His blush grew even more when he realized who caught them. Odin. Frigga was covering her mouth with a hand, but there was amusement in her eyes as she regarded them. Odin looked annoyed more than anything.

“The next time the… mood strikes you,” he ground out. “Please find some place more private. There are other people in the house, you know.”

Steve looked down at the floor as he nodded. He could not meet Odin’s eye.

“Sorry father,” Thor said.

Steve considered letting the couch swallowing him when Odin huffed and walked out. He looked up in time to see Frigga give them a conspiratorial wink before she followed. As soon as they were gone, Thor reached over for him to take his hand. Steve avoided his touch.

“I need some air,” he said as he got up. “I’ll be back soon.”

He reached the porch and exhaled, watching his cloud of breath appear, then vanish before his eyes. He didn’t particularly like the cold or the winter. It was hard to appreciate the cold when there were months when his mom wasn’t sure if she would have the money to pay the heating bill. That concern had vanished when Joe died. Not having someone drain the finances buying drinks did marvels for the budget, it seemed.

Still, there were times when he relished the cold. Like now, when he needed to clear his head. He looked up at the lights from the city. They reminded him of the lights on the tree inside. They were beautiful. And tonight he could see a crescent moon shining above them. It wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the yard, but it was still lovely.

“Come to clear your head, boy?” asked a voice. Steve jumped and turned to find Odin leaning on the doorframe behind him. His face was stern, almost like how he imagined Santa with a bowel movement. “You act as though I am about to beat you, you know. You needn’t worry. You might be an ungrateful upstart, but I won’t do you harm.”

“Thanks,” he drawled. “It helps to clear my head. The cold, I mean.”

“Heh. You would like Sweden, then,” he said walking closer. “Don’t cower, boy, I am not here to pummel you. Stand up straight like a man.”

Steve found himself obeying without question. Odin had a commanding presence about him, almost like he had spent time in the military. He brooked no nonsense and suffered no fools. It made people listen. His gaze was cold and assessing. Steve could see the shrewd intellect that had secured him the position of ambassador to the United States. Politicians didn’t get anywhere by being trusting. He braced his hands on the railing in front of and turned that calculating gaze on Steve.

“How much has Thor told you about Yule?” he asked.

“Well, he told me about Baldr’s death,” he admitted.

“Good,” Odin said. “He honors Baldr, it is only natural that he should tell you about his god’s demise.”

“It was interesting,” he said lamely. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “He also said to be careful of oaths.”

“Well, at least he’s ensured you will not do something stupid,” Odin said. Then he regarded him with a scowl. “One of the other purposes of Yule is to air grievances.”

There it is, Steve thought. He braced himself.

“I do not like you,” Odin said.

“The feeling is mutual,” Steve asked, trying to sound casual.

“I think that you are weak,” Odin said. “My wife and son tell me that you suffer from panic attacks, but that just means that you are ruled by fear. There is no way you could be worthy of my son.”

The words came like a punch in the gut. It took the wind out of him. He could do nothing but gaze up at the old man, his jaw hanging open uselessly.

“Were you simply unsure of yourself, that would be one thing,” he continued. “You are a boy. It is only natural. But you are simply a coward who lacks the nerve to admit or the balls to be a man.”

“It’s true,” Steve said. His heart was racing, but he would be damned before he let Thor’s father bully him into submission. “I have Panic Disorder. I live in constant fear of when my next panic attack will strike. I struggle with anxiety on a daily basis and it’s taken me nearly a year and a half of therapy to learn how to live with it. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that you understand what my life has been like. Why should that make me unworthy?”

“You are ashamed of yourself,” Odin said, eying him. “For all your bravado, you see yourself as weak. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t think you are worthy either.”

Again, it hit him like a punch in the gut. Odin certainly knew how to get to people. He wasn’t wrong. He constantly wondered if this was a dream, if he would wake up and cold reality would set in because the only way any of this could be true was if it was a dream.

“How can I think that you are worthy if you cannot think it yourself?” Odin demanded. “I’ve seen your like before. Thor has always attracted men like you to him. He’s too softhearted. He got himself hurt because they both took advantage of his kindness in one way or another.”

Steve was silent at that. He had never really asked in detail about Thor’s exes. He only knew that he had some because he had mentioned them in passing. He could not deny that even though Thor lavished him with affection and assured him that he was more than enough, he often wondered if he actually deserved this.

“So here is my grievance,” Odin said. “I think you will break my son’s heart. You will hurt him and I would have sought to prevent his being hurt again, but it seems that he has already fallen for you. I can only hope that he will decide at some point to end it himself first.”

