Dixie Victorious @southern-god1 - Tumblr Blog

Would love some asks!

But, a few things:

If your gonna request a TF, please put some effort into it? Don’t just say “Hey, make me into a jockstrap”. That doesn’t get me going or motivate me to write you anything.

I do not TF fellow Southerners. We are all equally godly.

99.9% of the time, my TFs are permanent; digitization is an exception, of course, since you can be restored or transformed at any time. Some people have been making temporary TF requests.

PLEASE take at least a glance through my stuff. To be perfectly honest, some of the asks I’ve received (not recently, necessarily) seem deeply unfamiliar with anything I’ve ever written or the basics of what I like to write. I’m not a generic TF blog who will write whatever you want; as you can tell, I have specific interests.

That being said, I’d love to hear from y’all! I’d love suggestions, ideas, requests, questions about the “universe” and characters I have created, even if I haven’t used them (like the Southern Avengers...or “my version” of real studs, like how someone asked to be Jensen Ackles personal slave. That was a fun little story to write!), character ideas (like, say, Southern Avengers heroes..or Yankee villains!), pretty much anything y’all wanna send my way.

Oh, and I love feedback; most of the interaction with my posts are “just” likes. Likes are awesome and I appreciate them, but I do like more in-depth feedback too! Praise, or constructive criticism are welcomed, but I’d prefer not to get (any more) hate mail.

I reverse the right not to answer asks, obviously.

#ask

I’ve been thinking about the potential history of macrophilia.

I think there’s been precedent since the ancient world. The Egyptians had art of pharaohs dwarfing their servants and wives, the Titans were huge, etc

Macro’s not the kind someone might want to make known even if they wanted to produce art of it in the pre-modern era because, say a painting would require talent, a woodcut would require privacy you wouldn’t have, and a drawing or story would probably be long decayed or simply lost in someone’s ancestors papers in a trunk or thrown away or burned. And obviously, there was the risk of execution for sodomy (the size thing would be almost comically incomprehensible to a puritan who would be utterly and completely baffled). I suppose my predecessors might have gaped at statues or perhaps certain paintings of say, the Greco-Roman Hercules or Nordic Thor or Zeus (Strabo claimed the Phidias Zeus, a 40 foot statue, gave “impression that if Zeus arose and stood erect he would unroof the temple”. Standing in that dimly lit, incense-filled temple, looking up at an ivory-and-gold, ultra-built king of the gods who literally threatened the structural integrity of the building just by existing? That would be both religious and very macro and very hot) or brawny gladiators or huge Vikings or barbarians or massive bogatyrs (some of the paintings of them I’ve seen are very large and very bearded men generally utterly dwarfing the men around them or doing impossible things: I remember seeing one by Vasnetov where three very big ones are on horses and thanks to how it’s composed, the mountains in the background look puny, albeit probably not intentionally. BIG Slavs! ) and simply envisioned them even larger still.

Or, ironically, certain religious things: Goliath, St. Christopher carrying the Christ child -the scale disparity in some is almost hilarious: very tiny god and very huge bearded mortal…they didn’t INTEND it because it was meant as him bearing the weight of the world, but once you notice it it’s very blatant: god as puny compared to huge bearded man? …ok, that’s actually weirdly hot, come to think of it! Super blasphemous but oddly compelling-, even certain depictions of a towering Christ. Or books of such things in the 19th century, once illustrations became more reproducible; books of mythological figures with illustrations, athletic figures, Paul Bunyan (especially the BIGGER versions where he casually created the Grand Canyon by dragging his axe…mmm, love that kind of scale!), Atlas (duh). “I have pictures of strongmen on my wall because I am interested in Physical Education”…yes, John, of course you are, not because you’re envisioning that particular one lifting a ship like a weight, no sir, absolutely not cue innocent whistling Or “I am studying the gods of classical mythology like a gentleman” while lingering on Zeus or a beefy Thor. Sure Jan, sure…

Also: propaganda! It probably wouldn’t be attractive per se but there’s personifications of countries literally striding across continents in some posters! Which, to me, is an ideal scale! Just substitute your ideal instead of John Bull or Cecil Rhodes (who are not exactly hot: Bull is grotesquely plump and Rhodes is reedy and beardless but the sheer size is definitely there in those images)…or just admire the already-handsome bearded Soviet soldier towering over puny little Berlin or the person stepping over an entire ocean.

