“Most people haven’t seen you nearly set off the fire suppression system making toast,” you counter, unable to keep the smile off your face. 

He points the spatula at you, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “That was one time, and in my defense, i was distracted by a very important calculation about -”

“About whether you could make the toaster smart enough to achieve sentience?”

“It was a valid scientific inquiry.” He turns back to the stove, and you can see the grin tugging at his mouth even in profile. “JARVIS, tell her it was valid.”

“I’m afraid I must remain neutral in this matter, sir,” the AI responds, and you laugh - the kind of genuine, unguarded laugh that only seems to happen around Tony. 

He glances over his shoulder at the sound, something soft flickering across his features before the trademark smirk returns. “There it is. That’s the sound that makes burning eggs completely worth it.”

“You’re burning the eggs?”

“What? No. I’m - shit.” He quickly flips the omelet, or what was supposed to be an omelet, revealing a slightly too-brown underside. “This is medium-dark. Rustic. Very European.”

You slide off the barstool, padding over to him in bare feet on the cool floor. “Let me help before you create a ‘rustic European’ disaster.”

“I have advanced degrees in engineering and physics -”

“And apparently none in home economics.”

He steps aside with exaggerated gallantry, but the kitchen isn’t exactly built for two people to work side by side. As you reach for the pepper grinder, he leans past you to grab a plate from the cabinet above, and suddenly you’re very aware of the solid warmth of him at your back, the way his arm extends easily over your head to reach something you would need to stretch for. 

Your breath catches. Just slightly. Just enough. 

“You okay there?” His voice is closer than you expected, tinged with amusement, and when you glance up, he’s looking down at you with those sharp brown eyes that never miss anything.

“Fine,” you manage. “Just wondering if you organzied these cabinets specifically to make me feel like a hobbit.”

His laugh is low and warm. “I’ll have you know this kitchen was designed with optimal efficiency in mind.”

“For someone who’s six feet tall.”

“Six one, actually but who’s counting?” He hasn’t moved away, still bracketing you against the counter, and you can smell his cologne - something expensive and woodsy that probably costs more than your rent. “Besides, I like that you’re -”

“Short? Tiny? In need of a step stool?”

“I was going to say ‘the perfect height,’ but now I’m curious about where this hostility is coming from.” He’s grinning now, full-watt, and damn him for being this attractive while you’re trying to make a point. 

You turn back to the eggs, if only to escape the intensity of his gaze. “There’s no hostility. Just stating facts.”

“Mm-hmm.” He finally moves, but only to lean against the counter beside you, arms crossing over his chest. The motion makes his biceps flex beneath the thing fabric of his t-shirt - because of course Tony Stark wears a plain black t-shirt like it’s high fashion - and you determinedly focus on not burning the breakfast he already half-ruined.

“You’re staring,” he says conversationally.

“I’m concentrating.”

“On my arms, apparently.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are. In my kitchen. At -” He glances at the wall display, “- nine-thirty on a Saturday morning. Saving my eggs. Some might call that dedication.”

“Some might call it stupidity,” you mutter, but you’re smiling again, and when he reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment too long to be casual, your heart does something complicated in your chest. 

“For the record,” he says, voice dropping into something softer, more genuine, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You look up at him, at the way the morning light catches in his eyes, at the rare vulnerability in his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hand slides down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and the size of his palm against your face makes you feel delicate in a way that should probably bother you but absolutely doesn’t. “Even if you do insult my cooking.”

“Someone has to keep your ego in check.”

“That’s what Pepper says. And Rhodey. And basically everyone I know.” He leans down, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. “But you make it sound cute.”

“I make everything sound cute. It’s the height thing. Very disarming.”

He kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling. “Eggs are burning again.”

“Dammit, Tony!!”

________________________________________________________________

You end up ordering breakfast from the café down the street, because the eggs are beyond salvation and Tony’s attempt at pancakes somehow results in batter on the ceiling. Neither of you can figure out how. 

“It defies physics,” you say, staring up at the splatter. 

“Physics is more of a suggestion anyways,” Tony replies, utterly unbothered, pulling you toward the living room with the bag of food in his other hand. “Come on, I’m starving, and if I have to look at my culinary failures any longer, I’ll develop a complex.”

“You already have several complexes.”

“And you like every one of them.”

You can’t argue with that.

The living room is your favorite part of the penthouse - floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture that’s somehow both modern and comfortable, and a couch that’s probably worth more than your car but feels like sitting on a cloud. Tony drops onto it with the careless grace of someone who’s never had to worry about breaking expensive things, then pulls you down beside him. 

Except “beside” turns into “practically in his lap” because his arm hooks around your waist mid-descent, and suddenly you’re tucked against his side, his thigh warm against yours, his presence overwhelming in the best way. 

“Smooth,” you say, even as you settle into him. 

“I’m known for my subtlety.” He’s already unpacking the food, somehow managing to do it one-handed while keeping you anchored against him. “Croissant or bagel?”

“Croissant. And you’re known for many things. Subtlety isn’t one of them.”

“Harsh but fair.” He hands you the pastry, and when your fingers brush his, he catches your hand, examining it with exaggerated seriousness. “You know, I’ve been thinking -”

“Dangerous.”

“- about proportional differences. Specifically, hand size ratios.”

You watch as he presses his palm against yours, his fingers extending well beyond your own, the width of his hand nearly double. It shouldn’t be as affecting as it is, this simple comparison, but your mouth goes dry. 

“See?” He laces his fingers through yours, and your hand disappears into his grip. “Fascinating.”

“Is this your version of a scientific lecture?” yYour voice comes out breathier than intended. 

“Would you prefer a practical demonstration?” He’s looking at you now, food forgotten, and there’s heat in his gaze that makes your stomach flip. 

“Of what, exactly?”

His free hand comes up to your face, fingers spanning from your jaw to your temple, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth. “Of how perfectly you fit.”

It's a corny line. It should be a corny line. But the way he's looking at you, the way his touch is both gentle and possessive, the sheer size of him making you feel small and safe and wanted - it works.

"Tony," you breathe.

"I love when you say my name like that." His thumb traces your lower lip, the touch feather-light and maddening. "Like I'm doing something right."

“You’re doing -” You lose the thread of the sentence when he shifts, turning you more fully toward him, his hand sliding into your hair. “This isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“You. being funny and smart and -” Your gaze drops to where his bicep flexes as he adjusts his grip, the muscle defined even in his casual position. “- built like that.”

His grin is pure sin. “Like what?”

“You know exactly what.”

“Maybe I want to hear you say it.” He’s leaning closer now, his other hand settling on your waist, fingers splaying across your ribs. “Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”

“I’m not shy.”

"Then tell me." His lips brush your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth - everywhere except where you want them. "What is it about me that's got you so distracted you're forgetting to eat your croissant?"

You make a frustrated sound that's half-laugh, half-something else entirely. "Your arms. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Keep going."

"Tony -"

“I’m just saying, if we’re doing confessions, I should tell you that watching you in my kitchen, in my clothes -” His fingers tug at the hem of the shirt you borrowed, one of his old MIT shirts that hangs to mid-thigh on you. “- is doing things to me.”

“What kind of things?”

“The kind where I want to keep you here. Like this.” He pulls you properly into his lap now, your legs draping over his thighs, and the position puts you at eye level with him for once. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric. “The kind where I’m thinking about how easy it would be to -”

He demonstrates by lifting you slightly, adjusting your position like you weigh nothing, and the casual display of strength makes heat pool low in your belly.

"- move you exactly where I want you," he finishes, voice rough.

Your hands have found their way to his shoulders, and you can feel the muscle there, the solid strength of him. "And where do you want me?"

"Right here is a good start." He kisses you then, deep and slow, one hand cupping the back of your head while the other spans your lower back, holding you against him. When he pulls back, you're both breathing harder. "But I have some other ideas."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His hand slides up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, and he tugs gently, tilting your head back. "You trust me?"

"That's a loaded question coming from you."

"That's not a no."

You look at him - really look at him. At the way he's watching you like you're something precious, at the care in his touch despite the strength behind it, at the vulnerability hiding behind the cocky exterior. "I trust you."

Something shifts in his expression, something raw and real. "Good," he says quietly, and then his thumb is at your lips again, tracing the curve of your mouth with deliberate slowness.

You part your lips automatically, and his eyes darken.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs. "Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want -" He presses his thumb just inside your mouth, the pad of it resting against your lower lip. "- this."

Your heart is hammering now, and when you close your lips around his thumb, taking it into your mouth, his breath hitches audibly.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Yeah, just like that."

There's something intensely intimate about it - the weight of his thumb on your tongue, the way he's watching you with complete focus, the size of his hand cradling your jaw. You can feel how much larger he is like this, how easily he could overpower you, and the trust implicit in the act makes your head spin.

You swirl your tongue around his thumb, and his other hand tightens on your hip.

"You're going to kill me," he says, but he's smiling, that dangerous smile that promises trouble. "You know that, right?"

You pull back just enough to speak. "That would be counterproductive."

"Big words." He withdraws his thumb, only to trace your lips again, wetting them with your own saliva. "You sure you want to start something you can't finish?"

"Who says I can't finish it?"

His laugh is low and dark. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm going to hold you to that."

Then he's kissing you again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against yours, and you can taste yourself on him. His hands are everywhere - your hair, your back, your thighs - and each touch reminds you of how completely he could surround you, how small you feel in his arms.

When he stands, lifting you with him like it's nothing, you gasp against his mouth.

"Bedroom," he says, and it's not a question.

You nod, and he carries you down the hall, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands supporting you easily. You press kisses to his jaw, his neck, that spot behind his ear that makes him groan, and by the time he lays you on his bed, you're both half-desperate.

________________________________________________________________

The bedroom is dimly lit, afternoon sun filtering through partially closed blinds, and Tony stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression that's equal parts hunger and affection.

"Hi," he says, which is such a ridiculous thing to say right now that you laugh.

"Hi yourself."

He crawls over you, caging you in with his arms, and the breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light. "Still good?"

"Very good."

"Excellent." He kisses you again, slow and thorough, before sitting back on his heels. "Shirt off. Now."

You raise an eyebrow. "Demanding."

"You like it."

You do, so you sit up and pull the borrowed MIT shirt over your head, leaving you in just your underwear. His gaze rakes over you, hot and appreciative.

"Christ," he mutters. "How are you real?"

"I could ask you the same thing." You reach for the hem of his shirt. "Your turn."

He strips it off in one smooth motion, and you will never get tired of this view - the arc reactor glowing in his chest, the defined muscles of his stomach and arms, the sheer presence of him. You run your hands over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of the reactor.

"Like what you see?" he asks, but there's less cockiness in it now, more genuine curiosity.

"You know I do." You trace the edge of the reactor housing. "All of you."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "You're going to make me sappy."

"Can't have that. Your reputation would be ruined."

"Fuck my reputation." He lowers you back down, settling between your legs, and the weight of him is perfect. "I'd rather have this."

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, and his hands map your body like he's memorizing it. When he hooks his fingers in your underwear, he pauses, looking up at you.

"Yes," you say before he can ask.

He slides them down your legs, and then you're bare beneath him, and the way he's looking at you makes you feel like the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Gorgeous," he murmurs, running his hands up your thighs, and the contrast of his large hands on your skin is stark and arousing. "Absolutely fucking gorgeous."

He spreads your legs wider, settling his shoulders between them, and the first touch of his mouth makes you arch off the bed.

"Tony -"

"Shh. Let me." His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and the strength in that grip, the way he can keep you exactly where he wants you, sends a thrill through you.

He's devastatingly good at this, all focused attention and deliberate pressure, and when he slides two fingers inside you, the stretch makes you gasp. His fingers are thick, long, and the fullness is almost overwhelming.

"Okay?" he asks, stilling.

"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."

He doesn't. He works you with his mouth and fingers, finding every spot that makes you shake, and when you're close, he pulls back just enough to watch you.

"Look at you," he says, voice rough. "Taking my fingers so well. You're so small, and you're taking them so fucking well."

The words combined with the curl of his fingers inside you push you over the edge, and you come with his name on your lips, your hands fisted in his hair.

He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, and when he finally withdraws his fingers, he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean while maintaining eye contact.

"Jesus, Tony."

"What? You taste good." He's grinning now, pleased with himself, and you pull him up for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

"Your turn," you say against his mouth.

"You don't have to -"

"I want to." You push at his shoulders until he rolls onto his back, and you follow, kissing down his chest, his stomach, until you're eye-level with the bulge in his jeans. You make quick work of the button and zipper, and when you free him, he's hard and flushed and perfect.

You wrap your hand around him, and your fingers don't quite meet. The size of him should probably be intimidating, but instead, it just makes you want him more.

"Fuck," he breathes when you lick a stripe up the underside. "You're going to be the death of me."

"You said that already."

"Bears repeating."

You take him into your mouth, as much as you can manage, and his hand comes to rest in your hair - not pushing, just holding, grounding. The sounds he makes are gratifying, low groans and muttered curses, and when you look up at him through your lashes, his head is thrown back, throat exposed.

"Baby," he grits out. "You gotta - I'm gonna -"

You pull off just enough to say, "Good," and then take him deeper.

He comes with a shout, hips jerking, and you swallow him down, savoring the way he falls apart for you.

When you finally release him, he pulls you up into his arms, kissing you deeply. "You're incredible," he says between kisses. "Absolutely incredible."

"Right back at you."

He holds you close, his heartbeat strong beneath your ear, the arc reactor humming its steady rhythm. His hand runs up and down your spine in soothing strokes, and you've never felt more content.

"Stay," he says quietly. "Tonight. Tomorrow. However long you want."

You prop yourself up to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He tucks your hair behind your ear, the gesture achingly tender. "I meant what I said earlier. I like having you here. I like -" He pauses, something vulnerable crossing his face. "- you. I really like you."

Your heart swells. "I really like you too. Even if you can't cook."

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I'll order takeout for every meal if it means you'll stay."

"That's a terrible diet."

"I have a state-of-the-art gym downstairs. We'll manage." His arms tighten around you. "So is that a yes?"

You kiss him, soft and sweet. "That's a yes."

"Good." He rolls you onto your back again, settling over you with a wicked grin. "Because I'm not nearly done with you yet."

"Oh really?"

"Really." His hand slides between your legs again, and you're already sensitive, already wanting. "I'm thinking round two. And three. Maybe four if you're up for it."

"Ambitious."

"You have no idea." He kisses you deeply, fingers working magic, and you lose yourself in him again - in his touch, his strength, the way he makes you laugh even as he makes you fall apart.

Later, much later, when you're both exhausted and sated and tangled together in his sheets, he pulls you against his chest, your back to his front, his arm heavy and warm around your waist.

"Hey," he murmurs into your hair.

"Mm?"

"Thanks for saving my eggs this morning."

You laugh, the sound sleepy and content. "Thanks for burning them in the first place."

"Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime."

And wrapped in his arms, the city lights twinkling beyond the windows, you think you could get very used to this - to mornings in his kitchen, to his terrible jokes and brilliant mind, to the way he holds you like you're something precious.

To all of it.

"Miss has indeed arrived, sir," JARVIS replied with what you swore was amusement in his artificial voice. "Her vitals suggest extreme fatigue."

"Traitor," you muttered at the ceiling.

Tony appeared from around the corner, wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt that had definitely seen better days and jeans that probably cost more than most people's cars. He took one look at you and his expression shifted from playful to concerned in a nanosecond - though he'd deny it if you called him on it.

"Okay, what fresh hell did they put you through today? You look like you went twelve rounds with Happy and he actually tried."

"Thanks, Tony. Really feeling the love." You kicked off your shoes and immediately regretted it when your feet touched the cold floor and protested the change in pressure.

He crossed the distance between you in a few strides, hands going to your shoulders. "I'm serious. You look exhausted. What happened to my girl who left here this morning making terrible puns about 'working hard or hardly working'?"

"She died somewhere around hour six of standing in heels because apparently sitting down is for quitters." You leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with motor oil. He'd been in the workshop. "I'm pretty sure my feet have filed for divorce. They're citing irreconcilable differences."

"Well, we can't have that. I'm very attached to your feet. They're connected to your legs, which are -" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Tony."

"...which are very tired and need immediate attention from a genius billionaire philanthropist who happens to have excellent hands. It's in all the magazines. 'Tony Stark: Great Hands.' That's a direct quote."

Despite everything, you laughed. "That is absolutely not what any magazine has ever said."

"Pepper's magazine did. I had her publish it. It's called 'Tony Stark Quarterly' and it has a very limited circulation." He was already steering you toward the bedroom, hands gentle but insistent on your shoulders. "Come on, zombie girl. Operation Relaxation is now in effect."

"Operation Relaxation? Did you actually just come up with that, or have you been planning this?"

"I'm a genius. I can multitask. I came up with it just now AND I've been planning it since JARVIS told me you sounded dead on your feet during your lunch break call." He guided you to sit on the edge of the bed. "Stay. Don't move. I'm going to run you a bath that will make you forget you even have a job."

"Tony, you don't have to."

He pressed a finger to your lips. "Shh. The genius is working. Also, yes I do, because A) I love you, and B) you're cranky when you're tired and I have a vested interest in you not being cranky. Mostly A, though. Like, seventy-thirty."

"Seventy-thirty?"

"Sixty-forty?"

"Tony."

"Ninety-ten, final offer." He grinned and kissed your forehead. "Don't move. I mean it. If you move, JARVIS will tell on you."

"I will indeed, Miss," JARVIS confirmed.

You flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. From the bathroom, you could hear Tony moving around, the sound of water running, cabinets opening and closing. There was a concerning crash, followed by a very casual "I'm okay! That was already broken!"

"Tony, what are you breaking in there?"

"Nothing important! Just my dignity. It'll recover."

A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a triumphant expression. "Okay, so I may have gone a little overboard, but in my defense, going overboard is kind of my thing. It's like my signature move. That and the repulsor rays."

He helped you up - actually helped, with hands that were surprisingly gentle for someone who spent most of his time building weapons and robots. Well, former weapons. Mostly robots now. And suits. And -

"I can hear you thinking from here," Tony said, guiding you toward the bathroom. "Stop it. No thinking allowed during Operation Relaxation."

"You're really committed to that name, aren't you?"

"I had JARVIS make a logo and everything."

The bathroom was... well, it was exactly what you'd expect from Tony Stark going "a little overboard." The massive soaking tub was filled with steaming water, and the scent of lavender and something else - eucalyptus maybe? - filled the air. Candles flickered on every available surface, which seemed like a fire hazard but was admittedly romantic.

"Did you use all the candles in New York?"

"Just the good ones. The bad ones I left for people with less refined taste." He started helping you out of your work clothes with the kind of efficiency that would've been clinical if not for the way his fingers lingered, gentle and warm against your skin. "Also, I may have had JARVIS order that fancy bath salt stuff you were looking at online last week."

You paused, turning to look at him. "You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you. It's creepy. I'm aware. But also romantic, so it balances out." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder as he slid your shirt off. "Now get in the tub before I have to make a joke about the water getting cold, which would ruin the whole mood I'm creating here."

The water was perfect - hot enough to make you sigh in relief but not so hot it was uncomfortable. You sank in up to your shoulders and felt your muscles start to unknot themselves.

Tony rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside the tub, which was not something you ever thought you'd see Tony Stark do voluntarily. "Okay, foot massage time. Give me your foot."

"Tony, you don't have to."

"Foot. Now. Don't make me use the armor to get it."

You lifted one foot out of the water, and his hands wrapped around it, thumbs pressing into your arch with exactly the right amount of pressure. You couldn't stop the groan that escaped.

"And that's the sound of my girlfriend remembering why she keeps me around," Tony said smugly, working his thumbs in slow circles. "It's not just the money and the good looks. It's also the excellent foot massages."

"You've never given me a foot massage before."

"I've been saving it. Building anticipation. It's called strategy." His fingers worked up to your ankle, then your calf, kneading the tight muscles. "Also, I may have watched several YouTube videos while the bath was running. Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation."

"Your secret is safe with me." You let your head fall back against the edge of the tub, eyes closing. "This is... really nice, Tony. Thank you."

"Yeah, well. You work too hard. Someone's gotta take care of you." His voice was softer now, less performative. "And before you say you can take care of yourself, I know you can. But you don't have to. That's what having a genius boyfriend is for."

"I thought it was for fixing my laptop when I download suspicious files."

"That too. I'm multifaceted. It's part of my charm." He switched to your other foot, and you melted a little more. "So, tell me about your day. What made it so terrible? Do I need to buy your company and fire everyone? Because I will. I've done it before."

"Please don't buy my company."

"Too late, already texted Pepper. She's on it."

"Tony!"

"I'm kidding. Mostly." His hands moved up your calf again, working out a particularly tight knot that made you wince. "Easy. I got you. Breathe."

You did, and his hands gentled, working the muscle more carefully. It was strange, seeing Tony like this - focused and careful, all his manic energy channeled into taking care of you. It made your chest feel tight in a completely different way than exhaustion.

"My day was just... long," you said finally. "Too many people, too many problems, too much standing in shoes that looked better than they felt. The usual."

"So what you're saying is, you need me to invent better shoes. I can do that. I'll call them Stark Heels. They'll have repulsor technology in the soles for extra support."

"That sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"All my best inventions do." He released your foot and reached for a washcloth, soaping it up with something that smelled expensive. "Sit forward."

You did, and he started washing your back with slow, careful strokes. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex - just Tony, taking care of you, his touch gentle and sure.

"You know what your problem is?" he asked, working the washcloth over your shoulders.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"Your problem is that you're too good at your job. People rely on you, so they pile everything on, and you just... take it. Because you're capable and responsible and all those other adjectives that make me look bad in comparison."

"Tony…"

"I'm not fishing for compliments. I'm making a point." He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, right at the hairline. "My point is, you're allowed to say no sometimes. You're allowed to be tired. And you're definitely allowed to come home and let your incredibly handsome boyfriend pamper you."

"Incredibly handsome and incredibly humble."

"That too. It's a burden, really, being this perfect." His hands slid around to your shoulders, thumbs working into the tight muscles there. "But seriously. You don't have to be 'on' all the time. Not here. Not with me."

You reached back, finding his hand and lacing your fingers through his. "I know. Thank you. For this. For... everything."

"Yeah, well. You're welcome." He squeezed your hand. "Now finish relaxing while I go find something for us to eat. And by find, I mean order, because you know I can't cook."

"You can cook. You just choose not to."

"I choose not to because the last time I tried, I set off the fire suppression system and JARVIS threatened to call Pepper. It was traumatic." He stood, wiping his hands on a towel. "Take your time. I'll be out there, being domestic and ordering Chinese food."

"Tony?"

He turned back, eyebrow raised.

"I love you."

His expression softened, that rare genuine smile that he saved just for you. "I love you too. Even when you're a zombie. Especially when you're a zombie, actually. You're less likely to run away when I'm being sappy."

"I would never run away from your sappiness."

"Lies. You literally left the room last week when I tried to recite that poem."

"That wasn't a poem. That was you reading the periodic table in alphabetical order."

