#thor fic

bucky barnes! after figuring out the ways of the modern world, he would be interested in trying some bdsm, before realizing how rough in can be which completely turned him off. he's definitely on board with light choking, but when you suggested trying knife play and gun play, he was unsure. it took him a while to understand that you trusted him, out of all people, enough to use weapons he took so many lives with, now creating new memories and a deeper bond between the both of you. apart from that, nothing gives him more of a thrill than when you're at a bar, a few drinks in and he's taking you to the bathroom and making you choke on his cock.

steve rogers! he's a very simple man, not very willing to try new things. he knows what he likes and what works for him, even if it may be considered vanilla, but that's okay! because when he's sitting you on top of him, holding you up by your hips and fucking up into you with a fast and steady pace, you don't care who can hear you or how sore you'll be from yelling the next day. he always makes sure he didn't go to far, even if you assure him that he could be rougher, kissing the top of your head and holding you until you fall asleep in his arms.

tony stark! a pervert, obviously. he'll take you anywhere and anyway he can. he loves trying new things and taking his time exploring your body, figuring out what makes you squirm and moan. loves taking you in the backseat of the car on a way to a meeting; not caring that happy knows exactly what you two are doing back there. he surprises you every month with rigs and gadgets that he made specifically to use you as his test subject. he'd record his findings, of course, propping up a camera in your direction so he can rewatch and figure out how to make his invention better; no other reason...

bruce banner! secretly but unsurprisingly, he's also a pervert. daily pussy inspections, which he claims are for your health, you know better but don't complain. much like his playboy friend, he likes to experiment on you, sometimes they do it together without you knowing. bruce comes to tony with what he suspects is sex pollen and wants to put it to the test. you're unknowingly going about your day, having lunch with wanda and nat when it hits you, excusing yourself after half and hour of unbearable heat pooling between your legs, oblivious to the men turning off the meta glasses they had to log their results.

sam wilson! an ass man through and through. position where he can see your ass he's doing that. he also loves watching your reflection, pressing you against any bathroom counter and seeing your eyes roll to the back of your head as your ass bounces back on him. he even went to the lengths of installing a mirror above his bed so he could see you in every possible angle.

loki laufeyson! let's be so honest this man is into anything and everything, but i firmly believe that he loves making you wear his helmet and pulling on the horns. especially when he has you on all fours, too tired to hold yourself up, a little spell to make sure the helmet doesn't slip from your head and he's forcing you to arch your back for hours on end. speaking of spells, binding is his favorite go to, contorting you in ways you didn't think possible and keeping you there.

thor odinson! like his brother, he's had many years of experience to try a plethora of positions, toys and locations. he prides himself in his strength so he loves taking you against a wall, or just holding you up as he bounces you up and down his cock. however, he dreams of laying you face down in his silk sheets, spreading your legs and laying mjölnir on your lower back, restricting you of all movement and using you for his own selfish pleasure.

peter parker! he doesn't necessarily have a favorite position, but he does have a preference for cowgirl. entranced by the way your tits bounce in his face, he's willing to do anything and everything you tell him to, still not sure how he managed to date a beautiful woman like you. he would be crushing on you way before you actually got together, almost in a creepy way. even now, he can't help himself from secretly stealing some of your underwear so he can jerk off to it at home. he loves you, and loves pleasuring you, so who is he to be anything but the perfect boy for his favorite girl?

stephen strange! loves edging you for hours, making you beg and squirm around his fingers before he even fucks you properly. he'd tell you he was teaching you patience, and that you were failing miserably. when he finally lets you cum, he's using the time stone to go back a few seconds and make you cum again. on days when he's feeling a bit crueler than usual, he's using the stone to hold you over the edge longer than you could mentally take.

matt murdock! because of his heightened senses, he loves taking his time with you and mapping out your body, no matter how many times he's done this. it could be hours before actually fucks you, taking his time between your legs, marking your thighs and belly with his teeth, wanting to commit your whole body to memory with everyone of his remaining senses. shamelessly sniffs you and your underwear, convincing you he could get high solely from that. he'd never deny you an orgasm, oh no, he'd give in to any request and plead you throw his way, though reluctant to fuck you and have his indulging cut short.

frank castle! not a single gentle moment with this man, at least until it's over and he's making you dinner and bathing you. before that though, he's grabbing both your wrists behind your back and mercilessly pounding into you, holding your head down with his rough palm. not even when he's making you ride his thigh, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against you, one hand cradling the back of your head as the other slaps your ass, "come on baby, i know you can do better than that." he's not giving you a break until you make yourself cum, and after that he's cleaning you up with his mouth, not caring how overstimulated you are.

You giggled despite yourself, biting your lip as you slowed down the treadmill, your breath coming quick and uneven now for a reason that had nothing to do with running.

“That’s Thor,” Pepper’s voice came from beside you, her smirk cutting through your haze. She had been watching the whole thing from her elliptical, sharp eyes twinkling. “He’s—”

“—the boxing champion of the city. I know,” you cut her off, rolling your eyes though your lips tugged upward in a smile you couldn’t suppress.

Pepper arched her brow knowingly. “He seems interested.” She leaned closer, her grin wide. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, feigning annoyance, but your pulse betrayed you—fast, insistent, humming in your throat. Against your better judgment, you let your gaze wander back across the gym.

He was still staring.

Even with the clank of weights and hum of treadmills around him, Thor’s focus didn’t waver. His gaze held steady, piercing, almost amused. It was the look of a man who already knew how this was going to play out.

Curiosity—and maybe a little thrill—propelled your feet. You slowed to a walk, stepping off the treadmill. Circling the gym, you pretended to busy yourself, stretching here, grabbing a water there, but the truth was obvious: you were testing him. Testing if his eyes would follow.

They did.

When you finally turned toward him, his posture had shifted. He leaned back on the bench, one arm draped along the barbell rack behind him, sweat still glistening down his chest. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink.

Fine. You would be the one to break the tension.

“Hi,” you said lightly as you stopped in front of him, a smile tugging at your lips.

His gaze roamed, unashamed. He let it travel from the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead, down your flushed face and heaving chest, to your legs still taut from the treadmill. His lips curved slowly, wickedly.

“I do enjoy the sweaty look on you,” he said with a grin that made heat shoot straight to your core.

“Y/N,” you offered, tilting your chin up. “My friend over there”—you jerked your thumb toward Pepper—“assumes you have a thing for me. So, I figured I’d come see what’s up.”

“You’re friend is correct,” he replied smoothly, without hesitation. His voice was deep, resonant, with an edge of amusement. “I see no problem in admiring God’s work. You’re beautiful.”

The way he said it—so simple, so matter-of-fact—made your stomach flip. But you crossed your arms in front of your chest, steadying yourself, hiding the quickened beat of your heart.

“Prove it,” you challenged, arching your brow. “Show me that you’re worth my time. Unlike all the other gym rags in here.”

His grin widened, slow and dangerous. “Friday night. Seven o’clock?”

You swallowed, pulse thundering in your ears. For a heartbeat, you considered pretending you weren’t thrilled. But you couldn’t hide the way your breath caught.

“Alright,” you shrugged casually, though your heart was racing like you’d just sprinted a mile.

A date. With the city’s famed boxing champion. With him.

And by the look in his eyes, it was only the beginning.

Friday night came faster than you’d expected.

You spent far too long debating what to wear, turning in front of the mirror again and again until finally, you settled on something simple but elegant. The kind of outfit that made you feel confident without trying too hard. Your hands trembled only slightly as you slipped on your shoes and grabbed your bag, telling yourself it was just a date. Just dinner. Just Thor.

When you arrived at the restaurant—an upscale place tucked neatly into the city’s heart—you spotted him immediately. He wasn’t hard to find.

Thor stood near the entrance, leaning casually against the doorframe. A navy blazer clung to his broad shoulders, his white shirt crisp, top buttons undone. His hair, usually damp from sweat at the gym, was brushed back but still carried that wild edge that made him seem untamable. The golden glow from the lamps above caught in his beard and hair, and for a moment you forgot to breathe.

His eyes lit up the second they landed on you.

“You clean up beautifully,” he said, voice low, smooth, and earnest as he stepped forward. His gaze traveled down and back up, lingering in a way that felt both admiring and reverent rather than crude.

Your lips curled into a smile as you tilted your head. “I could say the same. You don’t look so bad outside of a gym.”

A laugh rolled out of him, warm and unguarded. He offered his arm with old-fashioned charm, and though you rolled your eyes playfully, you slipped your hand through the crook of his elbow. His arm was solid beneath your touch, and the small gesture of contact sent a spark straight through you.

Dinner was… easy. Surprisingly easy.

The restaurant was dimly lit, with candles flickering in glass holders and soft music drifting overhead. You had worried that Thor—the boxing champion, the man with muscles for days and a reputation that preceded him—might be intimidating, cocky, larger than life in a way that made conversation impossible.

Instead, he was attentive. Charming. He asked questions and actually listened to your answers. He leaned forward when you spoke, elbows on the table, his blue eyes fixed solely on you as if nothing else in the world existed. He told you stories about his matches, but he never boasted—if anything, he brushed off his victories with a shrug, focusing instead on the discipline and the lessons behind them.

You laughed more than you expected. He did, too. And every time you caught his gaze lingering, his lips quirking like he couldn’t help himself, your heart fluttered.

At one point, between courses, he reached across the table. His fingers brushed over the back of your hand, tentative at first, like he was asking permission. When you didn’t pull away, his hand settled warmly over yours. His palm was calloused, his grip gentle. The contrast made your breath hitch.

“Y/N,” he said softly, almost as though he was testing the way your name tasted on his tongue. “You challenge me.”

Your brows furrowed playfully. “Challenge you?”

“Yes,” he said, lips curving into a smile that made your chest feel too tight. “Most people see me as… well.” He gestured vaguely, and you knew what he meant—the fighter, the champion, the man with a body built for war. “But you look me straight in the eye and demand proof. You don’t let me win by default. I find that… refreshing.”

