so uhhh i’m imagining beasty thor horny from your last post cause he probably hasn’t been in a woman in how long, and just imagining him inside the reader all feral i- i ded
not only has beast thor not had a woman in so long, he also...is hard on himself. like he is social creature at heart, but he’s alone. he’s alone and it’s because he’s beastly. it’s because he’s this huge, scary, hulking thing that the villagers cower at the mention of.
so living out in the empty keep where he does, walking those empty halls every day, he’d never let himself imagine having someone because its just...not realistic for him. it’s too painful to let himself imagine what he could have but wouldn’t ever find, so he pushes it from his mind when he beds down at night, forces himself to think of faceless, vague visions of warm skin and breathless moans when he fucks his fist to bring himself off out of base necessity other than any real pleasure to be gained from it.
but then she comes into his life and just...is so soft and warm and small? and she’s not afraid of him. she doesn’t flinch away from him, from the bulk and height and smell of him. and he watches as she turns from quiet curiosity to interest. and he can’t believe his eyes, convinces himself his mind is playing tricks on him when he catches her watching him from across the room, when she thinks he isn’t looking.
he checks on her at night, almost compulsively the first few months. quietly walking the hall past her room to make sure her fire is still going, to make sure she’s warm and safe. and one night, when the air is cold and crisp, he leans up to the crack in her door to make sure he can hear her breathing when he hears...
god, his heart just thuds in his chest, because he hears her soft little intake of breath and his brain synapses fire off, all at once, first, stupidly thinking she’s hurt somehow, wanting to shoulder open the door and go to her, but the catch in her breath turns warm on a syrupy, sweet moan, and he feels his spine lock up with shock. feels his blood turn to flame in his veins as he realizes that she’s spread out in her bed with her hand between her legs. touching herself where she’s all quivering and wet, her head tipped back as she imagines...whatever it is she finds appealing. whatever man from her old village that made her feel weak in the knees.
and he stands there, statue still in the cold hall, nearly trembling as his cock hardens so fast between his legs he nearly passes out, aching and dripping prespend onto the stone floor as he listens to the soft, squelching sounds of her fingers on herself. in herself. chasing her pleasure on soft moans as she works herself. and he’s about to take himself in hand, to relieve the pressure and ache between his thighs, burning with shame at being such voyeur to her private moment, when the ringing in his ears cuts out like a struck bell silenced with a gloved hand - because he hears her voice stutter on the breathless whisper of his name. hears her moan “T-thor,” as she trembles against the bedding, and he can’t see a thing. can’t hear a thing over the sudden roaring of his heart and he turns on his heel and all but takes off down the hall. desperate to get back to his chambers.
and when he does, he’s covered all over in sweat, arousal making him nearly nauseous in its intensity, and he can’t even think, can’t do anything but ball up the bedding on the edge of his bed between his fists and fuck his hard cock into it, groaning all pained and ragged as he grips the bundle of fabric between his hands and ruts against it. eyes squeezing so tight as he lets his mind go, as he lets himself imagine her laid out beneath him. lets himself dream of how soft and warm and wet she’d be below him. and the soft break of her voice on his name plays over and over in his head like a benediction until he’s stuttering on a roaring orgasm, fucking his knot into the tight ring of the bedding in his fists and cumming into that hot little cavern there. filling it with scalding cum as he unloads with a pained, shaking groan.
and the next day, god. he can hardly look at her. she’s her usual pleasant self, greeting him in the morning with a healthy flush to her cheeks, but all he can imagine is what he heard the night before. all he can hear is the sound of her calling to him as she sought her pleasure, and it makes him feel jumpy and exposed. like his skin is overly tight.
and when she excuses herself to go out to tend the garden, he declines her offer, the thunder of his head just roaring at the knowledge of what he’s going to do. and the white hot rip of shame battles gripping arousal down his spine as he watches her to make sure she busies herself with the garden before he’s headed down the hall to her room. shame burning the back of his neck but not enough to stop him as he goes to her bed and crawls on it, dragging his nose and open mouth against the soft of her sheets, stilling like he’s been electrocuted when he finds the spot he’s seeking. a dry, clean part of the bedding that was clearly soaked with her the night before, the heady, earthy scent of her sex worked deep into the fabric.
and he groans, overly loud through parted, wet lips as he fumbles for his hard, aching cock between his legs and starts to pump himself in his hand. furious with strength and speed. desperately chasing his release as he opens his mouth over the fabric and feels the first taste of her burst over his tongue.
and he just...goes out of his mind at that. at the taste of her, at the evidence that she’d become aroused at the thought of him. that she’d whispered his name when she came against her sheets the night before. that she wanted him so much that she cried softly for him in her most vulnerable of states.
and he cums so fast, so tightly wound, and he paints her bedding with it as he fists his knot painfully tight. gritting his teeth and moaning as he imagines his knot buried deep inside her where she’s so wet and tight and warm and fertile for him. where she wants him so badly.
and he ends up pulling the bedding from her bed, fully body trembling after, needing to wash them, to hide the evidence of his shameful act, but knowing, deep down, that he’s not going to be able to keep himself from her. knowing that he would have never thought of it, not before, but that now that he knows...knows that she thinks of him in that way, that he’s not going to be able to keep himself from her. he knows that if he asks and she is willing, that he will bury himself in her at every opportunity. breeding her hard and deep whenever she becomes wet and dripping for him. that he’ll wake her in the morning with soft, adoring kisses and worship every inch of her skin with his mouth and hands and tongue. whenever she asks him. whatever she asks of him. he’ll do it. he knows that then.
