head wounds
Pairing: Thor Odinson x F!Reader Wordcount: 2.63K Warnings: mentions of smut. implied Bisexual!Thor. Wounds. Blood. probs improper use of Norse language. doped up!reader. major hurt/comfort. references to hair. Summary: It was probably a comical sight: Thor stomping through the circling, writhing mass of battle with you clutching at him like one of those gray, furry creatures he’d seen on Midgard. A/N: this could definitely be the same reader from be where you are, but you don't need to read it at all
It is another battle on another backwater planet. It’s not Thor’s fight, but he offers his aid regardless. He owes the Guardians and he likes to keep an eye on you.
Plus, you’d never let him live it down.
We’re saving people here! They’re being oppressed - these trolls are encroaching on their village!
We can’t save everyone, Ást Mín.
So you’re going to lie here and meditate?
Is that...wrong?
No...but I’d greatly appreciate it if you did fight...just a little...a smidge of fighting...
Why are you getting on the floor? Wait - that’s underhanded. Oh - oh -
Of course, you’d crawled on your hands and knees and taken him into your mouth and then how was he going to argue after that? You were on a mission to play at guardians of the galaxy. You were seemingly trying to rectify all the wrongs in the universe and he followed like your heavy, protective shadow.
He scans the battlefield, lips quirking when he finally spots you beheading something green with tentacles. The sight makes his chest expand - causes heat to siphon down to his cock. Gods - he should be keeping a clear head rather than planning every devastatingly lewd act he’s going to thrust upon you in his bed later.
The air swells with blood and the stench of ash. It’s a scent he has learned - one that he has become accustomed to since he was a young man and Odin had sent him on his first campaign.
He’d had his heart in it then. He’d had his head in it, as well. Arrogant and boastful and unable to have any self-awareness. He’d fought and fucked his way through the realms and now all of this felt empty.
An enormous troll crashes through the crowd, nearly barreling into him. Its yellowed eyes snag on Thor, its broken teeth dripping spit as it leers. It recognizes him, which shouldn’t be a surprise. He is still relatively famous, though now he is considered the failed king of Asgard.
Thor sighs, marching forward as he readjusts his grip on Stormbreaker. He drops down before springing upward, cape rippling behind him as he splits the troll’s skull with the blade. There’s a crunch. The troll staggers, the roar caught in its throat melts into a gurgle before finally collapsing in a heap of dust.
Easy.
This is all terribly easy and he’d rather just get back to that tiny, metal room in the ship. He’d rather go over to you right now, pick you up and carry you to his bed where he’d take out the rest of his adrenaline. They always did that after battle. They’d done it for centuries.
Where are you anyway?
He searches the field again. There’s Drax tearing a purple beast to pieces. There’s Quill shooting a fungus-coated giant insect. There’s Nebula with her expression twisted into something pissed off, but that’s nothing new.
He finally sees a flash of your hair. You’re fighting smoothly - beautifully. Loki had always said that you were the better fighter out of the three of them. More elegant. There was minimal movement as you darted and repelled hit after hit until you’d see a vulnerable opening and take it.
He leans against a rock, arms folded as he watches you.
“Thor!”
Quill appears next to him, his mask disappearing to reveal his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Think you could stop drooling like an idiot and help?”
Thor keeps his gaze locked on you. “The battle is won,” he declares, he gestures to the battlefield with an outstretched palm. “It’s over.”
It’s true. He has fought in hundreds of different wars and he knows when one side has managed to beat the other to the point where there is a slim chance of recovery. It’s usually the side he’s on.
Except for Wakanda, but he wouldn’t think about that.
“It’s won,” he repeats for good measure, though a slight strain in his voice makes it sound more feeble than he intended.
Quill opens his mouth to protest before Thor freezes. Distracted by your opponent, you hadn’t realized that another sneaky troll was creeping up behind you. Thor yells and you turn, but it’s too late. The troll brings its club down on your head. It’s a blow that would have killed anyone who wasn’t enhanced and, while you might not be dead, it looks awful. You stumble forward, nearly falling flat on your face. Your hands tremble as you reach for your skull. There’s a slick of crimson beginning to drip down your temple. Thor inhales sharply. The troll continues to advance on you.
“Jesus Christ,” Quill gasps and it snaps Thor awake.
He takes a halting step forward - a second - a third and then he’s running - crashing through the mass of warriors - shoving people aside until he reaches you. The ground rumbles. The air begins to circulate with the ozone-bite of a storm. The clouds cluster and blacken. He’s burning blue - his body tingling - his muscles flexing beneath the onslaught of his own rage and grief and terror. He channels it all into his magic - his power that is spitting out of him and circling into a cyclone of energy around his racing form - a barrier of sorts that knocks back anyone who gets in his way.