The Soviets had an odd fondness for giants in propaganda; sure, their politicians were hideous but when they used workers or soldiers, it could be surprisingly effective. While the actual Politburo looked like a collection of like potatoes which had achieved sentience and disappointment, the idealized Soviet worker or soldier in posters often had a literal giant towering over something or stepping over something, cities or mountains as things under their boots, bestriding the world, crushing entire countries or cities, etc. Big, scruffy, boots and beards, dwarfing mountains. Sure, some were women (…boring, no), but there were tons of men too. And the Brits and everyone else also had that same sort of motif too, huge boots, descending on entire countries and such. Or, something I almost consider too on the nose but it’s perfect for a macrophile; “Watch em grow Tokyo!” it was a propaganda poster by Sgt. Paul Snyder for the US Army Air Forces from 1942: it depicted Uncle Sam standing and gesturing to two gargantuan and heavily muscled men who dwarf him: one a soldier in uniform and helmet and the other a worker in overalls, both with massive boots and muscles, Uncle Sam barely reaching their belt buckles, labeled US Armed Might and Production; “My boys have grown quite a bit this first year!” …my tax dollars hard at work (I find that utterly hilarious!). Well, my ancestors. It was OFFICIAL! Approved by someone.

What are some popular Halloween costumes in Dixie?

Hmm. Obviously any of the Southern Avengers would be popular! Confederate soldiers -idealized and muscular- would be popular too.

For a “scary” costume, someone might dress up as an undead Union soldier, though they’d have to make it clear it was a costume. Maybe Mothman or another cryptid, possibly a ghost like South Carolina’s cryptic Grey Man who warns of hurricanes.

#ask

I hope everyone is doing ok, stay safe y’all.

Watching Twisters. Damn Glen Powell is hot. Sexy Texas stud.

Could play a hunky Southern Avenger

This view popping up on screen at financial centers worldwide.

“Sup nerds. God needs get a buzz this weekend. Gimme all yer money or I’ll shrink y’all’s cities.”

Billions of dollars are barely equivalent to what’s needed for some beers in CSD. Even our money is massive and mighty. Southern studs deserve all the money. Bulky high school footballers bullying entire countries for “lunch money”; an entire GDP.

“WELL SHEE-IT, GOTTA AN INFESTATION OF STRAIGHT BUGS ON THE BASE. *opens a can of Rebel Brew* CAN’T LET YOU BUGS AND WOMANTS MULTIPLY. GOTTA GAS YA OUT BEFORE YA START PROTESTING N’ SHIT.”

Did y’all know Jensen Ackles has a beer brand?

“Oh this? This beer was brewed from millions of lil lib Yants! LA Lager, made from LA. And I got a Pittsburgh Pilsner too, Boston Brew. Drink up brother!”

“Ooo yeah nothin feels better than a fresh city under my big white ass in the mornin! Best way to start the day is by crushing a city full of puny libs, don’t y’all yants think? Well, and coffee.”

It's definitely a silly idea, but lately I've been thinking about something. What if Yankees were allowed to live and work in the south with little to no issue, however there's some kind of drawback. My immediate thought is some sort of contract that, if signed by a southern man, automatically caused the Yankee and all the Yankee's property to be owned by the southerner who signed it.

This idea definitely would need work, but there's something about the idea of a single accident when inviting someone you thought was a friend to your house, and it resulting in you being owned by the person.

Ha! Interesting. I kinda prefer the issues, but that is kinda funny. Going over to your friends house to play video games, you do something to annoy him, and after a quick signature, you and everything you own now belong to your friend, forever, 100% legal.

#ask

I’m kinda liking the idea of Southern gentlemen: rich, classy, refined, but still masculine, handsome, dominant, conservative, and gay. Wealthy businessmen, politicians, etc. Sharp dressed gentleman killing Yankees on dates. Ads for things like cologne, pricy suits made from Southern cotton picked by slaves, battle flag themed ties or bowties for southern gentlemen, private jets with bars, gun racks, so you can meet your date in Charleston or Charlotte (my city) and then fly up north to kill Yankees together, expensive watches, yachts, etc. Magazine articles on which drinks (bourbon, whiskey, moonshine, southern wines, etc) pairs best with each type of killing, or having glossy photos of studs in fine suits made from Southern cotton kicking back as Yankees kneel or serve them mint juleps. Watching footage from up north on screens in bars on a date, sipping wine and flirting as Boston gets bombed or big boys in grey march on the screen in the background.

