MrsEvans90

—

The transition from the gold-leafed tension of the palace to the cool, clinical elegance of your family’s estate was a blur of clicking heels and your anger simmering deep inside you. You didn't wait for the servants to take your cloak; you threw it onto a velvet divan and stormed toward the West Wing, your golden energy trailing behind you like sparks from a dying fire.

You were looking for your mother who wasn’t able to attend the betrayal of a dinner you just came back from, because apparently she was not feeling good.

You found your mother in her private solar, draped in pale silks, the scent of healing herbs and lavender heavy in the air. She looked up from her book, her eyes widening as you burst through the heavy oak doors.

“Did you know of this, Mother?” your voice was a low, dangerous vibration. You stood at the foot of her chaise lounge, your hands trembling with the effort of keeping your magic from shattering the crystals on the side table.

She blinked, a look of genuine confusion softening her features. “The betrothal? Of course, darling. I thought you did too.”

So everyone knew.

Except the two people who should.

She reached out a hand as if to soothe you, but you stepped back, the obsidian beads on your gown clashing like tiny teeth.

“Why else would you have been going to the castle so regularly all this time?” she asked, her voice tilting with a touch of maternal logic that made your blood boil. “The tea with the Queen, the training sessions in the gardens, the dinners... I assumed you were finally making an effort with your future husband.”

You froze, a cold, sharp glare settling on your face. The realization that your regular visits—which you had spent mostly in the library or hiding in the gardens to avoid the very man you were now tied to—had been misinterpreted as courtship made you want to scream.

“Mother, I am friends with Loki, that is why I was visiting.” you said, each word a piece of ice. “I had no idea! Or else I would’ve kept my distance from him! I would have stayed on the furthest moon of the Nine Realms if I knew he was the end goal of my afternoon strolls!”

Your mother sighed, sinking back into her pillows. “Regardless of your intentions, the All-Father has spoken. You have a wedding to prepare for, my darling, and a husband to endure.”

The torture had officially begun.

—

You walked beside your mother, to try on your wedding dress, the heavy hem of your skirts sweeping over the pristine stone path. The morning air in the palace gardens was thick with the scent of blooming Asgardian lilies, but to you, it felt like incense at a funeral.

Behind you, two handmaidens trailed with a hovering casket of lacquered wood—the wedding gown. It was crafted from star-spun silk, a fabric so rare it supposedly held the light of dead suns, structured with reinforced golden stays that felt more like a cage than a bodice.

“You must breathe, darling,” your mother murmured, her hand resting light as a feather on your arm. “The seamstresses have spent years on this piece. It is the pride of our house.”

“It’s a shroud, Mother,” you snapped, your eyes fixed on the horizon. “Just a very expensive one.”

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

The smooth, melodic voice made you stop in your tracks. Loki emerged from behind a marble statue of Borr, a faint, sharp-edged smirk playing on his lips. He fell into step on your other side, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

“I’ve heard of people weeping at weddings, but usually they wait for the vows,” he teased, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “I must say, the doomed bride aesthetic suits your complexion. Very tragic. Very high-court.”

“Careful, Loki,” you countered, not even looking at him. “If I’m truly as tragic as you say, I might just decide to take you down with me. I'm sure there’s a forgotten contract in the archives that could bind you to a frost giantess. I hear the winters there are lovely for your skin.”

Loki let out a short, genuine huff of a laugh, nudging your shoulder with his. “Touché. But truly, the look on his face when he realized he had to trade his tavern brawls for your dinner etiquette? It was surely worth the headache of the announcement.”

You actually felt a genuine smile tug at your lips, a rare spark of joy breaking through the dread. You leaned toward him, lowering your voice. “If he brings a turkey leg to the altar, I am using my magic to turn his cape into a flock of geese. I swear it on the All-Father.”

Loki laughed properly then, the sound echoing through the hall as you transitioned from the gardens into the royal wing.

But the laughter died the moment you rounded the corner.

Thor was standing by a massive bay window, Mjolnir hanging heavy in his grasp. He looked tired, his brow furrowed as he spoke to a guard, but his head snapped toward the sound of your voice instantly. His blue eyes narrowed, darting from your smiling face to Loki’s hand, which was still hovering near your arm. The relaxed, boisterous Prince vanished.

He didn't say a word. He simply began to follow.

Your mother ushered you inside the fitting room, though this was not just any fitting room; it was Queen Frigga's private dressing suite, a circular room bathed in natural light filtering through tall, arched windows that looked out over the Golden City.

Queen Frigga stood near a velvet-covered pedestal, her presence instantly bringing a sense of calm serenity a stark contrast to your own mother’s anxious energy. She was dressed in soft, flowing greens and golds, her hair intricately braided. Beside her, on a high stand, was the other casket—the one holding the ancestral jewelry.

“You look lovely, child,” Frigga murmured, her voice like warm honey as she turned to watch you enter. Her eyes, so similar to Thor’s yet filled with centuries of wisdom, drifted to Loki, who was still smirking beside you. “And Loki, I see you are still finding amusement in your brother’s obligation.”

Loki dropped into a elegant bow, his smirk softening just a fraction. “Only performing my brotherly duty, Mother. Ensuring the bride doesn't run screaming before the I do's.”

“More like ensuring he doesn't,” you muttered, stepping toward the pedestal.

Frigga smiled faintly, motioning for the handmaidens to open the main lacquered casket. “We will have none of that talk today. This dress is a masterpiece, and it is traditional that the Queen Mother sees the bride in her finery before the All-Father, to offer her blessing.”

You felt the heavy, cold whoosh of air as the star-spun silk was lifted. Behind you, the heavy oak doors swung open, catching the light.

Thor stood on the threshold, his presence immediately making the high ceilings feel suffocatingly low. He held Mjolnir loosely in his grip, the smell of a distant storm clinging to him like a second skin. He didn't say a word, his gaze immediately narrowing as he spotted Loki standing next to you.

Every pair of eyebrows in the room shot upward. Your mother gasped, clutching her silks to her chest. Frigga turned, her eyebrows arched slightly. “Thor? What are you doing here? This is not the training yard, nor is it the Great Hall.”

“I am aware, Mother,” Thor said, his voice flat, dangerously devoid of its usual boisterous cheer. He didn't look at his mother; his blue eyes were locked on your back. He walked into the room, pulling a heavy gilded chair from the wall and dropping into it with a dull thud, crossing his massive arms. “I merely wish to ensure my future wife isn’t plotting my demise with my brother under the guise of a fitting. I’ve heard she prefers the so called silver tongue.”

Loki let out a short, sharp bark of laughter into his fist, but Frigga merely sighed, a practiced look of disappointment crossing her features. “Thor. It is the height of ill fortune for the groom to see the bride in her finery before the ceremony. The Norns do not look kindly on broken tradition.”

Thor shrugged, a reckless, tight-lipped gesture. “I have faced the armies of the Dark Elves and many more. I think I can survive a bit of bad luck from a piece of fabric. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze fixed on Loki again, “I have no desire to be the last to know anything.”

“I don't need a dress to plot your demise, Thor,” you muttered over your shoulder, refusing to turn and face him as the handmaidens began the grueling process of draping the silk over your frame.

For ten minutes, the only sound in the room was the rustle of priceless fabric, the clink of golden pins, and your mother’s sharp, anxious inhalations. You felt Thor’s gaze like a branding iron on your back—unblinking, focused, stripping away your composure. Loki stood nearby, watching the tension with a dark, satisfied amusement, while Frigga stood by the jewelry stand, her expression a mix of observation and silent concern.

Finally, the stays were tightened, molding the structured silk and chiffon to your body. The high, elegant collar was fastened. The handmaidens stepped back, and you turned slowly to face the wall of mirrors.

The dress was architectural sorcery. The star-spun silk caught the light, shifting from white to a blinding, liquid gold that mirrored the gold magic pulsing at your fingertips. It was structured, rigid, and utterly cold.

You turned slowly to face the room.

Thor had been leaning back in his chair, a bored, defensive, and likely dorky excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue. He was likely prepared to mock the choice of color or the sheer practicality of the train.

But once you stepped into the light, his demeanor changed.

His jaw locked.

The gilded chair groaned as his grip tightened on the armrests, his massive knuckles turning white as snow.

The air in the room suddenly felt thick, the smell of rain faint but unmistakable. He didn't speak nor make a joke. He merely stared at you, his pupils blown wide, trying to make sense of what he was feeling.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

“Thor?” Frigga whispered, her voice gentle but commanding as she took a step toward her son.

He blinked once, slowly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He stood up abruptly, the chair skidding back. “It— it is functional,” he managed, his voice sounding like he’d been swallowing broken glass.He didn't look at you again as he turned for the door. “Try not to trip on the hem, my lady.”

He was out the door before the wood stopped vibrating.

Frigga turned back to you, her expression unreadable, but a faint, knowing light dancing in her wise eyes. “Functional,” she repeated softly, her voice tilting with a silent amusement.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, only one question coming to your mind;

Why is everyone acting so weird?

—

The following evening, the palace gardens were a sea of gold and emerald, the air thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the rhythmic, distant thrum of Asgardian lutes. It was the eve of the wedding—the final celebration of your so called freedom.

You arrived with your parents, your steps measured and precise. Your gown tonight was structured, midnight-toned velvet, the high collar framed by sharp, golden embroidery that caught the torchlight like a warning.

As you rounded the marble fountain, you saw him waiting at the entrance of the garden.

Thor stood tall, draped in his heavy ceremonial armor. The polished silver and deep blues of his chestplate caught the moonlight, but it was the cape that drew the eye—a thick, crimson shroud weighted by a massive mantle of dark fur that sat broad across his shoulders. It made him look twice his size, a looming figure of mythic weight rather than the prince who usually tripped over his own jokes. When his eyes met yours, that strange, dark look from the fitting room flickered for a second before he masked it with a lopsided, defensive grin.

Your mother and father exchanged a pointed, satisfied look, stepping ahead with a synchronized grace that left you and Thor standing alone in the shadow of the archway.

“You look remarkably less like a sun-god today, my lady,” Thor remarked, falling into step beside you. The fur of his mantle brushed against your shoulder—a heavy, soft contact that sent a jolt of irritation through you. “I see you’ve returned to your usual brooding colors.”

“And you look remarkably like someone who hasn't been in a tavern brawl for at least three hours,” you countered, tilting your head to look up at him. “It’s a terrifying look for you, Thor. Almost civilized.”

Thor let out a deep, rolling chuckle, the sound vibrating in the space between you. “I’ll have you know I spent the afternoon in the library. Loki insisted I learn the proper sequence of the ceremonial toasts so I don't humiliate them before the first course.”

“A wise move,” you said, a genuine, sharp smile pulling at your lips. “Though I’m surprised you managed to sit still long enough to read. I thought your attention span was measured in how long it takes to throw a hammer.”

“It's measured in how long it takes to win a fight,” he corrected, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at you. “Currently, I am fighting the urge to rip this fur off and head for the lower city taverns. Would you join me, or are you too refined for cheap ale and loud songs?”

“I would join you,” you said, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “but I suspect my father has guards stationed at every exit specifically to prevent me from escaping your company.”

Thor stopped walking, turning to face you fully, the feel of his presence sharpening in the cool night air.

He looked down at you, his blue eyes searching yours.

“Then your father and I finally agree on something,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, vibrato rumble. “For I have no intention of letting you out of my sight tonight, sunshine. It would be a shame to lose my only source of entertainment before the feast even begins.”

He reached out, his large hand—calloused and warm—hovering near your waist as if to guide you, his fingers ghosting against the velvet of your dress. For a fleeting second, the mockery died in your throat.

You looked up at him, the gold of your magic stirring restlessly beneath your skin, mirroring the heat radiating off him. It was a moment—sharp, silent, and dangerously real.

Then, he blinked, the shadow of a smirk returning to his face. He pulled his hand back to hook it into his belt, the prince mask sliding back into place. “Besides,” he added, “if I let you run now, Loki would never let me hear the end of it. He’s already placed bets on how long it takes for you to hex me at the altar.”

You let out a huff of laughter, the tension breaking as quickly as it had formed. “I hope you bet against him, Thor. I’m planning to wait at least until the first dance.”

You both started walking again, the shared smile lingering just a second too long for two people who supposedly couldn’t stand the sight of each other.

As you reached the heavy arched entrance, the gold of your magic prickled at your fingertips—a warning of the social exhaustion to come.

“Go on, sunshine,” Thor said, gesturing toward the doors with a lazy sweep of his hand, his fur-lined cape swaying with the movement. “I shall find us a place at the table before Loki drinks all the vintage mead.”

“Actually, go ahead without me,” you said, smoothing the velvet of your skirts. “I need to compose myself. I’ll meet you inside.”

“I will wait,” he countered, his voice dropping into that stubborn, protective rumble. He leaned back against the stone pillar, crossing his arms over his chestplate. “The corridors are busy tonight. It wouldn't do for the bride to be lost in the crowd.”

“I am perfectly capable of walking twenty paces alone, Thor. No need, really.”

“I insist,” he said, his eyes glinting with a maddening persistence. “I have nothing but time, and I’ve already memorized the toasts. Go. I’ll be right here.”

You rolled your eyes, letting out a huff of irritation that was only half-real, and ducked into the private chambers nearby.

Inside, the air was cooler, the silence a brief mercy. You leaned over the polished basin, staring at your reflection in the silver-glass mirror. Your makeup was flawless, your eyes sharp, but beneath the mask, your heart was hammering against your ribs.

In less than twenty-four hours, you would be tied to him. To the noise, the ale, the way he called you sunshine, the way his voice sounded when he called you my lady. You took a deep breath, reaching for a silk cloth to blot your skin, trying to summon the icy discipline your father had raised you with.

Then, voices filtered through the heavy oak door from the corridor—the sharp, hushed tones of the palace maids.

“Can you believe the audacity of it?” one whispered, followed by a low, gossiping giggle. “The All-Father forcing a union when the Prince’s heart is still wandering Midgard.”

Your hand froze.

“I heard she was a mortal,” the second one hissed. “A scientist. He was ready to stay there for her. And now he’s out there acting the part of the dutiful fiancé while he probably has a lock of her hair tucked into his armor.”

“A scandal, truly. Imagine being the Lady of the High House and merely being the replacement for a human girl who doesn't even know how to bow.”

The silk cloth in your hand crumpled as a searing heat flared in your chest. A mortal?

You knew they have said that you were promised to each other when you were born, but that did not stop you from thinking that you were being used to cover up the Prince's sentimental mess.

You felt humiliated. Every smile he’d given you in the gardens just now, every lingering look, suddenly felt like a calculated insult.

He was mourning someone else and you were the gilded cage he was being shoved into.

You didn't wait. You shoved the door open with a force that made the hinges groan.

The maids jumped, their faces turning a ghostly white as they saw you standing there, your eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous gold. They didn't even wait for a reprimand; they scrambled, skirts rustling as they scurried down the hall like frightened mice.

You stood there for a moment, your breath coming in sharp hitches, your vision tunneling with rage. Then, you turned the corner.

Thor was exactly where he said he’d be. He was leaning against the pillar, his head tilted back, a small, genuine smile starting to form on his face the moment he spotted you. He looked regal, powerful, and utterly relaxed.

“Ah, there you are, sunshine,” he said, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward you. “I was beginning to think you’d found a secret passage to—“

He stopped. His smile faltered as he took in the rigid line of your shoulders and the cold, murderous fire in your gaze.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, his voice losing its playfulness and sharpening into that all business tone. He reached out as if to steady you, but you flinched back before his hand could even get close.

You brushed past Thor, your shoulder barely grazing the fur of his mantle, refusing to give him even a sliver of eye contact.

“I am absolutely fine,” you said, the lie tasting like iron in your mouth.

Thor didn’t move at first. He stood his ground, his head tilted as his blue eyes fixed on you, scanning your face with an intense look in his eyes that stripped away his usual lightheartedness. He was watching the tension in your jaw and the way your fingers were curled into tight, pale fists, trying to read the sudden shift in the air like a change in the weather.

“I am pretty sure something is wrong,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, authoritative rumble as he began to trail behind you. The heavy thud of his boots on the stone floor sounded like a countdown. “Your magic smells off, sunshine. It didn't smell like that ten minutes ago.”

“Drop it, Thor,” you snapped over your shoulder, not slowing your pace. You could feel the heat of him just inches away, a constant, looming presence that felt like a suffocating weight. “We have a celebration to attend. Do not make a scene.”

He went silent, but you could feel his gaze burning into the back of your neck. He knew the peace had shattered, but with the massive oak doors of the Great Hall swinging open, he was forced to tuck his questions away. He stepped up beside you, his jaw tight, offering his arm with a rigid, formal politeness.

The moment you stepped inside, the roar of the court hit you. Hundreds of Asgardian nobles cheered, their golden goblets raised in a toast to a union built on a secret. You walked to the high table, every step feeling like a march toward a cliffside, and took your seat.

Loki was already there, leaning back in his chair with a predatory grace, swirling a dark, vintage mead in his glass. He didn't even wait for you to settle before he spoke.

“Hello there, little bird,” Loki drawled, his pale eyes flickering between your icy expression and Thor’s uncharacteristic brooding. A slow, mocking smirk stretched across his face. “I see you two are already attached at the hip. Tell me, brother, did you have to drag her here, or did she finally realize that fleeing is a bit difficult in those shoes?”

At the mention of the nickname, Thor’s jaw visibly tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He sat down heavily, the fur of his cape spilling over the side of the gilded chair like a dark cloud.

“Do not call her that, Loki,” Thor muttered, his voice low and threatening. He didn't look at his brother; his eyes were still fixed on the side of your head, searching for the crack in your armor.

You didn't give him one. You picked up your silver fork, your movements clinical and cold, your mind still screaming with the words;

The replacement.

“Such a charming atmosphere,” Loki continued, clearly delighted by the ripple of irritation he'd caused in his brother. He leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a theatrical stage-whisper. “If the wedding is half as cheerful as this dinner, little bird, we shall all need to double the wine order.”

Thor’s hand clamped onto the edge of the table, his knuckles white against the dark wood. “What did I just tell you, brother?”

Loki’s smirk sharpened into a devilish, knowing smile. He leaned back, spreading his hands as if to marvel at the spectacle. “My, my. Not even at the altar yet, and already so possessive, Thor? I didn't realize the Lady of the High House had managed to chain the God of Thunder so securely to her heel before the first toast was even poured. It’s quite the transformation.”

“Possessive?” You let out a short, hollow laugh that didn't reach your eyes. You finally turned your head, not to Thor, but to Loki, your voice dripping with a detached mockery. “Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea why he is acting so territorial, Loki. It seems a waste of energy, especially since he surely has lovers scattered across the realms waiting for his return while he plays the part of the dutiful fiancé here.”

The table went deathly quiet. Loki’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, his devilish smile faltering into genuine, sharp-eyed surprise. “What are you talking ab—“

“You truly think so little of me?”

Thor’s voice was a whip-crack. He turned to you fully now, his massive frame shifting so he was looming over your side of the table, the fur of his mantle brushing your arm. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep, sincere confusion, but beneath it was a growing, hurt spark of indignation.

“That I would have lovers—let alone a lover—when I am to be bound to you tomorrow?” he demanded, his blue eyes searching yours desperately. “When I have spent these days preparing to honor our houses and this union? I am a Prince of Asgard, my lady. I do not hide behind the skirts of others while I prepare to give you my word at the altar. Is that truly what you think of my character?”

He reached toward you, his hand hovering near yours on the table as if wanting to force you to see the truth in his expression. The heat radiating from him was overwhelming, the scent of rain and leather filling your senses.

You didn’t spare a glance at his hand. Instead, you turned your gaze to him and offered a small, broken smile—one that was sharp and brittle as glass. You didn't believe a single word of his righteous defense; the whispers of the maids were still ringing too loudly in your ears, painting him as a liar playing a role for the court.

“I think you are exactly the man the All-Father raised you to be, Thor,” you whispered, “A very good actor.”

Thor’s jaw tightened, his mouth slightly agape as the word actor hung in the air like a physical blow. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned closer, his blue eyes searching yours desperately.

“Has someone said something to you?” he asked, his voice a low, urgent vibration that ignored the clinking of glasses and the roar of the hall. “Because if they have—“

“To the Prince and his Lady! To the future of Asgard!”

Volstagg’s boisterous roar cut him off as the Warriors Three and Sif descended upon your corner of the table, their heavy mugs slamming together in a deafening celebratory chorus.

Thor was pulled into a flurry of shoulder-slaps and booming jests about his final night of freedom, but his eyes never truly left yours. He looked like a man being dragged away from a burning building while the survivors were still inside.

You turned your gaze away, staring fixedly at the dark, shimmering surface of your mead.

“Little bird.”

Loki’s voice was no longer drawling or mocking. It was a sharp, quiet whisper that barely carried over the laughter of the warriors. He leaned in, his green eyes narrowed and uncharacteristically grave. He wasn't smirking anymore, he was studying the way your hands were trembling beneath the table.

“Something has happened,” Loki murmured, his gaze flicking toward the maids near the tapestries and back to you. “Whatever you've heard, whatever is eating at you, just tell me.”

“I do not wish to talk about it, Loki,” you whispered, your voice brittle. “Not here. Not ever.”

Loki’s expression shifted, a rare look of genuine concern softening the sharp angles of his face. He knew his brother—knew his faults, his arrogance, and his temper—but he also knew that Thor, for all his bluster, was incapable of the kind of calculated, two-faced cruelty you were implying.

“We will talk about it,” Loki stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But later. When we are alone.”

Across the table, Thor was nodding at Fandral’s jokes and accepting a fresh goblet of ale, but his focus was entirely fractured.

He watched the way Loki leaned toward you, the way your shoulders finally slumped slightly at his brother's whispered words, and the way you refused to even glance in his direction.

A dark, hot sensation began to boil deep in Thor's chest—a raw, territorial feeling he felt before. Because of you.

He didn't understand your hurt, but he understood the sight of his brother comforting his bride-to-be.

He found himself unable to swallow.

He was still staring, his grip on his goblet so tight the silver began to complain, his blue eyes clouded with a turbulent, dark energy as he watched Loki’s lingering proximity to you. His chest heaving under his armor as if the air in the room had suddenly grown too thin to breathe.

“You must be vibrating with excitement,” Lady Sif remarked to you, leaning across the table, her keen eyes tracing the sharp lines of your expression. “To be joined to the greatest warrior in the Nine Realms by this time tomorrow—it is a transition few could handle with such grace.”

You forced your attention away from Loki and the burning heat of Thor’s gaze, turning to her with a well crafted smile.

“Very much so, Sif,” you replied, your voice smooth and hollow. “It is everything I was raised to expect.”

The double meaning hung in the air, unnoticed by the boisterous warriors but caught instantly by the two brothers flanking you. You could feel the weight of Thor’s stare on the side of your face—heavy, searching, and increasingly desperate.

He looked as if he wanted to reach out and physically turn you toward him, to demand an explanation for the wall of glass you had built between you in the span of a single hour.

He didn't understand why your rejection stung so sharply; he had told himself this was a duty, a contract, yet the sight of you looking through him made his blood run hot with a fever he couldn't justify.

Then, the rhythmic pounding of a staff echoed through the hall, silencing the chatter.

“The toasts!” Volstagg bellowed, standing up with a massive flagon raised high.

All the memorized lines had vaporized from Thor’s mind. Nothing was right, now that you weren't even acknowledging him.

He had to improvise.

Volstagg continued, “To the union of the High House and the Throne! To the future Queen who will keep our Thunderer in line!”

The hall erupted in a chorus of “To the bride!” and “To Asgard!”

Beside you, Thor stood slowly, his crimson cape and fur mantle shifting with a heavy rustle. He didn't look at the crowd nor did he look at his father. He looked down at you, his pupils blown wide, his jaw set in a hard, pained line that spoke of a pride wounded by a woman he claimed not to care for.

“A toast,” Thor murmured, his voice sounding like grinding stone,

“To the union of our houses, and to the vows we shall take when the sun next rises. To a future where we may learn to cherish one another, to find a common ground built on more than just duty and ancient laws. And to the hope that we might one day find a love that rivals the legends of old.”

The last sentence made you turn your head to him, meeting his tormented gaze.

He leaned down then, the scent of him enveloping you as he whispered the final words close to your ear, his voice barely a breath against your skin.

The hair on your arms stood up.

“And to the hope that one day, sunshine, you will look at me with something other than contempt.”

He straightened back up and drained his goblet in one smooth motion, his gaze never leaving yours as he did so.

Loki watched from your other side, his fingers tapping a restless, silent beat against the table.

Every noble in the Great Hall, every guard, and every servant was watching. Your parents and the All-Father were seated together, their eyes fixed on you, waiting for the traditional response that would seal the evening’s festivities.

“You will not make a toast, my lady?” Sif whispered to you, her keen eyes darting between your drained face and Thor’s brooding profile.

You cleared your throat, the collar of you dress suddenly feeling like it was tightening around your neck. The whispers of the maids about his mortal lover were still screaming in your mind, making his words about love and honesty feel like a cruel, elaborate joke.

“Right,” you murmured, your voice brittle. “Of course I will, Lady Sif.”

You stood, your midnight-velvet skirts falling into perfect, rigid lines. You lifted your gold-rimmed glass, the liquid inside shimmering under the chandeliers, and looked out over the sea of expectant faces, purposely avoiding the burning blue gaze of the man sitting next to you.

“To Asgard,” you began, your voice clear and cold, carrying a cutting edge. “To a realm built on tradition, on secrets, and on the strength of those who know how to play their parts perfectly. May we all find the comfort we seek in the roles we are forced to inhabit, and may the truth never be as heavy as the crowns we wear.”

You tilted your glass toward Thor—a gesture that was technically a salute but felt more like a challenge—and drank. The bitter-sweet mead burned your throat, matching the fire of the unacknowledged feelings and the hurt currently eating you alive.

Loki’s fingers stopped their restless tapping. He looked up at you, his green eyes flashing with a mix of genuine concern and dark intrigue. He knew that toast wasn't for the kingdom. It was a spear, aimed directly at his brother's heart.

—

You were in the dressing suite that smelled of lavender and expensive oils, and felt entirely devoid of oxygen. Your lady’s maids hovered like colorful moths, their nimble fingers tucking stray hairs and smoothing the rigid gold embroidery of your bodice. The dress was a masterpiece, molding to your frame until it felt less like fabric and more like a second, cold skin.

It was beautiful.

It was suffocating.

You tilted your head back, staring at the vaulted ceiling to force the hot, stinging tears back into their ducts.

You weren't fond of him—not really. He was loud, he was reckless, and he represented everything you hadn't chosen for yourself. But the humiliation of the secret was a different kind of pain. It was not only a political contract anymore. It was the realization that while you were being braced for a lifetime of duty, he was yearning for a mortal woman. You weren't his partner, no, you were the ornate lid he was using to bury his past.

The heavy oak doors groaned open, and your father stepped into the room. He looked at you, his chest swelling with a pride that felt like a betrayal.

“The moment has come,” he said, his voice steady and grounding. He walked toward you, resting a firm hand on your shoulder. “Are you ready to walk, my darling?”

You couldn't find your voice. You only nodded, the weight of the ancestral jewelry pulling at your neck.

“Thor is a great man,” your father murmured, misinterpreting the tremor in your hands for bridal nerves. “He has the heart of a king and the strength of a storm. He will be good to you. He will protect you.”

You offered him a smile that felt like it was made of cracked porcelain—brittle, sharp, and ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

You didn't believe him. You didn't believe in the great man who hid Midgardian scientists in his heart while standing at an Asgardian altar.

“I am sure he will, Father,” you whispered.

“Then let us go.” He held out his arm, a formal, rigid invitation.

I can do this, you told yourself, the words a mantra of survival. I can play the part. I can be the ghost.

You tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers grazing the fine wool of his ceremonial tunic. As he led you out of the room, the distant, low trill of the ceremonial horns began to echo through the halls.

As the massive doors of the Throne Room swung open, the sea of gold-clad nobles fell into a suffocating, expectant silence.

The aisle seemed to stretch for miles, a river of deep blue carpet leading toward the man who waited at the end. Thor stood before the All-Father, draped in his ceremonial plate, the crimson of his cape stark against the silver of his armor. He looked immovable, a pillar of thunder and ancient duty. But as you drew closer, you saw the way his jaw was set—rigid, pained, as if he were bracing for an impact.

Your father’s arm was a steady, grounding weight, but your focus was entirely on the Prince. His beautiful blue eyes were fixed on yours, unblinking and intense, searching your face for a sliver of the woman he’d shared a laugh with only days ago. Instead, he found only the sharp, porcelain mask of a bride walking to her sentence.

As you reached his side, the familiar scent of rain and leather enveloped you, a physical presence that made your breath hitch in the back of your throat.

He reached out, his large hand trembling almost imperceptibly as he took yours to lead you to the final step. The contact sent a spark of gold and static through your skin, a reminder of the power simmering between you—power that currently felt like a cage.

He leaned in, his voice a low, secret rasp that barely carried past the fur of his mantle.

“You look breathtaking, sunshine,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a desperate, raw honesty that made your heart ache with a sudden, violent flare of anger.

The nickname has always been a playful jab, but now it only felt like a lie designed to keep you quiet. You didn't look at him. You kept your gaze fixed on the All-Father, your profile as cold and sharp as a winter moon.

“Save your lines for the vows, Thor,” you murmured, your voice a brittle thread. “We both know you’ve had plenty of practice playing the part.”

Thor flinched as if you’d struck him, his grip on your hand tightening for a fraction of a second before he caught himself.

Beside him, Loki watched the exchange, his green eyes flashing with pity.

It was a rare sight indeed.

“Calm down, my lady,” Loki breathed, his voice a ghost of a sound as he stepped into place behind his brother. “Try not to break the Prince before the blessing is finished.”

You stood there, shoulder to shoulder with a man you didn't know if you could ever trust, while the weight of a kingdom and a secret mortal lover pressed down on you both.

The ceremony began, the ancient words of the All-Father washing over you like a tide, but all you could feel was the heat of Thor’s body next to yours and the suffocating realization that there was no turning back.

As the All-Father raised his spear, the atmosphere began to shimmer. Gold-flecked mist from your own magic began to swirl around your feet, coiling upward to meet the faint, blue-white arcs of electricity that danced off Thor’s armor.

“The Binding,” Odin’s voice boomed, echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a death knell. “Two souls, two powers, woven into one tapestry.”

You felt your fingers turning to ice, the blood retreating from your extremities as the reality of the moment settled into your bones. When Thor reached his other hand out, his large, calloused hand sliding against yours, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. The heat of him was staggering—a furnace of sun-warmed leather and raw, pulsing energy—but it was the contact that broke your composure.

The moment your palms pressed together, a literal spark erupted between you—a violent, beautiful fusion of gold and lightning that raced up your arms.

You both flinched, a mutual, instinctive jolt of surprise, but the magic held you fast. Your fingers were locked together by a force far greater than your own will, a magnetic force that refused to let you pull away.

Thor’s chest heaved, his breath coming in shallow hitches as he looked down at your joined hands, then up into your eyes. He looked dazed, as if the physical connection had short-circuited his very being.

Odin began the ancient incantations of the union, but the world had narrowed down to the heat of Thor's grip and the way his thumb brushed almost tentatively over your knuckles.

“The vows,” Odin commanded, his one eye fixed on his son.

Thor leaned in toward you, his massive frame casting a shadow over you, his voice dropping into a raw, gravelly register that shook with a force you weren't prepared for.

“I, Thor Odinson, take you to be my wife, my partner, and my equal,” he began, his blue eyes searching yours with a desperate, confused sincerity.

“I vow to stand before you in every storm and to shield your light with my own life if the need arises. I know we have walked a path of shadows and silence, and I know I have not always been the man you deserved. But I give you my word, here before the All-Father and the Nine Realms, that I will spend every day of our lives trying to be the man who earns the right to stand beside you.”

He paused, his voice cracking slightly,

“I choose you,” he whispered, so low only you could hear. “Not because I must, but because I cannot imagine the throne without you.”

Your eyebrows knitted desperately, your confused gaze not leaving his.

It was a beautiful lie. It was so perfectly, devastatingly sincere that for a fleeting second, you almost believed him. You almost forgot the whispers and the phantom of the mortal woman he’d left behind on Midgard.

But then, the cold weight of the star-spun silk reminded you of the role you were playing, and the broken smile returned to your lips.

You looked up at him, your gold-flecked eyes hard and bright, prepared to deliver the lines you had practiced until they bled.

You tore your gaze away from Thor, the heat from his hands still searing your skin where they were locked together in the magnetic pull of the binding. You needed to do this. You needed to play the role of the dutiful, silent replacement.

You looked up at the All-Father, your expression a perfectly crafted mask of icy, royal detachment. Your voice, when it came, was a smooth, even blade, cutting through the heavy silence of the Throne Room.

“I take you, Thor Odinson, as my husband and my King,” you recited, each word delivered with the sterile, practiced grace of a court official. “I pledge to stand as the shield of Asgard, to honor our alliance with my life, and to perform the duties required of this throne. I vow to build a future for this realm, to give it an heir, and to maintain the dignity of the crown until my very last breath.”

You didn't look at Thor as you spoke. You didn't offer him the hope of honesty or the comfort of a common ground. You gave him a contract, sealed in gold and ice, an answer to the desperate plea he’d made minutes ago.

You saw his jaw tighten, his blue eyes clouding with a complex mix of frustration and defeat as he registered the deliberate coldness of your response.

He was searching your face, starved for a single glance, a single thought, but found only the marble surface you intended for him to see.

Odin watched the two of you, the silence stretching uncomfortably. He saw the fire in his son and the ice in his bride, and a flicker of doubt crossed his face before it was replaced by a grim resolve.

“The union is witnessed,” Odin boomed, bringing Gungnir down in a definitive crash that sent a visible shockwave through the floorboards.

“You may kiss the bride.”

The command froze you. Thor didn't hesitate. He moved with a focused urgency, his large, burning hands moving to cup your face, his palms like branded irons against your skin.

You swallowed hard, your chest hitching as his right hand descended, settling firmly against your waist. The heat of his touch was instantaneous and undeniable, seeping through the structured star-spun silk.

His eyes searched yours, desperate, before they fluttered shut and he leaned in.

The moment his lips pressed against yours, the relief was so violent it felt like the force of a thousand stars. A soft sigh escaped you, mirrored by the low, guttural groan that vibrated in Thor’s chest as he sealed the contract. The unmoving state of your lips slowly starting to dissolve into a slow, gentle kiss. His lips were moving in a tender way, slowly kissing you, like he was afraid this moment would be taken from him.

Though, the gentleness of the seal didn't last. The kiss shifted instantly, turning into something raw and desperate, a mutual collision of two drowning people. Thor didn't hold back; his lips moved with a bruising need, his tongue grazing your lower lip as he angled his head, cradling you against him.

He was not only sealing a vow but he was trying to devour the shadow of the mortal woman he was supposed to love.

You were no better.

Your fingers found his massive biceps, nails digging in so hard you could feel the leather starting to give under the pressure. The gold of your magic sparked wildly against the static blue of his skin, a physical manifestation of the electricity arcing between you.

It felt right. In the middle of all the lies and the whispers, this—the heat, the desperation, the frantic need for ground—was the only thing that felt true. He was your anchor.

For that singular heartbeat, the storm inside of you stopped.

Odin’s impatient clearing of his throat cracked through the hall like a gunshot.

Loki leaned back, that familiar, devilish smile spreading across his face as he took in the spectacle.

Your chest was heaving as you pulled apart from Thor with a snap, the cold air of the room hitting your damp lips. You tore your gaze away immediately, staring at the floor, finding it hard to breathe.

Thor stood there, dazed, his hands hovering awkwardly in mid-air as if he didn't know where to put them, the regal Prince instantly replaced by a man who looked utterly undone by the ghost of a kiss.

You were both breathless.

You had found your anchors in the dark, but as you stood shoulder-to-shoulder to face the cheering crowd, the frustration was a physical ache in your throat. You were more trapped, and more confused, than you had ever been before.

Odin moved with a heavy stride, his golden spear thumping against the floor as he descended from the altar.

You wanted to move, too—to run, to hide, to do anything but exist in that space—but you were a statue, your feet rooted to the spot. Thor stayed put, his massive frame looming beside you, neither of you brave enough to break the silence.

“Are you two planning on spending the rest of the decade here?” Loki’s drawl cut through the tension like a blade. “Or is the dramatic scene a new part of the ceremony I wasn't informed of?”

You both jumped, snapping out of the trance as if you’d been physically struck. You turned to look at each other, but the moment your eyes nearly met, you both flinched away, unable to hold the contact. Thor cleared his throat, the sound small in the vast hall.

You focused on the broad, overwhelming line of his shoulders, your gaze fixed on the intricate silver work of his armor because you couldn't bear to look him in the eye. “Let's go downst—“

“Yes,” Thor cut you off, his deep voice dropping into a register that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. “My wife.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. My wife. Your heart started beating a violent rhythm against your ribcage, trying to break free of the suffocating dress. His eyes were burning into the side of your face, a heavy weight that made your skin feel too tight. You averted your eyes again, blinking rapidly.

He offered you his hand, an open invitation. “Let's go, then.”

When you made no move to take it—your body frozen in a silent protest you didn't understand—he didn't wait. He simply engulfed your trembling hand in his giant, warm palm. The feel of his hand was electric, making your skin tingle and your lungs constrict until you were sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

You looked down at your joined hands, your mouth agape and your brows knitted in a dreamy look.

Thor didn't look away. He was tracing the line of your knitted brows, his gaze descending slowly to the bridge of your nose before locking onto your parted lips. His own heart started thumping against his chest, a heavy, dull roar that he hoped you couldn't hear. Fuck, he thought, the word a silent curse in his mind. She is mesmerizing.

You lifted your head, catching the raw, unshielded intensity in his blue eyes. You gulped, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn't pull back. He couldn't help himself. “You’re the most breathtaking sight I have ever set my eyes upon in my life.”

The sincerity in his voice felt like a trap.

Is he playing a game with me?

You couldn't find a retort, your usual sharp tongue failing you as a hot, traitorous blush crawled up your cheeks. You turned your head, searching the space past him, expecting to see Loki’s mocking grin, but the spot where he’d stood was empty. He’d already descended.

Thor’s eyebrows furrowed, his expression darkening instantly.

“Are you looking for someone, sunshine?”

That unnerving sensation from the dinner was back, boiling in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn't feel like this—for you especially. But the suspicion was a blade carved in his chest.

You turned back to him, your voice small. “Yes. For Loki.”

Thor didn't respond with words. Instead, a burning, white-hot sensation engulfed him, something more primitive and violent than he had ever felt in his life. His grasp on your hand tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin with a possessive, crushing strength.

You had just married him, and you were already looking for his brother. Thor’s jaw locked, his eyes turning into a turbulent, dark sea as he began to lead you down the stairs, his thumb digging into your palm with a silent, furious warning.

He moved with a relentless, heavy stride, the crimson of his cape snapping behind him like a battle flag. You were forced into a hasty, uneven pace, your feet stumbling over your skirts just to keep from falling. One of his steps was equivalent to two of yours, and he was using every bit of that advantage.

“Thor, could you loosen your grip a little? You’re hurting my hand,” you said, your voice tight with rising irritation. He didn't even flinch. It was like he had suddenly developed hearing problems, his focus locked straight ahead, leading you to the feast.

“Thor? Do you not hear me?” you tried again, louder this time. He didn't turn back, just kept walking, his massive hand a crushing weight around yours. “Thor? What is wrong with you?”You exhaled a sharp sigh, closing your eyes for a brief second to beg the Norns for patience. “Are you deaf, husband?”

That stopped him. He halted in his tracks so abruptly you nearly collided with his back. He turned his head slowly, his profile silhouetted against the torchlight. “Yes, darling?”

The tone was honey over a blade.

He has to be fucking kidding. He stops now? He’s a prick.

“What is wrong with you?” you snapped, your brows knitted in a sharp, defensive line. “Are you not aware you’re a giant? You’re dragging me behind you like a rag doll!”

He turned fully toward you then, his gaze heavy and clouded. “My apologies, treasure.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Treasure. Now that was new. The word felt strange coming from him, a stark contrast to the territorial storm he was radiating. Your thumb instinctively grazed the back of his hand—a sliver of compassion that slipped through your guard before you could catch it. His eyes followed the movement of your thumb, his rigid posture softening.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice dropping. “Why are you so worked up?”

For a moment, it was as if you had cleared a thick fog from his mind. His expression shifted, the anger receding into something sharper, something more focused. “Stay away from Loki.”

You were taken aback, physically stepping away from him. The words felt like a slap.

So he thinks I am so beneath him that I am not even worthy of being friends with his brother.

You scoffed, a dry, bitter sound. “You have no say in that.”

He exhaled a harsh, hot breath through his nose, his eyes darkening to a turbulent navy. “I am your husband now. Yes, I do.”

You forced your hand out of his grip as if his skin had suddenly turned to white-hot iron. You stared at him, your eyes wide with disbelief at the sheer cruelty of his demand. Just as the retort was bubbling up in your throat—just as you were ready to tear into him, a feminine voice was heard.

“Can I steal your bride away, son?”

Frigga appeared between you like a calming tide. She didn't wait for an answer, her gentle but firm hands reaching out to intertwine her arm with yours. “I want to introduce her to some of my friends.”

She began to lead you away, her touch a stark contrast to Thor’s crushing grip. You let her drag you toward the sea of guests, but you couldn't help but look back over your shoulder. Thor stood exactly where you’d left him, a solitary, brooding figure in the middle of the hall, his hand still half-extended as if he were still trying to hold onto a ghost.

Frigga led you through the shimmering crowd, her presence a calm anchor in the sea of gold and loud laughter. She squeezed your arm gently, her voice a warm murmur meant only for your ears.

“I know the weight of a crown can be heavy, especially when it is placed on your head so suddenly,” she said, glancing at you with those knowing, maternal eyes. “But Thor is a good man. He is headstrong, yes, but he is clearly quite taken with you, dear.”

You nearly tripped over your own hem. You came to a dead stop, staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Thor? Are we actually talking about the same Thor, Queen Mother? What on earth makes you say that?”

She only offered a small, mysterious smile, undeterred by your skepticism. “I know my son. I’ve seen him in battle and I’ve seen him in love, and the way he looks at you... it is a different kind of storm entirely.”

You frowned, lines forming between your brows. “You must be mistaken,” you whispered.