"It was a science poem. You're just not cultured enough to appreciate it." He blew you a kiss. "Relax. That's an order from your boyfriend who loves you and also happens to be a superhero, so you have to listen."

After he left, you sank deeper into the water, letting the heat and the scent and the quiet work their magic. Your muscles were finally starting to unclench, the tension of the day dissolving like the bath salts Tony had probably spent too much money on.

You could hear him in the other room, talking to JARVIS about food options, his voice carrying that animated quality it always had when he was engaged with something. Even something as simple as ordering dinner.

By the time you finally dragged yourself out of the tub - pruney and relaxed and feeling almost human again - Tony had laid out your favorite pajamas on the bed. Except they weren't pajamas. They were one of his MIT t-shirts and a pair of his boxer briefs.

"JARVIS said you prefer my clothes," Tony called from the living room. "Something about them being 'comfy' and 'smelling like me.' Which is weird, but I'm choosing to take it as a compliment."

You pulled on the shirt, smiling. It was soft and worn and smelled exactly like him. "It's definitely a compliment."

When you padded out to the living room, Tony was sprawled on the couch, already changed into sleep pants and a different t-shirt. He'd dimmed the lights, and there were takeout containers spread across the coffee table.

"I got all your favorites," he said, patting the couch next to him. "Plus some of my favorites, because I'm eating too and I have excellent taste."

You curled up next to him, and he immediately pulled you closer, arranging you so your head was on his chest and his arm was around your shoulders. It was comfortable and familiar and exactly what you needed.

"Better?" he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Much better." You stole a spring roll from one of the containers. "You're pretty good at this whole 'taking care of people' thing."

"Don't sound so surprised. I'm good at everything." He paused. "Except cooking. And feelings. And - okay, I'm good at some things. But taking care of you is definitely one of them."

You ate in comfortable silence for a while, some documentary about space playing on the TV that Tony was half-watching and half-commenting on ("That's not how that works. JARVIS, make a note to send them a strongly worded email about their terrible science.").

But you could feel his attention on you, the way he kept checking to make sure you were eating, that you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. It was sweet in a way that Tony would never admit to being.

"Thank you," you said again, tilting your head to look up at him. "For tonight. For being... you."

"Well, I can't really be anyone else. I tried once, but the costume was uncomfortable and I have commitment issues." His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "But seriously. You don't have to thank me. This is what people do when they love each other. They take care of each other. Even if one of them is a genius billionaire and the other one is... also pretty great, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I'm trying to be humble. Is it working?"

"Not even a little bit."

"Good. Humility is overrated anyway." He leaned down, kissing you softly. It was gentle and sweet and tasted like Chinese food, and it made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing it always did when Tony kissed you like you were something precious.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and warm. "How are you feeling? Still tired?"

"Less tired. More... relaxed." You shifted, moving to straddle his lap, your hands resting on his shoulders. "Thanks to you."

His hands settled on your waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of his shirt you were wearing. "Well, I am pretty amazing. It's been documented."

"So humble."

"It's one of my best qualities." He pulled you closer, until you were pressed against him, and kissed you again. This time it was deeper, more intent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made heat pool low in your belly.

You broke the kiss, breathless. "Tony..."

"Yeah?" His hands were sliding up your sides now, taking the shirt with them. "Tell me what you need."

"You. Just... you."

"Well, that I can definitely provide." He stood, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically. "JARVIS, clear my schedule for the rest of the night. I'm going to be very busy."

"Of course, sir. Shall I activate privacy mode?"

"You're a good AI, JARVIS. The best AI. I'm definitely not replacing you with a newer model."

"Your reassurance is overwhelming, sir."

Tony carried you to the bedroom, laying you down on the bed with surprising gentleness. The city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in a soft glow.

"You know," he said, crawling over you, settling between your legs, "I had a whole plan for tonight. Very romantic. Very smooth. But then you came home looking like you'd been through a war, and I had to improvise."

"I like your improvisation." You pulled him down for another kiss, your fingers threading through his hair.

"Good. Because I'm about to improvise a lot more." His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the boxer briefs up. "Tell me if anything doesn't feel good. Tonight is about you."

"Tony…"

"I know I don't have to. I want to." He kissed your neck, teeth grazing lightly. "Let me take care of you. Please."

The please did it. Tony Stark didn't say please often, and when he did, it meant something.

"Okay," you whispered.

His smile against your skin was triumphant. "That's my girl."

He took his time, kissing his way down your body, pushing the shirt up and off. His mouth was hot against your skin, tongue tracing patterns that made you shiver. When he reached your breasts, he lavished attention on each one, sucking and licking until you were arching into him, hands fisted in his hair.

"Still with me?" he asked, looking up at you with dark eyes.

"Very much with you."

"Good. Don't go anywhere." He continued his path downward, kissing across your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs. When he finally removed the boxer briefs, his breath ghosted over your center, making you shudder.

"Tony, please!"

"I love it when you beg. It's my second favorite sound you make." He licked a long stripe up your center, and you gasped. "That's my first favorite."

He proceeded to take you apart with his mouth, tongue and lips and fingers working in concert until you were writhing beneath him, one hand gripping his hair and the other fisted in the sheets. He was relentless and thorough, paying attention to every gasp and moan, adjusting his approach based on your reactions.

When you came, it was with his name on your lips and stars behind your eyes, pleasure rolling through you in waves that seemed to go on forever.

Tony kissed his way back up your body, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "And that's why they call me a genius."

"Pretty sure that's not why," you managed, still catching your breath.

"It should be. I'm adding it to my resume." He kissed you, and you could taste yourself on his lips. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I can't remember what I was stressed about."

"Perfect. That was the goal." He settled beside you, pulling you close. "We can stop here if you want. Tonight is about you being comfortable."

You ran your hand down his chest, feeling the arc reactor beneath the shirt, the warmth of his skin. "What if I want more?"

His breath hitched. "Then I am absolutely on board with more. Very on board. Enthusiastically on board."

"Tony."

"Yeah?"

"Stop talking and kiss me."

"Now that I can do."

He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, rolling you beneath him. You could feel him hard against your thigh, and you reached down, palming him through his pants. He groaned into your mouth.

"You're going to kill me," he muttered, but he was already pushing his pants down, kicking them off. "Death by beautiful girlfriend. Not the worst way to go."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I really do."

He lined himself up, pausing to look at you. "You sure? We can still -"

"Tony. I love you. I want you. Please."

He pushed inside slowly, carefully, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none - just the perfect stretch, the feeling of being full, complete.

"Okay?" he asked, voice strained.

"Perfect."

He started to move, slow and deep, one hand braced beside your head and the other on your hip. It was intimate and intense, his eyes never leaving yours, like he was trying to memorize every expression.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, leaning down to kiss you. "So perfect. I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"Tony!"

"I mean it." His thrusts were getting faster now, less controlled. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than the suits. Better than the company. Better than - fuck - better than everything."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck. His hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

"Come for me," he whispered against your ear. "Want to feel you. Please, baby. Come for me."

The combination of his words, his fingers, the angle of his thrusts - it was too much. You came with a cry, clenching around him, and he followed seconds later, your name a prayer on his lips.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest, both of you breathing hard. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.

"So," he said after a moment, "on a scale of one to ten, how well did I do at making you forget about your terrible day?"

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Eleven."

"Eleven. I like that. JARVIS, make a note. I got an eleven."

"Noted, sir. Shall I alert the media?"

"No, this one's just for me." He tilted your face up, kissing you softly. "Feeling better?"

"So much better. Thank you, Tony. For everything."

"Anytime. Literally anytime. You have a bad day, you come home to me, and I will make it better. That's my job now. Professional bad day eraser. I'm adding it to my business cards."

"You don't have business cards."

"I'll make some. They'll be very fancy. Probably holographic."

You snuggled closer, feeling the exhaustion from earlier returning, but this time it was the good kind - the satisfied, relaxed kind that came from being thoroughly loved and cared for.

"I love you," you murmured, already half-asleep.

"I love you too." He pulled the blanket over both of you, his arms secure around you. "Now sleep. Tomorrow you're calling in sick and we're spending the whole day in bed."

"Tony, I can't."

"Already done. I had JARVIS send an email. You have the flu. Very serious. Definitely contagious. You need at least three days of bed rest with your boyfriend."

"Three days?"

"I'm very thorough. It's one of my best qualities."

You were too tired and too content to argue. Instead, you just smiled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart - the arc reactor humming softly beneath it.

"Thank you," you whispered one more time.

"Always," he replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Now sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. Promise."

Never in a million years did you think you’d end up here. Bent over Tony Stark’s couch, butt naked, ass in the air. Your elbows were resting on the couch cushions, your eyes were hazy and a bit unfocused staring out of the floor to ceiling windows in his penthouse.

Your hair was starting to stick to your face and neck and your ass was no doubt red and sore.

“What number are we on baby?” his voice was slightly out of breath and you felt his hands drifting. One hand held your hip while the other reached around to tease at the seem between your thighs which were shaking slightly.

“Four- ohmygod, Tony!”

You cried out as two of his fingers slipped in.

You weren’t sure how long you had been at this. It had started with just making out. You on his lap, your fingers in his hair as he dragged you back and forth over and over and over again.

You didn’t mean to make it a thing. He said he had work to do. Kinks to work out with the new suit.

You really meant for it to just be quick makeout session. 15-20 minutes tops. But it just felt so good rubbing up against him. Your clit catching on the zipper of his jeans through your underwear.

“God, you always make such a mess. Don’t you sweetheart.” He’s the one with the filthy mouth. It wasn’t really your fault.

Did you tease him? Maybe.

You put your lips on his neck, dragging them down towards his collar bone. Nipping at his skin and lapping at it like you were thirsty.

“Please.” You looked up at him. Wearing only one of his shirts and a pair of lacey black underwear. “Please can’t you just stick it in real quick?”

He did not like that at all.

“Fuck, don’t-“ you whined as he pulled his fingers out. A wet little noise leaving your pussy as he withdrew them.

“What was that? C’mon sweetheart we’re gonna have to start over if you lost count.”

“No! Nonono. We- we’re on four.”

No sooner had those words left your mouth when his hand came and smack!

Another pathetic little whine left your lips at the sting it left behind. His hand rubbing at the fleshy part of your ass.

“God you’re so fucking small.”

You could feel the calluses on his hands. Rough as both of them grabbed your ass and just squeezed.

“F-five.”

It went on for a while.

You used to get embarrassed when you first started doing this. Used to hide your face behind your hands.

But you couldn’t deny how it made you feel. How turned on you’d get. You were absolutely dripping.

“T-Twenty.”

“Thank god.” You barely heard the words leave his mouth.

His hands left you quickly. You could hear him pulling his belt off and playing with his zipper.

“You don’t need me to prep you, right baby? You’re so wet I’ll probably just slide right in.” His voice was so smug. You hated how it just turned you on even more.

Finally, in what seemed like forever but was probably only a few seconds, you felt him press against you.

“Ready?”

“God please just-“

Ohmyfuckinggod. He did slide right in. And yet he was still long and thick enough to where no matter how many times he fucked you it still burned a little as he stretched you out.

“Can it with the attitude. Or I’ll leave you like this.”

You just moaned in response. He dragged against your walls so deliciously. The stretch bordered on painful but it was just enough to where the pain felt good.

And when he bottomed out you couldn’t help but clench around him. So warm and achy and full.

“So fucking tight.” His hands held you by the hips. His thumbs nearly touching your waist was so small. You felt him tighten his grip and he just held you there. Your thighs flush against his.

“You feel me, sweetheart? God I’m so deep inside you.”

Slowly, so slowly you could cry, he started to pull out. You squeezed your eyes shut at the sensation.

He left til it was just the tip inside you. And then he snapped his hips forward. Forcing every single inch inside of you you couldn’t help but cry out.

“ ‘s too big.”

You could practically see him rolling his eyes. But you couldn’t help it. He had worked you up to much. Your head was fuzzy and all you could think about was how full you felt.

“You can take it.”

He kept dragging his hips back slowly, and then pushing his cock back into you so quick. Slow then fast then slow then fast. It was maddening.

“Fuck. Tony, yes- just like that!”

He set a brutal pace. Everytime he slammed his hips back into you, he pressed against your bruised ass and it burned so well.

Your thighs were trembling and tears were building in your eyes.

“I can’t believe you told me to just stick it in real quick.”

His right hand wrapped around to your front. His fingertips dragging down til he reached your clit and he gave it a quick flick.

Your back arched against your own will and you pushed your ass back into him. You heard him mutter something under his breath but you were too distracted by the circles he was drawing.

“I- shit I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you’re sorry.”

You gasped as he hit just the right angle inside of you.

“Oh right-“ you couldn’t even finish the sentence. The words dying on your tongue as he continued to hit that perfect spot inside of you over and over again.

“There it is. Feels good doesn’t it sweetheart? Bet you’re glad I didn’t just stick it in.”

Your mind wasn’t processing his words. Not really. All you could focus on was how he slammed into you. Every inch. Your walls tightened around him and both of you couldn’t help but gasp at the sensation.

“Close?”

All you could do was nod your head. Your toes were curling and his fingers sped up. Rubbing against your clit, his calluses catching on it making it that much better.

“I’m gonna-“

“C’mon sweetheart. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

Your mouth opened and yet nothing came out. It feel like your nerves just short circuited. Your body reached the tipping point and just all of a sudden it broke. Your body slouched and your legs gave out. If it wasn’t for the arm rest you were bent over you would’ve ended up on the floor.

He followed right after. You felt him fill you up. His cum leaking out and dripping down your thighs as he pulled out.

“If you say that to me again we’re gonna have a problem.”

And yet his hands didn’t leave your skin. His left rubbed up and down your back and his other ran down your thighs. Scooping his cum with his fingers and stuffing it back inside.

“Tony.”

“Couldn’t help it.”

"what is it?" you ask, still breathless from the orgasm.

"i wanna film you getting up, babe!"

you laugh, used to your boyfriend filming the two of you in moments like this. the blond guy always loved recording your "slutty little moans", his phone gallery is full of videos of him thrusting deep inside you.

the phone looks tiny in his hand, haaland smiles, fingering your wet entrance, making sure to get things even messier by spreading your juices all over.

"slut!" the slap cracks against your cheek, and you laugh with pure masochistic delight, feeling the red mark he’s leaving behind.

his thick tip rubs against you, throbbing intensely, desperate to take you.

"b-baby," you moan softly, wanting to be tortured in a different way.

"beg for it, slut!" he laughs, almost with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "i love hearing you beg."

the camera zooms in on his cock, dripping pre-cum onto your cunt, hovering right at the entrance without sliding in.

"please..." you beg.

"please what, huh? forget how to speak?" his firm tone makes your body heat up even more.

"wreck my pussy, baby," you whimper coyly, your voice almost sickeningly sweet.

erling laughs, sinking the tip of his hard cock into you.

the first six inches go in easily enough, but then he pushes in a few more, and even then, his cock isn't fully inside yet.

you gasp, feeling your walls burn as they stretch to accommodate your boyfriend's cock, he keeps opening you up inch by inch, driving deeper.

"look at that," he says, filming the profane scene. "that tiny little pussy taking my cock. a trained little slut."

the norwegian pushes a bit harder and realizes he’s hit the limit, the head of his cock is bumping against you, deep enough to stop him from going any further.

your body spasms, clamping tight around his thick cock as the first tears spill from your eyes.

"full already?" he taunts. "such a tiny pussy, baby, can't even handle taking it all."

"b-baby," you moan around that thick cock, your body trying to push it out at all costs.

he pushes a little harder, making you scream as the head finally stretches you open. but he quickly pulls back a bit, knowing it’s too much.

"you can never take it all, can you?" he laughs, filming the bulge his cock makes against your belly. he moves it slowly, making your body mold around him, your tummy distended by the size of his cock. "such a weak little thing."

"t-too big." you spread your legs, the burning sensation hurting just as much as it feels good.

"and yet you always take it, don't you, love? you always let me wreck this pussy." slow thrusts and a sweet voice contrasting with the dirty words. "you're gonna be sore tomorrow."

he looks proud, still filming your pussy, even though there are still a few inches left to go, knowing just how hard it is to take his cock.

"i'm gonna tear you apart, princess, can i?" he asks gently, his words making your toes curl.

you nod, spreading your legs wider, staring into his light-colored eyes.

when he picks up the pace, you gasp, clutching his defined biceps as you moan. his thick cock hits the very back of your womb, its length stretching your tight pussy to the limit.

"slut. my slut," he growls, his phone filming your pussy stretching wide to take almost his entire length.

"b-baby," you call out, your mouth falling open.

you know each other so well that he knows exactly what he wants. laughing, the camera shifts to your face, capturing the spit he lands in your mouth, followed by a sharp slap across your delicate cheek.

"bitch! mine!"

the camera is tossed aside onto the bed, still recording a glimpse of the two of you.

erling keeps fucking you, sometimes thrusting all the way inside, hurting you in a way that satisfies your masochistic side, but fuck, it feels so good. you scream and roar, biting his shoulder while digging your nails into his pale back.

your man dominates you so roughly, so powerfully, stretching your tight pussy, using you like a doll, driven wild by your hot hole taking his cock.

"greedy whore, you can't even handle it all, but you won't let me stop." his large body shoves against yours, making you scream every time he pushes past the limit and buries it deep.

tears stream down your cheeks as he kisses you, clumsy, rough. "i fucking love you." he kisses you again, almost devouring you. "my woman. my slut."

your hole clenches, and you try to close your legs out of pure reflex when your belly begins to burn, not from the penetration this time.

"hot. my woman is so damn hot."

"b-baby," you whimper around his thick cock, your face flushed red as tears stream down. "i love you."

"bitch. my bitch. my slut. my cumdump." he kisses your jaw, completely losing control.

his cock throbs inside you, your toes curling tight, as the blond man fumbles across the bed for the phone he’d tossed aside.

just so he can record your orgasm, the slutty little cries you make while he keeps fucking you, filming your body trembling beneath him.

"i'm gonna cum inside you, baby," he says, thrusting on as he chases his own release. "i'm gonna fill up that pussy."

he kisses you again, gripping your jaw as he devours you, in every sense of the word.

his cock slams deep against your cervix, and you scream.

and then haaland comes. deep inside you, making sure to shoot jets of cum right into your ravaged pussy, not wasting a single drop, his cock buried to the hilt.

when his breathing settles, he kisses you, his touch a little gentler now.

he pulls back just enough to film exactly how deep inside you he is, chuckling softly. "you always take it all. you really are the woman of my life."

he thrusts a few more times, just to mess you up, your thighs are still trembling as the camera captures the spasms.

"i love you so much. you're so beautiful." that tender compliment hardly seems to come from the guy who’s going to be the reason you’re walking with a wobble for the next few days.

and when his cock starts to go soft and he pulls it out, your pussy clenches around the emptiness, gaping wide after taking that thick dick.

"so beautiful." the blond lowers the camera, capturing exactly how dirty and used you look. "totally stretched out by my cock," he says affectionately, running his fingers through the sticky fluids and over your abused opening.

you moan, the slight sting in your pussy and deep in your belly makes you feel weak.

"you're the woman of my dreams."

haaland turns off the camera, lingering for a few seconds to admire the mess he made, your pussy all stretched out and slick.

"i love you so fucking much!"

he kisses your forehead.

he goes to the bathroom, grabbing a wet towel and some ointment, and cleans you up completely with the utmost care. even though the blond is rough by nature, he’s always incredibly gentle with you.

after cleaning you, he applies the ointment, tending to the hole he’d just roughed up. then, he heads to the kitchen to get a hot water bottle for your belly, he knows that even though it only happened a few times, the way he pounded against your cervix is ​​going to leave you sore.

it’s almost funny, the same rough guy who just wrecked you with his aggressive cock is now taking care of you like a princess, peppering your face with kisses while stroking your hair.

"erling," you say, not looking up from your phone.

"mm?"

"read the board for me. the mango one. does it have banana in it? i don't want banana."

he leans back in his chair, squinting up at the board with zero effort. he doesn't even need to squint. he's a head and a half taller than everyone else in here. "mango, passionfruit, lime, honey," he reads. "no banana. you're safe."

"good. order it for me?"

he's already standing, wallet in hand. "ice?"

"lots."

he comes back with both your drinks, sets yours down in front of you with a little napkin underneath it so the condensation doesn't ruin your phone case. he does this every time, the napkin thing, yet you've never asked him to.

"thanks," you murmur, taking a sip.

"anything else while i'm up?" he asks, and there's something in his voice, not quite a edge, more like a gentle ridge. his hand rests on the back of your neck as he sits back down, warm and solid, thumb brushing the top of your spine. "or are we all sorted, princess?"

you hum noncommittally, scrolling through instagram.

this is how the morning goes. you point at things in shop windows and he follows. you try on sunglasses and hold them up to his face and he bends down dutifully so you can check, hands on his knees, smiling at you in the mirror. you hand him your bag when it gets heavy—two seconds into having it—and he swings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, because to him it does weigh nothing, because his shoulders could carry a wardrobe. 

at the third boutique, you're in the changing room and he's sitting on the little velvet bench outside, legs stretched across the entire aisle, and you pull the curtain open in a dress you're not even sure you like.

"zip me up," you say, turning around.

he stands. he has to practically fold himself in half to reach, one hand braced on the doorframe above you, the other drawing the zip up your back slowly. his fingers brush your skin, trailing warmth, and he leans down to press his mouth against the curve of your shoulder briefly. then his chin rests on the top of your head, his arms coming around you from behind, and you look at yourselves in the mirror—his enormous frame folded around you, your body almost disappearing into his.

"pretty," he says against your hair. "get it."

"i wasn't sure about it."

"i'm sure. get it." he's already reaching for his card.

by lunchtime, you're sun-heavy and lazy, sprawled across two sun loungers pushed together on a quieter stretch of beach. your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers tracing idle circles on your shoulder. you keep shifting, restless, and every time you move he adjusts without complaint—shifts his arm, repositions, pulls you closer. you're lying on him more than the lounger at this point, half draped across his torso, and he doesn't say a word about it.

"erling, my water."

he reaches behind him without looking, grabs the bottle, unscrews the cap, and holds it to your mouth. you drink without lifting your head, his other hand cupping the back of your neck so you don't spill.

"more?"

"no." you settle back against him, ear to his chest, listening to the slow thump of his heartbeat. he's so warm, broad and steady, like lying on a heated rock. you wriggle until you're comfortable, which takes approximately forty-five seconds of unnecessary squirming, and he lets you, patient as anything, his thumb stroking the same spot on your shoulder.

"you comfy?" he asks, and his voice vibrates through his ribs into your ear.

"mm."

"good girl."

he says it so easily, so simply, like he’s stating a fact. the sun is hot, the sea is blue, you're his good girl. you feel the words settle somewhere low in your stomach despite not wanting it to affect you.

in the afternoon, you walk along the promenade and you're tired and hot and your feet hurt from the wrong sandals, so you stop walking. just stop, in the middle of the pavement, and look up at him.

