Squirm, wriggle, turn, flop.
Punch pillow, kick covers off, turn yet again.
With an almighty roar, Thor sat up in bed, blonde hair rumpled, the noble lines of his face puffy with tiredness and disgruntlement. His torso obligingly caught the gleams of moonlight slanting through the open curtains and turned them into shiny ab-enhancers which glinted as Thor stretched.
A few moments later Thor was out of bed, stuffing his legs into something Steve had told him were called ‘track pants’; there were no tracks upon them, but despite this obvious dichotomy, Thor found the garment comfortable and certainly easier to figure out in the small hours of the morning than leather leggings. He leaned down to tug moccasin-like leather bootees onto his feet, grabbed Mjolnir from its special cushion upon the dresser, and mooched into the small kitchen of his earth residence to brew a pot of coffee. “If sleep is persisting in eluding me, I might as well be properly awake,” he mused to himself as the darkly comforting aroma filled the kitchen. As soon as there was enough in the pot, he poured a large mugful, added four sugars, then took his coffee and Mjolnir through to the living area, where he propped Mjolnir up in the corner of the sofa before sitting himself and sipping at his coffee.
With the lights out, Thor could sit quietly and relax, watching lacy wisps of clouds scudding across the full face of the moon. It was a calm, quiet night, serene and lovely. As the caffeine hit Thor’s system he came to the conclusion he was thoroughly bored. What’s worse, poor Mjolnir looked bored too. If there were two things Thor couldn’t abide, it was boredom, and disappointing Mjolnir. He looked over to where his mallet nestled among the cushions, positively exuding hurt and confusion at the lack of excitement in its life. Tears sprang to Thor’s eyes:this was unconscionable! ”Never fear, my little Nim-Nim! Daddy shall fix this dreadful situation for you!”
Shoving to his feet, Thor grabbed up Mjolnir (for once not slipping his hand through the leather wrist strap) and rushed from his dwelling out into the street. A couple of minutes running found him in the small local park, empty at this time of night apart from pushers, ladies and gentlemen of the night, and insomniac dog walkers. Thor jogged past them to the field in the middle of the park, and, raising Mjolnir above his head called down the storm.
Within moments Thor was drenched, rain pouring lovingly over the chiselled planes of his body to soak into his track pants in a manner altogether too smutty for non-sentient weather. Thor was entirely used to the caress of rain and revelled in its worship of his form, gleefully directing Mjolnir to ramp up the intensity of the storm. Around him the park quickly emptied of nightwalkers, illicit drug deals and dog walkers as Thor and Mjolnir turned the field to soup. Thor laughed, perfect teeth flashing white as the lightning flashed and struck around him, the stink of ozone and mud and godly sweat glorious in his nose: he could feel Mjolnir’s joy, feeding and magnifying his own and he performed an impromptu little hip-thrusting dance of happiness, shuffling in a muddy circle and whooping. For the next hour he fed the storm, calling up furious winds, torrential rain and increasingly more dramatic lightning strikes as he celebrated and Mjolnir’s ecstasy thrilled through his veins.
Suddenly, lightning zapped Thor’s hand - shocked, he dropped Mjolnir - and an incredibly localised cyclone whirled around him to whisk him dizzily into the sky. As he span, Thor caught glimpses of a woman, lightning wreathing her slender body and teasing her white hair into sharp spikes, rising with him towards the clouds. As they passed through the clouds and above the rain into the bitter cold dryness of the atmosphere she made a gesture and deposited him neatly on a cloud, floating gently to land before him. Thor raked an appreciative, assessing glance over the female: her dark skin and silvery-white hair were enhanced most wondrously by her glowing, opaque-white eyes; her body was strong and slender, with breasts and hips and legs and all the things Thor liked best on a woman; she was also, oddly, clad in fuzzy pajamas and fluffy bunny slippers. With an internal shrug, Thor dismissed this peculiarity and relaxed - he was good at women! - then flicked his wet blonde mane back over his shoulder and smiled engagingly. “Well met, attractive female! I am-”
“Thor. I know,” she snapped, tiny curls of lightning sizzling and crackling over her body like punctuation. “The ridiculous idiot who thinks that demi-god status and shampoo-commercial hair means he can manipulate the weather with impunity. Oh, yes,” she snarled, “I know who you are. Would you care to explain why you called down a storm on New York this evening, O Godling?” She propped her hands on her hips and looked down at him where he reclined on the cloud.