She cannot be telling the truth. There is Jane. There is the ghost he actually wants.

Before you could press her further, she swept you toward a group of high-ranking noblewomen. “Ladies, may I introduce the new Princess of Asgard.”

The next twenty minutes were a blur of forced smiles and endless congratulations. You nodded and thanked them, your dress feeling heavier with every lie you told. She's wrong, you thought to yourself, watching the crowd. She has to be.

Suddenly, the sea of people parted. Loki appeared as if he had materialized from the shadows, his green silk tunic catching the light. He stepped forward with a predatory grace, offering a shallow, mocking bow to the ladies.

“If I may be so bold as to steal the woman of the hour,” Loki drawled, his eyes locked on yours. “I haven't properly congratulated my dearest friend on her promotion.”

You couldn’t help the cackle that left you at his words.

Promotion?

He’s an idiot.

Frigga gave a knowing nod, and Loki wasted no time whisking you away toward a quieter alcove behind a massive marble pillar. The second you were out of the immediate line of sight, the mask dropped. His expression turned uncharacteristically grave, his eyes searching your face.

“Alright,” he whispered, leaning in so close you could smell the faint scent of old books and magic. “The ceremony is over, the knot is tied. Now, tell me what happened. What is really eating at you, little bird?”

The tension that had been coiling in your chest like a wire finally snapped, replaced by the cool, familiar presence of the one person who actually saw you.

Loki’s proximity was a balm, a sanctuary of shared history that allowed your shoulders to finally drop from their rigid, defensive height.

He had been your confidant through every court scandal and every quiet rebellion, but this felt different.

How were you supposed to put this into words? How could you tell him his brother was a pretentious asshole, a man who had just stood at an altar and pledged a life of honesty while his heart beat for a mortal ghost? How could you explain that you were nothing but a gilded lid meant to bury his past?

Your expression soured, crumpling into a mask of pure agony that you couldn't hide from him. Loki’s neutral, mocking mask vanished instantly, his gaze sharpening with a rare, genuine concern. Without a word, he stepped into your space, his arms engulfing you in a firm, steadying hug. He pulled you against the cool silk of his tunic, his presence a silent vow of protection.

“Just tell me,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and grounding. “Tell me everything.”

For a heartbeat, you let yourself lean into him, thinking that no matter how suffocating this marriage became, you still had your friend.

But what you did not know was that Thor had seen everything. From across the crowded hall, he had watched Loki guide you away from Frigga and her friends, leading you into the shadows of the alcove.

He had seen the way you went willingly, the way your guard dropped for his brother in a way it never had for him.

He had followed, his heavy boots silent against the stone, his blood beginning to boil with a heat he still couldn't name.

And he was not happy with the scene he was witnessing.

A shadow fell over the both of you, massive—intimidating.

“What are you two doing here?”

Thor’s voice boomed, a low-frequency rumble that vibrated in your teeth and sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your system. You jumped, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pulled back from Loki, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Thor stood at the entrance of the alcove, his crimson cape billowing slightly as if caught in an invisible wind. His blue eyes were turbulent, flashing with a dangerous heat as he took in the sight of his brother holding his bride. His jaw was set so hard you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his gaze fixed on Loki.

“We are talking, as you can see,” Loki stated, his voice smooth and dangerously calm, though his eyes remained fixed on his brother’s volatile expression.

But Thor wasn’t having it. A storm barely contained beneath his skin.

“Do not lie to me. What is going on with you two?”

He was beyond furious; he was vibrating with a heat that seemed to shrink the very walls of the alcove.

“Thor, have you gone mad?” you snapped, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “What are you implying? Loki and I have been friends since forever and you know that. We all grew up together, for gods' sake!”

Thor didn't answer immediately. He closed his eyes, his jaw working as he fought for some semblance of control. He held out his hand, a silent, heavy command. “Come here.”

You looked at his hand—large, calloused, and still pulsing with a faint blue light—and then back to his agitated face.

He has gone mad, you thought, a cold shiver tracing your spine. He was being possessive because you were his wife; he saw you merely as his property, a prize to be guarded.

“Come here,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a pained, gravelly register. “Before I lose my fucking mind.”

He looked tortured when he opened his eyes, his blue orbs blown wide and dark with a conflict he couldn't contain. Your hand finally found his, and the moment your skin touched, he released a sharp breath, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he’d been given a hope of life again. Without a word, he turned, his grip tightening as he started walking away, taking you with him and leaving Loki in the shadows.

“You can't just do this, you know!” you started, your anger finally seeping through the cracks of your regal mask.

You waited until you were out in the corridors, the sounds of the feast fading into a dull roar behind heavy stone walls. Once you were sure no one was watching, you started yelling, your voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “You cannot claim me like that and go have a fucking mistress, Thor!”

He stopped then. He turned to you, his brows knitted in a look of pure confusion. “Are you hearing yourself, my treasure? There is no mistress.”

You scoffed, a dry, bitter sound. You were done with his pathetic lies.

You tried to tear your hand away from his iron-like grip, your nails digging into the leather of his bracers. “I’m talking about Jane, Thor!”

The name hit the air like a physical strike. Thor’s expression shifted instantly from anger to a stunned, hollowed-out confusion. “How do you know about her?”

“Oh, so now you’re not denying it?” You were still struggling, your chest heaving as the star-spun silk of your gown constricted your lungs. “Let go of my hand this instant!”

He didn't move. He looked like he’d been turned to stone by the sound of her name. Frustrated and feeling the walls closing in, you didn't wait for him to find his words. You summoned a sharp, concussive burst of your gold magic, the energy slamming into his chest and forcing him to take a stumbling step back.

The physical break felt like a release of pressure. You took a gasping breath, the heat of him finally receding. You turned and started walking through the corridors, your heels clicking sharply against the marble.

“Do not follow me!” you threw over your shoulder, not looking back to see the pained, fractured look on your husband's face as he stood alone in the dark.

The clicking of your heels on the marble was a frantic, uneven beat, but then you heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps behind you.

“Do you even know where you are going?” he called out, his voice closing the distance with terrifying ease.

Your steps were no match for his giant ones. Panicked and fueled by a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you started running—or trying to, at least, while wrestling with the weight of your wedding gown and the height of your heels. The gown felt like a cage around your legs, threatening to tangle you at every turn.

“I am going to my room!” you threw over your shoulder, your breath hitching.

“And do you know where your room is?”

You didn't have the slightest clue, but you weren't about to give him the satisfaction. “I do!”

“Oh, please do show me where it is then, my dear wife,” he responded, his voice dripping with a dry sarcasm that made you want to scream.

You rounded a corner too sharply, your foot catching on the hem of your dress. You stumbled, a small gasp escaping you as you nearly hit the floor, but you forced yourself to keep going, your heart hammering against your ribs. Behind you, the mocking tone in Thor's voice vanished instantly.

“Would you please stop? You're going to fall, my treasure,” he called out, his tone shifting into something desperate and pained. “I beg of you—where are you even going?!”

You had no intention of stopping. You saw a set of massive, ornate doors and barged through them, desperate for sanctuary. But as you crossed the threshold, his hand caught your arm with a firm, inescapable grip.

He stopped you—he pulled your body towards him, spinning you around so quickly that the world blurred for a second. Your back hit the heavy wood of the door with a dull thud, and suddenly, he was there, crowding into your space. You do not even know when he closed the doors.

He made you face him, his hands gripping your upper arms as he pinned you against the door. Your faces were inches apart—close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against your lips and see the desperate look in his blue eyes.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of both of your chests heaving in the quiet of the room. He looked as if he wanted to yell and pull you closer all at once, his jaw set in that tortured line as he stared down at you.

“Do you even know where you've run off to without noticing?” he whispered, his voice low, a strong vibration that seemed to hum right against your skin.

He leaned in further, his nose brushing against yours, forcing you to look up. His gaze dropped to your lips, a heavy, focused weight that made your pulse erratic. You gulped, the sound loud in the sudden quiet of the room. “No,” you breathed, your voice barely a thread.

Your breathing was becoming dangerously uneven.

A sudden, sharp nervousness flared in your chest, a heat that had nothing to do with the palace's warmth.

Had you always felt this way? Was this the real reason you had spent years perfecting the art of avoiding him—because the gravity of his presence was too much to fight?

“You were right,” he murmured, a slow, dark smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You did know where you were going.”

He lifted his gaze slowly, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a physical grip. “These are my chambers—our chambers. You did find your room.”

Our? Is he out of his mind?

“Our chambers?” you repeated, the words tasting like copper in your mouth. “We’re going to sleep in the same room? I don’t have my own?”

The heavy silk of your gown felt colder now. You could feel a light breeze drifting in from the open balcony, grazing your right side and sending a violent shiver up your spine. The room was vast, filled with the scent of leather and mountain air, but it felt smaller than the alcove with him standing this close.

“Yes, our chambers. Congratulations, sunshine, we are going to be roommates.” Thor replied, smiling in a devilish way you never thought it possible for him to have it in him. Then his expression hardened into something more pragmatic, though his eyes never left yours. “How do you think our fathers would feel if they noticed us sleeping in separate rooms on our wedding night?”

He stayed rooted in your space, his hands still firm on your arms.

He knew he was acting irrational, but the moment he had seen the maids preparing a separate suite for you, something in him had snapped. He’d dismissed them with a sharp word, claiming you would be staying with him—an impulse he’d rather face Surtur than admit to you.

Your mouth was agape, your body frozen like a deer caught in headlights. “I—“ you started, but the words died in your throat.

A traitorous blush crept up your neck and flooded your cheeks. The realization of what this meant hit you with the force of a thousand stars.

Staying in the same room was one thing, but sharing that massive, fur-draped bed? On your wedding night? Oh, gods.

You looked down, suddenly overwhelmed by a shyness that felt entirely too vulnerable. Because the truth was, you wanted it. You weren't blind. You had spent years sharpening your tongue against him precisely because you wanted him so badly it hurt. You just couldn't admit it to yourself, until now.

He had always been irritatingly handsome—those silky golden locks that framed his face, that massive, powerful frame that made you feel so small, and that face that seemed carved by the gods themselves.

His left hand slowly ascended from your arm, his large fingers tracing the line of your shoulder before coming to cradle your face with a reverence that felt almost holy. At the same time, his right hand slid around your waist, his grip tightening as he glued you to his front. The heat of him through the fabric was staggering. Your hands instinctively found his chest, feeling the heavy thud of his heart beneath the silver plates of his armor.

“Look at me, my sun,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly command.

You lifted your gaze, and the breath died in your lungs. The blue of his eyes had darkened into a turbulent sea of burning desire.

Fuck, he wanted you. This wasn't just a role for the All-Father anymore. He had carried a crush on you since you were children, a quiet thing tucked behind boyish bravado, but it had morphed into something far more dangerous as he watched you grow.

You were killing him. Your figure, which could put the goddesses of the higher realms to shame, and that smooth, soft skin that seemed to catch the light of the sun itself—it was all his undoing.

He was captivated by your eyes, the most beautiful he had ever seen, yet he was equally maddened by the sharp, snarky tongue that had kept him at arm’s length for years. Every snide remark and cold shoulder had only fueled the fire, making the want for you a permanent ache in his marrow.

You felt naked under his gaze, stripped of every royal defense. The massive chamber, with its high vaulted ceilings and sprawling balconies, felt suddenly, claustrophobically small with him inside it. He had a way of making the world shrink until there was only him.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You didn't give him a verbal answer; you couldn't find the air for one. Instead, your hands moved, your fingers tangling in those silky golden locks as you cradled his face. You pulled him down, pressing your lips to his burning ones with a desperation that shattered the last of your resolve.

He reciprocated almost immediately, his groan lost against your mouth as his hand slid to the back of your head, fingers tangling deep into your hair to tilt you further into him. His lips were moving in a desperate rhythm, unravelling you in a way that made you feel impossible things. The sensation of his smooth lips gliding over yours made the world tilt on its axis, leaving you high on the sheer proximity of him.

When he proceeded to graze his tongue along the seam of your lips, the last of your resolve simply evaporated. You moaned helplessly, the sound vibrating between you, and he took the opportunity to slam you back into the door. As your lips parted, he glided his tongue over yours, taking everything you were willing to give and demanding more.

You’ve never kissed anyone like this. You’ve never been kissed by anyone like this—with a hunger that felt like it could consume the entire realm.

His hands, large and trembling with a sudden, hasty energy, found the back of your gown. You felt the cool air of the chambers hit your skin as he slowly, methodically undid the laces of the corset. He broke the kiss then, his breath coming in shallow hitches as he watched the star-spun silk lose its grip and pool in a shimmering heap at your feet.

His eyes roamed over you, taking in the sight of your white lace matching set against your smooth skin. “Fuck,” he murmured, his voice a broken, gravelly rasp. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as if the sight were too much to bear, before looking back at you with a raw, enchanted look in his eyes. “I’ve never seen a woman as beautiful as you, my treasure.”

His right hand descended from your waist, his palm burning a trail down your skin until it hooked under your left leg. He lifted it with effortless strength, pinning you firmly against the wood of the door as he crowded back into your space, his forehead resting against yours.

“My beautiful, breathtaking wife,” he whispered, the words vibrating against your skin and sinking into your bones.

You looked up at him, your gaze dazed and heavy-lidded. Your lips were swollen from the friction of his kisses, your hair a tangled mess against the dark wood of the door. Your chest rose and fell in slow, shallow hitches, every breath a struggle in the state you were in. You were completely and utterly undone, stripped of the royal mask and the sharp defenses you’d spent years building.

And you liked it. You loved being undone by him, finally yielding to the gravity that had been pulling at you since childhood.

You gulped, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. “Just keep kissing me, please,” you begged, your voice a fractured, desperate thread.

A slow, triumphant smile pulled at his lips. It was as if he had been dropped directly into one of his most fevered fantasies, the reality of you in his arms finally eclipsing the years of longing. His lips found yours again, deeper and more possessive this time, as your left hand rose to cradle his right cheek, your skin feeling the rough heat of his stubble. Your right hand gripped his massive shoulder, your nails digging into the hard muscle as if trying to anchor yourself to the earth.

He didn't break the kiss as his left hand moved to the heavy, fur-collared cape at his shoulders. With a single, fluid motion, he discarded it, the heavy fabric falling to the marble floor with a dull thud.

The chamber was filled with the scent of leather and the warmth of his skin as his hand moved from your waist to hook under your right leg. With effortless, terrifying strength, he lifted you up completely. You let out a soft, sharp gasp, your legs instinctively circling his waist to hold on.

The motion brought you flush against him, your private parts rubbing together through the thin lace of your matching set and the heavy fabric of his trousers. The friction was delicious, a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat that made your toes curl and your head fall back against the door.

He groaned, his face faliing into your neck, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessive, crushing strength.

“My treasure,” he started, his voice dropping into a low rumble as he looked down at you, trying to use your dazed state to his advantage. “What is going on between you and my brother?”

He realized his mistake the second the question left his lips, but his pride—and that gnawing ache in his chest—wouldn't let him take it back.

The question hit you like a bucket of ice water. The haze of pleasure evaporated instantly, leaving you cold and vibrating with a sharp, sudden clarity. You stopped breathing for a heartbeat, the memory of his earlier cruelty in the corridor rushing back to drown out the heat of the moment.

Thor watched as you pulled away, the warmth of your skin replaced by a biting chill that seemed to seep into the room.

“Let me down, Thor,” you demanded, your voice flat and hard.

He furrowed his brows, his jaw tightening as he refused to loosen his grip. You hadn't answered him, and in his mind, your silence was a confession. The heat in his eyes shifted from desire to a dark, simmering hellfire. “You love him, then?”

“Thor—“

“You will not see him again,” he snarled, his hold on your legs tightening until it was almost painful. “I forbid you.”

You scoffed, a dry, incredulous sound. He was unbelievable. A possessive, arrogant hypocrite. “What if I do, Thor? You cannot forbid me from doing anything. You are not my owner.”

You fought against him, forcefully sliding your left leg down, then your right, until your feet hit the cold marble. He opened his mouth to roar back an answer, but you cut him off with a finger pointed at his chest.

“Before you open your mouth, be mindful of your words,” you snapped, your eyes flashing with a righteous fury. “You forbid me from seeing him while you have Jane? Might I remind you of that? I am merely mirroring your actions.”

You cleared your throat, the sound sharp in the quiet of the room. Thor looked like he had been struck, his face pale. “You don't understand, my sun—“

“I will go now,” you cut him off again, refusing to let him poison the air with more excuses. “Consider our wedding night done.”

He lifted his arm, reaching out to catch you, to pull you back into the heat, but you were faster. You kneeled down, sliding back into the star-spun silk of your wedding gown with practiced, frantic grace. You didn't even bother with the laces; you held the fabric against your chest, your dignity the only thing you had left.

You turned back to the massive doors, your hand gripping the handle.

“Where are you going?” he called out, his voice sounding broken, almost small.

You did not answer. You stepped out into the dark, silent corridor and slammed the heavy wood shut in his face. The sound echoed like a funeral bell. You were alone, half-dressed in the heart of the palace, and you had to find somewhere to sleep—anywhere that didn't smell like him.

—

You woke up to the morning sun creeping through the heavy curtains, the light feeling like needles against your skin. You winced, a dull ache throbbing behind your temples—a parting gift from the adrenaline and tears of the night before.

You weren't in the royal wing. You were in a guest room, tucked away in a quiet corner of the palace. One of your lady’s maids had found you in the corridor last night—shaking, half-undressed, and clutching your gown to your chest like a shield. She hadn't asked questions, for which you were eternally grateful; she had simply ushered you into this room with a hushed efficiency, shielding your shame from the rest of the court.

You were a married woman now. By all accounts, you should have been waking up to the warmth of a husband and the pride of your new title. You were the Princess of Asgard. But as you stared at the unfamiliar gold-leafed ceiling, the palace walls felt less like a home and more like a tomb closing in on you.

With a heavy sigh, you slid the silken covers aside. Your movements were slow, your body feeling weighed down by a leaden exhaustion. You sat up, sliding your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet meeting the cold, polished floor.

It was your honeymoon. In any other circumstance, this would be a time of celebration, of travel or private intimacy. But for you, the calendar was terrifyingly blank. Except for the breakfast today, there were no duties, no meetings with the Council, no diplomatic galas to hide behind. You had nothing to do but exist in the wreckage of your wedding night.

Usually, a lady’s maid would be fluttering about you now, readying the new bride for her first public appearance. But you didn't have the patience for their hushed whispers or the energy to endure their pitying glances. You had always been the architect of your own strength; no matter how much your world crumbled, you never let the cracks show.

Moving with a slow, deliberate grace, you settled for your own skillful hands. You reached for a chiffon lavender gown, the fabric soft and bruised like a twilight sky. You sat before the vanity, masking the exhaustion with practiced precision—a touch of shimmering eyeshadow to brighten your eyes, a sharp, regal wing of eyeliner to sharpen your gaze. You pinned your hair back until not a single strand was out of place, a crown of gold that felt more like armor. You looked at your reflection, decided it was enough, and stood. You wouldn't give Thor the satisfaction of seeing you ruined.

The Grand Hall of Asgard was a symphony of gold and morning light, but for you, it felt like a gilded cage. This was the “Morning of the Union,” a tradition you had always found archaic—the high society of Asgard gathered to scrutinize the newlyweds, hunting for any sign of weakness or discord.

Your gaze found him immediately. Thor was dressed in his royal finery, his golden hair caught in the morning light, looking every bit the hero-prince the realms worshipped. He was sitting stiffly in his ceremonial chair, his massive frame looking cramped and restless. Odin was leaning toward him, murmuring something in a low, stern tone.

The moment you entered his line of sight, Thor stopped listening to his father. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a heartbeat, the volatile anger from the night before was replaced by a look of raw, unadulterated hunger. He took in the way the lavender fabric clung to your curves and the way you held your head high despite the wreckage of your wedding night.

“The Princess has arrived,” Odin announced, his voice booming through the hall.

Thor stood up immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the stone. He stepped toward you, his hand outstretched as if he had every right to touch you, his presence filling the air with that familiar, heavy heat.

“You look...” he started, his voice a low rumble that lacked its usual bravado. He looked pained, as if seeing you so beautiful and yet so distant was a torture he couldn’t endure.

“I am here,” you said, your voice cool and perfectly level. You ignored his hand, moving past him to take your seat. “Let the tradition be served so we can be done with it.”

The rejection was visible. Thor’s hand curled into a fist before he sat back down, the air around him beginning to vibrate with a restless energy.

“Some honey for your bread, my sun?” He asked, his voice forced and unnervingly gentle as he reached for a jar.

“No, thank you, Prince Thor,” you replied, your voice as sharp as a Northern frost. You didn't even look at him, focusing instead on the steam rising from your tea.

Thor’s hand paused in mid-air. The use of his title was a slap to the face, a clear reminder that the intimacy of the previous night was dead and buried.

Across the table, Loki hid a smirk behind his cup of wine, his green eyes dancing with the chaos of it all.

The heavy doors of the hall swung open, and Commander Tyr entered. Tyr had been the one man who had almost convinced you that love was possible. He was tall, scarred, and had spent years trying to win your hand before suddenly—and mysteriously—withdrawing his interest three years ago. As he approached Odin to deliver his report, his eyes instinctively sought yours. There was a raw, aching longing in his gaze that hadn't faded with time.

As he bowed low before you now, his eyes lingered on the swell of your breasts beneath the chiffon, his gaze full of the regret of a man who had lost his greatest treasure.

“Princess,” Tyr murmured, his voice thick, bowing his head toward you with more reverence than he showed the All-Father. “May I offer my congratulations? Asgard has never seen a more radiant bride.”

The sound of metal snapping echoed through the hall.

You looked over to see that Thor had completely crushed the silver handle of his chalice. His knuckles were white, his blue eyes fixed on Tyr with murder written in them.

“The Commander's congratulations are noted,” Thor spat, his voice like grinding stones. He leaned toward Tyr, his presence suddenly suffocatingly large. “Now, I believe you have troops to inspect. Or have you forgotten your place in this court?”

Tyr stiffened, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword by instinct. “I meant no offense, My Prince. I was merely—“

“You were staring,” Thor interrupted, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet register that made the hair on your arms stand up. “And I have half a mind to gouge out those eyes for even thinking they are worthy of looking at her.”

The Hall went dead silent.

“Thor, be civil,” Frigga chided gently, but her eyes were worried.

You scoffed, finally turning to look at your husband. “He was being polite, Thor. Something you might want to practice. Tyr has always been a gentleman.”

Thor’s jaw set so hard you thought his teeth might break. He leaned in close, his scent of rain and heated metal surrounding you. “He is looking at you like he still has a right to you,” he hissed under his breath, so low only you could hear. “He was lucky I let him keep his head the first time he tried to touch you. I will not be so merciful a second time.”

You froze. What is he talking about?

The first time?

You looked at him, your heart skipping a beat. “What did you do to him three years ago?”

Thor turned his head toward you, his eyes turning into the ones of a madman. “He cannot look at what is mine,” he said, “I made sure he understood that you were never an option for the likes of him. I would have torn the Nine Realms apart before I let any other man put a ring on your finger. You were always going to be mine.”

The confession hit you like an explosion.

You finally came to the realization that every time a man courted you, after a while they left you. They always came up with a reason to stop seeing you.

Every single one of them. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they were into you—they always left you, one way or another.

For all this time you kept thinking there was something wrong with the way you were acting—not your looks, never your looks. You were painfully aware that you are drop dead gorgeous, so they were too.

And the very reason was incredibly close to you, but not you.

It was him.

It was fucking him.

He had been haunting your life for years, threatening every suitor behind your back before the both of you even knew you were promised to one another.

You were left gaping at him, your pulse hammering so violently in your throat it felt like it might choke you. Every rejection, every sudden disappearance of a man who had sworn his devotion—it all clicked into place with a sickening snap.

He didn't even look ashamed. Instead, he leaned in closer, his blue eyes searching yours with a chilling intensity. “Where were you last night?” he demanded, his voice dropping into a low, possessive growl. “Where did you sleep?”

It was as if he hadn't just admitted to systematically dismantling your entire personal life for years. You felt a sharp, disbelieving breath leave your lips. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Thor didn't blink, his expression dead serious. “As you can see, I am serious. Were you with Loki? Did you go to him?”

A jagged, hysterical laugh ripped from your throat. You were going out of your mind; the sheer audacity of his question, combined with the revelation of his long-term stalking, sent you into an angered state of pure disbelief.

His eyebrows furrowed at the sound of your laughter, his jaw tightening again. “I can’t believe you just fucking asked me that!” you hissed, leaning into his space until your noses nearly touched. “No, I wasn't with Loki, for gods' sake! You are mentally ill, Thor. You actually fucking chased all my suitors away? You sabotaged my life before you even had a claim to it?”

Thor didn't flinch. Instead, he released a long, relieved breath, his shoulders losing a fraction of their tension as if your lack of infidelity was the only thing that mattered.

“Yes, I did,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were discussing the weather rather than his obsession.

“You say it like it's no big deal!” you whispered, your hands curling into fists against the fine linen of the tablecloth. “You spent years isolating me, making me think I was the problem, while you were off doing whatever—whoever—you wanted!”

“I was ensuring my future,” he corrected, his voice hardening. “I was sure of what I wanted long before I knew the All-Father put it in a contract. I wasn't going to let some lesser man touch what belonged to me.”

“I am not an object, Thor!” you hissed, the words vibrating with a mixture of fury and a sudden, confusing rush of heat.

The realization that he hadn't been forced into this—that he had been actively, ruthlessly clearing the path to you for years—changed everything. It wasn't just a cold alliance or a burden he was forced to carry. He had wanted this. He had wanted you.

Thor’s gaze didn't waver. He didn't look like a man who had done something wrong; he looked like a man who had successfully defended his kingdom. “I never said you were,” he countered, his voice dropping into a private register as he leaned closer, his scent of rain and warm sandalwood drowning out the smell of the breakfast feast. “But you are my wife. And you have always been the only woman I intended to stand beside.”

You did not respond to him, not having the energy to do so, you merely turned your head from him.

Thor’s jaw tightened at your dismissal. He hadn't meant to lay his cards on the table so recklessly, but the sight of Tyr’s lingering gaze had acted like a spark in a powder keg. Now that the truth was out—that he had been the silent architect of your isolation, the shadow that scared away every man who dared to love you—he expected fire. He expected your sharp tongue to lash out and your anger to fill the hall.

He didn't expect this cold, hollow silence.

You now fully turned back to your plate, the lavender chiffon of your sleeves fluttering as you picked up your fork with a hand that trembled only slightly.

A part of you, a dark, hidden corner of your soul, reveled in the idea of being so fiercely desired that a God would sabotage the realms for you.

But the rest of you was drowning in the betrayal of it.

“You are not going to say anything?” Thor asked, his voice laced with a growing confusion.

He leaned toward you, his massive presence usually enough to command the attention of any room, but you remained a statue of ice. You took a slow bite of your meal, the food tasting like ash, but you chewed and swallowed as if he weren't there at all.

“Sunshine?” he tried again, his voice dropping an octave, sounding uncharacteristically small.

You finally looked up, but not with the fire he wanted. Your eyes were dead, reflecting the wreckage of a trust you hadn't even realized was being built. “What do you want me to say, Thor?” you asked, your voice a flat, dangerous whisper. “Please stop talking. I have no intention of listening to you. I do not want to hear a single thing out of your mouth. Stay away from me.”

You dropped your gaze back to your plate, effectively cutting the invisible thread between you.

Thor sat frozen, his hand still hovering near yours on the table. He was used to your snark, your temper, and your wit. He was used to the woman who fought him at every turn. But this silence? It made him feel hollow, as if he had finally won the prize he spent years fighting for, only to find he’d broken it in the process.

He watched you eat, his blue eyes searching your face for a crack in the silence. The persistent hum of his lightning felt subdued, replaced by a heavy, sinking weight in his chest. He had cleared the path to you, yes. He had ensured no other man would ever claim you. But as you sat there, refusing to even acknowledge his existence, Thor realized that owning your hand in marriage was nothing compared to the war he had just started for your heart.

—

Every word Thor had admitted played on a loop in your mind—a haunting, rhythmic reminder that your life had been curated by his hand long before you wore his ring. It was torture to realize that while you were questioning your own worth, wondering why every man you cared for eventually fled, he had been the one pulling the strings.

He was one lucky bastard; the royal arrangement had merely been the final piece of a puzzle he’d been building for years.

You were back in the main chambers now. The guest room had been a sanctuary for only one night, but the walls of the palace had ears, and the whispers had already begun.

The marriage is falling apart.

The new Princess isn't enough to hold the God of Thunder's interest.

They saw you as the problem, the weak link in the golden chain of Asgard.

You were in the middle of pulling on your brown leather armor, your movements sharp and fueled by a need to shed the damsel persona the court had forced upon you. You were in only your fitted leather pants and a simple bra when the heavy doors groaned open.

Thor barged in, his expression stormy and distracted, clearly not expecting to find you there. He froze in the doorway, the room suddenly thickening with a familiar, suffocating heat.

You hastily reached for your leather vest, sliding it on and buckling the straps with practiced, trembling fingers. You refused to let him see you vulnerable, not after he’d admitted to stalking your heart like prey.

“Apologies,” he said, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always seemed to make your skin prickle. “I didn't think you’d be here.”

“I was just leaving,” you replied, your voice flat. You spared him no glance, focusing entirely on the silver fastenings of your gauntlets.

His gaze was roaming over you, taking in the sight of your arms and the way the rugged leather hugged your figure.

“What’s with the attire?” he asked, his eyes focused as they tracked the curve of your waist.

“Going to the training grounds, husband,” you replied, the title dripping with a cold, mocking irony.

“What will you do there?” he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

You paused, finally cutting your eyes toward him. “You must be unwell, Thor. I’m going to train, like I do in my spare time. What else would one do in the pits?”

He looked as if you had just spoken in a forgotten tongue. He hadn't expected this.

In all the years of his obsession, the years he spent lurking in your shadows and threatening your suitors, he had somehow remained blind to this part of you. He had seen the the radiant goddess in perfectly fitted dresses, but he had never imagined the warrior beneath.

“I thought...” He trailed off, his eyes dark with a sudden, surging interest. “I thought you only spent your time there to practice your magic with the healers.”

“Then you haven't been paying as much attention as you thought,” you snapped, grabbing your twin daggers from the bed and sliding them into the sheaths at your thighs.

The sight of the steel against your skin seemed to do something to him.

Thor’s breath hitched, his gaze fixed on your hands as you checked the blades. For a man who lived for the glory of battle, seeing his wife transition into a lethal force was a total system shock.

The blood was already beginning to rush to his southern regions, his pupils dilating as he watched you prepare for violence.

He had cleared the path to you because he wanted to protect you, to own you—but seeing you like this, ready to draw blood, made him realize he hadn't just married a wife.

He had married a match.

“I'm coming with you,” he stated, his voice now a commanding rumble.

“I told you at breakfast, husband,” you said, walking toward the door and forcing him to step back or be trampled. “Stay away from me.”

“And I did not ask, dear wife,” Thor countered, his voice an immovable rumble that vibrated through the stone floor beneath your boots. He didn't wait for your permission; he simply turned and followed you through the winding gold-leafed halls, his massive frame casting a long, imposing shadow that seemed to swallow your own.

He was like a guard dog, really—every time you took two faster steps, trying to outrun the heavy thud of his boots, he matched your pace effortlessly. It was like he was designed to expect the moves you were about to do before you.

He was half-crazed with the lingering feelings from the breakfast encounter, his mind clearly stuck on the way Tyr had dared to look at you, his left hand closing in a fist time to time.

The silence between you was suffocating, filled only by the sharp strike of your footsteps.

For all these years, you had lived under the crushing belief that he despised you—that you were a burden he was forced to bear. You had built walls of ice and practiced your sharpest wit to protect yourself from his perceived hatred, only to find out the situation was the exact opposite. He hadn't been avoiding you, he had been gatekeeping you, ruthlessly clearing the field until he was the only one left.

But the confusion still burned like acid in your throat. Then why has he gone to her? Why does he have her? You tried to swallow the lump of resentment, but the thought of that Midgardian woman consumed you, igniting a dark, territorial side of your soul you hadn't known existed.

He is my husband, you thought.

By law, by magic, and by his own admission. He is mine.

You shook your head, your hair whipping against your neck. Stop thinking. Just move.

You reached the training grounds, scent of dust and the metallic tang of clashing steel filling in your nostrils.

A few younger soldiers were already there, their bare torsos glistening with sweat as they sparred in the center pit.

The moment they caught sight of you in your rugged brown leather armor, the soldiers faltered. Their eyes traveled over the sharp, structured lines of your gear, the twin daggers strapped to your thighs, and the fierce, lethal beauty of your expression.

They were young, and their admiration was written plainly across their faces as they took in the sight of their new Princess looking ready for war.

Thor felt the air in his lungs turn to fire. His blue eyes swept the room, landing on each soldier with a look that promised a swift and painful end to anyone who let their gaze linger a second too long.

He stepped closer to you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours—his hand hovering over your waist, making it undeniably clear to everyone in the pits exactly who you belonged to.

He was breathing heavily, the sight of you in this environment, surrounded by men and dressed for violence, sending a surge of heat straight to his lungs. He had spent years obsessing over you from afar, but seeing you here, in his world of grit and steel, was more than his self-control could handle. He didn't just want to watch you train, he wanted to remind every man in Asgard that you were the one treasure they weren't even allowed to dream of touching.

You readied yourself, stepping into the center of the pit with a predatory grace. You scanned the line of younger soldiers, choosing one who looked particularly capable, and announced with a sharp, clear voice that you wanted to spar.

Their demeanors shifted, the soldiers stood straighter, their faces lighting up with a mixture of excitement and nerves at the prospect of testing their steel against the breathtaking new Princess.

But just as they were stepping forward, Thor held up his right hand. It was a silent, kingly command that froze every man in his tracks, his movements smug.

You rolled your eyes, the leather of your gear creaking as you shifted your weight. “Let me guess,” you said, your voice dripping with exhaustion at his relentless antics. “You want to be the one to spar with me.”

He smiled—that dashing, heart-stopping grin that had graced a thousand tapestries, the one that made you want to both kiss him and punch him in the jaw.

“Exactly, my love,” he rumbled, the endearment hitting you like a blow, making your heart stop for a treacherous beat. “You know me so well. I noticed we truly were made for each other.”

He was an arrogant, handsome asshole, and he knew it.

You forced your expression into a thin, reptilian smile, refusing to let him see how that name had affected you.

“Fine,” you said, your voice coming out as a dangerous purr. “But what I have truly noticed is that you are quite like a leech, husband. You never leave me to be.”

Thor’s eyes darkened at the insult, but the grin didn't leave his face. If anything, it grew more heated.

He began to unbuckle his own bracers, his gaze never leaving yours, tracking the way your chest heaved with suppressed rage. The soldiers scrambled out of the pit, sensing the tension radiating from the Prince.

“A leech?” Thor repeated, stepping into the dust of the ring. He moved toward you until you could feel the radiant heat coming off his body, the scent of rain thick enough to choke on. “I prefer to think of myself as a man who simply knows the value of what he holds. Now, draw your steel, wife. Let's see if that tongue is the only thing you have that cuts.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, “You will see,” the words a promise that vibrated in the small space between you.

Then, the dance began.

His crushing, immovable frame against your lethal, flickering speed. You moved like liquid , your daggers spinning in your palms as you sought the gaps in his defense.

Thor, usually the storm that broke the world, was uncharacteristically still. He couldn't think straight; the sight of you moving with such predatory grace, the leather of your gear creaking with every strike, had his mind clouded in a haze of heat and disbelief.

He didn't want to hurt you. He couldn't fight back—not truly. The thought of raising a hand to you in a violent way was an impossibility, a sacrilege he wouldn't commit.

Instead, he played a game of pure evasion. Every time you lunged, he drifted just out of reach, his large hands coming out not to strike, but to deflect. He caught your wrists with a touch that was too lingering, his palms grazing your skin in places that sent a jolt through your system, staggering your breathing.

Your expression twisted into one of pure irritation. “What do you think you're doing? Fight me back!” you snapped, your frustration boiling over. Your moves became more violent, your strikes faster and more desperate to draw blood, to make him acknowledge you as a warrior and not just a prize. You spun, a blur of steel and leather, forcing him to backtrack toward the edge of the pit.

You were a whirlwind, and for a moment, even the God of Thunder looked overwhelmed by the sheer, beautiful violence of your spirit.

But in your blind rage, the ground betrayed you.

Just as you pivoted to drive a hard kick into his chest, your ankle turned in a gut-wrenching, sickening snap. The sudden loss of balance sent you spiraling. In the frantic second of your fall, the dagger in your right hand sliced deep through your own thigh.

You hit the dirt hard. Thor had no time to catch you, the angle of your strike had kept him just far enough away that his reaching fingers only caught the air.

“Sunshine!” His voice tore through the training grounds.

He was on his knees beside you in an instant, his movements frantic, borderline hysterical. “Darling, are you alright?” His hand came up to graze your hair, his touch intimate and terrifyingly loving, his fingers trembling as they pushed the damp strands from your forehead.

You kept your eyes squeezed shut, your teeth gritted against the white-hot pain shooting from your ankle and the searing burn in your thigh.

The embarrassment was almost worse than the injury—you had come here to prove your strength, and instead, you were bleeding in the dust at his feet.

Thor looked down at your thigh, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe. The sight of your blood, red and vivid against the dark leather, put him into a sudden, agonizing trance.

The God of Thunder, who had stood amidst the slaughter of thousands without flinching, looked like his own soul was being carved out of his chest.

His eyes were wide, darting over your injury with a frantic, desperate guilt. It was his fault. If he hadn't followed you, if he hadn't provoked you, if he had just fought back like you asked, you wouldn't be broken on the floor. Every sharp intake of breath you took felt like a dagger in his own lungs.

“I've got you,” he choked out, his voice thick with desperate protectiveness that bordered on worship. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, my love.”

He didn't wait for a protest. He immediately hooked his right arm under your knees, his left one embracing your back, pulling you flush against the heat of his chest. He stood up in one fluid, powerful motion, cradling you as if you were made of the thinnest glass. He ignored the eyes of the younger soldiers, ignored the blood staining his front—the only thing that existed in his world was the weight of your pain, and the terrifying reality that seeing you hurt was a thousand times worse than any wound he had ever taken in battle.

Thor rushed you toward the royal chambers, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird of prey. The sound was deafening in the hollow of his chest as he sprinted, your weight in his arms feeling like both a blessing and a death sentence.

“Get the healers to our chambers! Immediately!” he roared, his voice a thunderous crack that echoed off the ceilings, sending servants and guards scrambling in his wake.

Your hands were circled tightly around his thick neck, your knuckles white as you clung to him for dear life. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, the familiar, intoxicating scent of rain and warm sandalwood grounding you, a small mercy against the agony pulsing through your leg.

But as the adrenaline began to fade, the tears finally formed. It wasn't just the physical pain of the gash or your ankle. It was everything. Every hidden threat he'd made to your suitors, the crushing weight of a marriage built on a shadow-plan, the betrayal of his Midgardian lover—it all came crashing down at once, a tidal wave of resentment and hurt that you could no longer hold back.

The moment his boots hit the soft rugs of your chambers, he set you down on the edge of the expansive bed with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. As he pulled back, he felt the dampness on his neck—your tears.

His chest tightened so sharply he nearly gasped, the air leaving his lungs at the sight of your fractured composure.

He had seen you angry, sharp, and defiant, but seeing you in so much pain that it broke your spirit made him feel like he was the one being cut.

His trembling hands reached out to cradle your face, his large thumbs gently brushing away the salt streak on your cheeks. “Does it hurt that much?” he choked out, his voice a whisper of desperation. “Please... please do not cry, my love. It is going to be okay. The healers are coming. You are going to be well.”

You let out a broken sob and shook your head.

“What? No, you will be okay,” he insisted, his eyes wide and searching yours, his own breathing coming in shallow, panicked bursts. “Do not shake your head at me, sunshine. You must be well.”

You shook your head again, a fresh wave of tears flowing faster down your cheeks, your breath hitching violently against the hand you held over your mouth to stifle the sound of your grief.

“No, Thor,” you managed to whisper, your voice thick and trembling. “It hurts—it hurts so much. But what hurts truly is my heart.”

Thor went completely still, his hands frozen against your skin as your words hung in the heavy air of the chamber. “Have I hurt you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, sounding genuinely broken—as if the mere thought were a blasphemy.

Before you could answer, the doors swung open and the healers rushed in, their silken robes trailing behind them in a blur of motion. They moved with a clinical, hushed urgency, but Thor didn't move. He sat on the edge of the bed, a massive, immovable mountain of muscle and guilt, acting as your only anchor while the magic began.

The lead healer placed a glowing hand over your shattered ankle. The sensation was immediate and agonizing—a white-hot surge of energy that felt like your bones were being liquified and restacked all at once. You let out a choked gasp, your back arching off the mattress as the physical trauma was forcefully undone.

Thor’s hand instantly found yours. His palm was rough and calloused, a stark contrast to the ethereal, cool hum of the magic, but his grip was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I have you,” he murmured, leaning over you until his face was all you could see, his eyes swimming with a reflection of your own pain.

“Squeeze my hand, sunshine. Break my bones if you must, but do not let go.”

As the magic knitted the torn flesh on your thigh, the stinging burn made your vision swim. You squeezed his hand with every ounce of strength you had left, your knuckles white, and he didn't even flinch. He watched every tremor of your muscles, every tear that escaped your lashes, his jaw set in a grimace that suggested he was feeling every single nerve ending fire right along with you. He looked like a man watching his world burn, utterly helpless to stop the flames.

Finally, the healers withdrew, their task finished. The room grew quiet again, the only sound the beat of your heart and the low crackle of the hearth. Thor remained, his thumb tracing the back of your hand in a slow, rhythmic circle.

He gulped, the column of his throat moving as he searched for his voice.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, his eyes bloodshot and weary.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, the physical pain replaced by a definite clarity. “I do, yes. Thank you.”

But you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't live in this state of whiplash—one moment he was the possessive shadow sabotaging your suitors, and the next he was the tender husband holding you through the agony of a broken bone. All while his heart, his true affection, allegedly laid elsewhere. You slowly withdrew your hand from his, the loss of his warmth feeling like a physical bruise.

“I cannot do this, Thor,” you said, your voice gaining a terrifying, quiet strength. “I would like to separate our rooms. I will fulfill my duty. I will bear your heirs and I will be a good Queen to Asgard when the time comes, but I can never be your wife. You have hurt me too much.”