"my feet hurt."

he looks down at you. there's a beat where his expression is perfectly still—not annoyed, not amused, just still, assessing you. then he crouches, back to you, and you climb on without hesitation, your arms around his neck, legs around his waist. he stands up like you weigh absolutely nothing, hooks his arms under your knees, and keeps walking. people look, of course they look. he's six-foot-five with a grown woman on his back and he's strolling along like it's a sunday errand.

"you're lucky you're cute," he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

"i know," you reply against his neck.

back at the hotel, you're fresh out of the shower in your pajamas, which on such a hot night is just a flimsy tank top and panties. you’re laying on your tummy on the bed with a bottle of lotion, squirming around. 

"can't reach my back," you say.

erling is standing, back to you, texting someone, probably his dad, and he doesn’t turn around. his thumbs move across the screen, steady and unhurried, and you can hear the faint click of the keys. he's finishing his text before paying any mind to you.

"erlingggg," you say again, drawing his name out, pressing your cheek into the mattress. "i'm waiting."

"mm-hm." still typing. not looking at you.

you kick your feet a little, heels bumping against the mattress. "it's gonna get dry. i'll be uncomfortable."

nothing. he hits send, slides the phone onto the dresser, and you're already opening your mouth to complain again when he moves. but he doesn't come to sit beside you, and he doesn't pick up the lotion bottle.

the mattress dips under his weight, a deep compression that tilts your body toward the center of the bed, and then he's there—all of him, all at once. his chest against your back, his hips settling over yours, his arms sliding underneath you and around your middle, hands splaying flat against your stomach. he's so big that the world disappears. the light from the lamp, the sound of the air conditioner, the city outside the window, all of it vanishes under the warm, crushing weight of him. his chin hooks over your shoulder, his hair falls forward and brushes your jaw, and he exhales slowly against your neck, a long, deliberate breath.

you can't move. you can barely breathe. his forearms are locked across your torso, his hands overlapping on your sternum, fingers so long they wrap around your ribs. you're pinned, fully, completely, pressed into the mattress by what feels like a wall of solid warmth. your fingers curl uselessly at your sides.

"erling—" you start, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended, muffled against the sheets.

"hm?" he shifts slightly, settling in deeper, his mouth now resting right against your ear. "what's the matter? you wanted my attention."

you squirm. it does nothing. your legs kick weakly beneath his and he doesn't even tense, doesn't adjust, just holds you tighter—his arms drawing inward until your back is flush against his chest, until there isn't a sliver of space between your bodies. you can feel his heartbeat against your shoulder blades, slow and easy and infuriatingly calm.

"i wanted lotion," you whine, turning your face sideways so you can breathe.

"did you?" his voice is so quiet. he rests his cheek against your temple, and you feel him smile,  feel it, the shift of his lips against your skin. "you wanted lotion. like you wanted your smoothie this morning. and your bag carried. and your zip done up. and a piggyback because your feet were a little bit sore."

"a lot bit sore," you correct, squirming again.

his arms tighten, just enough to make you feel it in your lungs. "shh," he murmurs, so gently it could be a lullaby. "i'm talking."

you go still, listening intently, because what else can you do? his thumb rubs a slow circle on your stomach, just below your ribs, and his lips brush the shell of your ear when he speaks. "you haven't said please once today. have you?"

you swallow, a whimper slipping out.

"have you, sweetheart?"

"no," you whisper.

"no," he agrees, soft and warm and devastating. "you haven't. not for the smoothie. not for the dress. not for the water. not for any of it. you just said 'erling,' and i did it, because that's what i do, isn't it? because that's how it works with us."

his hand slides up from your stomach, slow, palm flat and wide, fingers spread across your ribs. he traces the curve of them like he's counting, like he's memorizing.

"you just say my name and i come running." his nose nudges behind your ear, and his voice drops, not louder, just lower, a hum you feel in your teeth. "and that's alright. i love doing things for you. you know that. but today, baby... today you've been very, very greedy."

your breath catches. his hand stops, resting right beneath your chest, warm and heavy.

"have i not given you enough today?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely curious, the way someone might ask about the weather, calm and measured. "the dress, the shoes, the dinner last night, the necklace yesterday. the flight here. this room. all of it mine, all of it yours. and you can't say please?"

you're trying to think of something to say, something bratty and deflective, but his weight is pressing you into the mattress and his hand is warm on your ribs and his mouth is soft against your ear and your brain is just white noise.

"i'm not angry," he says, like he's reading the tension in your silence. "i'm never angry with you. you know that. i just think..." he shifts, rolling you both slightly onto your sides so he can look at your face, his arm still banded around your waist, his other hand coming up to brush the hair out of your eyes. his blue gaze meets yours, steady and fond, and he smiles—slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. "i just think we should work on your manners a little bit."

his thumb traces along your cheekbone, following the sweep of it like he's drawing something, and the gesture is so tender it almost disguises the weight of what he's saying. you try to dip your chin, to duck away from the quiet scrutiny of his gaze, but he catches you immediately—fingers sliding beneath your jaw, tilting your face back up with a grip so controlled it could hold an egg without cracking it.

"ah, ah. look at me when i'm talking to you," he says, and there's no sharpness in it at all, which is the worst part, because you could handle sharpness. you could rally against sharpness, fire back, dig your heels in and be bratty about it. but this—this soft, patient, immovable steadiness—leaves you with absolutely nothing to push against. he's a wall of gentle and you're just bouncing off it uselessly. 

"there she is," he murmurs when your eyes meet his again, and his mouth curves into something impossibly fond, his dimples cutting deep into his flushed cheeks. "there's my girl."

your stomach flips. he has to feel it, the way your breath stutters, because his hand tightens just slightly on your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and he watches the movement of his own finger with a kind of lazy fascination.

"now," he says, settling himself more comfortably beside you, pulling you closer until your back is flush against his chest again and his arm is draped heavy over your waist, his chin returning to its spot on your shoulder. you can feel the full length of him behind you—the breadth of his chest, the solid plane of his stomach, his thighs bracketing yours so completely that your legs look almost childlike between them. "i want you to think really hard for me. can you do that?"

you nod, which is difficult with his hand still holding your jaw.

"out loud, baby. use your words."

"i can do that," you manage, and it comes out so much smaller than you intended.

"good." he presses a kiss to the spot just behind your ear, lingering, his lips warm and dry. "tell me what you think happened today. with your manners. where did they go?"

you squirm, and his arm tightens like a seatbelt locking, holding you perfectly still against him. "i don't know," you whisper.

"sure you do." his hand finally releases your jaw, sliding down the column of your throat—slow, deliberate, his palm settling there with a gentleness that makes your pulse hammer against his fingers. the rabbiting beat of your heart pushes uselessly against the cage of his hand, but he doesn't acknowledge it, just keeps his fingers resting there, a loose collar of warmth and pressure. "i think you got comfortable. i think you got used to me handing you everything you want the second you snap your fingers, and you forgot that it's nice to ask properly."

"it's not snapping," you protest, finding a tiny flicker of defiance somewhere beneath the haze he's reducing you to. "i just say your name."

"you do," he agrees, nodding against your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck. "you say my name like it's a magic word. like erling is the same as please and thank you all wrapped up together. and i let you, because i like hearing it. i like being the one you call." his lips drag along the curve of your shoulder, a slow graze that leaves goosebumps in its wake. "but that doesn't mean it's good manners, does it?"

you're quiet, turning the admission over in your head, feeling the truth of it pressing against the inside of your teeth. "no," you say finally, barely audible. "it doesn't."

"mm." he sounds pleased, deeply and genuinely pleased, the way he sounds when you correctly predict the score of a match or remember his coffee order without asking. his hand on your throat shifts, thumb stroking a slow line from your collarbone to your chin, and he turns you in his arms—a slow rotation, his body rearranging around yours like water—until you're facing him, tucked into the space between his chin and his chest, your forehead pressed to the warm bare skin above the collar of his t-shirt. his hand finds the back of your head immediately, fingers threading into your hair, cradling you there.

his heartbeat is right there against your cheek, steady and slow and maddening in its composure while yours feels like it's trying to claw its way out through your ribs. you can smell him this close—warm skin and that expensive body wash, the one in the dark glass bottle that you've started associating so completely with safety and want that catching a trace of it in public makes your knees threaten to buckle. 

his fingers stay threaded through your hair, gentle, rhythmic, combing through the damp strands in a way that makes your scalp tingle and your eyes want to flutter shut, but the low pull in your belly keeps them open, keeps you hyperaware of every single point where his body meets yours.

"so," he murmurs into the top of your head, the word vibrating through his chest and into yours, "now that we've established that you've been a incredibly greedy today—i want to know something else."

his hand slides from your hair down to the nape of your neck, warm palm settling there, fingers curling loosely around the base of your neck from behind. not squeezing, not restricting, just resting, a weight that reminds you with every breath that he's bigger than you, that he could do anything he wanted, that the only reason you feel safe is because he's chosen to make you feel safe. his thumb traces the ridge of your spine, slow, meditative, like he's reading braille.

"when you were lying on your tummy just now, squirming around in that little top, holding that bottle of lotion you couldn't reach—" he pauses, and you feel him smile against your hair, feel the stretch of his lips, the warmth of his breath shifting. "what were you actually hoping would happen?"

the question drops into the small space between your bodies like a stone into still water, and you feel the ripples spreading outward through every nerve ending you possess. your face burns. you try to press it deeper into his chest, to hide in the broad warmth of him, but his hand at your nape tightens—just barely, just enough—and tilts your head back until you're looking up at him, your chin resting against his sternum, his eyes gazing down at you from what feels like an impossible height even lying down.

"don't hide from me," he says softly, and his free hand comes up to brush the hair back from your flushed face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness, every movement careful and precise. "that's not very brave, is it? and you're a brave girl. i've seen you be brave. you walked into a room full of footballers at a christmas party and didn't even flinch. you can tell me what you wanted."

"i just wanted lotion," you breathe, and even you can hear how thin it sounds.

"just wanted lotion," he echoes, and the way he repeats it back to you, each syllable rolled around like he's tasting it for accuracy, makes the lie sound exactly as flimsy as it is. his eyebrows lift, just barely, just enough to signal that he's giving you a chance to correct yourself, a window to be honest, and when you don't take it, when you just press your lips together and stare up at him with the petulant set to your jaw that you know drives him a little bit crazy, something shifts in his expression.

never anger, just… a quiet recalibration, like a man deciding on a different approach. "okay," he says simply, and then his hand comes down on the curve of your ass—firm, precise, barely anything behind it really, just the flat of his palm connecting with the thin cotton of your panties in a clean crisp sound that cracks through the quiet room like a snapped twig. it doesn't really hurt, it's not meant to hurt. it's meant to startle, and it does—you flinch with a sharp little gasp, your hips jerking forward against him, and his hand stays exactly where it landed, warm and heavy and resting there with an unhurried certainty that makes your skin prickle and start to bloom red.

"that's for lying to me," he says, and his voice hasn't changed at all, still that same low and honeyed tone, still patient, still impossibly gentle for a man whose palm is currently molding the shape of your ass. his fingers curve slightly, a reflexive squeeze that's more possessive than punitive, and you feel the pressure of it ripple through your lower stomach, your thighs pressing together on instinct. "try again. what did you want?"

your breath is coming faster now, shallow little pulls that barely fill your lungs, and the heat in your face has spread downward—your chest, your stomach, the insides of your thighs—until you feel like you're glowing with it, a slow internal blaze that his calm is somehow stoking rather than smothering. he watches you struggle with it, watches the defiance warring with the want behind your eyes, and his thumb traces a slow absent circle on the curve of your hip where his hand has drifted, patient as gravity.

"you," you whisper finally, and the word comes out sticky and reluctant, dragged from somewhere deep and honest. "i wanted you."

"there," he says, and the warmth that floods his voice is genuine, rewarding, a sound like sunshine breaking through cloud cover. "that wasn't so hard, was it? just a little bit of truth. thank you, baby." his hand on your hip slides upward, tracing the dip of your waist, the ridge of your ribs through the thin cotton of your tank top, and then back down again, a slow meandering path that makes your muscles jump and tighten beneath his touch. "wanted me to do what, exactly?"

"i wanted you to touch me," you admit, and your voice cracks on the last word, splitting it open, laying the raw want inside completely bare. his hand stills on your waist.

"touch you?" he repeats, thoughtful, rolling the words around in his mouth like he's considering them from every angle. his blue eyes hold yours, steady and unblinking, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "where? here?" his hand moves to your hip, squeezing gently through the fabric. "here?" up to your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your ribs. "be specific, sweetheart. i'm a footballer, not a mind reader."

you squirm against him, the wet heat between your legs pressing maddeningly against the inside of your thighs, and the petulance flares up again—one last flare of it, one last flickering resistance—because admitting it, saying it out loud, guiding his hand there yourself, feels like surrender, and some stubborn part of you doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. but his hand is resting on your waist now, motionless, waiting, and his face is so open and so patient and so handsome in the low golden lamplight, his long hair falling across his forehead and his eyes soft with something that looks a lot like adoration, and the defiance just melts out of you like ice in the sun.

you reach down and take his hand. his fingers are so much larger than yours that wrapping around them feels like gripping a banister, and you feel the subtle flex of his knuckles beneath your palm, the quiet strength coiled in every tendon, as you guide his hand off your waist and down—over the plane of your stomach, past the edge of your tank top, over the slight curve of your lower belly where the muscles flutter and jump beneath his touch, until his palm settles between your legs, pressed flat against the soaked cotton of your panties.

his hand is huge, fingers splayed over your mound, and you feel him exhale, the warm rush of his breath stirring your hair and the tension vibrating through his chest where your cheek rests. he lets you guide him, lets you press his palm down until there’s no mistaking what you want—what you need. his thumb sweeps slowly, circling over the damp cotton, and when you gasp, he grins, bending his head so his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“thank you for showing me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet hush, threading through you and making your whole body tighten with anticipation, “i like it when you’re honest with me. makes it so much easier.”

you arch your hips into his hand, your thighs spread, greedy and restless, and he rewards you with a gentle squeeze, fingers flexing, massaging you over your panties until you’re squirming, desperate for more. the fabric is already damp—nearly soaked—and when he presses two fingers just there, right where you’re aching for it, your breath stutters and your legs clench helplessly around his wrist. he’s so broad, you realize, his whole forearm braced across your hips, pinning you in place, making you feel small and helpless and so deeply, sweetly owned.

he slides his hand beneath the waistband, the backs of his knuckles tracing a slow, teasing path over your bare skin, and then his index finger finds your slit, slick and hot. he groans, low and pleased, a sound that rumbles through his chest and into your cheek, and his finger circles your clit with a care that makes you shiver, each movement deliberate, patient, coaxing.

“mmm, you’re always so warm here,” he breathes, his words a lazy drawl against your ear, “so soft for me. you know i love how tiny you feel in my hands, don’t you?” his finger dips lower, sliding between your folds, collecting your slick, and then he’s pressing—not too hard, just enough—at your entrance, testing.

he knows how it always is, how his fingers stretch you so much more than anyone else’s, how just one feels like your body is barely containing it, every nerve ending lit up, fluttering with the effort. he eases his finger inside, slow and steady, watching your face, lips parted, eyes fluttering, your breath coming in shallow, needy gasps.

“that’s it, good girl,” he croons, and you whine softly, your hips rocking involuntarily, trying to take him deeper. he moves with you, never forcing, always guiding, his thumb rubbing lazy circles over your clit as he works his thick finger in and out of you, careful not to push for more. he knows you can never take more than this, that even the suggestion of a second finger makes you clench up, overwhelmed by the stretch of just one.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his tone endlessly proud, teasing, “always so eager and still so tight for me. such a perfect fit.” he curls his finger, finding that spot inside you that makes you cry out, your legs trembling, your thighs pressing desperately around his wrist. your hands clutch at his forearm, nails digging into the hard muscle, and he laughs, soft and indulgent, watching the way you writhe and mewl in his grasp.

his thumb keeps that maddening slow rhythm on your clit while his finger works inside you, curling and pressing with a patience that feels almost cruel, and just when your thighs start to shake and your breath turns to thin desperate little pulls, he slows. not stops—slows, his movements going syrupy and languid, his finger barely moving inside you, just resting there, filling you, his thumb still circling but so lightly it barely counts as contact. your hips chase the pressure instinctively, grinding down against his hand, and he lets you, watches you do it with those half-lidded blue eyes and that quiet fond smile like he's watching something endearing, maybe a cute baby animal.

he pulls his finger out out slowly, the drag of it making you whine, and then he's pressing forward again—but this time there are two fingertips nudging at your entrance, blunt and broad and slick with you, and your whole body tenses, your hand shooting down to grip his wrist.

"erling—"

"shh, shh. i know," he murmurs, and his mouth finds your forehead, pressing a kiss there, warm and firm. "i know it's a lot…" his fingers don't push, just rest there, a promise and a question, and his thumb resumes its slow stroke over your clit, keeping you slick and trembling and open. "just wanna make it easier for you later,"

the statement lands between your legs like a pulse of heat and you feel yourself clench around nothing, your body responding to the implication before your brain catches up. he waits, his fingers patient at your entrance, his eyes on your face, and when you don't say no—when your grip on his wrist loosens just barely, just enough—he pushes forward.

the stretch is immediate and overwhelming, a slow burning fullness that makes your mouth fall open and your eyes squeeze shut, your thighs falling open wider on instinct because there's nowhere else for them to go, your body making room the only way it knows how. he's so careful, easing in millimeter by millimeter, his thumb working your clit in steady circles to keep you wet and pliant, and when his fingers are finally seated inside you—both of them, buried to the knuckle—you feel like you're being split apart in the most devastatingly gentle way possible.

"there you go," he breathes against your temple, and you can hear the pride in it, the restrained heat, the way his composure is fraying at the edges just slightly. "that wasn't so bad. look at you, taking it so well."

he doesn't let you adjust for long. his fingers begin to move—a slow curling thrust that drags against your walls, stretching you open with each stroke, and your hands fist in the sheets beneath you, your back arching, sounds coming out of your mouth that you can't control. high thin whines and broken little moans, your hips stuttering between trying to escape the intensity of it and trying to press closer, take more, and he watches all of it with that same steady gaze, his dimples deepening every time you cry out.

and then he stops, his fingers slide out of you slowly, leaving you empty and clenching and gasping. your hips are chasing him before your brain registers the loss, and when you open your eyes he's already pulling back, sitting up on his knees above you. he's enormous from this angle—all that broad chest tapering to his waist, his shoulders blocking out the lamplight behind him, his hair falling forward around his face as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluid motion. the muscles of his abdomen shift and flex, golden skin stretched over all that impossible width, and you're still trembling from his fingers, still soaking wet, still desperately empty.

he reaches for his waistband, pushing his joggers down over his hips, and then his boxers, and then he's there—hard and flushed and so thick that your stomach actually tightens with something close to fear, your thighs pressing together involuntarily. he's long, yes, but it's the girth that's devastating, the heavy width of him resting against his stomach, the head dark and slick already, and you think every single time you see it that there is absolutely no way, no physical way, that—

"don't worry, love," he says softly, reading your expression like a headline. he settles over you, one knee between your thighs, his arms bracketing your head, and his free hand reaches down to hook behind your knee, drawing your leg up along his ribs. the breadth of him covers you completely, shadows you, the heat of his body radiating into yours like standing too close to a bonfire. "don't do that thing where you get in your head about it. we always figure it out, don't we?"

he reaches between you, wraps his hand around himself, and presses the head of his cock against your entrance. you're so wet that the sound of it is obscene, a slick parting, the heat of him nudging against where you're swollen and desperate, and your hands come up to grip his biceps, fingers digging into the hard warm muscle there.

the first inch alone makes you cry out—a sharp high sound that you muffle against his shoulder, your teeth grazing his skin—and he groans, low and long, his jaw tightening, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables. his arm beneath you tightens, pulling your hips up to meet his, and he keeps pushing, keeps that slow relentless forward pressure that doesn't feel like forcing, just feels like inevitability, like the tide coming in.

you're shaking beneath him, your walls clenching and fluttering around the next few inches of him in rapid desperate waves that you can't control, and he's barely even started—still less than halfway, his cock stretching you open so completely that you can feel your body resisting, tightening around the intrusion like a fist trying to keep him out while simultaneously pulling him deeper. the pressure is extraordinary, a deep aching fullness that radiates outward from your core and turns your bones to liquid, and when he rocks forward another centimeter your hand flies back against his hip, pressing flat against the hard slab of muscle there.

"i can't," you gasp, the words tumbling out wet and broken against his shoulder, "erling, i can't, it's too much, i can't take more—"

he stills. not immediately, not abruptly—there's one last tiny roll of his hips, a gentle nudge that makes you both groan before he settles, half-buried inside you, his breathing heavier now but still controlled, still infuriatingly measured while you're falling apart beneath him. his mouth finds your hair, pressing a kiss there, and you feel him smile again, that slow quiet curve of his lips that means he's thinking, that means he's about to be annoyingly reasonable about something that feels anything but reasonable.

"can't take more like this, hm?" he says, and his voice has dropped, gone rougher, a gravelly edge creeping into the warmth that makes your stomach clench. his thumb traces the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up toward his, and his blue eyes are dark now, the pupils blown wide, the steady composure still there but thinner, stretched taut over something hungry. "that's alright. let's make it easier for you."

the drag of him leaving you is almost worse than the push—your walls clinging to him, the wet sucking sound of it filling the quiet room, and you're left empty and gasping, your hips tilting up instinctively before you can stop yourself, chasing the fullness that's just been taken away. his hand runs down the length of your spine, palm flat and warm between your shoulder blades, and there's a weight to it, a gentle insistent pressure that tells you exactly what he wants before he says it.

"over, baby."

you turn onto your stomach without even thinking about it, your cheek pressing into the cool sheets, your arms folding beneath you. his hands find your hips immediately—those enormous hands that span your waist almost entirely, fingers wrapping around your hipbones—and he lifts you, pulling your ass up toward him until you're on your knees, face still pressed to the mattress, your back arching in a deep curve that he molds with one long slow stroke of his palm from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine. the position makes you feel vulnerable in a way that sends heat flooding through you—open and displayed for him, your thighs trembling, and when his hand smooths over the curve of your ass and squeezes, a slow appreciative handful, you whine into the sheets.

"there we go," his voice comes from above you, from somewhere impossibly tall, and you can feel the heat of him behind you, the broadness of his chest radiating warmth against your back without quite touching. "you always take me so well from behind, such a good girl for me." his thumb traces down between your cheeks, over the soaked cotton of your panties bunched to the side, through the slick mess of you, and you push back against his hand with a desperate shameless little roll of your hips that makes him laugh softly. "so eager now. where did all that attitude go?"

he notches the head of his cock against you again and your breath catches, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and this time when he pushes forward your body opens for him like a key turning in a lock—the angle different, deeper, gravity helping, your hips tilted and ready. the stretch is still enormous, still overwhelming, still enough to make your vision blur at the edges and your mouth fall open in a silent cry, but he slides in inch by slow careful inch and you feel yourself melting around him, your walls yielding and fluttering and adjusting to the impossible girth of him.