Heat spread across your cheeks, though you masked it with a smirk. “Good. Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you.”

The night slipped by in an effortless rhythm. When you finally left the restaurant, the city had quieted, the streets washed in the soft glow of streetlamps. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain.

Thor walked you to your car, his hand brushing yours every few steps, sending jolts of electricity through you each time. When you reached the door, he hesitated, turning to face you fully.

“I had a wonderful evening,” he said sincerely, and for a man so confident in the gym, there was something disarming about the way he said it—like he meant it with every fiber of his being.

“So did I,” you admitted, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hand lifted, slow and careful, fingers brushing your cheek. You leaned into the touch without thinking, warmth flooding through you. He lowered his head, just enough to hover, giving you space to close the distance or pull away.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a test—then deeper as the world seemed to fall away. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to savor the moment instead of rush it. The taste of him lingered even after you broke apart, breathless, cheeks flushed.

“Friday nights should always be like this,” he murmured, his forehead resting gently against yours.

In the distance, your friends emerge from the opposite treeline, heading towards you with enough speed that you drop your hand and stand a little straighter, even more worried that there’s something important you’ve missed. Between the probable concussion and being out of ammo, you’re not sure how helpful you’re going to be if they’re counting on you for backup.

“Are there more coming? What did they say?”

Steve shakes his head, frowning, and stays silent. You hate being in the dark, and anxiety joins the head injury already making your stomach swirl. 

“Then what is it?”

At the front of the group, Thor leads the rest of the team across the scorched grass. You know the look on his face well, and you know that it will do you no good to try and downplay the pain you’re in—he already knows. Somehow, he’s always been able to sense your deepest anguish and despair without even being near you. He tried explaining the connection to you once, but you’d kissed him sweetly and chalked it up to love. If there is something more Asgardian going on, you’d rather revel in its magic than try and wrap your brain around it.

He reaches you in what feels like seconds, and you’re helpless as Steve peels off to check up on the others. Thor cradles your face in both hands, turning it gently from side to side as he inspects the scrape running across your forehead, your newly blossoming black eye, and the cut on your bottom lip.

“I was worried something happened to you,” he murmurs, his voice low with anger, guilt, and remorse. It makes you want to punch something, knowing that you’re the cause of those feelings in someone you love so deeply. “The others, they said they hadn’t seen you… I was right.”

You lift your hands to gently pull off his, then shake your head. That’s a mistake and you slam your eyes shut, breathing in through your nose to try and quell the nausea that rises at the movement.

“Breathe, Little One,” Thor soothes.

He holds you steady as you try to take slow breaths through your nose in an attempt to keep yourself from vomiting all over him. When the queasiness finally subsides, you open your eyes and allow him to lead you to a fallen tree, which is just the right height for you to sit. He chooses to take a knee in front of you, and you force a weak smile.

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a concussion.”

“I never should have left you. No battle is important enough—”

You reach out to grab his hand. It’s calloused from years of holding his hammer. Tonight, it’s caked with blood and soot from the alien’s burning ships. You’ve grown used to the rough feel of his skin against yours, as well as the sight of it stained with the marks of war.

The sharp smell of ozone accompanies Thor’s presence. As you breathe in again, deep enough to fill your entire chest until it almost hurts, you smell rain. A few moments later, rain begins to fall, filtering through the treetops before landing on your head and shoulders. It washes clean the gun slung across your back. You can feel the ash beginning to clear as well.

“You know as well as I do that you can never resist a fight,” you tell him, smiling just a little. It makes the cut in your bottom lip sting from the stretch. “I’ll heal. I always do.”

Thor doesn’t smile back, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t move your hand either, and when rain falls on his cheek, you rub it in with your thumb, using it to clean the grime from his skin.

You sit there together in the rain, listening to it drum against the leaves and branches above you, until Steve finally approaches again.

“We’ve got confirmation that the rest of them cleared out,” he says, not bothering with a greeting. “We should do the same. Clint needs medical attention, as does you.”

There’s no denying that he’s talking to you and not Thor. Dropping your hand from his face, you sigh and move to get up, readying yourself for the deep ache that is starting to spread throughout your body now that the adrenaline is wearing off. Thor stops you with a hand on your knee.

The ground is damp with blood and rain. When he stands, his right boot glistens with the thin sheen of moisture it’s picked up from the forest floor beneath him. Your own boots are wet too, though mostly from when you’d charged through the river earlier. Thor had taken a more familiar approach during the battle, sticking to the open plain to the north of the forest. You, on the other hand, had taken the southern path.

The forest is separated from the plain by a wide river. Thankfully, it’s shallow enough that you’d been able to cross it with little difficulty. Your pants are soaked to just above your knees, and you’re silently wishing you’d taken Tony’s offer for a weather-proof suit instead of your traditional uniform, but wet clothes never hurt anyone. You can change on the quinjet.

Thor bends down and loops one arm around your shoulders, then carefully slides the other between the backs of your knees and the fallen tree. He lifts you with ease, and though you know he’d never drop you, instinct makes you cling to him. 

“You don’t have to carry me,” you tell him. 

“I don’t have to do a lot of things. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to hold you again.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, embracing the gentle sway of your position as he follows Steve toward the rest of the group, then across the clearing. The quinjet is hidden just west of where the first ship had landed. If all’s gone according to plan, the team’s presence on the plains drew them away from the hiding spot and your plane is still where you left it.

Thor crosses the river using a path of flat-topped boulders you hadn’t seen in your hurry to lead Thanos and his most trusted soldiers away from the center of the fight. The only thing that had been going through your head was to move, and to move quickly. 

“I’ll always come back for you. I’ll always look for you,” Thor says as he steps onto the opposite bank of the river. You tilt your head back to look up at him instead of at the backs of your friends’ heads. 

“I never thought you wouldn’t,” you answer honestly, a bit surprised by the statement. “Did you think I’d been taken? Or that I’d left you for good?”

He’s silent as he approaches the quinjet, whose cloaking software is disabled as Tony approaches it first. You stare at his face while you wait for his answer, silently inspecting his beard for any hidden cuts or scrapes you hadn’t noticed before.

Finally, Thor replies, “In Asgard, our ancestors journey to Valhalla after their death. I have faith that we would be reunited there someday. My father would ensure it if my mother did not.”

“If I have my way”—you say, lowering your voice as he climbs up the jet ramp and ducks his head to enter the cargo hold—“we’ll never be separated by death.”

The rest of the team talks quietly to each other, but Thor doesn’t join the conversation. He carries you past your friends and you smile tiredly at them when they look your way. Finally, Thor settles himself in the farthest seat. He keeps you in his lap, and you trust that he won’t let anything happen to you. It wouldn’t matter either way—the quinjet’s maneuvers are hardly noticeable if it’s flown right, though Steve always insists that you use one of the lap belts attached to the seats.

Your legs are draped over Thor’s lap so you can sit sideways and rest your head against his shoulder. His arms wrap around your back and rest over your thighs to keep you secure.

As the door to the cargo hold closes, the lights dim, allowing more power to the engines. They’ll come on again soon, but for a moment, you close your eyes in relief. You hadn’t realized how much the light was worsening the pain from your concussion.

“Little One…” He murmurs, and you open your eyes, then sit up a little more to press a kiss to his damp cheek. 

“I love you. More than anything,” you add. “And I promise I’ll be okay. I just need a little time to heal, just like I always do.”

He squeezes your thigh in return. “I’ll be worried until you’re fully healed again. If we were on Asgard…”

You smile up at him. “If we were on Asgard, there are a lot more things I’d like to be doing.”

Closing your eyes, you relax into the warmth of his body that is slowly recentering you, despite the cool armor pressed against your skin. Behind you, your friends debrief quietly. The quinjet begins to lift as you listen. You feel the movement only for a moment before it fades away and you’re able to focus back on the sound of their voices, grateful for another finished fight and a chance to rebuild.

“Tell me more about Asgard,” you murmuring, knowing he’ll hear you despite the noise in the cargo hold. “Tell me about the palace.”

There’s a fondness in Thor’s voice as he replies, one that only comes about when he speaks of his home and his childhood. It’s warm and gentle, and it ensures that Asgard will always have a special place in your heart, even if you’ll never see it in its true glory.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Thor warns, nudging your arm.

You open your eyes. He’s looking down at you, but there is no worry in his expression. Instead, he smiles at you when you meet his gaze.

“I won’t,” you assure him. “Keep talking.”

And he does, all the way home.

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DIVIDERS: @silkholland l BANNERS: @vase-of-lilies

*

You gently blow on to your curled fingers, admiring the glittery bronze coat that was carefully bedaubed onto it. You’re seated at the edge of your bed, an attempt to reduce the stress of touching something and damaging them.

The yellow somber light of your bedroom flashes off of the tiny shiny speckles on your newly done nails.

You tilt your head as you watch Monique fix her hair in front of the mirror, her fingers meticulously gliding through them as they bounce back into the position of desire. You’ve always admired her ability to be so effortlessly put together. In the few months that you’ve known her, she almost always seemed that way.

She was more like those eccentric ones you’d seen on tv growing up. Fashionable, hip, cool, the life of the party. New York is filled with the incandescent glow of people like her. People like you don’t really stand a chance in their light, it’s only natural to get dimmed away in their overpowering shine.

You weren’t really a part of their clique; you preferred keeping to yourself and the company of a quiet life. One you’d been surrounded by growing up, you preferred to keep it that way. But life always demands more…

Moving into a new city comes with its own trials and tribulations and the fear that had bloomed on arrival was now slowly chipping away thanks to your new friend.

The glee upon finding out that today was your birthday and the slight pout that formed due to your lack of plans should have assured you that she would have it her way.