“Uh, I’ll have you know I’m a full god!” Thor replied with wounded dignity. “My father is-” She interrupted again! Really, this was beyond enough, thought Thor.
“I don’t care if your father is a pudding cup and your mother a Harvard professor! I care that you have set the weather system for twenty miles into absolute disarray, and all because…?” She paused expectantly.
“Because Mjolnir was bored,” explained Thor with his best engaging grin and a flutter of his thick, lush lashes. “It stirred my heart to see Mjolnir brought so low when it’s such a simple matter for me to resolve.” At the look on the woman’s face (was that...disapproval? Surely not!), Thor faltered. He was used to women falling at his feet in hormonal puddles of acquiescent bliss, not this...this...he sighed in confusion. “Might we begin this again, fair maiden? Well met, I am Thor. And you are…?”
“I am Ororo Munroe, also known as Storm; priestess, mutant, teacher, sometime X-Man, and incredibly pissed off weather wielder. And you are an idiot,” Storm said flatly.
“I, Thor, god and Avenger, an idiot?"
“Well, it looks like your hearing is a-OK, even if your mind obviously isn't.”
“My mind is as superlative as the rest of me, impudent chit!”
Storm cast a dismissive look in his direction. “You're a little...overblown,” she dismissed, and Thor pushed himself furiously to his feet, marching across the surface of the cloud to get in Storm’s face.
“Recant! I was recently voted number three in People’s 'Sexiest Man' poll! Women and men alike revel in my Asgardian beauty and wit! I…” he drew himself up to tower over the tiny, white-haired woman, “Am perfection, as is evidenced by my fitness to wield Nim-Nim-” Thor stopped talking in a panic as he suddenly realised his beloved Mjolnir was not held safely in his grasp, and he actually patted down his soaking wet track pants seeking the hammer.
“Of, for-!” Storm hissed. “Your little mallet is safe down there,” she waved towards the earth below. “Do you think we might talk about your deplorable irresponsibility for just a moment?”
That. Was. It.
Thor reached down and picked the infuriating female up by her shoulders, bringing his (lush, expressive) mouth down upon hers. By Odin, he would show her how Asgardian males dealt with bossy, nagging females! He would put her in her place! He would -
Confused, Thor looked up from his prone position at the star-speckled dome of the heaven arching above him and the furious, determined face of the woman pinning him to the cloud with seemingly no effort whatsoever. By all the gods, what was happening? Storm leaned close and put her face right in front of his.
“Firstly: you need to listen when people try to tell you things. Your storm has thrown off the weather patterns. This is not good, and can have far-reaching consequences, such as the tornado I had to divert whilst in my jammies. No-” she put a small finger against his lips as he went to protest. “Keep quiet and let me finish, please. Secondly: Your attitude towards women is positively medieval. I am not a chit, nor am I stupid. I may well be several millennia younger than you, but I work hard to master and understand my talents and the effect they have. I find your patronising patriarchal crap deeply offensive. Third: how dare you put me in my place with uninvited sexual contact!”
Storm sat up, straddling Thor’s hips, and glared down at him. Thor was somewhat surprised at the bolt of lust which struck directly at his loins, causing Little Mjolnir to twitch as a result of Storm’s chiding. He squirmed, abashed. Storm smiled and arched a pretty white brow. Her eyes cleared, the eerie glow dimming to reveal beautiful blue irises, and she wriggled slightly atop Thor. “Now,” she said in an altogether less chiding tone, “Should you politely indicate interest in a woman, and she indicates interest in return, then you may proceed with any kind of sexual contact you both agree upon. Understood?”
, Meekly, Thor nodded. “Yes,” he mumbled. This tiny woman’s ferocity and complete and utter lack of awe at his beautiful self were baffling but so deeply arousing. He wondered desperately if he was perhaps deviant, to find her complete self-possession and willingness to correct him such a spark to his tinder. He peered up at her with mute appeal in his eyes, nearly certain she was trying to tell him something; she looked down, smiled, and pushed back ever so slightly upon Little Mjolnir, causing Thor to gasp. “Uh...Storm…?” He asked in a far higher tone than usual.
“Do you...uh...do you think that perhaps you could be interested in some agreed-upon sexual contact?” He tried very hard not to push up as she pushed back again. Little Mjolnir was most emphatically ready for some serious hammering, but he knew (now) that he had to wait for returned interest before proceeding.
