Just my own Fic Reblogs

At first he grinned at his reflection. Your face stared back at him—your eyes, your mouth, the little crease between your brows when you were thinking too hard. “Hm,” he murmured, tilting his head. The voice was yours too. Softer than his. Warmer. Curious, Loki reached down and touched his—your—arm. And paused. “…Soft.”

His brows furrowed slightly as his hands wandered experimentally. The sweater sleeves hung over his hands. The knit was thick and warm, the sort of thing meant for curling up on a couch rather than ruling kingdoms. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. Comfortable. Then he shifted again, touching his stomach. Your stomach. There was a softness there. Plush, warm, yielding beneath his palm in a way that startled him. He squeezed lightly. “…Oh.” Another squeeze.

Then a thoughtful hum. You had always described yourself with such cruel words. Too soft. Too much. Too plumpy. Yet standing there in your shape, Loki found himself… fascinated. His hands traced over the curve of your hips next. The softness of your thighs. The gentle weight of your body. It was warm. Real. Alive in a way sculpted warriors and statuesque Asgardians rarely were.

“You are built for comfort,” he murmured to the mirror, sounding almost reverent. He shifted his weight and the leggings stretched pleasantly as he moved. Flexible. Soft. Practical.

And suddenly— Suddenly he understood something that had puzzled him for months. Why he loved watching you curl up on the couch. Why your sweaters made him want to wrap his arms around you. Why the sight of you bundled in blankets made something strange and protective stir in his chest.

Because this body— Your body— Was made for warmth. For holding. For softness. His hands rested on the curve of your stomach again, thumbs rubbing lightly. “How have you convinced yourself this is anything but beautiful?” he murmured quietly.

Footsteps approached. Loki didn’t notice until you walked into the hallway and froze. Because standing in front of the mirror… Was you. Except the other you was poking thoughtfully at their stomach.

Your eyes widened. “…Loki?”

He turned. Your own face looked back at you with a slightly guilty expression. “Oh,” he said. Then he looked down at himself again, poked your stomach once more, and added thoughtfully, “I believe I owe you an apology.”

You blinked. “For what??”

“For not realizing sooner how lovely you are.”

You stared.

He gestured vaguely to himself. “This form is extraordinarily comfortable.”

“YOU ARE WEARING MY BODY LIKE A SWEATER.”

“And it is a very nice sweater.”

You marched forward, cheeks burning. “Turn back right now!”

Instead he tilted his head, examining you carefully. Then smiled. Slow. Fond. “Oh no,” Loki said softly. “I rather think I prefer you this way.”

Your brain short-circuited. “…What?”

His magic flickered, dissolving the illusion. Suddenly Loki stood in front of you again—tall, dark-haired, impossibly smug. But his hands moved immediately to your waist. Warm. Firm. Drawing you against him. Exactly where he’d just discovered he liked you most.

His arms wrapped around your soft middle like he had every right to be there. “You are warm,” he murmured against your temple. Your face felt like it might combust. “And soft.”

“…Loki.”

For a while, neither of you spoke, simply enjoying the quiet. The years had brought so much—adventures, laughter, love—and through it all, Emmett had been your constant. He had a way of making everything seem lighter, his infectious joy always bringing a smile to your face. But tonight, there was something different in his eyes, a softness that hinted at nostalgia.

He shifted slightly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm as he looked down at you with that crooked smile you had fallen in love with. “Do you remember our first date?” he asked suddenly, his voice a low rumble, filled with fondness.

You smiled, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Of course I do. How could I forget?”

Emmett chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, I remember everything about that night. Every little detail.” His voice carried a hint of pride, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at him.

“Everything?” you teased. “It’s been years, Emmett. You remember everything?”

He grinned, leaning in closer until his lips were just brushing your ear. “Challenge accepted.”

You laughed, swatting playfully at his chest, but settled in for his story, eager to hear how much he actually remembered.

Emmett’s eyes sparkled as he leaned back, his smile softening as he began to recount the memory. “It was a Friday night. You wore that blue dress with the little flowers on it—the one that drove me absolutely crazy.”

You laughed, remembering the dress well. “I didn’t think you even noticed that detail.”

“Oh, I noticed everything,” Emmett said, his voice dropping to a low, affectionate tone. “You were nervous. I could hear your heart racing from the moment I picked you up at your apartment.”

“Was I that obvious?” you asked, your cheeks warming at the memory.

Emmett nodded, his grin widening. “Yeah, but you tried to hide it by talking nonstop about…what was it? Oh yeah—how ridiculous you thought love potions were in all those fantasy novels you liked.”

You covered your face with your hands, groaning with embarrassment. “Oh my God, I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Emmett said, laughing softly, pulling your hands away so he could see your face. “But I loved it. I loved how you rambled when you were nervous. It was adorable.”

You shook your head, feeling your heart swell with affection for him. “Okay, fine, you remember that. What else?”

“Well,” he said, leaning closer again, “we went to that little diner at the edge of town. The one that always had the best milkshakes.”

You nodded, remembering the cozy atmosphere of the place, with its old jukebox and checkered floors. “I was so nervous, I couldn’t even finish my food.”

“I know,” Emmett replied, his smile softening. “But I didn’t mind. I was just happy to be with you. I remember watching you fiddle with your straw, biting your lip because you weren’t sure what to say next. You were nervous, but you didn’t need to be. I was already head over heels for you.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, the sincerity in his voice making you feel as if you were back in that diner, sharing awkward glances across the table.

“And then,” Emmett continued, “after dinner, we went for a walk. It was cold out, so I gave you my jacket.”

You smiled at the memory of the oversized jacket he had draped over your shoulders. “I remember. It smelled like you.”

Emmett chuckled softly, his hand now gently brushing your hair. “You looked so beautiful that night. The moonlight made your eyes sparkle, and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I didn’t want the night to end.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into him as he spoke, your heart full. You had always known that Emmett was thoughtful, but hearing him remember each little moment of that night made you fall in love with him all over again.

“And then,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft whisper, “you tripped.”

You laughed, covering your face again. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but you tried to play it off like it was no big deal. I caught you before you could hit the ground, and you just looked up at me and said, ‘I meant to do that.’”

Your laughter echoed through the night, the memory of your clumsiness and how Emmett had swept you into his arms making you feel giddy.

“I was mortified,” you admitted, your face warm with embarrassment.

“You shouldn’t have been,” Emmett said, his voice soft, full of affection. “I thought it was perfect. That was the moment I knew. I knew I wanted you by my side forever.”

His words made your breath catch in your throat. You looked up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “You knew that night?”

Emmett nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. “I knew. And now, all these years later, I still remember every detail. Because that was the night I realized I had found the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

You reached up, cupping his cheek with your hand, feeling the cool smoothness of his skin under your palm. “I love you,” you whispered, your voice full of emotion.