It didn’t take much to convince you, her persuasive nature no match to your meek one. However, you were also immensely curious; so used to seeing her dress up to leave almost every other night. Pajama nights together; a rare occasion.

You were almost always at home, the only time away was at work. Your days were drawn into a stringent routine. While you didn’t want to admit it, you longed for change but you were also too terrified of it. The grandiosity of the city was extremely overwhelming, toppling your senses altogether; so, you never dared to venture on your own. But now with Monique alongside, gave you enough courage to get dressed for the occasion.

Your anxiety still chewed you away and as you got out to hail a cab, you hoped that the chaos outside would nullify the thrumming inside you.

You get out of the cab, carefully stepping over the puddle in front of you. The night air carried the warmth of the chatter all around you. Lights lit around every corner, except for the areas that are purposely let to be dim.

The chain outside is long; stretched by people with their necks bent, eyes glued to their phones while simultaneously complaining about the bouncers. Each a mirror reflection of the other, except for their glittery outfits and newly flavored vapes.

You’re jittery by their nonchalance, toes slightly aching. You start to regret wearing high heels, convinced that the wait alone is going to kill your feet.

You move over to stand at the end of the line. Your fiery brunette glances over towards you, then back at the line and slightly squints her eyes. She lets out a sigh and chirpily loops her arms around yours.

“Nuh uh, not happening,” she sings eyeing the line again, “Come on, I know a better way… well not really better but faster.”

You walk along, somehow managing to keep up with her pace. You find yourself turning around the corner to one of the darker alleyways of the well-lit street.

The light from inside the building sears through, casting a dim light outward making nothing more than her outline visible as you follow her along. You carefully make your way through, closely behind. Imitating her steps to avoid the murky parts of the path.

A door in front of you is partially open, a man leaning against it. The smoke of his cigarette wafting around. She walks towards him, a recognizing smile on his face. She leans closer and whispers something, a guffaw by his receiving end as she smiles back.

She pushes the door open and he moves away for her. She notices you eyeing her but does not care to give an explanation, simply winking at you as she makes her way through.

The door leads you into a white tiled kitchen. A few people moving around, busy in their preparations. A man glances at you, stops and then looks at you again; surprise written all over his features. They fade away as his eye’s land on your friend, his eyes squint with a disappointed shake of his head.

“Monique… come on man, I told you to stop doing this!”

Her brows lift as her shoulders raise, “Come on please, it’s her birthday.” she says, dragging you in front of her as she exhibits a poorly made excuse for her break in.

He still shakes his head, lips lined together.

“Don’t be like this pleaseee... Believe it or not it’s her first time! Only I know what I went through getting this gremlin out of her hole.” She quips, flicking at your nose.

“Oww…” you let out a pained laugh as you rub on it.  

The man’s eyes now land back on you as he takes you in. “Right…” he sings syllables dancing around

“Just this once, I promise I’ll stop after this.” Tinted lips and puppy eyes plead.

The man sighs and relents, “Well this better be the last time.”

“Yes, of course.” She chirps and moves hand holding on to you again.

“Hey!”, you hear the same tone call after you. She turns around annoyed ready to fire back. His eyes land on you as he quips, “Happy birthday.” She leans on to her hips gazing at you as she smiles again.

“Oh, by the way, you think there’ll be any of the easy stuff here?” she says fingers grazing the tip of her nose, “I don’t want anything strong for her first time.”

Your eyes widen at the insinuation as you hurriedly butt in, “Oh I- I- I don’t,”

“Pftt of course you don’t,” she holds your shoulders and spins you around, “We’ll fix that.” She sings as she pushes you forward.

The music oozes into you, tongue still sweet as the fruity drink courses through you. The myriads of people around you doesn’t seem to bother you anymore.

Your body slightly swaying around, Monique’s more vivacious one matches the beat of the music next to you. She smiles at you, eyes glimmering before they flit upwards. Suddenly the shine fades away, annoyance now painted on them.

Your gaze follow her’s to the upper floor; a more private area. A man leans on to the railing, his body slightly swaying to the effect of alcohol, a cruel smile dancing on his face.

Monique glimpses at you for a second, then moves around trying to make way through the crowd.

“Stay here, I’ll be back.” She insists.

Suddenly awkward and alone; you feel a chill pass through you, even with the amount of people crowding the dance floor. Your tongue craves for the sweet rush again. You walk over to the bar, ordering another round of the sprinkling glittery drink.

You thank the bartender as you hold on to the drink, deciding to move over to someplace quite to enjoy it. Legs and arms aching, your muscles unused to so much dancing.

You carefully walk forward, feeling slightly tipsy but not enough to make you wobble, or so you thought when you suddenly bump into something or rather someone.

The drink splashes on both of you. Your heel tilts all the way to the side, a searing pain passing through your ankle. You’re convinced you’ll fall.

But you don’t, you’re pulled back and made steady again. That is when you realize the feel of strong arms griping on to you.

“You, ok?” a firm voice inquires. You vison in line with his chest as you momentarily freeze. You tilt you head up to look at him.

You hazily nod, the alcohol and his proximity clouding you. His eyes remains on you, a slight frown between them.

You clear your throat and breath in again, the haze of the moment passed. You move back and nod you head again. Your eyes cleared up now, you gaze at him properly; his stature makes this whole place look puny. Except for his clothing he seems just as out of place as you are.

Your eyes land on his coat and your lips part in a slight gasp, the sogginess of it and the wetness on your hands now more evident.

“I’m so sorry.” You apologize.

He shakes his head. Eyes fliting all over you before landing on your drink.

“It’s alright… only a little peach.” He hums.

“I- I could wash it off for you, or I-, you blabber aimlessly.

He laughs; a bassy tone to it. “No no really, it’s quite alright. It’s a shame your drink’s gone. Can I get another one for you?”

You grip on to the glass and contemplate, you’re sad that you didn’t get to drink it, but you’re also convinced that this is all that you can handle.

“Thank you but no. I think I’ve had my limit.”

“Alright.” he hums, eyes still resting upon you.

You hear your name being called from behind, you turn around to find Monique searching for you. His eyes follows the voice before landing on you again.

You thank him again and receive a nod as his hands find his pockets.

You turn around to walk towards Monique, your mind feels certain that there’s the heat of a certain gaze still on you but you don’t dare turn back.

Monique catches your arm when she finds you “We’re leaving.” her voice quips through the air sternly.

“I’m sure there are better clubs in this town…”

You are surprised that she wants to leave so early, but feel quite ready get home yourself.

You hear her name being called in blitzed breaths, she heaves another sigh. The man you’d seen earlier, now catching up to you.

He stretches his arm out to block your way, his agitation evident in his voice.

“Come on now, don’t- don’t be like that-

He seems to suddenly notice you beside her.

“This the friend you talk about? Hey there!”

“She seem to be having a pretty good time, you gonna ruin it for her?”

He babbles on before you can get a word out, Monique stares at him dead pan, she seem used to his erratic behavior.

“What are you girls doing here? Come up, it’s much nicer up. Any friend of Monique’s is a friend of mine too…”

His hand latches on to her as he pushes you forward, you try to refuse but end up easily ignored.

The crowd packs you into its narrow stream and you end up drifting along with them, her own resilience drifting. She huffs again and you know she’s annoyed, but not completely angry.

Your vague memory reminds you of the man, you’ve seen him a few times before. She never entertained him at home, but you did see her leaving with him a couple of times. You suspected an ongoing fling; Monique was used to her casual affairs.

Hungover morning breakfasts filled with giggles of the last night, her teasing you about your rather uninteresting one.

But something about his tone felt different, the hint of possessiveness in his tone evident, her frustration understandable. She’s not used to this and you’re sure that she doesn’t like it very much.

Her fingers hold onto you as climb up the spiral, golden metal stairs. The upper lounge has a better view of the whole crowd below. As you climb up the stairs, you recognize the face that you’d gazed upon just a few moments ago.

He stops conversing with the man beside him for a split second, eyes drawn to you, before continuing again.

Monique’s new friend takes it upon himself to get both of you drinks, forcing it on to your palm even after you refused it.

She gulps her down with a shrug. A few other men seated there seem to notice your presence, or rather your oddity. But as a new set of girls flow in and the alcohol rushes through, they seem to care less for the irregularity.

The room much darker now as the volume of the music seem to be increasing by the minute. You wring your hands together as you catch the blond man lazily looking at you. Another drink in his hand, but he seems to be barely bothered by it.

While a part of you is slightly excited by the new found attention; desire tumbling through you but it still doesn’t make things any less nerve-racking. You don’t think you can match his intensity; you don’t want to partake in a game you can’t play.

Maybe it’s all getting to your head, you want to leave as soon as you can. Just as your about to call for her, you hear the timbre of angry voices. You recognize her’s; you turn your head to find the man holding onto her wrist. She snatches herself away, as she walk towards you.  

He grabs on to her again, holding onto her in a way that alarms you. Spinning her around as he shouts at her, the noise of the crowd may drone out his voice, but the acid in its timber was no less.

More drunk than before he now spews insults at her. His anger reflects back as she too gets back at him. The men around you seem mostly unbothered, except for one. He tries to break them apart rather meekly, but their argument continues.

Agitated, your eyes keep flickering between them and the floor. Wanting the leather couch to completely swallow you in; you’re not used to all this shouting and chaos.

His grip on her tightens to the point where you can almost feel the pain of his fingers digging in. The nervousness due to the blond man’s gaze now completely forgotten as your anxiety increases in pace with the couple’s argument.

The other man, the meeker one steps in as the two of them get more aggressive. He gets pushed away as the argument continuous.

You hear him shout anxiously, when suddenly a loud bang fleets through the air. You wince as you cover your ears, the bleeding ring tormenting you. There is whispered shout and screams all around you, but the crowd below seems unbothered as the music continuous.