Storm gave a long, shuddering, whole-body shimmer and really ground down on Thor. “Oh, honey,” she replied in a dark, husky tone, “Yes.”
She lifted up and shimmied down her fuzzy pajama bottoms and quickly pulled down his still-wet track pants. Little Mjolnir popped up, ready and willing and more than able. Storm eyed him with gleeful greed and traced one finger softly from the tip to the base. She looked him in the eyes, her own eyes flashing again to the eerie glow and traced back up, this time with tiny jolts of electricity arcing between her finger and his twitching self. Thor bit back a whimper and fought to stay still as Storm swung a leg back over him and delicately settled down upon Little Mjolnir, enclosing Thor’s tormented flesh inside her body.
For ten, maybe twenty seconds, neither one moved. Thor’s breathing was harsh and rapid as he made the physical and mental adjustments necessary to accept being on his back, underneath a slip of a woman, and what’s more a woman who had put him firmly in his place and was even now mastering his body with consummate ease. She traced her fingers along his torso, more sparky shocks following in their wake, her hair whirling about her head as her power rose and she teased Thor with irregular jolts of current. Then, just as he thought he’d found his equilibrium, Storm gave a wide, wicked grin, shivered, and sent a jolt of electricity rippling through her body to shock him where they were joined. He cried out and thrust up, hard, causing her to clamp her thighs tight about him and tip precariously to the side.
With a shout, Storm wrapped closely about him, Thor tumbled over the edge of the cloud plummeting down, down, into the now-dry night sky above the city. They span, over and over, twirling and toppling faster and faster towards the earth, and Thor - flightless and uncontrolled without Mjolnir, near-terrified, out of control - screamed as gravity and pressure and, dear gods, Storm’s never-ending clenching and squeezing and tiny, stinging electric shocks stirred up a tempest of fear, stimulation and arousal within his body, tearing his orgasm from him in a furious blast of heat and light and petrified confusion. Around him, Storm tightened almost painfully, cascades of electrical impulses flowing from her to him to her until she followed him over the edge with a long, shuddering groan.
Thor hadn’t realised their descent had slowed and gentled until he felt wet, muddy grass at his back. His mind and his body fought each other to understand the actions of the past few minutes, neither really succeeding in making any kind of sense, and he lay in the mud like a confused, post-orgasmic stunned mullet (with still-glorious hair), gasping and emitting little squeaks as his body relaxed in tiny increments.
Storm dismounted and stood up. Her eyes were once again blue, her hair laying smooth around her shoulders. The fuzzy pajama top fell past her hips, rendering her decent, although she might find it hard to explain why her legs were muddy from knee to bedraggled bunny slippers. She leaned down to tug Thor’s track pants up over Little Mjolnir, patting the fabric-covered bump fondly. “Well, that was a blast,” she said with a smirk. “Thank you.” She turned to go and Thor cried out.
She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Yes?”
“Well...uh...what now? Do we, uh...what?” Inwardly, Thor cursed at his stumbling speech.
With an audible sigh, Storm turned round and crouched carefully next to him, knees together, elbows on her knees, hands clasped together, and popped her pointed chin on her knuckles. “Well….” she began, “I hope that I've impressed upon you that it's wildly inappropriate to call storms ‘just because’, and also that women are not merely vessels or chattel or furniture. Have I?”
Thor thought, swallowed hard, and nodded meekly. “Yes, ma’am. I will remember in future. I’m sorry.”
With a pleased smile and a swoop, Storm stood again. “Your little hammer is over there, behind that bush,” she informed Thor. “I’m so pleased we had this chance to chat. Remember this next time you’re tempted to show off, please. Now. I think it’s time we were both tucked up in bed. Separate beds,” she clarified at his look of hope. “Goodnight, Thor. Hopefully we won’t need to have this talk again.” And with that she took off, her pale hair shimmering in the gloom of the park.
After five minutes Thor had gathered his scattered faculties and shoved, squishily, to his feet. He staggered over to the bush and lifted Mjolnir carefully out, wiping the rain and leaves from the dull metal head with faintly trembling fingers. “We shall return to our dwelling,” he told the hammer in a quiet voice, “And then...I have a story to tell you!”
And as he walked slowly, thoughtfully, back home, Mjolnir thought to itself in a decidedly feminine tone, Well, it’s about time someone put you in your place…