“You think you know what is best,” Steve found himself saying. “But you’re the one letting fear rule you. Fear that you can’t protect him. You barely know me. You’ve judged me based on a panic attack and on Thor’s past relationships, people I’ve never even met. How can you say that you know what I will do when all you really know about me is that I have chronic anxiety?”

Odin was silent, aside from a scoff.

“I promise that everything that I want from Thor comes from good intentions,” he said. “I will not toss aside the kindness Thor has shown me just because you think we’re a bad match.”

“An oath on Yule. Even after Thor’s warning,” Odin drawled. “How poetic.”

He drew himself up to his full height and glowered down at Steve, contempt smoldering in his eye. He suddenly seemed like a giant to Steve, ready to crush him if he didn’t say the right thing.

“If you break your oath,” he growled. “I will see that you suffer.”

“You would hardly be the first,” Steve said. The lump in his throat made it sound more breathy and meek than he would have preferred.

“But,” Odin said. “If you are telling the truth, if your relationship with my son lasts until the day after your year anniversary, I will give your relationship my blessing.”

“Deal,” Steve said. He held out his hand. Odin took it in a strong, firm grip. Whether it was magic, whether there were gods or spirits or angels bearing witness to their bargain, whether it was something inherently about the season, it felt very solemn. Like this truly wasn’t something that could be broken without consequences. As Steve watched Odin go back into the house, he had to wonder if he had just done something rash.

Either way, he had no intention of letting Odin win. He had been with Thor for three months now. It seemed like such a short amount of time, and at the same time, it felt like it had been forever. And even though he struggled daily with feeling inadequate, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

His reverie was interrupted by a crash and shouting. Steve hurried inside to find Thor and Loki grappling on the floor.

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Steve asked. Frigga chuckled.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “They do this every year, since Thor honors Baldr and Loki, well, take a guess.”

“You killed my god!” Thor roared. He had his brother in a headlock. Loki laughed and jabbed Thor in the stomach with an elbow.

“Your god was an idiot,” Loki replied with a sardonic grin. He ran outside and into the yard and Thor gave chase, hollering all the way.

Steve watched in amazement as they wrestled and fought on the lawn. Their styles were completely different. Thor was more strength oriented and tried to overpower Loki. His brother, on the other hand was slippery and dextrous. It was fascinating to watch, but Thor eventually managed to pin his brother to the ground, which was no less impressive for the fact that he was drunk.

“Yield,” he growled. Loki struggled, but Thor had managed to keep him pinned to the cold earth.

“Fine, I yield,” Loki groaned. Thor jumped up and cheered and ran up the steps to capture Steve in a fierce, victorious embrace and kissed him. Steve laughed into his lover’s mouth.

Yeah, he thought. There’s no way I’m letting that old Grinch win. -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometime around midnight, the Odinson family gathered around their tree and began their gift exchange. It was an interesting sight, as Steve had never before seen gifts being exchanged between a family when half of them were half drunk. He was also shocked to discover that he was being included in the exchange. He was suddenly glad he had brought gifts, though it was nothing special. Odin didn’t give him anything and he was glad for it because he didn’t have anything for him, to be honest.

Frigga gave him more art supplies, which was good because he was starting to run low and this would surely last him a while. Loki gave him a pair of little puppets (he called them, “poppets,” though) that looked like gingerbread people.

“This one’s meant to attract love,” he said, pointing to one that had more pink decorations, like hearts and flowers. The other had a bit of mistletoe pinned to it and a shield. “And that one is for protection.”

“Do I keep it with me or…?” Steve asked.

“You can,” Loki said. “Or you can keep it in your room to ward off negative energies.”

“Cool,” Steve said. He meant it. He had no idea Loki was so skilled. “Thank you, Loki.”

Loki actually seemed bashful at the praise. “It’s nothing,” he said.

Steve got up and hugged him. Loki made a groan of disgust in protest.

“Thor, your boyfriend is hugging me,” he whined.

“Yeah he is,” Thor said, raising his bottle of mead. He had taken a break for a few hours but resumed drinking for the gift exchange. Steve himself had another mug of glogg sitting on the coffee table. But just the one. He had already drank more tonight than he ever planned on drinking in general. He’d probably go a few months without.

“Tell him to stop,” Loki said.

“Come on, brother, it’s Yule!” Thor said cheerfully. “Live a little.”

Loki grumbled and returned the hug.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered. Steve finally let him go.