The ringing seem to have subdued. You lick your lips and turn your head, when you feel your whole-body freeze. Your heart skips a beat before continuing to beat rapidly. A thunder forms inside you as you gaze ahead down to the floor. There, splayed out lay those beautiful brown locks. Her eyes widened and they remain such.

The light in them completely gone, her face and hand smeared in blood as she clutches on to her chest. She does not move, and neither do you; for a few seconds it feels as if the two of you are the only ones here.

You’re suddenly dragged out of your haze as she vigorously coughs out blood. The crimson flow smearing her lips and chin.

You rush over to her, clasping onto her palm. Your voice comes out in a mule as it wavers. Eyes prickling, your finger tightens around her, yet her’s seem relaxed. Her whole body still as your eyes flicker over it.

You hear the sound of a gun clocking as you look up, to find one pointed to your head. Just as suddenly the blond seated in front of you rushes over, his hand griping on to the man who holds the gun. They both stare at each other, their faces harden, a battle between their eyes; but no words spoken.

You tearfully look around for the monster who did this, he seems to be nowhere in sight. Your eyes glance around pleading for help, only to receive stoic, pitiful glances in return. Most of them more bothered in leaving the place with their hurried phone calls.

The smaller man tries to pry his hand away, yet the others hold does not deter; now moving on to the gun.

“Do not be adamant Thor, she’s a witness. We could get in trouble.” The other man hisses.

“You’ll be in more trouble if you keep piling up dead bodies on Grandmasters floor.” His cadence, nothing like what it was earlier, its reverberance much stronger now.

The other man’s determination deterring at his colleague’s words. He tilts his head to stare at you; eyes filled with anger. The blond man moves to the right, his broad body covering you from the other man’s gaze.

“This is unnecessary,” his teeth grits as he continuous, “this was unnecessary. You keep that one in control, if he can’t handle his liquor, he’ll bring you all down with him.”

“Take care of this mess and I’ll take care of the girl.” He pushes the gun downwards and the other man relents.

He turns around to hold your arm, his grip much gentler than you’d expected. He pulls you along and you relent, you fingers easily slipping from hers, fear clouding you as your leg moves to his accordance. You barely say a word, can barely think one, simply following the way he directs.

You get out of the building; now on to the low lit, lonely street. The cold air cuts through, resembling your inner turmoil.

There is a big car parked in front, he pushes you towards it. Fear now mounting, your heels dig into the pavement. You try to turn around, whispering a hurried please. His hold on you hand tightens as he sighs, a palm moving to hold your cheek.

You feel a searing pain on your arm as he shoots you there. You wail at the pain of the prick and he easily moves you into the back seat. You clutch on to your arm, rubbing it with your other hand to ease the pain as your teeth grits.

He opens the door and gets into the driver’s seat. Slowly the pain in your arm begins to numb; relaxing your whole body.

He begins to drive, your body swaying to the motion. Droopily; you tilt and fall on to the seat. Your eyes feeling heavy. Short repeats of light and darkness from the streetlights flit through the window.

Hair splayed, head resting on the leather seat; you look ahead to find him gazing at you through the rear-view mirror. His eyes light up and dim in a pattern caused by the lights outside; it slowly merges into a pattern caused by your blinking lashes. Slowly and quietly; just like the world outside, you mind drifts into a cloud of darkness.

You startle awake, panting for air, nails clutching on to the sheets tight enough to tear. Just for a second you were willing to believe that maybe all of this was a horrible nightmare.

But the dew of the sunlight morning pouring soft strands shone upon the face of the man in front of you— if it weren’t for that then the soft silk of your bedding; gliding on your skin so unlike your cotton lined sheets—reminded you of your replacement.

You recall his name, remember what happened… you shut your eyes, stopping your mind from drifting further.

Your erratic breathing might have woken him up, stirring slowly; he gazes upon you. A small hint of surprise in his drowsy eyes before they wane away.

He moves closer to you and you scurry away, a deep frown upon your features, heart now more erratic.

“You drugged me.” You eke out.

“I saved you. Would you prefer to be at the company of your friend.” His face calm and placid yet his voice carries a stern tone.

Your throat strain, eyes welling up at the mention of her.

“Please I- I apologize, I should not have said that,” his voice cranes, “you were out for much longer than I expected. I will arrange for something; drink, eat up. Your body requires the energy.” He stands tall and pats your cheek. He makes his way out, turns back to look at you once more before leaving.

You immediately jump out of the bed, your legs wobbling as you take up the room you reside in, it is much grandiose than anything you’ve ever lived in. You feel so at unease, a wave of nausea courses through you.

That’s when you hear it, the rustic crashes against the rocks as the summer heat drifts over through the air. You move over towards the balcony, sliding the window and moving forward. You stand agape at the scene in front of you.

Ocean, all around— the waves crashing on with vigor. There isn’t water anywhere nearby for miles from where you lived. Gods you were so far away from home…

As Thor had told; food arrived in a platter. An exquisitely mouthwatering meal, yet you had no desire. But your stomach grumbled and your body felt weak. You nibbled on as much as you could to stop your stomach from growling.

The help moves in and out, asking you if there’s anything else you would like; to them you are just a new house guest but to you this is no less than a nightmare.

The plates are cleared and the bed made again. One of them bring in a change for your attire; a casual summer dress with pretty petals on it; its comeliness almost feels like its mocking you. But you’re disgusted by the attire you wear, by the sweat that clings to your body, the blood wiped off of your hands but its dry remains still stuck underneath your nails.

You hope that the scalding heat of the shower will wipe it all away. It doesn’t; but you stay a few minutes longer under the flowing water anyway.

The day somehow fleets away, with you pacing around the room or biting on to your finger. You tried to sleep but only ended up tossing and turning, ruining the sheets again. You had finally tried to sneak out of the room, only to come face to face with a man twice your size, guarding the exit; you’d expected it, you don’t know why you even tried.

The evening merges into the night sky and all the anxiety of the day rests on your eyelids and tired muscles. As fatigue clouds you he comes in again.

His suit ridden now, his shirt clutches on to his body, the strain of his figure evident through it. He carries a small device in his hands; the purple case recognizable. You slightly perk up at the sight, you’d searched for it for a while but then gave up knowing better. If he can pluck you up from where you were and hide you from the world, hiding a small rectangular device was not that hard. He spins your phone in his hands, its size laughable in his large palms. 

He sits beside you and extends it to you but you stay put. This almost feels like a comical trap, he pushes it forward into your palms.

“Your family must be worried; there have been countless phone calls.”

You stare at him puzzled and look back at your phone, the notification icon blaring with multiple missed calls and messages.

Some from work but mostly from your parents. Your mother’s worries was as loud as the ocean. You briefly hover over her number but then tap onto it almost immediately. There was no point, the confidence in his eyes know that you wouldn’t try anything. You trapped through and through, this was only a façade of freedom.

The phone rings through, you close your eyes and sigh, voice turning into a whimper as you hear the voice on the receiving end.

He plucks the phone from your hand, puts it on speaker and places it on your thigh. You wring your hands and continue to speak. Your mother’s complains and chide don’t annoy you at all, you’re so happy to hear her voice. You apologize for not responding, working up a quick lie. Your eyes flit to his, another sigh caught up in your throat. She tells you she loves; you hum it back. You tell her you’re alright, you’re not sure if you are…

Sleep comes in jib and jabs, somehow by morning you’ve succumbed into it; the kind that snatches you out of it with the slightest noise. The kind that leaves one restless, weak and tired.

You slowly blink your eyes open, breath halting, frightened to find a pair of green eyes watching you. Finger on his lips as he considers you, eyes slightly squinting.

He speaks and it feels like a jab, “I suppose you’re my brother’s new prized possession.”

They look nothing alike; his silhouette much leaner compared to the other man’s broad figure. His hair a deep black compared to the others dirty blond. Even his voice is quick and snappier unlike the others booming calm cadence.

He shakes his head muttering to himself. “Thor!” he sighs, “always like this; impulsive, reckless. Everything must be according to his whim.”

“No care for all the trouble this will cause.” His eyes snap to you again, puffing out hot breath through his nose.

You hear a familiar sound boom as he enters. “Loki, must you come here to interrogate her.” He quips.

“Interrogate?” he slithers, “why brother I was only getting acquainted with our new guest.”

“She is in no condition for your annoyance, leave her be.”

He rises and moves towards his brother, stills to turn back and eye you. “of course, fragile flower she is…,” he taunts; jabbing his brother with his elbow as he leaves.

“I’m sorry about that, Loki can be… inquisitive. Have you rested at all?”

The change in their behaviors reels your head. You hide your face in your hand and rub your temple.

“Can…  can I- can I ever go home?” you eke out.

His face hardens; he stands tall his nose tilting towards you.

“Of course, you think I wish to keep you away from your family,” his voice coarse, “I have one too, that I love very dearly. I know how important yours is to you.”

“If I can leave so freely why is there a man in front of the room at all times.” you cry.

“It is for your safety.” He admits.

You shake your head as you huff. He calls you by your name, his voice stern and rigid.

“Do not be a fool as to think you are safe. I don’t trust Clegane’s men; they are cowards. They still see you as a threat. I keep you here to protect you.”

You try to raise your voice but are shut down almost immediately. “And where will you go? To the same old house? To be tormented by the memories of her.”

“I can’t just be here… I have a life.” You grit.

“One that can be taken away quite quickly.”

 You whole body quivers as your lips frown.

“I do not wish to argue, be rested.” He leaves you alone to wallow in your misery.

The days ahead move tormentingly slow. There is a calendar in the room that you keep marking up to stop yourself from going insane, to have some understanding of the time that seem to be slipping away from your hands.

Your phone is with him and you; still held captive. His voice is kind to you as he speaks but you know of the anger that lays underneath. You’re terrified of it so you play along.