“1st Timothy means Timothy Tebow is 1st, above you guys, right lil Yankee?”

It it possible for someone born and raised in the south to not be really a southerner? Cause some of the guys I've met I've know since childhood and nothing like the rest of the guys I know or like the men you talk about. They match more of a California stereotype than anything.

Whats tge proper treatment or names for people like this?

Hmmm. That’s a good question. I don’t have a name for them, but they could/would be Southernized, even though that term technically wouldn’t be accurate. How ya think we made a guy like Tebow into who he is today?

#ask

Does a southerner ever take into consideration a yankee that willingly submits to them? I mean obviously what they want doesn’t really matter, but do the southern alphas ever give them special treatment as their jocks or pits or muscles for accepting their place in the hierarchy without a struggle?

If they accept and embrace their position, they could be a great potential Overseer: monitoring other slaves, getting to directly serve their master(s), enforcing their will on lesser slaves, tending to their masters homes in their absence, in exchange for a better standard of living: a small bedroom in their masters room, better food (maybe even having a choice in what they eat occasionally), more comfortable clothes and sheets, possibly some limited access to entertainment.

But to answer your actual question: that’s not common. It’s not entirely uncommon either, but generally we make them into whatever we want or need at the moment, and if they have an issue with that, they really didn’t embrace their position as much as they thought they did.

#ask

Hey! This is in response to your post from a while back asking what people might wanna see more or less of. I feel bad even having an opinion cause it’s your blog and I love it and I don’t wanna tell you how to run it or anything but since you asked I’d love to see some more inanimate clothing tfs like a yankee becoming boxers for a southerner or something idk. Or maybe even a cock tf but I don’t know if that’s your style. Anyway keep up the good work I love seeing when you post!

Aww, thank ya! Don’t worry, my next story will definitely have some more inanimate TF! Cock…probably not, but definitely clothes. I’m glad you love my stuff, thank you! Always love hearing that people like my content!

#ask

What I am…

Playing: Starfield. Freestar Collective, obviously. Sam Coe is hunky.

Listening to: Hardy! And the sounds of Yant buildings crumbling. And some Chappell Roan.

Watching: The Resident. God, I forgot how hunky Conrad Hawkins is! Hunky ex-marine doctor from Atlanta, scruffy and sexy. Would love to see him experimenting on Yankees, or only healing a Yankee if they agree to become property of a Southern man, because non-slave Yankees aren’t worth the time, effort, or resources of Southern doctors like Conrad.

Working on: I have another story in the works already, tentatively entitled “The Auction”.

Words, phrases, and ideas that I’m liking lately: Yankees having to publicly apologize and beg for mercy for being Yankees, liberals, for being straight (because obviously gay studs are superior), rich Yankees being forced to surrender their property to Southerners, the word “bulky” is weirdly hot for some reason, as is the phrase “Johnny Reb” as a descriptor of a Southern man or “boy/boys in grey”.

Also, space/astronauts are kinda fun. NASA has a lot of Southern facilities, can see some huge astronauts from the south asserting our supremacy in space.

I hope you all enjoyed Beer and Thunder! I’d love your thoughts/comments, and I’m always open to asks. I hope to get some responses to my backlog of asks later this week, but I am always open to more.

Beer And Thunder: Thor and The Southern Avengers

Out of the clear blue Florida sky, there was a massive bolt of lightning, followed by an earsplitting crack of thunder that boomed for miles. The bolt of blueish lighting was immense, and persisted for a few moments, unlike regular lightning. The literal bolt from the blue shook the ground and left a deep crater, as though something had slammed into the Earth at high speed and with great force. From the smoking crater came a large hand, gripping the lip of the crater and hauling someone up.

The figure stepping from the crater was a huge man. No, not a man; a god. Standing at 6 foot 3 inches, he stood tall and strong, and would have loomed over many a mortal. He wore a suit of armored plate that weighed as much as an Abrams main battle tank, yet he barely felt it. His armor covered his chest, leaving his massive biceps free, ready to swing the immense hammer in his right hand. His long blonde hair fell down over his bright blue eyes, and he swept it away. Thor, Son of Odin, frowned in confusion. This was…definitely not Midgard. Or, not the Midgard he remembered. Where was the snow? The “big” and “strong” Viking warriors -small to him, like all mortals- come to offer him tribute and mead? The small mortals bowing before the mighty God of Thunder? And why was it so hot?!? It was hot and humid, like the fires of Muspelheim! In the far distance, he saw strange clusters of steel and glass, rising into the horizon. Ah, mortals! He begin to swing his hammer, before slingshotting himself far into the distance.