"that's it," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked now, finally, the composure cracking properly for the first time—a ragged exhale that sounds punched out of him. his hands tighten on your hips, fingers dimpling the soft skin there, and he rocks forward, sinking deeper.

you're sobbing, wet gasping sounds muffled into the mattress, your whole body shaking with the effort of taking him, the pleasure and the pressure blurring together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. he's barely halfway and you feel like you're being filled to your throat, every nerve ending in your body firing at once, your thighs shaking violently on either side of his hips. his hand slides up your spine again, anchoring at the back of your neck, and he leans forward, his chest draping over your back, his mouth hot against your ear.

his weight settles over you like a warm avalanche, his stomach pressed flush against the curve of your lower back, his hips flush against your ass, and the new angle pushes him just a fraction deeper—a fraction that makes you keen, high and thin and desperate, your fingers tearing at the sheets. you can feel him everywhere, the impossible breadth of him stretching you in ways you didn't know you could be stretched, and when his hand leaves the back of your neck and slides slowly around your side, tracing the ridge of your ribs, the dip of your waist, you don't think anything of it until his palm flattens against your lower belly.

he stills a bit as his fingers press in, gentle, exploratory, and you feel the pressure of it from both sides—his hand on the outside, his cock on the inside—and the realization hits you at the same moment a low pleased sound rumbles through his chest and into your back. there's a swell there, a faint rounded prominence just above your pubic bone that wasn't there before, a soft visible outline of exactly how deep he is inside you, and his thumb traces over it with a slowness that makes your entire body clench.

"mmm," he hums, and you can hear the smile in it, the quiet wonder, the satisfaction underneath. his fingers spread wide across the swell, pressing down just enough to make you feel it—to make you feel everything, the pressure of his cock and the pressure of his hand meeting through the thin wall of your body, and your arms give out entirely, your chest dropping to the mattress, your face turning sideways against the cool sheets while a broken moan tears out of you. "look at that. look at how brave you're being for me."

his hand stays there, molding over the shape of himself inside you, and he rocks his hips—a slow shallow thrust that barely moves, just grinds, and the bulge shifts beneath his palm, pressing outward against his fingers. he groans, the sound raw and unguarded, his forehead dropping to the back of your shoulder, his blond hair spilling across your skin.

you can feel the weight of his palm pressing him deeper, feel the way his fingers trace the outline of himself inside your body like he's committing it to memory, and the intimacy of it is so devastating that tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your mouth falling open against the sheets. you try to speak and nothing comes out—just a wet shaky exhale, your hips twitching weakly beneath him, and his free hand smooths up your spine again, a slow grounding stroke.

"shh, i know," he says, and there's that condescending tenderness again, the soft patronizing warmth that makes your chest ache and your walls clench simultaneously. "i know it's a lot. you're doing so well. such a good girl when she wants to be, isn't she? didn't want to say please all day but look at you now, taking all of this, being so sweet for me."

his hand presses harder against your belly and your vision whites out at the edges, a sobbing moan catching in your throat, and he holds himself there—buried to the point your body simply refuses to take more, his hand cupping the swell of himself inside you, his chest blanketing your back, his mouth warm against the curve of your neck.

"maybe this is what you needed all day," he whispers, his lips brushing your skin with every word. "not smoothies and shopping and someone to carry your bag. maybe you just needed to be full and quiet and good for a little while. is that what all the fussing was about, sweetheart? you just wanted my attention here?"

he punctuates the question with a slow deliberate roll of his hips, his cock dragging out halfway before pressing back in, and his hand tightens over your belly, feeling the bulge retreat and return beneath his palm. the sound that comes out of you is barely human—a broken wavering cry, your thighs shaking so hard the mattress trembles with it—and he hums against your shoulder, pleased and patient and utterly in control.

you whine, high and thin and pathetic, your fingers twisting so hard in the sheets that the fabric bunches and wrinkles beneath your clenched fists. he responds by rolling his hips so agonizingly slowly that you feel every single inch of him, every ridge, every vein, the broad head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision sparkle and your thighs clamp together on instinct. his hand returns to your belly, pressing flat, and the dual sensation of being filled and held and mapped all at once makes a sob tear out of your chest.

"still can't take all of me," he observes, and there's no disappointment in it—just a quiet factual tenderness, like he's noting the weather, his thumb stroking over the soft swell where his cock is buried inside you. his hips draw back, almost all the way out until just the head is notched inside your entrance, your walls clenching desperately around the tip of him, and then he pushes forward again in one long unhurried slide that makes your mouth fall open in a silent cry. "but you're taking so much more than you thought you could. aren't you?"

"yes," you gasp, the word ripping out of you, "yes, i'm—please—"

"there it is," he says, and the warmth that floods his voice is genuine, luminous, a sound like sunlight breaking through curtains. his chest presses tighter against your back, his arms wrapping around you from behind—both of them now, banding across your chest and stomach, pulling you up and back against him until you're kneeling in his lap, impaled on his cock, your back against his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder. the new position drives him somehow deeper and you keen, your head falling back against his collarbone, your hands gripping his forearms where they cross over your belly. "there's that word. took you all day to find it, but here we are. such good manners when you try."

he presses his palm over your belly again from this angle, fingers splaying wide, and the bulge is more pronounced now with gravity pushing you down onto him—his hand cupping it, kneading gently, feeling the shape of himself through you while his other arm bands across your chest, holding you flush against the furnace of his body. you're so close. you've been so close for what feels like hours, the tension coiled tight and trembling in your lower stomach, and every tiny movement—the flex of his thighs beneath yours, the press of his hand, the shallow grinding thrusts that barely qualify as movement at all—sends you spiraling closer to an edge you can't quite reach.

"please what?" he murmurs into your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it, and you can hear the smile, can feel it radiating through every point of contact between your bodies. he's barely moving now, just holding you there, full and stretched and trembling in his lap, his cock buried as deep as your body will allow, his heartbeat thudding against your shoulder blades. "use your words, sweetheart. tell me what you want and i'll give it to you. you know i always give you what you want."

"please let me come," you whisper, and your voice cracks on the last word, splitting it clean in half, and his arms tighten around you—a convulsive squeeze, like even he can't help it, like the raw honesty of the request gets to him despite every effort to stay measured and composed. his breath shudders against your neck.

"since you asked so nicely," he says, and his voice is rougher now, the gravel in it more pronounced, the careful softness beginning to fray at the seams. his hand slides down from your belly, fingers tracing the junction of your thighs where you're stretched impossibly tight around him, and then a bit higher, finding your clit with a precision that makes you jolt—swollen and oversensitive and dripping, and his fingers begin to circle it with the same maddening patience he's applied to everything else tonight.

each thrust now rocks you forward in his arms and he pulls you back, impaling you again, his cock hitting that devastating spot inside you with unerring accuracy while his fingers work your clit in tight slick circles. the sounds filling the room are obscene—wet, rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin, your sobbing breathless moans tangled with his low steady groans, and his mouth is hot against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin, his arms locked around you like he's keeping you from flying apart.

"come on," he murmurs against your neck, and his voice has lost the teasing edge now, the condescension stripped away to reveal something raw and desperate beneath—the quiet ferocity of a man who has been patient for as long as he possibly can. his fingers tighten on your clit, pressing harder, faster, and his hips snap forward with a thrust that punches the air from your lungs. "come on, baby, give it to me, you've been so good, so good for me—"

it crashes through you like a wave breaking—a full body convulsion that starts at your core and radiates outward through every limb, your back arching against his chest, your walls clenching so hard around him that he groans, actually groans, a raw gutted sound that you feel vibrate through his ribs into your back. your thighs are shaking violently, your fingers white-knuckled on his forearms, and he holds you through it—all of it, every aftershock and tremor—his arms steady and immovable around you, his mouth pressed warm against your shoulder, his hips slowing to a deep grinding roll that draws your orgasm out until you're whimpering and oversensitive and trying to squirm away from his fingers on your clit.

Then, without warning, it happened. Right under the sleeve of your shirt, pressed against the delicate, inner curve of your right wrist, your soulmate mark flared into life.

It wasn't the usual, low level dull throb you had grown accustomed to over the years. This was a blinding, incandescent heat—a sharp, searing spike of static electricity that sizzled beneath your skin, like a lightning bolt trapped in your veins.

"Ah!" You gasped sharply, a soft cry escaping your lips as your eyes squeezed shut. Your left hand flew up instinctively, clutching at your wrist as if trying to smother the sudden fire burning through your flesh.

The tenderness melted from his face in a second, replaced by the instinct of a warrior. A dark focus took over his expression. His large hands shot out, wrapping gently but with unyielding firmness around your forearms to steady your trembling frame. "What is it? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"No, no... I'm fine, it's—it's just..." You shook your head, forcing a breathless, slightly nervous laugh as you opened your eyes, the heat gradually settling back down. "My mark again. It.. it always acts up like this when someone walks into the room, but wow, that one was sharp. It felt like it was actually trying to burn straight through me."

Thor’s hands froze on your skin. Every muscle in his massive frame went rigid as ice as he forgot how to draw breath.

His gaze dropped from your eyes down to the exposed skin of your wrist, where the fabric of your sleeve had shifted just enough. Beneath the surface, the skin was flushed a deep, unmistakable crimson, pulsating softly with the energy of the bond.

He knew what lay hidden beneath that sleeve. He didn't even need to pull the fabric back to see it. He had memorized every single curve, line, and arc of that mark years ago during a training session in the compound's gym. You had been breathless, laughing, wiping sweat from your forehead as your sleeve rolled, exposing the mark to the harsh lights.

It was a swirling, intricate constellation of lightning interwoven with soft, distant stars.

The exact same mark that was carved deep into the flesh directly over his own beating heart.

6 years ago, Avengers Tower

You stepped into the Avengers Tower, Director Fury had officially recruited you to the team, citing your telekinesis as a game changing asset. Tony Stark was already waiting in the main hub, tinted glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose, a half empty espresso cup balancing precariously in one hand.

"Ah, the new blood," Tony announced without missing a beat, turning toward you with a flourish. "Welcome to the sandbox. Try not to bend the metal cutlery with your mind unless I'm trying to ignore Rogers, need a distraction in those times, capiche?"

You smiled, taking a step toward him—and then it hit you. A sharp shockwave of heat radiated beneath the skin of your right wrist. Your soulmate mark burned as if someone had pressed a glowing ember against your veins. Your breath caught, your shoes sticking to the floor as your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

Your soulmate was here. In this exact building.

"Something wrong?" Tony asked glancingat your frozen form over the rim of his glasses. You snapped your head up, swallowing hard. "No. Nothing.” You gulped, "Just taking it all in," you mumbled, forcing your feet to move as you followed him toward the elevators.

Tony rambled the entire way up, his hands flailing through the air as he gestured toward invisible schmatics, explaining floor layouts and lab protocols. But you barely heard a word over the thumping of your own pulse. The mark on your wrist didn't stop. It throbbed and pulsed relentlessly, the heat sharpening into actual pain by the time the elevator doors slid open to reveal the main communal lounge.

The room was filled with the team. And the moment you crossed the threshold, the burning spiked so hard you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out. Everyone turned, smiling and throwing out casual greetings, but your gaze was immediately pulled like a magnet to the corner of the room.

Thor.

The God of Thunder was standing near the floor to ceiling windows, one massive hand clutched tightly over his left chest, right over his heart. He was staring blankly at the polished floorboards, breathing heavily through his mouth as if he had just run a marathon.

Underneath his armour, his own mark was roaring like a furnace. His blood ran ice cold, every muscle in his towering frame locking up as the undeniable reality slammed into him: His soulmate was near.

His eyes darted up, landing discreetly on you. Could it be you?

He shook his head internally looking back down tot he floor, forcing a quick, practiced smile to mask the panic in his eyes. No. It couldnt be you. His mark had started its searing ache ten minutes ago, right around the time Tony went down to the lobby. You had only just walked into the room. It was just a strange coincidence.

He lifted his head completely, meeting your eyes for the first time—and oh, Hel.

You were gorgeous.

Thor swallowed hard, his nervous, arrogant smile wavering for a split second before he smoothed it over. He strode across the lounge toward you, extending a large, calloused hand. With every step he took closer to you, the fire in his chest burned hotter and hotter.

Your own heart was beating faster than it should, your eyes roaming over the vastness of him as you gulped down a breath. He was handsome—unfairly, impossibly handsome. The golden hair cascading to his broad shoulders, the immense width of his frame, the strength humming beneath his skin, it was overwhelming. He looked unreal.

You reached out and took his hand, your head tilting slightly to the side as you looked up into those impossibly blue eyes. "Hello," you said softly.

"Hello, My Lady," Thor replied, his voice rich and deep, confident, though his heart was hammering against his ribs—mocking him as he spoke, "I am Thor of Asgard. Pleased to be in your presence."

A small giggle escaped you, the bright sound catching somewhere deep in his chest. "Do you always talk like that?"

Thor’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Like what?"

"Like royalty."

An arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "I am royalty."

"Hm," you smiled, looking him up and down. "Suits you."

If he could have smiled any wider without looking foolish, he would have.

And that was the exact moment the universe spun off its axis. From that day forward, you two were attached at the hip. For months, wherever you went, Thor was never more than a few paces behind. Not a single soul could peel him away from your side. You ate together, argued over mid century earth pop culture, and spent endless nights on the roof staring at the city lights. You became friends—the absolute best of friends.

Then the afternoon in the training room happened.

You were laughing at something he had said, soft chuckles coming out of you as the back of your right hand went to wipe off the sweat that had formed over your forehead making your sleeve roll to your elbow, exposing your mark to him.

Thor, standing at the edge of the mat with his arms crossed, froze. His smile fell as his eyes locked onto the exposed skin of your inner wrist. The world went completely silent. Thor’s breath hitched in his throat, his lungs burning as he knew what it meant.

You were his fucking soulmate. His Star. His universe.

Thesuspicion he had buried deep in his mind months ago had been true all along. The mark hadn't burned because you walked into the lounge; it had burned the second your feet touched the lower lobby beneath him.

And he didn't tell you. He couldn't tell you.

Terror washed over him. Thor gulped harshly, forcing his eyes to snap away from your skin, a determination brewing from the depths of his chest. He had to protect you. From the universe, from his enemies, and most of all, from the curse of loving him. The universe was a cruel, twisted entity. If the Norns had truly bound your soul to his—a god who brought nothing but destruction, blood, and tragedy to everyone he ever dared to love—then your life was already forfeit.

The universe had already taken his mother. What more did it plan on taking?

Surely not you. He was not going to let it happen.

So he kept you at arm's length. He stayed your best friend, your shadow, your protector—but he never told you who you truly were to each other. He prevented you from ever finding out. He never took off his armor or his shirts anywhere near you, guarding the mark over his heart like a shameful secret, leaving you perpetually in the dark.

As the years bled on, you were left to wonder who your soulmate could possibly be. Because the mark burned whenever the team was gathered, you had eventually convinced yourself of a tragic theory: that your soulmate was someone close by who belonged to another. An impossible thought, but in your mind, it was the only thing that made sense.

Present

Your mark burns when I am close. It doesn't burn because of the Avengers in the room. It burns because of me. It has always been me.

His own voice echoed like a ghost in his mind, screaming at him to reach out, to break the lies, to pull you against his chest and never let go. But as usual, he stopped himself.

The universe had taken his mother, his father, his brother, his entire realm. If his enemies ever discovered that you—the brightest, purest light in his miserable existence—were the keeper of his soul, they would tear the realms apart just to bleed you in front of him.

He looked away, composing his face into stone.

Thor abruptly tore his hands away from your arms, taking a sharp step backward as if touching you had scorched him to the bone. The absence of his heat left the morning air around you feeling instantly cold. He cleared his throat, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle flexed beneath his skin as he desperately dragged a cold, stoic mask over the panic tearing him apart inside. He crossed his arms over his chest, creating an impenetrable wall of physical and emotional distance between you, his blue eyes hardening into something distant, guarded, and unreachable.

"You... you must be more careful with such things," Thor said, his tone stiff, clipped formality that felt like a sharp slap to the face. "Have you had Banner inspect it again?"

You frowned, your face souring in immediate dislike at his sudden, icy shift. You crossed your own arms, looking up at him with frustration and quiet, long buried heartache.

"Thor, I am used to the fact that I probably won't ever find my soulmate," you said, your voice tight, "There is nothing to inspect."

You didn’t understand why he kept reacting this way, putting distance between you whenever you two talked about your soulmate mark, but it had become thoroughly annoying. The drop in temperature, the rigid posture, the way his warmth vanished behind a wall of cold stoicism—it was an exhausting routine you had endured for years.

Thor's eyebrows suddenly furrowed, his blue gaze shifting away from your face to focus sharply on something over your shoulder. "What are you cooking?"

You were taken completely aback by the abrupt change in subject, blinking at him. "Eggs. Why?"

He scrunched his face up slightly, "Yeah... I do not think you are going to be able to eat those."

You turned away from him in confusion, only to be met with a rising plume of dark gray smoke billowing out of the frying pan. Your eyes widened in horror. "Fuck!" you yelled, dropping all composure as you rushed back to the stove to try and save your poor, ruined breakfast.

Thor stood behind you, watching the sudden flurry of frantic motion with deep, quiet amusement softening his features. "Do you require assistance with that, My Star?"

You fanned at the smoke with a wooden spatula, glaring over your shoulder. He chuckled, the rich, booming sound rumbling in his chest as he crossed his arms again—this time with a playful, teasing air. "Were you happy to see me so much that you forgot your eggs?"

Your eyes narrowed into dangerous little slits. "Shut up, Thor." Defeated by the carbonized mess, you scrapped the burnt eggs straight into the bin with a sigh, pulling out a fresh pan to start all over again.

Thor walked over, his boots making soft thuds against the kitchen tile until he was standing right beside you. He leaned his heavy frame against the counter, his proximity radiating a faint, tempting heat that made your wrist itch beneath your sleeve. "What have you been up to while I was away?" he asked as his gaze roamed all over you, slow, deliberate, and fiercely protective as he searching every inch of your face and posture for any sign of hurt, fatigue, or anything out of the ordinary that might have occurred in his absence.

You kept your focus on the crackling butter in the new pan, glancing at him only for a fleeting second. "Nothing, really. The same stuff."

Thor hummed, the sound vibrating straight through the granite counter and into your hips. He shifted closer, crowding into your space with the easy, unthinking familiarity of being your best friend—of being the only person in the entire universe who was ever permitted to get this close to you.

"The same stuff?" He repeated softly, leaning over your shoulder to look into the pan. "No threats? Nothing? I must admit, I am almost disappointed."

His broad chest grazed against the back of your shoulder, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. Your breath got caught in your throat.

Calm down, you thought to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut for a second. He’s always this close to you. What’s so different now?

But you were only kidding yourself, and you knew it. Nothing had changed, because he had always made you feel this way. For six years, this man had left your skin tingling with an unspoken want, your heart beating so fucking hard against your ribs you were terrified it was going to burst, your lungs straining for air as if his very presence was vacuuming the oxygen straight out of the room.

Your breath hitched slightly, your fingers twitching nervously against the spatula handle. You forced yourself to stay grounded, tilting your head back just enough to glare up at his side profile. His sharp jawline, his stubble catching the soft morning light—he was entirely too close, and entirely too perfect.

"Well, sorry to bore you, Your Majesty," you huffed, turning your eyes back to the stove, though your voice lacked any real bite. "Some of us enjoy a quiet week."

"I never said I was bored, My Star," Thor murmured, the nickname dropping from his lips like a sacred vow.

He reached right past you to grab a ceramic mug from the rack mounted above the stove. His arm brushed against the soft curve of your waist, his thick forearm pressing firmly against your side for a fleeting, burning second.

The touch was completely innocent—just reaching for a cup—but the lightning beneath your skin roared so, so hot, that you nearly dropped the spatula straight into the flames.

Thor froze mid reach, his hand hovered aimlessly over the handle of the mug. His chest remained pressed flat against the line of your back, his deep breathing fanning hot against the shell of your ear. Neither of you moved as the world fell away. You could hear the rapid, heavy thumping of his heart beating like a war drum against his ribs, right where his own mark burned against his flesh.

He wanted to wrap both arms around your waist. Norns, he wanted it so badly it tasted like ash in his mouth. He wanted to pull you backward, flush against his chest, to bury his face in the crook of your neck and breathe you in until the endless voices in his head telling him to let you go, to keep you safe awyy from him were completely drowned out.

But he couldnt do that could he?

He slowly pulled his arm back, clutching the mug tightly in his fist as he forced himself to take a step backward. His very being was screaming at him to turn around, to go back to his previous position, to never let you go again.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and gravelly as he poured himself a cup of black coffee with a hand that was far from steady.

You cleared your throat as well, forcing your trembling hands to plate the eggs. Turning away from the oppressive heat of his gaze, you walked over to the table in the corner of the kitchen, hearing soundThor’s boots as he followed silently behind you like an imposing shadow.

You both sat down opposite each other. Without asking, you routinely slid the plate toward the center, dividing the portion and giving him half of your eggs. You knew his habits better than anyone; you simply assumed he would be hungry.

He was always hungry, to be completely honest.

Thor stared down at the food, a painful, overwhelming swell of affection washing through his chest at the simple, quiet intimacy of the gesture. He picked up his fork, taking a bite just to keep his mouth busy, his bright blue eyes fixing on yours across the small table.

"So," he began, his tone casual as he leaned back against his chair, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "What are your plans for the evening? May my lady leave any room for me in her schedule?" He joked, a light, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

You froze, your eyes closing tightly for a fraction of a second. You hadn’t known he was coming back today, so you had made plans.

"I—" you began, opening your eyes back up and looking directly at him. "I have a date tonight."

Thor’s entire frame went rigid, the blood in his veins turning to liquid fire, burning him from under his skin. What in the hell? He must have heard wrong.

"I think I misheard—"

"You heard right," you said softly, biting your lip at the sight welcoming you.

Yeah, he was pissed. You knew he would be, because he was just that overprotective over you. He didn't want to share you with anyone else, and you were fully aware of it. That was precisely why you had opted for going on a date while he was away, but he had caught you, returning on the exact day of your plans.

"With whom?"

"An agent."

"So he is here?" Thor said, his voice dropping an octave, tight and dangerously flat. How had he not noticed you talking to another man? Or had you deliberately done it while he was away?

"Yes, Thor—"

"What is his name, honey?" he asked, his voice dripping with forced sweetness, but you knew what lay beneath the honeyed tone. It was unbridled annoyance and volcanic anger.

"Caleb—" you said casually, leaning back in your chair and watching his reaction closely. "Caleb Miller, from the third floor tactical unit. He asked if I wanted to grab drinks down in the city tonight, and I said yes."

The easy, comfortable warmth that usually radiated off him evaporated into an icy stillness. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched beneath his stubble, his eyes darkening into the stormy blue of a tempest gathering over an open ocean.

"Miller," Thor repeated, the name dropping from his tongue like a foul taste. "The mortal with the slicked hair and the improper posture?"