You began to struggle to your feet, determined to put distance between your bodies, but Thor’s hands were on your shoulders in an instant, holding you back. He looked taken aback, his confusion rapidly turning into a defensive, volatile spark.

“Where do you think you're going?” he demanded, his grip tightening just enough to keep you in place. “What is this about? Is this about that fucker Tyr again? Or Loki? Have they filled your head with—“

“It's about Jane, you idiot!” you screamed, the name tearing out of you like a piece of glass.

Thor stared at you for a heartbeat, his hands still firm on your shoulders, looking at you like you had truly lost your mind.

“Who told you about her? And why do you keep bringing her up?” he demanded, his voice confused.

Your expression only grew more furious, the tears hot and stinging against your cheeks. “She is your mortal lover! Of course I bring her up! How am I supposed to be a wife to a man whose heart is buried in the dirt of Midgard?”

Thor looked at you for a beat, his eyes wide, and then he started laughing.

It wasn't a soft chuckle. He was hysterically laughing, his massive frame shaking so hard he had to release your shoulders to hold his stomach. He doubled over, the sound echoing off the golden walls of the chamber as if you had just told the most ridiculous joke in the history of the Nine Realms.

“Why are you laughing?” you snapped, your voice cracking with fresh humiliation. “Is this funny to you? My pain is a joke to you?”

Thor bit his lower lip, a rogue dimple flashing as he tried to keep himself from laughing further. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at you, his blue eyes bright with a terrifying clarity.

“My love,” he rumbled, his voice thick with an intensity that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Jane hasn’t been in my life for years. Do you truly think I could ever get over you?”

He stepped back into your space, his heat enveloping you as he reached out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “I threatened every man that came near you. I sabotaged your life, I haunted your shadows, I am obsessed with you. She doesn’t even come close. She was merely a distraction to keep my obsession for you in line.”

He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his presence drowning out everything else. “Which failed miserably, by the way. She was only there when my father cast me away to Earth. I couldn't live with the thought of not seeing you, of being separated from the one person I’ve wanted since I first understood the word. I tried to distract myself with a mortal heart, but it was like trying to put out a forest fire with a single drop of rain.”

He confessed it all now, his pride completely stripped away, leaving only the ugly truth of his devotion.

Wait.

The realization hit you, making your head spin.

All those nights spent in silent agony, all the rage you felt whenever you thought of her, all the distance you had put between you and your husband because of a phantom—it was for nothing?

You had been obsessing over a woman who was a footnote in a story where you were the entire book.

Thor watched the realization dawn on your face, his expression shifting from amusement to something much darker and hungrier. He saw the way your walls were crumbling, the way your breath was hitching not from pain, but from the sheer shock of his honesty.

“There is no one else,” he whispered, his hand sliding from your face to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. “There never was. Every battle I fought, every suitor I broke, every breath I took was a step closer to making you mine. You really think I’d let a memory stand between us?”

Your mouth was agape as the weight of your own assumptions crashed down around you.

You sat up straighter, slinging your legs over the edge of the bed despite the lingering throb in your ankle.

“I didn't even let you explain,” you whispered, the regret dripping out of every syllable, thick and heavy.

Thor nodded, shrugging his massive shoulders as a playful, slightly smug expression scrunched his face. “Yeah, that’s on you,” he rumbled.

“Not really my fault you wouldn’t listen.” He let out a soft huff of a laugh then, his gaze softening as it traveled over your face. “I've always liked that you're a difficult woman, though. Comes with the package, I guess.”

He moved with a sudden, quiet grace, kneeling down on the rug beside the bed so he was eye-level with you.

He looked like a king who had finally found his throne—not on a chair of gold, but right here at your feet.

“I'm sorry, baby,” you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as your hands found his handsome face. Your thumbs grazed over his high cheekbones, feeling the slight stubble and the heat of his skin.

Thor’s eyes fluttered shut at the contact. He leaned into your palms with a low, visceral groan, looking like a man who needed your touch every second of the day just to keep his heart beating.

He looked vulnerable, stripped of the God of Thunder's bravado, appearing only as a man who was utterly consumed by the woman in front of him.

“And for your information,” you added, your voice regaining a hint of its usual spark, “Loki basically is my sibling. I have no idea how you could think I could be in love with him when there is you.”

Thor opened his eyes at that, the blue depths swirling with a mix of relief and that same possessive fire.

A slow, triumphant smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“I know,” he whispered, his hands coming up to cover yours, pinning your palms against his cheeks as if he never intended to let you pull away again. “But I told you, I’m not rational when it comes to you. I see a man breathe the same air as you and I want to tear the world apart. Imagine how I feel when it's my own brother's manipulative tongue whispering in your ear.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Say it again,” he commanded softly. “Tell me there is only me.”

“There’s only you, my love,” you whisper against his skin, the confession tasting like a surrender you’ve been fighting for years. “There’s only ever been you.”

Thor lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-growl, his large hands sliding up to grab your thighs with a firm, possessive heat. He’s careful, his touch mindful of the newly healed flesh on your leg, but the look in his eyes is anything but gentle. He hums deep in his throat, a vibration you feel in your own chest.

“Now that,” he rumbles, his voice laced with a sudden, surging hunger, “does something to me.”

He claims your lips before you can breathe, his kiss tasting of desperate relief and a decade of suppressed longing. You circle your arms around his massive shoulders immediately, pulling him closer, but the cold, unyielding bite of his silver-plated armor creates a barrier you can't stand.

You need to feel him—all of him.

You pull back just an inch, your breath coming in shallow hitches. Thor’s eyebrows knit together, his head instinctively following your lips as you retreat, looking like a man who’s been denied water in a desert.

“Baby,” you breathe, your hands tugging at the leather straps and metal buckles. “Take your armor off. It’s annoying me.”

Thor’s expression shifts, a slow, devilish smirk spreading across his face. “You’re in a rush to get me naked, my lady?” he tsked, a playful glint in his blue eyes. “Very naughty.”

You slap him lightly on the chest, a muffled thud against the metal, and he lets out a booming, triumphant laugh. He stands up, his movements quick and fluid as he unclips his heavy crimson cape, letting it pool on the floor like a spill of wine. He works the fastenings of his chest piece with practiced ease, discarding the silver plating until it clatters beside the bed.

When he finally turns back to you, his torso is bare, his trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips. You bite your lip, your gaze traveling over the rugged landscape of his body.

The sharp, deep V-line of his hips, the massive shoulders that look like they could shield you from the dangers of the entire universe, and arms the size of your head—he is a deity, through and through, carved from gold and lightning.

The sight makes your pulse spike making heat flare in your gut. You hold out your hands impatiently, your fingers flexing as you demand him back in your space.

A low chuckle vibrates from his chest as he sees the hunger in your eyes. He moves toward you, the air around him crackling with that familiar electric charge.

“Come on, come here,” you urge, your voice dropping into a desperate purr. “I can't wait to get my hands on my handsome husband.”

Thor doesn't need to be told twice. He crowds back into your space, his bare skin meeting yours for the first time, the contact sending a shock through your system that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the man who has haunted your soul since the beginning.

Thor’s hands were like brands against your skin, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass cheeks as he hoisted you effortlessly, laying you back against the silk sheets with a controlled power.

The bed groaned under his weight as he settled between your thighs, his massive frame a golden canopy over you. You let out a small, breathless squeal at the suddenness of his manhandling, your heart hammering against your ribs. It was intoxicating—the sheer strength of him finally directed entirely at you.

He shifted, his hands sliding up from your hips to rest flat against your stomach, the heat of his palms seeping through your skin. His blue eyes were dark, swirling with a possessive storm as he looked down at you.

“You would like to live our wedding night now, baby?” he asked, his voice a gravelly vibration that made your toes curl.

You nodded almost immediately, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as the anticipation turned into a physical ache. You were eager—desperate—to finally feel the full heat of him, to have him fill the space you’d been saving for him without even knowing it.

His left thumb moved with agonizing slowness, hooking over your chin to tug your lower lip free from your teeth. “Those lips are mine to bite,” he growled, a warning and a promise all at once.

He didn't give you time to breathe before he descended, taking your lower lip between his own, sucking and then nipping with a sharp, controlled hunger that made you mewl into his mouth. Your hands flew to his back, your nails grazing the hard muscle of his spine as you tried to pull him even closer.

He didn't miss a beat, one of his hands moving to the buckles of your leather training vest. He worked them with efficiency, the leather creaking as he began to discard the barrier.

You were high on him—on the scent of his skin, the weight of his body. Oh, he was so heavy and it felt so, so good to be underneath him.

Thor’s mouth was a searing trail of fire against your skin, his open-mouthed kisses leaving a damp, heated map from your jawline down to your collarbone. You arched beneath him, your fingers tangling in his thick hair as his tongue glided over the curve of your chest, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. The uncontrolled mewls escaping you only seemed to fuel him, his breathing turning into a ragged, desperate sound.

When he finally unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, his reaction was visceral. He froze for a heartbeat, his blue eyes blown wide as he took in the sight of you completely bared to him.

“Oh gods,” he murmured, the words sounding like a prayer. He didn't wait another second, leaning down to take your right nipple into his mouth. The sensation of his hot tongue and the slight friction of his stubble made you cry out, your head snapping back against the bed. His right hand wasn't idle, his large palm covering your left breast, kneading the soft flesh with a possessive rhythm that made your vision swim.

“These are the most beautiful pair of tits I’ve ever seen, sunshine,” he growled against your skin, his voice vibrating deep in your chest. “You’re unreal. I must be dreaming.”

He began a slow, agonizing descent, his kisses trailing over the underside of your breasts and down the center of your ribs. He lingered at your stomach, his tongue swirling around your navel until you were squirming beneath him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for purchase.

He stopped at the waistband of your leather trousers, his large hands gripping your waist so firmly it felt like he was branding you. He looked up at you one more time, his face flushed with a primal, focused hunger, before he hooked his fingers into the leather and the panties beneath them.

With a fast-paced, impatient rhythm, he began to tug the pants down over your hips. The sound of the leather sliding against your skin was loud in the quiet room, punctuated only by the heavy, frantic thuds of your hearts. He stripped the barrier away, his gaze following the movement with a terrifying precision, as if he were finally uncovering the most sacred relic in the Nine Realms.

He was trembling now, the legendary restraint of the God of Thunder finally snapping as he prepared to see every single inch of what he had spent a lifetime claiming.

The gasp that left your lips was sharp and desperate as the cool air of the chamber hit your dampened core, sending a shiver of anticipation through your entire frame. You reached out blindly, your fingers tangling in the silk bedsheets and knotting them into tight balls as Thor pulled back just enough to take you in.

He was entirely focused now, his gaze anchored between your legs. You could see the frantic twitch of the heavy bulge beneath his trousers, his own body reacting violently to the sight of you completely bared and glistening for him. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, ready to fall.

“I can't wait to taste you, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He wasn't even looking at your face; his words were directed solely at the center of your heat, talking to your pussy as if it were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

The sheer, possessive reality of it—the way he spoke to you like you were his favorite sin—sent a fresh surge of wetness down your thighs.

You stopped breathing entirely when his large, calloused hands hooked firmly under your knees. With a surge of effortless strength, he lifted your legs, draping them over his massive shoulders until you were completely open, vulnerable, and perfectly positioned for him.

Without sparing a glance at your face, he dived in.

The first contact was a long, slow lick—a broad stripe of fire that traveled from your entrance all the way up to your clit. You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as his lips followed, suctioning tightly over that sensitive bundle of nerves.

His tongue flicked with a rhythmic, torturous precision, his mouth a hot, wet vacuum that seemed intent on drawing every secret from your body. Your hands gripped the sheets until your knuckles turned white, your hips stuttering upward in a frantic, instinctive search for more of that devastating friction.

“Stop squirming,” he growled directly into your heat, the command vibrating through your sensitive flesh and sending a fresh jolt of electricity straight to your spine. His voice, muffled by your own wetness, made your hips stutter uncontrollably as a broken moan tore from your throat.

Thor’s massive hands clamped onto your hips like iron bands, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you perfectly still.

He wasn't having it; he wanted to devour you, to map every inch of your sweetness without you slipping away.

Driven by a desperate need to see him, you strained your neck, lifting your head from the where it was laying.

The sight was downright sinful.

The God of Thunder was buried between your thighs, his golden hair messy and his jaw glistening. He looked up at you then, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the blue of his irises, his tongue never once slowing its rhythmic, punishing assault on your clit. The contrast of his primal, predatory gaze against the worshipful way he used his mouth was too much to bear.

The tension in your core snapped. Your head fell back into the mattress as the first wave of a violent orgasm took hold of you. You were helpless, your body trembling in his grip as high-pitched mewls spilled out of you, echoing off the high ceilings of the chamber.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into the climax, his suction deepening as he drank in the evidence of your pleasure, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hip bones while his mouth stayed ruthlessly attached to you, making sure you felt every agonizingly perfect second of the release.

He didn't let up. As the first wave of your climax began to plateau, he kept going, his tongue flickering with a relentless, overstimulating rhythm that had your nerves screaming.

“Thor, please—“ you gasped, trying to squirm away from the sheer intensity of his touch, but his grip was absolute.

“C'mon,” he rumbled against your inner thigh, his voice thick and dark. He didn't stop the assault. “You can give me one more, my love. I have to prepare you properly.”

He removed his left hand from your hip and, without a second's hesitation, drove his middle finger deep inside you, his finger sliding in easily—your juices helping him. Your mouth fell open, but no sound could escape; you were physically stunned by the intrusion. Even a single finger was massive, stretching you with a blunt force that made your breath hitch in your throat.

He didn't give you time to adjust before he added his ring finger, the metal of his wedding band a cold, sharp contrast to the searing warmth of your insides. The sensation was a violent reminder of the reality you had tried so hard to ignore.

You had forgotten about the rings—the gold and silver symbols of a contract you’d thought was a cage. But as that band slid in and out of you, slick with your own wetness, the truth crashed down: you had a husband. A real, living, breathing husband who was currently unraveling you on your bed.

His right hand moved then, his fingers spreading your pussy lips wide to get a better angle, his tongue returning to your clit with a renewed, suctioning fervor.

The combination of his massive fingers stretching you and the possessive, territorial thoughts of him finally claiming you was the tipping point.

The heat in your belly flared back into a white-hot roar. You were drowning in him, in the weight of his name and the feel of his ring inside you. Your back arched so high it nearly left the bed, your legs shaking on his shoulders as you came a second time, a broken cry finally tearing from your lungs as you collapsed back into the bed, completely conquered by him.

Thor lapped up the remnants of your release with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, a deep, vibrating moan rumbling through his chest and into your very bones. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face slick and his eyes burning with a primal satisfaction.

“You taste so good, my treasure,” he rasped, the endearment sounding like a heavy vow in the quiet of the room.

Your mind was a thick, syrupy haze of pleasure, and the only thing you could manage was a breathless, “Thank you—oh!”

The words were cut short as he pressed his thumb firmly against your oversensitive clit, a sharp jolt of electricity snapping through you. He chuckled, a dark, rich sound. “No need to thank me, darling. Thank you for letting me have a taste of you.”

Then, he stood at the edge of the bed. His eyes never left yours as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. He moved agonizingly slow, the fabric rustling as it dropped, and your breath hitched. His cock sprang free the moment the pressure was gone—thick, heavy, and pulsing with a life of its own. A bead of precum glistened at the pink tip, gliding down the length of his shaft which stood rigid against his stomach, the veins standing out like marble carvings.

A sudden, genuine wave of panic flickered through your desire.

How was he going to fit that in me?

Thor didn't miss the way your eyes widened or the thoughtful, slightly terrified gaze you fixed on him. He leaned back over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You looked up at his face, your voice small and trembling. “How is that going to fit in me?”

Thor’s eyes slid shut for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening so hard you heard his teeth grind. That was the most erotic thing he had ever heard—the admission of your own smallness against him, the raw vulnerability of your question. It was making his self-control fray at the edges, the scent of your arousal and the sight of your doubt driving him to the brink of madness.

He cleared his throat, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost a growl. “It’ll fit, sunshine. We’ll make it fit.”

He moved back into your space, crawling over you until his massive weight was hovering just above, his heat radiating like a furnace. He cradled your face in his large, calloused hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that contradicted the sheer size of the man.

“You were made for me, remember?” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “Your body was built to hold mine. Every inch of you was designed for this.”

You looked up into those blown-out blue eyes and nodded, a silent surrender passing between you. He wasn't just your husband; he was the force of nature you were destined to house, and as he guided his tip to your entrance, the first touch of his heat against your opening made you realize he was right. You were his, and he was finally coming home.

“Go slow, please,” you whispered, the words trembling against the heat of his skin as you braced yourself.

Thor didn't rush. He moved with a deliberate, torturous patience, gliding the head of his cock between your pussy lips. He used his own length to paint himself in your juices, the slick friction sending sparks of pleasure through your already sensitive core. You let out a broken moan at the way he dragged himself over your clit, the sensation almost too much to bear.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his massive chest. His left hand moved to the inside of your right thigh, his fingers digging in with a firm, possessive grip to keep you pinned wide, refusing to let you close your legs or hide from him. His right hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, guiding himself with a predatory focus.

Then, he started slapping the head of his cock against your clit. The rhythmic, blunt impact made your eyes roll back into your head, your hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction.

“You like this, baby?” he asked, his voice dark and honey-thick. He didn't stop the rhythm, the wet slap of his skin against yours echoing in the quiet chamber. “Like me slapping your clit like this? Knowing I’m about to stretch you wide?”

“Mmm,” you murmured, the sound caught in your throat. “Yes—so much,” you mumbled, breathless and completely unstrung by his dominance.

When he was satisfied, his entire length coated and glistening in your heat, he centered himself at your entrance. He paused, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a gaze that felt like a brand. The air in the room seemed to vanish.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, sunshine,” he promised, the vow vibrating between you.

You could only nod, your fingers digging into his hard shoulders as he finally began to push. He moved with agonizing slowness, the blunt head of his cock forcing its way past your entrance. You gasped as the air left your lungs, your body stretching and yielding to accommodate his impossible size.

Every inch was a victory, a slow invasion that filled you to the absolute brim, claiming every internal curve until you felt completely occupied by him. It was a pressure so intense it bordered on pain, but as he seated himself fully against you, the feeling of being made whole by him was the only thing that mattered.

Thor let out a jagged, guttural gasp as he was fully sheathed within you, his chest heaving as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He went completely still for a long moment, his muscles corded and trembling, giving your body the time it needed to accommodate the staggering breadth of him. He felt like a molten pillar of iron, stretching you to your absolute limit.

When he finally pulled back to look at you, his blue eyes were dark with a terrifying, primal clarity. “You know what else I am the god of, my love?”

Your pleasure-knitted gaze was hazy, your mind a swirl of friction and heat. “What?” you whispered, the word barely audible over the frantic thud of your heart.

“I am the god of fertility,”he rumbled, the confession vibrating through your joined bodies like a low roll of thunder.

Then, he began to move.

It was agonizingly slow, a torturous pull and a devastatingly deep push that felt like it was reaching into your very soul. Every thrust was calculated to maximize the friction, to claim every internal inch of you for his own. “Mhm—“ you managed to cry out, your breath hitching as the sheer depth of him overwhelmed your senses.

You reached up, your hands leaving his shoulders to circle his thick neck, pulling him down to bridge the final distance between you. You met his lips with a desperate hunger, your tongues tangling in a messy, heated rhythm that mirrored the steady, relentless pace of his hips. He was fucking you with a slow, deliberate violence, a rhythmic worship that made the world outside the bed disappear.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his right hand sliding down from the mattress to rest flat against your lower abdomen. He smiled—a dark, knowing expression that made your stomach flip.

“What?” you frowned, your voice thick with a mix of confusion and mounting pleasure.

Thor didn't answer with words. He took your hand and positioned it directly where his had been, pressing your palm firmly against the soft skin of your belly.

You felt it instantly—the hard, undeniable bulge of his shaft moving beneath the surface of your skin, a physical ghost of his presence inside you.

“Oh fuck,” you breathed, your eyes blowing wide as you felt him sliding in and out of you through your own stomach.

“You feel me here, baby?” he rasped, his thrusts deepening as if he were trying to reach your hand from the inside.

“Yes... yes, I do— How can I not?“ Your breath caught in your throat as he bottomed out, his weight pinning you into the mattress.

“I'm gonna fill you with so many babies, sunshine,” he confessed, the raw, possessive promise hitting you with more force than his hips.

The thought sent a violent jolt through your system, and you felt your internal muscles clench around him in a desperate, instinctive grip.

“Fuck,” Thor groaned, his eyes rolling back as he felt the sudden, crushing pressure. “You’re gripping me so tight. That has you going, darling? The thought of carrying my babies? Of me marking you so deeply that everyone knows who you belong to?”

“It does,” you gasped, nodding your head frantically against the sheets, your hair a wild halo around your face. Every word he spoke was a match flickering against the gasoline of your desire.

“Say it.”

He punctuated the command by slapping his fingers against your overstimulated clit. The sharp friction sent a jolt of pain-filled pleasure through you, making you squeal, your hips bucking instinctively.

“Say you want to carry my babies.”

He was dismantling you, burning you from the inside out with a heat that felt ancient and inevitable. “I—“ you gasped, your voice breaking as he drove into you again, reaching depths that made your vision white out. “I want to carry your babies—I wanna have your babies. Only yours. Only you, Thor.”

He gripped your hips then, his fingers bruising the skin as he began slamming into you with a new urgency. The slow, worshipful pace was gone, replaced by the raw, territorial rhythm of a man who was finally, legally, and physically claiming what was his.

“I will fill you up so good, my love. Don't you worry about that,” he rumbled, his voice a dark promise.

As he pounded into you, he began to circle his thumb over your clit with a ruthless, rhythmic pressure. It was the final blow to your composure. “Come, sunshine. Come for me. Come for your husband.”

That was it. The world shattered.

You came with a violence that left you breathless, your internal walls milking his cock in tight, rhythmic pulses that forced a guttural, animalistic roar from his throat.

You screamed his name, not the name of a Prince or a God, but the name of the man who held your soul, as your fingers dug deep into the muscles of his back, drawing thin red lines across his skin.

“Oh fuck—“

Thor’s body went rigid. He buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his head snapping back as he came into you. You felt the searing heat of him filling you to the brim, a flood of warmth that made your stomach feel heavy and claimed.

The sensation was overwhelming—the physical proof of his promise—and as he finally slumped against you, his cum began to drip from your filled hole, staining the silk sheets beneath you.

The silence that followed was heavy and sweet, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. After a moment, Thor pushed himself up on his elbows, his face flushed and his blue eyes shining with a softness you hadn't seen in years.

He reached out, his thumb gently hooking under your chin to lift your face. He looked deep into your eyes, his expression raw and stripped of all the possessive shadows.

“I'm in love with you, sunshine,” he whispered, the words sounding more powerful than any thunderclap. “Truly. Deeply. Only you.”

You looked back at him, the resentment and the phantom of another woman finally fading into nothingness. You reached up, threading your fingers through his damp hair, and pulled him down to you.

“I love you too, husband,” you breathed against his lips, before sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of a new, true beginning.

—

My first filthy smut kinda nervous, I’d be so happy if guys left any feedback 💕

Sy is a pleasure dom to the ultimate max. He gets off on you getting off. Overstimulation is the name of his game. He'll come like a teenager from eating you out if he doesn't keep himself in check.

He wants your scent on him any time he leaves your side. Fingers, dick, tongue. He does not care.

He's not possessive, though.

He does like getting marked up by you. Scratches down his back, hickeys on his neck, bite marks on his chest.

His eyes will roll back in his head if you come while riding him. It takes every ounce of self-control in his body to keep from nutting then and there.

He likes when you get jealous, too. It makes him feel wanted.

Blow jobs make him impatient. You're not getting pleasure. He's not doing his job.

You are still awake, sitting at the entrance of the infirmary, with your hands in your hair and tiredness weighing more than an armor. You hear steps behind you,no one walks like this, except him.

"You should sleep," Syverson says, his voice is deep but gentle.

You watch him as he approaches, his beard unkempt, his face marked by sweat and sand, his uniform still on, as if he had never allowed himself a moment's rest.

His steel-colored eyes soften as soon as they see you.

"You should do the same," you reply, sketching a smile.

Syverson approaches, crouching next to you, leaning his rifle against the wall without ever lowering his guard, except with you.

"When I see you... for a few seconds I forget where we are."

Your heart skips a beat and you look at him, surprised.

He’s not a man who speaks so easily, if he says something he means it and feels it.

“And where are we, exactly?”

“In the middle of chaos. But you’re the only thing that feels real to me.”

Slowly, he takes your hand.                         His is rough, strong, but the way he touches you is incredibly delicate.

As if he’s afraid of breaking you.

Or maybe… to break himself...

"Today was hard, I was afraid of losing something… that I can't protect."

You move closer and place your forehead against his. His breathing stops for a moment.

“I don’t need protection Sy... Just someone who stays.”

And he stays. His lips rest on yours with a painful sweetness. It’s a silent kiss, long, full of restrained tension.

His hands move over your arms, over your shoulders, slowly descending, as if every gesture were a blessing.

“Stay here tonight,” he says against your lips.

“Even if the alarm goes off?”

“Okay then,” you huffed, the heat rising to your cheeks as you smiled back, unable to resist his stubbornness. Together, you began the trek toward the royal armory, your steps falling into a familiar, rhythmic sync.

The walk from the Bifrost to the palace was a blur of banter and shared laughter. Thor still hadn't fully relinquished his hold on you; his arm had shifted from your waist to draped heavily, comfortably, across your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you navigated the bustling streets of Asgard.

“You must admit,” Thor said, his voice booming with a celebratory tone that turned the heads of passing noblemen, “my intervention with the rock-troll was nothing short of legendary. A masterpiece of timing!”

You snorted, leaning your weight into him as you ducked under a low-hanging banner. “A masterpiece? You nearly knocked me into the ravine along with the troll! I believe the word you’re looking for is clumsy, Thor.”

Thor let out a dramatic gasp, his chest vibrating against your arm. “Clumsy? I am the God of Thunder, I move with the grace of a summer storm.”

“Summer storms break flowerpots and ruin picnics, big guy. So, yes, the comparison holds,” you shot back, flashing him a cheeky grin.

He barked a laugh, pulling you closer for a brief, playful squeeze that made your heart do a frantic little dance. “You are far too sharp for your own good. Perhaps I should have left you to wrestle that beast after all.”

“And miss the chance to play the hero? We both know you couldn't help yourself.”

“True,” he murmured, his tone dropping an octave, losing its bravado. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the curve of your shoulder. “But the hero only plays his part when the prize is worth the effort.”

You gulped as you reached the heavy, iron-studded doors of the Royal Armory, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved to open them. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of deep violet and burning orange.

Thor finally reached out, his hand lingering on the door handle, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours. “Are you truly so tired?” he asked softly. “Or are you simply trying to escape my clumsy company?”

“I could never escape you,” you whispered, the honesty of it catching in your throat. “Even if I wanted to.”

He smiled—a slow, genuine thing that didn't reach for glory, only for you.

With a gentle push, the doors groaned open, revealing the cool, dim sanctuary of the armory. The scent of oil and cold stone rushed out to meet you, a silent witness to the years of shared drills and quiet moments you had spent within these walls.

As you stepped inside, the shadows of the high-vaulted ceiling wrapped around you both, making the rest of Asgard feel a million miles away. You moved toward your stone bench, but Thor was already there, waiting to help you shed the weight of the war you’d just left behind.

The heavy iron doors of the armory groaned shut behind you, sealing out the rest of Asgard and leaving only the rhythmic drip of water and the distant hum of the city. The cool air should have been a relief, but as Thor guided you toward the stone bench, the atmosphere felt thicker than the smoke of the battlefield.

He placed a steadying hand on your waist to help you sit, his touch firm through the leather of your gambeson. Then, he dropped onto the bench beside you. His large frame jostled yours—a casual, practiced closeness that sent a jolt through your side, his heat bleeding into you immediately.

Thor was so close that the heat radiating from his chest was a taunt, a reminder of the proximity you’ve allowed yourself to crave.

His thumb brushed the column of your neck—a touch so casual, so practiced, that it made your skin sting. Your face started to burn. You’ve never let him see you falter, but the ache of just wanting him was insistent, clawing at your throat like a hurricane you could never outrun.

“You will work on the steel? When there are more fun things we could do together,” he rasped. His voice was low, vibrating through the stone bench and into your marrow.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper, just to keep your composure from splintering. “Some of us don't have the luxury of lightning to mend our mistakes, Thor.”

He let his fingers slide down your arm, a slow, agonizing descent until he took the leather cloth from your trembling hand. His fingers interlaced with yours for a second—one, two, three beats too long—and your heart slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird.

He looked at you, the softness in his blue eyes making your pulse erratic. He wasn’t looking at a mere soldier. He was looking at you, with an expression that felt like a question you aren’t brave enough to answer.

He leaned a fraction closer, the scent of sandalwood and a brewing storm enveloping you until you were drowning in him. “You know,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that made your knees weak, “the palace feels more like home when you are within its walls.”

You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t want to. You were caught in his orbit, your heart slamming against your chest so hard you felt it in your throat.

You tilted your head just a fraction, an invitation you didn't know you were brave enough to give.

Thor’s hand migrated to your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip with agonizing slowness. He was looking at you like you were the only steady thing in a crumbling universe. His breath, warm and smelling of mint and honey-wine, was fanning over your face.

“Always you,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp.

He started to close the distance. You closed your eyes, the world narrowing down to the heat of his skin and the static charge in the air. You could feel the ghost of his lips against yours—a promise, a beginning—

CLANG.

The heavy thud of a spear hitting stone echoed through the high ceiling.

“Your Highness? The All-Father requests your presence in the council chambers. Immediately.”

Thor froze, his forehead resting against yours for one lingering, frustrated second. He let out a long, shaky exhale that shuddered through both of you. He didn’t pull away immediately; his hand lingered on your cheek, his fingers curling into your hair as if he was trying to memorize the feeling before he was forced to let go.

“I have to go,” he whispered, his voice thick and strained. He looked at you then, his blue eyes dark and searching and for a heartbeat, the act of the Prince was completely gone. There was an intensity there, a raw, magnetic pull that mirrored exactly what was screaming in your own chest. You realized, with a jolt that made your pulse spike, that he wasn’t just playing—he was just as undone as you were.

He stood up, the loss of his heat feeling like cold water had been poured over your skin. He reached out, his fingers grazing yours in one last, fleeting touch before he had to remember his station.

“Later,” he said, the word a promise that vibrated in the air between you. “At the feast. Find me.”

You swallowed, nodding silently because your voice was trapped behind the hammering beat of your heart. You watched him walk away, his cape billowing behind him like a storm cloud, and you were left alone in the dim armory. The scent of him still clung to you, a ghost of his presence that made your skin tingle.

You touched your fingers to your lips, the air in the room finally returning, though it felt too thin to breathe. You had a few hours to compose yourself, but as you stared at the heavy doors he just vanished through, you knew it was useless. You were already counting the minutes until the sun went down.

You walked back to your chambers, your right hand stayed pressed to your chest, as if you could physically keep your heart from leaping out of your ribs.

He feels the same way. The thought was a beautiful loop in your mind. It wasn't just the almost-kiss; it was everything. It was the way he gravitated toward you in a crowded room, the way his voice dropped an octave when he spoke your name. And that word.

Treasure.

He’d started calling you that after the Siege of the Black Peaks. You’d been separated from the main unit, pinned down by a shadow-beast, and for ten minutes, Thor thought you were gone. When he finally broke through the lines and found you, he’d hauled you into his arms with a desperation that shook his entire frame. “I thought I lost you,” he’d rasped into your hair, his voice breaking. “The gold of Asgard is nothing. You are the only treasure I cannot afford to lose.”

He hadn't stopped using it since.

Once inside your chambers, you moved with a sense of purpose you hadn't felt in years, your fingers trembling slightly as you began to prepare. You pulled out the most beautiful piece you owned: a deep, midnight-toned chiffon bandeau gown. It was a striking shade that made your skin shine, the fabric hugging your waist perfectly before flowing out like a dark mist.

You reached for the glass vials on your vanity, pouring rich, scented oils into your palms. You smoothed them over your shoulders and collarbones, the fragrance of jasmine and cedarwood rising in the warm air. You wanted to glow for him. You wanted to be so radiant that he couldn't look away, not even for a second.

As you stood before the tall silver mirror, catching your reflection, the nerves finally started to bite. How should you do your hair? Should it be down, soft and inviting, or pinned back to show the curve of your neck? Would he like the way the fabric caught the light?

You looked at yourself, your eyes bright and your skin shimmering with the oil, and for the first time, you didn't see the soldier. You saw the woman who was going to meet her Prince—and this time, there would be no guards to stop him.

You left your chambers, the weight of the chiffon gown whispering against your legs as you move. You passed a few maids in the hall, and you couldnt help but smile at them—a smile so bright, so unburdened, it felt like the sun itself has taken residence in your chest. You’ve never felt this light. You’ve never felt so seen.

But as you rounded the corner toward the gallery, a voice stopped the blood in your veins.

Loki’s voice, silk-spun and dripping with that familiar, mocking tone of his, drifted through a door left slightly ajar. “Honestly, Thor, the way you moon over your loyal shadow is becoming a public spectacle. Tell me, do you intend to make an honest woman of your little soldier, or is this merely a tactical distraction?”

You stopped in your tracks. Your heart started hammering against your ribs, a frantic, warning beat. You creeped closer to the door, your hand trembling as you reached toward the heavy wood, peering through the gap.

You just wanted to hear him claim you. You just wanted to hear him say that the way he looked at you in the armory meant everything.

Thor stood by the window, the moonlight catching the gold of his hair. He looked every bit the future King—distant, powerful, and cold.

“Court her? Brother, do not be absurd,” Thor’s voice rang out. It was a sharp, defensive bark—the sound of a man cornered. “She is a warrior, a tool of the throne. One does not weave poems or bring flowers for the blade that guards the gate.”

Loki’s laughter was a cold, silver chime. “So, no soft words for your favorite companion? No romantic gestures for the one who bleeds at your side?”

“Romantic gestures are for court ladies who stay behind the walls,” Thor snapped, his voice rising as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Loki. “She doesn't need trinkets. She is steel. She is—“

Your heart dropped to your stomach, leaving a cold, hollow ache that made you lose your breath.

You couldn't hear anything, the ringing in your ears too much to bear.

He played you. And you, desperate and foolish, believed him.

It was all a lie. The lingering touches, the way he called you Treasure, the way he looked at your lips—it was a performance. A way to keep his favorite weapon sharp and loyal.

Your face started to burn, the heat of humiliation radiating from your cheeks. The ache of just missing him—the version of him from an hour ago—was insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back the tears, and usually, that worked.

It was useless now. The first tears burned on your cheeks, and you wiped them away with trembling hands. Your chest heaved, a painful, barbed lump forming in your throat. A pathetic, choked sob ripped from your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to the empty hallway, your voice full of pain. You turned and shot toward your chambers, your feet silent on the stone, fleeing before Loki could find the source of the sound.

Inside the room, Loki turned toward the sound, but you were gone before he could see the wreckage he’s made.

The silence in your chambers was suffocating.

You’ve never felt the weight of Asgardian stone quite like this—it pressed against your ribs, making every breath a jagged, painful effort. The tears were insistent. They were a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore, blurring the sight of the shimmering chiffon dress pooled at your feet like a discarded skin.

The first tears burned paths through the expensive oils on your cheeks. You looked in the mirror and loathed the glow you worked so hard to achieve. You weren't a woman to him. You were a weapon. A tool of the throne.

One does not weave poems for the blade that guards the gate.

You realized with a sickening clarity that every lingering touch in the armory was just maintenance. He was sharpening his blade. He played you, and you believed him because you wanted to believe in the poetry he never intended to write.

Something snapped near your ribs—a clean, agonizing break of the heart. You couldn’t stay here, not like this. You moved to your desk, your movements stiff and mechanical. You began to plan. You mapped out the border patrols, the long-term scouting missions to the frozen wastes of Jotunheim—anywhere the air is too cold for feelings to survive. You were going to lose this version of yourself. You were going to become the blade he wants.

Across the palace, the Great Hall was a riot of color and sound, but for Thor, it was silent.

He stood near the entrance, his frame tense, eyes scouring every face that enters the hall. He was looking for a smile—your smile—the one he’s convinced himself is the only light left in the Nine Realms. He rasped your name under his breath, a low, hopeful sound lost in the roar of the crowd.

But you never came.

As the hours bled into the night, Thor took a lurching step toward the door, his hand reaching out as if to go find you, before he yanked it back. His voice was thick and strained when he finally spoke to the guard, asking if you’d been seen.

The answer was a hollow no.

A dam broke in his chest. He stared at the empty seat beside him, and the sight of you not being there was suffocating him. He realized, with a crushing weight, that he must have misread everything. The looks, the touches—it was just loyalty. You didn't want the Prince; you only wanted the commander.

She doesn't want me, he thought, the realization devastating and impossible to ignore.

That night, the warmth of the armory became a ghost. You heard he didn't want you; he thought you didn't want him.

And so, the hope of a new beginning died, replaced by the silent, cold steel of two strangers standing guard over a gate that had already been breached.

1 Year Later

The air in Asgard was too sweet, too warm. It felt like a taunt against your skin after twelve months of the biting winds of Jotunheim.

You walked through the golden streets, every step a reminder of the exhaustion buried deep in your marrow. Beside you, Einar rambled about the mead he was going to drown himself in and the bed he hadn't slept in since the winter solstice. You gave him a sharp nod every few minutes, playing the role of the attentive comrade while your mind was miles away.

Your heavy plate armor felt like lead, digging into your shoulders and chafing at your hips. You had grown to loathe it. You hated that for a whole damn year, your skin hadn't touched anything softer than boiled leather and frost-bitten steel. You hated that you had forgotten what it felt like to move without the constant clatter of gear.

But God, you loved the distance.

The ice was a sanctuary because it was empty of him. There were no blue eyes tracking your every move, no deep voice calling you names that meant nothing, and no sight of that stupidly handsome face that used to make your pulse trip over itself.

You had spent three hundred and sixty-five days sharpening your resentment into a shield, hoping it was thick enough to survive a return to the palace.

You really needed a drink.

“Try not to fall asleep during your report,” Einar joked, clapping you on the shoulder as you reached the fork in the path. “See you at the training grounds.”

“If I don't die of boredom first,” you replied, your voice sounding thin and rough.

You watched him head off into the city, toward the warmth of a tavern, while you turned toward the high, gilded gates. Your stomach twisted. This was it. The throne room, the court, and the inevitable moment you had to stand in the same room as the man who dismantled you.

You let out a shaky breath, forcing the tension out of your hands. You weren’t the girl who giggled in the armory anymore. You had spent a year killing that version of yourself in the snow.

You squared your shoulders, the metal plates of your spaulders grinding together, and began the climb. You were coming back as the weapon he wanted. You just had to hope he wouldn't see how much it cost you to forge it.

The heavy doors of the palace swung open, and the scent of aged wood and incense drifted toward you. It was a familiar peace that seeped into your bones, a comfort you hadn't realized you were starving for.

You had missed this. You missed the high vaulted ceilings, the privacy of your own chambers, and for a traitorous second, the thought of him flickered in your mind.

You missed him.

You shook your head violently, trying to rattle the thought loose.

Keep it together, you scolded yourself.

As you moved deeper into the halls, the comfort was replaced by a cold, heavy dread. It was a new sensation, seeing your home and feeling like you were walking toward a firing squad.

You blamed him for every ounce of it. You hated him with an intensity that physically ached, a deep-seated resentment that made your spine feel brittle. It was a struggle to keep your shoulders back and your chin level, but you forced the posture anyway.

You refused to let a single soul see a crack in your resolve. You were never going to be that vulnerable girl again. Not in this lifetime.

When you finally reached your chambers and the door clicked shut behind you, the sudden quiet was a mercy. The exhaustion of the year seemed to pour out of you all at once. You needed the grime of Jotunheim off your skin. You needed a bath hot enough to burn away the memory of the ice, a dress that didn't weigh forty pounds, and enough scents to mask the lingering smell of iron and war.

You wanted to feel like a person again, even if you were only doing it to prepare for the battle that was about to happen in the throne room.

You drew the bath, the steam rising to meet the cool air of the room, but you couldn't force your muscles to unknot. There was too much to do. You had to report the mission details to the All-Father, and more importantly, you had to map out every corridor of this palace to ensure you never crossed paths with the Crown Prince.

As the thought of him infiltrated your mind again, you scrubbed your skin harder, the sponge grazing your shoulders until they were flushed red. You had to stop torturing yourself. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to let the panic take hold.

You stepped out of the water, the dampness clinging to you as you tried to steady your racing heart. You moved toward the wardrobe, expecting to find the faded, travel-worn garments you had left behind.

Instead, you stopped dead.

Your breath hitched. Every single one of your dresses had been replaced. In their place hung renewed, far more expensive versions of your old wardrobe—silk that felt like liquid, intricate Asgardian embroidery, and fabrics so fine they seemed to shimmer under the candlelight.

What the fuck?

Was this his doing? Had he spent the year you were gone replacing the very things he claimed you didn't need?

Is he fucking kidding?

With trembling hands, you sifted through the racks, your fingers catching on the soft pleats of a deep emerald gown. Once you found one that felt right, you began the familiar ritual of preparation. You applied the oils, the scent of flowers and spice grounding you, and carefully painted your face until the warrior was hidden beneath a mask of elegance.

You pulled the dress on, the fabric hugging your waist and flowing around your legs in a way that felt like a homecoming. You turned to the mirror and stared at your reflection.

This life suited you. It certainly suited you more than the biting, relentless cold of Jotunheim. The dresses, the dressing up, the glow of the gold—it all belonged to you. You looked like the woman who deserved poems, even if the man who should have written them didn't deserve a second of your time.

You took a deep breath and stepped out of your chambers, your heels clicking against the marble as you set your path to deliver your report. But the air was sucked out of your lungs instantly.

You felt as though you had been stabbed a thousand times over.

Thor was standing there. His beautiful, stupid face was the first thing you saw, and the sight of him made the year of progress you'd made in the ice feel like it was melting away in seconds.

