#working with thor

[deityrookie]

So, I’ve been working with deities for a few months and that’s only because they basically forced me to hear them and after that I have been steadily working with them. But recently I have been having dreams about someone who claims to be Thor. He doesn’t look like Hemsworth.. He’s unique looking. And these dreams always take place somewhere familiar, like my grandparents back yard, or the parking lot at work. But the energy is always different. Like it’s an image overtop another image to hide where we truly are. And in these dreams Thor is just hanging out. We’re bros having drinks or a bonfire and talking about battles he’s won or stories told about him. My question for people with more experience is, Should I take this as a sign to reach out to Thor or are these just dreams?

[gunsatthaphan]

confirmed: cute 🤏🏻

[suicidalandhighonmidol]

[rystiel]

do y’all think logan and wade will eventually meet thor and wade will absolutely fangirl over him. and logan would remember him mumbling about thor in his sleep while they were tied up in the void. and while wade fangirls it becomes clear that The Wolverine isn’t the only hero he’s excited to finally know. do u think logan would get a bit standoffish with thor and wade would hit him with the “if i didn’t know any better i’d think you were jealous, peanut ;)”

[moonkhao]

I haven’t seen you smile like this for a while.

WANDEE GOODDAY | EP10

[redhead-and-proud]

I think the HD pics from this shoot will actually give me a heart attack

[blaithnne]

CBS Ghosts is my new guilty pleasure so take my new OCs. The Blanchet family were distant French cousins of the Woodstones who visited the house in the early 1900s, only for a violent house robbery to take the life of their youngest daughter, Mercedes, and her loyal self appointed guard dog, Horse. Only 8 years old, it takes some time for Mercedes to understand her fate, and for some time she’d be very distressed that her family seem to be ignoring her. On the bright side, the other ghosts are there to try and make things easier, though the misfit collective have a hard time caring for a child given their circumstances, and conflicting ideas on how best to raise a little girl.

Of all the ghosts, she is closest with Thorfinn. He has a soft spot for the little girl.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 1

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: Outta left field.

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!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The brick facade stares back at you. You have to keep from gaping in awe. You're not a sightseer, you're there to work. A job. Your first ever. A bit late, but better than never.

You stop at the gate and hike up your kit as you shove your hand in your pocket in a cramped search. You slide out the flip phone and pop the top, clicking through for the email. The cheap burner is all you could afford and you needed a cell to get any sort of employment. Even just to live, it seems.

You click on the agency's email. A concise list of instructions for your first day. Alone. Last week, you shadowed a woman named Florence as she took you through an east-side home, but this week, you're on your own and uptown. The property is much nicer than any you've been in before. The sort you gaze at longingly in passing. A true urban palace.

You follow the first point on the list, keying in the code awkwardly with spaced-out punches. The last beep triggers a buzz as the mechanism releases and you turn the haandle to let yourself through the iron gate. You close it, pushing it to make sure it catches. You look around at the greenery; expertly trimmed hedges and a stone bench, flowerbeds clustered artfully in all shades. A mini Versailles in the heart of the city. The owners must be very well-off.

You gulp as you follow the stonework of the winding path along the curved driveway. Your shoulder aches from the weight of your kit and your spine is still rigid from the tense bus ride. You approach the front door and stagger to an awkward halt as you check the screen again. In all caps; DO NOT USE THE FRONT DOOR. You peer up over the stone steps and give a nod. Of course the help should go through the back.

You circle around to the rear of the house, the scent of pollen and the freshly groomed hedges clouding around you. You find the door nestled beneath a net of ivy and key in the next code. The very modern security contrasts the antique veneer of the house. You step into the silence of the grand home and listen. You're not sure if you're alone. What do you do if you aren't? It might be awkward to wash someone's floor without an introduction.

You move to the next directive; cover shoes. You squint and suck your lower lip in. You see the small box on the corner table tucked beside the door. You stay on the mat as you pull on the plastic shoe covers. It makes sense. You don't want to track in another mess to clean.