It was a fine day in Jacksonville, Florida. There was going to be a Gators game later that day and people were getting ready for tailgates; buying beers, brats, and Yankees to worship them as they enjoyed the game. Huge trucks drove through the streets, blaring both the AC from the vents and bro country from the speakers. That changed abruptly when something came slamming into the pavement, leaving a small indentation where it landed. A huge Ford slammed on the breaks, narrowly avoiding toppling into the hole, front wheels hanging into the hole. Baffled passersby got close, only to see a tall and muscular figure with long blonde hair standing in the hole, climbing out. He was tall, very muscular, and was already sweaty from the heat as he rose and took a look around, surveying the mortals.

“Ah, mortals! I have found you, at last. I am Thor, Son of Odin, God of Thunder, Lord of Asgard, and this land is mine to claim!”

Thor looked around, confused when they did not kneel before him in stunned worship. These mortals were quite tall, some even taller than him. They must be giants? Their words had a strange accent as they whispered.

“Who is he?”

“One of the Avengers?”

“Claim? This is Florida, not California!”

Thor had no idea of where he had landed; one of northern Florida’s biggest cities and the birthplace of Tim Tebow, Jacksonville was full of Southern men who did not take kindly to the idea of being “claimed”. He knew it was hot, and he was sweaty.

“Mortals! Bow before-“

Before he could finish his sentence, a booming voice cut through the crowd.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Thor turned to see a trio of men, each standing at least 7 feet tall, looming over even the Mighty Thor. One of them was a tall and thin -relatively, he was still quite muscular- figure with a scruffy beard, wearing an armored jumpsuit in grey and dark red. His hair and beard was dark brown, and a pair of intense green eyes peered at Thor as he hefted a heavy shield; it was clearly very sturdy, strong, and bore a red, white, and blue emblem Thor did not recognize. It was pointed at one end, enabling it to be used offensively and defensively.

The man next to him was not a man at all, at least Thor didn’t think so. Its flesh was shining in the Florida sun as though made of metal, and was red and blue. A central sphere glowed, as did the creature’s eyes. The only way Thor knew it was alive was that it spoke.

“Getting impressive energy readouts Cap.”

The first man nodded curtly. The third figure loomed over even his comrades; he was a bulky behemoth of a man, huge and beefy, with muscles that made even Thor look small. This impressed and confused Thor. He wore a tight-fitting shirt that hugged his arms, and a pair of mesh-like pants that did little to conceal his beefy ass. It was a mix of red and grey and blue and orange, an odd mix that managed to work surprisingly well. He said nothing, but his blue eyes roved over Thor. He folded his arms over his pecs and smirked, satisfied that he was bigger. The first man spoke again.

“Again, who the fuck are you?”

Thor hefted his hammer.

“I am Thor, Son of Odin, God of Thunder, Lord of Asgard! And yes, I am quite impressive, metallic imp. Who are you? It is clear that you are the lords of this land, aye? You must be related to Frost Giants! But this land is not yours; Midgard rightfully belongs to me. Do you intend to deny my righteous claim as Lord of the Nine Realms?”

The first man almost laughed.

“I’m Captain Confederate, and you seem to be lost; this ain't a damn renn fair…and is that a goddamn hammer?”

The metal man spoke to Cap, evidently the team lead.

“Uh, Cap; Thor was the Norse god of thunder, lightning, fertility, and trees. I think that’s Mjolnir, his hammer.”

Thor brightened.

“So you have heard of me. Good, the mortals still worship me!”

The third man unfolded his arms and strode forward.

“Thor, huh? God of Thunder? I’m Tim fucking Tebow, but you can call me Stonewall. Yer lookin pretty puny for a god, and you sure as hell ain't from here, so you ain't a god. Put down your toy before I have to break it.”

Thor grew irritated and indignant.

“You dare challenge my might, ogre? I shall claim this land for Asgard, and you shall kneel before your rightful Lord. Now, feel the wrath of the Mighty Thor!”

Thor aimed Mjolnir at Stonewall, and there was a huge blast of lightning, arcing from the mighty hammer and into the humungous football players beefy chest. To Thor’s astonishment, the hulking brute was knocked back maybe half a step, but was otherwise unharmed when the smoke cleared. Stonewall glared at Thor.