Emmett smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I love you too. More than words can say.”

As the stars sparkled above you and the night stretched on, you nestled into Emmett’s arms, feeling the warmth of his love wrap around you. Even after all these years, he remembered every detail of that first date, and the memory of it still made your heart race just like it did back then.

Helmut lies half-reclined against the headboard, one arm draped loosely around you, the other idly smoothing over the fabric piled across your legs. He doesn’t fidget—he never really fidgets—but there’s a quiet restlessness in the way his fingers trace absent patterns, like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

You’re tucked against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. For once, he’s… still.

“Is this your doing,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused, “or have I been… domesticated?”

You huff a quiet laugh into his shirt. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is unfamiliar,” he corrects gently. His hand shifts, fingers brushing up your arm, then settling at your shoulder—firm, anchoring, but careful. Always careful with you.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

“You’re not trying to escape,” you tease softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. “That’s new.”

His gaze drops to meet yours, something softer than usual lurking there—less guarded, less sharp. “I find,” he says slowly, “that I have very little interest in leaving… when you insist on building fortresses like this.”

“Fortresses?” you echo, smiling.

“Mhm.” His thumb brushes lightly over your sleeve. “Strategically impenetrable. Excessively comfortable. Quite dangerous, you know.”

“Dangerous?”

His lips curve into a gentle smile. “You make it very easy to forget the rest of the world exists.”

That lands quieter than you expect.

You shift slightly, pressing closer without thinking, your hand curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt. He notices, because of course he does—and his arm tightens around you in response, pulling you in like it’s instinct. Like it’s necessary.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The room feels small in the best way—dim light, soft fabric, shared warmth. Safe, in a way that doesn’t come easily for either of you.

His chin dips, resting lightly against the top of your head. “You are warm,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Wow. High praise.”

“Do not let it go to your head,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.

Your fingers trace a slow, absent line along his side. “You’re not exactly complaining.”

“I am evaluating,” he replies.

“Oh yeah? And your conclusion?”

He exhales softly—almost a sigh, almost something heavier. “…that I may allow this again.”

You laugh quietly, settling more comfortably against him. “How generous of you.”

His hand stills for a second—then resumes its slow, grounding movement. “You misunderstand,” he says, voice lower now, closer. “I am not being generous.”

You glance up again, curious.

Helmut lies half-reclined against the headboard, one arm draped loosely around you, the other idly smoothing over the fabric piled across your legs. He doesn’t fidget—he never really fidgets—but there’s a quiet restlessness in the way his fingers trace absent patterns, like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

You’re tucked against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. For once, he’s… still.

“Is this your doing,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused, “or have I been… domesticated?”

You huff a quiet laugh into his shirt. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is unfamiliar,” he corrects gently. His hand shifts, fingers brushing up your arm, then settling at your shoulder—firm, anchoring, but careful. Always careful with you.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

“You’re not trying to escape,” you tease softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. “That’s new.”

His gaze drops to meet yours, something softer than usual lurking there—less guarded, less sharp. “I find,” he says slowly, “that I have very little interest in leaving… when you insist on building fortresses like this.”

“Fortresses?” you echo, smiling.

“Mhm.” His thumb brushes lightly over your sleeve. “Strategically impenetrable. Excessively comfortable. Quite dangerous, you know.”

“Dangerous?”

His lips curve into a gentle smile. “You make it very easy to forget the rest of the world exists.”

That lands quieter than you expect.

You shift slightly, pressing closer without thinking, your hand curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt. He notices, because of course he does—and his arm tightens around you in response, pulling you in like it’s instinct. Like it’s necessary.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The room feels small in the best way—dim light, soft fabric, shared warmth. Safe, in a way that doesn’t come easily for either of you.

His chin dips, resting lightly against the top of your head. “You are warm,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Wow. High praise.”

“Do not let it go to your head,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.

Your fingers trace a slow, absent line along his side. “You’re not exactly complaining.”

“I am evaluating,” he replies.

“Oh yeah? And your conclusion?”

He exhales softly—almost a sigh, almost something heavier. “…that I may allow this again.”

You laugh quietly, settling more comfortably against him. “How generous of you.”

His hand stills for a second—then resumes its slow, grounding movement. “You misunderstand,” he says, voice lower now, closer. “I am not being generous.”

You glance up again, curious.

She was curled up on the sofa in one of his sweaters, reading a book. The television hummed quietly in the background, forgotten. She looked up the moment he walked in.

“You’ve got that face.”

“My face?”

“The one that says you’ve either broken something expensive…” She smiled. “…or you’re about to tell me something I won’t like.”

Borys laughed once. It sounded hollow. “I need to tell you the truth.”

The smile disappeared. She quietly closed her book. “You’ve got me worried.”

He remained standing. That was mistake number one. He looked like a defendant awaiting sentencing. “I’ve lied to you.”

“…About what?”

“My business. My work.”

“You mean the import company?”

“It exists.”

“…Okay.”

“It just isn’t what I do.”

Silence stretched between them.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He swallowed. “I’ve told you I’m an investor.”

“You have.”

“I’m not.”

She waited.

“I’m…” The words caught in his throat. Ridiculous. He was a fucking mafia lord for fucks sane. He’d stared down armed men without blinking. He’d ordered hits on families. He’d worn the blood of his enemies with absolute pride. Yet the thought of disappointing the woman he loved terrified him.

Finally—

“I’m the head of the Volchek organization.”

She blinked. “…Organization?”

He nodded once. “The mafia.”

Silence. Long. Painfully long.

She stared at him as if she’d misheard. “…The what?”

“The Russian mafia.”

Another silence. Then— She laughed. A genuine laugh. “Oh, that’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t making a joke.”

Her laughter faded immediately at the expression on his face. “…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

She searched his face. Every inch of it. Waiting for the smile. Waiting for the punchline. It never came.

“…You’re actually serious.”

“Yes.”

“You kill people?”

The question hit harder than any bullet. His jaw tightened. “I’ve ordered deaths.”

She looked away. Her breathing became uneven. “So…” She rubbed her temples. “The late-night meetings.”

He nodded. “The security.”

“Yes.”

“The men outside the house.”

“Mine.”

“The guns.”

“…Mine.”

“The money.”

“…Mine.”

“The vacations?”

He almost smiled. “Those were real.”

She glared. “This isn’t the time, Borys.”

“No.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The room fell quiet again. Borys didn’t move. He’d made peace with what came next.

She’d ask for a divorce. She’d scream. She’d leave. She should.

Instead… “…How long?”

“My entire adult life.”

“You knew when we met.”

“Yes.”

“And you still married me.”

“…Yes.” 

Her eyes watered. “You let me build a life with you without telling me.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

His voice cracked. “Because for the first time in my life…” He looked at her. “…I wanted someone to love me before they knew what I was.”