Again, your breath flies away from you. Even just the back hallway is divine, or maybe you're just brutish. You're not very hard to impress with what you're used to. A job won't cure it, but it'll make it bearable.

The next point; gloves. Okay. At least it's straightforward. The owners must be very particular. Or germaphobic. You let your assumptions write a story as you advance into the house. The email directs you to a closet where you are permitted to hang your things and where a mop, broom, and vacuum await you amid other supplies too big for your bag. Next point…

You proceed inside, slowly. The instructions are written almost to guide your every step. You move down the hallway with duster, broom, vacuum, and finally the mop. You're sweating by the time you get to the first doorway. The kitchen. Despite your employ, the place is already near immaculate. The only sign of life is a single black mug beside the sink.

It's eerie as you cross the tile, investigating with your eyes, almost too afraid to touch. You're going to have to if you mean to do good work. You continue down the list, doing your best to be thorough. When you return to the hall you're caught in place by a thought. There are no family pictures. It adds to the emptiness of it all. There are portraits of famous landmarks and imitations of reknowned artworks, though you wouldn't be surprised if they were genuine. But no family.

Next point. A bathroom just diagonal from the kitchen, spacious with dark wood and shining gold. You leave it smelling with the sterile scent of the cleaner. Back in the hall, you pause to drink from the water bottle in your bag. You head back down the hall intent on your next task. An hour already.

Another large room; a dining room that opens into a sitting room with a large fireplace. It really is amazing. Your father won't believe how nice it is here. You don't have time to worry about convincing him as you dive into your work. It isn't difficult work but you want to do a good job. You get this knot in your stomach just think of your boss, Clara, telling you otherwise or going home with bad news.

You finish the sitting room and go back to get your water. You nearly finish it. You check the time again, then the list. You can refill before you continue. You go back to the kitchen and cross to the fridge, pressing your bottle to the lever beneath the filter. It'd be nice to have something like that at home. You listen the hum of the fridge as you fill your bottle.

"Ahem," the clearing of a throat startles you and you jump, splashing yourself with cold water as you spin to face a tall man. He stares at you imperiously from the doorway, his figure lithe as he holds his chin up in dissatisfaction. "And who said you could do that?"

"Um," you swallow and look at your water bottle, fingers numbed by the water, "sorry, sir, I ran out--"

"Clean up your mess and get back to work," his lilted accent slices into you.

"Sorry, sir--"

"Bullet number one, A," he says tersely.

You frown as you struggle to understand. You replace the cap on your bottle and fish in the pocket of your black pants. You take out the phone and check the email. 'Do not speak unless permitted.' Well, he spoke to you first. It's the only reason you said anything. You're not very chatty yourself.

You keep from repeating sorry again and dip your head down. You take the cloth tucked into your pocket and bend to sop up the water from the floor. You don't look at him as he looms and you exit the room, sidling past him in shame. Oh no, you hope he doesn't tell Clara.

You replace your bottle in your bag. You'll go without. You look at your phone again. You can do this. No more mistakes.

You march back down the hall and dare a glance into the kitchen as you pass. He's already gone. That must be Mr. Laufeyson, the owner noted in the job description. Is it just him? He doesn't seem very fond of others. Or just you. You're just a maid, after all.

🧹

Your father's apartment is in the south. The fence is crooked and missing slats and the grass is patchy and yellowed. The porch groans as you climb the steps and let yourself into his side of the duplex. Cigarette smoke greets you with a cough in your throat. You open the window he shut in your absence as the TV blares in the next room. He's on the couch, puffing tobacco into the air in gray swirls. The place is even grimmer after a day amid your client's spotless halls.

"Hey dad," you say as you stand just beside the couch, "how was your day?"

He grunts and offers nothing else. That's about what you get from him. The effort of just that noise sends him to hack and his wrist tangles in his oxygen tube as brings his hand up. He knocks ash from the end of his cigarette onto the floor.