A small, amused laugh bubbled up from your chest despite the tension. "His posture is completely fine, Thor. And yes, him. He’s nice. He’s been asking me out for a couple of weeks, so I thought, why not?"

He was asking you out? A couple of weeks at that? Oh yeah, he was a dead man walking. "No," Thor said flatly.

You blinked, setting your glass down with a sharp clink against the table. "Excuse me?"

"I do not approve," Thor stated, crossing his arms over his chest for the hundredth time since he came back, looking down his nose at you with all the arrogant authority of a king. "He is untrustworthy. His eyes wander too freely, and his combat assessments are sloppy at best. He is a security risk."

You stared at him, disbelief and rising irritation flaring in your chest. "A security risk? Thor, he works here! He has Level 6 clearance!"

"Clearance means nothing to a man lacking honor," Thor grumbled darkly, leaning forward over the table, crowding your space once more as if he could physically intimidate you out of the decision. "If you require companionship for an evening meal, I am right here. I shall accompany you instead."

"You want to come on my date?" You scoffed, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Thor, you are being ridiculous!"

Thor’s chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths. Inside, his soul was tearing itself to shreds. He wanted to scream at you. He wanted to smash the table in half, pull you roughly into his lap, and tell you that no mortal man would ever be allowed to touch you, to hold your hand, or to look at you the way he did—because you were his. The universe had forged your soul for his and his alone.

Instead, he swallowed the blood in his mouth, locking his expression into a stern scowl. "I am merely looking out for your well being, as your friend. Earthmen are fragile, deceitful creatures. I will not have one breaking your heart."

"You have control issues, Thor," you snapped, though a quiet, aching knot tightened deep in your gut.

Your heart was beating against your chest from the intensity of his reaction, and right beneath your sleeve, your soulmate mark burned against your wrist with a fierce, punishing heat. You stood up from the table, grabbing your empty plate with a sharp, abrupt motion.

"I'm going on the date. And you are not invited."

Thor watched you walk away toward the sink, his hands clenching into white knuckled fists against his knees. The mark over his heart burned, it goddamn felt like a dagger being twisted continuously into his chest.

He was going to follow you anyway. He knew it, and the norns knew it. He would hide in the shadows of whatever miserable place you chose, watching over you, his heart breaking over every smile you gave that mortal, starving for a touch he had sentenced himself never to hold.

He knew he was being unfair, so damn unfair. He denies being with you, keeps your bond to himself, does not let you find out about it, yet he is also the one he cannot let you keep living without him. He just doesn't have it in him to.

You were burned into his soul, occupying his every thought every aching second he breathes, he just could not let you go.

—

You got ready, applying a slick layer of lip gloss as you surveyed yourself in the mirror. Black flare pants, a sharp black tube top, and a waist-snatching blazer left open to frame the silhouette, anchored by pointed black heels. You looked good—effortlessly put together, sharp, and completely fitting for a dinner date.

You sighed, raising two fingers to rub at your temples. Beneath your right sleeve, your soulmate mark burned with a persistent disappointment, pulsing as if it somehow knew you were walking out the door with someone who wasnt meant for you.

Leaving your room, you navigated the corridors toward the compound's main exit. Caleb was already there, leaning casually near the glass doors with his hands tucked into his pockets. You forced a polite smile onto your face. You had to try. You had to go through the motions, put yourself out there, and be normal, or you were going to end up alone.

What about his soulmate? the thought flickered through your mind suddenly. Does Caleb have one?

You frowned, the train of thought pulling a far darker, long-avoided question right behind it to the surface of your mind:

What about Thor’s soulmate?

Your blood froze in your veins. Your fingers instinctively curled into tight fists at your sides. He doesn't have one, you told yourself desperately, shutting the door on the thought. Don't be ridiculous.

"You look beautiful," Caleb said, his voice cutting through the rising noise in your head.

You smiled, pulling yourself back to the present. "Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself."

The ride to the restaurant in his car was quiet. As Caleb drove, your eyes remained glued to the passing city lights outside the passenger window, actively avoiding his profile. You were nervous—not the pleasant, fluttering anxiety of a first date, but a suffusing dread. You were nervous because your skin felt like it was rejecting the very idea of this evening. Because you didn't want to be here.

You gulped, shaking your head imperceptibly. Stop it. You can do this. You just have to try and build something with someone normal. No biggie. You don't even know who your soulmate is.

For the thousandth time in six years, the roster of the compound ran through your head like a tired roll call.

Is it Tony?

No, absolutely not, he’s exhausting and he has Pepper.

Is it Steve?

Maybe, but he’s practically a museum piece, and you loved him dearly as a friend.

You let out a shaky, trembling breath, staring out at the rain slicked pavement.

Is it Thor?

Can it be Thor?

But he would tell me, wouldn't he?

It can't be. Your jaw clenched. It cannot fucking be. Because if it was him, I’d know. I’d feel it in my bones, my very being, my soul. It just can't be him.

"We're here," Caleb's voice broke through your spiral. He smiled, turning off the ignition before slipping out of the driver's seat to round the car. He opened your door, offering a hand to help you out into the cool night air. With his ocean blue eyes, slicked light brown hair, and fitted suit, he looked undeniably handsome. He was objectively attractive.

You walked into the dim, ambiently lit restaurant and took your seat across from him at a quiet corner table. Beneath the tablecloth, your nails dug sharply into the flesh of your palms, trying to anchor your runaway nerves.

Because your mark was burning. It was searing, throbbing, screaming against your skin—and for the life of you, you couldn't understand why the pain was getting worse instead of fading away.

But how could you possibly know your soulmate was standing right there, watching you?

Outside the restaurant’s rain streaked floor to ceiling windows, shrouded in the dark ambient shadows of the avenue, stood Thor.

His dark hoodie was pulled low over his head to conceal his face, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, clenching into white-knuckled fists that threatened to tear through the fabric.

He was torturing himself.

Standing out in the cold night air, watching through the glass as you sat across from that bastard. Every time Caleb smiled at you, every time he leaned in closer over the table, Thor felt his own heart being torn out of his chest, shredded, and forced back into his ribcage, over and over again. He was watching the only woman meant for his soul on a date with another man—a man who was not him, a man who could never could be him.

So he watched. He watched as the bastard looked at you appreciatively, watched as you looked away in cute shyness, watched as he smiled at you and you smiled back at him.

But what Thor did not know was how your body was completely disgusted by this. He did not see how nervous you were to be here with a man who was not your soulmate, or how your nails dug deeper into your palms whenever Caleb came anywhere close to touching you.

"So," Caleb started, leaning across the white tablecloth, "what about your family?"

He was prying into your personal life, and you had to fight the urge to scrunch your face up in distaste. You deflected immediately; you didn't want to answer that question, not from him.

"What about yours?" you asked, forcing a fake, pleasant smile.

Caleb tilted his head, amused.

"I don't do Q&A’s about myself without getting to know the person before me," you said, tilting your head with a pleasant, practiced smile.

You very much did. It was the very first thing you had done with Thor. On your first week at the compound, he had asked you everything about yourself. Where you had lived before all of this, your family, your siblings, how you had discovered your telekinesis..and you had answered gladly, as if it were written in your very bones to lay your life open to him. Everything flowed so naturally with Thor. Sitting here now, a sharp pang of regret hit you for not accepting his offer to keep you company for dinner instead. You felt intensely uncomfortable sharing even the smallest piece of yourself with Caleb.

"Okay, fair enough," Caleb chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "My dad’s an old school naval officer, mum runs a local florist shop back in Ohio. Two younger sisters—both driving my parents insane with college applications right now. Pretty standard suburban life, honestly."

You listened, nodding along politely, but you had to admit to yourself: everything about him bored you to death. Even his family was painfully, thoroughly boring.

Your mind drifted straight back to him.

Thor had the weirdest, most chaotic family—a stern, terrifying King for a father, a lying, shape-shifting trickster for a brother, and endless centuries of cosmic drama. A soft, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips at the memory of Thor complaining about Loki over ice cream.

4 Years Ago

Your head was resting comfortably against Thor's shoulder as you sat on a bench in Central Park. The autumn air was crisp, and passersby kept glancing over in awe, a few brave tourists occasionally coming up to ask him for a picture. Thor was dressed in simple Earth clothes—dark jeans, heavy boots, and a dark grey jacket worn over a forest green tshirt. His long, golden hair caught the breeze, occasionally straying into your eyes whenever he shifted in his seat, wildly gesturing as he animatedly recounted stories of his past realm spanning battles.

"You had to see it, little star!" Thor boomed softly, his eyes glowing with nostalgic fire. "The beasts of Niffelheim were thrice the size of this park! Loki was supposed to cover my left flank, but the snake turned himself into a giant toad and hopped into a cavern! I was left standing there with my hammer, surrounded by a hundred frost ghouls! So I went—pfft!—and summoned the lightning, and then—BOOM!—the entire mountain face collapsed! And out crawls Loki, completely covered in mud, croaking at me!"

You chuckled aloud at his enthusiasm, the sweet sound making Thor's heart soar. He halted his story, looking down at you with an expression so devastatingly loving, so deeply tender, that it made your breath catch.

"Tell me more about your brother," you said softly, smiling up into his blue eyes. "I mean, I don't like the guy—but it sounds like you really love him."

How could he ever deny you anything?

Thor let out a rich, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. "He is a real snake, I will tell you that! When we were children, he transformed himself into a snake, knowing I loved them, and when I picked him up to admire him, he turned back into himself and went 'Blegh! It’s me!' and stabbed me! We were eight."

You burst out laughing, lifting your head from his shoulder to watch his face, your smile growing wider and wider the more he talked.

Yeah, he was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

Thor looked down at your radiant face, his pulse racing, his hand itching to reach out and trace your jawline. "What about your family stories?" he asked softly, desperate to know every small, precious detail of your life.

So you told him. How could you ever deny him anything?

And he listened, his heart soaring just at the way your eyes lit up when you spoke to him.

Yeah, you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Present

"Hey?"

Your name was being called, snapping you abruptly out of your memory. Your head snapped up, your eyes blinking as you met Caleb’s raised eyebrows across the table. He was clearly waiting for an answer to a question he had just asked.

You cleared your throat, pressing a hand to your chest. "Sorry," you mumbled, grasping for a quick cover story. "Can you repeat that? I think my blood sugar just dropped a bit... I didn't catch what you said."

Caleb hummed, his brow furrowing slightly, though he didn't press it. "It's fine. Lemme ask the waiters where our food is."

He turned around, waving down a passing server.

Outside in the darkness, Thor stood rooted to the pavement, watching the interaction through the rain streaked window pane. His hood was pulled so low it shadowed his face, but beneath the dark cloth, his jaw was clamped shut, his teeth grinding together so hard it hurt.

He had watched you zone out. He had watched that soft, dreamy smile spread across your lips—a smile he knew intimately, a smile you only ever wore when you were thinking about something you loved.

Is she already falling for this mortal?

His jaw clenched so hard his molars throbbed. She cannot be, he thought desperately, a cold dread clawing up his throat. I am her soulmate. The universe bound her to me. She cannot be falling for him.

Deep within his coat pockets, little crackles of lightning began to spit and hiss over his fists. His breathing turned ragged, clouding the cool night air in furious gusts.

A voice spoke up from the pavement behind him. "Dude... why are you creeping right there?"

Thor slowly turned his head. Beneath the deep shadow of his hood, his eyes were completely submerged in a blinding storm of iridescent blue.

The bystander froze, his jaw dropping as he stammered, backing away so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. "S-Sorry, man! Big fan, by the way!" The man turned and sprinted down the sidewalk, vanishing into the night.

Thor shook his head violently, snapping his wrists to extinguish the blue arcs dancing over his knuckles. Damn it. He had to get it together. He couldn't unleash a storm in the middle of a city street out of nowhere just because his heart was breaking in real time.

Inside the warm, softly lit restaurant, your food had arrived. The crimson liquid in your wine glass winked at you seductively under the chandelier light as Caleb babbled on about something related to his tactical training drills. You really, truly were not listening to a single word coming out of his mouth.

"…Right?" Caleb asked, leaning back with an expectant, hopeful expression.

You offered a swift, awkward smile, nodding as you said "Right." Without missing a beat, you reached out, grabbed your wine glass, and downed the entire contents in one single, ungraceful gulp.

Caleb stared at you, his fork hovering mid-air, thoroughly flabbergasted. "Wow," he said, blinking.

You breathed in sharply through your nose, picking up the cloth napkin beside your cutlery to daintily pat your lips. "I just... really love wine," you said, forcing another bright, completely hollow smile at him.

"Okay.." Caleb chuckled nervously, shaking his head. "You want more?"

You nodded instantly, desperate to drink more—desperate to drown out the ache of your soulmate mark, desperate for a distraction from a certain God, and desperate to survive the boredom radiating off the man siiting across from you.

Caleb gestured to a nearby server, and a fresh glass was poured for you in an instant.

"So, I told my squad leader," Caleb began, leaning over the table to whisper, "if the target moves..."

He laughed at his own joke, but you couldn't even hear the punchline.

"Works every time." he continued.

Past his shoulder, through the glass window, your eyes locked onto a towering silhouette standing in the shadow of the streetlamp. The height, the broad shoulders, the way he carried himself—it was identical to Thor.

The figure vanished into the alleyway the exact millisecond your eyes made contact, but you knew what you had seen. You froze, the glass halfway to your lips as your heart leaped directly into your throat.

Were you hallucinating him now? Had you finally lost your mind?

You cleared your throat, forcing an exaggerated, loud fake laugh to erupt from your chest at Caleb's terrible joke. You threw your head back, leaning in across the table toward Caleb as if he were the most captivating man in the universe.

You were not thinking about Thor. You had just laughed at Caleb's joke.

Right?

Ugh.

You had to text him.

You were almost certain that was him standing outside in the cold.

Clearing your throat again, you sat straight up in your chair, your spine stiffening immediately as you held up your index finger. "One second," you murmured. You picked up your phone from the table, unlocked it, and pulled up Thor’s contact name.

Thor had dodged into the pitch black shadow of the alleyway the second your eyes had found him. From the darkness, he watched the way you threw your head back, the way you leaned across the table toward that mortal. His chest felt heavier than it ever had in his long, immortal life. His lungs felt like they were collapsing in on themselves, suffocating him from the inside out.

Then, his phone chimed. The Earth device you had personally bought and forced him to carry years ago—because you insisted on having a way to reach him whenever he roamed off-grid.

[My Star]: Where are you?

Fuck. You had seen him.

Thor's hands shook as his thick fingers hovered over the screen. He typed out a response, lying through text.

[Thor]: At the compound.

A tiny texting bubble appeared on his screen immediately. He stood in the alley, waiting through two long seconds.

[My Star]: So you’re not the one standing there in the street?

Thor’s heart dropped straight into his stomach. He gulped, his thumb hovering over the keypad. He typed a response, deleted it, typed another, deleted that too. Finally, after three attempts, he settled on a mask of arrogant deflections.

[Thor]: Am I supposed to be, My Star?

Through the glass, Thor watched as your eyes narrowed dangerously at the glowing screen. You clearly didn't believe a word of it.

You swallowed hard, your gaze darting around the dark street outside the window, searching desperately for a familiar silhouette. You wanted to find him. You wanted to see his face, wanted him to march in through those glass doors and rescue you from this infuriating torture of a date.

But he wasn't there. You were only kidding yourself, weren't you?

Suddenly, you felt a warm, unexpected touch against your skin. Caleb reached across the table, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he gently reached up to wipe a stray strand of hair away from your cheek.

You flinched, a sharp huff of air escaping your lips as your soulmate mark screamed in scorching fire beneath your sleeve. Another man was touching you so close to the soul bond, the magic rejecting the contact with blinding pain.

Yet, you forced yourself to remain still, pressing your lips into a tight line. This was your choice. You had chosen to move on, and you had to own up to it.

Outside in the dark, Thor watched Caleb’s hand touch your face.

That was it. The final, fragile thread of his control snapped into pieces.

The air temperature around the restaurant dropped, turning the humid evening breeze into an icy, bitter gale. Above the building, the clouds swirled into an unnatural vortex, blacking out the moon. A blinding flash of lightning split the night sky, followed immediately by a deafening, bone rattling crack of thunder that blew out the streetlamps and rattled the restaurant windows so violently they threatened to shatter inward.

The sight tore through Thor's chest like a blade. Jealousy, dark and primal, flooded his veins, making his veins burn hot.

Thor’s fists tightened in his hoodie pockets until his knuckles turned ghost white. The storm in his heart was spilling out into the sky, and he didn't care to stop it.

You looked out the window, watching the unexpected downpour slam against the glass, your brows furrowing in deep confusion. It was not supposed to rain tonight.

And it definitely was not supposed to rain like this.

Your heart hammered against your chest , threatening to go up in your mouth, your hands shaking slightly where they rested in your lap. Could it be what you thought it was? Was he actually here?

But he had said he wasn't—

"Woah, was it supposed to rain tonight?" came Caleb’s voice, slicing through your spiraling thoughts.

"No, it was not," you said, breathless, your eyes widening as an opportunity presented itself—an opportunity far too good to resist. You smiled sweetly across the table, leaning in slightly. "I think we should leave. We wouldn't want to get stuck here, right?"

Caleb paused for a second, his eyes roaming over your face as if weighing his options, before nodding. "Right." He signaled the waiter and asked for the check.

At least he was a gentleman; Caleb covered the bill without hesitation. Once outside the booth, he placed a firm, guided hand on the small of your back to escort you toward the exit. You bit the inside of your cheek until it hurt, fighting the urge to flinch away from his palm.

So damn uncomfortable.

The moment you pushed through the front doors of the restaurant, tje harshness of the storm hit you. The rain was coming down in thick, blinding sheets, the wind howling through the street. Caleb paused under the small awning, shielding his eyes as he looked down the block toward his parked car.

"Stay here," Caleb said, raising his voice over the roaring thunder. "I'll run and grab the car, then pull up right to the curb so you don't get soaked—"

"That will not be necessary," a voice boomed through the storm and the occasional blasts of lightning.

Before Caleb could even react, a giant shadow stepped straight out of the dark torrent of rain. A massive, calloused hand reached out, gently but unyieldingly wrapping around your forearm and pulling you out of Caleb's touch, tucking you firmly against a broad, towering frame.

You gasped, your head snapping up, your heart jumping straight to your throat, the shock spreading through your body like wildfire as you took him in.

Standing over you in the pouring rain, his dark hooded top soaked completely through and his eyes blazing like twin supernovas in the dark, was Thor. His presence was purrly overwhelming, his broad chest heaving in heavy, ragged gulps, his body radiating a fierce heat that burned away the night’s bitter chill.

"Thor?!" you choked out, your mind scrambling to process his appearance. "You— but you— what?" You scrambled over your own words, your breath entirely taken away.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Had he been watching you like a creep all night, just as you had suspected?

Oh god, your heart was about to beat right out of your chest.

Thor ignored your talking entirely, his stormy, dark gaze locked onto Caleb like a predator sizing up its prey. The raw aura of power rolling off his shoulders "I will take her home," Thor stated. His voice dropped into a grave frequency that vibrated straight through the bone, leaving zero room for argument.

Caleb blinked, taking an involuntary step back from the God of Thunder, but he tried desperately to hold his ground, clearing his throat nervously. "Wait—what? No, I'm her date. I have a car right down the street—"

Thor didn't even grant the mortal a glance. He casually raised his free hand into the storm, and with a deafening CRACK of lightning, Stormbreaker flew straight out of the dark alleyway. It snapped into his palm with a force that rattled the glass windows behind you.

Thor tilted his head slightly, his icy eyes fixing back on Caleb with terrifying calm.

"And I have an axe."

Before Caleb could even open his mouth to process the threat, Thor tightened his grip on your arm. He pulled you flush against his side, his rain slicked hand circling firmly around your waist—a touch so heavy, so possessive, it made a sharp gasp tear from your throat.

Without another word, he raised Stormbreaker toward the screaming heavens.

A blinding flash of purple and white light engulfed the sidewalk, the roar of the Bifrost breaking yhrough the quiet night as the street, the rain-drenched restaurant, and a thoroughly stunned Caleb vanished in a single second.

The light snapped out as fast as it had appeared.

The light deposited you both directly onto the wet grass of the compound's garden. The rain here was a gentle, quiet mist compared to the tempest you had left behind, but Thor didn't linger. His hand remained firm on your waist, his fingers pressing into your hip as he ushered you through the glass doors and into the quiet warmth of the building.

The second you crossed the threshold, the overload of the night caught up to you. You peeled yourself fiercely away from his grip, taking three rapid steps back, the absence of his heat leaving you shuddering.

You turned to face him.

Silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating, and heavy enough to drown in. Thor stood there in the dim light of the hallway, his boots dripping onto the floorboards, his chest falling in heavy, labored heaves. His hands were still trembling slightly at his sides as Stormbreaker rested against his palm.

"What the hell was that, Thor?" you asked, breathless, your eyes roaming all over his rain soaked frame in utter disbelief.

He refused to meet your gaze. Instead, he stared past you, fixing his eyes resolutely on a blank space on the wall as he spoke, his voice forced into a calm he didnt feel. "I was just passing by, and—"

"At the compound, my ass!" you cut him off sharply, scoffing as you stared at him, your hands trembling with anger and raw, unspent adrenaline.

"Like I told you—"

"Do not lie to me," you snapped, cutting him off once more.

That did it, Thor’s jaw tightened, and he finally dragged his eyes down to meet yours. He looked straight into your eyes—your beautiful, furious eyes that had gone dark with anger, reflecting the sting of his betrayal.

Thor gulped, his throat working heavily as the stoic mask cracked, revealing the bleeding guilt beneath.

"I am sorry, My Star," he said softly, the nickname dropping like a mournful prayer from his lips as he tried desperately to get back on your good side. "Truly."

"Did you honestly watch me have a date like a damn stalker?" you demanded, your voice breaking slightly over the words.

Deep down, in the secret, pathetic corners of your soul, you had spent the entire evening begging the universe for him to be the man in the alley. You had begged for him to swoop in, to be jealous, to rescue you from the suffocating torture of a date with a man who wasn't him. But now that it was real—now that he was standing in front of you, dripping wet, carrying the scent of lightning and desperation—it terrified you. Because it meant he cared, but he still wouldn't let you in on why he cared so much.

So much so that he would stalk you.

Thor closed his eyes for asecond, the rain dripping from his lashes. He swallowed the bitter taste of his own cowardice.

"I could not leave you," he whispered, his voice a rough, fractuerd tone that made your chest ache. "I tried. By the Norns, I tried to walk away. But I could not leave you with him."

"Why?" you cried out, taking a step toward him, throwing your hands up in sheer frustration. "Why do you do this to me, Thor?" Your breath hitched, a stray tear threatening to spill over your lash line, hot and stinging against your skin.

He gulped, looking down at you and breathing heavily, his broad chest heaving beneath his damp hoodie. "Please don't," he whispered, his voice cracking around the edges. "I am not doing anything—"

"Are you not?"