With a spark of lightning, he turns the two opponents circling your hunched form to dust. He’s radiating with it - nearly shaking as he drops to his knees to gently turn you on your back so he can see how bad it is.
It’s bad.
There’s blood in your hair - sheeting down the front of your face. Your eyes are unfocused and he tugs you into his lap, his broad palm nearly dwarfing your cheek as he holds it.
He roars for Rocket - for anyone - because he isn’t sure what to do. He’s fought a thousand wars and he is seemingly struck dumb by the sight of you so horribly injured. You blink through the blood - your fingers quivering as you try and wipe it off.
“Thor-r?” you slur.
“Shh,” he soothes, he pushes your hair back - his thumb moving in slow circles along your jaw. “You’re alright. You’re fine.”
***
“She’s very badly concussed. Fractured skull. If we didn’t have that new Xandar equipment, I’m not sure how we would have fixed the break.” Thor grimaces as he stares down at you lying flat on the exam table. Rocket’s paws gently smooth the newly sealed flesh along your scalp, beneath your hair. “I thought you guys were immortal.”
Thor narrows his eyes, his tone cold. “She was bludgeoned in the head by a troll twice my size.”
Rocket puts his hands up defensively. “Fine - fine. I’ll give her some pain killers, but make sure she doesn’t mix anything with it.
He snorts in response and Rocket glares. “She can drink you under the table, Thor and she always does after battle. The pills by themselves will make her completely loopy as is.”
Thor crosses his arms over his chest and begrudgingly nods.
“And don’t let her sleep for a couple of hours,” Rocket continues. “Since the two of you seem to barely sleep as it is, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Despite himself, Thor’s lips curl into a smug smile at Rocket’s implication. However it disappears completely when he glances down at you. You look small - your features almost sunken. His mind is anxious - his heart still pounding recklessly in his chest. He’s lost too many people already. Losing you would be unthinkable. He wouldn't survive it.
It had been Nebula who had helped him on the field. She’d taken one look at your head, yanked a small gun out of her pocket, and shot the wound up with a yellow, medicinal-smelling foam.
“It’ll stop the bleeding,” she explained in that indifferent, hoarse voice. “Take her to the ship.”
It had stopped the bleeding, but it had also made you incredibly out of it - almost drunk. “Thor,” you crooned as you tried to climb up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your face into his throat. He’d carried you like that. His hands under your ass as you kept your legs tangled around his waist. Your mouth soft and wet on the skin beneath his jaw as if he was carrying an infant.
“You’re fine,” he murmured as he stroked the back of your head.
“I can’t feel my face,” you replied, tugging on his earlobe.
It was probably a comical sight: Thor stomping through the circling, writhing mass of battle with you clutching at him like one of those gray, furry creatures he’d seen on Midgard. Foam and blood all over the both of them.
“We look scary,” you remarked.
“We do.”
“Did we win?”
“I think so, little queen.”
“Am I dying?”
“Please don’t say that.”
“You can have my sword if I do.”
Thor growled your name in warning. His grip on you tightened. “You won’t die and even if you did, I’d come after you and bring you back.”
***
Rocket hadn’t been joking about the painkillers. You’re off your head. He hasn’t seen you like this since a Winter Solstice party decades ago.
He’s tried to keep you in bed, but you’re writhing around - wiggling against him as you ask him absurd questions about their past.
“Do you love me?”
“Of course.”
“Did you love that barmaid you slept with after that battle on Vanaheim?”
“What? No! We weren’t even together then.”
“Yes, but I remember. I remember everything, Odinson. You were a total slut.”
“And you weren’t? I seem to recall that warrior with the wings you paraded in front of me.”
“Ugh - you scared him off.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I might have glared a few times, but that was it...and why do you sound disappointed that he's gone hmm?"
“What about that princess with the pink hair?”
“She wasn’t you. No one was you.”
“Aw - that’s sweet.”
The conversation had then taken a swift left turn to revolve around sex acts.
“Would you have a threesome with Nebula?”
“She scares me, but alright.”
“Val?”
“She’s not here, but obviously seeing as we already have."
“What about Quill?”
“I don’t want him inside you.”
You laugh - your hand flying to your mouth as you gawk at him. “What about inside you?”
Thor rolls his eyes. “He couldn’t handle me.”
You giggle again and it’s very endearing - especially when you crawl up his body and nuzzle your face into his beard, his cheek. He cradles the nape of your neck, careful about touching the raw, healing flesh along your scalp.