"First day alone went well," you say as he settles, breathing loudly as he tries to steady his breaths. "Think I did pretty good."

"Oh, big whoop, got a job, at last," he sneers, "about time. What're you? Thirty-three?"

"Thirty," you correct him, but don't add that your birthday is coming up.

"Same difference," he croaks and sucks on the smoke until he's coughing once more.

You try not to let him defeat you. It's just the way he is. You brought home A's from school and he wondered why they weren't A+'s. And when you got accepted to college, he asked you who was gonna pay for it. And when you filled out an application at the drive-thru window, he asked you if you were going to be another deadbeat flipping burgers.

"What, they got you scrubbing floors?" He spits, "you don't do it for free or something?"

He looks around venomously. You do clean but you can't get the yellow stains out of the wall or the stench out of the carpet. You won't say so.

"Did you eat yet?"

"Can't be near the stove with this thing," he taps the top of the tank on the other side of the armrest. He's also not supposed to smoke near it. Or at all.

"I'll heat up the hamburger helper from last night."

"Fucking dog food," he barks.

You wince. You love your father but he's a very picky man. Things must be his way or no way at all.

"Might have a frozen pizza," you suggest.

"Cardboard," he mutters.

You stand, silent and helpless. There isn't much else left in the fridge.

"Could afford better if you'd got your ass up ten years ago," he buts out his smoke and just as quickly, opens the pack to slide out another.

"I tried..."

"Not hard enough, eh," He takes off the oxygen tube and leans away from the tank to light the next cigarette, "not hungry. All your talkin' spoiled my appetite."

You apologise and leave before you can annoy him further. You're not very hungry either. Just sore and tired. Your feet hurt from being on them all day and your eyelids droop lower with each blink. You climb the stairs and drag your feet into your bedroom and shut the door gently. Your father hates when you slam. You don't like it much yourself.

You fall into bed as the musty air clings in your nose. You close your eyes and roll onto your side. You sigh. You figure if you can handle your father, you can handle Mr. Laufeyson and his list.

🧹

Your next job is in the eastside. It's not as precise or overbearing. The instructions are standard; a list of the rooms that need cleaning and a tip left on the counter. The email says the family is out of town. How nice it must be to come home to a nice, clean house. You pad out the three-day week with two more home in the northwest suburbs. The money would be better if you could work a full week but so long on you're in your probation period, you only get part-time hours.

Your second week starts again in the north, outside the Laufeyson property. The codes are different but the list is the same. You begin your work diligently. This time, you ration your water, and pay special attention to each step. Once you're through this week, you get your first check. Dad should be happy about that.

As you get to the front room, a living room or what some might call den, you set first to dusting the ornaments on the high mantel. You find the more you do it, the work is almost soothing. It's simple and mindless. You admire the silver candlestick, careful not to loosen the tall candle placed in it.

"Shiny," the slither frightens you. You quickly replace the candlestick at the corner of the mantle and face that man; the presumed Mr. Laufeyson. "Somehow, I feel it wouldn't belong in wherever you call home."

You lower your eyes. Florence says most clients are friends but she warned you about these ones. Those who deride you and the work they don't want to do themselves.

"The previous one did think they were lovely," he muses as he struts forward, his long steps like a cat's, "too bad they were too big for her bag."

You flick your gaze back up and blanch. "Sir, I wouldn't--"

He tilts his head as his eyes flash dangerously. You snap your mouth shut and give an apologetic frown. You press a finger to your lips to say, I'll be quiet.

"She was chatty too. You girls always are."

You nod and listen. Your throat constricts as you wring the cloth in your hands. You think you might not be very forgiving if someone tried to steal from you either.

"But..." he looks at his watch, "you are quick."

The comment drips from his mouth as if it tastes bitter to him. It isn't quite praise, only a fact, but it isn't a reproach. He smirks and snickers.