The words shattered something inside her. She’d never heard him sound so… Small.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know sorry doesn’t fix this.”

“I know you probably hate me.”

“I know—”

“Stop.”

He fell silent. She stood slowly. Walked toward him. Each step made his stomach tighten. When she finally reached him, she looked up into his eyes.

“So…” She said quietly. “My husband is a mafia boss.”

“…Yes.”

“I married a criminal.”

“…Yes.”

“The man I thought negotiated shipping contracts negotiates…” She gestured vaguely.

“…Murders.”

“…Sometimes.”

She sighed. “God.”

He nodded. “I know.”

She paced away. Ran both hands through her hair. Turned back. “I’m angry.”

“You have every right.”

“I’m terrified.”

“I know.”

“I want to scream at you.”

“I deserve it.”

“And I don’t know whether to slap you or kiss you.”

He blinked. “…What?”

She walked back over. Stopped inches from him. “You lied to me.”

“I did.”

“I’m furious.”

“I know.”

“But…” Her hand reached up. She touched his cheek. “…You’re still my husband.”

His breath caught. “You don’t understand.”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “I probably don’t. But I do understand one thing.” She cupped his face. “The man who brings me coffee every morning. The man who rubs my shoulders when I work too late. The man who cries at dog movies.”

“I don’t cry.”

“You absolutely do.”

“…Occasionally.”

She laughed through tears. “My point is…” She rested her forehead against his. “That man is real.”

“It is.”

“And I love him.”

His eyes closed. “You shouldn’t.”

“Maybe.”

“You deserve someone better.”

“I wanted you.”

“You deserve normal.”

“I never wanted normal.” She kissed his forehead. “I wanted you.”

His composure finally cracked. His shoulders trembled. “I thought…” His voice broke. “…I thought this would be the moment I lost you.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “You almost did.”

He held her carefully, like she might disappear. “I won’t lie to you again.”

“You’d better not.”

“I’ll tell you everything.”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Everything?”

“…Everything.”

“Even the ugly parts?”

“Especially those.”

She nodded once. “Okay.”

He frowned. “…Okay?”

“I’m staying.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m staying.”

“You’ve barely processed this.”

“I know.”

“You should think.”

“I will.”

“You may decide to leave.”

“I might.”

He looked crushed.

“But…” She took both of his hands.“I’m not making that decision tonight. Tonight..” She squeezed his fingers.“…my husband finally trusted me enough to tell me the truth.”

A tear escaped his eye. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right.”

She smiled faintly. “You probably will.”

He laughed weakly.

“And one more thing.”

“What?”

“If anyone from your organization calls while we’re eating dinner…” She raised an eyebrow. “…they can wait.”

Despite everything, Borys laughed. A real laugh this time. “Yes, ma’am.”

She leaned up and kissed him. Long. Slow. Forgiving without forgetting.

When they finally separated, she poked him in the chest. “Tomorrow…”

“Yes?”

“You’re explaining how on earth I accidentally married one of the most dangerous men in the country.”

He smiled for the first time all evening. “I’ll make coffee.”

“You’d better make pancakes too.”

“I can do that.”

“And Borys?”

“Yes?”

“No more secrets.”

Your head is pounding. Your patience is nonexistent. And your boyfriend—technically speaking, legally questionable but emotionally established—has been hovering in your kitchen like a man experiencing character development against his will.

“Okay,” Wade says carefully, from the doorway. “I’m just gonna say it.”

You groan into the couch cushion. “If you say anything about crystals or herbal tea, I’m throwing something at you.”

“I was gonna say I brought snacks,” he replies.

You lift your head slightly. “…what kind of snacks?”

There’s a pause. A suspicious pause.

“…the emotionally supportive kind.”

You squint at him. He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid. Which, for Wade, is basically Olympic-level restraint.

He’s holding a bag. And not shaking it. That alone is concerning. “I also,” he adds quickly, too quickly, “did not get you ice cream even though I wanted to. Because you said dairy was a war crime earlier. So I respected that. Growth. I’m growing.”

“You’re rambling,” you say flatly.

“I know,” he says immediately. “It’s because I’m being normal at you.”

“That’s worse.”

“I know.” He steps closer. Stops. Steps back. Then stops again.

You watch this with increasing suspicion. “…are you okay?” you ask.

Wade points at you. “You are in pain.”

“Yes.”

“And I am… a man… in proximity… to a woman in pain.”

“That’s usually how periods work, yes.”

“I am trying VERY HARD not to be weird about it.”

That earns a tired blink.

“…you are currently being weird about it.”

“Correct.” He drags a hand down his mask like he’s physically restraining himself from saying something dumb. “I just—okay—look,” he says. “You’re suffering, and I can fix things. I fix things. That’s my whole brand.”

“You can’t fix this.”

“Wanna bet?”

“No.”

“Smart.” He finally sits on the edge of the coffee table, very carefully not sitting too close. Which is… new. Wade Wilson: personal space enthusiast, apparently.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you acting like I’m made of glass?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately. Pause. “I’m acting like you’re made of… mildly explosive emotional glass that also hurts a lot and I would like to not be murdered.”

“That’s fair.” You shift slightly, wincing as another cramp rolls through.

Wade notices instantly. Of course he does. He goes still. Too still. Like a dog trying not to jump on furniture it was explicitly told not to jump on.

“I can get you heat pads,” he says quickly.

“I already have one.”

“I can get you another one.”

“I don’t need two.”

“I can get you—uh—painkillers?”

“I already took some.”

“I can get you—”

“Wade.” He stops. Immediately. You sigh, softer now. “I’m okay. Just hurts.”

That does it. Something in him shifts. The energy drops. Not gone. Just… gentler. “…okay,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat: “I hate that I can’t punch it.”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Yeah. Me too.”

He hesitates again. Then slowly sits down on the floor in front of the couch like he’s negotiating with gravity. “…can I do something stupidly useless but emotionally supportive?” he asks.

You raise a brow. “Define useless.”

“I can insult your cramps.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I can threaten them.”

“I don’t think they care.”

“I can absolutely fight them.”

You stare at him. “…you’d lose.”

“I would go down swinging.”

That actually makes you smile a little more. Wade sees it. Freezes. Points at you.

“THERE. That. That’s the goal.”

“What is?”

“Not pain. That. The face thing you just did.”

“You mean smiling?”

“I mean your soul stopped screaming for like three seconds.”

You lean your head back. “…you’re weirdly good at this.”

Wade goes very still. Then, “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me feel feelings and I don’t like that I have those.”

You snort.

He takes a breath. Then, quieter, like it’s physically painful: “…you want me to stay?”

There’s no joke in it now. No performance. Just him. Trying very hard not to be annoying about caring.

You look at him for a second. Then nod. “Yeah.”