You pressed your hands flat against his heaving chest and shoved. Taken completely by surprise by the sudden, fiery force of your anger, the he actually staggered back a full step.

"Listen to me—"

"No, Thor! You always do this," you snapped, your voice echoing off the glass walls of the entrance. "Answer me. Why do you always do this?"

Thor’s heart was beating so fast, so wildly against his ribs, he was sure it was going to leap right out of his throat. "I am not doing anything, honey, come on—"

"You are, and you're going to tell me why. Right now, Thor, c'mon!" your face was flushed with righteous anger and confusion.

"You are my best friend—"

"Best friends don't do this!" you yelled, the dam finally breaking, "They don't stalk their friends while they're having a date!"

"This was the first time I did something like that!" Thor argued, throwing his hands up in defense.

"FIRST TIME?!" you shouted, the sound ringing through the empty corridor. "First time because you wouldn't ever let me go on a date in peace, ever! This is the first real date I’ve been on in years because you prevented me from going, Thor!"

He scoffed, making a dismissive pfft sound as he looked away, trying to pull his usual cocky mask over his rising panic. "No, I haven't—"

"Really?" You stared at him deadpan, your eyes burning into his profile. "Really, Thor? Let's refresh your memory, shall we?"

9 Months Ago

You had spent almost forty minutes in front of the mirror of the gym's dressing room right after your training, carefully styling your hair and pulling on a cool gray blazer with your favorite silver belt—a subtle, sharp look that felt effortless. A nice guy from the local gallery downtown had finally built up the courage to ask you out, and for the first time in nearly a year, you felt excited to step out of the compound as just a normal person.

You were sitting on a bench near the gym lockers, putting on your shoes and double checking your bag, when the doors flew open.

Thor strode in, his hair swept back, sweat glistening on his skin. He held a metal support beam in one hand—bent completely out of shape like a twisted paperclip.

"My Star," he boomed, his voice carrying an urgency that immediately set off alarm bells in your head. He dropped the bent steel to the floor with a heavy clang, stepping right into your space. "I require your assistance immediately. The training room’s gravity regulators have destabilized. The structural integrity of the lower deck is failing."

Your head snapped up, your heart hammering. "What? Did Friday alert Tony?"

"There is no time," Thor insisted, his large hand gently but firmly taking your wrist to pull you upright. "The localized fields are tearing at the floorboards. If you do not use your power to hold the central load-bearing dampeners, the entire north wing could collapse within minutes."

Panicked and running pure adrenaline, you abandoned everything, sprinted down to the lower deck, and spent the next three hours strained in total concentration. You used your telekinesis to bind the steel machinery in place, sweat dripping down your neck, your muscles trembling under the weight of holding the room together. Thor stood beside you the entire time, barking out dramatic updates and adjusting internal wiring with his bare hands.

You hadn’t even thought he could lift mountains, you hadnt even thought how Tony was the usual repairer in these types of situation, you just helped.

It wasn't until Tony casually strolled into the room holding a mug of coffee, looking between you—sweaty and exhausted— and Thor, that the truth came out.

"Uh, what are you doing?" Tony asked, raising an eyebrow. "The gravity regulators are running at peak efficiency. I literally calibrated them this morning."

You froze, dropping your hands as the machinery settled. You whipped around to face Thor, who merely cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and avoided your glare completely.

By the time you sprinted back upstairs to grab your phone, you had five missed calls, three unread texts, and a final polite cancellation from the gallery guy. And when you walked back into the common room, Thor was sitting on the sofa with a fresh takeaway box of your favorite noodles, offering you a chopsticks with an infuriating, triumphant grin. "The mortal clearly lacked patience," he had said casually. "Eat, My Star. You worked hard today."

1 Year and a Half Ago

It was a nice autumn evening, and you had spent the entire week looking forward to a dinner with a visiting SH.I.E.L.D tactical analyst. He was sweet, polite, and completely disconnected from the drama of the compound. You wore a gorgeous crimson silk dress that clung perfectly to your silhouette, your hair done, feeling confident and beautiful.

You were standing in the main glass lobby, checking your watch, waiting for his car to pull into the driveway. Then you heard the sound of boots echoing down the staircase.

You turned to see Thor descending the steps in full armor—silver breastplate, and crimson cape billowing behind him as if he were marching into the battle of New York. In his right hand, stormbreaker crackling with electricity.

"Thor?" you asked, stunned. "Where are you going dressed like that? Is there a mission?"

"No," he said smoothly, stopping right in front of you, his towering frame blocking the light from the entrance. He looked you up and down, his eyes darkening for a second at the dress before his jaw set into a hard, stubborn line. "I am simply conducting a perimeter sweep."

Before you could question him, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the glass doors. The analyst stepped out, holding a delicate bouquet of white lilies, a warm smile on his face—until he looked up and saw the God of Thunder standing in the doorway like an angry mountain.

Thor didn't even let the poor man step across the threshold. He walked out onto the porch, folded his massive, armored arms across his chest, and stared down at the human from his full height.

"Greetings, mortal," Thor’s voice echoed across the quiet courtyard, deep enough to vibrate the car's windows. "I understand you intend to take my dearest friend out into the city tonight."

"I... uh... yes, sir—I mean, Lord Thor— I mean—ohfuck—I mean The Mighty God Of Thunder," the analyst stammered, his knuckles turning white around the flower stems as he took a terrified step back.

"Fascinating," Thor rumbled, stepping closer until he was looming directly over him. He lowered his head, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Know this: should so much as a single hair on her head be harmed, or should she experience even a moment of discomfort in your presence, there is no corner of this realm—or any of the Nine Realms—where you may hide from my wrath. Do you understand?"

The poor guy looked like he was about to faint. He stammered out a panicked, unintelligible apology about an urgent, sudden duty call, dropped the bouquet directly onto thefloor, scrambled back into his sedan, and hit the gas so hard the tires screeched across the asphalt.

You rushed outside, furious, but the car was already disappearing down the highway. Thor casually bent down, picked up the flowers, inspected them and handed them to you.

"His posture lacked discipline, and he broke under minimal pressure," Thor noted dryly, brushing a speck of dust off his cape. "He was entirely unworthy of your time. Shall we order a pizza and watch a film?"

2 Years Ago

A charming, charismatic pilot stationed at the compound’s air hangar had asked you out for a weekend dinner in the city. He was funny, easy to talk to, and you had spent an hour getting ready in your quarters, carefully applying makeup and wearing a sleek black dress with silver jewelry.

You grabbed your purse and reached for the handle of your room’s sliding door, only to hear a heavy clack as the electronic lock engaged. Red light flushed through the seam of the doorframe.

"Facility alert," Friday’s voice echoed overhead. "An energy of unknown origin has triggered an automatic security lockdown on Level 4. All exit routes are sealed until further notice."

"Friday, override!" you called out, rattling the door. "I have an appointment!"

"Override denied. Threat level undetermined."

Panicked, you searched the floor, only to realize the entire residential suite was locked down—including the communal lounge attached to your quarters. And sitting on the central couch, dressed casually in sweatpants and a soft tshirt, was Thor.

He didn't look remotely alarmed by the emergency red lights flashing around the room. In fact, he was leaning back against the cushions with a tub of dark chocolate ice cream in his lap and a deck of cards already shuffled on the coffee table.

"What is happening?" you demanded, pacing back and forth in front of the sealed glass doors. "There’s no threat! Why are we locked in?"

"Ah," Thor said smoothly, scooping a giant spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. "Midgardian technology is notoriously temperamental. It seems we must wait for Stark to resolve the glitch. A pity."

For three hours and forty two minutes, you paced the floor, texting the pilot apologies until your phone battery died, while Thor casually dealt hand after hand of card games, completely unbothered, regaling you with long stories of his ancient battles and passing you the tub of ice cream whenever you sighed in defeat.

It wasn't until late that night, after the pilot had long since given up and gone home, that Tony’s voice came over the intercom: "Hey, point break, I just checked the server logs. Why did you plug a high voltage rune stone directly into the floor's circuit breaker at 6:00 PM?"

Thor had merely cleared his throat, picked up the cards, and said, "The lighting in the lounge was suboptimal."

3 Years Ago

It was your very first year at the compound, and a sweet, shy guy from the communications department had spent three weeks building up the courage to talk to you. When he finally asked if you wanted to get coffee at a small diner near the base, you happily agreed, feeling a sense of normalcy returning to your life.

You walked out to the parking lot together, laughing at a joke he made, when a shadow fell over the both of you.

Thor appeared out of nowhere, broad shoulders blocking the sun. Without a word, he clapped a hand onto the poor guy's shoulder with enough force to make the man’s knees buckle, nearly driving him into the pavement.

"How wonderful!" Thor boomed, his laugh echoing, completely fake and brimming with overwhelming aggression. "My dearest friend is venturing out! I shall accompany you both to ensure no harm befalls her in the mortal realm!"

"Thor, no—" you began, mortified.

"I insist!" he cut in, slinging one arm around your shoulders and the other around the bruised communications officer, walking the two of you toward the diner like a prison guard escorting inmates.

When you arrived, Thor didn't just join—he took total control of the booth. He slid into the seat right beside you, his massive frame crowding you against the window, leaving the poor guy sitting alone on the opposite side. When the waiter came, Thor ordered four entire steaks, three sides of potatoes, and a pitcher of water, never once taking his eyes off your date.

Every time the guy opened his mouth to ask you a question, Thor would slam his glass onto the table and loudly recount a graphic story about fighting frost giants, or casually lean forward and ask the man if he possessed the strength to defend a woman against a horde of chitauri.

By the time the appetizers arrived, the communications guy was pale, sweating profusely, and barely able to hold his fork under Thor’s deadly glare. He stammered out a hasty excuse about a migraine, paid for the entire check before the food even hit the table, and practically sprinted out the door.

As soon as the bell above the door chimed shut, Thor reached over, picked up the guy’s untouched steak, took a massive bite, and looked at you with total satisfaction. "A weak mind," he had declared, chewing thoughtfully. "He would have wilted under the slightest pressure, My Star. You deserve a warrior."

Present

"Do you want me to keep going?" you asked, your voice shaking as you finished listing his crimes, stepping right back into his personal space, your chest heaving with every ragged breath. "Or are you going to stop lying to my face?"

Thor stood pinned beneath your furious glare, the damp hood fallen limp around his shoulders, his hair sticking to his temples. The stoic, untouchable God looked exposed, his strong jaw working silently as every single lie, every exscuse, and every arrogant defense died right in his throat.

But he tried anyway. "You are my dearest friend, that is the reason—" Thor tried to say, his voice lacking conviction.

"No," you said, scoffing sharply. "Tell me the truth, Thor."

The pain on your wrist throbbed, clouding your thoughts in burning waves. You had a soulmate out there somewhere, so why did Thor matter more? Why did you want so desperately to make him confess the real reason he was acting like this? Why were you praying to whatever gods existed that he was jealous? Why did your heart beat so fast—so hard in your chest whenever he was near? Why did the scent of him cloud your judgement until you couldn't think straight?

And why did the thought of him having a soulmate tear at your heart, making you bleed down to the floor until everywhere felt full of crimson?

Why were you in love with him when you had a soulmate?

You gasped at the thought, your whole body shuddering as your hands began to shake.

"What is it?" Thor asked instantly, his brows knitting in concern. His eyes darted down to your wrist, as if he instinctively knew that was the exact source of your torment.

Your eyes followed his gaze, landing squarely on your own wrist. The design mocked you as you truly assessed it for the first time in years. Deep lines of lightning...

as if you belonged to Thor.

And swirling around the lightning...

stars.

Hold on.

Lightning? Stars?

A new thought slammed into your brain, taking your breath away, making your head spin wildly, your entire body going hot as if on fire.

"Thor.." you began, your voice trembling, your eyes brimming with hot, unshed tears. "Why do you call me My Star?"

A single tear spilled over your lash line, sliding down your flushed cheek.

Why, why, why? The word beat against your skull like a war drum. It was the only question left in your mind.

Why did he call you that? Why did your mark throb and pulse whenever he took a step closer? Why did you feel violated by the mere touch of any other man, while starving for his?

Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why?

Thor felt the blood freeze solid in his veins. His heart ached with a new wave of terror as he looked down at you. Hot, heart stopping panic surged through him.

Oh, gods. You were connecting the dots.

You could not know. He could never let you know. He had to protect you. He had to keep you away, keep you alive, keep you safe from the dark fates that claimed everything he ever loved. He had to sacrifice his own happiness, his own soul, just so you could keep breathing.

"I—It's—because—" he stammered, his tongue heavy and useless as he tried desperately to find anything to say, any lie to cover the truth. But he couldn't.

Why couldn't he have called you something else? Anything else.

My Star? Really? How had he not seen this coming?

You reached out, slamming your palm flat against his broad chest, right over his hammering heart.

"Thor..." you whispered, your tear-stained eyes searching his, practically begging him to stop hiding from you.

The sight of your tears made a sharp pain shoot straight through his ribcage. Fuck.

"Don't cry, I beg you," he whispered hoarsely, his own blue eyes swimming with sorrow and pain. His hand came up, gently wrapping around your wrist as he looked down at you. Involuntarily, his face leaned closer to yours, stopping mere inches away. He was breathing in your very breaths, his lips so damn close to yours that the air between you became one.

You looked up into his stormy eyes, your hands trembling against his chest. "Thor, I'm gonna say this one time. I do not care if I have a soulmate."

"What?" Thor whispered, his breath fanning over your lips.

"Listen." You said sternly, bur hopeful, "I do not care if he's near, I do not care if he finds me—I just don't, because..."

A sob tore from your throat, your tears falling faster now as you whispered the truth that had been starving inside you for years.

"...I love you."

You pressed your hand harder against his chest, as if trying to feel his soul through his ribs, trying to force him to hear you.

Thor felt his heart soar to the highest heavens. A helpless, breathtaking smile broke across his face, his own tears finally brimming over his lashes as he stared down at you. You loved him. You didn't even know he was your soulmate, and yet you loved him anyway. You had just declared to the entire universe that even if your destined soulmate walked through the door, you wouldn't care—because your heart belonged to him.

For one fleeting, miraculous second, he was the happiest man in the Nine Realms.

But the brutal weight of reality crashed back down upon him, crushing the air out of his lungs.

"You can't," he whispered, his voice breaking completely.

Your blood ran ice cold. What the fuck was his problem?

"What?" you asked, your eyebrows knitting together in horror.

"You cannot love me," Thor choked out, trying to pull back, his jaw clenching as he tried to rebuild his crumbled stone wall. "I cannot be with you. It's—"

"Thor, take off your hoodie."

You cut him off cleanly, a fierce determination blazing through your tears as you pulled your face back, forcing space between you. You were going to make him confess what you now suspected in your marrow.

In all six years you had known him, you had never seen him truly stripped down. You had never seen the bare skin of his chest or his shoulders. You had never seen if he carried a soulmate mark of his own.

You had to know.

Thor blinked, taken completely aback. "What?"

"Thor, don't piss me off," you repeated, your voice dangerously steady, dark with an unyielding edge. "Take your goddamn top off."

Oh no, this cannot be happening, Thor’s voice echoed in his head, a cold wave of panic washing over him. His heart started beating against his ribcage faster and faster, pounding so hard he felt like there was no room left in his chest to breathe.

"Why?" he pressed, his tone desperate as he tried to deflect. "Why must you insist on this?"

You looked him dead in the eye, your expression hardening into something terrifyingly resolute. "Thor, you either take your top off right now and let me see for sure what I suspect, or Steve Rogers—goddamn Captain America—is my soulmate." You raised a sharp finger, pointing right at his chest as you delivered the ultimatum.

Fuck.

No, he is not, Thor wanted to roar at the top of his lungs, the urge to smash every glass pane in the compound tearing through him. He could never be your soulmate. I am the only one. The only one who could ever love you like this, the only one who holds your heart and soul. The only one.

And fuck, you had all of him. His heart, his soul, his body—anything you wanted in this entire universe, he would hand to you on a silver platter. He wanted to give it to you. He yearned to give it to you, to yield completely and drown in your touch.

But he couldn't. The universe was cruel, and you were simply too precious to him—his treasure, his soulmate, his star, his entire universe.

"Steve?" Thor said, his voice dripping annoyance.

"Yeah," you said, nodding once, sharp and unwavering. "Steve."

"I cannot," he whispered, gulping hard as he squeezed his eyes shut, as if thep darkness could protect him from the truth unspooling between you.

"Yeah?" you pushed, stepping right up to his space. "You're not taking it off?"

"I cannot," he repeated, opening his eyes back up. They were flooded with so much pain it made your own throat tighten.

You raised your eyebrows, leaning back slightly. "Can't, or won't?"

Thor just looked at you, his hands coming up in the air, trembling slightly as if he were trying to explain the weight of the cosmos through his face alone. But when no words left his lips, you let out a scoff.

"Steve it is, then," you decided, turning on your heel and heading straight for the staircase.

That was the exact millisecond total panic kicked in for Thor.

"What? Where are you going?!" he demanded, his long legs instantly moving to follow you.

"To see my soulmate," you called over your shoulder without breaking stride.

"Your what now?!" he growled, his voice tight, dark, and laced with anger so great you felt it in your bones as he trailed right behind you up the steps. Norns, were you a fast woman when you were angry.

"My soulmate! What, are you hard of hearing?!"

"Steve is not your soulmate!" Thor snarled, the frustration building up in his chest like an overflowing volcano as he kept pace up the stairs.

You mentally wished you had taken the elevator, because by the time you hit the second floor landing, your lungs were burning and you were getting completely breathless, and the fact that you had heels on did not help at all, while the literal God of Thunder behind you wasn't even breathing hard.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, spinning around on the step above him so you were looking down into his stormy eyes. "How would you know? It's him. I'm sure of it."

He held your arm the second he caught up to you on the step, his face coming so dangerously close to yours that his hot breath fanned over your lips. He looked as if he couldn't bear the mere thought of being an inch away from you while you spoke of another man being your soulmate—as if, through sheer proximity alone, he could make you yield and force you to admit you didn't actually believe Steve was the one.

"Stop it, darling," he whispered gently, his voice thick with a desperate, pleading tone.

At his words and touch, your mark burned blindingly hot beneath your sleeve, a sharp intake of breath cutting through the air. But you set your jaw, peeling yourself away from his grip to deliver the very sentence you knew would piss him off to his core.

"My mark's burning hotter the closer I get to Steve," you said, resting a hand over your heart before letting out a dramatic, dreamy sigh. "Ah... my beloved."

"Oh, hell no," Thor growled, his voice becoming dangerously tight, tighter than before.

Before he could grab you again, you threw your heels off quickly and fled up the steps, practically sprinting up the concrete risers as Thor gave chase right behind you. You scrambled up to the third floor, nearing the fourth-floor landing, your heart and lungs burning as Thor yelled up the stairwell, "Are you actually going to Steve?!"

"Yeah!" you yelled back, throwing the word over your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The moment your feet hit the fourth floor landing, strong arms wrapped firmly around your waist from behind, lifting your feet right off the ground.

"You are not going to Steve and telling him he is your soulmate," Thor barked, his voice tighter than you had ever heard it in six years.

"I am! Let me down!" you demanded, flailing your legs and twisting against his iron grip as you tried to force him to release you.

He set your feet down, but in one swift motion, he spun you around to face him. He pinned you against the corridor wall, looking you dead in the eyes, his face flushed red as he roared,

"Steve is not your damn soulmate!"

He just couldn't bear you thinking that—not even as a joke, not even for a goddamn second. He wasn't acting rationally; he never made rational decisions when it came to you. And fuck, the mere thought of you walking up to his teammate, claiming another man as your destined match when he was standing right here, made him want to choke the life out of anyone who dared look at you. Especially when it was a lie.

You grabbed his thick biceps, your nails digging hard into his flesh through his damp sleeve. "And I'm asking you, how do you know?!" you yelled back, tears spilling over your lashes. "How could you possibly know that?! Just let me go to him—"

He couldn't take it anymore. The years of silence, the secrecy, the raw jealousy tearing through his ribs—it all shattered at once.

"HE IS NOT BECAUSE I AM!" he screamed.

The words echoed down the empty hallway, bouncing off the walls like a thunderclap.

Even though you had guessed this was coming—even though you had suspected the truth in your marrow—your heart still dropped straight into your stomach.

Before you could even form a breath, Thor let you go. In two swift motions, he grabbed the hem of his soaked hoodie and the shirt underneath, tearing them both over his head in one move and shoving them to the floor.

He stood bared before you, his broad chest heaving, his muscle carved torso exposed to the cool air of the hall. A

And there, right over his left breast—carved boldly, indelibly, right over his beating heart—was the exact same mark resting on your wrist. Lines of lightning, interwoven with a burning stars.

Your lips parted, the air leaving your lungs in a ragged gasp. Your throat tightened so hard you couldn't breathe, your legs locking up until you couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything.

The only thing that flooded your system was a nauseating wave of betrayal.

He knew. He fucking knew.

For years— for six long, grueling years, he had known the entire time. He had watched you wonder, watched you cry, watched you lie awake at night mourning the idea of ever finding the person meant for you. He had sabotaged your dates, interfered in your life, controlled your circle under the innocent guise of a protective best friend—and all of it was because he knew the truth, and he simply chose to keep you in the dark.

He had known the very first second he ever laid eyes on your wrist, and he had looked you in the eye every single day since and lied to you.

"Why?" you whispered, your hands and lips shaking as fresh tears streamed down your face. "Why..."

You couldn't breathe, your whole body in denial, shivering, hands trembling, breathing ragged, trying harder and harder to breathe, fighting harder to take one more breath, making your lungs ache as you looked at him with betrayal in your eyes.

How could he?

"Honey, please," Thor whispered, his blue eyes flooded with horror.

You only cried harder, your frame trembling harshly against the wall.

What have I done? Thor thought wildly, his mind fracturing into a thousand pieces. Why had he let his temper get the better of him? Why had he handed you over to the hands of a fate that was going to bleed you dry? How could he let you know he had lied to you all this time? How could he make you cry like this? What did he think was going to happen?

His heart tore open, bleeding onto the floor as he tried to gulp down the burn in his throat. He took one heavy, desperate step toward you, his calloused hand lifting to cradle your face, his thumb gently wiping away your tears.

Your skin burned at the touch, your heart traitorously soaring at the warmth of his palm.

"I do not know how to make this better—I—I am so sorry—I don't know what I was thinking," Thor choked out, his voice cracking,, "I shouldn't have told you—I should have let you live in ignorance—"

Your heart dropped, your pulse skipping a sickening beat. "What?" you whispered, your voice dangerously small.

He didn't regret keeping this secret from you for years, he fucking regretted telling you?

You straightened your posture immediately, fury rushing back through your veins like hot lead. "YOU MORON! Do you regret telling me instead of regretting keeping it from me?!"

You threw your hand out, thrusting your power forward. A blast of kinetic force slammed directly into Thor's broad chest, sending the God of Thunder stumbling back three full paces.

He staggered, his eyes widening in shock. He was making this worse. Why was he making this worse? Why did his words always come out as the worst possible phrasing in every single argument with you?