“That tickled. Now I get to break you.”

Taking two steps forward, Stonewall swung his huge fist at Thor, hitting him right in the chest and sending him flying into a wall. Thor was dazzled, but stood from the wall and charged forth. Just as this occurred, the tall Texan, Captain Confederate, took a running leap, vaulting up a truck and leaping from the roof, coming down as fast and hard as surely as a shell on Fort Sumter, his shield with the battle flag slamming down hard into Thor. The shield itself weighed several hundred pounds, and there were several hundred pounds of Texan muscle behind it as well, propelling the pointing shield down onto his head, a single tiny drop of divine blood falling from his forehead as he was propelled backwards by the impact. Thor roared and emitted a mighty blast of lightning all around him, throwing Captain Confederate back, though he swiftly converted the tumble into a deft roll backwards, already kneeling and using his shield for cover as he fired on Thor with his custom 1911. The bullets compacted into tiny metal discs upon impact with Thor’s massive muscles, completely useless. Cap frowned, concerned by this, as Iron Rebel hovered overhead, blasting Thor with his energy weapons.

The Alabama billionaire hovered in his armored suit, blasting Thor with his repulsors, but was confused. They didn’t seem to be having much impact. His AI, Jaxon, chimed to life.

“Sir, energy levels rising in the target.”

“Explain.”

Colin replied as he kept blasting Thor, pumping up the energy in the blasts, hoping they might prove more effective.

Thor grinned below, and locked eyes with him.

“Energy levels increasing dramatically s-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Thor emitted a burst of lightning directly at him, thunder rumbling through the cloudless Jacksonville sky. The suit was of course, fully insulated, but the sheer power behind the blast shut down his armor, and he dropped like a rock, slamming into the ground and attempting to reactivate his systems, cursing loudly as he did so.

The clang of Iron Rebel against the ground drew Cap’s gaze, and he rushed to his aid, still firing with one hand at Thor. Stonewall gave his partners a quick glance, and, almost sensing that Colin was ok despite having fallen from the sky, strode towards Thor. The bulky footballer walked forward casually, as though walking out to the middle of Gators stadium for the coin toss. He reeled back to punch Thor again, casually ignoring another blast of lighting as he drew closer. Thor, frustrated that nothing seemed to be hurting the Florida football colossus, hefted a nearby truck that had been abandoned, and hurled it at Stonewall. That caught his attention, eyes widening as it came hurtling towards him. Tim put out his arms, and, to Thor’s astonishment, he caught the truck and simply set it down, gingerly, as though he wanted to avoid breaking a fellow Southerners property. He continued to stride towards Thor, steps leaving small divots in the asphalt as he grew himself slightly bigger with casual ease, gaining two more feet in a few strides, looming over Thor. The thunder god hurled Mjolnir at Tebow’s head, which actually seemed to have an impact; the force behind the throw seemed to hurt, knocking his head back on his neck as though he had just received a strong punch to the face. His casual grin was now an irritated frown.

Thor held out his hand for Mjolnir, waiting for it to come back to him. It came racing back to him, but then, at the last second, the red and grey figure of Iron Rebel rocketed past, snatching Mjolnir from the sky. Iron Rebel was surprised by how easy it had been to chart the hammers course and arrange an intercept pattern. His systems had rebooted and he was eager to do something, so upon seeing him hurl his mighty hammer, he decided he could at the very least take away Thor’s weapon. The hammer strained, exerting force, trying to return to Thor, but Colin’s armor -and his muscles under it- was strong enough to keep it firmly held in his gauntlet. Thor was about to fry the iron pest when Tim Tebow slammed into him with all the force of fifteen freight trains, propelling him backward. His legs, which had driven even other Southern Gods back with their sheer driving force on the gridiron, pumped, combat cleats tearing into the asphalt, muscled arms pushing Thor back, and then pinning him. Thor fell onto his back, and felt an impossibly heavy weight on his chest; Stonewall’s huge combat cleat, pinning him to the ground as if he was a magnet stuck to it. He struggled, but couldn’t move.

“Unhand me, ogre!”

Captain Confederate strode forth, glaring down at Thor, and placed his shield against his throat, the pointed tip like a guillotine blade.

“I should kill you right now for what you’ve done. Challenging us, hurting my friends, causing so much damage. For challenging our honor…”

He pressed the tip into Thor’s neck, a tiny pinprick of blood oozing forth. He did not press it further, thinking. Stonewall spoke up.