Wade exhales like he’s been defusing a bomb. “Cool,” he says quickly. “Great. Awesome. I will be here. Not emotionally competent. But here.” Pause. “I brought snacks.”

You sigh. “…bring them here, idiot.”

He perks up instantly. “YES. Okay. I knew I was useful.”

“You’re not useful.”

“I am emotionally adjacent to useful.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

He hadn’t showered since the mission. Neither had you. They said you were too volatile. Too wound up. They said Handle it the way you were trained. Your orders had been clear.

"Decompress. With him."

You didn’t need translation. You’d been through this before.

The Soldier turned to you like he’d heard a sound only the two of you shared. His expression was blank. His eyes, anything but.

He stalked toward you without hesitation. Not a single word. His vibranium arm flexed once—gears shifting under the surface of gunmetal plating—before it snapped out and slammed into the wall beside your head, caging you in.

You didn’t flinch.

He leaned in close. So close you could smell the copper and ash still clinging to his skin. “Asset,” he rasped, voice like cracked glass, “you know what this is.”

You nodded once. The movement crisp. Programmed.

He grabbed you by the collar and shoved you backwards. You stumbled, hit the wall with a grunt, and he was on you instantly—mouth crashing against yours, hard and unforgiving. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim. A punishment. Teeth cut your lip. His tongue shoved between your lips like he meant to bruise you from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to spit on your lips.

“Open.”

You obeyed.

His spit slid past your tongue. You swallowed.

He smiled—feral, satisfied.

You dropped to your knees without waiting for a command. Your fingers went to his belt, tearing it open, yanking his pants down just enough to free him. He was already hard. Heavy. Veins thick beneath flushed skin. You didn’t hesitate. You took him deep into your throat in one practiced, mechanical motion—gag reflex long since broken.

He hissed, head dropping forward, a snarl curling from his lips. His left hand—metal, freezing—curled tight in your hair, holding your head in place as he rocked his hips forward. The sound of wet suction and low groans filled the air.

“Fuck, yes. That’s it.”

You let him use your mouth, let him thrust deep, again and again, saliva running down your chin in messy ropes as he grunted above you.

Then he yanked you back by the hair. You gasped for air. He didn’t give you long. He spun you around and bent you over the nearest bench—shoving your chest flat against the cold metal surface. Your breath fogged against it. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

You waited.

His fingers hooked in your tactical pants and ripped them down, fast and brutal, elastic snapping. You felt the cool air kiss the wet heat between your thighs—and then his hand.

He spread you open with two fingers, chuckling low in his throat.

“So wet already. Whose cunt is this?”

You breathed, "Yours."

He didn’t need more. He slammed into you with one vicious thrust—no prep, no softness—just raw force that split you wide, dragging a shocked cry from your throat. His hand clamped over your mouth before it even left your lips.

“You know better than to scream.”

Your nails scraped the metal beneath you as he began to fuck you in hard, punishing strokes—his cock driving deep with bruising rhythm. Every thrust rocked the bench, sent jarring shocks through your spine. Your thighs trembled from the pressure, your knees burning against the ground.

“Tight little hole,” he growled, panting against your ear. “Fucking trained for this, weren’t you?”

He yanked your hair, pulled your head back so you arched, exposed, ruined. Spit hit your cheek. You moaned.

“You like that. Fucking whore. Can’t even pretend you don’t.”

His metal hand slid from your mouth to your throat—wrapping around it, squeezing just enough to make the edges of your vision shimmer.

You clawed at the bench again as his hips slapped against your ass, filthy and fast and relentless. He groaned, deeper now. His pace faltered. You clenched hard around him on instinct, and his grip on your throat tightened in response.

“Say it,” he barked, chest heaving. “Say you’re mine.”

You choked out the words on broken breaths: "Yours—yours—yours—"

He slammed in once more and came with a guttural, animal sound, burying himself so deep you could feel the twitch and pulse of him inside you.

You collapsed against the bench, gasping, ruined, his come dripping down your thighs. He didn’t pull out right away. He just held you there—panting against your spine, hand still fisted in your hair like he wasn’t done with you yet.

When he finally did let go, you fell to your knees again on instinct. He looked down at you naked, used, eyes glassy and swiped a thumb over your bottom lip.

“On standby.”

You nodded, dazed, obedient.

He turned and walked toward the decontamination door, not bothering to redress himself. And you waited, kneeling in the blood-warm air, ready for the next order.

“Sweetheart.” His voice echoes slightly in the room when he corners you.

You pause, hand resting on a crate, shoulders stiff. But you don’t turn.

Negan exhales slowly, rolling his jaw like he’s trying to chew through the tension. “…That’s how we’re playin’ this now?”

Silence.

God, you used to snap back at him. Used to fight. Even when you hated him, you engaged. You burned bright. Now you just… dim.

He takes a step closer. Then another. “You mad at me?” he asks, softer now—too soft for a man like him.

Still nothing.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the crate, knuckles whitening. That’s the first crack. Negan sees it. Of course he does. He always sees everything.

“Hey.” This time it’s rougher. Sharper. His hand shoots out, grabbing your arm—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop you from slipping away again.

You finally look at him.

And it hits him like a damn truck. Because there’s no fire in your eyes. No anger. No fear. No defiance. Just… exhaustion. The kind that sinks into your bones and never leaves.

“…What the hell happened to you?” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

Your lips part like you’re going to say something. For a second—just a second—hope flares in his chest. Then you close your mouth again. And gently, you pull your arm out of his grip. Not fighting. Not struggling. Just… removing him. Like he means nothing.

That’s what does it. That’s what finally cracks him. “Don’t you dare,” Negan snaps, stepping in front of you, blocking your path. His voice is louder now, echoing off the concrete walls. “Don’t you give me that silent treatment crap like I ain’t earned a goddamn explanation.”

You flinch. It’s small. Barely there. But he sees it. And he hates that he caused it.

“…You want an explanation?” you finally say. Your voice is quiet. Flat. Not even shaking.

Negan nods once, jaw tight. “Yeah. I do.”

There’s a long pause. Then you laugh. It’s not a happy sound. It’s hollow. “Because I’m tired, Negan.” The words land heavier than any punch. “I’m tired of trying to survive you.”

He freezes. Actually freezes. Like someone just pulled the plug on him. “…Survive me?” he repeats, slower now.

You nod, eyes flicking away again. “Every day it’s something new. A new rule, a new punishment, a new reminder that nothing here is… real.” Your voice cracks slightly, but you push through it. “You say you protect people. That you build something better.”

Your gaze meets his again. And this time? There’s something there. Not fire. Not anymore. Just… grief. “But all you do is take and take and take until there’s nothing left of us.”

Negan swallows. Hard. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Because for once— he doesn’t have a comeback.

“I used to hate you,” you continue quietly. “God, I hated you.” A flicker of something crosses his face. Pain? Maybe. “But at least that meant I still felt something.” Your voice softens. “And now?” You shrug. “I don’t feel anything at all.”