He calls to your parents and you speak to them every night, but it feels more like an invigilation as he hears every word you say. He uses this opportunity to linger for a while longer, conversing with you with small questions. He’s also become much more brazen, using sly opportunities to touch you; petting your cheek, fixing your hair, ironing out a wrinkle formed on the dress upon your thigh.

He brings you books and gifts to keep you appeased, but how could that compare to contiguity with the real world outside; just out of your reach. You try to talk to the help that comes into you room but those conversations are always just smiles and polite words. How could you tell them what was happening? How could they help? so you say put, quietly hoping that you can survive the attention of the lion even when caught in his cage.

You feel yourself going slowly mad in this room, staring at the same walls; day and night. So, when he informs you of a soirée to be held, you accept to join. Although you wonder if you have a choice in the matter; if he wanted you there, you’d simply have to be present…

The room you reside in now has a myriad of clothes in it; only in a span of about a week. You dress up in a simple red gown, redoing your make up multiple times as the tears keep on flowing. You contemplate on not attending; over the whole thing already, but you also can’t stand this room.

A very tiny part of you maybe believes that this could just be your chance, to hide and slip away among the troop of people. But you don’t keep your hopes high, experience has taught you that.

Thor holds his hand out as you descend the stairs, there are much more people than what you’d expected. His eyes still haven’t left you, glued onto your body ever since he came up to receive you. As you reach the ground floor a man comes over and whispers to your company. The blond nods and turns to you, requesting you to stay here; that he’ll be back in a bit.

And all of a sudden you’re all alone again, alone in a crowd; the same way you were on that wretched day your life toppled down. Everything starts to overwhelm you, the lights, the music; not so strong but still oozing discomfort.

All these people around you with their boisterous laughs and expensive clothing. While here you were terrified, alone and miserable. Everything starts to merge when you hear the mellow of a soft giggle, its tune reminding you of her…

You’re unable to breath, pushing your way out away from the crowd into a secluded room; a study of some sort. Filled with long shelves and books, you find a corner to hide. Sitting down and hugging your legs as you try to count.

You get to a double digit and the voice in your head lowers. You hear the doors open, two masculine voices bickering with each other. Unsure of what to do, you move further into the corner, hiding away.

“This is insane. It’s been a week, I don’t know what he plans to do. All this for a girl.” He mutters, you recognize the voice, your suspicion confirmed when the other replies.

“Loki; don’t be like that, be happy. Your brother is in love.” The other man chimes.

“Love at first sight I suppose.” A bitter reply.

“You my friend would never know, you’ve never been in love.”

“And you, Fandral; are too in love,” He jabs, “nonsense is what it is. Burning business ties will cost us money.”

“Oh please, Clegane’s were never honourable enough. If anything, this might be beneficial for us.”

“Well, let’s see what Grandmaster has to say.”

A feminine voice calls to them from outside— Loki; who had been rummaging through the drawers seem to have found what he needed—and they leave. You huff a breath out as you rush to leave. You’re unsure where you are headed, legs carrying on their own.

You’re not naive, you knew why you were here; knew what he wanted. You don’t know what you’d hoped out of this situation, but the inevitability of everything deeply alarmed you. You wanted to be anywhere but here, away from all these people. You were convinced that if you were in some desolated place dying, you’d still prefer that over this.

As you move around the corner; dress bunched up in your hands, you stop. Lips quivering as you come face to face with the man from the other night. The one who killed Monique. He’s barely coherent, the glass of alcohol swaying in his hand. Wet splotches formed from some spilled on his clothes. He’s mumbling something to a girl next to him, she giggles at his unheard jokes. Another wraps her arm around him, slowly caressing him.

The scene in front of you disgusts you as much as it disturbs you. The casualness in his behavior repugnant as you look away. He’s uncaring; men like him always will be. Her loss was a waste, your mourning; unhelpful.

You rush out through the corridor into the outer gardens. The enormity of it would have astonished you if it wasn’t for the fear and uneasiness that jittered your body. The walls are all far away; high as it covers the entire area. You don’t know how to escape this place. Head spiraling you run ahead; you lose your balance and fall on to the ground, scraping you knee in the process but you are unbothered of the pain. You hadn’t realized you’d been crying, the tears leaving a wet trace on your cheek.

You place your hands on the sprinkles of leaves as you hear the sound of shoes thumping on the soft mud. He walks forward, letting go of a deep sigh. He kneels down in front of you, eyes searching yours. You’re unable to look up at him, gaze remaining firm on the ground.

His fingers move to your chin, lifting it up; forcing you to look at him. His thumb moves to graze your lower lip. As his voice coos, “And to where is it that you wish to run away? wherever is it tell me, and I’ll take you there.”

You grimace as the sting on your knee increases, his eyes gaze down and he winces.

“Oh Y/N, now you’ve gone and hurt yourself.”

His palms move to hold on to your face tilting it as his lips land on you. The kiss, soft; its heat dancing on you as he moves back to look at you.

Your lips are pressed, breath halted as you stare at him. And just as smoothly his hands wrap around your hips, he pulls you forward urging you to straddle his kneeling form. He’s careful to make sure your knee does not touch the ground, hiking you up closer to him.

His hand travels up your thigh, the heat of him makes you squirm. His mouth finds you again, much more intense now. His right hand moves to hold on to the nape of your neck, the left one palming your ass. You whimper at that, wanting to stay away from his touch. He uses this opportunity to swipe his tongue over yours, lips catching you with a fervor.

“I’ve been so good, haven’t I?” he whispers, “been so patient…”

His kissing does not stop as he tilts your body down on to the grass. The ground beath you feels hard and soft at the same time. His thumb swirls around your breast as he leaves open mouth kisses on your body. He trails along your chin, neck, chest and stomach.

He scrunches you dress and hikes it up, desperation evident. You feel a chill run through your now exposed bare body. His lips find their way between your thighs. He nuzzles his face into you, rolling his tongue around your clit.

You moan; in delight or horror, you’re not sure. You stare ahead at the sky, the few twinkling stars slowly blurring as he continuous to taste you.

Your legs quiver as he pushes his tongue inside you, his arms wrap around your thigh, holding you close to him.

The pressure of his tongue unravels you, moving in and out in a steady motion. His fingers tighten on your flesh, a deep rumble as he moans into your cunt, you feel it course all through your body, eliciting one of you own.

His tongue swipes, now harder and faster. You pant through your nose as you feel a tight coiling inside you. Your chest arches, feet curling, as the buildup intensifies. You feel heat swell through you as is bursts, you come on his tongue, moan droning out as you whole body shakes. You feel his lips smirk at you as he continues to lap you up. He moves after placing a final kiss on to your cunt.

Strong arms carry you through you high as he takes you back to your room, the soft pillows placed under your head as he tucks you in. A determination still on his face as smiles at you.

You lay still in between the sheets— long after he’s left— wrapping your hands around yourself. The chill breeze moves in through the window, the sound of the night ocean slowly calming your heart.

You’re a good learner; been told so your whole life. Once you’ve learned your lesson you never repeat the same mistake. You adjust and make peace with what you are given. Your eyes close as you take a deep breath in.

You’re content with your seclusion; better that, than to fall into the discarding hands of death.

The bitter wind howls against your back as you push forward, your steps unsteady on the slick stones beneath your feet. The stolen cloak you wrapped around yourself is little protection from the cold, but you clutch it tightly, holding it close as though it might somehow make you disappear. You have traveled farther than you ever thought possible, past the borders of your kingdom, past the reach of the man who was meant to be your husband. An old man with a cruel smile and grasping hands, a ruler who saw you as nothing more than another jewel to add to his collection. You had been promised to him before you were even old enough to understand what it meant, and now that the time had come, you were expected to accept it without protest.

But you had run.

The night you fled, the castle had been quiet, save for the distant sound of guards making their rounds. You had waited, heart pounding, until the moment was right—until you could slip through the servants' passage, your soft shoes barely making a sound against the stone. The night air had been sharp and biting, but you had barely noticed, your mind consumed with only one thought: escape. You had no plan, no destination in mind, only the desperate need to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the fate that had been decided for you.

Now, your limbs ache with exhaustion, your feet raw from days of walking, but still, you move forward. The landscape has changed—where there were once rolling hills and dense forests, now there are mountains, their jagged peaks lost in thick clouds. You don’t know how long you have been traveling or even where you are anymore, but something tells you to keep going. It is as if the wind itself is urging you onward, whispering in your ear, guiding your path.

The storm begins suddenly. One moment, the air is cold but still, and the next, the sky splits open with a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening crash of thunder. Rain slashes against your skin, soaking through your already damp cloak, turning the ground beneath you to treacherous mud. You stumble, barely managing to catch yourself before you fall, but you can feel your strength waning. The cold is sinking deep into your bones, and each step feels heavier than the last.

Then, through the curtain of rain, you see it. A golden glow on the horizon, shimmering against the darkened sky. At first, you think you are imagining it, that exhaustion has finally stolen what little sense you have left, but as you move closer, the light does not fade. It grows stronger, illuminating the path ahead, revealing the faintest outline of something—something massive.

You push forward, barely aware of the way your breath comes in ragged gasps. The light grows brighter still, until at last, you stand before a bridge unlike anything you have ever seen. It stretches out into the storm, gleaming with impossible radiance, leading to a city that looks as though it was carved from the heavens themselves.

Asgard.

You have heard tales of it before, whispered stories of the realm of the gods, of Odin the All-Father and his mighty warriors. But you had never believed them. They had always seemed like nothing more than legends, stories meant to awe and inspire, not something real. Yet here it is before you, golden and eternal, untouched by the storm raging around you.

You take a step forward, your body trembling with cold and exhaustion, but before you can take another, a voice rings out from the darkness.

"Halt."

Your breath catches in your throat. You turn, your grip tightening around the edges of your cloak, and find yourself staring at a figure clad in golden armor, his massive sword gleaming even in the dim light. His eyes, bright and piercing, seem to see straight through you, as if he knows every secret you have ever kept.