Thor stopped breathing. He was certain he was dead and dreaming. You had left him—vanished for a whole year without a single word, leaving him to stand at that feast like a fool while the entire court watched him wait for a ghost. The sight of you now, in a dress that clung to every curve, your skin glowing and that scent—the fucking scent that he’d tried so hard to scrub from his memory—made his lungs ache.

His hands went cold, trembling with the sudden urge to reach out and anchor you there so you could never run again.

But he couldn't. You clearly despised him; you had chosen twelve months of frostbite and misery over facing him.

He couldn't even swallow past the knot in his throat. He hated you in that moment. He hated you for the power you held over his pulse and for the agonizing silence of the last year.

So, he did the only thing he could think of. He decided to stab you back, just as you had stabbed him with your absence. He weaponized his voice, his tone dripping with a cold, regal distance that he knew would cut.

“I see the tool has returned to its shed,” Thor said, his voice hard and mocking, though his eyes burned with a desperate fire he couldn't quite extinguish. “Tell me, did the All-Father's errand girl manage to find her way back, or did you simply run out of things to kill in the north?”

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his gaze raking over the expensive silk of your dress with a sneer. “You look quite well-rested for a soldier. I suppose the dresses fit? I had them replaced so you wouldn't have to worry about looking like a common grunt while you're busy avoiding your betters.”

Thor’s heart thrashed against his ribs, each cruel word he spat feeling like a serrated blade across his own throat. He had spent hours in the royal tailor’s quarters, running his calloused fingers over the finest silks and velvets in Asgard, obsessing over which shades of gold and deep emerald would best compliment the fire in your eyes.

He had done it because he could, but mostly because he was desperate. He had hoped—foolishly—that if you came back to find your wardrobe filled with his offerings, you might look at him with a glimmer of the warmth he’d missed for a year. He wanted to see you happy. He wanted to see you wear them for him.

But the bitterness of being left behind had poisoned his tongue.

The world felt like it was tilting on its axis. What the actual fuck? Never in your life had you expected him to weaponize his words so viciously.

You had merely left to find air, to survive the suffocating weight of his earlier betrayal. You hadn't said a word to him because you were broken, and now he was treating you like a nuisance he'd picked up off the street.

The realization settled over you like a shroud: he was a two-faced liar. All those years of being your anchor, your best friend, your Thor—it had been a performance. He had played the part of the devoted friend while secretly viewing you as nothing more than an errand girl for the throne.

Your mind raced, a hundred different insults and defenses clawing at your throat, but the pain was too sharp to let them through. You didn't give him the satisfaction of a shout or a tear. You simply turned your head, refusing to even look at the man who had just destroyed the last shred of hope you carried back from the ice.

You didn't say a word. You just started walking, your heels clicking a steady rhythm on the marble as you moved past him as if he were nothing more than a statue in the hall.

For Thor, that silence was a death sentence. He watched your retreating back, the dress he had meticulously chosen swaying with every step you took away from him.

He had wanted a reaction—an argument, a scream, anything to prove you still cared—but your indifference was a far more lethal blow. You walked away like he meant absolutely nothing, leaving him standing in the hallway, suffocating on the very words he had used to hurt you.

Every step felt like walking through deep water, your chest tightening until each breath was a shallow, broken effort. He reopened the wound then when it wasn’t enough he started grinding his heel into it, watching the light leave your eyes with a smirk you wanted to claw off his face.

You pushed through the heavy doors of the throne room, the gold and grandeur blurring at the edges of your vision. The All-Father sat upon the throne, his single eye tracking your approach with a calculated stillness.

You stood before him, your spine locked into a rigid line to keep from trembling. Your voice was a low, hollow rasp as you delivered the intelligence from the north—troop movements, the thinning of the frost-giant clans, the structural integrity of the border outposts.

Each word felt like shards of glass were being dragged out of your throat, your lungs pressing in on themselves until you were lightheaded.

“You have done well,” Odin remarked, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. “Asgard is safer for your vigilance. You shall be honored at the feast tonight, alongside the other returning warriors.”

At the feast? Your head started spinning.

“I... I must decline, All-Father,” you managed, your voice cracking. “The journey was long, and I am not fit for—“

“It is a celebration in your honor,” Odin interrupted, the finality in his tone leaving no room for dissent. “The people expect to see the heroes of the Jotunheim campaign. You will be there.”

You felt the air leave you entirely. You couldn't say no again. Not to him. You just nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor because you couldn't bear to look at anyone. Not the King, and certainly not the Prince you knew was likely lurking just outside those doors.

“As you wish,” you whispered to the cold stone at your feet.

The moment you were dismissed, you turned and fled. You moved with the frantic urgency of someone escaping a burning building. You had to get out. You had to get back to the silence of your room before your composure shattered and the screams you were holding back finally tore their way out. The thought of sitting across from him for hours, watching him pretend you were just another soldier to be toasted, was a nightmare you weren't sure you could survive.

Thor watched you from the shadows of the pillars, his eyes tracking every movement of your lips as you spoke to his father. He hated you—he told himself that with every heartbeat—but his gaze was a desperate scout, searching for the slightest limp, a stiff shoulder, or a hidden scar beneath that expensive silk.

He hated you, yet the thought of you bleeding out in the snow while he wasn't there to shield you made his chest feel like it was being crushed in a vice.

Hearing your voice again was a bittersweet agony. It was a melody he hadn't heard in a year, and it smoothed the jagged edges of his temper until he realized how much power you still held over him. That thought turned his blood to fire. How dare she speak to the King with such poise and deny me even a glance?

As you fled the room, he didn't hesitate. He followed you, his stride heavy and purposeful. He was starving for a drop of your attention. He didn't care if you screamed at him, cursed his name, or told him you wished he were dead—he just needed you to acknowledge that he existed. He needed those eyes, the ones that used to look at him with such warmth, to at least burn him with their hatred. Anything was better than being a ghost in your world.

Driven by a desperate, toxic mix of longing and fury, he closed the distance between you in the empty corridor.

Before you could turn the corner, his massive hand clamped around your bicep. The heat of his skin through your sleeve was a shock, a sudden spark that sent a jolt through your weary frame. Without a word, he used his sheer strength to haul you sideways, his momentum carrying you both into a small, dimly lit sitting room.

The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that made the air jump. He didn't let go as he shoved you back against the wood of the door, his large frame looming over you, effectively trapping you between his body and the exit. His breath was ragged, his blue eyes dark with a storm that had been brewing for twelve long months.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in the small space. “You will not walk away from me again. Speak. Tell me you hate me, tell me I'm a monster, but you will not give me silence!”

You fixed your gaze towards the back of him, your eyes not meeting even an inch of him. He grabbed your chin his thumb brushing against your lower lip as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your skin. You gasped, his touch burned you—searing itself so deep into you that you didn’t see how you could scrub it clean this time.

“Why won’t you look at me?” He pleaded, his eyes searching your face. “I beg of you, say something, Treasure. Anything. Just don’t act like I dont exist.” He sounded like he was in deep pain.

At the sound of that name—the one he had used when he’d looked at you as if you were the only thing in Asgard worth protecting—your gaze finally snapped to his.

“Don’t touch me,” you rasped. The words were sharp, tearing at your throat as they left. You felt his fingers twitch against your jaw.

His hand dropped as if you had burned him, his head bowing under the weight of your rejection. “You leave for a year,” he began, his voice thick and trembling with a mix of hurt and disbelief. “Not letting me know—not letting your best friend know—and then the first thing you say to me is not to touch you?” He let out a harsh, hollow scoff, his eyes searching yours for a trace of the girl who used to follow him into every battle. “Are you kidding me? You have to be joking.”

“I had no idea I had to let you know of every step I take like I am a toddler, my Prince,” you replied. The formal title was a wall, high and impenetrable. You watched his jaw tighten at the coldness of it. “What more would you have liked to hear me say?”

“That you’re sorry!” he barked, the sound echoing off the small room's walls. He stepped back into your space, his chest heaving. “I stood there. At the feast. I waited until the fires went out and the servants began to clear the tables. I thought you were dead. I thought you had been taken. I spent weeks scouring the city before my father told me he had granted you a commission to the North.”

You scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. The irony of it was a poison in your mouth. “Why would I say something that I do not mean?”

“You aren't sorry?” Thor stepped even closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You aren't sorry for leaving me in that silence? For making me wonder if I had imagined everything we were to each other?”

“A blade doesn't owe its wielder an apology for being sharpened.”you said, your voice finally steady, though your heart was screaming.

Screaming at you to shut up, screaming at you to just say you’re sorry and hold him. Screaming at you that once you apologise, everything will go back to the way it was. Your heart was a desperate bitch.

But you knew the truth, you knew that it would never go back to the way it was, if you apologised or not. It didn’t matter anymore. So you continued.

“We were nothing but a warrior and her Prince, Thor,”

Thor looked at you as if you had just reached into his chest and physically ripped the heart from his ribs. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale and hollowed out.

His expression curdled. The pain transformed into something sharp, dark, and cruel.

“I hate you,” he mumbled. The words weren't shouted; they were whispered, which made them ten times more lethal. His gaze filled with a loathing so absolute that it felt like the temperature in the room plummeted, matching the Jotunheim frost you had just escaped.

Those three words etched themselves into your skin, sinking deeper and deeper until you didn’t know where the pain began or where it ended. You felt the air leave you, the blow hitting harder than any mace or spear ever could. You swallowed hard, forcing your face to remain a mask of cold, unfeeling stone, even as you felt your soul fracturing.

“Good,” you whispered back, staring directly into the storm of his eyes, refusing to blink. “I hate you too.”

His blood ran cold. He wanted you to talk to him, he told you to tell him he’s a monster, tell him you hate him even, but he didn’t expect you to actually say those words that turned his world upside down. He didn’t expect you to say those words with so much meaning in them, like you actually hated him.

You actually hated him.

Before he could respond, before he could see the way your hands were beginning to shake, you shoved him. You put every ounce of your warrior’s strength into his chest, forcing him to stumble back just enough to give you a path.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you said, your voice a brittle, frozen blade. “I have to get ready for tonight, my Prince.”

You didn't wait for a dismissal. You turned and walked out of the room, your spine rigid and your head held high. You kept your pace steady until you turned the corner, and only then did you let out the breath that was burning in your lungs.

Your ears were ringing from the sheer adrenaline that the encounter had pulled out of you, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the distant sounds of the palace. Every nerve ending felt raw, as if the skin had been stripped from your body.

He had thrown your heart—the one he had held in his palm for years—to the ground, and he had stepped on it. He stepped on it so hard you could practically hear the squelching sound it made as it was crushed underneath his heavy boot.

You reached your chambers and practically fell through the entrance. You slammed the door shut and leaned against it with all your might, your palms flat against the wood, as if your weight alone could keep the ghost of him from bursting through. You stayed there, chest heaving, listening to the silence of the room that felt far too large and far too empty.

Down in the corridor, Thor stood frozen. He followed you out the door and watched as you glided away from him for the second time that day, the silk of your dress vanishing around the corner like a fading dream. Your scent, your intoxicating scent, clung to his clothes and filled his lungs, refusing to leave him.

He dragged his palms over his face, his breathing ragged and uneven. He felt the sting of his own words echoing in the empty hallway, tasting like ash.

What had he done?

—

You got ready for the feast with trembling hands and a broken heart, putting on a burgundy dress from your wardrobe.

Gods, you were an idiot—the biggest idiot in the universe, probably. For all these years, you had thought he was your best friend. But it wasn't your fault, was it? He had hidden himself so well that he made you think he could be into you even, not merely your friend. You hated him with all your being.

You walked toward the great hall, breathing hard, clad in one of the dresses he had chosen for you. The fabric was suffocating, burning your skin like the sun does at noon. When you reached the entrance, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You didn't want to be here; you didn't want to sit near him, and you certainly didn't want to hear his infuriating voice.

Calm down, girl, you chastised yourself. You had to do this. You could not defy the All-Father. You opened your eyes and stepped inside.

Unfortunately for you, the first eyes you met were his. And even though you hated him—even though he was the last man in the universe you would ever pursue now—your heartbeat stuttered. He was dressed in his ceremonial armor; the chest plates were familiar, but he wore a new, fur-trimmed collar that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and made him look devastatingly masculine.

He looked like a King, and it made you hate him more.

Thor froze as you entered, his goblet halting halfway to his lips. The chatter of the hall seemed to fade into a dull hum in his ears as his gaze raked over you. You were wearing the dress—the one he had agonized over, the one he had hoped would make you feel like the treasure he once called you. Seeing you in it, with your skin glowing under the torchlight and your hair styled with such precision, made the hate he had proclaimed feel like a pathetic lie.

I hate her, he assured himself, Don’t I?, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the silver stem of his cup. He wanted to look away, to show you the same cold indifference you had shown him, but he was a starving man presented with a feast.

He watched you approach the high table, his eyes dark and turbulent, the fur of his collar shifting with his heavy, uneven breaths. He had intended to ignore you all night, but seeing you standing there, a vision of Asgardian grace, he knew he was already losing the war.

As you approached, you caught sight of the seating chart, and felt the blood drain from your face. You were positioned directly to the right of the Crown Prince.

“Fuck,” you mouthed, the word lost in the swell of the music and the roar of the crowd.

You took your seat, feeling Odin's approving gaze from the head of the table. He looked pleased, likely thinking he was doing his son a favor by placing his best friend at his side after a long year apart. He had no idea that the two of you were currently locked in a silent war, or that his son was capable of the biting cruelty he’d shown you today.

You settled into the chair, the proximity making your head swim. He was a furnace beside you, his heat searing through the fine fabric of your dress and making you feel dizzy. You reached for your glass of mead with a hand that you prayed wouldn't shake, your throat dry as you took a desperate gulp to ground yourself. Then you grabbed a fork and started your plate.

Thor leaned toward you, the fur of his collar brushing against your bare shoulder as he spoke, his voice low and irritatingly steady. His masculine scent invading your space and making your head swim despite your hatred. He didn't look at you, instead keeping his eyes on the feast as he spoke.

“I see you finally remembered which fork to use for the first course,” he murmured, his voice low enough to be a secret. “I was worried a year in the caves of the north might have turned your manners entirely feral.”

You took a long, slow sip of the mead, feeling the heat of him searing through your side. You turned to him with a fake, sugar-sweet smile.

“And I see you've finally learned how to sit through a ceremony without spilling wine down your front, my Prince,” you countered, your tone dripping with mock praise. “Though the night is young; I'm sure your usual grace will fail you eventually.”

Thor’s fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet, his jaw ticking. He hated that your wit was still as sharp as your sword, and he hated even more that he wanted to hear you use it all night.

The proximity was a slow torture; every time he moved, the scent of him invaded your space, making the dizziness return with a vengeance. You focused on the glass in your hand, determined to survive the next three hours without letting him see how much his presence still unsettled your soul.

“So,” Odin started, his voice booming through the hall and forcing your head up toward him.

“Now that you two are united, I would like to send you both on a mission,” he continued, his single eye moving between you and his son. “Just like you usually do.”

Your mouth soured instantly, and your expression turned grim. Thor used to be your mission partner, your shadow and your shield, but that was a year ago. Clearly, Odin wanted you both back together on missions as if you had never left. No, please don’t do this to me, you begged in your mind, the thought of being trapped in the wilderness with him feeling more dangerous than any Jotunheim frost.

“Yes, Father,” Thor said beside you, though his voice sounded tight. His mind was occupied by a single, terrifying question: how could he survive a mission with you when the mere scent of you made his lungs ache with a longing he refused to name?

Odin leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. “Reports have come from the borders of Vanaheim. A group of marauders has discovered a cache of ancient relics that do not belong in mortal hands. They are moving through the Shimmering Woods. I want you both to intercept them and ensure those artifacts are returned to the palace vaults. It requires stealth, precision, and the kind of unspoken trust you two have always shared.”

The irony of his words slapped you in the face. Unspoken trust. The only thing unspoken between you now was the depth of your mutual resentment.

“You will leave in two days' time,” Odin concluded, his glass raised to the room. “It will give you time to rest from your travels and prepare for the journey. To the return of our most formidable pair.”

Beside you, Thor’s hand tightened around his goblet until the silver groaned under his strength. You stared into your mead, the deep burgundy of your dress feeling like a funeral shroud for the peace you had hoped to find back home.

The two-day reprieve felt like a double-edged sword. It was forty-eight hours of extra air, but it was also forty-eight hours of dreading the inevitable—being trapped in the silence of the Shimmering Woods with the man who had just told you he hated you.

“Yes, Father,” Thor said beside you, though his voice was tight. He finally let go of his goblet, his knuckles slowly returning to their natural color. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the tension radiating off his massive frame, the fur of his collar nearly brushing your cheek as he shifted in his seat.

Two days. You had two fucking days to figure out how to be a soldier again while your heart was still lying in pieces on the marble floor.

Thor sat like a statue of ice beside you, though his blood was boiling. He could feel your dread radiating off you in waves, noticing the way your breathing turned ragged and your fingers shook. Did you truly despise him that much? Did his mere proximity make you shudder with revulsion?

His gaze hardened, his blue eyes turning into flint as he watched your trembling hands. If you wanted to play the victim, he would let you—but he was going to make you regret ever leaving him standing alone at that feast a year ago. He would make you regret treating his devotion like a game.

The dinner officially concluded, and the hall exploded into a cacophony of chatter and the sloshing of drinks. You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the stone walls, tracing the patterns of the masonry as if they were the most fascinating things in Asgard. These are such nice walls... you thought desperately, your mind trying to latch onto anything that wasn't the man sitting inches away.

What am I thinking?

You shook your head, forcing yourself back to reality, and tried to focus on the conversation happening between the two brothers.

“A mission to Vanaheim? Truly, Father has a sense of humor,” Loki said, his voice smooth and dripping with his usual mischief as he leaned toward Thor. “The two of you, back in the wild. It’s almost poetic. Or perhaps tragic, depending on who bleeds first.”

Thor didn't even spare a glance at his brother, his attention still anchored to your profile. “It is a matter of duty, Loki. Nothing more. We have a task to complete, and we will complete it with the professionalism expected of Asgardian soldiers.”

“Professionalism,” Loki echoed, a sharp, knowing glint in his eyes as he looked between your shaking hands and Thor's white-knuckled grip on his chair. “Is that what we're calling it these days? You both look as though you're preparing for an execution, not a retrieval mission.”

Loki’s smirk deepened, a flash of genuine curiosity cutting through his usual facade of boredom. “Seriously though, whatever happened between you two?” his voice asked, sounding genuinely confused.

The question caught your attention, pulling your gaze away from the walls. “What makes you think something happened?” you snapped, your voice thick with defensiveness.

Loki let out a dry, melodic laugh. “Clearly something has happened. I haven't seen you two together since you came back, which is a rare occurrence as it is, but you guys haven't even touched since you sat down. Not a bit”. He leaned in, his eyes darting between your rigid posture and Thor’s brooding silence. “All of Asgard knows of your lack of boundaries with each other—“

The words were barely out of Loki’s mouth before Thor’s hand clamped over his brother's face, effectively silencing him. “Shut up, brother,” Thor rumbled, his expression darkening with displeasure.

You gulped, the air in the hall suddenly feeling like thin shards of glass, slicing your insides with every breath you took. Loki was right; everyone in the palace was used to seeing the two of you attached at the hip, your boundaries often blurred by years of shared battles and private moments. The contrast of tonight’s frozen distance was a screaming admission of guilt.

“Excuse me,” you murmured, the words barely audible over the roar of the feast. You didn't wait for a response as you stood up and made your way toward the restroom, your steps hurried as you tried to escape the weight of everyone's eyes.

The cold stone of the restroom walls offered no comfort as you collapsed against them, your breathing ragged and shallow. Your lungs felt like lead weights in your chest, and the world was a collapsing ruin of gold and marble. You were clawing at the debris of your own life, but the more you fought, the deeper you sank. You were drowning in the middle of a palace.

Your palms pressed hard into your eye sockets, your fingers digging into your temples as if you could physically push the panic back inside.

Keep it together. Keep it in line. Every sound from the Great Hall—the thrum of the lutes, the muffled roar of laughter, even your own fucking heartbeat—felt like a hammer blow against your skull.

On the battlefield, you were a force of nature. You had stared down Frost Giants without a flicker of doubt, your blade an extension of your will. But here, in the quiet, you were fracturing.

Thor was the only one who truly knew. Long before you ever held a sword, he had seen you crumble like this in the gardens of the palace. He knew that while you were a lioness in a fight, your own mind could be your most treacherous enemy. He was the one who had seen the overwhelm coming and told you to channel that storm into steel. He was the reason you were a warrior at all.

You exhaled a sharp, jagged breath. Your body reached for the muscle memory of his comfort—the way his large, calloused hands would rest on your shoulders—on your cheeks to anchor you to the earth.

Inhale for four seconds.

The air felt sharp, like needles.

Hold for seven.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, demanding release.

Exhale for eight.

The air left you in a long, shaky hiss.

Just like he taught you. Just like he had held you through every night of terror for a decade. The irony was a fresh wound— the man who had given you the tools to survive your own mind was the same man currently tearing it apart. You stood there, trapped in a rhythm he created, using his ghost to survive his presence.

Your mind wandered then, back to the time you almost lost him—and yourself along with him.

Svartalfheim, Three Years Ago.

The sky was a bruised purple, choked with the soot of a thousand fallen dark elves. You were in the thick of it, your gaze sharp and your focus unwavering. Your breathing was hard but steady as you drove your sword into the chest of a dark elf, the resistance of the armor meeting your strength before yielding.

A few yards away, Thor was a storm made flesh. He was on a killing streak that seemed endless, Mjolnir circling him like a loyal predator, dropping enemies one by one as he summoned pillars of lightning that shook the very foundations of the realm. This was his natural state—war. He could go on for months without stopping; he didn't need food, or drink, or sleep when the blood of battle sang in his veins.

But he needed you. He needed you like he needed to breathe.

Even in the chaos, he couldn't help himself. He was watching you. He always did, even though he was the one who had practically dragged you to the training grounds as children, the one who insisted you had the spirit of a Valkyrie.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between campaigns, he deeply resented himself for it. He could have kept his mouth shut. He could have kept you safe in the golden gardens of Asgard, draped in silks rather than stained in gore.

His suggestion for you to become a warrior had been a double-edged sword for him. He wanted you by his side because he couldn't breathe without you, but he spent every second of every battle dying a thousand deaths, terrified that one day he wouldn't be fast enough to be your shield.

His heart dropped when he saw it.

A dark elf, blending into the obsidian shadows of the terrain, was closing in on your blind spot. You were too focused on the enemy in front of you, your blade locked in a struggle, to notice the jagged, poisoned spear aimed directly at your heart.

“NO!”

Thor’s voice boomed over the clashing of steel, a sound more terrifying than the thunder he commanded.

You heard a grunt of pure, physical exertion, followed by the impact of giant hands against your shoulders. The force was immense, sending you flying through the air. You didn't even have time to register what was happening—the only thought screaming in your head was him.

What the hell did he do?

The world felt like it was moving in slow motion as you scrambled back up, your boots slipping briefly on the blood-slicked earth of Svartalfheim. The ringing in your ears from the thunder was deafening, but it was the silence that followed Thor's grunt that made your stomach drop.

You turned, your sword gripped so hard your knuckles were white, and your breath hitched.

Thor was on one knee. He, the God of Thunder, who looked like an immovable mountain in every other battle, was hunched over. He had thrown himself between you and the dark elf's cursed blade—a jagged, obsidian weapon pulsing with dark energy that was meant for you. Instead, it was buried in his side, just below the ribs where his armor had shifted as he lunged to push you.

The dark elf didn't get a second chance; Thor’s hand, still sparking with residual lightning, reached out and crushed the creature's throat in a blind, protective reflex, but the damage was done.

“Thor!” you screamed, the sound tearing from your lungs as you bridged the gap between you in a single, desperate stride.

He looked up at you, his face smeared with soot and grime, his blue eyes hazy with a sudden, sharp pain. You dropped down in front of him, your hands beginning to shake. Even then, as the dark energy of the blade began to seep into his veins, his first instinct wasn't to check his wound. His hand, heavy and trembling, reached out to grab your shoulder, checking the integrity of your armor, searching your face for any sign that you had been hurt in the fall.

“You—“ he wheezed, a crimson stain spreading rapidly across his armour. “Are you unharmed?”

“You idiot!” You dropped your sword, not caring that the battle was still raging around you, and caught him as he began to tilt forward. His weight was immense, nearly crushing you, but you held on with everything you had. “Why would you do that? I had it! I could have moved!”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though it looked more like a grimace. “I could not take the chance,” he whispered, his head falling heavily against your shoulder. “Not with you.”

Your sight became blurred then, hot tears spilling over and carving tracks through the grime on your cheeks.

The God of Thunder, the strongest being you had ever known—the man who could level entire planets with a single strike—was at the brink of death because of a fucking poison?

No, not just a poison. The poison. A substance brewed from ancient, concentrated loathing, specifically designed to rot the immortality out of a god’s veins.

“Ho-how do I fix this?” you begged, the words fracturing in your throat before you could even finish the sentence.

He grunted—a low, wet sound of agony that sent a fresh jolt of terror through your spine. Your eyes went wide and frantic as you watched the obsidian veins of the toxin begin to crawl up his neck. Your lungs were constricting, turning your chest into a cage of iron, and your hands were shaking so violently that Thor could feel the tremors through his armor.

“Please, don't leave me—“ you breathed, the air barely reaching your throat. “Say something, say you're going to be okay— anything—“

You couldn't finish. You couldn't breathe. The panic was surrounding you, a suffocating darkness rising to meet the chaos of the battlefield around you. Not here, not like this, please, you begged silently. You were spiraling, losing your grip on reality while holding the dying weight of a prince in your arms.

Thor felt the frantic rhythm of your heart through your chest, the way your hands clawed at him in a desperate attempt to keep him grounded. Despite the dark magic eating at his insides, he forced his head up. He let out a pained grunt, his muscles screaming as he lifted both of his massive, blood-stained hands to cradle your face.

“I am going to be okay,” he murmured, his voice strained and thick with the effort of staying conscious. His expression was twisted in pain, yet his eyes remained locked on yours with a terrifying intensity.

“Breathe for me, sweet girl,” he mumbled. Even as the life was being leeched out of him, he lowered his voice, smoothing it into a gentle, rhythmic rumble intended to anchor you. He didn't care about the spear in his side; he cared about the way you were gasping for air.

You leaned into his touch, your own hands flying up to cover his where they held your face, trying to follow his lead—but it wasn't working. The sounds of clashing steel and the smell of dirt were too much. You were terrified that if you closed your eyes to breathe, he would be gone when you opened them.

“I have you,” he whispered, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, smearing the blood and tears. “Focus on me. Just me. Inhale—that's it, again.”

You choked on a sob, forcing a jagged breath into your lungs because he asked it of you. You watched him, your anchor in the middle of a slaughter, realizing that even at the edge of the abyss, his only priority was making sure you didn't fall in after him. You gulped, your tears fell uncontrollably, blurring the sight of his pained face.

“Treasure,” he whispered, his voice a ragged rasp. He used the last of his strength to pull your face closer to his, bridging the gap until his forehead rested against yours. “I beg of you, breathe.”

He pressed a lingering, desperate kiss to your forehead, his lips hot and dry. The contact forced your eyes shut. You had to calm down. You couldn't lose him—the only person in the Nine Realms you wouldn't trade for anything. So you fought for it. You fought for the air, forcing your lungs to expand even as they felt like they were filled with glass. You did it for him. To get him home. To get him back to life.

As you finally caught a shaky, deep breath, you heard his low, strained praise. “Good girl—just like that.” He grunted again, his eyes slamming shut as his expression twisted into a mask of pure agony. The obsidian veins were climbing higher now, mocking your efforts.

“Thor, please don't die on me,” you begged, your voice finally returning, though it was raw with terror. “I’m going to get you back, big guy. Do you hear me? I’m getting you back.”

Present

Standing in the cold silence of the restroom, you stared at your reflection in the polished basin, your hands still gripping the edges of the marble. You had gotten him back in time. You had dragged him through the chaos, defied the odds, and seen the healers purge that filth from his blood.

But the echoes of that day still lived in your marrow. You could still hear your own frantic cries—the way you had pleaded for him to live, to not leave you in a world that felt empty without his shadow. You remembered the sheer, hysterical desperation that had led you to threaten to take your own life right there on the battlefield, promising to haunt him in Valhalla for eternity.

It was extreme—you could admit that now—but at the time, the thought of a universe without Thor was a reality you refused to inhabit.

Thor had been furious when he finally recovered, his blue eyes burning with a rage that rivaled his lightning. He was angry you’d suggested such a thing, but mostly he was angry that you thought you could ever be a haunting to him.

“You could only make my afterlife better, treasure,” he had murmured to you back then, his voice thick with a dark, protective possessiveness.

You splashed cold water on your face, the chill snapping you back to the present. The man who had said those words, the man who had found his only peace in the thought of your company in the afterlife, was currently sitting just a few yards away, nursing a glass of mead and a heart full of bitterness.

He had saved your life, and you had saved his. You had shared blood and breath, and yet here you were, wearing a burgundy dress he didn’t even look at, preparing to go on a mission with a stranger who happened to wear Thor's face.

The man who had taken a poisoned spear for you was the same man who had just used his words to poison your very soul.

You straightened your spine, smoothed the skirts of your gown, and took one last four-seven-eight breath.

Meanwhile, inside the hall, Thor was reeling. His gaze had followed your every move as you practically fled toward the restroom, and it hadn't shifted since. It had been fifteen minutes. His hands were clamped into fists on the table, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed on the exit of the hall as if he could burn holes through the heavy oak doors.

What is taking her so long? Displeasure, mixed with a sharp, cold dread, settled into his gut. Had something happened? Had you fainted from the stress? Were you—He cut the thought off. He was being ridiculous. You were a warrior of Asgard; you could handle yourself.

But then twenty minutes passed, and Thor was anything but calm.

“Calm down, brother,” Loki murmured from beside him, his voice smooth and irritating. “She's probably okay.”

Thor snapped his head toward him, his eyes flashing like a summer storm. “Who said anything about her?”

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose, looking as though Thor were giving him a physical headache. “All you ever do is think about her—“

“Go check on her,” Thor cut him off, his voice low and urgent.

“What?” Loki said, taken aback. “Why would I check on her? Go check on her yourself.”

Thor ached to do exactly that. Every fiber of his being wanted to burst through those doors and make sure you were still breathing, still whole. But his stubbornness—the bitter wall of dislike he had built to protect himself—held him back. He couldn't go to you, not after the coldness he'd displayed. So he settled for the next best thing: his brother.

“Go, Loki,” Thor commanded. He reached out, his hand gripping the back of Loki's head with a firm, threatening pressure. “You know nothing can stop Mjolnir as it comes back to my hand. Go now, or I swear I wi—“

Loki stood up abruptly, shaking Thor's hand off with a look of pure exasperation. “Your affections for her are maddeningly annoying,” he muttered under his breath, smoothing his robes as he started on his way to find you.

Thor didn't respond to him. He simply turned his gaze back to the door, his chest heaving, waiting for a sign that you were safe-even if he was pretending not to care at all.

He merely hated you, he didn't want you harmed, okay?

Just as you pulled the heavy door open, you were face-to-face with Loki. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“What are you doing here, Loki?” you asked, your voice still a bit breathless from your panic attack.

Loki smiled dashingly at you, leaning against the stone archway. “Just checking in on my dearest friend,” he said, opening his arms wide in a theatrical gesture.

His words immediately made you suspicious. You narrowed your eyes, looking him up and down from head to toe. “Right,” you said, your voice dripping with skepticism. “Consider me convinced.” You didn't wait for a further explanation, brushing past him as you started the long walk back toward the feast, your heart still heavy.

“So, dear, will you please tell me what happened? Because Thor is not talking and I hate not knowing things—“

You turned to him abruptly, narrowing your gaze as you looked up at the trickster god. “Shut up, Loki. I swear to the All-Father, I will kill you and fake-cry at your funeral like I had nothing to do with it.” You jabbed your right index finger into his chest for emphasis.

He smirked, unfazed by the threat. “Lovely. Just the woman for my brother—or for me, you could never know with these things, real—“

You punched him in the stomach, rolling your eyes as you did.

“Ouch,” he grunted, though the grin didn't entirely leave his face. “What was that for?”

“Do not try me, Loki. You might be my friend, but I won't be so merciful the next time you say I'm the right woman for your brother,” you warned, turning back to continue your march toward the hall.

Loki was hot on your heels. “Oh my, you’re not bothered I included myself, but you’re bothered I talked about him? You really are mad at him,” he said, his gaze rolling over you with newfound amusement. “Please, tell me what happened, I must know immediately.”

You palmed your face, the headache behind your eyes pulsing. “Shut up, Loki.”

But as you passed through the grand gates, you were stopped by a man appearing directly in your path. He was tall, with sharp features and hair the color of spun silver, wearing the polished, intricate armor of the High Commander of the Vanguard.

“My, my, if it isn't the hero of the last campaign,” said Commander Valerius, his voice smooth and carrying across the nearby tables.

The moment you stepped back into the hall, the crushing weight in Thor’s chest finally eased. You were alive, you were whole. He could breathe again.

But the relief was incinerated in a heartbeat.

Thor watched, paralyzed by a sudden, violent surge of adrenaline, as Valerius intercepted you. His vision bled red at the edges, his fingers digging into the edge of the heavy wooden table, the wood groaning and splintering under his strength.

What the fuck did that vulture think he was doing?

Valerius took a step closer, his eyes scanning you with an appreciative, lingering look that felt entirely too heavy. “We have missed your blade in the training circles, and your presence in the courts. I had heard the North was cold, but it seems to have only sharpened your beauty.”

As Loki sauntered back to the table, pointedly ignoring Thor’s silent, homicidal glares, you felt Thor’s gaze boring into the side of your head. It was a familiar heat that made your skin prickle under the expensive dress, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back. Instead, you focused every ounce of your will on Valerius.

Thor’s hatred for Valerius was legendary. The Commander was a thorn in his side—arrogant, opportunistic, and always subtly testing the boundaries of Thor's authority. But more than that, Valerius had always been a shark circling you. He knew exactly what you were to the Prince, and he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in trying to catch you alone.

So, you leaned into it. If Thor wanted to treat you like an enemy of his, like a fucking stranger, you would show him exactly what a stranger looked like.

You tilted your head, letting a stray lock of hair fall over your shoulder as you offered Valerius a shy, practiced smile. “You are too kind, Commander. Thank you,” you said, looking up at him through your lashes.

Internally, your stomach twisted, the mere act of playing along felt like a betrayal of your own heart. You felt nauseous, your soul recoiling at the idea of anyone but Thor standing this close, but the anger kept you upright. You hated Thor for this—for forcing you to use another man as a shield just to survive a damn gathering.

Valerius’s breath hitched. He had clearly expected your usual cold dismissal, but seeing you soften made his smirk widen into something more predatory. “I am only telling the truth, my lady,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping an octave. “Asgard is a much dimmer place when its brightest star is tucked away in the North.”

Thor’s eyes darted to Loki, his expression a desperate, silent command: Stop this. Now. Loki, however, simply pulled out his chair with a flourish. He met Thor's gaze, mouthed a very clear, very deliberate ‘No,’ and sat down, picking up a grape with agonizing slowness.

Thor turned back to the scene at the gate. He saw you tilt your head. He saw the shy smile—the one he thought belonged only to him, or at least to the version of him you didn't hate. When you looked up at Valerius through your lashes, a low, guttural growl vibrated in Thor’s chest, a sound felt more than heard by those sitting nearest to him.

Valerius stepped into your personal space—space that Thor had occupied exclusively for years. The Prince’s hand twitched toward the empty space at his hip where Mjolnir usually rested. He wanted to level the hall. He wanted to rip the High Commander's tongue out of his mouth.

He fucking hated you for doing this to him. How could you?

Standing him up after that moment in the armory—after the air between you had turned to fire and he had almost, almost pressed his lips to yours—was that not enough? Leaving him waiting for an entire year hadn't been enough?

Every single morning for three hundred and sixty-five days, Thor had woken up with your name on the tip of his tongue, the phantom weight of you in the palace halls making his heart ache, only to be slapped by the cold reality that you were gone. And now, you were pursuing Valerius?

The God of Thunder felt a crackle of static electricity jump from his fingertips to the silverware. He wanted to scream that you were his, that your smile was his, that your loyalty was the only thing that kept him anchored to this realm. But he had been the one to say he hated you. He had been the one to cast the first stone tonight.

Your skin felt like it was being licked by flames. You didn't need to look at the royal table to know exactly what Thor was doing; you could feel him. His energy was a localized storm, a heavy pressure that settled over your shoulders like a cloak.

That invisible string—the one you had believed in since you were children, the one that bound your souls together across battlefields and through starlit nights—was tugging violently. It thrummed with his fury, his betrayal, his raw displeasure.

Good, you thought, though the word tasted like ash. Let him feel it. Let him sit there and watch his blade be courted by a man who actually treated her like a woman. Let him feel the same hollow betrayal that had emptied your chest when he reduced your entire existence to a cold piece of steel.

“Is everything alright, my lady?” Valerius asked, his hand hovering near your elbow. “You seem spirited tonight.”

“I've never felt better, Commander,” you lied, your voice silky and loud enough to carry as you finally let your gaze drift toward the high table.

Your breath caught in your throat when your eyes collided with his.

Thor was leaned back in his heavy oak chair, the picture of a brooding storm. His right hand was tucked under his chin, index finger pressed firmly over his mouth as if physically holding back a roar. His left hand gripped the seat’s handle so hard that the ancient wood groaned and creaked, a sound that surely reached the ears of every noble nearby.

His eyes were like two black holes, consuming every bit of light in the hall, and little sparks of static electricity danced like angry hornets over his knuckles.

He didn't move a muscle as he just kept looking at you with a cold, piercing look—as if you were the most disgraceful creature in the Nine Realms. Of course, you thought, the wound in your chest throbbing. He really does hate me.

Thor was fuming, his mind a dark workshop of violence. He was mentally cataloging the ways to end Commander Valerius. Should it be slow? Or slow with a side of excruciating torture? He wanted to pull the man’s silver-plated heart out through his ribs.

But then your head turned, and your eyes caught his. His stomach churned at the sight; your dislike for him was so evident, so sharp, it felt like a blade to his throat. He gulped, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thick to swallow. He couldn't sit here and watch this anymore. He had to stop this—now.

He leaned toward his father, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that demanded attention.

“Father,” Thor said, his eyes never leaving you and Valerius. “Did you not say that Commander Valerius was needed at the Northern Outposts to oversee the new defense fortifications? Reports from the scouts suggested the border was weak, and I believe he mentioned he was eager to prove his diligence.”

Odin looked at his son, his one eye glinting with a knowing, weary wisdom. He looked at you, then back to the Commander. “Ah, yes. The fortifications. A pressing matter, indeed.”

Odin raised his voice, his authority cutting through the music like a scythe. “Commander Valerius! A word. My son reminds me of your eagerness to depart for the Northern border. There are logistical matters we must discuss before you leave tonight.”

Valerius stiffened as the smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a mask of professional obedience. He couldn't defy the king’s summons, especially one framed by the Prince’s recommendation.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Valerius murmured. He turned back to you, leaning in one last time to press a lingering kiss to the back of your hand—a final act of defiance against Thor. “It seems our time is cut short, my lady. But I shall look for you upon my return.”

As he walked away toward the high table, Thor’s hand finally snapped the handle of his chair clean off. The sound of the splintering wood echoed through the hall, a sharp crack that silenced the nearby conversations. Every pair of eyes turned toward Thor’s display of unnecessary power. Odin’s eyebrows shot up, his one eye locked onto the now-dismantled chair handle in his son's grip.

“This seat is really fragile, I’m afraid,” Thor muttered, trying to find an excuse while offering a sheepish, unconvincing smile to his father. Odin only shook his head in weary silence before turning his attention back to a confused Valerius.

What the fuck is he doing? you thought, your anger clouding your vision as you made your way back to the table. You sat down with a sharp movement, your gaze narrowing as you looked directly at the Prince.

“What is your problem?” you asked, your voice low but vibrating with fury.

Thor cleared his throat, leaning back with a feigned nonchalance that didn't reach his stormy eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Treasure?”

Your heart started beating in your mouth. His persistent use of that name, the one that used to mean safety and belonging, made you lightheaded even now. “Do not call me that,” you defied him, despite the way your pulse raced. Get a grip, you scolded yourself.

“I will call you whatever I like,” he countered, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that felt like it was burning through you, body and soul.

“I know you just made your father call on Valerius on purpose—“

His gaze darkened instantly, the sparks of static over his fingers flaring. “I see you're on a first-name basis now,” he mumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerously threatening tone. “I suggest you address your superiors by their title.”

Your blood ran cold. Your fingertips felt frozen as the weight of his implication settled in. He was doing it again—reducing you to a mere subordinate, a piece of the military machine. The blade of the throne as he had called you a year ago.

You scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Not everyone sees me as a tool like you do, Your Highness.”

Thor’s fury took hold of him, his eyebrows descending low over his eyelids as the air around the table grew heavy with the weight of your words. The fuck did you just call him?

“You fucking promised not to ever address me that way,” he grumbled, his hand snaking out to grab your bicep. His grip wasn't painful, but it was possessive, desperate, and trembling with a rage he couldn't quite stifle.

The memory of that promise hit you, making your breath shudder as you exhaled.

You were children—barely tall enough to reach the weapon racks—when your parents had chastised you for the disrespect of addressing the Crown Prince by his given name. You had taken the lesson to heart, and the next morning, when you saw him in the training gardens, you had bowed your head and whispered, “Your Highness.”

His expression had soured instantly, as if you had uttered a blasphemy you specifically should never commit. “Do not call me that,” he had said, his small face twisted in confusion. “Aren't we best friends? Have I done something?” He had genuinely thought the fault lay with him.

“Oh,” you had murmured then. “Of course we are. My parents told me this was the proper way for me to address you, that is all.”

“Promise me you will never call me that again,” he had insisted, his voice already carrying the weight of a future king. “That title is not for you to use. You are the only person forbidden from using it ever again.”

And yes, you knew you were being cruel by breaking that sacred vow now. But wasn't he being cruel too?

“I did promise,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your bicep burned under his palm. “But that was before I got to know how much you liked pulling rank on me, my Prince.”

Thor’s breath hitched, a broken sound that was swallowed by the surrounding din of the feast. His thumb pressed into your skin, a silent plea or a silent threat—you couldn't tell anymore.