That— That terrifies him. More than rebellion. More than betrayal. Because he can control anger. He can crush fear. But this? This emptiness? He doesn’t know how to fight it.

“Y’know…” he starts, voice unsteady in a way he hates, “you don’t just get to check out on me like that.”

You blink at him. “…Watch me.” And you step around him. Just like that. No hesitation. No fear. No looking back.

Negan stands there long after you’re gone. Lucille rests heavy against his shoulder, but for once, it doesn’t feel like power. It feels like a crutch. Something hollow. Something useless.

She was curled up on the sofa in one of his sweaters, reading a book. The television hummed quietly in the background, forgotten. She looked up the moment he walked in.

“You’ve got that face.”

“My face?”

“The one that says you’ve either broken something expensive…” She smiled. “…or you’re about to tell me something I won’t like.”

Borys laughed once. It sounded hollow. “I need to tell you the truth.”

The smile disappeared. She quietly closed her book. “You’ve got me worried.”

He remained standing. That was mistake number one. He looked like a defendant awaiting sentencing. “I’ve lied to you.”

“…About what?”

“My business. My work.”

“You mean the import company?”

“It exists.”

“…Okay.”

“It just isn’t what I do.”

Silence stretched between them.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He swallowed. “I’ve told you I’m an investor.”

“You have.”

“I’m not.”

She waited.

“I’m…” The words caught in his throat. Ridiculous. He was a fucking mafia lord for fucks sane. He’d stared down armed men without blinking. He’d ordered hits on families. He’d worn the blood of his enemies with absolute pride. Yet the thought of disappointing the woman he loved terrified him.

Finally—

“I’m the head of the Volchek organization.”

She blinked. “…Organization?”

He nodded once. “The mafia.”

Silence. Long. Painfully long.

She stared at him as if she’d misheard. “…The what?”

“The Russian mafia.”

Another silence. Then— She laughed. A genuine laugh. “Oh, that’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t making a joke.”

Her laughter faded immediately at the expression on his face. “…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

She searched his face. Every inch of it. Waiting for the smile. Waiting for the punchline. It never came.

“…You’re actually serious.”

“Yes.”

“You kill people?”

The question hit harder than any bullet. His jaw tightened. “I’ve ordered deaths.”

She looked away. Her breathing became uneven. “So…” She rubbed her temples. “The late-night meetings.”

He nodded. “The security.”

“Yes.”

“The men outside the house.”

“Mine.”

“The guns.”

“…Mine.”

“The money.”

“…Mine.”

“The vacations?”

He almost smiled. “Those were real.”

She glared. “This isn’t the time, Borys.”

“No.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The room fell quiet again. Borys didn’t move. He’d made peace with what came next.

She’d ask for a divorce. She’d scream. She’d leave. She should.

Instead… “…How long?”

“My entire adult life.”

“You knew when we met.”

“Yes.”

“And you still married me.”

“…Yes.” 

Her eyes watered. “You let me build a life with you without telling me.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

His voice cracked. “Because for the first time in my life…” He looked at her. “…I wanted someone to love me before they knew what I was.”

The words shattered something inside her. She’d never heard him sound so… Small.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know sorry doesn’t fix this.”

“I know you probably hate me.”

“I know—”

“Stop.”

He fell silent. She stood slowly. Walked toward him. Each step made his stomach tighten. When she finally reached him, she looked up into his eyes.

“So…” She said quietly. “My husband is a mafia boss.”

“…Yes.”

“I married a criminal.”

“…Yes.”

“The man I thought negotiated shipping contracts negotiates…” She gestured vaguely.

“…Murders.”

“…Sometimes.”

She sighed. “God.”

He nodded. “I know.”

She paced away. Ran both hands through her hair. Turned back. “I’m angry.”

“You have every right.”

“I’m terrified.”

“I know.”

“I want to scream at you.”

“I deserve it.”

“And I don’t know whether to slap you or kiss you.”

He blinked. “…What?”

She walked back over. Stopped inches from him. “You lied to me.”

“I did.”

“I’m furious.”

“I know.”

“But…” Her hand reached up. She touched his cheek. “…You’re still my husband.”

His breath caught. “You don’t understand.”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “I probably don’t. But I do understand one thing.” She cupped his face. “The man who brings me coffee every morning. The man who rubs my shoulders when I work too late. The man who cries at dog movies.”

“I don’t cry.”

“You absolutely do.”

“…Occasionally.”

She laughed through tears. “My point is…” She rested her forehead against his. “That man is real.”

“It is.”

“And I love him.”

His eyes closed. “You shouldn’t.”

“Maybe.”

“You deserve someone better.”

“I wanted you.”

“You deserve normal.”

“I never wanted normal.” She kissed his forehead. “I wanted you.”

His composure finally cracked. His shoulders trembled. “I thought…” His voice broke. “…I thought this would be the moment I lost you.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “You almost did.”

He held her carefully, like she might disappear. “I won’t lie to you again.”

“You’d better not.”

“I’ll tell you everything.”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Everything?”

“…Everything.”

“Even the ugly parts?”

“Especially those.”

She nodded once. “Okay.”

He frowned. “…Okay?”

“I’m staying.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m staying.”

“You’ve barely processed this.”

“I know.”

“You should think.”

“I will.”

“You may decide to leave.”

“I might.”

He looked crushed.

“But…” She took both of his hands.“I’m not making that decision tonight. Tonight..” She squeezed his fingers.“…my husband finally trusted me enough to tell me the truth.”

A tear escaped his eye. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right.”

She smiled faintly. “You probably will.”

He laughed weakly.

“And one more thing.”

“What?”

“If anyone from your organization calls while we’re eating dinner…” She raised an eyebrow. “…they can wait.”

Despite everything, Borys laughed. A real laugh this time. “Yes, ma’am.”

She leaned up and kissed him. Long. Slow. Forgiving without forgetting.

When they finally separated, she poked him in the chest. “Tomorrow…”

“Yes?”

“You’re explaining how on earth I accidentally married one of the most dangerous men in the country.”

He smiled for the first time all evening. “I’ll make coffee.”

“You’d better make pancakes too.”

“I can do that.”

“And Borys?”

“Yes?”

“No more secrets.”

Everything in him stopped. He turned so fast it nearly threw him off balance, his eyes searching through the wreckage until he saw you crumpled near the broken steps of a storefront, half-hidden by dust and debris. Your hand was pressed to your side. Blood slipped between your fingers in thin, steady lines, already washed pink by the rain.

“No.” The word tore out of him before he reached you. “No, no, no—hey, hey, I’m here.” He dropped to his knees so hard the pavement cracked beneath them. His shield clattered uselessly beside him. Trembling hands hovered over you for one awful second, terrified to touch, terrified not to.