"You do not belong here," he says, his voice calm but firm.

You swallow hard, your pulse thundering in your ears. "Please," you manage to say, your voice hoarse from the cold. "I need shelter. I have nowhere else to go."

For a long moment, he is silent, watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, without a word, he steps aside, allowing you to pass.

You do not question it. You move forward, your body near its breaking point, and as you step onto the bridge, the golden light seems to envelop you, warming you, easing the ache in your limbs. You do not know what awaits you in Asgard, but for the first time since you fled, you feel something close to hope.

By the time you reach the gates of the city, your strength is nearly gone. The last thing you see before your vision fades is a figure standing tall against the golden backdrop, his red cape billowing in the wind. And then, darkness takes you.

When you wake, it is to warmth.

Soft furs are piled over you, a fire crackling nearby, casting flickering shadows against the walls. The bed beneath you is softer than anything you have ever known, and for a moment, you do not move, afraid that if you do, it will all vanish, and you will wake to find yourself once more in the cold.

But then, you hear a voice. Deep, steady, laced with curiosity.

"You are awake."

You turn your head and find yourself staring at the man from before. The one in the red cape. His golden hair catches the firelight, and his blue eyes—so bright they seem almost unreal—study you with interest. He is larger than any man you have ever seen, broad-shouldered and powerful, yet there is no threat in his posture, only quiet observation.

"You collapsed at the gates," he continues, his tone gentler than you expect. "You are lucky Heimdall allowed you to pass."

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and the only sound that escapes is a rasping whisper.

He moves before you can react, pouring water into a goblet and holding it out to you. "Here."

You hesitate for only a moment before taking it, your fingers brushing against his as you do. His skin is warm—unnaturally so—and the brief contact sends a shiver up your spine. You drink deeply, the cool liquid easing the rawness in your throat.

"Thank you," you murmur.

He nods, setting the goblet aside. "I am Thor."

The name is not unfamiliar. You have heard it before, spoken in reverence by warriors and nobles alike. The God of Thunder, the Prince of Asgard.

"You are far from home," he says, his gaze unwavering. "How did you come to be here?"

You hesitate, the memories of your escape still raw. But there is something about him—something in the way he watches you, in the way he has not demanded answers, only offered warmth and safety—that makes you want to tell him.

So you do.

You speak of the marriage you were forced into, of the man who sought to claim you, of the night you ran and the days you spent wandering, lost and alone. You do not know why you tell him everything, but once you start, you cannot stop.

By the time you finish, your voice is unsteady, and you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid of what you might see there.

But when he speaks, his voice is softer than before.

"You are safe here."

The words are simple, but they settle something deep inside you.

"You may stay in Asgard for as long as you wish," he continues. "No one will take you against your will."

You meet his eyes then, searching for any hint of deception, but you find none. Only certainty.

And for the first time in a long while, you allow yourself to believe it.

Thor stands from his chair, his towering form casting long shadows across the dimly lit chamber. He moves with purpose, reaching for a thick fur-lined cloak draped over a nearby chair before turning back to you.

"You need proper chambers," he says. "A place of your own while you remain in Asgard."

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket covering you, uncertainty creeping in despite his kindness. You have spent your life in a palace, surrounded by opulence and grandeur, but this is different. Here, you are not a princess or a bargaining chip in a political alliance. You are a runaway with nothing but the clothes on your back and a story that may not be enough to warrant the generosity Thor is offering.

Still, what choice do you have?

Slowly, you nod. Thor gives you a satisfied nod in return, then gestures toward the door.

"Come," he says.

The moment your feet touch the floor, you realize just how weak you still are. The warmth of the fire has done little to chase away the exhaustion embedded deep within your bones, and the cold stone beneath your bare feet sends a shiver up your spine.

Thor notices. Without a word, he steps closer, draping the heavy cloak over your shoulders. The fabric is thick and warm, the scent of storm and steel clinging to it. You should not find it comforting, but somehow, you do.

He does not wait for you to protest before leading you out of the chamber and into the halls of the golden palace.

Asgard is breathtaking.

The halls are lined with towering pillars, carved with intricate patterns that shimmer in the torchlight. The walls gleam with gold and ivory, and the air carries the faint scent of something unfamiliar—something rich and warm, yet entirely foreign. Everywhere you turn, there is something to marvel at, but you do not allow yourself to linger.

Thor walks ahead of you, his pace steady but unhurried, as though he is giving you time to take it all in. He does not speak much, only glancing back occasionally to ensure you are keeping up. You appreciate the silence. After everything that has happened, you are not yet ready to fill the space between you with words.

You pass several Asgardians along the way—warriors in polished armor, nobles adorned in fine robes, servants moving swiftly through the halls. Each one stops at the sight of Thor, bowing their heads in greeting, but their gazes inevitably drift to you, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

It does not take long before someone dares to voice the question lingering in their minds.

"My prince," a woman in a flowing green gown calls out as she approaches. Her golden hair is braided intricately, her sharp blue eyes taking you in with barely concealed scrutiny. "Who is this?"

You tense under her gaze, but Thor does not hesitate.

"She is my guest," he says simply.

There is no further explanation, no room for argument. The woman's brows lift ever so slightly, but she does not press him further. Instead, she inclines her head and steps aside, allowing you both to pass.

The further you walk, the more eyes you feel upon you. Whispers follow in your wake, hushed voices murmuring behind cupped hands. You keep your chin lifted, refusing to show weakness, but inside, your stomach coils with unease. You do not belong here, and they know it.

Thor seems to sense your discomfort. Without slowing his pace, he speaks over his shoulder.

"Pay them no mind," he says. "They will grow accustomed to your presence soon enough."

You do not respond. You do not tell him that it is not their stares that unnerve you—it is the simple truth behind them. You are an outsider in Asgard, just as you were in your own kingdom.

It is a feeling you do not think you will ever escape.

The chambers Thor leads you to are grander than anything you could have imagined.

The ceilings are impossibly high, draped with banners bearing Asgardian symbols. The bed is massive, its frame carved from dark wood, adorned with thick furs and silken sheets. A large balcony overlooks the city below, its golden spires glinting beneath the soft glow of the sky. There is a fireplace already crackling with warmth, casting flickering light against the stone walls.

"This will be yours for as long as you wish to stay," Thor says.

You step forward hesitantly, running your fingers along the edge of a carved pillar. The room is beautiful, but it is not yours. Nothing here is.

"You are certain?" you ask, your voice quiet. "I do not wish to intrude."

Thor huffs out something that is almost a laugh. "You are no intrusion." He steps closer, his presence commanding yet strangely reassuring. "Rest. Eat. When you are ready, I will show you more of Asgard."

You nod, though you do not know when you will truly be ready.

Thor watches you for a moment longer before turning toward the door. He hesitates just before stepping through, glancing back.

"You are safe here," he says again. Then he is gone, leaving you alone in the vast chamber, surrounded by a kind of luxury that feels more like a cage than a comfort.

True to his word, Thor returns later to guide you through Asgard.

The city is unlike anything you have ever seen. The streets are bustling with life, lined with markets brimming with goods from across the realms. Warriors clad in golden armor stand watch over grand halls and towering fortresses, their eyes sharp and unwavering. The people of Asgard are proud and strong, their laughter ringing through the streets, their voices carrying tales of victories and feasts.

Yet even as Thor walks beside you, introducing you to the wonders of his home, you cannot shake the weight of the stares that follow you. You hear the murmurs as you pass, the unspoken questions lingering in the air.

Who is she?

Why is she here?

What claim does she have in Asgard?

Thor does not acknowledge them. Each time someone stops to ask, he gives the same answer: "She is my guest." No more, no less. And each time, they accept it, though their curiosity does not wane.

As the sun begins to set, Thor leads you back to the palace, where the great halls are even more alive than before. Fires burn bright, tables are laden with food and drink, and laughter echoes through the golden walls. It is a celebration of some kind, though you do not know what for. You hesitate at the entrance, suddenly unsure whether you should enter at all.

Thor notices. He turns to you, his expression unreadable. "Are you hungry?"

You are, though you do not admit it. Instead, you shake your head.

Thor does not press you. Instead, he gestures for you to follow him once more, leading you through the hall until you reach a raised platform where a throne of gold and ivory sits. And upon it—

Odin.

The All-Father’s single eye is sharp as it lands on you, his expression unreadable beneath his great horned helm. He is not a man easily ignored, his presence filling the room even without words.

"Father," Thor greets, inclining his head. "I have brought a guest to Asgard."

Odin’s gaze does not waver. "So I see." His voice is steady, weighted with something you cannot quite name. "Who is she?"

Thor does not hesitate. "She is a woman who sought refuge from a fate she did not choose. I have given her my protection."

The words are simple, but the meaning behind them is undeniable. A prince’s protection is not a small thing, and Odin knows it.

For a long moment, the silence stretches between them. Then, slowly, Odin leans back in his throne.

"Very well," he says at last. "She may stay."

It is not an embrace, nor is it a true welcome. But it is permission.

Thor seems satisfied with it. You, however, do not know what to feel.

That night, as you sit alone in your chambers, staring out at the endless expanse of Asgard, you cannot shake the feeling that you are still running.

You may have escaped your kingdom. You may have found safety beneath Thor’s protection. But you are still a stranger in a land not your own.

And no matter how kind Thor has been, you do not yet know if Asgard will ever feel like home.

Thor has never been known for restraint. In battle, he charges in without hesitation, his hammer in hand and his heart full of thunder. His actions are bold, his words even bolder. And yet, with you, a stranger who wandered into his life, his thoughts are caught in a tangle that he cannot untwist. Something about you, something in the way you hold yourself—uncertain, yet with a quiet strength—affects him in ways he cannot explain. It confounds him.

But it is more than that. Much more.