“Thanks for that. First real fight I’ve had in ages. That hammer a yers packs a punch.”

Speaking of the hammer, Iron Rebel strode up, still holding Mjolnir, effortlessly keeping it from Thor’s hands.

“Please just cut his head off Jensen. I’m going to have to completely redesign the suit now.”

Thor let out an indignant roar, struggling anew against the combat cleat. Stonewall frowned.

“Naw, that’d be a waste. He’s big, strong, hot, just needs a haircut to get rid of that damn hippy hair and a Rebel Brew to become a real God. Let’s Southernize ‘im.”

Colin was alarmed by the idea.

“WHAT? No! I am NOT being partners with a walking Tesla coil! You saw what he did!”

Jensen paused, seeming to consider this.

“You recovered. Tim’s right.”

He pulled the shield back, resting it beside him, as he reached into a small pouch on his belt. Between his fingers rested a small metal vial, marked “SS-004 CONCENTRATE.” A heavily concentrated form of Southernizing agent, he kept a few vials on his person if he ever ran across someone worthy of ascension during a field op. He opened the vial’s lid.

“I heard ya like beer? Get ready for the best beer of your life. Yer about to become one of us.”

As Thor continued to protest, he leaned down and poured the vial right down his throat. The god spluttered, almost gagging on the substance.

Thor continued to protest the mortals when the scruffy one with a heavy shield poured something right down his throat. He spluttered as it splashed down, the intense taste of hops too much even for him. Almost immediately, a strange heat washed over him. Then, his eyes almost rolled back in his head from the sudden explosion of power blasting through his body. The warmth washed over every inch of his body, every atom suffused with energy and power. His biceps and triceps, already impressive, began to grow before the eyes of the Southerners. Thor’s muscles, be it in his boulder biceps, thunder thighs, princely pecs, or elsewhere, grew hundreds of times denser and stronger in moments, flooded with strength, strong as white titanium. His muscles and sinews stretched, bones popping as they expanded. Sweat covered his body anew, glistening in the hot Southern sun as he kept growing. His cock would be an impressive eight inches when completely soft, balls churning with superior seed as his DNA was augmented and remade into a hybrid of Southern strength and Norse divinity.

As if being diverted from one part of him to another, Thor’s long blonde locks receded back, becoming a much more conservative cut, as a beard grew out, thicker and mightier. His feet strained against his boots, growing several sizes in moments, stinking and sweaty. Thors mind began to change. He felt a haziness wash over him, clouding his memories. No longer had he been entirely Asgardian. No, his father had had some fling with a mortal from the South, and he was the result. A mighty hybrid, raised to take over when his father passed. He felt an immensely strong attachment to the South, having visited it and fallen in love, and now he fought alongside the Southern Avengers when he was not expanding the Asgardian Empire, which he ruled as God-Emperor. Thor looked around, wondering why he was on his back. His armor had expanded to accommodate his new size, but now bore motifs of miniature battle flags alongside norse runes, his dual heritages reflected in his armor and his accent when he spoke. Standing up, he opened his mouth to speak, but something else came out.

“BBBBBUUUUUUURRRRPPPP!”

The thundering beer-heavy shockwave of his burp shook the ground under his feet, and shattered windows already weakened by their fight. He flexed his immense white biceps, soaked in sweat, and proudly proclaimed.

“I am Thor - Son of Dixie!”

He smirked as he flexed, feeling absolutely at home in the Jacksonville sun. The others watched him in awe, and Thor was puzzled.

“What’s wrong my friends?”

Jensen spoke first, improvising quickly. He was pleasantly surprised by the results of the vial. Perhaps because Thor was a god to begin with, the results were especially impressive, making him into a very literal Southern God.

“Nothin Thor. That was just…a damn good burp.”

“Of course it was! What has happened here?”

Tebow spoke up now, clapping Thor on the back; he was delighted by the new stud, his muscles rivaling his own beefy muscles.

“Oh, we took down some terrorists. Made a real mess, but nobody got hurt. Ya did good today Thor. Now, let’s help em fix things up, then we all go out for some dinner?”

Thor nodded enthusiastically, and began effortlessly hefting vehicles that had been turned over.