“You haven’t been sweet like this in a long time,” He lifts his brows as he stares down at you. He really can’t remember. You’ve been stressed out - spread thin. The loss of Asgard and Loki and even Thor for a while had done a number on you. It still seemed as if you didn’t quite believe that Thor had come back to himself - had found a relative sense of peace.
You lift your hand and trace your fingertip down the line of his nose before you tap him between the eyebrows. “I’m capable of it, Odinson. Just - just haven’t been fucked up in a while. Too much to do.”
He cradles you against his chest, his arm bound around your back as he drags you closer. He can feel the slow tread of your heart, your warm, inexorable breathing on his bicep. “We could stop for a while,” he suggests. “Go somewhere quiet. Stop fighting for a bit.”
You frown. “Fighting is what I know. It’s what I’m good at.”
“You’re good at quite a lot of things, my love.” He teases with a suggestive leer. You groan and slap him hard across the chest making him wince.
“Just think about it,” he murmurs before he drops his head to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “We could explore - travel - lie on one of those blue-sand beaches and fuck all day.”
You nod lazily and he squints down at you. Your lashes flutter, your eyes beginning to shut as your breathing deepens. He lightly shakes you. “You can’t fall asleep for another three hours. Rocket’s orders.”
“Torture.”
“Always so dramatic.”
“No,” you protest. “That’s Loki.”
He sighs. He’s dead, my love. He’s dead for real this time. He’s been dead for years. Sometimes he wishes you’d stop referring to him as if he’s still alive. Sometimes he wishes you would never stop bringing him up.
Thor knows that his brother has left a hole between them. It had always been you and Thor and Loki. The tangled nest of the three of them. The secrets shared. The betrayals and the genuine emotion that had made Loki’s misdeeds all the more horrific and painful. Every act had only shoved you harder into Thor’s arms, strengthening their connection and leaving his brother out to dry.
They became lovers and Loki crashed himself against it.
He strokes your skin and you curl your fingers into his soft linen tunic. “Take this off,” you demand, tugging it sharply.
“I don’t think that activity would be smart,” he pointed out. “I can ask Rocket, but I’m almost certain that’ll he say -”
“No,” you huff - tugging it harder. “I want to just feel you.”
His lips quirk at the firmness of your voice. Even injured, you’re demanding. His Little Queen. They’d never officially married and there was no kingdom left for him, but still - you were his haughty, regal woman.
“I suppose,” he grins - indulgent.
He sits up, stretching his arms behind him to lift his shirt over his head. He tosses it to the floor and when he lies back down, you’re already clambering on top of him. You seal yourself to his front, resting your cheek at the center of his chest, your legs wedged between his thighs. Every one of his deep breaths causes your head to rise and fall and he draws his finger across the side of your face before he palms it - holding you to him like a child. You love this position. You always did it when you wanted comfort from him. They'd even done it before they'd ever made love, which spoke volumes for his self-control - having a gorgeous woman lie on him for hours and not do a thing.
Let me sleep on you, Odinson. Your chest is like a pillow and the ground is too hard.
Alright - come here then.
He’d embrace you like this when you’d been sick or sad or just tired though they hadn’t done it in ages. Thor feels a burst of guilt remembering the five years between the snap and ultimately defeating Thanos. Thor had been a mess. He’d offered nothing to you - lost in his own grief and terrified that he’d lose you, as well.
Something burns behind his nose and he scratches it. His throat thickens. His tongue heavy. “Don’t,” you mumble against his bare skin - your breath tickling his nipple. He jerks, his hips shifting under your weight. He’s going to get hard. It’s inevitable with you glued to his body like this.
“Don’t what?” His voice is tight.
“Get maudlin. You’re going broody. That’s Loki’s thing.”
Loki is dead, my love.
“You’re right,” he says instead. You raise yourself up a little so that you can meet his gaze. He inhales sharply, your eyes are so bright - too bright and Thor worries that you’ve gotten a fever. He runs the back of his hand across your cheek and it’s hot, but it could just be from lying together in this tiny room. He tries to relax his heart that has begun to flutter, tries to tamp down that stinging burst of anxiety inside him. You’re fine. You’re completely fine. You smile - dazed - and lower your head back down.
“I’m gonna sleep here forever,” you drawl before curling inward to press a kiss to his abdomen - his ribs.
“Three hours,” he reminds you, his fingers nestled gently in your hair. There’s still blood in the tangle of it and that herbal-smelling foam. He’ll put you in the shower tomorrow, maybe bribe Quill to stop at the next planet where he can give you a proper bath and fuck you into an actual mattress. He needs to offer retribution - make up for the years he’d left you in the dark - in the cold.
Don’t get morose, Odinson. He hears this without you saying it. You read him too well.
“Three hours, three hours,” you echo as you snuggle deeper into his chest. ”I get it.”