At first, he told himself that he was simply offering kindness, that his actions were those of a prince, doing what any ruler would for an outsider in need. It was a simple matter of hospitality. You were lost and vulnerable, and he, Thor of Asgard, could offer you safety. There was no ulterior motive.

But as the days go on, as he watches you in the hallways, standing by the windows, or reading quietly in your chambers, he realizes that it is not just kindness he feels. His mind keeps returning to you, searching for answers to questions that no one else can answer. Why do his thoughts linger on the sound of your voice, soft and low? Why does his chest tighten when your eyes meet his, and you do not look away? Why does the air between you crackle, heavy with something unspoken, even when he says nothing at all?

He is not a man to shy away from his feelings, but this… This is different. This feeling gnaws at him, confusing him in ways he is unused to.

But he does not shy away from it. He does not retreat. No, Thor finds himself drawn to you, compelled by the kindness he can offer, yes, but also by something more—a pull, a force beyond his understanding. And as much as he tries to dismiss it, the need to help you, to make you feel comfortable here in his home, grows stronger each day.

At breakfast, Thor watches you from the far side of the table.

You sit quietly, picking at your food, your brow furrowed in thought. The others in the hall are lively—warriors boasting of recent victories, nobles discussing matters of state, servants rushing to and fro—but you are quiet, distant, and Thor cannot help but notice it.

You have been in Asgard for nearly a week now, and you still hold yourself apart from everyone. You rarely speak unless spoken to, and even then, you tend to keep your words to a minimum. There is a stiffness to you, a reluctance to fully relax, even in this golden hall where nothing threatens you.

"Eat," he says suddenly, his voice loud enough to carry across the table.

You glance up at him, startled by the command, and for a brief moment, he regrets the sharpness of his tone. But your eyes meet his, and that regret fades as quickly as it comes.

"You must eat," he repeats, his voice softer now, though no less firm. "You will not regain your strength if you continue to avoid meals."

You look back down at your plate, poking at the food absentmindedly. But there is something in your gaze, something that hints at a quiet battle inside of you, something he does not understand. You are not used to being cared for. He knows it without needing to ask. You are not used to being treated with this kind of consideration, to be offered shelter, warmth, and kindness without expectation.

And that realization stirs something in him. He feels a surge of protectiveness for you, as if his heart knows something his mind cannot quite grasp.

He cannot leave you to this silence, this war within yourself.

"You should take a walk," he suggests, his voice steady and reassuring. "It will help. I will accompany you."

You hesitate for a moment before looking up at him. There is something in your eyes—hesitance, but also curiosity. You have been polite, perhaps even grateful for his help, but there is always a distance between you, a barrier he cannot quite break through.

"Outside?" you ask, almost as if the idea itself is foreign to you.

He nods, his grin appearing almost unconsciously. "Yes. The gardens here are beautiful this time of year. The air is fresh, and it will do you good."

You look down at your plate again, pushing the food around with your fork. There is a tension in the way you sit, as if you are unsure of what to do with this sudden offer of freedom, of space. But Thor does not wait for you to make up your mind. He stands up, his chair scraping slightly against the stone floor, and moves toward you.

"I insist," he says, his voice warm and gentle. "You will feel better. And I will not leave you alone."

There is a brief flicker in your eyes, and then, at last, you nod.

"All right," you say softly, and for the first time since his arrival, Thor feels a small weight lift from his chest.

The walk through the Asgardian gardens is everything Thor promised and more.

The air is crisp, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the earth beneath their roots. The pathways are lined with trees whose branches sway gently in the breeze, their leaves shimmering with a golden light that seems to radiate from the very fabric of Asgard itself. There is a stillness here, a quiet beauty that contrasts sharply with the bustling noise of the halls.

You walk beside him, your steps slow at first, but gradually, you begin to relax. The tension that has marked your posture since you arrived seems to ease, and Thor watches it happen with a quiet satisfaction. You do not speak at first, but he is content with that. He knows you are still adjusting, still finding your place in a world so far removed from your own.

As the two of you move deeper into the gardens, Thor takes the opportunity to ask you something he has been meaning to ask for days.

"Where do you come from?" he asks, his voice quiet but earnest.

You glance at him, startled by the question, but then, after a beat, you answer. "A small kingdom to the east of here."

Thor waits for you to continue, but when you do not, he presses gently. "And why did you leave?"

It takes a moment before you answer, your gaze falling to the ground beneath your feet. "I was… promised to a man I did not know. A man I did not choose."

Thor’s heart tightens at the words, and for the first time, he wonders if he has done the right thing by bringing you here.

"You did not have a choice," he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

You turn to look at him then, a flicker of something—defiance, perhaps, or simply the need to be understood—in your eyes. "I never did. Not until I ran."

The quiet strength in your voice strikes him, and in that moment, Thor realizes something he has been avoiding. You are not the delicate, fragile thing he first imagined you to be. You are strong, stronger than most people he has met. But your strength is tempered by something else—by the vulnerability of a woman who has been denied choices for too long.

His breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The world around you seems to fade as the space between you fills with something unspoken.

You look away first, your cheeks flushed with the intensity of the moment. "I'm sorry," you whisper, "I didn’t mean to say that."

Thor reaches out, his hand brushing against your shoulder in a gesture that is at once casual and incredibly intimate. "You need not apologize. I understand."

There is a warmth in his touch that makes your heart flutter, and when you turn to meet his eyes again, the tension between you is palpable.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" you ask, your voice barely audible above the wind rustling the leaves. "I am nothing more than a stranger to you."

Thor stops walking, turning to face you fully. There is something in his gaze, something raw and unguarded. He has never been one for words of comfort, never been good at offering reassurances, but when it comes to you, he finds himself compelled to do so.

"Because you are not a stranger to me," he says, his voice steady and earnest. "Because I see you. I see your strength, your courage. And I know what it is like to be forced into a life that is not your own. You are not alone here."

His words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. For a moment, you simply stare at him, unsure of what to say in return. But in that moment, Thor knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he is doing this not out of obligation, but because he wants to. Because there is something in you that draws him in, something that makes him want to offer you every comfort, every kindness he can.

And that something—he realizes, with a start—is more than just kindness.

It is attraction.

You have captured his attention in a way that no one else ever has, not even in the heat of battle. And for reasons he cannot yet explain, he finds himself wanting to do more for you, to make you feel welcome, to make you feel at home in Asgard.

Perhaps it is foolish. Perhaps it is reckless. But at that moment, standing there in the quiet of the garden with the wind at your backs, Thor doesn’t care.

All he knows is that, in some strange and inexplicable way, he has found something worth protecting.

The days in Asgard pass slowly, each one a step further from the past you fled. But despite the safety you’ve found here, despite Thor’s unwavering kindness, a part of you still remains distant. The walls you’ve built over the years are thick, and you cannot shake the feeling that, at any moment, someone might tear them down and expose the raw, painful truth beneath. You feel exposed in Asgard, though no one here asks more of you than you are willing to give. And yet, you can't help but feel like an intruder in a world so foreign to you.

The quiet days spent in the palace are both a relief and a reminder. Thor is patient with you, perhaps more patient than anyone has ever been. He never pressures you for details, never forces you to share anything you are not ready to. He simply offers you companionship, and in his presence, something begins to soften inside you—something you had long thought buried.

But opening up, truly allowing someone to see the bruises you hide beneath your skin, is not something you do easily. You learned early in life that your feelings did not matter. That the choices you made, the ones that shaped your heart, were irrelevant to those who held the power over you. And so, you grew accustomed to being silent, to being a vessel for others' desires and plans. Your wants, your dreams, they did not belong to you—they were owned by others.

Still, there are moments with Thor when the silence between you is not suffocating. Moments when you find yourself wanting to speak, to share, to confess the things that have been buried inside of you for so long.

It happens one evening, as you sit with him in the palace gardens, the golden spires of Asgard glowing faintly against the darkening sky. The air is warm, the stars glittering overhead like a promise that the world is still full of beauty, despite the pain. Thor has always enjoyed the gardens, often bringing you there to walk and talk, to give you space to breathe.

Tonight, you find yourself more restless than usual. Your mind is a storm of memories, too sharp, too vivid. You can feel Thor’s gaze on you, even though you are looking away, staring at the petals of a flower at your feet. It’s a quiet thing, this distance between you two. It’s comfortable, in a way, but also suffocating. Thor is kind, but you feel like he’s trying to break through a door you cannot open.

And that door is made of your past, of a life that feels like it belonged to someone else.

Thor’s voice interrupts your thoughts. “Are you well?” he asks, his tone gentle but probing, like he already knows something is wrong.

You hesitate, the words caught in your throat, but there is something in his eyes, something that urges you to speak.

“I…” You clear your throat, unsure of how to begin. You shift your weight, then try again, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I never really had a choice in anything.”

Thor says nothing for a moment. He watches you, his expression unreadable but kind. He doesn’t press you, doesn’t demand more than you’re willing to give. Instead, he simply waits. The quiet between you stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. He’s not rushing you.

You sigh, and the weight of your words begins to press down on you. You swallow thickly, feeling your pulse quicken as you prepare to unravel the story you’ve kept hidden for so long.

“It wasn’t always this way,” you say, your voice trembling. “I wasn’t always… I wasn’t always a pawn.”

Thor leans in slightly, his brow furrowing with curiosity, but he remains silent, giving you space.

“I was born to a family that saw me as a tool,” you continue, your hands tightening in your lap. “My parents… they didn’t care about me. Not really.” You pause, eyes cast downward. “I was just a means to an end. A way to cement alliances, a way to gain power. That was all I was ever good for.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and the words tumble out in a rush.

“They never asked me what I wanted. They never cared about my dreams, my thoughts. All they saw was a princess they could use to strengthen their rule. And when I was old enough, they promised me to a man I didn’t know, someone who had no interest in me, only in my family’s lands and wealth.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, but there’s no humor in it.