Thor actually had to leave the room to get his present to Steve. He returned with a large canvas that Steve recognized as one of Frigga’s painting canvases. He gasped as he turned it around and revealed a painting of the two of them dancing under the moonlight. It was similar to their Homecoming date. There were some artistic liberties taken, such as the fact that instead of anywhere in New York, they were dancing under a grove of pine trees covered in snow lit in the holiday style with a full moon shining down on them. It was beautiful and he actually teared up at the sight.

“I commissioned this a few weeks ago,” he said. “I could not think of anything else that you would want, so--”

Steve tackled him with a hug before he could finish.

“I love it,” he said. He looked at Frigga. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” she said.

Steve got out his sketchbook and carefully removed one of the pictures. It was a new one that he had finished recently, of Thor and Loki grappling and smiling like the rambunctious brothers they were. He handed it to Frigga who looked at it and smiled as her fingers traced the lines of their faces.

“Thank you, Steve,” she said. “It’s beautiful. A mother can never have too many pictures of her children.”

To Loki, he handed a picture of him as a mad scientist. Loki laughed when he saw himself holding a vial of some kind of mixture grinning like a madman under a transformer shooting electricity. Thor rolled his eyes.

Finally, to Thor, he gave him the completed version of a picture he had been working on recently. Thor was sitting on a white horse, his armor gleaming in the light of the sun shining down overhead, his red cape draped behind him. His family was behind him, smiling faces throwing flowers on the ground beneath the horse. Thor was looking directly at the viewer with a smile on his face as he held out his hand.

“I recognize this,” Thor said. “This is the one you started a month ago at the beginning of the Thanksgiving break.”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a blush. “It’s not much, but--”

Thor silenced him with a kiss. Steve sighed in spite of himself.

“I love it, älskling,” he said. “It is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“But where are you?” he asked.

“Umm… well, this is from a dream I had, so…” he said.

“So I am looking at you in this picture?” Thor asked with a sloppy grin.

“Yes?” Steve replied. Thor smiled again and kissed him. It was a bit clumsy, since he was drunk, but Steve was becoming more comfortable around it. As long as Thor was there, anyway.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Happy Yule.”

“Happy Yule, Thor,” he replied. “I love you, too.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thor didn't make it until sunrise, but he did manage to make it to the porch with Steve about an hour before dawn. Where he promptly fell asleep with his head resting in Steve's lap. Steve smiled at the sight and tangled his fingers in his golden locks as he waited in silence for the sunrise.

The rest of the family was quiet too, as if the night of celebration was replaced with a heavy solemnity. Mr. Baker, Mrs. Bianchi, and the rest of the household staff had turned in hours ago. They weren't pagan, so they weren't required to observe their employers’ religious holidays. All of them had at one point in time, but not this year.

Steve had never actually seen the sun rise over New York City. His apartment buildings generally didn't let residents on the roof. Also, as a 19 year old, any time before the sun before had been in the sky for a few hours was too early to be out of bed. He was fighting the urge to close his eyes and curl himself around Thor's sleeping form.

The sky overhead began to lighten gradually. Black started to soften to pale orange and yellow. All of them were silent, apart from Thor's soft snoring, as the dawn after the longest night arrived. Steve captured the image in his mind. Somewhere in the back of his artist mind he wondered what it would be like to watch the sunrise from the top of the Empire State Building. But the part of him that was terrified of heights dismissed that almost immediately.

The sun began to peak over the horizon, a fragile orange sliver of light breaking through the night. Soon the night gave way to the pale light of the morning and the sky turned from black to shades of blue and yellow. And maybe there was actually some magic there or perhaps the sunlight triggered some part of his brain, but Steve felt his spirit lift. Like something new had begun.

When the sun had fully risen, the Odinsons began to taper off to bed. Odin paused long enough to nod at Steve in acknowledgment of his small victory. Steve would have felt smug but an enormous yawn reminded him that he was dog tired. He shook his boyfriend gently until he started awake.

“The sun's up,” he said.

“Huzzah,” Thor murmured. “Blessed Yule.”

“Blessed Yule,” he parroted. “Now do you think we can start the year off right and go to bed?”

“Sleep first, älskling,” he murmured, nuzzling his face in his lap. “Sex later.”

Steve was too tired to chastise him. Instead he just yawned and waited for Thor to get up. His legs were starting to fall asleep. They staggered to the bedroom, Thor stopping to drink some water. As they climbed into bed to sleep the day away, Steve tried to think about anything but the fact that he was leaving.