Your face was pale beneath the grime. Your lashes were wet with rainwater. Or tears. “Steve,” you whispered again, trying to smile.

He hated that smile. Because it was the one you used when he was scared. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice shaking. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that. We’re getting you out of here.” He ripped off his gloves, pressed both hands over the wound, hard enough to stop the bleeding, gentle enough not to hurt you. He called for medics into the comm, shouting until his throat burned.

Only silence greeted him from the other side.

“Stay with me.” His voice cracked. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

You reached up slowly, fingers brushing the wet hair off his forehead like you’d done a hundred quiet mornings before. “You always look so worried,” you murmured.

Steve bent over you, choking on a laugh that became a sob. “I’m worried because you’re bleeding in my arms.”

“I know.” Your hand slid weakly to his cheek. “Still handsome, though.”

“Stop joking.” He swallowed hard. “Please, stop joking.”

Your eyes searched his face with heartbreaking tenderness, memorizing him. “I’m sorry.”

The words hit harder than any blow he’d ever taken. “No.” He shook his head violently. “No, you don’t get to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was supposed to meet you for dinner.”

Rain dripped from his chin onto your jacket. He didn’t realize he was crying until you wiped at it with your thumb.

“You can still make it,” he said desperately. “Come on, sweetheart, you can still make it. I’ll carry you there myself. We’ll go somewhere fancy. Somewhere stupidly expensive because you always laugh when I complain about the bill.”

You smiled again. Smaller this time. “I liked when you complained.”

“Then I’ll complain all night.” He was openly sobbing now, unable to stop. “I’ll complain forever, just stay.”

Your breathing hitched.

Steve felt it in the air around the pair of you, the subtle shift, the terrifying slowing of your pulse beneath his blood-slick hands. His whole body went cold. “No.” He leaned closer, forehead pressing to yours. “No, no, listen to me. Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered. “I am looking,” you whispered.

“Keep doing it.”

“Steve…”

“Please.” The plea came out broken. Steve Rogers, who had stood against gods and monsters, who had dragged himself through wars and centuries and grief no one could imagine, was begging. “I can’t lose you.”

You exhaled shakily, rain catching on your lashes. “You already had me.” A cough of blood ccame out. “Wasn’t that enough?”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because the truth was no amount of time would ever have been enough. Not one year. Not ten. Not a lifetime.

Your fingers slipped from his cheek. Your chest rose once. Twice. Then stilled. For a moment, Steve just stared. Like if he looked hard enough, the world would take it back. Then he gathered you against him with a sound no one there would ever forget—a raw, wounded cry dragged from someplace deeper than pain.

He held you as the rain poured down. Held you when the medics finally arrived too late. Held you when the street emptied. Held you when someone touched his shoulder and he nearly broke their wrist. Held you until dawn painted the sky gray.

Because if he let go, if he let go, then it was real.

—

The lights flicker. Once. Twice. And then he’s standing there. But not the way he usually is. Not in a quiet flutter of wings you can’t see. Not in that awkward, still way he stands like he’s trying to remember how to be human.

No. This is wrong. Castiel is on his knees. And angels— Angels don’t fall like that.

“Hey—hey, what—what happened?” You’re beside him instantly, hands hovering before finally settling on his shoulders. He’s trembling.

He’s never trembling. “They’re—” His voice falters, something frayed and breaking at the edges. “They’re falling.”

A cold spike of fear lances through you. “What do you mean, falling?”

His eyes lift to yours. Blue, but not steady. Blue, but flickering—like a dying star. “Angels,” he breathes. “Heaven… it’s collapsing. I can hear them. All of them.”

And then you hear it too. Not voices. Not exactly. But something… screaming, far away. Like echoes crashing down from a place too high to understand.

Your grip tightens. “Okay. Okay, we’ll fix it. We always fix it—right?” You don’t even know what it is. But that’s never stopped you before.

Castiel’s gaze softens. And that’s worse than panic. Because it looks like acceptance. “No,” he says quietly.

“No?” Your voice cracks. “Cas, don’t—don’t do that. Don’t you dare just—decide that.”

“I’m not deciding,” he murmurs. “I’m telling you the truth.”

The bunker shudders. Dust rains from the ceiling. Somewhere, glass shatters. And outside—And as the pair of you run outside, the sky changes. You don’t notice it at first. Not fully. Just a strange brightness spilling through the windows. Too white. Too sharp.

Until Castiel reaches up and brushes his fingers against your cheek. “Look,” he whispers.

You don’t want to. God, you really don’t. But you turn anyway. And your breath leaves you. The sky is falling. Not clouds. Not rain. Stars. Burning streaks of white-hot light tearing across the heavens, crashing downward like something holy has been ripped apart.

Like something alive is dying.

Your stomach drops. “Those are—”

“Angels,” Castiel confirms.

Each one a life. Each one a loss. Each one a piece of him.

You turn back to him, panic surging. “We can’t just stand here! There has to be something—some spell, some way—”

“There isn’t.” His hand slides from your cheek to your wrist, holding on like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“Cas—”

“I’m one of them.”

The words hit harder than anything else. “No,” you snap immediately. “No, you’re not falling. You’re here. You’re—”

“I can feel it,” he interrupts softly. “Whatever is happening… it’s taking us all.”

Your heart starts pounding, fast and uneven. “Then we fight it.”

A faint, sad smile touches his lips. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s what we do.”

“Even when you can’t win?”

“Especially then.”

That makes him pause. Really pause. And for a second—just a second—you think you’ve reached him. But then another tremor hits. Harder.

Castiel’s grip tightens painfully around your wrist, a sharp inhale tearing from him as something unseen drags at him.

“Cas!” You drop to your knees fully now, clutching him. “Stay with me—stay here—”

“I’m trying.”

And you believe him. That’s the worst part. You can see it—feel it—in the way he leans into you, like gravity itself is pulling him away and you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. Your hands frame his face, forcing him to look at you. “You listen to me,” you say, voice shaking but fierce. “You don’t get to leave. Not like this. Not without—”

Emotion chokes you off. Not without what? A goodbye? A confession? Something you’ve both been too afraid to say out loud?

Castiel watches you, something deep and aching flickering in his gaze. “I have always loved humanity,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “Cas—”

“But you,” he continues, voice softening in a way that feels too intimate, too final, “you were my reason to stay.”

Your breath stutters. “No,” you whisper. “No, don’t—don’t make this sound like—” Like the end.

Another streak of light rips across the sky outside. Closer. Brighter. Castiel’s form flickers. Just for a second—but you see it. The outline of something vast and terrible and beautiful beneath his skin. Wings. Breaking.

“Cas!” You grab him tighter, desperate now. “Hold on—please—just—one more minute—”

His hand finds yours. Intertwines your fingers. Steady. Warm. “I’m here,” he says. “For now.”