Two Days Later:

The ground shook as the Yankees prayed, invoking their precious God, imploring him to save them, to deliver them from evil, to watch over them in their hour of need. The ground shaking was itself not unusual; Southerners frequently made the ground shake for one reason or another; walking, burping, farting, rumbling by in their huge trucks. But now the stained glass windows shook dangerously, quaking in their frames as if the saints themselves feared what was coming. They prayed harder. Then, a huge hand ripped apart the church steeple, massive fingers ripping apart the roof and steeple, sending beams falling down into the church and onto the terrified parishioners. The hand pulled away and the remains of the roof and steeple were casually tossed over the titan’s shoulder as if it were merely a beer can. A huge face bent down to peer at the puny Yankees; it was huge, filling the sky, a scruffy dirty blonde beard taking up a lot of the view, each hair easily three times the size of the largest man north of the Mason-Dixon. They didn’t recognize him, but that, again, wasn’t unusual. Southerners came and went, sowing havoc in their wake as surely as ozone follows lightning. He smirked down at the tiny Yankees, and chuckled, voice shaking the ground when he spoke.

“HELLO YANTS! ARE YOU PRAYING TO YOUR RIGHTFUL SOUTHERN GODS?”

The accent was not one they recognized; it was kinda Southern, but there was something else. This was confusing. He peered closer, and his huge lips pursed into an irritated frown.

“ANSWER ME, KNAVES.”

Knaves? What sort of person called someone a knave?

The terrified father seemed to regain some small measure of faith and stood, trembling but still standing.

“N-no, we are worshipping the one true God-“

He was cut off by an amused guwaff from the titanic stud looming over them.

“GOD? THERE IS NOT ONE GOD, PUNY BUGS, BUT AN ENTIRE RACE OF THEM LIKE ME. BOW BEFORE THE MIGHTY THOR, GOD OF THUNDER, PATHETIC YANTS, AND PERHAPS I SHALL TAKE YOU AS MY PLAYTHINGS.”

The terrified Yankees stared up in horror at the colossus. Since when did the so-called gods have dominions? Some were already on their knees, knocked down by falling debris, the quakes from his footfalls or the beer-scented wind from his booming voice. Others, however, refused to kneel, secure in their faith, albeit still alarmed. Thor titan waited for a few moments, before opening his mouth to speak again, only for a hurricane-force burp to rumble forth from his mega stomach. There was an ominous rumble and then when his lips parted, hell burst forth into the sanctuary.

The beer-and-protien-scented shockwave of gas and heat obliterated all the remaining stained glass windows as if purging the land of false idols in an act of masculine potency and southern rage, leaving not a trace remaining. The doors flew off their hinges, one door slamming into and through the store across the street, the other door reducing a passing Yankee to a bloody smear on the sidewalk. The walls bulged and strained, bulging out in crazy angles in some places, completely destroyed in some places. The inhabitants fared worst of all.

The sheer heat of Thor’s massive burp seared them, their screams utterly inaudible as they were cooked to a crisp, burned and charred in a few mercifully quick seconds before death supervened. They had literally been fried by the heat, skin forming a crust-like texture of flash-hardened burns.

A low whistle came from beside Thor. Stonewall towered beside him, having been watching beside Thor as he exercised his power.

“DAMN! YOU COOKED EM!”

Thor grinned with pride.

“DIDN’T KNOW I COULD DO THAT! I WONDER…”

He trailed off and grabbed one of the petrified Yankee bodies, still kneeling in terrified supplication, and tossed it into his gaping maw.

“NOT BAD! CRISPY AND WARM.”

He reached down and grabbed more, as Stonewall just laughed, thunderous laughter shaking the ground. This had been quite a fun way to see Thor in action, allowing Tim to gauge how he was acclimating to his powers. Evidently he was adapting quite well. He knew it had been a good idea to Southernize the colossal Nordic hunk, and this casual display of power and dominance seemed to confirm it. He smiled and patted his friend on the back.

“WANNA GO FIND SOME DUMB PROTESTERS TO STOMP ON, MAKE SOME YANTS BOW DOWN?”

Thor grinned.

“OF COURSE! MAYBE I CAN FRY SOME MORE!”

With that, the two stomped off, Cap joining them, having been busy stomping out a minor disturbance under his boots. The trio of titans stomped off to find more Yants to have fun with, knowing that they would tremble at the sight of the newest member of the Southern Avengers: Thor, Son of Dixie.

How Thor joined the ranks of the Southern Avengers! Hope y'all liked it! Lemme know that ya think; comment, send me a message, or via an ask -anon or otherwise-.

#southernization #southern avengers #story

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