“How could you say that?” he whispered, the words breaking as they left his lips, sounding like a wounded animal—a deer that had been shot multiple times and was taking it's last breaths.

“Will you leave me be, my Prince? I am trying to listen to the All-Father.”

You turned your head away, fixing your gaze forward on Odin as your eyes began ache. You felt the familiar, hot prickle of tears clouding your vision, you couldn't cry here—not in this hall, not in front of the court that saw you only as a decorated hero.

You bit your bottom lip, the sharp pressure anchoring you to the present until you could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood. You didn't care. You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down as you tried to calm the irregular rhythm of your poor, broken heart.

The feast was over half an hour later. Everyone, some thoroughly drunk and others merely exhausted, began to scramble away from the Great Hall, leaving a trail of empty chalices and hushed conversations behind them. You stood up from your seat, your fingers trembling slightly as you smoothed down the deep burgundy skirts of your gown.

Thor had sat there the entire time, unmoving, his eyes burning holes into the side of your head—the sole culprit behind his thoroughly soured mood. You hadn't spared him a single glance during those agonizing final minutes, keeping your chin held high and your eyes locked forward.

But when you took your first step to leave, you were stopped dead in your tracks. Odin’s right hand lifted, his index finger pointing directly toward you and Thor.

“You two are not leaving. I have to talk to you.”

Your mouth went instantly dry. Your poor heart, already battered from the confrontation, started to beat even faster as a heavy dread settled deep in your stomach.

Had the All-Father heard you and Thor? No, he couldn't have—you two had been whispering, your voices kept low beneath the din of the music. Were you whispering? Anxious and entirely off-balance, you settled back into your chair, the heavy wood practically biting into your tense muscles.

“Is something the matter, Father?” Thor asked from beside you, his voice tight but carrying a genuine spark of curiosity.

“No, no,” Odin replied, a small, uncharacteristic smile gracing his old features as he looked between the two of you. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I think I have news that will make you two rather joyful.”

Thor’s eyebrows furrowed in immediate suspicion, matching your own expression perfectly. “How so?” Thor pressed.

“You two will get married.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Thor’s hand, which had been resting on the table, immediately went up to plow through his thick hair as if trying to physically process the words. Did he hear his father correctly?

“What?” Thor asked, his voice cracking slightly and raising up an entire octave.

You sat frozen, the blood rushing in your ears. Did you hear that right? “Pardon me, All-Father,” you stammered, offering a tight, incredibly nervous smile, desperately hoping you had just misunderstood a royal decree. “I think I must have heard you wrong. Did you say Thor and I will get married?”

Odin chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “You heard correctly, child.”

What the fuck? The phrase screamed in your mind, but your lips wouldn't move.

“You two have been friends for years. You have fought beside each other, you laugh together, you protect one another—you have been through everything,” Odin continued, his one eye glowing with a terrifyingly calm certainty while you tried to grasp the sheer gravity of what was happening.

“The best foundation for love is friendship. And I am well aware that you two are great friends, though you have stubbornly refused to notice your love for each other for years.”

You couldn’t breathe nor could you think. The irony of the All-Father’s words was suffocating you. He thought he was playing matchmaker to a beautiful, budding romance born of a lifelong bond.

He had no idea that the son he was so proud of had shattered your soul by calling you nothing but a tool of the state. He didn't know you had spent a year bleeding in Jotunheim just to escape the memory of his words, he only thought you were there for the sake of Asgard.

Thor could see your face clearly from where he sat. As you leaned back against the harsh wood of your chair, you looked at Odin with wide, terrified eyes, the color completely drained from your cheeks.

A year ago, he would have been utterly delighted to hear this news. His best friend—the woman he was desperately, hopelessly in love with—was to be married to him.

Now, though? He couldn’t bear the thought of it. The sheer weight of you being shackled to him—to a man you clearly despised so much that you had fled the realm for a year without a second thought after he almost kissed you—tore at his insides. His father surely was a man of impeccable timing.

“Father, we cannot—” Thor started, his voice thick, though Odin immediately lifted a sharp hand to cut him off.

“You will. There will come a time when I won’t be here, Thor, and you are in desperate need of a wife to be king. I’d rather you get married to your best friend than leave you to a loveless marriage forged of necessity.”

Thor closed his eyes slowly, taking a desperate, heavy breath. The irony was a knife in his gut. His father didn’t know this would exactly be that loveless, forced marriage. How could his father know that his best friend was not even his friend anymore?

Your throat was burning. You brought your shaky hands down toward your stomach, tightly interlacing your fingers as you tried to ground yourself, trying to stop the room from spinning.

A year ago, this would have been the greatest gift you could ever receive. The man you had loved in secret for years, finally becoming your husband? Oh, what a beautiful dream it would have been.

But the thought of his newfound hatred, the memory of his degrading eyes dancing all over your skin, and the echo of his betrayal prodded violently at your mind. How were you to endure a lifetime of this?

“I—” you started, but the syllable was too thin, cracking before it could even leave your lips. You swallowed hard, clearing your throat before trying again. “I do not think I am fit for marriage—”

Odin’s expression turned sour instantly, the lines on his face hardening. “You are the only woman in Asgard fit to marry my son,” he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.

You gulped, your throat aching as you gave a hollow, defeated nod. “I see,” was the only thing that managed to come out of your mouth.

“I will not hear any more of this nonsense,” Odin declared, rising from his throne. “Now go. Your wedding will be three days after your return from the mission. To give you time to rest.” He turned and strode out of the hall, his heavy footsteps signaling that the conversation was entirely over.

You remained frozen, your gaze still glued to the empty throne where Odin had just been sitting. You were utterly unable to move a single muscle, your dress suddenly feeling like a shroud.

How did it come to this? You had gone to the ends of the Nine Realms to escape him, and now, the universe was forcing you right back into his arms—as his damn wife.

—

You woke up, already dreading the day that was to come. After two days of trying to get used to the idea of marrying Thor—and desperately avoiding the rest of the palace by not getting out of your chambers unless it was to eat—it was finally time for the mission. Gods, you were mad at destiny for playing this cruel, twisted joke on you.

You got out of bed, taking a few deep, ragged breaths to calm yourself down as you got ready. You braided your hair tight against your head, buckled your armor over your chest, packed a few spare clothes, and you were done.

The moment you opened your heavy chamber door, you saw him. He was leaning his back against the stone wall across the corridor, clearly waiting for you.

“Finally,” he mumbled under his breath.

You narrowed your eyes at him, having heard him as clear as day. As he left the wall and started to walk down the hall, his eyes slid over you, assessing your gear.

“Did I keep you waiting for too long, Your Highness?” you asked, falling into step behind him.

His head immediately snapped toward you, his eyes darkening with immediate anger at the title. “I am to be your husband, Treasure. I suggest you keep that title out of your mouth,” he warned, his gaze tearing into yours. But as he kept looking at you, his anger morphed into something far more sinister, and a dark, mocking smirk found his lips. “Mm, actually, I think you should call me dear husband. Fits our situation much better.”

You huffed, violently turning your gaze away from him to look straight ahead. “I suggest you shut your mouth, then, my Prince,” you shot back.

Your heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to leap clean out of your chest. He was cruel. He was so incredibly cruel.

You walked over the rainbow bridge in absolute silence, the distance between you filled with a suffocating tension as you made your way to the observatory. But the moment you stepped inside and caught sight of Heimdall, a wide, genuine smile broke across your face. He hadn't been at his post for a while because he had other cosmic matters to handle, and seeing him back brought a wave of comfort over you, even if it was fleeting.

“Heimdall!” Thor’s booming voice echoed through the dome, and his deep, hearty chuckle scratched uncomfortably at your ears.

Heimdall smiled as Thor strode over to him with open arms, enveloping the gatekeeper in a massive bear hug. Gods, you missed those hugs. You missed being the one wrapped up in them.

Keep it together, you fiercely commanded yourself in your mind.

Heimdall then turned to you, opening his arms with a warm look. Your smile widened even further as you stepped into his space and hugged him back tightly.

“I'm so glad you're back,” you mumbled against his armor.

“I missed you two,” Heimdall said, chuckling softly as you parted from the embrace. Then, his smile grew even wider as he looked at the two of you standing side-by-side. “Congratulations. I heard the good news.”

“What?” you said, the smile instantly falling from your face. “I heard you are to be married,” Heimdall said, proudly patting both of your backs while you nearly choked on your own spit. “My two dear friends! I always knew you were made for each other.”

“How do you know of that?” Thor asked, his voice tightening with a sudden hesitancy.

“I know everything,” Heimdall replied with a knowing wink.

Of course he knows, you thought, rolling your eyes toward the ceiling.

“Though, I think practically everyone knows by now,” Heimdall added, still smiling warmly. “It is a royal wedding, after all.”

You and Thor shot a sudden, panicked look at each other. Realizing you were in public and a performance was required, Thor reached out and pulled you into an awkward, rigid side-hug for show. You both forced yourselves to look back at Heimdall, offering stiff, hesitant smiles.

“Thank you,” you both muttered in unison.

Your entire side felt like it was burning from Thor’s sudden closeness. For a split second, your resolve crumbled as you closed your eyes and deeply inhaled his scent—rain, sandalwood, and leather. Stop it, you thought to yourself desperately, snapping your eyes open. Stop it right now.

“We should get going,” Thor said abruptly, cutting off any further talk of the wedding as he faced Hofund. “Send us to the Whispering Marshes of Vanaheim.”

As he spoke, his grip tightened on you. He didn't let go. Instead, knowing the crushing pull of the cosmic wormhole was coming, Thor glued his hand firmly to your waist. He was desperate to feel you—to feel your skin against his, to have your breath fanning over his neck, to feel your hands gripping his chest for support just like you used to do every single time you travelled the stars together. While his expression remained perfectly stable, a violent war was raging inside him. Why the fuck did he still want to touch you like this? What the hell was wrong with him?

Heimdall nodded, his golden eyes reflecting the swirling colors of the Bifrost as his expression turned serious. “Very well.”

He raised his great sword, Hofund, and drove it deep into the center of the observatory. The mechanism groaned, the massive rings spinning at a blinding speed until a torrent of prismatic light erupted from the ceiling, swallowing you and Thor whole.

The heat of Thor’s side against yours deepened as the realm-travel claimed you. For a few agonizing seconds, the universe was nothing but deafening sound and blinding color, pulling at your atoms until the rainbow light shattered, and your boots slammed hard into thick, damp earth.

The moment you landed, your eyes instinctively went to Thor's chest, where your hand had subconsciously clamped onto his armor. Realizing what you were doing, you stumbled backward a step, tearing yourself completely away from his touch. You coughed as the heavy, humid air of Vanaheim filled your lungs, trying to erase the memory of his scent.

The forest around you was dense, suffocatingly green, and draped in a thick shroud of low-hanging fog. The faint scent of rotting moss and old magic hung heavily in the air, pressing down on you.

“Stay close,” Thor ordered. His voice dropped any trace of the lightheartedness it had held with Heimdall, returning instantly to the gruff, commanding tone of a general. He unclipped Mjolnir from his belt, the leather handle firm in his massive grip. “The marshes are treacherous. Keep your eyes on the treeline.”

“I am a warrior, Your Highness, not a child,” you shot back, pulling your own sword from its sheath. The cold weight of the handle was an instant comfort, a familiar anchor against the panic that had been threatening to surface since you woke up. “Might I remind you that I survived a year in the frozen wastes of Jotunheim. Surely, I can handle a few marshes.”

Thor stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head just enough for you to see the hard, rigid line of his jaw in the dim light. He didn't say a word, but the way his knuckles whitened around Mjolnir told you exactly how much your reminder of Jotunheim galled him. He hated that you had left. He hated that you had survived a whole year without him.

Without a word, he plunged ahead into the thick fog, his broad shoulders cutting through the heavy mist like the prow of a warship.

You followed a few paces behind, your sword held low, your gaze sharp as you watched his back out of pure habit.

It was impossible to tell if it was day or night. Vanaheim’s Whispering Marshes existed in a perpetual, eerie twilight. The canopy of ancient, weeping trees was so dense that it choked out the sky entirely, leaving only a sickly, bioluminescent green glow that pulsed faintly from the moss beneath your boots. Every step you took made a wet, sucking sound in the mud, a rhythmic reminder of how easily these bogs could swallow a warrior whole.

And then there were the whispers.

They started as a low hum, a trick of the wind rustling through the damp ferns, but as you marched deeper into the fog, the sounds began to shape themselves into syllables. Voices—fragmented memories.

“...a blade that guards the gate...” a voice sighed through the mist.

Your breath hitched. You squeezed the handle of your sword so tight your leather glove creaked. The marsh was already feeding on your mind, pulling the worst day of your life from the shadows of your memory.

Ahead of you, Thor stiffened as his pace slowed, his broad back rigid beneath his crimson cape. He had heard it too. The fog seemed to thicken around him, curling like smoke over his shoulders.

“...you are the only person forbidden from using it...” another whisper drifted by, sounding agonizingly like Thor’s younger, gentler voice from your childhood.

“Do not listen to them,” Thor growled, his voice a low rumble that cut through the supernatural haze. He didn't turn around, but his shoulders were hunched, his posture defensive. “The magic of this place uses your own thoughts to disorient you. Focus on the path.”

“I am perfectly focused, my Prince,” you said, your voice tight as you forced your eyes to scan the gnarled treeline.

You both kept walking for hours, the oppressive twilight of the marshes stretching on endlessly. The environment wasn't the only thing testing your patience; the silence between you quickly dissolved into a bitter, exhausting bickering. Every decision became a battlefield.

“We should veer left,” Thor muttered, his eyes tracking a faint, muddy ridge. “The ground looks more stable there.”

“If we go left, we plunge directly into the weeping roots,” you countered sharply, deliberately stepping right past him. “The moss to the right is thicker. It means there’s solid stone underneath. Or did your year of sitting on a comfortable Asgardian throne erase your basic tracking instincts?”

Thor stepped into your path, forcing you to a halt. His eyes flashed. “My tracking instincts are perfectly intact. And I was not sitting comfortably, I was—“ He bit off his words, shaking his head. “We are going left.”

“Go left alone, then,” you snapped, brushing past his broad shoulder. “I am not a soldier under your command on this trip, Thor. I am a partner. Act like it.”

“A partner usually listens when someone tries to keep them from sinking into a bog!” he roared softly, his heavy boots splashing in the mire as he caught up to you.

“I managed to avoid sinking into ice shelves for an entire year without your supreme guidance,” you shot back, your voice dripping with venom. “I think I can handle a little mud.”

“Jotunheim again,” Thor growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You speak of it as if you went on a grand adventure, rather than fleeing like a thief in the night.”

“I did not flee!” you said, stopping and turning to face him, your chest heaving against your armor. “I left to become exactly what you always thought I was. A tool—a blade. I simply went to sharpen myself.”

Thor opened his mouth to reply, his eyes wide and burning with a mixture of rage and a strange, desperate agony, but the words died in his throat. He looked around, suddenly realizing that the gnarled trees surrounding you looked identical to the ones you had passed two hours ago.

The thick, rolling fog had disoriented both of you. The bioluminescent moss was pulsing slower now, fading into a deeper, darker hue that signaled the onset of Vanaheim's true, freezing night.

You were utterly lost.

Thor let out a long, defeated breath, his broad shoulders sagging slightly as he unclipped Mjolnir and let out a frustrated sigh. He looked at you, his features softening just a fraction into the tired man beneath the warrior prince.

“We are walking in circles,” he admitted, his voice dropping the commanding tone. “The marsh-magic is thickening with the night. If we keep moving in this darkness, we will stumble into a sinkhole.”

You looked around, hating that he was right. Your muscles were aching from the damp cold, and the heavy atmosphere was pressing down on your skull like a vice.

“So what do you suggest, big guy?” you asked, the name you always called him slipping out from your tongue, though the bite in your voice was weakened by sheer exhaustion.

“We rest,” Thor said, his gaze locking onto a small, elevated clearing beneath the massive, twisted roots of a dead ironwood tree. The ground there looked relatively dry, shielded by the canopy above. “We pitch camp here for the night. We gather our strength, let the fog clear, and find the temple at first light.”

You wanted to protest, but you simply didn't have the energy left to do so. You were acutely aware of how thoroughly lost you were in the twisting fog, so you only sighed a long, heavy breath as you nodded.

“Okay,” you mumbled, looking up at him through the dim twilight.

He nodded back, a silent truce passing between you as you both made your way toward the massive, twisted roots of the dead ironwood tree to set up camp. You dropped your pack onto the dry patch of earth, the leather hitting the ground with a heavy thud, and looked around.

This forest was fucking eerie. If Thor were still your Thor, you wouldn't have hesitated for a second; you would have stuck right to his side, practically glued to his shoulder as he prepared a fire for you to keep the shadows at bay. But you were not in that position anymore. So instead, you bit your bottom lip, standing a few paces back as you watched him work.

His golden locks dropped over his perfect face as he leaned down, coaxing a flame from the dry wood he'd gathered. Even from where you stood, the heat of the growing fire began to push back the damp chill, bringing with it his faint, unmistakable scent of rain and sandalwood. He was a nightmare. A beautiful, fucking nightmare that you couldn't wake up from.

Thor suddenly looked up at you from his kneeling position, and his heart stopped beating entirely.

You were looking down at him, your angelic face twisted in pure, quiet focus, your gaze so burning that his lungs couldn't manage to take in another breath.

And you were biting your lips. Those sinful, fucking lips that he had been so painfully close to kissing in the dark of the armory. The memory hit him so hard he felt it pierce through him, forcing him to sharply turn his gaze away before he lost his mind completely.

With a tight jaw, he managed to light the fire, the orange flames casting long, dancing shadows against the ancient roots. He stood up to his full height, dusting off his hands as he looked back at you.

“What is it?” he asked. His voice came out so gentle, so entirely devoid of the anger from earlier, that your eyes burned with sudden, unwanted tears.

“Nothing,”’you said quickly, turning your gaze away from him and focusing on the flickering flames, desperately trying to lock your emotions back behind the wall you had built.

“Why do you do this?” he asked you.

You turned your gaze back to him, the crackling orange firelight cutting through the heavy fog. “Do what?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes already shining with the hot tears to come.

“You look at me with a despise so great it breaks me,” he breathed, the raw vulnerability in his tone catching you completely off guard. “And then, a second later, I see you looking at me like you used to. With that look so full of love it takes my breath away.”

Your throat burned as you opened your mouth, your heart threatening to leap clean out of your chest. His right hand hovered, lingering just over your cheek as if he were actively deciding if he even had the right to touch you anymore.

“You're the one to talk,” you scoffed, a bitter defense mechanism against the ache in your ribs. “If you saw how you fucking look at me all day—with so much disgust it makes me nauseous—you would hate yourself.”

Thor stepped closer, the heat radiating off him easily eclipsing the campfire. “Do you?”

“What?”

“You said you hate me,” he asked, his knuckles finally dropping to gently graze your cheek. You tried to gulp, but the air was stuck in your throat, thick and heavy. “But do you hate me?”

“I don't,” you confessed, the truth slipping out before you could stop it. You closed your eyes, unable to look at him as you asked the mirror question. “Do you?”

“I could never,” he replied instantly. His entire hand moved to cup the side of your face, warm and rough against your skin. Helpless against a year of longing, you instinctively leaned into his touch, your cheek resting in his palm.

“Then why?” he asked, his voice suddenly becoming tighter, the brief gentleness fracturing. “Why do you do this to me?” His tone dropped into a deeper, darker register, vibrating with a frustration that was right on the verge of yelling. “Why did you leave me?”

You shook your head violently against his palm, reality snapping back as you tried to pull away from him. You couldn't do this. You couldn't let him hold you while your soul was still bleeding from what he did.

“Why did you fucking flirt with him?!” he suddenly yelled, his hand snapping down to grip your arm tightly, preventing you from backing out into the dark forest.

Your eyes widened in sheer disbelief. Is this what this was all about? “Is this what's bothering you?! Are you serious?!” you yelled back, planting your hands against his armored chest and trying to push him off, but he was too strong, completely unyielding.

“Tell me,” he demanded, leaning his face down toward yours until you could feel the furious huff of his breath. “Tell me why you would fucking betray me like that.”

You let out a sharp, incredulous breath, entirely unable to believe the audacity of what you were hearing. “I can talk to men however I please. He just happened to be the one who was there,” you said, your gaze sharpening into steel.

“You can't,” he growled.

“Oh, I most definitely can. You don't decide that,” you shot back, defiantly glaring up into his stormy eyes.

“I am to be your husband. I can decide that,” he pushed back, his jaw clenching as he laid claim to the title neither of you had wanted an hour ago. “You will not talk to him again.”

He was playing the husband card. Great. Absolutely fantastic.

“Oh, you're eager to be my husband now?” you hissed, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your throat as you slammed your hands against his armored chest.

“I am stating a fact,” Thor growled, his grip on your arm tightening just enough to keep you pinned beneath his heavy, dark gaze.

“I can't fucking deal with you!” You shook your head violently, the raw frustration tearing through your chest. “I will talk to him. I will talk to all the men you don't like! What the fuck can you do about it?!” you yelled, daring him to push further.

“All-Fathers give me strength,” he muttered, looking away from you for a split second as if trying to summon every ounce of restraint left in his body. Then, his head snapped back, his eyes boring into yours with that dark, suffocating intensity. “I will bury them six feet under, myself, Treasure.”

His hand shot up, his large fingers tangling into the hair at the back of your neck, gripping you just firmly enough to anchor you to him.

You gulped, your eyes widening as you looked up at him. He had always been possessive over you—always lingering a little too close, always watching whoever stepped into your space—but he had never threatened to kill anyone. At least, he had never admitted it to your face with such terrifying, calm certainty.

Your breathing became heavy, your chest heaving in perfect tandem with his as you stood chest-to-chest in the freezing Vanaheim night. The contrast was maddening. He was furious, he was irrational, and he was so incredibly hot. The heat radiating off his skin was a direct contradiction to the cold fog surrounding you, and the sheer power humming beneath his armor made your pulse spike in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

His thumb slid against the nape of your neck, his gaze dropping down to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, waiting for you to defy him again.

“Fuck it,” he mumbled.

He decided then and there, no matter what the outcome was, no matter how much you might hate him for it tomorrow, he was going to taste those beautiful lips of yours in this lifetime.

Before you could even draw another breath, he crashed his lips down onto yours. He was desperate to taste you, desperate to feel you, pouring a year's worth of agony and unspent devotion into the collision.

What he didn’t expect, what completely broke his remaining restraint, was you kissing him back just as desperately. Your mouth opened against his, and you tasted sweet—so much sweeter than he had ever imagined in his darkest, most vivid dreams—and the sheer perfection of it killed him.

You couldn’t believe it. After a whole year of icy loneliness, you were finally kissing him. His left arm snaked around your waist, pulling you so tight against his armor that you thought you might pass out for a second, but you didn't care. He was eating you alive. His teeth bit down on your lower lip, sharp and demanding, only for him to immediately soothe the sting over with his tongue. You moaned, a low, obscene sound that rippled through the quiet fog, the heavy feel of him getting you completely high.

He began to walk you backward through the dark camp. Your heel caught onto a rogue twig, almost making you trip, but his grip instantly tightened around your chest, anchoring you. He grumbled something low and dark against your mouth about your clumsiness, never breaking the contact. He pressed you back into the heavy trunk of the ironwood tree, the solid wood knocking the remaining breath from your lungs as he continued to kiss you feverishly. Fuck, he was killing you.

Your hands tangled into his golden hair, sliding down to his neck and caressing his nape tenderly. The gentle touch made him groan deeply into your mouth, a vibration you felt all the way down to your chest. He pressed the full weight of his body into yours, forcing you to feel him—to feel how massive he was compared to you, to feel how completely he was consuming you, to feel how fucking desperate he was to crawl inside your skin.

You gasped as his mouth slid away from yours, his kisses marking a trail of fire along your jaw line. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin, before descending to your neck. Desperate for more, you arched your neck, moving your head back to give him space—but the movement was too sudden, and a faint, dull thud echoed from the back of your head making contact with the tree trunk.

Thor froze instantly. He ripped himself away from your neck, looking down at you with tightly knitted eyebrows, the raw passion in his eyes suddenly laced with sharp panic.

“Did that hurt?” he mumbled, his voice thick and rough.

“No,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.

Gods, you were a sight. Your lips were flushed and puffy from his kisses, your tight warrior braid was completely coming loose, almost entirely let down over your shoulders, and your eyes were so desperate, so entirely expectant, that it knifed right through his heart.

Even though you whispered that it didn't hurt, he didn't care. He gently brought his large hands up to your head, carefully checking the spot for damage before pressing a incredibly tender kiss to your crown, the sudden shift to gentleness stealing the air right out of your lungs. Did he have to be so caring? Did he have to remind you of the man you loved so much?

Then, keeping his gaze locked on yours, he placed his massive, calloused hand flat against the bark at the back of your head, making a protective barricade between your soft skin and the rough tree trunk.

“It’s okay,” he growled softly, leaning back down, his thumb sweeping across your damp lower lip. “I'm not letting you get hurt again.”

You nodded, dazed, like he knew the code to the universe. Even though the contact with the tree hadn't really hurt you, he knew what was best for you in your own eyes. That was how completely you were drowning in him.

He smiled down at your expression, a soft, rare expression that reached his eyes. Gods, he wanted to keep you like this—all for himself, high on his kisses, with not a single doubt left in your mind. You grabbed at the back of his neck, trying to pull him back down to you, and he happily obliged. He gave you a brief, lingering kiss, and then he went right back to his previous work. He caught a soft patch of skin on your neck, giving it a slow, deliberate bite before sucking on it until your head began to swim. Your grasp on his nape tightened as he tasted your skin, making your toes curl; you simply couldn't get enough of him.

You could feel your panties dampen as the friction of his heavy body pressed against yours. His hands began to work at the straps of your harsh armor, but before he unbuckled it completely, he paused. He looked into your eyes for confirmation. You gave it happily, biting your lower lip as a silent yes.

He could never get enough of you. As he discarded your heavy chest piece and shoulder guards, letting them drop to the damp moss below, you could feel his thick bulge pressing firmly against your front. He left you in just your tight, long-sleeved shirt and your trousers. He quickly took hold of the hem of your shirt—not taking it off entirely, but pulling it far enough up that he could see your bare breasts. Because your armor usually lent enough support and cover, you weren't wearing a bra, and your chest heaved under his dark, heated gaze.

Thor bit his own lip, immediately cupping your left breast in his massive right hand.

“You’re killing me, Treasure,” he mumbled against your skin as you gasped at the sudden contact. “You are so beautiful, sweetheart.”

You felt a sudden surge of impatience, your hands reaching up to clumsily tug at the fastenings of his top armor, trying to get rid of the metal between you. He chuckled lightly—a low, rumbling sound that made you look up at him through the dark.

“Get rid of it,” you said, pouting slightly as you pulled at his chest piece. “I want to touch you, too.”

Thor closed his eyes, taking a ragged breath. You were going to be the absolute end of him. He smiled down at your expression, leaning in to give you a sweet, little peck on your lips. “Whatever you want, baby,” he murmured.

With practiced ease, he unbuckled his own top armor and tossed it aside. And oh, it was so worth it. Your eyes skimmed over the hard, massive planes of his chest, his damn biceps that looked as big as your head, and his rock-hard abs. You felt lightheaded just from the sight of him standing bare-chested over you in the firelight.

You whined, desperately reaching out. “Come here.”

Your right hand wrapped around his left bicep while your other hand slid lower, mapping out the ridges of his abs. You were in absolute heaven. You pulled him down and kissed him again, your fingers tracing every inch of his bare skin, and Thor groaned deeply into your mouth, clearly drunk on your attention and completely happy to let you consume him.

The friction of his bare, heated skin against your tight shirt sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core. Thor groaned deep into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your tongue, clearly drunk on the attention as your fingers traced the hard, sculpted ridges of his abs. He was radiating a staggering amount of heat, practically melting the damp Vanaheim chill that hung in the air around the dead ironwood tree.

His right hand, still gripping your left breast, squeezed firmly, his thumb sweeping over the tight peak and making you arch off the rough bark. You whined into the kiss, your hips instinctively tilting upward, seeking the blunt, heavy pressure of the bulge straining against his trousers. You entire being was ablaze now, thrumming with raw, unfiltered lust.

“More,” you breathed against his lips when he finally tore his mouth away to catch his breath. “Thor, please...”

He didn't need to be told twice. His eyes were entirely blown out, the stormy grey replaced by a dark, feral hunger. He slid his hand from your breast down to the waistband of your trousers, his calloused fingers hooking into the fabric. He leaned his forehead against yours for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving as he looked down at your flushed, ruined expression.

“I've got you, Treasure,” he rasped, his voice incredibly deep and thick with promise. “I'm right here, honey.”

With a sudden, possessive tug, he began to work at the fastenings of your trousers, his large body pressing you flat against his protective hand, trapping you completely in his heat.

When he was finally done with the fastenings, he paused, his gaze dropping toward the damp ground. He was clearly calculating something, his brow furrowing slightly as he assessed the cold, muddy earth. Turning back to you, he gently lifted you by your waist, removing you from the tree trunk.

He knelt down on the moss, his large fingers working quickly to unfasten his heavy crimson cape from his discarded armor, and he laid the thick fabric carefully across the ground.

He took your hand in his, giving it a soft tug to pull you toward him. “Is this okay?” he asked, gesturing with his head toward the cape on the floor.

It was more than okay. He was trying to make you comfortable, wanting to get you laid down so you could actually relax despite the harsh environment. In that moment, he was your Thor again, even if it was just for tonight. You nodded, smiling up at him.

“Of course it is, big guy,” you said radiantly.

He couldn't take it. His gaze, which had been locked on your eyes, descended instantly toward your lips and that fucking smile that completely lit up the dark night. He missed you. He missed your scent, he missed touching you, and he missed your smile so much it physically hurt his very being.

Wasting no more time, he grabbed you again, manhandling you down to the ground so quickly that you squealed in surprise. He chuckled at the sound, the low rumble vibrating in his chest; gods, he had even missed your silly little noises.

Within seconds, he was hovering over you again, your legs instinctively spreading apart to accommodate his massive frame between them. He started pulling down your trousers, and you helped him by lifting your hips a bit higher, allowing him to slide them off until they were fully discarded.

He took hold of your bare legs, his warm hands gliding up your skin as he settled back into his former position between your thighs.

“I can’t handle this—” he breathed, closing his eyes in a wave of sheer agony. “You are beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing—I can’t even bear to look at you. You are burning me,” he whispered, opening his eyes to look down at you, completely consumed by the fire you had started.

“Thor,” you mumbled, your heart beating so hard it felt like it was right in your throat. You didn't know what to say or how to process the sheer adoration in his eyes, so you did the first thing you could think of: you yanked him down toward you by his neck.

You crashed your lips against his, kissing him with a wild, unbridled desperation, before trailing down to press open-mouthed, burning kisses along his jaw and into the hollow of his throat. Instinctively, you hitched your legs higher, wrapping them tightly around his thick waist and pulling him in until his heavy bulge pressed directly against your core. The friction made a ragged whine escape your lips, and Thor let out a deep, guttural groan that shook his entire chest.

“I want you,” you managed to choke out against his skin, your mind spinning. “I want you so bad, please.”

You were begging him now, completely delirious with want. The ache between your thighs was unbearable, your panties soaked through and clinging to your pussy. You needed his touch like you needed air.

“I know, honey, I know,” he mumbled, his voice thick and rough as he slid his large hand down between your bodies.

He didn't waste another second, pressing his broad thumb directly against your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear. Even with the barrier, the direct pressure made your hips jerk upward, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispered, his own breath catching as his thumb slid over the damp material, applying a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. He gulped, his eyes dark and blown out as he looked down at you. “I can feel it right through your panties. You're completely ready for me, aren't you, my Treasure?”

You whined, feeling yourself getting more and more soaked by the second, the friction of his heavy thumb against your clit driving you completely crazy.

“Yes, oh gods, yes,” you managed to pant out, your hips moving uncontrollably against his hand, chasing the friction.

“Look at you,” he mumbled, biting his lip as his eyes darkened to a shade of pure, possessive storm. “My woman. My wife.”

The words sent a thrill straight down your spine just as he hooked his fingers into the edge of your underwear and slid your panties to the side, finally touching your bare skin without any barriers left.

“Oh,” you whined, a high, broken sound escaping you the moment his warm, calloused palm made contact with your soaking slit.

“I have to taste you, little bird,” he mumbled against your lips, his voice dropping into a deep tone.

Without waiting another second, he began to completely roll your panties down your legs. You could feel the crisp, cold Vanaheim air hit your drenched pussy the moment he pulled the black lace over your feet and discarded them onto the moss.

“Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath. His gaze focused intently on your center, his large hands sliding back up to massage your thighs, his thumbs smoothing over your sensitive skin.

He took firm hold of your legs and carefully but unyieldingly planted them over his massive shoulders, completely opening you up and baring your most intimate parts to him. He looked up at you from his position between your thighs, the orange firelight making his golden hair glow as his thumbs gently separated your swollen lips. He leaned down and licked a slow, wet stripe from your aching entrance all the way up to your clit.

“Thor!” you gasped out, your fingers instantly flying to tangle themselves into his golden locks.

Even that single, devastating lick was enough to make you see stars behind your eyelids. You were completely his—you realized it with a terrifying clarity in that moment—body and soul, no matter how much you had tried to deny it over the past year.

He leaned in deeper, his mouth devouring you as he began sucking on your clit with a bruising, desperate hunger. At the same time, his thumb slipped down to circle your wet entrance, driving you to the absolute brink. You arched off his cape, your hands gripping his hair to push him closer, completely drunk on the sensation.

But then, he stopped suddenly. He lifted his head, his mouth wet and his lips flushed, leaving you completely stranded at the edge of a cliff.

“Why did you stop?” you cried out, your voice laced with a desperate, whining sob as your hips hitched upward, trying to find his mouth again.

Thor held your thighs firmly against his chest, pinning you in place. His blue eyes burned into yours, raw, vulnerable, and completely unyielding.

“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of his own desperation. “Tell me there is only me. Tell me no one else has touched you like this. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I—” you began, the word catching painfully in your dry throat.

Your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You were his—you had always been his. Your heart still belonged to him entirely, and in a few short days, you were going to be bound to him by Asgardian law. You hadn't let any other man touch you like this, but a stubborn, defensive wall slammed down inside your mind. You couldn't let him know that. You couldn't give him that satisfaction and hand him even more power over your already shattered emotions. You knew he wanted your body right now, but you were still entirely convinced he didn't reciprocate your actual feelings. To him, you were still just a tool he was possessive over.

“I am not,” you defied him, your chin lifting as your eyes twinkled with a dangerous, reckless spark.

Thor’s expression shifted instantly, the passion freezing into a cold, terrifying rage. His eyes narrowed down on you until they looked like two cracks of lightning. “Who the fuck touched you?”

You gulped, a sudden spike of panic hitting you. Fuck. You had to find a lie, and you had to find it fast.

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” you mumbled, trying to deflect as you tightened your fingers in his golden hair, trying to pull him back down to distract him.

“Oh, it matters, baby,” Thor growled, his voice dropping so deep it made the earth beneath his cape vibrate. He didn't budge an inch, his massive hands tightening on your thighs like iron bands, pinning your legs over his shoulders.

“I think I have made it pretty damn obvious who I belonged to for years,” he continued, leaning over you until his chest practically crushed yours, his breath hot and furious against your face. “Spending all my time with you. Not letting you out of my sight even for a single second. Everyone in Asgard knew you were mine to guard. So tell me...”

He dipped his head lower, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped, his blue eyes burning directly into your soul.

“...which fucker defied his prince and laid his hands on you? Give me a name.”

Did he just say he belonged to you?

Your lungs burned, your chest heaving with the crushing weight of your damn feelings. He was pushing you down so hard emotionally that you weren’t sure if you could ever find a way out of this anymore. It was bad enough that you were letting him touch you like this—he had broken your heart once already, and now you were actively giving him the opportunity to do it all over again. He must be lying just to get you to tell him a name, your logic screamed at you, desperate to protect what was left of your sanity.

“What will you do to him if I tell you?” you whispered, your eyes tracing the sharp, perfectly chiseled planes of his face.

Thor was fucking furious. The air around you felt thick, charged with the dangerous, crackling energy of a storm about to break. He was laying his heart bare to you, and you were still protecting another man. You had broken his heart once by leaving, and now he felt like he was giving you the perfect chance to break it a second time.

“I will decide when I know who it is,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He snapped his right hand up to grab your chin, his massive palm covering most of your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.

“I don't remember his name,” you lied through your teeth, your mind spinning too fast to construct a more specific or believable story.

You were fucking lying, and he knew it. He could read you too well; he saw the subtle shift in your eyes, the slight tremor in your breathing. But instead of pushing for the name, his expression hardened, shifting into something far more determined, dark, and utterly possessive.

“Then I’m gonna make damn sure you won’t remember a single thing about any other man,” he vowed, his left thumb wiping aggressively against the inside of your right thigh. He slid right back into his former position, settling firmly between your knees as your legs remained draped over his massive shoulders. The orange firelight caught the sweat sheen on his bare back, casting long shadows across his protective crimson cape spread beneath you.

“You will be my wife,” he commanded, his voice thick with a raw, unyielding promise that left no room for argument, his blue eyes burning directly into yours as he stared you down. “There is only me now. You had better get used to it, Treasure.”

With that final declaration, keeping that piercing gaze locked onto yours, he dipped his head again— his wet, heated mouth crashing back down against your aching center with a bruising, desperate hunger that instantly made you see stars.

He was sucking your soul right out of you. Your high, desperate mewls of pleasure were only drawing him on, driving him deeper into his own possessive hunger. Your breaths came out ragged and shallow as you instinctively bucked your hips upward, trying to force more of him inside you.

He gripped your hips with iron hands, pinning you firmly against his crimson cape. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly command against your sensitive skin.

To punish your impatience, he gave your swollen clit a sharp little kiss, immediately resuming his relentless suckling. Wet, heavy sounds echoed in the quiet Vanaheim night as he worked over your drenched pussy. He was basically making out with your center, and oh gods, did you fucking like it. You were completely helpless beneath him.

“Thor, baby, please,” you begged, your fingers knotting tightly into his hair as your head thrashed against his cape.

In response, he slid his thick middle finger straight into your dripping hole. “Oh gods,” you breathed, your eyes snapping open to look down at him.

His blue eyes hadn't left your face for even a fraction of a second. He watched your undoing with a raw, predatory satisfaction, and the sheer sight of his intense gaze magnified the pressure in your lower stomach tenfold. You closed your eyes, your knuckles turning white in his golden locks. “I’m so close—Thor, oh!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, his voice vibrating against your inner thighs. “My pretty girl,” he mumbled through his suckling, the praise dripping with an intoxicating sweetness that made your heart ache just as much as your core.

He was deliberately trying to stretch you out, his single finger moving deep inside you, making your aching, wet walls burn with a delicious friction. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he hooked his ring finger alongside the first, pushing both deep into your heat and making you mewl in a high, broken sob.

“Please,” you pleaded, your internal muscles clenching tightly around his intrusion. His fingers were stretching you so much that you felt like you were already being filled to the absolute brim.

A sudden, devastating thought crossed your mind. If his mere fingers were making you feel this completely full, what the hell was going to happen when his massive cock was finally inside you?

The mental image of him burying his full size into you was the final, lethal blow. You couldn't hold it back for another second. The pressure in your lower stomach broke, and you went entirely rigid, your hips locking as a violent wave of pleasure crashed over you. You came hard right on his mouth, screaming his name into the dark forest as your walls squeezed his fingers in tight, rhythmic spasms.

He lapped up your juices eagerly, the action causing wet slurping sounds to come out in the quiet of the night. His tongue didn't stop its assault for even a second, and his two fingers were still buried deep inside you, pumping in a ruthless, perfect rhythm that made you squirm and writhe against his crimson cape.

When it became too much, when the pleasure turned into a sharp, electric overload, you tried prying him off of you, your fingers desperately pushing at his broad shoulders.

But it was absolutely no use; he was an immovable wall. Your hips backed away from him instinctively, your whines not stopping as his fingers stretched you from the inside while his mouth continued ruthlessly attacking your overstimulated clit.

“Please—it's too much,” you begged him, your voice cracking, on the very verge of crying from the sheer intensity of it.

“You can take it,” he said, his gravelly voice vibrating right against your thighs. He looked straight up into your eyes and took your swollen clit directly between his lips, giving it a firm, deliberate suck while his fingers curled deep inside your wet hole.

Your mouth fell agape as a second, completely unexpected wave of pleasure started brewing deep in your core. “Fuck,” you gasped, your logic completely melting away as your hips lifted up again, betraying your earlier words to chase the relief only he could give you.

“There you go, my good girl,” he mumbled through his relentless assaults on your clit, his fingers driving in deeper, stretching your aching walls to their absolute limit.

“Thor—!” you screamed into the foggy canopy as your second orgasm hit you, your tight muscles clamping down around his buried fingers.

You were absolutely delirious with pleasure. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your hands, still tightly tangled in his golden hair, pulled hard on his locks as your entire body trembled under the assault of his mouth and hand.

When he was finally done, he slid his fingers out of your soaking wetness with a soft, squelching sound and slid up your body, settling himself right back over you. His massive, bare chest pressed against yours, his face perfectly in line with yours.

Without a word, he captured your lips, kissing you deeply and making you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimacy of it sent a shiver through your spine. You cupped his jaw with your hands, kissing him back eagerly, losing yourself in the hot, wet rhythm.

When he finally separated his mouth from yours, the friction caused a thin string of saliva to appear between your lips.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his breathing still heavy as his blue eyes searched your face, looking over you with genuine concern for anything wrong.

You nodded your head, your chest heaving against his. “I’m amazing,” you breathed out.

He smiled, his features softening completely as he leaned down to give you another sweet, lingering peck. But then, he did something you never, ever expected from him.

Instead of reaching for the waistband of his own trousers, he shifted down your body. He reached into the darkness, grabbed your discarded black lace panties, and began pulling them back over your feet and up your legs, carefully covering your bare skin.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your gaze turning completely confused, your brow knitting together as you looked down at him through the firelight.

“I think it’s obvious what I’m doing, Treasure,” he said, locking his gaze with yours as he found your trousers and started pulling them over your legs, too.