“I had no choice in that either.” Your hands tremble as you twist the fabric of your dress in your grip. “They made the arrangements as if I were nothing more than a prize to be won. A bargaining chip in a game of politics. My future, my happiness—it didn’t matter. Only the future of their kingdom.”

Thor’s brow furrows deeper as you speak, and though his silence persists, you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. His eyes burn with an intensity that seems to reach past your words, down to the very core of your pain.

“They told me that this was my duty,” you continue, the words flowing more freely now, the dam finally breaking. “That I had no say in the matter. That it didn’t matter if I loved him or not, if I even knew him. I was a tool, a vessel to carry on their legacy. And that’s all I would ever be.”

You pause, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you feel the weight of the years you spent trapped in that gilded cage.

“They treated me like I was nothing,” you whisper. “Like I didn’t have a heart. Like my emotions were irrelevant.”

For a moment, all you hear is the soft rustling of the leaves in the wind, and the gentle sounds of the palace in the distance. But Thor’s voice breaks through the quiet, low and filled with something—something you can’t quite name.

“That was wrong,” he says simply, the anger in his tone unmistakable. “What they did to you. No one should be treated like that.”

You can feel the sting of tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You have cried enough already.

“You don’t understand,” you say, your voice trembling again. “They were my parents. I had no choice. I had no voice.”

Thor moves closer to you, and without thinking, his hand rests gently on your shoulder. It’s a soft touch, a grounding presence in the storm inside you.

“I don’t need to understand,” he replies quietly. “I know enough to know it was wrong. And I know that you are not what they made you out to be.”

His words sink deep into your heart, a balm for the wounds you’ve carried for so long.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you look up, meeting his gaze. The air between you hums, thick with the weight of your shared moment. The walls that had once stood tall and unbreachable begin to crumble, and for the first time, you feel safe enough to expose the raw, aching truth that has been locked away inside you for years.

“I left,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t be the pawn they wanted me to be. I couldn’t… I couldn’t marry him. So I ran.”

Thor’s hand tightens briefly on your shoulder, and there’s something almost gentle in the way he says, “You are free now. You are no one’s pawn anymore.”

The words echo in your mind, and for the first time, the reality of your situation begins to settle in. You are no longer under anyone’s control. You no longer have to be the vessel for someone else’s desires. You can choose for yourself. You can breathe.

And yet, it’s terrifying. The freedom is not as comforting as it should be. You’ve spent your entire life being told what to do, and now, in this moment of freedom, you realize you have no idea what it means to truly make a choice for yourself.

Thor, sensing the inner conflict within you, gives a soft smile and stands.

“Then from now on,” he says, “I will make sure you always have choices. I will not make decisions for you. You will choose, even the smallest things.”

You blink at him, confused, as he continues.

“I will give you a choice every day,” he says. “And you will decide.”

You are unsure at first, the idea so foreign to you. But there’s something in the way Thor says it—so sure, so confident—that gives you a spark of hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, you can learn to take back the choices that were stolen from you.

“Even food?” you ask, still uncertain.

Thor chuckles. “Especially food,” he says with a grin. “It is yours to decide what you want. No one will choose for you again.”

The thought is both overwhelming and exhilarating. You nod, slowly at first, before a small, tentative smile curves at the corners of your lips.

For the first time, you begin to feel like maybe—just maybe—you can choose for yourself.

And that thought is enough to make you believe that freedom isn’t as terrifying as it once seemed.

The days in Asgard turn into weeks, and before you even realize it, life here begins to feel… natural. Comfortable, even.

Thor keeps his word. Every day, without fail, he gives you choices—small ones, seemingly insignificant, but each one a quiet reminder that you are no longer a pawn in someone else's game. At breakfast, he asks you what you would like to eat instead of having the palace servants assume for you. When he takes you on walks through the city, he lets you decide the route, even if it means getting a little lost among the golden streets of Asgard. If there is an event in the palace, he asks if you want to attend, never once assuming that you will be there simply because you are expected to be.

The first time he does this, it unsettles you. You are so used to people making choices for you that you hesitate each time he asks. But Thor is patient, endlessly so. He never rushes you, never grows frustrated when you struggle to decide. He simply waits, watching with quiet encouragement as you learn, slowly, what it means to make choices for yourself.

And through it all, you and Thor grow closer.

It is an undeniable thing, this connection between you. It is in the way he always finds an excuse to be near you, the way his presence seems to settle something deep inside your chest. It is in the way you laugh more now, the way his teasing remarks bring a warmth to your cheeks that lingers far longer than it should.

But it is also in the quiet moments. In the evenings when you both find yourselves in the gardens, sitting in comfortable silence beneath the stars. In the way he looks at you sometimes, as if trying to memorize every detail of your face. In the way his fingers brush against yours when he hands you something, the touch brief but enough to send your heart into a frenzy.

And then there is this moment—this fragile, breathless moment where everything shifts.

It happens late in the evening, long after the palace has quieted for the night. You and Thor are on the balcony of his chambers, looking over the vast city bathed in silver light. The cool night air is crisp, but you don’t feel the chill, not with him standing so close beside you.

You are talking, though you are not entirely sure what about. The conversation has drifted from one topic to another, as it often does with him, until eventually, the words no longer matter. What matters is the way he looks at you, his expression softer than you have ever seen it. What matters is the way the air between you grows heavy, charged with something unspoken.

Your breath catches in your throat when you realize just how close he is. He is watching you, his blue eyes filled with something warm, something intense. The flickering torchlight casts golden shadows across his face, making him look both softer and stronger all at once.

And then, slowly, so slowly, he leans in.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your breath is shallow, uneven. You can feel the heat of him, the warmth of his skin just inches away from yours. Every fiber of your being is screaming for him to close the distance, to finally, finally give in to the pull that has been drawing you together for so long.

But then, he stops.

His lips are a breath away from yours, so close that you can feel the warmth of his exhale. And yet, he does not move forward. His hands remain at his sides, his body rigid with restraint.

He is waiting.

He is giving you a choice.

The realization sends a shiver through you. He will not take this moment from you. He will not make this decision for you. After everything, after all the choices that were taken from you in the past, he will not be another person who decides your fate.

If this is to happen, it will be because you choose it.

Something inside you breaks.

You close the distance between you in one swift movement, your hands reaching up to grasp the fabric of his tunic as you press your lips to his.

The moment your lips meet his, it is as if the world around you disappears.

Thor lets out a quiet, almost startled sound, but it is swallowed by the kiss as his hands come up to grasp your waist, his fingers tightening against you as if afraid to let go. The hesitation he held onto before vanishes in an instant, and he responds with a fervor that sends your heart soaring.

The kiss is soft at first, uncertain but full of something deep and raw. But then, as if a dam has broken, it deepens, his lips moving against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak. He tastes of warmth, of something indescribably electric, and the feeling of him—solid and steady beneath your touch—sends shivers down your spine.

When you finally break apart, your breath is ragged, your pulse racing.

Thor is staring at you, his expression unreadable, his chest rising and falling heavily.

You swallow, your fingers still clutching the fabric of his tunic. "What does this mean?" you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Thor exhales slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.

"It means," he says, his voice rough with emotion, "that I care for you. More than I should. More than I have ever cared for anyone before."

Your breath hitches, your heart pounding.

Thor's hand lifts, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten. "I did not want to take this moment from you," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted you to choose it. To choose me."

Tears burn at the back of your eyes, not from sadness, but from something else—something too overwhelming to name.

"I do," you whisper. "I choose you."

Thor's lips curve into the smallest of smiles before he kisses you again, this time slower, softer, as if savoring the moment.

And in that moment, for the first time in your life, you are certain of one thing.

This is your choice.

And it is the best one you have ever made.

"You’re truly a vision, love," Thor murmured, his voice thick with amusement. "Covered in flour, your lips pink with sugar… utterly delectable."

You huffed, trying to ignore the heat curling through you at the sound of his voice. “If you’re not here to help, go away, Thor.”

A large hand travel your waist, fingertips brushing the bare strip of skin where your shirt had ridden up. “But I wish to help My Lady,” he said, pressing in just enough for you to feel the solid wall of his chest against your back. His voice dropped, rich with mischief. “Tell me, what does one do when decorating cupcakes?”

You swallowed, pulse kicking up a notch. “Piping. Sprinkling. Not getting in my way.”

Thor hummed, his nose brushing the shell of your ear. “Mmm, I rather like the sound of piping.” He plucked the piping bag from your hands, effortlessly maneuvering around you to squeeze out a messy swirl of frosting onto the next cupcake. It was a disaster—clumsy and uneven, dripping over the edge like molten sugar.

You burst into laughter. “God, Thor, that’s—”

Before you could finish, he swiped his finger through the excess buttercream and, with a smirk, brought it to your lips. "Taste."

Your breath hitched. His blue eyes darkened, tracking the way your lips parted for him, the way your tongue flicked out, tentative at first, then slow, deliberate. You wrapped your lips around his finger, sucking lightly, tasting the sweet vanilla on his skin.

Thor groaned, low and deep, his pupils dilating. "You are teasing me, little one."

You let his finger slip free with a wet pop, a coy smile playing at your lips. "What if I am?"

Lightning flashed in his eyes. Without warning, his hands hoisted you up onto the counter. Your gasp was swallowed by his kiss, hot and hungry, his beard scratching deliciously against your skin. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting sugar and heat, while his hands roamed, gripping your thighs and tugging you to the edge.

The forgotten piping bag slipped to the side, frosting smearing across the counter as Thor's kisses trailed lower. His mouth pressed against your jaw, your throat, until he reached the sensitive spot, where he nipped.

"You taste sweeter than any confection, my love," he murmured, hands pushing up your shirt, palms searing against your bare skin.

You arched into him, fingers tangling in his golden hair as he pressed you down against the counter, the heat between you simmering into something molten.

Valentine’s Day cupcakes could wait.

Thor had a far sweeter feast in mind.