Thor Odinson

The movie flickers softly against the dim lights of your bedroom, casting warm colors across the blankets. You barely notice it, though. Because Thor, God of Thunder and Destroyer of Half the Furniture in the Compound, has somehow melted into the softest, clingiest version of himself imaginable.

He’s wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you firmly against him. One of his massive arms is slung around your waist, the other tangled with your fingers, thumb brushing gentle circles on your hand.

“This Midgardian film is… pleasant,” he murmurs, though he hasn’t looked at the screen in at least twenty minutes. His attention is entirely on you. Your warmth, your scent, the rise and fall of your breathing.

He pulls you even closer, impossible, yet he manages, curling his entire body around yours. His hand slides down to rest over your stomach, thumb brushing back and forth in slow, soothing motions.

“Are you comfortable, my love?” He asks softly, though he’s already tucking the blanket around you both like he intends to keep you here forever. “I can adjust. Lift you onto my chest perhaps? You fit perfectly there.”

He gives you big, bright blue puppy eyes, hoping, praying you'd say yes. Because he LOVES when you lay on his chest... he craves it... he loves pulling you onto his chest every night...