"And you do look rather terrified. We're understood then."

You give another nod. You think you understand. You wouldn't think to steal but you can't blame him for putting down rules. You squint and your brow twitches as your ears tinge.

"Point one C," you whisper to yourself; 'Do not steal.'

He pauses as he goes to pivot on his heel. He lifts his chin and shifts as if he might look at you. He doesn't as he carries on to the door.

"You may refill your bottle once per shift," he pauses by the door, tapping the frame before he leaves you.

You stay stuck to the floor, wavering as you watch him go. He wasn't nice, but he didn't dismiss you either. You can stomach his disapproval if it means you still have work.

[angermango]

reasons not to get hit right in the face

[trickytrick]

UMMM WORKING FAST AS FUCK IDK LOOK AT THEM ALL DRESSED UP???

[worstloki]

love the idea of the Avengers adding new members but being stingy about rooms so the OG Avengers each get their own but Bucky and Loki are forced to share one under the guise of it being 'healthy interaction'

[broomsick]

The hammer of Thórr is not a symbol of violence, but an amulet which we, as norse pagans, can turn to for protection and comfort. It is a symbol of our faith, but it is not a symbol of hate. It never was and it never will be. Thórr as deity and as mythological figure has never represented any sort of “model” for masculinity. And no, his myths have never made him into a misogynist or a racist figure. Search all you want, his myth has never condoned discrimination. Therefore, it is not to be used as a means of glorifying one’s discriminatory political standpoints. The hammer we wear around our necks is a symbol of faith and protection, and nothing more. Let us tolerate no hate within heathen circles.

[crystalized-rot]

Sometimes witchcraft is having elaborate rituals and dedicating entire hours to your dieties

And sometimes witchcraft is channeling a message from one of the old ones while chilling on a recliner in a charizard onsie

[milesworld96]

⚠️SPOILERS 4 Deadpool & Wolverine bc I just watched it today and I’m going insane over it, the movie was great⚠️

[royalcommunistthor]

forever thinking how thor learned his lesson a little too well. or perhaps learned the wrong lesson in the first place. how odin wanted to teach him that his actions have consequences, above all consequences of disobeying HIM, of stepping outside that line in the sand odin drew for him but what he got instead is thor caring about people, ordinary people especially, rather than kingship and then he was " no no not like this"

[thisdorkyblogthing]

Thorki AU where Thor and Loki start a band when they're teens but it's mostly just the two of them because they're messy little fuckers who constantly butt heads and no one can stand to be around them for too long. Somehow, they're still really good and end up getting picked up by a record label and become a hit. This, of course, makes them even messier fuckers and their constant drama makes them an even bigger draw to more people. They manage to find a small team of people who are (mostly) willing to stick it out with them and make a few hit albums and get through a few tours. (They just barely manage to get through them by the skin of their teeth, but still!)

Unfortunately, their latest album hasn't done as well critically or commercially and the tension between Thor and Loki has been at an all time high, which has really made touring unbearable for everyone involved. A particularly rough performance the night before ended up with Loki and Thor getting into a(nother) nasty little ruckus that had their manager calling up the front desk of the hotel with a preemptive "I'm sorry for whatever happens to that suite, we'll pay for the damages, please don't call the cops, thank you."

They show up to the tour bus the next morning and something's... different. Sure, usually after a bad argument they're a bit quiet and sulky until one of them cracks a joke that makes the other laugh and everything's good again until the next shitfit ensues, but this time they're real quiet and avoiding looking at each other(and everyone else) and everyone's getting worried that this might be the fight that finally breaks them up.

Except actually they had an angry fuck after Loki said 'We'Re NoT EvEn ReEeEeAl BrOtHeRs!!?!' for like, the 700th time and Thor was like 'FINE!' and smashed their mouths together. Things Happened and now they're a bit shell shocked and trying to figure how to feel about it. (And trying valiantly to convince themselves It Wasn't That Good.)

(It was That Good. Oops.)