“But don’t you want to— what about you?” you asked, pointing with your eyes toward the huge bulge straining against his trousers.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled, his hands sweeping across the moss as he looked for your armor and top.

What the hell is his problem? You thought to yourself, a piercing cold washing over your skin. He doesn't want me?

You pulled your knees to your chest, sitting up now as your arms crossed tightly over your bare breasts, a harsh chill going straight through your spine. Your gaze locked onto the dancing orange flames of the fire, your expression turning completely grim.

How could I have been such a fool? The thoughts echoed brutally in your mind, your throat tightening as the familiar ache of rejection from a year ago slammed back into your chest. You had bared your body and soul to him, and he was dressing you back up.

When Thor finally found the rest of your gear, he smiled in triumph and turned back over to you, ready to help you back into it. But the smile died on his face instantly.

He looked over to see you curled into yourself, your arms shielding your body from him, your face turned away.

Your angelic face looked so incredibly sad, so deeply regretful, that he felt the breath get taken clean out of his lungs.

A sharp pang of panic hit his chest. Did he do something he shouldn't have? But if that was true, why would you have kissed him back with that much desperate passion?

He crawled closer to you, the heavy weight of his bare body shifting the cape beneath you. He reached out, his large, warm fingers gently wrapping around your right wrist, tugging softly to make you look up at him. Your eyes were wide, shining brilliantly with brewing tears that threatened to spill over at any second.

“Treasure, what’s wrong?” he asked desperately, his voice cracking as he immediately cupped your face with both of his massive, warm hands, forcing you to feel his heat.

“I thought you wanted me,” you whispered, the words so impossibly low and broken that he had to lean in just a fraction more to be able to catch them over the crackle of the fire.

Thor froze, his thumbs halting against your cheekbones as your words registered. His jaw dropped slightly, his blue eyes widening in utter disbelief that you could even think such a thing.

“You think I don’t want you? After that?” he rasped, his voice vibrating with a sudden, fierce intensity. He slid his hands from your jaw down to your shoulders, gripping you firmly as if trying to shake the thought straight out of your head.

“Look at me. Look at what you do to me. I am burning alive for you, sweetheart. I have been since the moment I saw you grew up into this woman.” He let out a frustrated breath, his forehead dropping heavily against yours.

“Then why did you—”

“I'm trying to be a gentleman, you stubborn little bird. I’m trying so hard to keep my composure,” he admitted, his voice strained with the sheer effort of it. “I don't want to just take you in the dirt. I want to take you to a bed—I want to marry you properly. Gods, don't you ever think I don't want you. Because I do—so much it burns me.”

His words made your pulse skip a beat, echoing in the quiet night. They circled around you, hugging you so tight you were completely unable to take another breath. You kept looking up at him, your expression frozen in one of pure shock.

“Treasure,” he mumbled, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, his touch so incredibly full of love you could feel it burn right through your skin. “My treasure, my one and only.”

He leaned down, claiming your lips in a soft, grounding kiss that felt entirely different from the desperate heat from before. “I never stopped wanting you. Even when you left me—I didn’t have it in me to stop,” he mumbled against your lips, the confession raw and bleeding.

“I do not know what to say—” you started, the wall around your heart cracking wide open.

But he gently cut you off. “You don't have to say anything.”

Then, keeping his promise, he started dressing you again. He carefully pulled your top down, smoothing the fabric down over your skin with a tenderness that made your throat ache. Once you were covered, he wrapped his massive arms around you, pulling your back flat against his bare, heated chest as he laid down onto his heavy crimson cape.

He tucked your head under his chin, his strong embrace shielding you entirely from the chill. “Let's rest now, honey,” he murmured into your hair, his heartbeat a steady thud beneath your hand.

—

The steady, heavy thud of Thor’s heartbeat against your cheek was the first thing that anchored you back to reality. You blinked your eyes open, finding yourself completely cocooned in his heat.

Your head was still tucked securely under his chin, his massive arms wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against his bare front. The crisp morning air was biting, but you wouldn't have known it from the sheer warmth radiating off him.

For a second, you just stayed there, letting your cheek remain smushed against his chest, watching the faint blue veins beneath his skin. It was, without a doubt, the best way you had woken up in three hundred and sixty-five days. You had imagined this—waking up next to him, feeling his heat burn you so good, so right, you didn’t know if you ever wanted to leave. If you ever even could leave.

Then, the weight of last night settled back into your bones. You kissed. Kissed with so much passion—so desperate that you almost went there with him.

The desperate kisses, the dirt, the heavy promises muttered in the dark—they all weighed on you, all at once. And the glaring fact remained that despite the physical eruption, the massive chasm between you hadn't actually been fixed. You still hadn't told him why you left, and he still hadn't explained the disgust you were certain you'd seen in his eyes.

The wall was cracked, but it was still standing. Even after his confession to you, you were certain he still despised you; he was just physically attracted to you.

As if sensing your shift in breathing, Thor shifted. A low, gravelly rumble vibrated in his chest, and his grip around your waist tightened instinctively before his eyes even opened.

“Morning, Treasure,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his breath stirring the loose strands of your hair.

“Morning,” you whispered, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of how close you were. You gently pressed your palms against his chest, signaling for him to let you up.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, an unspoken reluctance lingering in the air. Though when he opened his eyes and saw your face, your expression was so full of regret, so fucking full of sadness, it made him nauseous. She regrets everything, he thought bitterly.

His arms loosened, letting you sit up reluctantly, his fingers curling into tight fists for a fleeting second before he completely dropped his hands. The cold air immediately hit your skin, making you shiver as you reached for your discarded top armor lying on the moss. The domestic softness of the night evaporated quickly as you both strapped your armor back on.

It was a silent coordination, the tension between you thick but different now. It wasn't the sharp, biting hostility from yesterday; it was a heavy, charged awareness. Every time his boots crunched on the frozen leaves, or your shoulder brushed his as you packed up the camp, your pulse gave a small, traitorous leap.

Thor hoisted his heavy chest piece over his broad shoulders, buckling it with practiced ease before picking up his cape. He shook the dirt and pine needles from the crimson fabric, then turned his stormy blue eyes toward you. The raw, desperate vulnerability from last night was tucked away, replaced by the stoic prince you were meant to accompany.

“The fog is lifting,” Thor said, his voice carrying its usual authoritative weight, though his eyes lingered on your flushed lips for a beat too long. Oh, how he longed to kiss them now that he had a taste. It took every ounce of his legendary restraint not to step across the small clearing and pull you back against him. “If we move quickly, we can reach the outpost before midday.”

“Good,” you replied, your voice trembling for a second as you saw his eyes lock in on your lips. You breathed out, quickly averting your eyes as you checked the daggers at your waist, deliberately keeping your gaze focused on your weapons. “The sooner we finish this patrol, the sooner we can get back to Asgard.”

Back to Asgard. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. Back to the looming wedding, back to the public eyes, and back to the suffocating armor of their official titles.

“Right.” He cleared his throat, turning to extinguish the remaining embers of the fire with the heel of his boot. “Let's move out.”

You fell into step just a pace behind him, the familiar rhythm of the mission taking over. The silence between you stretched across the rocky Vanaheim terrain, but the space felt smaller now. Every brush of his hand against yours as you navigated the steep, root-tangled path felt like a live wire, a constant reminder of what lay beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break.

The damp forest gradually gave way to jagged stone ridges, the heavy canopy thinning enough to let the pale morning sun filter through. Thor moved with a cautious deliberation, his hand occasionally dropping near the hilt of his weapon, his eyes scanning the dense treeline. He was entirely focused on the path ahead, yet his posture remained stiff, his shoulders tense. He was painfully aware of your every breath behind him.

She wants to get back to Asgard so badly because she can't stand being alone with me, he thought, his chest tightening as he gripped a stone ledge to pull himself up.

He hated the silence. He hated that the moment the sun rose, you had built that damn wall right back up, treating him like a prince instead of the man who had been worshiping you on his knees just hours before.

You watched the broad expanse of his back. Your fingers still tingled with the memory of his skin, and your core still throbbed with a faint, lingering ache.

He said he belonged to me, you reasoned with yourself, trying to steady your uneven breathing as you climbed the rocky slope. But he only said those things because he was consumed by lust. The moment we return, he will go back to being distant. He will go back to looking at me with that hidden judgment. You couldn't let your guard down. You had to protect whatever pieces of your heart remained intact.

Suddenly, Thor halted, raising a hand to signal you to stop. The sudden change in his demeanor instantly snapped you out of your thoughts. You instinctively gripped the hilt of your dagger, stepping up beside him, your eyes following his sharp gaze toward a narrow ravine just ahead.

The quiet of the forest had changed. The usual morning bird calls had completely died out, replaced by a low, unnatural scraping sound echoing from the shadows of the rocks below.

Thor didn’t speak, but his jaw tightened as he slid a glance down at you, checking your stance. Even with the emotional wall built solidly between you, your instincts as a warrior were completely in sync with his. You dropped low, minimizing your silhouette against the grey stone ridge, your fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of your dagger.

The scraping sound grew louder, accompanied by the distinct smell of wet ash and rotting wood—the telltale scent of a Marauder scouting party, or worse, beasts driven mad by the lingering dark magic in Vanaheim’s deeper wilds.

“Two,” Thor whispered, his voice so low it was barely heard against the wind as his eyes tracked a movement down in the ravine. “Maybe three. Hiding in the blind spot of the ridge.”

“I’ll take the high flank,” you breathed back, your tone strictly professional, burying the flutter in your chest under a layer of cold battlefield focus. “Keep their attention on the path. I’ll drop behind them.”

Thor’s eyes snapped to yours then, a fierce flash of protective anger flaring in his blue eyes. His fingers twitched over his weapon. He hated you taking the flank alone, especially today when his chest felt hollowed out by your silence. But he knew your skills—he knew you were more than capable.

“Don't take risks,” he commanded gruffly. “If it’s a trap, you pull back to me. Immediately.”

“I know my duty, my prince,” you replied quietly, the title slipping from your lips like a shield, intentionally reminding him of where you both stood.

A muscle jumped in his cheek at the formality, a dark shadow crossing his face. It was a slap to the face after the broken whimpers of his name you had cried into the dark forest hours ago. “I thought I told you not to address me that wa—”

Before he could say anything more, you slipped away, moving like a shadow across the upper crags of the ravine. Thor watched your retreating form for a split second, his heart hammering with a toxic mix of adrenaline and lingering possessiveness, before he stepped openly onto the rocky ledge, intentionally letting his heavy armor clank against the stone.

Below, three hulking, grey-skinned Marauders snapped their heads up, their crude iron blades instantly unsheathing as they spotted the Asgardian prince standing bare-faced in the sunlight. With a collective, guttural roar, they lunged up the steep incline toward him.

From your position above, you waited for the perfect moment. Watching Thor step into battle was always a terrifyingly beautiful sight. His raw strength was unmatched; he caught the first creature's blade with his hand, twisting the metal out of its grip and throwing a heavy, bone-crushing right hook that sent the beast crashing into the dirt, while the thunderous hum of his hammer rattled the stone beneath him.

But your focus snapped to the third creature, who was unhooking poisoned spear, aiming directly for the exposed seam in Thor’s side armor while he was occupied with the second enemy. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you took in a sharp breath, not again.

Not on my watch.

You leaped from the ridge, your blue cape flaring behind you as you drove your body weight down into the third Marauder. Your daggers found their marks with lethal precision, the beast collapsing beneath you onto the damp moss with a heavy thud.

Thor’s head whipped around at the sound, his breathing heavy as he pinned the remaining creature to the stone. His heart stopped beating for a moment as his eyes locked onto you, scanning your body instantly from head to toe for any signs of blood, any signs of injury.

His heart hung heavy in his chest until he found you were completely unharmed, and the sheer, panicked terror in his expression finally eased, replaced by a dark, simmering intensity.

You stood up, wiping your blade on the side of your trousers, your chest heaving from the exertion. The silence returned, heavier now, punctuated only by the crackle of dry leaves under your boots.

Thor dropped the last unconscious beast to the ground, stepping over its body until he was standing directly in your space. He was radiating that staggering, familiar heat again, his heavy breathing filling the gap between you. He grabbed your right wrist as he got closer to you, his grip ironclad.

“Are you crazy?!” he yelled at you, his eyes keeping up their frantic check over your armor, searching for a single drop of your blood. “Why the fuck did you do that?!”

You gulped, looking up into the absolute terror and fury warring in his face. “Because I couldn't let the same thing happen—“

“What if you got stabbed?” he cut you off completely, his furious gaze burning into yours, his chest heaving violently against his armor.

“Why is this even that big of a deal?” you asked, panic and frustration rising in your own throat as you tried prying your wrist out of his suffocating grasp. “I must serve the throne after all—“

“You do not put yourself in danger. Ever. Do you hear me?” he commanded, his desperate, raw voice filling your veins and shaking you to your very core.

“But—“

Before you could finish, he dropped his hold on your wrist and framed your face with both of his massive hands, his palms incredibly hot against your skin. “Do not. I beg you,” he breathed out, his voice dropping into a broken, vulnerable whisper. He looked down at your lips, breathing in heavy, staggering breaths, his body so close you could feel his heart hammering right through his chest piece.

Your pulse skipped a beat, your fingers tightening around your dagger with all your might. He shouldn't have this much power over my heart, you thought—screamed to yourself—as you stared back into the raging storm of his eyes.

“Okay,” you whispered, completely undone by the raw desperation in his face. You cleared your throat, sheathing your daggers and held his large hands where they rested on your cheeks, giving them a gentle, lingering graze with your fingers, trying to ground both of him and yourself.

Reluctantly loosening your grip, you lowered your hands and muttered out, “We should keep moving.” Your voice was remarkably steady despite the chaotic, deafening hammering of your heart. “The scuffle might have drawn more of them.”

“Let them come,” Thor rumbled, dropping his hands as he finally took a half-step back, giving you just even a fraction of room to draw a clean breath. He called Mjolnir back to his hand with a low, electric hum, the leather strap wrapping securely around his wrist. “But you are right. The outpost is still an hour's march through the valley.”

You turned and began navigating the rocky downward slope, deliberately setting a fast pace to keep a safe distance between you. But Thor remained right on your heel, his presence an undeniable pressure at your back. Every time you had to leap over a fallen ironwood trunk or navigate a patch of loose gravel, you could feel his eyes tracking your movements, his hand twitching as if waiting for you to stumble just so he could catch you.

Why was he doing this? Looking after you as if you mattered—like he used to. It fucking hurt you. It hurt you more than his gaze full of hate ever did, because now he was pretending. Pretending to care for you when you knew what he truly felt about you deep down. You had let him kiss you, let him completely dismantle you last night, even though you knew the truth. Even though he had made it clear before that he didn't see you as anything more than a tool. You were just a stupid, gullible girl who didn't know how to keep her goddamn composure near him.

I don't want to just take you in the dirt, his voice echoed brutally in your mind, the gravelly sincerity of it tearing at your defenses. I want to marry you properly.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief second as you walked, shaking the torturous memory right out of your head. Lust, you told yourself firmly, your boots sinking into the damp earth as you forced your feet to keep moving. It's just the adrenaline of the mission and the fact that we're bound by an arranged marriage in a few days. He doesn't mean it. He can't. If he truly loved you, if he truly wanted you the way he claimed in the dark, he wouldn't have looked at you with such cold, biting disdain. He wouldn't have let you walk away a year ago without a fight.

Behind you, Thor’s thoughts were just as turbulent. He watched the tight swing of your shoulders, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth. The formal mask you had put back on was driving him insane. He wanted to reach out, to wrap his hand around your wrist and force you to confront him, to make you admit that your heart was beating just as fast as his. But the memory of the profound sadness and regret on your face when you woke up held him back like iron chains.

She thinks she made a mistake, he thought bitterly, his fingers tightening around the handle of Mjolnir until his knuckles turned white. She will never feel the same way. He had promised to be a gentleman, to wait until they were in a bed, until they were bound properly before the gods—but watching you treat him like a mere commanding officer after what you had shared was a specialized kind of torture.

He could feel his lungs constrict in his chest, making it hard to draw a clean breath of the crisp morning air. Yeah, he was fucked. He tried pushing his feelings away, tried burying them so deep so that they could never try to make their way to the surface. He had tried masking them as hatred for a whole damn year, and he had desperately, miserably failed.

He was so in love with you it hurt him. It fucking hurt him so much he could physically feel a dull, aching pain in his chest with every step he took behind you. He was desperately in love with a woman who had left him without a shred of doubt, and the worst part was, he would still do anything to keep you safe. Anything to keep you happy—even if it took from his own happiness, he didn't care. If pretending to be your distant prince was what you needed to stay whole, he would play the part, even if it tore him apart from the inside out.

By the time the stone walls of the Asgardian vanguard outpost finally broke through the heavy morning mist, the silence between you had hardened into something impenetrable.

The guards at the iron gates immediately snapped to attention, their armor clanking as they saluted the approaching prince. "Prince Thor! My lady. We did not expect you until nightfall."

"The patrol was clear, save for a minor scouting party in the lower ravine," Thor reported. His voice instantly shifted, adopting the booming, authoritative tone of a commander, though his shoulder remained rigidly locked right next to yours as you entered the stone courtyard. “We will rest here for an hour, secure fresh rations, and prepare the horses for the journey back to the capital.”

“Right away, Your Highness.”

As the guards scattered to fulfill the orders, the domestic illusion of the forest was officially dead. You were back in the real world now, surrounded by soldiers, duties, and the looming reality of Asgard.

You turned on your heel, your blue cape sweeping against the stone ground as you looked for any excuse to get away from his suffocating warmth. "I'll go check on the stable arrangements and ensure the horses are fed for the ride back."

“The outpost guards can handle the beasts,” Thor said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its public commander edge and turning into that low, private rumble meant only for you.

“I prefer to see to my own mount, my prince,” you countered quietly, deliberately throwing the formal title in his face like a physical barrier. You needed him to remember his place. More importantly, you needed to remember yours.

A muscle jumped violently in his jaw, his blue eyes flashing with a dangerous, dark frustration. He took a single step closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you, blocking out the rest of the busy courtyard. "You are pushing your luck today," he growled, the warning vibrating in his chest.

“I am doing my job,” you whispered back, lifting your chin defensively, refusing to let him see how much your hands were shaking inside your gauntlets. “Nothing more.”

He stared down at you for a long, agonizing beat, his breathing heavy as his gaze dropped to your lips one final time—a silent, burning promise that made your knees feel traitorously weak—before he abruptly turned away. “Go then,” he muttered roughly. “We depart within the hour.”

You didn't wait for him to change his mind. You walked toward the back of the outpost, your heart hammering against your ribs so loudly you were certain the guards could hear it. The moment you stepped into the dim, shadow-filled stables, the scent of hay and leather enveloped you, providing a temporary sanctuary. You leaned your back against the wooden post of an empty stall, letting out a ragged breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

A tool. That’s all you were to the throne. An arranged bride to secure an alliance, a capable warrior to shield his back. If you let yourself believe his desperate whispers in the dirt, you would end up ruined all over again.

Outside, Thor stood in the center of the courtyard, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he watched the empty arched doorway of the stables. The pain in his chest was killing him. Every time you called him my prince, it felt like you were ripping out a piece of his soul. He wanted to storm into those stables, pin you against the wall, and kiss the cold, defensive titles right out of your mouth. He wanted to demand why you looked at him with so much hidden fear, why you thought he didn't want you.

But he couldn't. He had promised to protect your happiness, even if it meant letting you hide behind your duty.

“Prince Thor?” a lieutenant asked, approaching cautiously with a leather map case. “The scouts report a heavy Vanaheim downpour is rolling in from the peaks. The mountain trails will be pure mud within the hour.”

Thor looked up at the gathering dark clouds. A storm meant nothing to him—he could split the sky open and clear a path with a single thought if he wanted to. But as he glanced back toward the stables where you were hiding from him, his expression hardened into a mask of stoic royal duty. A delayed journey meant more hours trapped in this agonizing, silent proximity with you. If he cleared the weather, he was only rushing you both back to the suffocating public eye of Asgard.

“Let it rain,” Thor commanded flatly, his voice cutting through the wind. “We don't waste time. Have the men pack the rations. We ride through it.”

Exactly forty-five minutes later, you emerged from the stables, leading your armored mare by the reins. You kept your eyes fixed on the saddle, deliberately ignoring the giant of a man mounting his own towering stallion in the center of the yard. When you climbed into your saddle, you fell back into your proper position—exactly one horse-length behind the prince.

As the iron gates of the outpost groaned open, Thor guided his mount forward into the darkening Vanaheim wilderness. The natural wind picked up, whipping his crimson cape behind him as the first heavy drops of cold rain began to fall, matching the turbulent, unyielding tension that hung heavily between the two of you.

As Thor had commanded, you rode straight through the heavy Vanaheim downpour. The rain lashed at your faces and turned the steep mountain paths into treacherous rivers of mud, but neither of you uttered a word. You kept your mare exactly one horse-length behind his towering stallion, the heavy, unresolved tension from the night before still twisting painfully in your stomach.

Two hours later, you finally reached the coordinates of the retrieval mission: a long-abandoned, half-collapsed stone vault embedded deep within the mountain crags, rumored to hold a missing Asgardian relic from the old wars.

With Mjolnir’s lightning cutting through the pitch-black darkness of the cavern, you cleared out a nest of lingering cave-dwellers while Thor breached the ancient iron doors. Within minutes, the relic—a glowing, heavily inscribed silver urn—was securely fastened to Thor’s saddlebags.

The mission was officially a success. The artifact was secured.

But the moment you both stepped back out of the cavern and onto the narrow, slick mountain ridge to begin the journey home, the true danger struck. The relentless rain had compromised the very foundation of the peak.

High above the trail, a massive chunk of the fracturing rock shelf groaned, completely detaching directly over Thor’s head. He was focused on checking the secure straps of the relic on his saddle, his back completely turned to the collapsing cliffside. He didn't see the massive boulder cascading straight down toward him.

Your mind went entirely blank. The bitter logic that had screamed at you all morning to stay away from him, the walls you had built to protect your broken heart—it all evaporated in a single, terrifying heartbeat.

“Thor!” you screamed.

Without a second thought, you dug your spurs into your mare's sides. The horse lunged forward, bridging the distance between you in a desperate, muddy surge. Thor snapped his head around at your scream, his blue eyes widening in sudden shock as he saw you charging directly at him.

Before he could even register the danger above, you threw yourself sideways out of your saddle, your body colliding heavily into his armored torso. The sheer force of your momentum shoved him and his stallion forward, clearing the direct path of the collapse.

An instant later, the mountain fell.

The massive boulder slammed onto the trail exactly where Thor had been standing a millisecond prior. A stray, jagged piece of the fracturing rock whipped through the air with lethal velocity. You didn't have time to dodge. The sharp stone caught you squarely against your side, tearing through the seam of your armor with a sickening crunch.

The force of the blow ripped you completely from your horse, sending you crashing hard onto the slick, muddy stone of the trail.

“No!” Thor’s voice tore out of his throat, a raw, primal scream of pure agony that didn't sound human.

He didn't care about his footing; he threw himself off his stallion before the beast had even come to a halt, hitting the mud on his knees and scrambling desperately toward you through the falling debris. The sheer panic radiating off him was blinding.

You lay flat on your back in the mud, the breath completely knocked out of your lungs. A sharp, burning agony flared in your side, so intense it made your vision go entirely black around the edges. Your fingers twitched against the wet earth, your chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps as the rain poured over your face.

“Treasure! Treasure, look at me!” Thor roared, his large hands trembling violently as he reached for you. He didn't dare pull you into his lap yet, terrified of worsening the injury. His face was completely pale, the stoic prince entirely gone. “Gods, please—open your eyes!”

You forced your eyelids open, your breathing rattling in your chest. Through the haze of pain and rain, you saw his face hovering over yours. His blue eyes were wild, completely frantic, and filled with a raw, agonizing terror that went far deeper than mere concern for a comrade-in-arms.

“I told you...” Thor choked out, his voice cracking violently as his hands hovered over the deep, bloody gash in your side armor, blood mixing with the rainwater. “I told you never to put yourself in danger! Why don't you ever listen to me?!”

“You…” you whispered, a small, pained wheeze escaping your lips as you stared into the absolute devastation in his eyes. Even now, your stubborn heart tried to find a reason to doubt him. “You are the prince… I had to ensure we made it back…”

“Fuck the throne!” he yelled, his composure completely fracturing as a tear mixed with the rain on his cheek. He carefully slid his massive arms under your back and knees, lifting you against his chest with a desperate, crushing tightness, as if he could physically hold your life force inside you. “You think I give a damn about the throne if you are not there? Look at me! I am nothing without you! Do you hear me? Nothing!”

“I—“ You gulped, though your throat was impossibly dry, and you could feel the chaotic, frantic beat of his heart pressing right against your uninjured side. “I'm sorry,” you mumbled, the words catching in your throat as the cold rain hit your face. “You did save me—a lot of times—so it’s only fair that I—“

“I'd rather die than see you hurt!” he yelled, his voice cracking with an agonizing mixture of fury and terror. He didn't let you finish, couldn't bear to hear you rationalize your own blood. He looked up toward the heavy, dark clouds, his voice booming over the thunder. “Heimdall—!”

“Are we going back? But we can't yet—“ you managed to protest through the searing pain, but when you saw the sudden, terrifying look in his eyes, you stopped completely.

He looked absolutely petrified. His brilliant blue eyes were blown wide, the pupils dilated with a desperation so raw it made your own chest tighten. You had seen him face armies without flinching, but looking down at you, he looked entirely defeated.

“Is it that bad?” you asked suddenly, a cold pit forming in your stomach. You tried to shift, trying to look down at your side and midsection, but he instantly stopped you, his large hand pressing firmly but carefully against your uninjured shoulder, shaking his head frantically.

“It isn't, darling. Stop. Don't look,” he pleaded, his voice trembling.

But his panic only fed yours. You felt a dark, heavy dread settle over you as you fought against his grip, straining to see the state of your injury—though you really, really shouldn't have. You were already feeling dangerously lightheaded from the shock, but the moment your eyes caught the state of your stomach, the reality of it settled deep into your bones.

The silver alloy of your armor was torn completely open, jagged edges pushed inward, and the fabric beneath was soaked in a deep, terrifying crimson that the rain couldn't wash away fast enough. You could feel panic rise like a tidal wave in your chest, your hands trembling violently as your expression turned into one of absolute horror. Oh, no.

“Thor—“ you wheezed out, your voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

He saw the sudden change in your face, saw the realization dawn in your eyes, and he immediately knew what was coming. Shock was setting in, and if your heart rate spiked any further, he would lose you right here on the mountain trail.

Abandoning his call to the sky, he lowered himself with you in his arms immediately, sitting heavily in the freezing mud. He pulled you flush against his lap, one of his massive hands coming up to grab your face, his palm hot against your icy skin. He knew you couldn't travel like this—even the intense, pulling pressure of the Bifrost might tear the wound further. You needed to be stabilized now.

“Take in a deep breath for me, sweetheart. Come on,” he urged desperately, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he tried to keep your bleeding gaze locked entirely on his eyes. “Keep your eyes on me.”

He demanded it, his voice a gravelly anchor in the middle of the storm. He gripped your jaw with one hand to keep your head turned toward him, while his other hand moved blindly down, covering your injury with his large palm, shielding it completely from your sight.

His own face was entirely full of panic—you were absolutely sure of it, could see the way his jaw quivered and how the rain mixed with the moisture in his eyes—though he was trying with every ounce of his godlike strength to keep his composure for your sake.

“Look at me, Treasure. Just look at me,” he whispered over the lashing rain, his forehead leaning down to touch yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. “I've got you. I'm right here.”

You tried nodding, but your head felt incredibly heavy, the weight of the blood loss dragging you down into a dangerous lethargy. Your fingers twitched against the wet earth before you reached up, grabbing his wrist with all the strength you had left, trying to find your rhythm as you fought for air.

“Just like I taught you, darling,” he said, his voice a frantic, low rumble against your ear as the rain beat down around you. “I have to get you to Asgard. Breathe in for four seconds.”

You did exactly what he asked of you, pulling the crisp, damp Vanaheim air into your lungs as he counted.

“Hold it, baby. Hold it,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your jawline as his eyes tracked the frantic rise and fall of your chest, counting the seven seconds out loud with a desperate focus. “Exhale now, come on.” He started counting down to eight, his own chest heaving as he matched your pace. “Keep going, honey.”

He reassured you over and over, his voice a steady, grounding anchor in the chaos as he kept his stormy blue eyes locked entirely onto yours. You didn't know how long he kept doing it—how many cycles of numbers and pet names were whispered into the storm—but slowly, the suffocating panic eased off. Your heart settled into a more manageable, rhythmic beat against your ribs.

The moment he felt the frantic tension leave your frame, Thor didn't waste another second. He immediately got up from the freezing mud, lifting you securely against his chest with an effortless, protective strength.

“I don't know why you left me,” he mumbled into your hair, the raw, bleeding truth finally slipping past his guard as your heavy eyelids began to flutter closed. He squeezed you tighter, his large form shielding you from the lashing rain. “But you are not leaving me again. Not like this.”

His words sent a sudden, piercing wave of dread washing over you, cutting straight through the numbness of the shock. What if you died right here? What if you closed your eyes and never woke up, leaving him to live the rest of his immortal life believing a lie? Leaving him to believe you simply didn't care? You couldn't leave it like this.

He had to get you to the healers immediately, Thor looked up at the darkening sky, his voice booming with the full, terrifying authority of the God of Thunder as he roared, “Heimdall, get us back!”

The sky split open, and just as the roaring, blinding colors of the Bifrost began to engulf your bodies, pulling you up and away from the muddy mountain, you forced your cracked lips open. You whispered into the hollow of his neck, answering the question that had haunted him for a year.

“Because I heard you.”

The rainbow light pulled at you, but beneath the rushing sound of the cosmos, you felt Thor stiffen instantly. His entire body turned to stone beneath you, his grip tightening to a near-bruising fracture as the words echoed in his ears.

What the fuck did that mean?

—

Part 2

A two part story for you guys, hope you enjoy!!💕

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

You took a week to mull Natasha’s offer over and a few more days to get things in order, booking a flight, packing the necessities and not looking back. 

Just sitting in her apartment now, felt strange. Familiar in a way that you could recognize it as your sister’s - the books, the pictures and pots of plants crammed in every corner and on every surface - but unfamiliar in the simple ways. You didn’t know which drawer held the cutlery or which cupboards kept glasses and plates. You couldn’t even figure out how to turn on the goddamn shower in your en-suite bathroom, having to use the one in hers that was easier to figure out instead. It didn’t feel like home yet. Weren’t sure it ever would or if you’d even stay long enough to get to that point.

Instead of sitting around, you decided to go for a walk down to the beach, to soak up some sun, maybe dip your toes into the sea. It was only May but an unusually sunny day, so you threw on a little flowy dress, leaving your legs bare in case you wanted to wade into the water. 

The walk there was a bit longer than expected. You hadn’t looked it up beforehand, just knew the general direction, but the view at the beach made it all worth it once you got there. The golden sun, the breaking waves, the scent of saltwater in the air. You walked along the water for a while - dipped your toes in once but then decided it was too cold - until you found a spot that invited you to sit down and relax for a while. The sun was setting by then and with it came a noticeable chill. You knew, you should probably get home soon, but you were absolutely parched from the walk and the sun and figured you’d grab a quick drink first.

A quick google told you there was a bar by the beach further back from where you came. You must’ve walked straight past it on your way here but not paid noticed it.

About ten minutes later, you spotted it. The Hard Deck. 

It had a warm, relaxing atmosphere, classic rock softly playing from a jukebox in the background. People were laughing, playing pool and darts - busy, but not overly so. 

Walking up to the bar, you ordered a beer, sat down and glanced around the room before absently scrolling through your phone.

You didn’t look up again until someone spoke.

“Hey there.”

Raising your head, you were met with the green eyes and a dazzling smile, belonging to a ridiculously good-looking guy. He leaned up against the bar, relaxed. 

“Hi,” was all you managed, caught off guard and a little intimidated by his looks. You gave him a quick - hopefully subtle - once over. He wore a plain white t-shirt, jeans and… cowboy boots. An odd choice, maybe, but somehow he made it work. 

“Mind if I sit?” He pointed to the empty seat beside you. 

“No, go for it,” you found your voice again, more confident now, even gave him a small smile. 

“I’m Jake.” He held out his hand and you shook it, giving your name in return. Jake held on to your hand a beat too long, his fingers slightly dragging over yours before he let go.

He was hitting on you, that much was clear. And while you came to stay with Natasha to get away from guys - or at least one specific guy - you decided it wouldn’t hurt to flirt back just a little. 

“I’ve never seen you around here before,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if he knew everyone who frequented this bar, but there was a question buried beneath. A small smirk still on his face as he took you in. 

“Just here visiting.” It wasn’t a lie. You were technically visiting, just for an undetermined amount of time and also sort of moving in with your sister. It was simply easier than to explain the whole ordeal with your ex and your job. 

Jake was undoubtedly military. You’d been to enough of Nat’s graduations and promotions to recognize the type. You could tell by the clean shave and in regs haircut, the way he held himself and that cocky attitude. It all gave him away. 

But then again, the entirety of North Island was basically one big Naval base. Running into military men was inevitable.

“Yet you’re here alone.” Again, a statement meant to be a question.

“My sister was busy.” You smiled and took the last sip from your glass, draining it. 

Placing the it back down on the bar, you were about to get up, start your way back home.

“Can I get you another one?” Jake asked before you could. There was something in his eyes that screamed trouble and that alone should’ve been your sign to decline and leave. However, you didn’t. You stayed. And said yes.

You kept on chatting easily, him asking you questions about yourself and where you were from, but barely revealing anything about himself. Those two beers helped loosening your tongue, making the words come out easier. Maybe it was the drinks, but something about Jake was so irresistible and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. He was charming, confident and cocky, teetering on the edge between infuriating and entertaining. And that slight southern drawl almost made him sound like a gentleman. 

As you kept looking at him, you decided he was exactly what you needed to jumpstart that new chapter of your life. A distraction. Someone to wipe away the traces of your ex-boyfriend off your body. Replace his touch with someone else’s. 

You decided to ask the question you knew would get you what you wanted. 

“So… what does one do for fun around here?” You leaned in closer, voice lower, and looking up at him through your lashes. For a split second he looked surprised, before a wolfish grin spread across his face. 

It all happened very quickly after that. 

Somehow you found yourself in a backroom of the bar, not really sure you were supposed to be there. But it didn’t really matter. Jake’s lips were on yours, hard and hungry. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer as he pushed you up against the wall. Kissing down your neck, fingers slipping under the dress strap and dragging it off your shoulder, exposing more of your breasts. You held on to his strong arms, his shirt, ran your fingers through his hair - whatever you could reach. 

Soft moans escaped your lips as arousal built in your body. His cock pressed hard against your belly and even through his jeans, he felt huge. 

You needed him. Now. 

Hands finding the buckle of his belt, undoing it quickly before moving to work on the button and fly. And when you pushed your hands down his boxers to grip his length, both of you moaned. He was big, just as you suspected, and you knew he would feel good inside of you. 

Stroking him for a few seconds, then pulling him out. 

“You got a condom?” you asked, breath shaky, biting your lip as you shamelessly ogled his cock. It was perfect. The girth, the length, that perfect pink color that got deeper at the tip. 

“Uh, yeah,” Jake replied, digging in his pockets until he found one. As he tore the wrapper and rolled it on, you quickly shimmied out of your panties and stepped out of them, leaving them discarded on the floor. 

Once finished he reached his right hand between your legs, fingers sliding through the folds of your pussy with ease, gathering up some of the wetness there. A shiver ran through you.

“Fuck, you’re wet.” 

He smirked and then used that same hand to spread your juices over his condom-wrapped cock. You leaned back against the wall, Jake hitched up one of your legs and hooked it around his waist, fingers digging into your thigh as he stepped in closer.

You felt the head of his cock nudging at your center, sliding through the folds once - twice - and then slowly pushing in. 

“God, you’re so tight.” His forehead rested against yours, looking down to where he disappeared inside of you, breath mingling with yours. 

He took his time. More time than you probably had being in the backroom of this bar, but it was necessary with his size. You held on to his shoulders, strong and steady, until he bottomed out. 

A moan shuddered out of you. His lips found yours again, kissing you deeply as he pulled out in a slow drag - then pushed back in. Faster now, harder, and that slight sting of the stretch disappeared, morphing into absolute pleasure. 

You couldn’t help the moans and whimpers that escaped you every time he pushed inside. 

“Shhh, quiet, baby,” he whispered against your lips, his other hand wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just settling there, warm and possessive. 

“Unless you want the whole bar to hear how good I’m fucking you.” You could just hear that grin as he spoke.

You bit your bottom lip in response, trying to keep quiet. 

Jake kept moving inside you and it felt incredible, but you needed more to reach your peak. 

Sneaking one hand between your bodies, you started rubbing circles on your clit. 

“That’s it. Touch yourself. Make yourself come on my cock.” His words sounded so deliciously filthy, pushing you closer to the edge.

You knew it wouldn’t take long, but it still surprised you how quickly you were about to come. Only a few more of his deep thrusts, hitting all the right spots inside of you and you fell apart. Your walls clenched around his cock with every wave of release. One final thrust, and he came too, stilling inside. 

His forehead rested against yours as you both caught your breath. Hearts beating fast and heavy. 

Leaning down again, he kissed you. Slower, deeper, languidly. 

Jake eventually pulled out, probably more out of necessity than really wanting to and discarded the condom somewhere as you brushed down your sundress again. He bent down to pick up something, probably the wrapper of the condom and shoved it into his pocket and then grabbing your hand to lead you out of the room. 

Together you walked out to the front, night air cool on your flushed and sweaty skin. He dropped your hand and instead grabbed your face in both of his hands, pulling you into another sweet kiss. 

“You need a ride home?” He offered and it was a nice gesture, but you wanted to walk back home. Cool down a little before being back in Nat’s apartment. 

“I don’t take rides from strangers.” You replied, half-joking. 

“Oh, but I think you just did.” Jake was quick with it and it made you laugh. He laughed too, and it was a warm, comforting sound.

“Can I at least get your number?” He asked and you thought about it for a moment. 

“I don’t think so.” You stepped back as you said it, his hands sliding from your face, a soft smile on your lips to soften the blow. This night was perfect. Uncomplicated and exactly what you needed. 

Swapping numbers would only complicate things and potentially ruin what would be a perfect memory. 

You expected him to push back, ask why. But instead he just nodded, smiled and said: 

“Alright, have a good night, then.” 

You really appreciated it, more than he could probably know.

“Good night,” you whispered, before returning around and starting the walk back to Natasha’s apartment. 

Halfway home you realized you left your panties at the bar. The cool night air drifting under your short dress reminding you of the wetness still lingering there, exposed. It was definitely too late to go back for them so you cut your losses. 

Opening the front door, you snuck inside, not expecting to see Natasha sitting there on the couch. 

A single brow arched as she looked at you in silence. 

"You're home!" You said, happy to see her. You thought she'd either still be at work or already in bed. 

"So are you," she replied in that perfect blend of amusement and scolding only a sibling could master.

"Uh yeah… I was down at the beach." You weren’t ready to tell her everything, at least not yet. Wanting to hold on to it a little longer and bask in the warmth of it. 

"And then?" She knew there was more, could read you like a book. 

"And then... I went to a bar..." you knew you were screwed. 

"Uh-huh..." she wanted you to keep talking.

"And then I met this guy… and we may or may not have fucked in the backroom," you spoke fast, trailing off at the end, hoping she didn’t quite catch it. 

"You did what?!" She looked at you, eyes wide, incredulously. 

"Okay listen, I didn't plan it and it just happened but it was incredible!" You then just went for it, telling her all about it.

"God, his dick was amazing." You sighed wistfully. 

“Long. Thick. Hitting spots I didn’t even know I had.”

Natasha laughed at that, hard, head thrown back. You joined her in it, laughing together for a while until tears blurred your vision. It reminded you of the time you told her about losing your virginity and the absolute disaster it had been - but when you laughed together, it didn’t seem quite so bad.

"Gonna see him again then?" She asked, still with a smirk.

"Nope! Didn't get his number. He asked but I declined.” You shrugged. 

“I just wanna keep it as it is. No strings attached, uncomplicated."  You explained and she nodded.

“Honestly though, it was the best sex I think I've ever had. Makes me wonder why I even bothered with Dylan... I always had to fake it with him. Otherwise he'd get insecure, upset - and tell me it was my fault I couldn't orgasm." 

"Damn, seems like I might actually have to thank that guy for making you see the light," she joked but you knew, a part of her was relieved and happy you were getting over your ex. Which is exactly what she wanted when she asked you to stay with her. 

She probably didn't expect it to be in the form of a bar hookup, but beggars couldn't be choosers. 

“We should go out and have a few drinks next weekend - celebrate your newfound freedom,” Nat suggested and you eagerly agreed. 

The weekend rolled around and you spent Saturday in various spots around North Island - breakfast at a cute cafe, lunch at the beach and dinner at home before you got ready to go out. And everywhere you went, you secretly hoped to run into Jake again. Thinking about your encounter - and him - most nights when you were alone in bed at night.

Natasha wanted to bring you to her favorite bar - the one her team always hung out at - and you were excited to see her usual stomping grounds. 

Driving down, the streets started to look familiar and as she pulled into the parking lot, you realized it was that bar. The one from a week ago. The one whose backroom you shouldn’t be so intimately familiar with. 

And also the very same bar that probably still held your panties in a lost and found box somewhere. 

"This is the bar I went to," you told Nat and you didn't have to elaborate, she knew exactly what you meant.

“Oh! Maybe your mystery man is also gonna be here again,” she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.  "But at least try and make it home this time before ripping each others clothes off." 

"Ha ha.” You fake laughed. Trying to hide the fact that you had been thinking about him an indecent amount. "I told you I don't want anything more from him."

Then you thought for a second.

"Okay, maybe one more time wouldn't hurt, but definitely nothing more than that!”

“If you say so.” She shrugged you off with a side-eye as she parked the car.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t scanning the crowd for a blonde head of hair and dazzling smile the second you stepped inside. You got a drink at the bar - the first sip of alcohol soothing your nerves a little - turning to look around more from a different vantage point.

And then… there he was. 

Jake.

You grabbed Nats arm, stopping her in her tracks.

"That's him!" You said under your breath, frozen to the spot. Somehow you hadn't expected to see him again and it caught you off guard. 