"My Star—"

"Shut the fuck up, stop trying to find excuses, and tell me the truth, Thor!" you screamed, your throat hurting, a heavy sniffle cutting through your breath right after. "Why did you do this?! Why did you not tell me? Because of some sick, fucked up savior complex?! TELL ME!"

Thor stood pinned beneath your furious, tear stained glare, his breath catching in his throat.

"Tell me why you told me we can't be together, Thor," you said, stepping closer, your eyes locked onto his with unbraekable determination. "Tell me if you love me."

Thor stumbled back a step—on his own this time, completely unmanned by the vulnerability in your voice. "I cannot," he rasped, his voice barely a breath.

You scoffed, a dark, humorless sound. "You literally just roared down the hallway that you're my soulmate! So tell me whatever the fuck is wrong—"

"No," Thor said, shaking his head frantically, his hands trembling at his sides as he looked at you. "No, I cannot."

Your chest heaved as you stared at him in pure disbelief. He was still stonewalling you. Still holding back. Still trying to control the narrative while your heart was broken on the floor.

So you did something you never thought you would do in your entire life.

You lifted your right hand, fingers twitching as your telekinesis surged outward. Down the hall, in the common area kitchen, metal clanked against metal. A silver knife lifted off the rack, soaring silently down the corridor toward you.

The polished steel caught the overhead lights, gleaming sharply as it hovered right beside your hand.

Thor's eyebrows shot up, "Do you think you can threaten me with that—"

"No," you said simply, your voice chillingly calm. "Who says it's for you?"

Thor's face paled instantly. Every drop of blood drained from his features as the reality of your words set in, his pulse stopping completely for two seconds.

No.

"No, no, no, no, no—" he begged, his forehead knitting together in terror as he lunged forward to close the distance between you.

"Stay back!" you commanded, thrusting your free hand out. You poured every ounce of your powers directly against his chest, locking him in place mid-stride.

Fuck, he was strong. The mass of his godhood pushed against your invisible barrier, making your teeth grind as you fought to hold him back.

"LET ME GO!" Thor roared, his voice cracking with fury and hysteria, his muscles straining violently against the wall of force.

You reached out with your other hand, wrapping your fingers firmly around the black handle of the floating knife. You pulled it out of the air, bringing the cold, sharp point of the blade directly over your chest—lining it up right over your beating heart.

"NO!" Thor screamed, the sound tearing from his lungs, his throat bleeding with the force of it.

He fought with every fiber of his immortal being against your power, his boots skidding across the floorboards. But he was weakened—completely undone and brought to his knees by the unbearable sight of you holding a blade to your own chest, threatening him with the one life he had sacrificed his entire sanity to protect.

"Drop it! I'm begging you, drop it!" Thor sobbed out, his composure fading into dust. "Please, please, please—don't—do not do this to me!"

"Then talk to me, Thor!" you screamed back, your hands shaking as the tip of the steel pressed firm against the fabric over your heart. "Tell me the truth or I swear to god I will end this right now! Tell me why you lied! Tell me if you love me!"

"I LOVE YOU!" Thor bellowed, the confession ripping through the corridor, echoing off the walls until the entire floor vibrated. Desperate to get you to stop without telling you everything. He could tell you he loved you and that was the truth, but the rest? He could not.

The wall of force holding him broke under the weight of his roar, and the moment he felt himself freed, he fled to you. He collapsed to his knees, his hands wrapping desperately around your waist, burying his wet, rain-soaked face directly into your stomach, breathing you in before looking up at you.

You looked down at him, your chest heaving.

He did love you. He did love you and he was jealous, and that was why he had protected you with all his might. Your heart soared, your heartbeat quickening violently.

"I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you!" he sobbed hysterically, his massive body trembling with heavy dry-heaves. His fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes, holding you so tight it bruised, as if he were trying to merge your bodies together so you could never leave him.

"I have loved you since the very second I saw you," he wept, his breath hot against your stomach. "I cannot live without you... I beg of you, please, drop the blade... I cannot live in a world where your heart does not beat... please, my universe, my star... please..."

Your own tears were spilling down as you looked down at him, a ragged sob escaping you as you moved your hand to the side dropped the knife to the floor. You collapsed straight into his arms the second the steel clinked against the tile.

He caught you instantly, holding you tight, keeping your knees from touching the floor harshly and gently steadying you. His face dropped into the crook of your neck as he tried to stop his sobbing, his chest shuddering against yours.

"Thank you, honey, thank you," he whispered, his large, trembling hands gently soothing through your hair. Your own hands found his bare back, feeling the hard, tense muscles beneath your palms. You grabbed onto him with all your might as your tears spilled onto his shoulder. "Did you have to do that?" he whispered, his throat raw and sore.

"Did you have to make me?" you sobbed, burying your face into his neck, breathing him in as your whole body shook.

He kept holding you fiercely in his arms, making sure you weren't going to hurt yourself, breathing you in to reassure himself that you were real, that you were breathing, that you were safe. He pressed a long, desperate kiss to the top of your head, taking a shuddering breath in.

Your nails dug deeper into his back as you lifted your head, forcing him to lift his up and look at you. His eyes were bloodshot, his godlike face flushed red and stained with hot tears.

"You—" You spoke, clearing your throat over a lump of pain. "What did you mean we can't be together?" You searched his blue eyes, your own face distorted in agony. "You do not want me?"

His chest ached at the sight before him, his soulmate mark throbbing with a burning fury right over his heart. "I do want you. More than anything. In fact... it burns me how much I do," he admitted, his voice barely over a whisper.

You bit your swollen, tear stained lip, looking up at him with hopeful, desperate eyes. Maybe he would take it back. Maybe he would realize how ridiculous this was. Maybe—

"But we can't," he ended, the words dropping like lead between you.

Your hold on him loosened immediately.

What?

Your heart begged you to keep holding onto him, to keep him trapped next to you so he could not leave you alone with this revelation—that you indeed had a soulmate, that it was Thor, and that he was actively refusing to be with you. Your stomach churned with a sickening mixture of grief and anger.

"What is wrong with you?" you said, your voice full of fresh, bitter betrayal.

You scrambled backward, peeling your body away from his just as rapid footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Thor reached out, trying desperately to hold onto you, his lungs burning at the sudden loss of contact, the mark over his chest tearing through his skin like liquid fire. "I cannot tell you," he whispered, his jaw trembling as the footsteps drew near.

Steve and Natasha stopped dead in their tracks as they took in the scene before them.

"What happened here?" Steve asked, his voice bewildered, his eyes darting from the discarded knife on the floor to Thor's bare, mark-branded chest. Beside him, Natasha silently assessed the situation, her eyes narrowing as she read the tension in the air.

You didn't spare either of them a glance. Your eyes stayed locked dead on Thor's pale, broken face. "Fine," you said softly, your voice turning ice cold.

You started to push yourself up off the floor. Thor instinctively held out a trembling hand to support you, and Steve did the exact same on your other side, reaching down to offer his palm.

You looked Thor straight in his tear filled eyes, deliberately passed over his reaching hand, and placed your fingers firmly into Steve's palm to pull yourself to your feet.

Thor's hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at the sight, a quiet gasp of pain ripping from his throat.

Standing tall, your body still shaking, you delivered your final sentence to thegod in frontof you:

"If you refuse to be with me, you will be without me."

Thor's eyes widened in panic, the color draining from his face once more. "What do you mean?" he rasped.

"We are not friends anymore, Thor. You're nothing to me. Do not talk to me no more. If you betray me and refuse me, you bear the consequences. Live without me."

You turned on your heel and walked away down the corridor without looking back once, your hands trembling at your sides as your bare feet met quietly with the floor.

Steve stood frozen in place, utterly stunned, while Natasha slowly looked down at the god of thunder kneeling on the cold floorboards, his bare chest heaving, his fingers clutching at the spot where your touch had just been.

Natasha took a slow step forward, her voice a low, sharp line. "What the fuck happened, Thor?"

Thor couldn't explain anything. He just kept looking down, his tears burning his cheeks as he realized what had just happened. He had refused you out of obligation, and you had cut him out of your life completely.

Out of obligation—because this was not a simple matter of 'I have to protect her from the dangers that follow me,' or 'I have to protect her because my enemies will find out about her.' He had been right next to you for years as your best friend, for Odin's sake; this was not about simple threats or rogue enemies. He could protect you from any monster in the nine realms.

This was a curse. An actual fucking curse, placed upon him by a Dark Elf years before he had ever met you. Thor had thought the creature was bluffing, scoffing in the monster's face right before he struck him down, his voice dripping with arrogant confidence as he declared, "No one dares put a curse on the mighty Thor."

But his own arrogance was what had brought him to here tonight.

The Dark Elf had warned him that he would lose everyone he held dear to his heart. Not his friends—that was the only sick mercy the creature had granted him, apparently—but his true family. His mother. His father. His brother. The only reason they were all gone, swept away into the cold dark of death, was because of him.

So he was sure his enemies could find you with the help of the curse.

And he could not lose you. He would rather die a thousand times over than lose you.

Yet he just had. Because he was cursed, and because he couldn't bring himself to tell you the truth. He knew what would happen if he confessed: you would try to make it make sense. You would look up at him with those fierce, beautiful eyes and try to tell him that the curse wouldn't apply to a soulbond—that the magic of destined soulmates was an ancient power that overcame all dark spells.

And Thor knew, with devastating certainty, that he would believe you. He would yield to your words because he was already straining every fiber of his being just to force himself to stay away from you. And then he would lose you forever, all because he hadn't possessed the strength to keep saying no to you.

But he lost you anyway, just in a different way than he could have ever guessed.

—

You had woken up and gotten ready for breakfast, your eyes swollen because of yesterday night. You did not want to do this—you didn't want to hurt him, and you certainly didn't want to hurt yourself—but wasn't he already doing that anyway? He had hurt you so much, betraying you in the worst way possible. You would have tried to oversee it, would have fought through the pain, if only he had told you why he did what he did.

But he didn't, did he? He didn't give you a logical explanation, nor a shred of hope for a future. Ever.

You gulped against the lump in your throat and made your way out of your room, heading straight to the kitchen to get caffeine into your system.

When you entered, you saw Rocket sitting on a stool near the island, along with Steve, Nat, Tony, and Bruce standing around the counter.

"Good morning," you grumbled under your breath, your voice thick and dry.

Tony looked at the state of you, his eyebrows furrowing instantly. "Good morning, sunshine," he said, with his usual sarcastic bite but faltered into genuine concern at the sight of your swollen eyes. You glared daggers at him, and his frown deepened. "What the hell happened to you?"

Steve let out a quiet, tired sigh, while Nat nudged Tony’s arm, whispering sharply, "Stop it, Tony."

Across the counter, Bruce urgently made a cut-it motion with his hand, his eyes wide. Steve and Nat had filled him in on the aftermath from last night, but neither of them had managed to catch Tony up yet. They really, really should have.

Rocket looked back and forth between everyone, baffled by the sight before him. "I miss my weirdos more and more every single minute I spend with you weirdos."

"Shut up, rat," Tony muttered absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to your swollen face.

"I will literally kill you, metal man—" Rocket started, baring his teeth, but Tony paid zero mind to the furry creature and leaned in toward Steve and Nat, whispering furiously.

"What is going on? Is this a serious situation?" Tony hissed under his breath while you turned your back to them, reaching for the coffee pot. Dark storm clouds could have been swirling directly over your head right now and none of them would have been surprised.

"We don't fully know what's wrong either, but she had a massive blowout with Thor last night," Nat whispered, her green eyes tracking your movements with deep concern. "And apparently… they're soulmates."

You grabbed your mug, poured the dark liquid, and turned around to walk over to the counter—just in time to witness Tony and Rocket simultaneously shout, "WHAT THE HELL?!" in unison.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your eyes narrowing as you looked over the five of them. "What's going on?" you asked, your voice suspicious. Steve's head snapped toward you, his face flashing with panic as his mind scrambled to make something up on the spot. "Um! We were just... discussing how Bruce... spent two hours trying to teach Rocket how to play the ukulele using his toes!"

You tilted your head, staring at Steve like he had grown two heads. "Huh?"

Bruce glared daggers at Steve, looking like he wanted to jump out the glass window, while Rocket just stared at captain america in utter disgust. You walked over, setting your mug down on the island, and took a slow, thoughtful sip of your coffee. You were remarkably content that a certain someone was nowhere in sight, your black mood lifting just a bit at his absence as you decided to pry a little more into whatever absurd conversation you had just interrupted.

"But why did Rocket say what the hell if he is actually learning that from Bruce?" you asked, your eyes searching Steve's panicking face with quiet suspicion.

This made Steve panic even more, his throat working hard as he searched the ceiling for a second believable lie. Before he could embarrass himself further, Rocket barked from his stool, "It's cause they brought it up and I obviously didn't want it brought up, genius!" he snarled at you, baring his teeth.

You took a slow sip from your coffee, a faint, dark smirk playing at the corner of your lips. "Okay, Rocket," you said, looking him dead in the eye. "Show me what you got sometime. I really wanna see you playing ukulele with your toes—"

You stopped abruptly, your brow furrowing as a realization hit you. "Rocket..do you even have toes? You're a fucking ferret."

Everyone at the counter froze solid. Mouths went agape, eyes widened, and a hysterical silence fell over the kitchen as Tony, Bruce, and Steve tried to figure out how to process the sentence, and how to save Steve's lie from this point on.

Rocket broke the silence, his ears flattening against his head. "I'm not a damn ferret."

"That's because you are a bunny, my friend," a deep, rumblesome voice echoed from the hallway behind him.

The moment his voice hit the room, the hair stood up on your arms. Your whole frame locked up instantly, the breath trapped in your lungs as your mark began to throb with a vicious pulse beneath your sleeve. You glued your eyes to the dark liquid in your coffee mug, refusing to look up. You could not—would not—spare him a single glance.

Thor stepped fully into the kitchen, his stormy eyes locking onto you immediately. His mark burned like liquid iron over his heart, matching the agonizing pull radiating from your wrist. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the sight of you—your swollen eyes, your rigid shoulders, the coldness you threw up like a brick wall between you. It tore straight through his skin, branding itself directly onto his soul.

He gulped, his jaw clenching in agony as he stood there, completely ignored.

Rocket suddenly leapt up onto the island, his sharp teeth bared in pure irritation as he snatched a butter knife off a plate and pointed it menacingly at the entire room. "I'm just Rocket!"

You looked at him, your gaze entirely deadpan, refusing to let the distraction pull your focus to the giant god standing three feet away. "That's your name, stupid. You are an animal called a raccoon. You're welcome."

You set your mug down with a soft clink, slid off your stool, and turned to leave. Your eyes burned with hot, traitorous tears just from being in his orbit, the scent of rain suffocating you. You had to get away.

"Where are you going?"

The question fell from Thor’s lips—his voice small and stripped of his usual boomingness.

Your steps faltered for a second, a ragged, shuddering breath hitching in your throat. He was burning you. Just the sound of his voice pleading in the quiet room was hurting you worse than any weapon ever could.

You set your jaw, forced your feet forward, and kept on going without a word. You had to avoid him at all costs. You had to think of yourself now.

Thor stood frozen, his eyes burning as he watched you leave without a word. So you actually meant what you had said.

He could not breathe.

—

After three days of avoiding Thor, getting out of rooms whenever he entered or refusing to look his way at dinners, your bond was aching from being away from him. It made your right hand tremble, your lungs aching for air, his scent lingering in your nostrils even when he wasn't near you. Your mind tormented you with his face every single time you closed your eyes. It was torture, plain and simple.

Thor was far worse. His eyes desperately searched for you whenever he entered a room, his heart begging for just a single glimpse of you. His mark ached, throbbed, and pulsed, tearing through his chest every second you were away. He couldn't sleep. He saw your face whenever he closed his eyes; his mind was breaking under the strain. He was pretty sure he had hallucinated you standing in his room, smiling softly at him last night.

And it had only been three days. How was he supposed to endure a lifetime of this torment?

You were coming back from a girls' day out with Nat. You had needed to blow off steam, and you had chosen to do it through retail therapy. But she had left your side the second you both entered the compound, claiming she had urgent matters to attend to with Steve. You had merely nodded, pursing your lips and furrowing your eyebrows, suspecting a set up but too exhausted to argue.

You made your way to the elevator, heavy shopping bags clutched in your hands. You leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling after pressing the button to your floor, patiently waiting to arrive. When the elevator doors finally dinged open, you let out a quiet sigh and stepped out, making your way down the eerily silent hallway.

The silence didn't last long. Your gently aching wrist flared, burning hot beneath your sleeve, and heavy, familiar footsteps echoed from up ahead. Thor was walking down the corridor from the opposite direction.

The moment his eyes caught sight of you, his breath hitched, his lungs burning at the sudden, overwhelming proximity. His stormy blue eyes roamed desperately over your face, his long stride halting for a second. But you forced yourself to pay no mind to him. You kept walking, the grip you had on your shopping bags tightening until your knuckles turned white, using the pain to ground yourself.

Thor forced his boots to keep moving, too. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle feathered beneath his skin as he tried to force his eyes away from your pretty, exhausted face.

But your bodies decided against your will.

Without permission, as you drew level in the narrow hall, Thor’s hand drifted toward yours just as your fingers twitched subtly toward his. It was barely noticeable, a magnetic pull neither of you could control.

The back of your hand grazed against Thor’s.

The touch stole the very air straight from your lungs. Electric heat surged through your skin, the contact burning like a white-hot iron. You stopped dead in your tracks, staring down in shock as the heavy shopping bags slipped from your numb fingers, tumbling to the floor. Neither of you paid the slightest bit of attention to the sound of them hitting the floor.

Thor’s broad chest heaved as he stared down at the small space between your hands. Days without you looking at him, days without holding you—it had turned him into a starved, desperate man. His throat burned, his pulse skipping wildly against his skin. Before his mind could stop his body, his pinky lifted, gently brushing against the side of your index finger.

You took a sharp, jagged breath, your brows knitting together in longing. You gulped, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

The hallway was silent save for the sound of both of your heavy, ragged breaths. The thick, suffocating tension made it almost impossible to draw air into your chest. He was burning, and he was dragging you into the fire alongside him.

Your hand twitched, your breathing growing quicker, shallower. Slowly, helplessly, you looked up at him for the first time in days—only to find him already staring down at your face, his eyes flooded with pure longing.

His breath hitched loudly as he finally met your eyes. Your breath caught in your throat, trapped in the back of your lungs. You couldn't pull your eyes away. Involuntarily, your gaze flicked downward, landing directly on his parted lips.

What were you doing?

The realization poured over you like a bucket of ice water. You stopped, shaking your head frantically as you yanked your hand back. You stumbled two heavy steps away from him, pressing your back flat against the cold corridor wall.

Thor flinched back a step, too, as if your sudden withdrawal had physically scorched him. But he looked at you with pleading eyes, his chest rising and falling harshly—desperately.

Unable to handle the desperation in his face, you averted your gaze immediately, looking down at the scattered shopping bags sitting between you on the floor.

Thor’s gaze instantly followed yours. Seeing his chance, he scrambled downward, dropping to his knee to gather the handles for you.

"Let me help—" he rasped, his voice rough and broken.

Before his fingers could even loop around the paper handles, you bent down and yanked the bags right out of his reach. Your chest still heaving, your skin still tingling with liquid fire, you turned on your heel and sprinted down the rest of the hall, diving into your quarters and slamming the door behind you.

That night, neither of you could sleep.

You tossed and turned in the dark, the ache in your chest radiating all the way down to your bones. It hurt so intensely to be this close to him without truly having him. It hurt knowing he had claimed he wanted you, yet still chose to push you away. But what cut the deepest was the memory of his eyes from earlier that afternoon—that raw, indescribable agony written across his face when you snatched your shopping bags and refused to let him help you.

Thor lay awake in his own room, staring up at the shadow draped ceiling, consumed by his yearning for you. He yearned for your touch, your scent, your laugh—just you. It physically pained him how desperately he wanted you, how deeply it stung that you denied him so much as a glance. Yet, when you had finally looked at him for the first time in days, letting him exist in your presence for just a fleeting moment, you had fled from him with all your might.

When he closed his eyes for the thousandth time that night, a soft, involuntary smile touched his lips at the mere thought of your face.

To only be quickly swallowed by the crushing weight of reality.

—

It had been two days since your hands touched in that hallway. Five whole days of not talking to him, not hugging him, not breathing him in.

God, ever since you learned he was your soulmate, your desire for him had grown unnaturally, ridiculously persistent. You had wanted him before, of course—wanted to kiss him, hug him, keep him close. But now?

It was tearing through your very soul. Your hands trembled with the urge to touch him whenever you caught even the briefest glimpse of him. Your heart throbbed in pain whenever you forced yourself to look away from him. Your nose burned with a relentless ache to step closer and breathe him in. Every time he entered a room, your jaw clenched so hard it hurt just to keep yourself from walking over to him.

Your lips were the absolute worst. They tingled, burned, and ached desperately—desperate for his plush, pink lips to crush against yours, to kiss you, claim you, and finally make you one with him. The soulbond was playing wicked tricks on your senses; everywhere you went, the air smelled intoxicatingly of rain and sandalwood. Everywhere you looked, it felt like the ghost of him was trailing just behind you.

It was pure torture.

Thor was utterly devastated. It hadn't been easy for him before, either; knowing you were his soulmate from the beginning meant every day had been a brutal exercise in self contrpl. He had spent months resisting the urge to touch you every two seconds, to breathe you in whenever you were near. Once, he had clenched his jaw so hard trying to restrain himself that he had literally dislocated it, forcing him to snap it back into place in secret. He fought constantly against the instinct to pull you in and kiss you senseless, his eyes constantly straying to your lips whenever you were in the room. He felt like a damned pervert for it, but tearing his eyes away was impossible.

You were simply made for him. Your beautiful face looked as though it had been meticulously carved by the gods, your body that of a goddess. You were the most extraordinary thing he had ever witnessed.

You were walking across the ground floor of the compound toward the elevator, your head down and your eyes fixed on your phone. When the metal doors slid open, you stepped straight inside without bothering to look up and check if anyone was already in it.

It was a huge mistake. The moment the doors slid shut with a soft click, your soulmark throbbed beneath your skin. The air in the enclosed space instantly flooded with the overwhelming, rich scent of him.

Your eyes went wide as panic spiked through your blood. You scrambled forward, your thumb hammering the button to open the doors back up over and over again. But it didn't work—the elevator had already engaged, smoothly gliding upward.

Thor was pinned back against the far wall, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as his breathing turned heavy and shallow. Your scent—sweet, intoxicating, perfect—filled his senses in an instant. You were the sweetest air he had ever breathed.

Desperate to get out as fast as possible, you pressed the button for the very next floor, your hands shaking as you tried to force your face into a mask of composure. You could feel his intense stare scorching the side of your profile, heavy and burning with unspoken words.

Fate decided to play its hand.