Tears spill freely down your face. “That’s not enough.”

“I know.”

The bunker groans again, louder this time, like it might split in half.

You watch another star falls. Then another. Then dozens. The sky is coming apart. And so is he.

Your forehead presses against his, shaking. “I’m not ready,” you admit, voice barely there.

Castiel exhales softly, something almost human in the sound. “Neither was I,” he says.

Your grip tightens, like you can anchor him through sheer force of will. “Then stay.”

For a moment— A fragile, impossible moment— It feels like he might. Like the world might pause. Like the fall might stop. Like you might win this one. But then his hand slips. Just slightly. Just enough.

His glow flickers again, brighter this time, bleeding through his eyes, his skin—too much, too fast.

You panic. “Cas—!”

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft. Final.

“No—NO—!”

And then, Light. Blinding. Consuming. Gone in a heartbeat. The weight in your hands disappears. The air around you stills. The trembling stops. The stars keep falling.

—

You don’t hesitate. You can’t. “I don’t love you.” You can barely keep your gaze on him.

There’s a flicker of something raw beneath his usual smirk. Hurt. Real, sharp, human hurt. It vanishes almost immediately, swallowed by the King of Hell persona like it never existed. “Right,” he says lightly, too lightly. “Course you don’t. Silly me.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. You hate that you know the difference. You hate that you’re the cause of it.

—

You’d seen the contract. Not yours. His. A blade pressed to the throat of a demon king, written in blood and binding magic so old it made your teeth ache just looking at it. Your name woven into every line. Your life, your soul, your breath—the price.

If the human is loved… she is leverage. If she is leverage… she is expendable.

They weren’t bluffing. You’ve hunted long enough to recognize a real threat when it stares you down. So you did the only thing you could. You made yourself worthless.

—

Crowley doesn’t touch you after that. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t look at you the same. And God, that might be the worst part. Because you’d braced for anger. For retaliation. For sharp words and sharper smiles. That would’ve been easier—something to fight, something to push back against.

But this? This quiet distance? This polite indifference? It guts you.

“Careful, darling,” he says one night when you nearly walk into him. His voice is smooth again, detached. “Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want that.” Your chest feels like it’s collapsing inward.

He nods, stepping around you without another glance. Like you’re nothing. Like you meant it.

—

It works. That’s the worst, most twisted part. The demons stop watching you so closely. The whispers fade. The threat loosens its grip, just enough for you to breathe again.

You should feel relieved. Safe. Instead, you feel like you’re dying in slow motion. Because Crowley believes you. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? You said it. Twice.

And Crowley—King of Hell, master of deals, professional skeptic—has always, always believed actions over words.

And now? Your actions scream indifference. You don’t reach for him. You don’t argue like you used to. You don’t care. So he stops caring too.

Until the night everything goes wrong. You should’ve known they wouldn’t let it go completely. Deals like that don’t disappear—they wait.

The trap snaps shut fast. Too fast. You’re on your knees before you even register what’s happening, something sharp and burning digging into your ribs, sigils flaring bright beneath you.

A voice hisses, “He doesn’t love you anymore, does he?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. That was the point.

Crowley arrives in a storm of smoke and fury. “Touch her again,” he says, voice low and lethal, “and I’ll personally see to it that Hell forgets your name ever existed.”

They laugh. Actually laugh. Because they think they’ve won. “She’s not leverage anymore,” one of them sneers. “You made that quite clear.”

Crowley’s jaw tightens. For a split second—just a split second—you see it again. That flicker. That crack. “Yeah,” he says coldly. “I did.”

Your heart drops. Of course. Of course he would play along. Of course he’d protect himself. This is what you wanted. This is what you needed. So why does it feel like your lungs are caving in?

“Kill her, then,” Crowley adds, almost bored. “Means nothing to me.”

The words hit harder than the blade. You force your face blank. Good. Good. This is working. You’re safe.

The moment the demon turns toward you, Crowley moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s not strategy. It’s instinct. Violent. Immediate. Feral. He tears through them like a man possessed, magic cracking the air, red smoke and screams filling the room until there’s nothing left but silence and the sound of your own ragged breathing. And him. Standing over you. Shaking.

“You absolute—” His voice breaks, and he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his face. “You said—”

“I lied.”

The truth slips out before you can stop it. Because you can’t do this anymore. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when he came anyway. Not when he chose you anyway.

Crowley goes very still. “…What?”

“I lied,” you repeat, softer now. “I had to.”

His eyes narrow, searching, calculating—but there’s something frantic underneath it now. “Start talking.”

So you do. You tell him everything. The contract. The threats. The way your name was written like a death sentence tied to his heart. You tell him you thought if you broke it—if you broke him—you could keep him safe.

You expect anger. Rage. Something explosive.

Instead, he laughs. Sharp. Disbelieving. A little hysterical. “You thought pushing me away would keep me out of it?” he snaps. “Sweetheart, I’m the bloody King of Hell. There is no ‘out of it.’”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“And I was trying to protect you!”

The words collide between you, loud and messy and real.

Silence follows. Heavy. Breathing. Close.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t get to rip something like that away and call it protection.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Ask,” he shoots back. “Fight. Trust me, for once.”

“I do trust you.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

You flinch. That lands.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to outrun something clawing at his chest.

Then he stops. Looks at you. Really looks this time. “…Say it again,” he says, quieter now. Not a command. Not quite a plea. Something in between.

Your heart stutters. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Don’t push it.”

A beat.

Then, softer, he says,. “The truth. This time.”

You step closer, despite everything, despite the fear still clinging to your bones. “I love you.” No hesitation. No lie. Just truth. Raw and terrifying and yours.

Crowley closes his eyes for a second like it physically hits him. When he opens them again, the walls are gone. “…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought you might.” And then he’s pulling you into him—fierce, almost desperate, like he’s making up for every second he thought he’d lost you. “You ever pull something like that again,” he mutters into your temple, voice rough, “I’ll drag you to Hell myself just so I can keep an eye on you.”

You huff a weak laugh against his chest. “That’s your version of romantic?”

“Don’t mock the classics, darling.”

But his grip tightens. Just a little. Like he’s still afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“I might need tactical support.”

Natasha’s laugh crackled in his ear. “For confessing feelings to your best friend of twenty years?”

“Seventeen,” Steve corrected automatically.

“Cute that you know the exact number.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This was a mistake.”

“It was a mistake when you let yourself pine for nearly two decades,” Natasha said. “Knock on the damn door, Rogers.”

He stared at the wood like it had personally insulted him. Then he knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. You stood there in socks and one of those oversized sweaters you always stole from thrift stores, hair messy, face bare, and somehow you looked exactly the same as the girl who used to split her lunch with him in Brooklyn and nothing like her at all.

“Steve?” you blinked. “Why do you look like you’re about to deliver bad news? What's with the flowers?”