"Which one?" She whispered back, trying to scour the crowd for the mystery man with the perfect cock you had told her about. 

"That one standing by the pool table!"

Finger pointing subtly at the tall blonde who was talking to someone else.

She looked at you incredulous. ”Wait… Hangman?!"

“No, no, no!” You - of course - had heard stories of Hangman. But the guy you slept with couldn’t be him. 

"The one on the right!" You corrected.

"Yes, Hangman!"

A beat. Silence. 

Realization dawned on you

"No...". 

"Yes..." Natasha replied, with an exhausted sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

"But... he said his name was Jake!” Trying to make sense of it, even though you knew it was hopeless.

"Well Hangman is obviously not his real name!” 

You both went quiet, sitting with the weight of that realization.

Hangman. The cocky fighter pilot from Natasha’s team who knew exactly how to push everyone’s buttons, riling them up and smirking his way through it.

“Jesus, I can't believe you slept with him!” She whisper-yelled, gearing back up again and smacking your arm.

"Ouch!" You rubbed where she had hit.

"Why did you have to tell me about his dick? God, I need to get very, very drunk and kill off all the brain cells that remember what you told me about him.” Natasha genuinely looked like she was going to be sick.

"How was I supposed to know it was him?!” You tried shifting the blame.  “You always made him sound like the devil incarnate and that night... he definitely was not." Or maybe he was, the way he made you feel like pure sin and ecstasy.

"You should've just... known! Felt it, I don't know."

It was your turn to sigh now. In truth, you had felt something, but it had nothing to do with his identity - and a lot more with an orgasm. 

"Next time I'm gonna need pictures of all the people I'm not supposed to sleep with." You deadpanned.

"Next time, just don't sleep with people you barely know!” 

She got you there.

“Don’t slut shame me,” you said, half-joking. Nat just rolled her eyes.

In that moment you felt eyes boring into you, still frozen at the bar. 

His gaze landed on Natasha first, giving her a familiar, easy smile and then they shifted to you. For a split second it faltered. Recognition setting in as he put two and two together.

His smile returned, teeth on full display as he started walking over. Like a predator stalking its prey, poised to pounce.

His smirk only widened as he closed the distance.

Flashbacks of last night invading your mind, making your heart race. 

Natasha was the first one to speak up.

"Don't even fucking look at me right now, Hangman,” she said before walking away, holding up a warning finger to Jake, before storming off to the other side of the bar, shaking her head.

Jake turned his attention back to you, that smile still curling at the corners of his lips.

“Phoenix is your-“ He started, using Natasha’s callsign.  

“My sister,” you confirmed, finishing his sentence. “Yes.”

“And she…?” He trailed off, as if unsure what to say next.

“Yup. She knows.” You nodded, biting your lip, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish. 

He nodded slowly in return, taking it all in. 

“Well, she seemed thrilled.” He was clearly being sarcastic, but it earned a huff from you. 

“I might’ve described your cock to her. In vivid detail,” you admitted. That made him laugh. 

“All good, I hope?” Jake wanted to know, but you didn’t bother replying, your eyes probably said it all. So you just laughed. 

“I honestly didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said, his gaze roaming your body, softening slightly when it landed on your face. 

“Me neither.” 

You didn’t know what to say. Part of you was thrilled to see him again, the other part heard alarm bells ring, loud and clear. 

And that tingling feeling low in your belly that almost felt like butterflies? That needed smothering immediately.

On one hand, you wanted a repeat of last week, throw caution to the wind and indulge in him, have fun. On the other hand… you knew it’d get complicated. Especially now that you knew he worked with Natasha and that as long as you were around her, he’d be around, too. 

You took a small sip from your drink, eyes never leaving his. The kind of eye contact some might even call glorified eye-fucking. That’s when he stepped closer, invading your space. His cologne hit you, waking a memory, pulling you right back into that backroom. 

He was tall and so close, you had to tilt your head further to look at him. 

“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he said, face suddenly more serious. Voice dropping lower, quieter. The noise around you seemingly drowned out by his sheer presence and Jake being the only thing you could focus on. 

You nodded, swallowing hard. Agreeing before your brain could even weigh in. 

“Let me take you out,” he said, surprising you. You expected him to offer you another romp, but not an actual date.

“I can’t…” Those two words even shocked yourself a little, because you desperately wanted to say yes.

“Because of Phoenix?” He cocked an eyebrow and smirked again - clearly finding the situation amusing.

“It’s not just that,” you said.

“Bad break up?” 

Your whole face dropped. You couldn’t believe the way he just hit the nail squarely on the head. How on earth could he have possibly known that?

“Something like that,” you admitted quietly, shrugging lightly.

He leaned in, close enough that his chest brushed against you, reaching for something, grabbing a pen and napkin from behind the bar.

Quickly, he scribbled a few numbers down before sliding it closer to you.

“If you ever wanna talk. Not talk,” he smirked. “Or if you just want your panties back.”

You looked down on the napkin at a row of numbers that was clearly his phone number and then his words hit you. A blush spread across your face. Remembering when he had picked something up after you were done fucking against the wall, having believed it to be the condom wrapper, but it must’ve been your panties. 

He gave you a wink, another one of his smirks and walked off before you could say anything else. 

You found Natasha in the corner and slid onto a chair beside her. 

“Jake is holding my panties hostage,” you told her, that napkin with his number tightly clenched in your fist, hiding it from Nat. 

“I did not need to know that a guy on my team is a panty-stealing pervert,” she said flatly.

“But truly, I am not even surprised.” Her tone was bleak like she had accepted the fact that she’d be learning more about Hangman than she ever wanted. 

You sat in silence with Natasha for a while, drinking. Your eyes kept drifting across the bar and occasionally landing on Jake, even though you tried really hard not to look at him. But the few times he caught you staring, he gave you a knowing smirk, making your heart race. The napkin with his number burning a hole in the pocket you had shoved it in. 

"Okay," Nat sat up straighter in her seat. 

"All those guys over there—" she pointed to a group near Jake, then to a few more in a different corner playing darts. “—are on my team. Therefore I would greatly recommend, suggest and deeply appreciate if you didn't sleep with any more of them." 

You laughed. 

"Noted." You nodded.

Not a problem. 

Because the number of the only one who caught your attention was already in your pocket. 

More drinks were poured. 

At some point Nat introduced you to some of the others, still glaring daggers at Hangman though and very obviously avoiding bringing you anywhere near him. 

You and Jake were like two planets moving in each other’s orbit. Gravity keeping you tethered. He shifted a few feet to the right - so did you. 

Always keeping your distance, but never not aware of where he was. 

You ended up chatting with Rooster (which, you assumed, wasn’t his real name either) for quite a while. He and Natasha were quite close and you could see why - there was just something so effortlessly likable about him. He was funny, friendly and tried to integrate you into the group so you wouldn’t feel left out. 

“I just gotta ask,” Rooster said, lowering his voice conspiratorially - words slightly slurred.

“Is it true?”

You had a feeling you knew what he meant, but played dumb. Forcing him to say it out loud. If he wanted to get drunk and ask embarrassing questions, then he needs to have the balls to ask them outright. 

“Is what true?”

“You know…” He looked at you, then at Jake who was standing somewhere to your right, then back at you. You didn’t say anything but you couldn’t quite fight the smile creeping onto your lips.

“You and Hangman? The whole squad is talking about it,” he whispered, like it was some big, terrible secret that should never be said out loud. 

Your eyes flicked to Jake, who seemed to be following your conversation with Rooster with great interest, even though he tried not show it. 

“It’s true,” you confirmed, lips pressed together, nodding. 

“How?” He kept asking. 

“You know, when a boy and a girl really like each other-“ you were about to mess with him, but he cut you off.

“No, obviously I get that part, but just… I don’t know, he’s just… Hangman.” 

“And I didn’t know that.” You explained. “I just thought he was hot. Confident. Weirdly charming in that cocky way. Everything that my ex wasn’t.” 

You shrugged like it was the simplest thing on earth. And honestly, you couldn’t understand why Rooster didn’t get it.

The rest of the night went pretty smoothly, all things considered. You left the car behind and walked home, sobering both you and Nat up, while talking about everything and nothing. 

Once you were back at the apartment, ready for bed, you pulled that napkin from your pocket again. 

You made sure the door was shut, somehow nervous to get caught by your sister with Jake’s number, as you saved it in your phone. You could’ve thrown it away. But instead you slipped it into your nightstand. Not really sure why. It just felt right.

Staring at the new contact, simply labeled Jake, you contemplated texting him. 

Hovering your finger over it multiple times,. Again. And again. Then you finally just went for it.

I hope my panties safe while you’re holding them hostage. 

You reread the sentence a dozen times. Rewrote it. Scrapped it. Wrote it again. And then hit send.

Immediately you flipped your phone over, not wanting to see if its been delivered, if he’s read it or even typing already. 

You were just about to crawl under the covers when your phone vibrated. Just once. 

Waiting a full minute, you picked it up, not wanting to seem too eager. Not even to yourself.

Of course. They’re my most treasured item. 

He didn’t even ask who it was. Didn’t need to. Unless, of course, he had a secret stash of women’s underwear at home.

You thought for a second, then typed out your reply. 

Hope you’re not using them for any funny business. 

The three typing dots appeared instantly. 

Can’t promise that…

You let out a quiet laugh, but at the same time, you thighs shifted. Pressing together, trying to soothe the slow ache building there.

A mental picture invading your mind. Of Jake with his cock in one hand and your panties in the other. Wondering if he would use them to jerk off, rubbing them over his cock or hold them up to his face, inhaling the scent of your pussy soaked into the cotton.

Maybe you should keep them then, you sent back.

Suddenly the idea didn’t seem too bad. 

I’m willing to trade. 

Jake was baiting you, it was obvious. But you bit. 

For what?

He took longer to reply this time. 

A date. 

You sighed. Of course he would ask again. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to, it was simply for the fact that it felt wrong. Even just texting him felt like going behind your sister’s back.

Told you I can’t do that. 

Then I’ll just have to hold on to them a little longer, he answered.

You didn’t text back. Partly because you didn’t know what else to say, but mostly because you were conflicted. So turned on it almost hurt - and aching in a way you didn’t want to name.

This was exactly what you didn’t want. Complications. Feelings. 

And whatever this was turning into felt a lot like both. 

You knew, if you were smart, you’d cut this off right here, right now. Forget the backroom and his smirk. Forget all of him and delete his number. 

But you didn’t. 

You just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. 

Instead, you went to sleep. Horny. Frustrated. And aching with something deeper. 

Two weeks passed, which you spent focused on yourself, banishing any and all thoughts of certain off-limits aviators. Instead you were sending out job applications for back home but also around town - just trying to land something that would keep your head above water for a while.

Of course, Natasha didn't need you to pay rent but you also didn't want to be a complete freeloader and live off of her and your savings. 

During that time you also eyed your phone an awful lot, fingers twitching to text Jake, but every time you stopped yourself. Did it help with those pesky, budding, lingering feelings? Absolutely not. 

So it surprised you when your phone got a text on Friday afternoon.

You should come with Phoenix to the bonfire tonight.

He didn't ask, but it also wasn't an order. But there was a hidden plea in that invitation.

An I want you to come to the bonfire tonight or a please come to the bonfire.

In truth, you hadn’t known it was happening, Nat not having mentioned it, but she's been busy with work too. 

You didn't know how to bring it up to her without revealing that you've been texting with Jake. 

So when she came home from work that evening you subtly asked:

"Any plans tonight?"

She put down her bag and took off her boots.

"Uh, actually there's a bonfire down at the beach by the hard deck tonight. We should go, they're usually pretty fun." 

You tried to hide your excitement.

"Oh, cool yeah! That does sound fun."

You were surprised when she offered up the invitation so easily. It seems two weeks without any reminders of your sexual exploits with Jake have put her mind at ease and calmed her down. 

And now that you had the confirmation that you were going, you secretly sent Jake a text back. 

We'll be there.

You had a quick dinner with your sister and got ready after. You opted for a short skirt (for no particular reason) and a pretty low cut top (also for no particular reason). The fact that Jake would be there absolutely not being a deciding factor in what you wore. At least that's what you told yourself. 

You got there just as the sun was starting to set and the fire was already burning. People crowded around it, many of Nat's squad but also lots of other people. It didn't take long for you to spot Jake. Beer bottle in hand, wearing a pair of shorts and being completely shirtless - illuminated by the setting sun, making his skin look golden, accentuating every line of his abs. He looked like a fucking Greek god. 

Your mouth almost started to water. 

You and Nat made a round. Saying hi to Rooster who handed you beers and talking to some others, introducing you to new people. You and your sister took a few pictures together, smiling into the camera with the sunset in the background.

She even introduced you to Maverick, her team leader, and Penny who owns the bar. You really hoped she was oblivious to what you had done in her backroom or the blush dusting your cheeks as she was talking to you.

The sun had almost set and you and Jake seemed to fall into the same dance as before. Avoiding each other with practiced ease. 

You looked over at him at one point in the evening and saw he had his phone in his hand. Not two seconds later yours buzzed. 

Brows furrowed you pulled it out and saw the text was from Jake. 

Nice skirt. 

You glanced back at him and saw his eyes trail the entirety of your body before he started typing again.

If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask. 

Who says I wore it for you? You grinned down at your phone.

Either way… you got it, he quickly replied. And it’s making me think some very indecent things. 

You bit your lip and chanced another look at him as his eyes flicked up at you before he started typing against.

Reminds me of how pretty you looked in your dress that first night.  And even prettier with it bunched up around your waist when I was fucking you. 

Your smile dropped as arousal started building maddeningly fast, tugging low in your belly. You quickly looked around, checking to see if anyone noticed anything and angling your phone slightly away from Natasha standing next to you. But she seemed blissfully ignorant to what was going on and continued talking to some guy whose name you've already forgotten again. 

Careful..., you only answered, heart pounding. You were playing a dangerous game. 

Or what?

Jake was calling your bluff. He knew he had you hooked and all he had to do was reel you in. 

Another glance over at him told you everything you needed to know. Even from a distance you could see his eyes had darkened as he took you in. 

"Who are you texting?" Natasha ripped you out of the moment and you quickly put your phone away. 

"No one." You lied, badly. 

She eyed you intently, but dropped it. 

The night went on and there was a new electricity in the air. You had been aware of his presence and had felt his looks on you before, but it was dialed up to a new level now. 

As the bonfire died down and people started leaving, you decided to help with the clean up. It would help keep you distracted from Jake and it also felt like atonement for the sex in Penny's bar, at least a tiny bit.

Grabbing an empty crate and you started collecting empty glass bottles before carrying them inside to where Penny had shown you. 

You were on your second round, placing the crate down in the back of the bar, the glass bottles rattling loudly, when you turned around and bumped into someone. 

Instinctively you knew who it was - could feel it in the press of his body against yours, the smell of his cologne and the steadying hands on your hips.

Jake.

You looked up at him. 

At some point in the night he had put on a shirt, but it was so tight, you could still see every groove of his hard muscles.

"Were you following me?" You breathed out quietly.

"Maybe." He shrugged, a slight curve of a smile on his lips. "Had to get you alone somehow."

"To do what?" You asked, barely above a whisper.

"What I've been wanting to do all night." He whispered back, eyes dark and hungry.

Jake’s hands that had been resting on your hips started slowly sliding down and to your front, until they reached the hem of your short skirt. 

His fingertips grazing the skin of your bare thigh and running underneath it.

You tried to hide the breath hitching in your throat, but Jake noticed. 

Of course he noticed. 

His fingers pushed up higher under your skirt until they found the seam of your underwear in the crease of your thigh.

"I bet you're wet already," he muttered as he leaned down an inch, towering over you.

You shook your head, denying it even though you knew it was futile. 

One of his fingers pushed underneath the fabric, pulling it aside just enough to run a probing finger through your folds. Proven right by the wetness he found there.

A dark, knowing smile spread on his lips.

"Liar."

He leaned in closer, lips only mere inches away from yours when suddenly you heard footsteps approaching, followed by someone calling your name. Natasha. 

Jake and you seemed to realize it at the same time and jumped apart, quickly righting your skirt and trying to get your breathing back under control when she rounded the corner. 

She saw you first - then Jake. 

"Jesus Christ," she sighed exasperatedly. 

"Jake was just -" you said.

"I was only-" Jake started talking at the same time, both trying to pretend like nothing was happening and it was pure coincidence you were both back here alone. 

"Do you think I'm dumb?" She asked, cutting you both off, anger lacing her voice.

"Did you really think I didn't notice you texting and eye-fucking each other all night?" It was a rhetorical question and you remained silent. You couldn't even really look at her, feeling ashamed in a way. 

“You and I will talk after," she looked at you before turning to Jake. 

"And you..." she took a deep breath, trying to control herself as she stepped closer to him

"I swear to god, Hangman, if you're just fucking around with my sister and hurt her, I will cut off your dick and balls and feed ‘em to you." She underlined her words by stabbing him in his chest with her finger. She was furious, you could tell.

In her mind, it was probably one thing to sleep with you once when he didn't know who you were. But now - flirting, texting and continuing whatever this was behind her back... that's where she drew the line.

"She doesn't fucking deserve that.” Her voice got low, threatening, and Jake had the good sense to look scared. 

He held up his hands, not fighting it, just taking what she had to dish out.

"Got it." He said, jaw clenching.

Nat glared at him a little longer before backing away. 

"Let's go," she turned back to you, already walking out. 

You muttered a quick sorry to Jake before following her, head bowed.

Natasha kept walking - home - you realized and you stayed a few steps behind, waiting for her to talk first. But when she didn't, you knew you had to say something. 

"I'm sorry," you said and your sister stopped in her tracks. 

"I'm sorry for... sneaking around with him." You sighed. 

"I swear I tried to stay away."

Finally she turned around and looked at you. 

"Listen, Hangman is part of my squad and I trust him with my life, but I don't trust him not to break your heart," she said.

"I've known him for years now and I know he loves a challenge. The thrill of the chase. Winning. And I'm not saying that it's impossible he might feel more, I just want you to be careful." Her eyes softened and her shoulders sagged slightly. The fight leaving her body. 

"You finally got over and away from Dylan. You're doing better, and I don't want you to stumble into something else that might break you again."

You knew she was right and she had every reason to be upset. And you couldn't even blame her because you weren't even sure Jake wanted more than just sex. Yes, he had asked you out on a date - twice - but was it just a means to an end? Wine and dine you to get you into bed again?

You took her words to heart. Kept thinking about them the entire walk home and even after as you went to bed. Nat was a good judge of character, always had been, proven in the fact she hated your ex Dylan, even if she couldn’t put her finger on it at first. 

So maybe you should listen to her, when she told you that Jake’s motivation might not be any deeper feelings he might harbor for you, but simply the excitement of something forbidden. 

It didn’t even make you feel better when you woke up to a text from him he had sent last night after you’d gone to sleep. 

Everything alright between you and Phoenix?

You saw everything through a different lens now - couldn’t help but wonder if he asked because he was genuinely worried or just to check if he was going to be in more trouble with your sister.

For a minute, you genuinely considered not even texting back, but the thought it if made you feel bad. Instead you did something else. You pressed the call button, pressing the phone to your ear.

It was still early in the morning, but you hoped he was awake already. 

The phone rang for a while and you almost suspected he wasn’t going to pick up, until he did. 

Silence and shuffling on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Jake’s voice came down the phone, deeper and a little rough. 

“Hey… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you replied, suddenly feeling shy. This felt a lot more personal than texting. 

“No it’s okay. Is everything alright?” He sounded a little clearer, shaking off the tiredness. 

“Yeah, Nat and I had a talk last night,” you began explaining. “She’s just worried about me, you know.”

“I know, I get that.”

“It’s just after that whole thing with my ex…” Your voice trailed off. 

You’d never really spoken to him about it, except for the one time he correctly guessed that you’d been through a bad break up and you more or less confirmed it.

And maybe it was time to come clean. Actually talk about things - reveal your back story so he could understand - putting the ball back in his court that way. He could decide if he was still interested afterwards.

“You can tell me about it,” he said as if he knew what had been on your mind.

You took a deep breath.

“Dylan and I were in a weird, toxic and messy relationship for almost three years and in those three years, we broke up like five times.” you laughed a little at how absurd it sounded now.

“At first it was great, we were in love. Happy. But only a few months in, we started fighting. A lot. Mostly because he was jealous and insecure - accused me of cheating if I even so much as looked at another man.”

“Sounds like a great guy,” Jake spoke up, sarcasm dripping from his words with a bitter note. 

“Yeah… we broke up for the first time shortly after our first anniversary. I’d had enough of the incessant fighting. I knew it was bad then, but I still gave him another chance when he came crawling back the next day, a huge bouquet of red roses in his arms, promising he would change.” You let the words linger for a moment. 

“Fun fact: I hate red roses,” you said with a soft laugh and Jake scoffed. 

“But it was this big romantic gesture, so I ignored it. After all I knew he meant well. Even though it was glaringly obvious he didn’t know me at all. 

“Let me guess, things didn’t change?” he asked correctly. 

“No, they didn’t. They maybe even got worse. The cycle continued - Explosive fights, break ups, big gestures and begging for forgiveness.

“And I forgave him. Every time.”

For some reason, you started feeling tears prickle at your eyes. Laying out the full story made you feel exposed, embarrassed and even ashamed, but you kept going even with your voice shaky. 

And Jake just listened. 

“I honestly don’t even know why… I guess it still felt like love, every time he came back. Like I was worth fighting for. He still made me feel wanted. And there was also a dependability in that whole spiel, which turned into something familiar and almost comfortable in its discomfort.”

You blinked away some of the tears, wiping the one that fell off your cheek. 

“But you wanna know the best part?” You asked. 

“It get’s better?” Jake sounded skeptical. 

“In those three years, he’s never made me come. Not even once.”

You could practically hear Jake’s jaw drop. 

“You’re kidding,” he said. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

He sounded like he genuinely didn’t believe something like this could be possible. It made you laugh, even with the tears in your eyes.

“Nope, I wish I was. He blamed me. Said something must be wrong with my body and he would get angry because of it. Eventually I just started faking it, trying to appease his small ego to avoid more fights.” 

“I’m sorry. For all of it,” Jake said quietly and you could hear he actually meant it. 

“Thanks.” You wiped away a few more tears, then took a deep breath before continuing. 

“But to top it all off, I lost my job and when I told Natasha about it, she offered to let me stay with her for a while. And I saw my chance to finally escape. I didn’t even say goodbye or tell him, I just left and blocked him everywhere, because I was scared that if I saw him, I’d give in again.

“So I came here and on my first night, I met you.” You finished the story, letting it come full circle. 

You were still nervous what he would do - now that he knew the whole story - but you felt almost relieved it was out of your hands. At peace.

“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me,” Jake said sincerely. 

“It makes sense now, why Phoenix is so protective over you.”

There was a heavy silence hanging between you now, tension thick, neither of you quite knowing what to say next. The quiet didn’t feel awkward, though, it was almost comforting. 

Something about Jake’s presence - even over the phone - felt so steady. Solid. 

“And if you’re wondering now,” you were the first to speak again. 

“I didn’t fake it with you.”

It was meant jokingly, to lighten the mood, but it came out a little huskier than intended. 

Jake chuckled on the other end of the line. 

“Oh, I know.” His voice was darker now as he spoke, but still a little smug.

“Unlike your loser-ex, I can actually tell when a woman is enjoying herself and when she’s coming.”

“Is that so?” You asked, trying not to give away that his words were already affecting you, suddenly glad he couldn’t see you. 

“I could see it in the way your skin flushed. Could feel your nails digging into my shoulder and your pussy clenching around my cock. You also made that sweet little sound, trying to be quiet and hold back a moan… you can’t fake that.” 

His words sent a shiver down your spine where it pooled into that dull ache at your core. 

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” you admitted quietly.

It was an almost involuntary action, but your free hand moved down your body and between your legs, slowly stroking over your clothed pussy.

“I've been replaying that moment in my head so many times. You looked so beautiful, absolutely perfect," Jake kept talking. And by now you had pushed your hand underneath the fabric of your underwear, craving more friction. Your fingers slid along the slit, landing on your clit - a moan slipping past your lips. 

"Fuck," Jake said, voice rough. "Are you-" he stopped himself, as if unsure whether he should even ask. You let out another quiet moan, almost goading him to do it. 

"Are you touching yourself right now?"

Your first instinct was still to lie and deny, embarrassed that just his voice could get you so turned on, but then again, you wanted him to know exactly that. 

"Yeah," you said, nodding even though he couldn't see it. 

You circled your clit, fingers gliding over it easily with the slickness there. 

"You like listening to me talk about how beautiful you looked taking my cock and how good it felt? And that I've been thinking about it every night since?"

Again you whimpered a quiet affirmation. 

"I could feel how wet you were and I've been imagining how it would feel like without the condom."

You started rubbing your clit harder as your desire built with every word Jake spoke. 

"Tell me how you're touching yourself. Are you rubbing your clit or are you fucking yourself with your fingers?" he asked and you could hear his breath coming a little faster, words more clipped. 

"Clit," you only ground out, unable to say much more as you chased your high. 

"Is it 'cause you know it won't feel as good as having me inside of you?"

You moaned in confirmation, but it wasn't enough for him. 

"Use your words, baby. I need to hear you say it."

You fought your way through the haze occupying your mind.

"Yes... felt so good."

"Good girl," he hummed in approval.  

"I bet you look real pretty right now, too."

Words should not have this much power, but coming from Jake's filthy mouth? Calling you a good girl? It had you nearly coming on the spot. 

"Jake, I-" you sighed between rapid breaths and with a pounding heart.

"I'm gonna come."

"Come for me, baby. I wanna hear it." 

And that's what pushed you over the edge, your orgasm releasing, pussy clenching around nothing as you kept rubbing your clit.

"Oh, Jake, fuck," falling from your lips as you came. 

You could also hear a moan on the other end of the line coming from Jake once the blood stopped rushing in your ears. After that it was quiet, only heavy breathing on both ends. 

Jake was the first one to break the silence.

"I think I could listen to you moan my name for the rest of my life." The absolute sincerity made you laugh, though you didn't dare linger on the implication behind his words.

"I can't remember the last time I had phone sex." You said instead, a breathless laugh escaping with it.

"Yeah, me neither. At least while not on deployment." 

Comfortable silence stretched on.

"Thanks, Jake - for listening." You said.

"To you coming? Any day, baby." He laughed and you knew he meant it as a joke. 

"But no, seriously... thank you for sharing your story with me. It means a lot." 

You could tell he was being earnest, all traces of sarcasm gone. 

Still a question was lingering - a what now? hanging over the conversation like a storm cloud. Looming. You kept talking a little longer. Jake asking you stuff about yourself and you needling him in return, wanting to know more about him, falling into easy conversation.

After a while you heard dishes clanking in the kitchen, a telltale sign that Natasha was awake and making breakfast. 

"I think I should go - Nat's awake," you said, not really wanting the call to end.

"Yeah, alright..." he replied, before adding, "are you coming to the Deck tonight?"

You weren't sure of Natasha's plans, but you decided you were going to go.

"Yeah." Past the point of playing it cool, you eagerly agreed. 

"Good." You could hear the grin in his voice.

"I'll see you there," you said.

You hung up the phone and stayed in bed for a moment longer, enjoying the last traces of your post-orgasmic bliss, before getting up and joining your sister in the kitchen. 

"Good morning," you greeted her.

"Morning." Nat was cracking some eggs in bowl, scrambling them when she glanced up.

"Were you talking on the phone?" She asked - must’ve heard you when she walked past your room to get to the kitchen. You hoped she didn't hear the tail end of that conversation, though.

“Yeah, with uhh… Jake." You needed to be honest with her. Sneaking around obviously didn't go well, so you might as well come clean. 

"Oh," she sounded surprised, but you couldn’t tell if it was at your confession or the fact it was Jake.

"I told him about Dylan." You let the words hang in the air, letting her decide what to make of it. 

“I know, you don’t approve…” you said as Natasha stayed silent. “But you can’t protect me from other men forever.” 

“It’s not about approval.” She sighed, about to say something more but you cut her off.

“He makes me feel alive again after I spent the last three years with my head underwater. Now I can finally breathe. And if that’s all he is and this is going to be - then I’m fine with that. With him it’s… easy and fun. Everything with Dylan was always so difficult.” You explained and something on her face made it look like she started to understand. Her eyes softened as she took you in. 

“I mean it obviously also doesn’t hurt that he’s hot as hell and pretty to look at.” You added with a smirk and that got her to laugh.

It took some convincing to get Natasha to come along to the Hard Deck, her telling you it might be weird between her and Jake now and she didn’t want to ‘disturb your night’. That was exactly why she had to go - so it wouldn’t get weirder. But it warmed your heart that she seemed to be starting to accept whatever it was you and Jake had.

Jake was waiting outside the bar, which was surprising, but definitely not unwelcome. 

You couldn’t hold back your smile as you walked up to him. For the first time approaching him directly, the gravity pulling you towards him instead of pushing you away along his line of orbit. 

It was that magnetism that went beyond just sex or physical attraction - it ran deeper - and you could no longer deny it.

He was grinning, a newfound softness in it. 

And God - you wanted to kiss him. Get on your tiptoes, wrap your arms around him and just kiss him. But you couldn’t do that. Not yet, at least - and not in front of your sister. 

You didn’t even trust yourself to hug him, scared any full-body contact would drive you mad with want.

“Hi,” you whispered as you looked up at him.

“Hey,” he smiled down at you, eyes flicking to Natasha behind you. 

He gently touched your hip, gave it a little squeeze before he stepped around you and directly in front of your sister. 

“Peace offering.” He held up a knotted plastic bag towards her, filled with… something. You had no idea what it was - hadn’t even noticed he was holding it. But by the annoyed smile on Nat’s face you could tell that she did. 

She kept him waiting, not immediately reaching for the mystery bag. When she finally did, Jake looked genuinely relieved. 

“I’ll give you guys a minute,” you said, slipping into the bar, greeting Penny as you passed, though you kept an eye on them through the windows. They talked and you wished you could hear what it was. Natasha laughed - a good sign. And then they hugged. Tension, you hadn’t even realized you were holding, slid off your body. You had worried, your presence - your thing with Jake - had damaged their relationship, something vital for their work. So it eased something deep in you to see it was at least on the mend, if not yet fully repaired. 

When they came back inside, Jake made a beeline for you and your sister drifted towards a group of others. 

“What on earth did you give her?” You asked with a curious grin. 

“Bag of ash,” he stated matter-of-factly as if it were the most normal thing to gift someone. 

“What?” You blinked at him, brows furrowing. 

“For her plants.” He shrugged. “That’s how she got her callsign. Because she’s always digging through the leftover ash after every bonfire, taking some home to use in the soil of her plants. And one particular time, the wind caught her off guard and she got absolutely covered in it. Looked like a phoenix rising from the ashes - hence, the name.”

You couldn’t believe you didn’t know that story - had never even bothered to ask how she got the name. 

“Huh, I always thought it was just a badass name,” you laughed. 

Jake knowing your sister so well made you realize how much of a family they really were - the whole squad was. And also how close you’d come to fracturing something important by not keeping it in your pants.

It wasn’t just Jake who needed to apologize. You’d have to apologize to her, too. 

“So now that I’m back in your sister’s good graces…” He smirked. 

“Will you let me take you out on a date?” 

You bit your lip, trying to contain your smile but failing spectacularly. 

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

“Good.” Jake leaned in closer. “And maybe I’ll take you home after… see how many times I can make you finish before you tap out.” His voice took on a sinful note, eyes darkening, as he said it, tightening that coil of desire in your belly. 

Your gaze flicking to his lips. 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

A voice suddenly spoke next to you. You knew that voice. 

“You are.” Jake didn’t take his eyes off you, but the annoyance was clear in his reply. 

You didn’t need to look up - knew exactly who it was - but you did anyway. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, rage simmering underneath. Eyes wide as you were staring at him. 

Dylan. 

Your reaction made Jake look up as well and his eyes narrowed as realization set in. 

“Isn’t it obvious? I came here for you.” Dylan had the audacity to sound amused. 

This couldn’t be happening. After everything. After you finally got away and things were turning out to be good - he showed up again.

Your heart was pounding, but not in the exciting way like when Jake looked at you. This was the opposite. 

“Dylan, is it?” Jake spoke up for you, guessing correctly who he was. 

“It’s none of your business,” Dylan replied, but he was solely focused on you, not even sparing Jake a glance. 

“Oh, I think it is.” Jake stepped closer to him, rising to his full height, back ramrod straight and chin high. But you put a hand up to his chest, stopping him. 

This was something you had to try and resolve yourself. 

“I don’t want you here, Dylan,” you told him, trying to keep your voice firm but you couldn’t help the slight waver in it. 

“Come on, don’t say that. I’ve missed you. I got on the first flight when I saw the picture your sister posted.” He came closer - just an inch - but you noticed. 

Hearing I’ve missed you and knowing that he’d flown out to find you would’ve cracked your resolve before.

But things were different now. 

You were different.

“I’m done with you. For good.”

“Why? Because of him? Is that it?” Dylan got a little louder and it drew eyes from people around you.

“He has nothing to do with it.”

“You’ve barely been here a month and you’re already fucking someone else. He’s probably just using you. Just a warm place to put his dick. Because he’ll never love you like I do - no one can - and we both know that.”

You felt Jake tense next to you, his fists clenched, but you still had your hand on him, making him stand down. 

“You’re nothing without me. That’s why you always come back, because you need me. I know you do.” Dylan closed the gap and reached to put his hands on your face. You tried to back away but were met with the bar behind you. That’s when you let Jake step in. 

He slid in front of you smoothly and pushed Dylan back a few staggering steps.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” His voice was low, threatening. 

“Or what?” Dylan asked through gritted teeth.

You saw the way Jake’s body tightened, ready to throw the first punch if needed. 

The bar had gone quiet. All eyes on the three of you and whatever was about to unfold. 

Movement caught your eye and you saw Natasha make her way towards you through the crowd.

“Hey Dylan!” She yelled as she closed in. He reluctantly turned away from Jake and towards your sister. 

He opened his mouth to say something when Natasha raised her fist and punched him square in the face. He didn’t even have time to react - just dropped to the ground, blood spurting from his nose. The whole crowd gasped, some cheered and you stood frozen. 

“God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” She said as she shook out her hand. 

“Jesus, Nat,” you breathed, still in shock. She gave you a crooked smile and a light shrug. 

She turned to Jake. “Take her home. I got this.”

He nodded, grabbed your wrist and pulled you out of the bar towards his car. 

“I can’t believe that just happened,” you said as Jake led you into his apartment after a quiet car ride. 

You couldn’t believe that Dylan had actually shown up here and that Natasha had punched him.

Jake had decided to take you to his place because he wasn’t sure if Dylan knew where your sister’s apartment was - or if he might try to show up there. 

You plopped down on the couch in his living room, Jake sitting down next to you. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, worried, reaching for one of your hands that was still trembling slightly and squeezing it. 

You took a deep steadying breath. 

“Yeah. I think I am.”

“That guy really is one manipulative asshole.” he said and you nodded in agreement. 

“He is. Thank you for letting me handle it and not stepping in right away. I needed that.”

That moment - standing you ground and ending it with Dylan - was the final part of a chapter you’d needed to finish for far too long.

“You handled it really well.”

He gave your hand another squeeze. 

“Thanks,” you smiled, turning his hand over and lacing his fingers with yours. 

There was one positive thing that came from it: you were finally well and truly over Dylan - and free from whatever hold he’d had on you.

You took a moment to look around the room. It was definitely a man’s apartment - dark monochrome colors, very tidy - but there were traces of Jake scattered throughout. 

Military patches and plaques hanging on the walls as well as propped up on shelves. A pair of longhorns mounted above the TV and cowboy boots by the door. 

It was so him - and you loved it - enjoyed getting to know more about him and his life. 

You turned back to him, finding he was already watching you.

His thumb rubbed slow circles into the back of your hand, his gaze dark and piercing. 

Electricity humming between your bodies and the tension was thick. 

“I know you said you want to take me on a date first…” you said quietly, trailing off. 

“Fuck the date,” he muttered, then surged forward, crashing his lips onto yours in a kiss you’d been waiting for for weeks. 

His hands found the back of your neck, pulling you closer against him, almost desperate. 

You opened your mouth and he wasted no time in sliding his tongue inside, claiming it. 

Claiming you. 

He kissed you hungrily, deeply and you felt a familiar ache start to build inside you. 

Grabbing onto his shoulders, you moved into his lap, straddling him and pressing your body closer against him, needing to feel all of him. 

His hands slid around your body, one up and between your shoulder blades, the other down to palm the curve of your ass. 

If kissing him at the bar was amazing - this was ecstasy. After weeks of build up and sexual tension it all finally came to a head. 

You raked your nails through his hair at the nape of his neck, tugging on whatever was long enough to grab and started moving your hips back and forth. 

Center dragging over his growing bulge, a moan slipped into his mouth at the contact. 

Hips bucking up in response, while his hand on your ass pulled your further down against him for more friction. 

His hands wandered under you shirt, pushing it up as he went, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head, then diving right back in to explore. It felt like he was trying to memorize every inch of your body by touch alone. 

And you loved the way they felt, warm and heavy - slightly calloused - but it only added another layer to the sensation.

Jake reached around to unhook your bra and you shrugged it off quickly. Leaving you topless in front of him. Palms immediately found your breasts, squeezing them roughly. Pinching the nipples into stiff peaks. 

You kept grinding down on him and if he let you - you could probably come from that alone. But Jake had other plans. He held you tight and flipped you around so your back was against the couch and he was above you between your open legs, moving your body with ease. Sitting up, he pulled his shirt over his head and while you loved seeing him like that, you whined at the loss of pressure, grabbing at him to pull him back down. 

He let out a little chuckle at that, clearly enjoying how desperate you were for him as you pulled his lips back onto yours. Your legs fell open further, giving him more space to get closer.

But it wasn’t enough, needed more, the ache between your legs growing exponentially.

You slid your hands between your bodies, unfastening the button and zipper of his pants with ease, then tried to shove them down his hips.

“Someone’s eager,” he teasingly whispered against your lips. 

“Please, Jake,” you whined - needing his cock, his hands, something. 

He sat up, hungry eyes tracing the lines of your body, then started working on your pants, tugging them down together with your underwear. You lifted your hips to make it easier until you were completely naked on the couch in front of him. 

Legs still spread indecently, everything on full display. Jake ran his hands up your thighs, fingers twitching, digging into your soft skin and making you spread your legs even more. 

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, eyes flicking from your face down to your glistening center. 

The way he looked right now - shirtless and pants undone, hair messy and his eyes dark - made you take in a shuddering breath.

You started squirming under his gaze, feeling exposed but also so needy. 

His right hand crept to the top of your thigh, thumb running along your slit, pressing down to glide easily between your folds until he reached your clit. 

The sudden contact made you twitch, your hips angling towards him as you bit back a moan.

“Always so wet for me.” His gaze was fixed to your pussy, watching his thumb rub around your clit, occasionally dipping back down to gather up more of your slickness.

Your hands were fisting the fabric of the couch, digging your nails into it.

“Please,” you tried again, almost begging, ripping him out of his trance.

He looked back up and licked his lips with a small smirk. “I got you.”

Jake moved - his face so close to your wet pussy now you could feel his breath against it - his broad shoulders wedged between your knees, demanding space.

His middle and index finger replaced his thumb, but he kept on rubbing your clit - until they drifted lower, teasingly circling your entrance, threatening to push in before pulling back. 

You looked down at him, his green eyes staring back - then his fingers entered you, one swift push in. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you threw your head back. A moan spilling from your lips at finally feeling him inside you again. His fingers fit perfectly, just a slight stretch as he started pumping them in and out, curling them up as he did. 

And because it wasn’t enough, his mouth then found your clit - latching on to it - sucking and flicking at it with his tongue. 

Your fingers gripped his hair, pushing his face deeper into your pussy as your back arched off the couch. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whimpered breathlessly. The onslaught of his tongue and his fingers was everything - too much and not enough - as the coil deep inside of you tightened. 

His left arm hooked under your leg, hand landing on your belly to keep you in place and hold you still as he continued his ministrations. 

Jake sped up slightly and your orgasm built relentlessly. More and more until it couldn’t any more and you came. Hips bucking, moaning his name through strangled sobs of pleasure. 

His fingers slowed to a stop, but he didn’t pull out just yet. He looked up at you, lips and chin glistening with your juices, giving you a wicked smirk as you tried to catch your breath. 

“That was…” you panted, but were lost for words. 

“I’m not done yet,” he said and your eyes widened. “I think you need to come again.”

“I- I don’t… think I can,” you stammered, excited but also intimidated by the idea. 

“We’ll see,” he smirked before he dove back in.

Your clit was hypersensitive and you jerked away, but he held you right where he needed you. 

No partner - especially not Dylan - had tried to make you come more than once. If they even cared about you coming at all.

The feeling of overstimulation slowly faded and turned back into pleasure. It seemed like your body was primed and ready to go from your first release, because the second one approached much faster. So fast, you hardly believe it was happening. 

It only took him pushing a third finger inside you to make you fall over the edge again, clenching around his digits as the waves of your orgasm crashed through you. 

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst right out of your chest. 

This time Jake pulled his fingers out of you after slowing down to a stop and came up to hover above you. 

“I knew you could do it.” He looked smug - but rightly so. 

You laughed breathlessly. He leaned down, but not to kiss you, instead he wrapped his arms under and around your body and before you could react, he’d lifted you and tossed you over his shoulder. A yelp escaped you as you dangled upside down. 

“Jake!” you shrieked, half laughing, half scandalized. 

“I’m taking you to bed,” he said and gave your bare ass a playful slap.

You were still giggling when he dropped you on the bed, bouncing on the mattress. You watched as he got rid of the rest of his clothes, marveling at his naked body and his perfect cock - making your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation of him. 

He joined you back on the bed and you immediately went back to kissing, still eager for more, but a little slower this time, some of the desperation and need having dissipated with your previous orgasms. You could taste yourself on his lips and tongue.

You took his cock in your hand, wrapping your fingers around his thick shaft, and he groaned at the contact - at the feel of your hand stroking his velvet-soft and rock-hard length.

You gave him a few slow pumps, sliding your thumb over tip and feeling a drop of precum gathered there. 

You rolled Jake over so you were on top of him, straddling him once more, still kissing. Your center awfully close to his cock which seemed to be twitching in response. 

Jake moved, his hand reaching for something in his nightstand and you looked up to see him pull out a condom from the drawer. 

He looked at you and you shook your head, his brows raising. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. You started kissing him again. 

“Yes… want to feel you,” you muttered against his lips, “and I’m on the pill.”

“Fuck, okay. You don’t have to tell me twice.” You watched him toss the condom to the side with theatrical flair and his kisses turned more heated. Biting your bottom lip, tangling his tongue with yours. He grabbed your hips, guiding you until the head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.

You were so wet still that it would be no problem for him to slide inside with ease.

You sat up, bracing your hands on his chest and slowly sank down on him - feeling every inch - as his girth stretched you in a way that even three of his fingers hadn’t prepared you for.

Once fully seated inside, Jake let out a moan.

“Feels even better than I imagined.”

You let out a sigh, the feeling of being so filled was absolute bliss, even better than the first time.

After a few more seconds, you started to move, fucking yourself on his cock. 

Careful at first, then picking up speed, feeling him deep inside you every time you sank back down on him completely. Heat building in your body with each time. 

He was still gripping your hips tightly, letting you go at your own pace, but you could feel his restraint falter in the way his hips jerked up to meet yours. 

“Look so pretty riding me,” he said, his breathing slightly labored, looking at you intently.

His hand moved, thumb finding your clit again and rubbing it in messy circles. That, together with the way he filled you so perfectly, made another orgasm approach.

You weren’t sure you still had it in you, but the idea of coming with his cock buried deep inside was too enticing not to try

“I can feel you clenching around me already.” He began thrusting up shallowly, helping you ride hime while - his thumb never leaving your clit.

“Are you gonna come all over my cock, too?” he asked, his words had you nod and moan in return. 

The coil kept tightening and at some point you let him take over. Thrusting into you fully now, harder and even deeper. You were close, but couldn’t quite get there yet and Jake seemed to realize that. He pulled your body down on him and flipped you over so he was hovering above you, staying inside the entire time. 

This new angle allowing him to go even deeper and let him do all the work, so you could relax your body and focus more on your release. 

His fingers found your clit again as he built you back up to that edge, coil of pleasure so tight it was going to snap any second. Then his other hand wrapped around your throat and applied the lightest of pressure to the sides, and that’s when it happened. You clenched around him, back arching and moaning. Pleasure overwhelmed you completely and the noises that came from deep within you were genuine sobs. That incredible orgasmic feeling, coupled with the overwhelming, almost painful sensation of having been pushed over the edge multiple times.

Jake’s thrusts became faster in turn, more irregular, and you knew he was close too. But you’d let him fuck you in whatever way he needed to come, especially after giving you three incredible orgasms. 

After one final, deep thrust, he stilled. A strangled groan falling from his lips as he dropped his head to your shoulder. 

You let your fingertips lazily trace across his back as you both caught your breaths again, his body heavy atop yours. You felt absolutely spent and you weren’t sure you could ever get up out of this bed again. 

“I thought the sex we had at the bar was incredible…” you swallowed, still somewhat out of breath. “But this right here, might’ve been life changing.”

He laughed. And it was that deep, warm laugh that rumbled in his chest and gave you a strange sense of comfort. 

“Better get used to it.”

Jake dragged himself off of you eventually and cleaned you both up before he laid back down in bed next to you. You were turned towards each other, his fingers tracing patterns on your hip and lower back. 

“So what did you say to Nat earlier?” you asked him, curious.

“I told her the truth,” he simply said. 

“Which is?”

“That I have no intention of hurting you or breaking your heart.” A beat.  

“‘Cause I like you. A lot.” He confessed.

You smiled at him. 

“Good. Because I also like you a lot,” you whispered back. 

“She did also threaten to cut off my balls again, but that’s completely beside the point.” He waved it off with his hand.

“I didn’t expect anything less,” you laughed. Jake had a special talent for lightening the mood and taking the tension out of heavy moments.  

You leaned in to kiss him again and he pulled your body closer against his. 

“I still expect you to take me out on a date, though.” You grinned. "And I want my panties back."

He didn't reply, just smirked against your lips as he kissed you deeply.

You might not be one-hundred percent certain what this thing you’ve started was, but you definitely liked where it was going. And that was enough for now.

You’d be lying if you said, that they weren’t your favorite regulars and having them show up made every shift pass by in a breeze. Especially when a special someone was there too. Hangman. 

Or Jake, his real name you had only learned after a few months of knowing him. 

He was the loudest, the one you couldn’t help but notice even in the thickest of crowds. He was cocky, flirty and funny and more than aware of his good looks and beautiful green eyes. 

You were also pretty sure that he had more than a hint of a god complex, something that was necessary as a fighter pilot, but did not always bode well for a personal life.

All of that was a very deadly combination. A combination you had sworn to resist. 

But that was easier said than done. 

Hangman was like a magnet, drawing you in, dragging your gaze towards him and sometimes even your body, making staying away very, very difficult. 

And today, of course, was no different. 

As soon as the dagger squad poured into the bar, your gaze was locked onto the door, watching as Rooster, Bob, Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback and Coyote swaggered in and for a split second you thought that Hangman wasn’t going to be there. But then there he was, rounding out the troop, last but definitely not least. The golden hour sun illuminating him from behind, making his blonde hair practically glow. 

Rowdy as always, they were laughing and talking as they stepped up to the bar.

“Hey guys,” you said with a broad grin towards the group. “How was the mission?”

“Absolutely crushed it!” Rooster replied. 

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for Hangman flying like crazy, we would all be dead!” Coyote butted in and it involuntarily made you look towards Hangman, who was leaned against the bar, the picture of casualness as he shrugged. His eyes already on you.

“What can I say? I’m very good.” Smirk on his face, his eyes looked you up and down and with an intensity that made your heart race. Trying to slow it down again, you turned back to the others. 

“So what can I get you to celebrate?” 

After taking orders and pouring beer, they moved towards the pool table and crowded around it, only Hangman remained by the bar. 

“Did you miss me?” He asked, taking a sip of his beer, but that cocky smirk never left his face. 

“Those were the longest two weeks of my life,” you said theatrically. “I couldn’t sleep or eat, fearing for your life.” You clutched your chest. 

He laughed, leaning a little further over the bar, closer to you. 

“See I know you’re playing this off as a joke, but I know there’s truth in there.” 

You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t fight off the smile accompanying it.

Okay, yeah, maybe there was a little bit of truth to it. But he didn’t have to know that. Maybe those two weeks really felt a little slow and like they stretched on for an eternity. And maybe you had occasionally thought about him - and the others - and if they were safe, but any normal person would do that. You were somewhat friends after all. It had absolutely nothing to do with him specifically. 

“But don’t worry sweetheart, you won’t get rid of me that easily.” He winked at you before he went to join the others and their lively conversations. 

Time passed and the night went on, the Deck filling up and some of the daggers coming up to the bar periodically to buy more rounds of drinks, but it was so busy, you barely had time to talk to them. Only once Penny relieved you of your shift, taking over for closing, did you have time to pour yourself a beer and walk towards them. 

You did that sometimes, join them when you could, playing a game of pool or darts. 

“There she is!” Phoenix spotted you first and opened her arms to give you a quick hug.

Out of all of them, she was the only one you hung out with outside the bar. Being in such a male dominated field, you knew she was glad to have another woman around as a friend and you felt the same. She was also the only one who knew about your feelings for Hangman. You hadn’t intended on telling her, but she was so perceptive, so sharp, you didn’t even have to. Or maybe you were just so obvious in your ogling, although you’d like to think you weren’t. 

One day she simply asked you “when are you gonna fuck him?” and you almost choked on your drink. Trying vehemently to fight off the allegations but the raised eyebrow she gave you made you give in quickly, spilling the secret you had held on for so long. 

She didn’t exactly approve that he was your choice, but was still supportive nonetheless. And in your logical mind you didn’t really know why your heart decided on him either, when quiet and polite Bob was there, or Rooster who wore his every emotion on his sleeve. No, it had to be Hangman. Hangman, who flirted with every being with a pulse and two legs and had a reputation like no one else. 

That flirting obviously also involved you, pulse and legs meeting the requirements. It was easy at first to shrug it off, thinking he would eventually get bored. You were the shiny, new plaything. However, he never did, in fact the flirting increased. Probably seeing you as a challenge now, which meant that as much as you wanted it - wanted him - you could never give in. 

You wanted more than to be his one night stand, his challenge, his conquest or notch in what must’ve been a very long belt. 

There was only that one time when you almost crossed that line. Closing down the bar, just the two of you, Hangman insisting on helping… but you didn’t like to think about it. Hated how it still made you heart skip a beat and heat curl low in your belly. The way he looked at you as he leaned in. How your lips almost connected. How his hand felt on your hip, warm and heavy and a tad possessive, before Penny came barging in. 

You’d jumped apart, pretending like nothing had happened. Really, nothing did. 

Swearing to never repeat that mistake again, you just had to be content with watching him from across the bar, or the pool table. Just as you did right now, sipping your beer, pretending like his smile didn’t make you weak in the knees. 

“I’ve got a date tomorrow,” you then told Phoenix out of the blue. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline. 

“A date? With… Hangman?” She asked confused. 

“What? No!” You shook your head. “With some guy who came into the bar the other day. At first I was going to say no, but then I figured it might not be such a bad idea.”

“Getting over him by getting under someone else, huh?” She smirked, sipping her drink and you shrugged. 

“Something like that. Or at least take the edge off,” you mumbled the last part. 

“Ohh, so you just wanna get laid!” She laughed at the realization, her voice louder than she intended, drawing Jake’s eyes towards you.

“Shh! I mean, yeah, it’s been so long and I am this close,” you held up your index finger and thumb, practically touching, “to saying yes to Jake. And we both know this can’t happen.”

“Well good luck now, ‘cause he’s coming over.” She snickered as she walked off, leaving you alone and defenseless as Hangman walked up. 

“I couldn’t help but overhear something just now.” He grinned, green eyes bearing a glint of mischief. “Something about you wanting to get laid?”

“No- that was… not at all-“ You stammered, scrambling for an excuse. It only made his grin widen.

“You know, flying and almost dying really gets the adrenaline going.” He leaned down a little, whispering the next words. One hand sliding down your bare arm. 

“It’s one hell of an aphrodisiac.”

You swallowed hard. 

“Yeah, I can imagine.” You managed to whisper back, not fully trusting your voice to speak louder.  

“How about we help each other out, hm?” His gaze was back on your face, taking in your reaction. Watching - and probably enjoying - as your resolve cracked.

Your skin was burning under his touch. Innocent technically, it was just your arm, but it felt like he was setting your skin on fire. 

Raising your chin slightly to look up at him, you took a shaky breath. 

“Maybe next time.” Still whispering, trying to pass it off as a joke. 

“That’s not a no.” He didn’t sound disappointed, just amused. Intrigued. Like he could wait you out. He did stop touching your arm, though. Stepping back a tiny bit and giving you more room to breathe.  

“No, it is definitely a no.” You built up the wall of your resolve again, brick by brick, speaking louder. Desperately trying to ignore the growing ache between your legs that had you ever so slightly clench your thighs together. 

Hangman nodded, that cocky smile never leaving his face. 

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He gave you one more look over his shoulder as he walked away. The only thing you could do in return was take a deep swig of your beer, which was a little warm by now, the bitterness more noticeable, but exactly what you needed. 

“You’ve got it bad.” Phoenix laughed, sliding back up next to you. 

“Shut up,” you replied but couldn’t help laughing with her.

Every time you were close to giving in, you reminded yourself of what Penny had said to you that night after she caught you almost kissing Hangman. 

You thought she would give you a stern talking to about hooking up with customers at work, but instead she pulled you aside and told you to be careful with Navy boys. Especially the pretty ones that looked like Jake. Because a big part of their job was breaking hearts and she didn’t want you to learn the hard way. 

She had known the whole group for a lot longer than you had and you had heard stories about her complicated relationship with their group leader, Maverick. 

Not having been around military before in your life, you took her advice to heart. And it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Hangman make out with pretty girls in corners before or watched him as he staggered out the bar with his arm around their waists. You knew what he was like and you were grateful to Penny for the reminder. 

On Saturdays, The Hard Deck opened at noon and you took the opening shift again so you had the afternoon off to go on your date. 

It was quiet, but the day still went by pretty quickly. Distracted by first date jitters and what outfit you were gonna put on.  

By the time it got busier, Penny took over for you and sent you on your way. You let out a sigh of relief. Jake or any of the others hadn’t come in yet today, which meant you didn’t have to explain why you were leaving early and where you were going. 

In the parking lot, you were just reaching for the car door handle when you heard Phoenix call your name. 

Shit.

You turned around with a sigh and wave and saw her, together with some of the others coming over, while the rest went inside the bar.

“Off already?” Jake was - of course - at the forefront and before you could even think about lying, Phoenix answered for you. 

“She’s got a hot date.” She grinned, side eyeing Hangman. If your looks could kill, she would be dead right now. You bit your bottom lip, not denying the fact.

Your gaze flashed to Jake next. He clenched his jaw - just for a second - and a look flickered across his face you couldn’t quite identify, before that ever-present, easy smirk of his snapped back into place. 

“Have fun then,” he said easily, but his voice had an edge to it and a tightness in his shoulders as he turned that made you bite down on your lip harder. 

“Dude, really?” You hissed at Phoenix.

“Relax, it’s good.” She replied, looking over her shoulder at Hangman. 

“He didn’t need to know that.”

“He did.” A grin spreading on her lips. “Cause what you just saw, was jealous Hangman.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but then closed it again. Replaying the way he looked as Phoenix told him about your date had you admit: it did seem like jealousy. 

“He’s probably just pissed someone else might get to fuck me before he does.” You tried to reason and not get your hopes up that maybe he wanted more than just sex. 

“Or maybe he’s just Hangman and admitting his feelings is something that he’s never had to do before.” Phoenix countered. 

“Nah,” you simply denied. “I’ll stick to him just wanting to fuck me first.” What Phoenix was saying sounded too good to be true. That Jake might actually have feelings for you but was just too emotionally constipated to say it out loud? Not likely. 

She just rolled her eyes. 

“Suit yourself.” 

After a quick hug goodbye, you got into your car and pulled out of the parking lot, feeling eyes on you. A quick glance proved that Jake was still standing at the entrance of the bar, watching you with an intensity and seriousness in his eyes you rarely saw. 

Your grip on the wheel tightened. Ignoring the urge to stop the car and call off the date. 

Instead you kept driving. All the way home. 

You had put on your favorite short skirt and top that made your boobs look especially great but the date was still just… fine. 

Mike was nice. Polite. Handsome even. But God, was he boring. Only talking about himself and his job, not making you laugh a single time.

Did you still let him take you home? Yeah. You did. And it wasn’t necessarily regret you felt after, but you were disappointed. 

Of course he hadn’t made you come. Part of you expected that before you even started. You had still hoped, however, it would scratch that itch. Somehow it had the opposite effect. Like it had reminded your body what it should feel like to be touched and kissed. How much better it would be with someone who actually cared about your pleasure. 

Leaving his place immediately after, you didn’t bother to sleep over. At home you had to take measures into your own hand, making yourself come at least once, to stop that incessant craving. Trying not to think about Hangman and failing spectacularly. How his hands felt on your body and how much better they would feel between your legs. How he probably had an annoyingly perfect cock that would fill you up just right. And how he would put that smart mouth to good use. You stopped fighting it.

For the first time, you let yourself freely fantasize about Jake while you fucked yourself, resulting in an intense orgasm that had you out of breath and your legs shaking. 

You weren’t sure if you could look him in the eye tomorrow without blushing. 

That turned out not to be a problem, because Jake wasn’t there the next day or the following few. 

Phoenix had been there one Sunday and you told her about the date, how disappointing it was. All of it. She extended her condolences in return. 

“Maybe it’s time to fuck Hangman after all.” She joked and a part of you started to think that maybe she was right. 

How much longer were you going to torture yourself with longing and heartache, when he freely offered himself up at every given moment? Doing it once might actually cure you. 

Or maybe make things so much worse…

It was Thursday when you were closing down the bar, putting chairs on tables when you heard the bar door open. 

“We’re closed.” You said without turning around. 

“Just one drink.” 

You recognized the voice immediately. Jake.

He staggered towards the bar, swaying slightly as he did so and sat down on one of the bar stools. It didn’t take you long to realize that something was wrong. His hair looked disheveled, his clothes wrinkly and as you got closer, you also saw that his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. He was wasted. 

Reaching over the bar, you grabbed a bottle and two glasses. Without asking, you poured him a shot of whiskey and slid it over to him, taking a seat next to him. 

“You okay?” You asked quietly, concern lacing your voice. 

“Peachy.” He knocked back the shot in one go. 

You refilled his glass and also poured one for yourself. 

In almost six months, you had never seen him like this. Not even close to it. Rarely did he get a bit too rowdy and confrontational when he was drunk, but this was a whole other level. 

“You wanna talk about it?” You didn’t really know what to do or what even had him in a state like this. Instead of replying he just shook his head. Without saying a word, he picked up his glass and drained it again and you did the same. Refilling them a third time. 

He was slouched on top of the bar, one hand holding up his head that hung low, the other one playing with the shot glass. 

Not knowing what else to do, you reached out and put your hand on top of his. He didn’t look at you, but you could still see his jaw clench. 

“How was your date?” He asked, and you could hear now that his words were slurred. 

“Not great,” you replied honestly, your thumb now absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand. 

“Did you fuck him?” That question caught you off guard. The words felt like they slapped you. Harsh. Bitter. Almost spat. The moment of hesitation before you could reply was enough answer for him. He moved his hand from underneath yours and picked up the shot glass again and once it was emptied he got up. 

You thought he was going to leave, but instead he turned towards you, getting closer until he stood between your open legs. Your back pressed against the bar. 

“Was it good?” His voice was low now, but it was quiet in the bar with no one else there and he was so close you had no problem hearing him. 

You didn’t dare look at him. Instead your face was turned off to the side, but you still just shook your head to answer him.

“That’s what I thought.” His right hand came up to rest on your jaw, gently turning your head to look at him. Hesitantly you glanced up.

“If you’d let me, I’d make you feel so good.” Those words had your heart skip a beat. Your breath caught in your throat. His other hand now moved to rest on your hip, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him, fingers digging into your flesh. 

“Jake…” You whispered, breath hitched. You wanted this, you did, but not like this. Drunk and sad. 

“Please…” His voice cracked slightly - raw, desperate. “Let me make you feel good, make you come. I promise you won’t regret it.” His hand was now stroking the side of your face, pushing a loose strand of hair back. You tried pushing down the heat that was coiling low in your belly. Tried to resist. It might’ve been the hardest thing you’ve ever done. 

Jake leaned in then, glancing down towards your lips and you couldn’t help your eyelids from fluttering close. When you felt his hot breath fanning over your lips, could smell the whiskey on it knowing that he was just inches away, you pulled back. 

“Don’t.” You whispered, so quietly you weren’t even sure you really said it out loud.

The kiss never came, instead you felt him retreat. Removing his hand from your face and hip and taking a step back. You opened your eyes and saw hurt on his face, clear as day. He gave you one curt nod.

“Jake…” you started again, trying to explain. Apologize. Something. 

“No, it’s fine. I get it.” He said as he turned around and took the few steps to the front door. 

You wanted to stop him or go after him, you really did. But your body felt frozen. Making you sit with it. Feel the damage you’d done. 

His words kept echoing in your head as you sat there a while longer. The blatant want and then his hurt expression after. 

Taking a deep breath, you finally got up from the chair and finished closing up. Once back home you sent Phoenix a text. You knew that she probably wouldn’t see it until morning when she got up but you just had to ask. 

Jake came to the bar absolutely wasted. He seemed upset. Did anything happen?

You were surprised when an answer came back immediately. 

I think it’s the day his best friend died a few years ago… he gets like that sometimes.

You stared at the screen. Heart sinking.

That explained a lot and it made your chest ache for him worse than before. Even more so that you had added on to his agony. 

You barely slept that night, but still turned up to your opening shift, and for the first time you felt dread at the prospect of seeing Hangman. Not knowing where you stood with him now.

Every time the door opened, you anxiously glanced towards it. Relief and sadness filling you with equal measure when you saw that it wasn’t Jake. Until it was. 

He swaggered up towards the bar, Fanboy and Payback in tow, that easy grin on his face.

“Hey,” you breathed. “How are you?”

“I’m great.” He shrugged ever so casually. 

“Really?” Your brows furrowed a little, confused. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He still wore that smirk, but now you could see through it. Hurt, barely hidden. So that’s how he was going to play this. Pretend like last night didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow you still were. 

Pouring drinks and handing them to the boys, you got spared from more conversation as Phoenix showed up. They scattered away, only her remaining. 

“What’s going on?” She asked, visibly confused, having picked up on the strange vibe between you and Hangman. 

“Things got… weird last night.” You said vaguely, not knowing how much into detail you should get. Still you continued.

“Weird like he tried to kiss me and I stopped him.”

“Oh.” Her mouth fell open, eyebrows raised. 

“Yeah.” You nodded. 

“I’m sure he’ll get over it. He always does.” She tried to reason, wave it off and make you feel better, but something in her voice sounded uncertain.

You leaned in closer to her above the bar, lowering your voice.

“I don’t know. This time seemed different. He was hurt, Phoenix.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Guess we’ll see,” you said sighing.

For the rest of the night, he was avoiding you, you could tell. He sent Bob to buy him drinks and only looked over to you when he thought you couldn’t see it. 

Eventually you even lost sight of him, not knowing if he had left or was just hiding in a corner somewhere from you. Only once your shift ended and you went over to Phoenix to say goodbye did you spot him again, leaning against a wall, a pretty blonde next to him with her boobs practically in his face. You couldn’t blame her, but you sure as hell could blame him. 

In that moment you realized that it’s been a while since you had seen him flirt with anyone in earnest. Sure he still let out the occasional one-liner, but not like this, right in your face and obvious, not even trying to be subtle or hide it. 

Unfortunately you also had to walk past him to get to the front door. 

You tried not to look, ignore him, but then he leaned closer to push a strand out of the girls face - just like he had done to you last night - and caught your eye with a smirk for a split second. You couldn’t help yourself. You scoffed. 

“Un-fucking-believable.” You bumped his shoulder, trying to push past, but you didn’t stop. 

“What?” You then heard his voice behind you and you knew it was directed at you. There was a challenge in that one syllable. Like he was daring you to turn around.

“Nothing, it’s fine!” You said loudly as you looked over your shoulder. The air felt thick. You knew people were watching now. Didn’t need to look around to see the other daggers glancing back and forth between you two. You simply turned back again and walked out the door. 

You hurried to your car and heard footsteps behind you, quickly approaching, following you. You assumed it was Phoenix so you didn’t look. 

“So you get to go on dates and fuck losers that don’t even make you come, but I don’t get to flirt with other women?” Of course it was Jake. His voice cutting like a whip. Never backing down from a fight or a challenge. You’ve seen him like this before, but it had never been directed at you. 

“No, you don’t!” You turn to him. “Not after almost kissing me and practically begging to fuck me! And now you wanna go around and pretend like nothing happened?” You felt yourself get heated now, too. Voice raising, pulse pumping. 

So this was it. You were finally doing it. Talking about your feelings.

“You rejected me!” He surged forward, making you back up until your spine hit the cold metal of your car. It wasn’t like you were scared of him. You knew he would never hurt you, but his presence still somehow intimidated you. The way he was towering over you. 

“Yes, but only because I didn’t wanna be your sad comfort fuck while you’re out of your mind drunk!” That shut him up. For the first time tonight, he had no comeback.

“I want more, Jake. I need more.” You added quietly. 

Silence. The only thing you could hear was your pulse beating in your ears and the faint music from the deck, but you could feel the tension between you. Thick and heavy. 

You looked up at him and saw his face soften, the anger and frustration that had just been there - gone. 

And that’s when it happened. 

Jake mumbling words that sounded an awful lot like fuck it and then closing that gap. Hands gripping the sides of your face, lips crashing onto yours. 

Any anger that you still held in your body dissipated as your body melted against his. 

His kiss hungry and devouring, mouth open, tongue sliding over yours. Moans swallowed by him. Your hands fisting his shirt, gripping it tight and pulling him closer towards you until his entire length was flush against yours. Jakes hot body a contrast to the cool metal of your car at your back.

The way he kissed you was all-consuming and so, so good. Better than you could’ve imagined. And you imagined it a lot. Where only minutes before there was anger, desire now took its place. Arching more against him, wanting to feel him closer. Jake grabbed one of your thighs and hitched it up and around his waist, holding it there which left your center exposed to him. 

Body shifting just so that his hard bulge was pressing against your clothed clit. 

A whimper escaped your mouth that was greedily swallowed by him and you could feel a smirk forming on his lips as he kissed you. 

His mouth then moved over your jaw, down to your throat, leaving kisses and dragging his tongue all over. With your eyes still closed, you let your head fall back against the car, giving him better access.

“Wanted this for so long,” he muttered against your skin. You couldn’t speak. Just nodded in agreement.

“Do you wanna give the others a show,” he asked, still kissing your neck. “or would you prefer something more private?” At first you didn’t know what he was talking about. Until you opened your eyes and gazed over to the bar, seeing the faces of the entire dagger squad pressed against windows. He didn’t even have to look. He just knew they’d be nosy enough to watch whatever would unfold between you two.

You immediately tried to hide behind Jake, mortified, face flushing with embarrassment. 

“More private,” you whispered but also couldn’t help a laugh despite it all.

“Mhm, I agree,” he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes and there it was again. That glint of mischief in the green. “Wanna take my time with you.” He leaned down to kiss you once more, slower, deeper. And then muttered against your lips:

“And I don’t think they deserve to see you fall apart around my cock for the first time.”

A shiver went down your spine, settling deep in your stomach. A groan accompanying it, slipping out before you could stop it. 

If you hadn’t been wet before, you sure as hell were now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you made it home. The drive back a blur. Definitely going above the speed limit. Jake in the passenger seat, the air around you thick with sexual tension. You shifting in your seat, thighs clenching and of course Jake noticing with a cocky grin. He looked almost unaffected, if not for the giant tent he was pitching in his jeans giving him away. 

But once you were inside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you both, Jake was back on you. His arms wrapping around your body as he kissed you. Yours moving to wrap around his neck, running nails through the short hair at his nape. 

Together you stumbled further into the apartment. His hands eventually sliding down to the back of your thighs and lifting you up with ease as if you weighed nothing. You squealed at how quickly he did it.

“Bedroom?” He asked, having never been to your apartment before and needing instructions. 

“Down the hall, to the right,” you said and now it was your turn to kiss down his neck, nipping at his jaw as he walked you towards your bedroom. Every step made your center push against his hard abs, desperation growing. Grinding yourself down against him a little more. 

“Are you getting off on my abs?” He asked, amusement clear, but so was his breathlessness. 

“So what?” You shrugged, but not stopping your grinding. He hummed in reply.

“You’re fucking perfect.”

He kept one hand on you while the other reached for the doorknob to your bedroom. Once inside, he dropped you on the bed. You laughed as you looked up at him, still standing at the foot of it. His eyes unashamedly roaming your body, heavy lidded and dark with desire and his cock all but bursting through his jeans. 

“Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to fuck me?” Biting your lip to hide a grin, you toed off your shoes. 

“Oh, I’m going to fuck you,” he said, voice dropping an octave, coming to crawl onto the bed, looming above you. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll never want anyone else again.”

You liked the sound of that. Because you didn’t want anyone else but him. 

“Ruin me, then.”

Kissing you again, Jake let his hands explore your body. The kiss still hungry, but not as frenzied and anger-charged as the first kiss against the car. 

Smoothing his hands over your breasts, down to your belly and pushing his hand under the fabric, slowly, teasingly, before pushing it up completely and making you take it off. Your bra got the same treatment, quickly discarded. Grabbing at his shirt, you reached to pull it off, wanting to feel his skin against yours. Jake kissed down your throat once more, but moving further this time, to your sternum and across your boobs to your nipples. Sucking and flicking them with his tongue. You were so distracted, you barely felt him pop open the button of your jeans and pulling down the zipper agonizingly slow. But he didn’t take them off yet. Just ran his fingers under the waistband every now and again, moving across your belly, then back up to your boobs before finding the waistband once more. 

At this point your core was aching, heat coiling in your stomach. The desire and need to be touched were overwhelming. 

“Jake, please…” you whined, wanting him to undress you completely. Needing more. 

“So needy,” he breathed between kisses, but he did listen. The next time he hooked his fingers into the waistband, they started dragging your jeans and panties down, achingly slow until you couldn’t take it anymore and started kicking them off. That earned a deep chuckle from him. 

Once you were fully exposed, he kissed his way back up your legs, nipping the inside of your thighs on each side until he reached the juncture at the very top. 

He spread your legs further apart, opening you up for him. You felt his breath, cool against your wetness and then he dove in. Like a man starved, he started lapping at your pussy. No testing strokes or hesitant licks, just overwhelming certainty in what he was doing and what he wanted. 

And God, did he know what he was doing. You weren’t sure if it was all the tension from the last six months getting to you or the fact that he really was just that good, but he had you writhing under him in no time. That coil inside of you winding tighter and tighter. 

When he added a finger, gently pushing into your wet heat, and then a second one, curling them both just right and pumping in and out, you knew you were done for. Orgasm building higher and higher until it all crashed. Pleasure rushing through you in waves, arching your back, throwing your head into the pillow. His name and a string of curses falling from your lips. 

He kept going until even your last wave had subsided, leaving you a panting and breathless mess beneath him. 

Jake gave you no time to recover though, you watched him as he got up for a second to take off his own pants and boxers, finally getting to see his cock for the first time. It was thick and long, and curved just enough to promise it would hit all the right spots.

“I knew it,” you mumbled more to yourself, but Jake heard it, making him raise an eyebrow in confusion. 

“Annoyingly perfect cock,” you said as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet. 

“Been thinking about my cock a lot?” 

You opened your mouth to reply but he stopped you, holding up a finger. 

“Don’t even try to deny it. We both know the truth.” The way he said it, with that smug little smirk, was so him it made your heart melt.

It was your turn now to crawl towards him, his cock at the perfect height with him still standing next to your bed.

Reaching a hand up, you wrapped it around his length, fingers barely able to close around it. Giving it a few slow strokes, you looked up at Jake and he looked down, biting his bottom lip. 

You stuck out your tongue and slid it over his head, watching the way his brows twitched, pulling together, before working his cock slowly into your mouth. Lips stretching around it, jaw wide open. Guiding him in and out, tongue swirling in tandem until you found a rhythm that had him moan softly. Hand finding purchase in your hair, tightening slightly. 

“Just like that.” His voice barely more than a groan, which went straight down to between your legs again. Reaching one hand down to start rubbing circles over your clit.

You kept going, speeding up occasionally or taking him so deep until he nudged the back of your throat, fighting back your gag reflex. 

His breathing came quicker, then and you knew that if you didn’t stop soon, he would come into your mouth. You weren’t opposed to the idea, wondering what he would taste like, but it seemed like he had other plans as he pulled you off his cock. 

“As much as I’d love to watch you swallow my cum, I need to bury myself in your pussy first.” And you couldn’t agree more. 

You were still on your knees, looking up at him through your lashes, eagerly awaiting what he had planned for you next.

“Lay back down,” he said. 

“Yes, Sir,” you replied with a cheeky grin, and his cock twitched, and he let out a low growl. 

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” His eyes grew even darker and you filed that information away for another time. But for now you wouldn’t push it further.

Jake moved back between your legs, kissing you deeply once more and you felt the head of his cock nudge your entrance. You were wet, very wet, but knew it would still be quite the stretch to accommodate him. Slowly he pushed forward. Inch by agonizing inch. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. “You can take it.” 

Drawing back slightly before pushing back in, deeper this time. He kept going, mumbling as he continued.

“You’re doing so well.”

“You feel so good.”

“That’s it, baby.”

And then he bottomed out.

He gave you a few seconds to adjust, staying still.

“You alright?” He asked and you nodded. 

“So full,” you breathed out.

He only smirked again in return before starting to thrust slowly. Shallow at first, but as you got more used to it, he went deeper and faster. Pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. 

It was rare that you could come from penetration alone, but the way things were going and the way he felt inside you, you were sure that it would happen. Pressure already building again. 

Spreading your legs further, he opened you up more, but it seemed like that still wasn’t enough for him. He hooked his arm under your leg and tossed it over his shoulder, hitting even deeper.

“Fuck,” was the only thing you could say as you moved your hips with him. He leaned forward more, your knee practically pressed against your chest now. Hips snapping against yours. At this angle, he perfectly hit your g-spot on every thrust, making your nails dig into his back as you clung to him, your pussy starting to clench around him. 

“I can feel you’re close,” he said, breathing heavy. “Want you to come on my cock.”

“Yes, please,” you whined, so close to your second orgasm now. 

“Just a little longer, ‘m close too.” You could tell by the way his thrusts became more desperate, irregular. And you had to try really hard to hold back your orgasm, wanting to be good for him. It took a little longer than expected and with every passing seconds, tears started to prickle at your eyes. Out of pure desperation and the need to come. You were so close to breaking, when he finally said: 

“Come for me, sweetheart.” 

And the moment he said it, the coil finally snapped, your orgasm released throughout your body, those unshed tears in your eyes now rolling down your cheeks as your pussy clenched around his cock. With one final, deep thrust, he spilled himself inside, cock twitching and Jake all but collapsed on top of you. 

You were both breathing heavy, trying to get your pulse to come down to a normal frequency, before Jake rolled off and flopped down beside you.

“Sufficiently ruined?” he asked, turning to look at you with that familiar grin.

You laughed and nodded. 

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“That was the plan all along, you know. Get you into my bed. Fuck you so thoroughly you never want to leave. Didn’t think you’d be so stubborn, though.” 

He pushed back a strand of hair, fingers lingering against your cheek, as he looked at you with such open adoration. 

Oh. 

“And here I was thinking you just wanted me for a one night stand.” 

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head.

Things suddenly made sense. Why Jake was so relentless. Stopped flirting with other women. You weren’t a challenge. It was all part of his dumb, ridiculous plan. 

“Now why would I want that? When I’ve been crazy about you for months?”

“A normal person would just say that. Not make convoluted, stupid plans.” You couldn’t help but laugh. It was ridiculous. Months spent wondering whether Jake actually liked you or just wanted to fuck you. And now here he was, confessing so easily it almost annoyed you..

“Eh, maybe.” He shrugged. “Still worked out, though.”

“Yeah, I guess it did.” You grinned at him. He smiled back before pulling you close and kissing you again.

You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.

Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.

The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.

It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.

“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.

You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.

Bucky.

James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.

In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.

But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.

You do love him.

Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.

At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.

That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.

But Bucky likes to ruin your life.

It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.

You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.

“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.

James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.

“My… Mother.”

He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.

“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“I did say that.”

“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”

Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”  

“What-“

“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”

You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”

There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.

You don’t succeed.

But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.

Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.

Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.

So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.

You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.

Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-

No.

Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.

You’d rather have the gloves.

“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”

You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”

“Okay?”

“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.

“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”

“Hm.”

“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”

“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“

“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”

“Told you, nothing-“

“What.”

Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.

With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.

“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”

“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.

“Yeah, I thought you did.”

“Then why’d you ask-“

“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”

Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.

You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.

There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.

He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-

You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.

But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-

You need a date.

It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.

Which leaves one option.

Dating apps.

There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.

They won’t see. None of them will see.

And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.

“You never tell me about your family.”

Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.

“You never ask.”

His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”

“So?”

“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”

“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”

“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”

“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”

“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”

“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.

He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.

“Why?”

“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”

“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”

“She doesn’t adore me-“

“She adores you.”

He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”

“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”

You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“

“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.

He’s not making that part easy, either.

“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”

“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”

You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.

“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.

“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”

“My favorite flower-“

Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”

“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”

“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”

You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.

If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.

“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.

You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.

“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.

They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-

You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”

Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”

“Yes, sir.” You drawl.

Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.

“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”

“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”

Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”

He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.

“James, are you-“

“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”

You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.

It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I

Sweetheart.

You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.

You really need to find that date.

It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.

Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.

The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.

Hence, the dating apps.

It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.

But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.

Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.

Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.

You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.

You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.

James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.

You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-

Located thirty feet away.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.   

Fucking- Fuck-

You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.

Next photo.

Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.

Which means-

You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.

Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.

He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.

You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.

Your thumb drifts a little to the right.

You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.

And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.

You scream, and throw your phone across the room.

Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.

“Are you-“

“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.

You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.

He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.

Like he can sense you, he looks up.

Your eyes meet.

And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.

Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.

“But- I can help-“

“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”

“Steve-“

“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.

“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.

“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“

“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.

Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.

Barely.

Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.

It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.

But he matched with you, too.

He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.

Bucky’s not the type to do that.

He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.

But you’re pretty sure you do.

This is making your head hurt.

Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-

Your phone buzzes.

Message from James.

You throw your phone again. He knows.

Death is looking lovely right now.

Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.

“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.

“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.

“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”

“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.

“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”

You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“

“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“

“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.

“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”

You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”

“But you’re not.”

Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.

“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“

“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.

“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”

You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.

Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.

And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.

“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”

Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.

But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.

You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.

Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.

Almost.

He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.

“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”

He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.

You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.

Like nothing ever happened.

But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.

Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.

“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”

You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”

Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”

“I know. I’ve read the about page.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”

“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.

“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“

“I’m aware.”

“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”

He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”

It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.

But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.

“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”

Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.

“By everyone.”

You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.

Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.

You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.

When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.

His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.

“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.

“Thank you.”

He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”

“I’ve been told-“

“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.

You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-

“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“

“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”

He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.

You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.

Endlessly and uselessly love it.

Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.

It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.

You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.

You are resting.

By catching up on emails.

There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.

Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.

Not a mistake.

Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.

You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.

When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.

You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.

“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.

“Hey.”

“What’re you-“

“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”

You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”

You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“

“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.

Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.

“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.

“You’re not my boss.”

Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”

Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.

“James…”

“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.

“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“

“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.

He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.

Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.

“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”

You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.

And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-

No.

You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.

He brought you flowers.

To apologize for breaking your heart.

Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.

“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”

“Bucky-“

“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.

“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”

You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you meant it?”

You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.

“Could you?”

“What?”

“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.

“Ja-  Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”

“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”

“Is it you?”

“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“

You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“

“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”

He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.

But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.

“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.

“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”

“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”

His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”

Oh.

What.

Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.  

You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.

“You read my messages, right?”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“I- I’m sorry-“

“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“

You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“

“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”

You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.

He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.

Bucky follows you.

Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.

And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.

“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”

Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.

“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”

He tenses around you. “Don’t?”

“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”

Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“

“Bucky-“

“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.

“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“

“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“

“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.

Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.

“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.

Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.

“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.

“You.”

“Me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.

“What about me isn’t nice?”

You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”

“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“

“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”

You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”

“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“

“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.

“James-“

“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.

Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”

You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.

“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”

“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”

“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”

You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.

“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”

And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.

But-

“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.

“Okay-“

“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”

You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“That a problem, doll?”

“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“

Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.

You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.

And nothing has done it justice at all.

Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.

One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.

The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.

Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.

His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.

“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.

“Bucky-“

“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”

You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.

But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.

“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.

“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.

“How long-“

“The same.”

“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“

You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.

Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.

“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“

“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”

His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“

“Then show me.”

Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.

“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.

He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.

“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”

“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”

You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.

“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”

You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.

“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.

“Yeah. Yes. Please-“

He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.

“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”

You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.

“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”

“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“

You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.

“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.

It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.

Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.  

“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”

Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.

You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.

“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”

“You- You didn’t-“

“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”

You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.

“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“

Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.

“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”

His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.

Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.

“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”

You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.

“Trust me?”

“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.

Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”

You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.

“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”

“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”

Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.

“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”

He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.

“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“

“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.

“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.

“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”

“Wha- Bucky-“

He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.

“Bucky, come back-“

“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”

You scowl. “James-“

“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”

He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.

“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Strip.”

“Like, completely?”

“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”

He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.

But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.

Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.

Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.

“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.

“Please?”

Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“

“It’s polite-“

“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”

You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-

Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.

“Next time?”

He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”

You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.

And he’s just watching you.

Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.

You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.

Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.

“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”

“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“

“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“

His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.

Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.

“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”

You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.

“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”

You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“

“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”

If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.

“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”

“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”

You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.

“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”

You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”

“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”

There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.

“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”

“You’re- You’re touching me-“

“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“

“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”

“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”

Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”

“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.

Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.

“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.

“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“

“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“

“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.

“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.

“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“

“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.

Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.

“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”

You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.

With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.

Being fucked by him might kill you.

It’s a risk you’re willing to take.

“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.

“Hi.”

“You still in this?”

You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I’d like you to say it-“

“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.

It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”

You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.

“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”

You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-

“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”

He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.

“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”

You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down. 

“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”

“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“

You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.

He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.

Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.

“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.

Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.

“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“

Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.

This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”

You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”

You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.

Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.

“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”

You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.

And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.

Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.

His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.

Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.

“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”

You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.

Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.

“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”

You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”

He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”

You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.

“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.

“But you’re so pretty when I do.”

He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.

He’s going to treat you well.

“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”

You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.

And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.

This is different.

Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”

You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.

He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.

“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.

“Are you-“

“Yes- Fuuuuck-“

You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.

Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.

“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“

The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.

Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.

“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”

Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.

You might have already lost your mind.

“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.

“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.

“You gotta stop doin’ that-“

“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“

His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.

You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.

“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”

“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“

“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”

He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.

“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”

Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“

His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.

“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”

There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else. 

“Ye- Yes.” 

“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”

“I- I was-“

“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”

“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“

You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.

Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.

“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”

You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.

“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“

He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.

“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”

“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“

“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”

You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.

“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”

He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.

“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”

“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.

“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.

“Buuccky-“

“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”

And he does.

Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.

He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.

He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.

Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.

“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“

You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.

“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.

You nod, shaking with the need to snap.  Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.

“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”

Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.

Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.

There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.

He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.

Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.

“That wasn’t too-“

“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.

“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.

For a second, you just watch each other.

And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.

He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.

He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.

You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.

He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.

“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.

“I know.”

“I was serious, about all of it-“

“I believe you.”

Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.

To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.

“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“

“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”

Almost none of you.

Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.

He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.

He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.

Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.

It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.

Asked.

Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.

You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.

“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.

You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.

Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.

You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-

“Sit up.”

Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.

There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.

He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.

“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.

Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.

He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.

Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.

No one hates Steve Rogers.

He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.

So you must be the fucking problem.

You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.

And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.

“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.”

Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.

“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”

You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.

Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is. 

“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.

“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.

“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”

“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.

The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.

“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”

He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.

You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.

It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”

Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”

“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”