He glanced at the flowers. “That obvious?”

“Very.” You stepped aside. “Come in.” Your apartment smelled like cinnamon candles and coffee. There were books stacked on every surface and a blanket tossed over the couch. Homey. Warm. You.

Steve stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room while you eyed him.

“You’re sweating,” you said.

“I don’t sweat much.”

“You are now.”

Natasha snorted in his ear.

Steve yanked the comm out and shoved it in his pocket.

You frowned. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“No.”

“Interesting answer.”

He handed you the flowers like a shield. “These are for you.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Steve…”

“I know they’re not great flowers. The guy at the store said they were cheerful.”

“They are cheerful.” You smiled, and it hit him straight in the chest. “Thank you.”

You set them down carefully and turned back to him. “So,” you said slowly. “What’s going on?”

This was it. He had rehearsed speeches. Thoughtful speeches. Charming speeches. A few dignified speeches. Instead, what came out was, “I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Your face went blank. Then your eyes widened. Then you froze completely.

Steve felt every bit of confidence leave his body in one violent rush. “Oh,” he said quietly.

You still didn’t move.

He took a step back. “Right. Okay. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you.” Still nothing. His chest ached. “I just thought… Nat said I should stop waiting for the perfect time and I guess she was right, but maybe this was the wrong time and—”

“Steve—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He was already backing toward the door now, panic making him ramble. “Really. Forget I said it. We’re fine. We’re still us.”

“Steve.”

“You don’t feel the same, and that’s okay, I just—”

“Steven Grant Rogers.” That stopped him dead. You were staring at him now like you wanted to shake him. “I froze because I’ve imagined you saying that to me since I was sixteen,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

You crossed your arms, cheeks pink. “I froze because I thought I was hallucinating. Or having some kind of stress-induced episode.”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. “You…” He swallowed. “You imagined me saying it?”

“For years,” you said. “Which is humiliating now, so thanks for that.”

“I thought you didn’t—”

“I thought you didn’t.”

“I’ve been in love with you since you punched Tommy Garrison for calling me shrimp.”

You gasped. “I was nine!”

“It was very romantic.”

“I chipped a tooth.”

“You were magnificent.”

You made a strangled laugh and covered your face with your hands.

Steve was still staring at you like the world had tilted. “So…” he said carefully. “You feel the same?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He crossed the room in three strides. “Unfortunately?”

“Well, now I have to deal with the fact that my best friend is Captain America and annoyingly handsome.”

He smiled so hard it almost hurt. “Sounds difficult.”

“It’s a burden.”

Then his expression softened. “Can I kiss you?”

You dropped your hands. “Took you long enough.”

The kiss was warm and careful at first—years of friendship handled like something precious. Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. He made a surprised sound against your mouth. When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, you pressed your forehead to his.

“You know,” you murmured, “Natasha absolutely knows about this already, doesn’t she?”

Steve sighed. “Probably.”

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You picked it up and snorted. “What?”

You turned the screen toward him.

Natasha: Finally. He owes me twenty bucks.

Steve groaned. You laughed, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the couch. “Come on, Rogers.”

“What now?”

And his eyes— God. You remember those. Golden, warm, once filled with laughter as he dragged you through muddy streets, hands sticky with stolen candy, promising you the world like it was something he could just give you. Now? Now they look like they’ve already taken it.

“…You shouldn’t be here,” someone mutters beside you. You don’t even register who.

Because Thor is moving. People part for him without being asked. That’s new. That’s wrong. He used to be the one knocking into others, grinning, unapologetic. Now the room bends around him like he owns the air. Maybe he does.

Your heart is pounding too fast by the time he stops in front of you.

For a second—just a second—you think he might smile. But he doesn’t. “…Took you long enough.”

Your breath catches. That voice hasn’t changed. Still deep, still threaded with something warm beneath the rough edges—but there’s steel in it now. Something unyielding.

“I didn’t know you were back,” you manage, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.

A flicker crosses his face. Not anger. Not quite. Something worse. “You didn’t look.”

The words land heavier than they should. You swallow. “Thor—”

“Do not.” His tone drops, quiet but absolute. “Do not say my name like you did not vanish without a word all those years ago.”

Guilt stabs, sharp and familiar. “I was a kid. We both were. Things changed—”

“They did,” he cuts in. And then he steps closer. Too close.

The air shifts. Tightens. Your back nearly brushes the bar, but you don’t move—not when his hand comes down beside you, caging you in without touching you.

“I stayed,” he says, voice low. “I fought for every inch of what my father built. I bled for it.” His jaw tightens, eyes searching yours like he’s looking for something buried. “And you?” he continues. “You disappeared to Gods only knows where for years. You left me without so much as a goddamn goodbye.”

You want to argue. To defend yourself. To explain the fear, the way your family pulled you away when his name started getting whispered in the wrong circles, when “Odinson” stopped meaning neighbor and started meaning power.

But none of that comes out. Because there’s something in his expression that stops you. Something raw.

“…I thought it was better,” you admit quietly.

A mistake.

You see it the second his face hardens.

“Better?” he echoes, almost disbelieving. “To leave me in that world alone?”

Your chest tightens. “You weren’t alone, Thor—you had your family, your men, your—”

“I had no one who knew me before it.” His voice cracks—not loudly, but enough. Enough to feel like something breaking beneath the surface. “No one who remembered who I was before I became… this.”

Silence stretches. Heavy. Dangerous. Then his hand finally moves—not to grab, not yet—but to tilt your chin up just slightly. Enough that you can’t look away.

“And now you stand here,” he murmurs, softer now, but somehow more terrifying. “After all these years… like you think you can simply walk back into my life.”

Your pulse stutters. “I didn’t come here for you,” you whisper, even as your body betrays you, leaning into the warmth of his presence.

A lie.

He knows it. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “No,” he agrees quietly. “But you are here now.” And then his grip tightens. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind. To claim. “You always did have a way of finding me.”

Your breath comes shallow. “Thor…”

His thumb brushes your jaw, rough, grounding, devastatingly familiar. “You’re mine.”

The words are quiet. Certain. Not a question. Not even a demand. A fact.

Your stomach flips, something tangled between fear and something far more dangerous. “You don’t get to decide that,” you manage, though it comes out weaker than you’d like.

For a moment, he just looks at you. Really looks. And then something dark flickers behind his eyes. “Don’t I?”

The music swells around you, but it feels distant—like the world is falling away, leaving just the two of you caught in something inevitable.

His forehead nearly touches yours now, voice dropping to something that feels like a promise carved in stone. “I built an empire from nothing,” he murmurs. “I have torn men apart for less than what I feel for you.”

Your breath hitches.

“And you think,” he continues, softer still, “that I will let you walk away again?”

Your heart is racing too fast, your thoughts slipping. “I’m not the same girl you knew—”