The elevator came to a sudden halt with a sharp metallic screech. The harsh jolt knocked you completely off balance, sending you stumbling forward into the center of the cabin. Instinct took over before either of you could think. Thor reached out to catch you, his large, warm hand wrapping firmly around your bare forearm to steady you. Simultaneously, your palm instinctively flattened against his broad chest—landing directly over his soulmark.

Thor sucked in a sharp, ragged breath. His chest burned beneath your touch, a fiery heat bursting right over the spot that declared he belonged to you.

You were shaken to your very core. Your chest heaved as you looked down at your hand resting flat against his chest, then at his strong fingers wrapped around your skin. You breathed, and breathed, and breathed, completely paralyzed, unable to move, feeling the fastened, hammering rhythm of his heartbeat thumping directly beneath your palm.

Your eyes locked with his. Both of your chests rose and fell in harsh, synchronized rhythms. Your skin prickled with electric heat, your lips parted as you gasped for air in the tight space.

Then, with another sharp jolt, the elevator sparked back to life, resuming its smooth upward climb as if nothing had happened. The movement made you stumble again, causing Thor's grip on your arm to instinctively tighten to keep you upright.

A voice crackled overhead from the intercom, sounding distant and lighthearted. "Sorry about that, guys! Just doing routine maintenance!" Tony called out.

The spell snapped. You harshly pulled away, scrambling back toward the doors and frantically straightening your clothes, staring intensely at the metal walls to avoid his face.

Thor cleared his throat, his raspy voice trembling as his eyes stayed glued to you. "Honey, please look at me" he begged softly.

The sound of his rough, pleading voice hit your heart like a punch, making you take in a sharp breath. But just as the words left his lips, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the hallway.You bolted out the second there was enough space, rushing down the corridor without looking back, your heart beating in your throat.

He didn't even have it in him to give chase. His heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he simply stood there, watching your retreating form vanish down the hall.

—

You were crying that night, for hours, your knees pulled tight to your chest, your arms circled around your legs as your mark throbbed in disdain. Your heart ached, your nose burned, your ears rang, and your eyes were swollen and bloodshot as you tried to breathe through your endless, heavy sobbing.

Your whole body was begging you to go to him, to go to the only place it knew as home.

But how were you supposed to do that when the only home you’ve known for years had betrayed you so deeply? How were you supposed to run to him when your home refused to let you in?

Thor felt his heartstrings being violently pulled all night. His hands clenched into tight fists as he paced back and forth across his room, his muscles tense, his mind racing to find any way to fix this.

His eyes filled with unshed tears, his eyes and nose burning as he looked up at the ceiling, his broad chest heaving, his lungs aching.

Fuck.

He had to tell you the truth.

There was no other way to make you forgive him. There was no other way around this—no lies, no distractions, no evasions. Nothing.

He couldn't breathe without you. Usually, his lungs constricted whenever he was more than five paces away from you, but now? After five days of you ignoring him? Every breath he tried to take felt like dry sawdust scraping through his airway.

So he opened his door. His hands were trembling, but his posture was set with unbreakable confidence as he made his way down the quiet corridor to your room. He had to make this right.

Your throat burned as you tried to swallow, your sniffles finally slowing down, your sobbing ebbing into quiet, exhausted whimpers. You tried to gulp again, but you were completely parched, the dryness in your throat making you wince in pain.

You pushed yourself off the bed and padded softly over to your door. But the moment you swung it open, the dull pulse of your soulmark spiked into a sharp, white hot flare of pain—and then you met the eyes of the reason why.

Thor stood right outside. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips parted, his short hair disheveled. He looked as if he were in great pain. No—he looked as if he had been tortured in hell, dragged back to earth, and put through the flames all over again.

His chest burned as he looked down at your face—at your swollen, reddened eyes, your lips raw and inflamed from biting down on them, your cheeks wet from hours of crying. And still, you looked utterly beautiful to him. Devastatingly so.

Your eyes widened in shock, and you immediately tried to slam the door shut. But Thor caught the edge, pushing it back effortlessly. You were forced to take a few steps backward as he forced his way inside, your body trembling as you put as much distance between the two of you as possible.

"What are you doing here?" you whispered. But it hurt just to speak, and your face scrunched up in pain at the rasp in your voice.

"Have you been crying, my love?" he asked, his voice cracking with unbearable pain. His eyes roamed frantically over your face as he stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him.

You snapped your head away from him. "What do you want?" you whispered again. When the pain in your throat proved too much to bear, you tried to make a beeline past him toward the door; you needed water, and you needed it now.

"Please—please do not leave! I beg of you, let me speak to you!" Thor begged, his large hand reaching out and wrapping firmly around your forearm.

You let out a sharp, ragged breath. "My throat hurts," you said simply, your voice raspy and broken.

He looked down at you, the desperation on his face making you shiver. "I’ll get you whatever you need, just—" He gulped hard, his throat working over a lump of pain. "Just don't leave. Stay here, please."

You shook your head weakly. "I can't."

His grip on your arm tightened, not to hurt you, but out of pure panic. "Please," he begged again, gently guiding you back to sit down on the edge of the mattress. "Stay." He turned and quickly left the room to grab a glass from the kitchen.

What was he doing here? What did he want? What more could he possibly want from you?

You couldn't bear to hear him reject you again. You couldn't survive the thought of him being this close to you and not touching you, not holding you, not kissing you.

You sat on the bed, staring down at your bare feet, shivering as your mind made its decision: you were not going to stay.Your eyes burned with fresh tears as you stood up, taking fast, silent strides toward the open door.

But you were too late. You had spent too much time trapped in your thoughts. Thor was already stepping back onto the threshold three paces to your right, a tall glass of water in his hand—and he looked furious.

Your eyes widened and you tried to pivot to flee, but he was fast. His right arm swept out, wrapping like an iron band around your waist, and he hoisted you up over his broad shoulder without a single shred of effort, knocking the wind straight out of you.

"Where do you think you are going?" he demanded, his voice tight and dark as he carried you back into your room.

"What the fuck, Thor?!" you gasped, your legs flailing and kicking hard against his abs. But he didn't even budge.

He forcefully set you down on the edge of the bed again, then thrust the glass of water toward your face, his stormy blue eyes blazing with pure fire.

"Drink."

"No."

"Now." He demanded, the command rattling the air between you.

You looked up at him, your hair disheveled, your eyes spitting absolute fury as you snatched the glass from his hand and drank it down. The cold water soothed your raw throat instantly. You watched over the rim of the glass as he walked back to the door, clicking it shut and turning the lock immediately after.

Why the fuck did he lock the door?

"Thor, why are you here?" you asked breathlessly, setting the empty glass down and standing up from the bed as he turned back to face you. "What the fuck are you doing?" Your heart was hammering in your throat as you spoke.

"I am here to talk to you," he stated, his voice ringing with immovable determination.

"I don't want to talk to you," you spat back, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.

"I will talk, and you will listen," he said, his hands clenching into tight, white knuckled fists at his sides.

You scoffed, turning away from him in irritation. But as you turned, your eyes caught sight of Stormbreaker leaning heavily against the wall near the door frame. The axe’s sharp metal edge gleamed dangerously under the moonlight spilling through the window.

Your eyebrows furrowed. Had you seen that right? Why was Stormbreaker in your room? What the fuck was happening?

Then you heard a heavy whoosh of air, followed by a loud thud as the weapon summoned straight into his waiting palm.

Thor shifted his stance, and his next words made your heart drop into your stomach, your blood turning into pure ice, your head spinning with sudden dizziness.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice tight, dark, and laced with an edge of desperation. "Look at me and see how it feels when your soulmate threatens his own life. Look and feel how I felt."

No, no, no, no, he cannot be doing what you thougjt he was doing, could he?

"No," you whispered. You turned back to face him, your hands flying to your heart, your eyes wide with pure terror.

Thor stood there, holding Stormbreaker flush against his own throat. The razor sharp blade pressed firm against his skin, threatening to cut his artery open with the slightest movement.

You took a trembling step toward him, your hands shaking in the air. "No, no, no—you can't," you begged, your voice breaking into a terrified, breathless sob. "Thor, please—you can't!"

"Are you willing to listen now?" he said, his voice shaky as he exhaled.

You nodded frantically, your chest heaving rapidly as you spoke. "Yes, yes, I’ll listen. Just drop that, please!" you begged, taking another step forward, your legs trembling so hard you could barely stand upright.

Your heart ached, beating so hard against your ribcage you felt as though it were trying to tear straight through it. You bit down hard on your lower lip, your tears spilling endlessly down your cheeks.

"It is a curse," he said.

You breathed out a hollow breath. "What?"

"It's a damn curse. I cannot be with you because I am cursed," he confessed, his voice something small, fragile, yet his grip on his weapon remained deadly tight.

Your eyebrows furrowed in pure confusion. "Thor, what are you saying? How are you cursed—what the fuck?" You couldn't breathe. A wave of sick nausea climbed straight up into your stomach.

"It was years ago... a dark elf cursed me," he said, his voice nothing but a broken whisper. "I was arrogant—a fool. I did not believe a single word that came out of his mouth. But it all turned out to be true. I lost my mother. My father. My brother. Every person I held dear to me..."

Your head tilted to the side, tears falling continuously as you asked, "But I am your closest friend... how come I am still alive if you are actually cursed?"

Thor closed his eyes, fresh tears escaping past his lashes as he spoke. "Because the curse does not apply to friends. Only family... and my lover."

Realization slammed into you like a physical blow. "That is why you—"

"Yes," he said, opening his bloodshot eyes to lock into yours. "That is why I did not tell you. I tried to protect you."

But there was something fundamentally wrong in this equation. He was your soulmate. You were friends, but the two of you had been irrevocably in love for years. If something terrible was meant to happen, wouldn't it have happened already? Besides, you were almost certain no dark magic could ever touch or overrule a soulbond.

"But—but soulmate magic is different! No dark magic can—"

"I knew you were going to say that! I just knew you were going to try to make sense of this!" he cried out, his voice trembling. "I know I have hurt you dearly. I know you do not want to see me, but please—" he begged, his eyes burning with frantic desperation. "Please kiss me so that I might be freed of this torment."

All the oxygen left your lungs at once. Your lips tingled in sharp desire even at the mere thought of kissing him.

"If I cannot hold you, I am as good as dead anyway," Thor continued, his voice strained and breaking. "I would rather die by this curse tonight than live another minute in your silence. Kiss me... kiss me, touch me, do something. I beg of you, My Star. I promise you I will end it all before something happens to you—"

A heavy sob tore from his chest.

"I have thought of this... if I die, then you won't have to worry about dying because of the curse. So I—I will end it after you kiss me. Make my last moments worth it, please. At least before I die, let me get to hold you, feel you, feel your lips on mine..."

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. "No..." you whispered, taking an involuntary step back. "No, I will not let you die—" You sobbed, your tears falling harsher, blinding your vision. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"

Thor pressed the razor edge of the axe harder against the skin of his throat, a tiny drop of blood welling against the steel. "I will do it whether you kiss me or not, my love. So I beg you... I beg you to kiss me before I do."

Your lungs constricted in on themselves as you stared into his desperate, weeping eyes. In that second, a reckless, overwhelming certainty took root inside your chest.

"I do not care about a damn curse!" you screamed, sobbing uncontrollably. "Please, Thor, do not leave me without you!"

You looked all over his face—taking in the full, disheveled state of him. Crying, sobbing, hands trembling, a god completely brought to the brink of death, willing to take his own life simply because he couldnt survive being left without you.

Then you made your decision. If you were not meant to be together in this life, you would be together in the next.

You smoothed your posture, standing straight. Your voice trembled, but it carried an unbreakable, stern finality. “Fine” you whispered, his eyes turned hopeful.

"I will kiss you," you said softly, walking toward him slowly, your bare feet padding silently against the floor. "But you have to promise me something."

Sobbing, you reached up to him, your hands finding the front of his shirt and grabbing the fabric tightly in your fists.

Thor let out a ragged breath of pure relief, looking down at your face, nodding hysterically as he wept. "Anything."

You sniffled, looking dead into his eyes.

"You have to let me die too."

His breath hitched, his thoughts going completely haywire as he looked down into your tear-filled eyes. "No—no, you cannot ask that of me—"

You gripped the fabric of his shirt even harder, pulling him down toward you. "I can. I am asking it. Think about it, baby," you whispered, your voice turning sweet as honey despite the terror in the air. "We can find each other in the afterlife. We can be together there... it's all going to be okay," you said, your eyes shining with a hopeful light.

"I can't let you die—" he begged, his throat working harshly as tears spilled over his lashes.

But you didn't let him finish. You surged upward and pressed your lips directly to his, letting out a long, shuddering sigh immediately after—surrendering to the soulmate you had spent years forcedly staying away from.

Thor froze instantly in his place, his entire frame going rigid as his mind fractured, contemplating whether to pull away to save you or kiss you back. But the soulbond snapped whatever restraint he had left into dust. He dropped his arm from his chest and wrapped his massive hand around your waist, pinning your front flush against his broad body as his lips pressed into yours bruisingly, both of your chests heaving in tandem.

You kissed him back just as fervently, your heart soaring in your chest, your soulmark finally singing in pure relief. You could almost hear the magic call out to the both of you, mocking the years of separation: 'Finally. What took you idiots so long?'

Your hands traced up his chest, sliding past his collarbones to reach his neck, but your movement stopped dead. His hand was still clenched in an iron grip around the handle of his weapon.

You pulled back just a bit, your hand gliding to his hand until your trembling fingers rested over his white knuckled hold on the giant axe.

"Drop it, honey," you whispered softly against his lips.

And Thor could not deny you anything. Not after you had kissed him. Not after you looked at him with that heartbreaking devotion.

It's okay, he reasoned desperately with himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. I can do it right after. I'm not going to let anything happen to her. I will end my life before the curse takes hers.

His grip on the axe loosened, and he let the weapon slip from his fingers, letting it fall to the floor with a loud, heavy thud.

The second the axe hit the ground, Thor’s hand flew to your jaw, his other hand tightening around your waist as he pulled you back in and kissed you with a ferocious, starved intensity. A breathless whimper escaped your throat. Tears kept slipping down both of your cheeks, the bitter, salty taste mixing between your lips, your noses brushing, your hands grabbing frantically onto him—his neck, his face, his broad shoulders.

He hoisted you up effortlessly. You circled your legs tightly around his waist with another whimper, your arms wrapping around his neck as he carried you two steps and slammed your back against the wall, knocking the very breath from your lungs.

You kissed him back with every single drop of strength left in your body, his desperate kisses making all your logical thoughts completely evaporate into nothing. One of his massive hands gripped the back of your thigh tightly to hold your weight against the wall, while his other hand clutched the back of your neck, tilting your face up to press you closer, deeper, until there was no air left between you.

You were still crying silently, the two of you kissing like dying people reaching for air in a burning room. Your hands tore mindlessly at each other’s clothes—your nails digging into his shoulders, his back, his neck, everywhere you could get a hold of his warmth. Thor pressed you harder between his chest and the wall, his large hands roaming possessively all over you—your waist, the sides of your breasts, your arms, your neck, until his fingers finally tangled into your hair where your scalp met your neck, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss into something even more intoxicating.

He groaned heavily into your mouth while you whimpered, shivering against him.

He broke the kiss for a second just to whisper frantically into your mouth, "I love you, my little star. I love you, I love you.."

And he claimed your lips again. You bit his lower lip softly, pulling your head back just an inch to look into his dark, bloodshot eyes. "I love you too, honey. My big, handsome love," you whispered right against his mouth before pulling him back into another breathless kiss.

He couldn't help himself. Driven by pure, primal instinct, he grinded his hips up between your legs. You let out a high whine, your head falling back against the wall as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, the electric warmth between your legs flaring wildly to life.

"Thor..." you whispered raspy into his mouth.

"Yes," he gasped back, his breath scorching your skin.

A heavy, sickening dizziness began to take over your consciousness. The edges of your vision blurred into black. Your hands and legs felt terrifyingly limp against his frame, and the mark on the inside of your wrist didn't sing anymore—it flared with a pulse of internal heat.

Your strength vanished, your head dropping onto his shoulder. "I love you... do not forget it. Ever," you whispered into his skin.

Thor froze dead in his tracks. His stomach sank into a bottomless abyss as the meaning of your slurred words slammed into his brain. His blood ran ice cold. No. No, no, NO!

Panic exploded through his entire being. His muscles tensed as he tried to summon Stormbreaker back into his hand to drive the blade into his own heart before the curse could take another breath from your body—

Whoosh.

Before his call can reach the weapon, your hand twitched instinctively. Driven by a final, desperate burst of power to save him from himself, your hand shot up and threw an invisible force field, blasting Stormbreaker straight across the room where it clattered harmlessly against the far wall.

Your hand fell limp. Your eyes slipped closed, and your head heavy-ended against his neck as you slipped completely away into the dark, silent abyss of unconsciousness.

"NO!" Thor screamed, a sound so broken it shattered the glass in your bedside lamp. He slid down to the floor, clutching your limp, unmoving body tightly to his chest, weeping hysterically as he shook you. "NO! Baby, baby please— Open your eyes! Please—OPEN YOUR EYES!"

He looked down at your limp body, his frame shaking with uncontrollable sobs, his fingers twitching to summon his weapon and end it all right there. But while holding you, his palms cupping your cold cheeks, his tears dripping down onto your skin, his heart aching with a agony so profound it felt like a thousand blades were going through him, his mind suddenly slipped into an idea he had never thought of before.

Why hadn't he thought of it before?

He knew someone who could help. He had to get you to him immediately.

He gathered you up into his arms properly, pushing off the floor and sprinting out into the hallway, his boots thundering loudly in the middle of the night.

A door clicked open, and Steve stepped out into the corridor, groggy from sleep as he squinted at the source of the commotion. His eyes widened into circles of shock as he saw Thor carrying your limp form, sprinting toward the stairwell. Steve immediately gave chase.

"Thor! What's going on?! Is she okay?!" Steve asked frantically, his heart dropping to his stomach.

Thor couldn't even form words. He could only sob, a ragged sound, as went down the stairs hurriedly to get out to the compound garden.

"Answer me, Thor! Please, man!" Steve begged, his own voice wavering.

"I do not know!" Thor choked out, weeping harsher.

When he arrived atthe ground floor, he saw his friends rushing out into the main area, their faces pale with concern as shouts of "What's going on?!" and "What happened?!" echoed off the walls. Thor didn't stop. He burst straight out into the cool night air of the garden, his free hand reaching up to summon his weapon—for a completely different reason this time.

To save you.

Stormbreaker flew into his waiting palm. Before any of his friends could reach the doors, Thor vanished into a blast of blinding rainbow light.

He landed right on the stone doorstep of the Sanctum Sanctorum.

"Sorcerer!!" he roared, his free fist hammering against the wooden door. "Sorcerer Strange, I need your help!"

He knew he could shatter the wood in a single strike, but he didn't dare offend the only man who might save your life. The door swung open just as he was about to land another desperate punch.

"Thor? What is going on? It's the middle of the night, I need my—" Stephen Strange started, rubbing his eyes, but stopped dead the second he saw you lying limp in the god's arms. His expression shifted instantly. "Bring her inside. Now."

Thor rushed inside and gently laid you down on one of the leather couches, his hands trembling violently as he clasped your cold hand in his own.

"Tell me what happened," Stephen demanded, stepping forward as his hands lifted, magic sparking around his fingertips as he began scanning your body to decipher the problem.

"I—" Thor started, but a sob cut him off. "It's my curse! I was cursed by a Dark Elf, and I kissed her, and she fainted, and it's all my fucking fault—"

Stephen paused, lowering his hands slightly to look at him. "Thor—"

"She's dying, and it's my fault!"

"Thor—"

"I cannot live without her!"

"THOR!" Stephen yelled, cutting through the god's panic and locking eyes with him dead on. "She is fine. The curse is broken."

Thor went completely motionless, his breath catching in his throat. "What?"

"She fainted because she is human and not a god like you," Stephen explained, shaking his head with a faint sigh. "Her body simply went into shock from the intensity of your soulbond activating all at once. She is going to be completely fine. Apparently, your soulbond is stronger than any dark magic, my friend."

Thor froze solid. Then, slowly, the tension melted from his face, breaking into a massive, breathless smile. He let out a booming, triumphant laugh that shook the dust from the bookshelves, reaching out and engulfing the Sorcerer Supreme in a crushing, bone snapping hug.

"SORCERER! Thank you, my dear friend!" he boomed, chuckling heartily with unbridled joy.

Stephen grumbled loudly in his iron grip, tapping Thor's shoulder. "Okay, big guy... you're welcome. You can let go now."

Thor let go, only one question on his mind now, you were a mortal, a blink of an eye in his lifetime, so he couldn't help but ask, "But how long will she live f—"

"As long as you." Stephen replied simply, "Soulmates have the exact same life expentacy, unless you die, she will live, as long as you do."

—

You opened your eyes, lying in your own bed back at the compound. Your head felt light and dizzy as you looked around the sunlit room.

Was this heaven? Had you died?

Was Thor here?

Panic spiked through your veins. You sat up immediately, swinging your legs off the mattress and rushing out of your room to look around, desperate to see if he had found you in the afterlife.

But as you stepped into the hall, you didn't see golden gates or clouds. You only heard the familiar, lively chatter of your friends coming from the common room down the hall.

You hadn't died.

Which meant...

Thor?

Your hands trembled as you broke into a sprint toward the living area, your heart hammering faster and faster against your ribs as you crossed the threshold.

Every single head snapped in your direction. The room immediately went quiet, and they all pushed up from their seats, rushing toward you with overwhelming relief written across their faces—Rocket, Tony, Bruce, Steve, Nat.

"You scared the hell out of us, kid," Tony said, stepping up first and pulling you into a firm hug.

Your eyes frantically searched past his shoulder, roaming over every corner of the room. Then Nat wrapped her arms around you, followed by Steve, then Bruce, and even Rocket gave your leg a brief, awkward pat.

But where was he?

Tears welled up in your eyes again. Your heart ached with a suffocating panic, your whole frame trembling as a broken sob escaped your throat.

They all immediately took a step back in surprise.

"Woah, woah, my shirt's Dolce, don't cry over it," Tony said, holding his hands up defensively.

Natasha shot Tony a sharp, lethal glare. "Tony." She turned back to you, her expression softening. "What's wrong?"

"What happened?" Bruce asked, looking deeply concerned.

"Where is he?" you choked out, your tear filled eyes darting wildly between them.

He couldn't be gone. He couldn't be dead. You couldn't survive in a world without him.

"Are you asking about me?" came a deep, rumbling voice from right behind you.

You spun around instantly.

Thor stood in the doorway, his short hair catching the light, a look of pure devotion on his handsome face as he opened his broad arms wide for you. "I am right here, my love."

Taking a sharp, gasp of air, a massive smile broke across your tear stained face. You launched yourself at him, collapsing straight into his arms. Thor caught you effortlessly, lifting you slightly as he buried his face into your neck, and you breathed in his intoxicating scent of pure him.

"Wow," Tony's voice drifted over, "Point Break's got her wrapped around his giant finger."

“Tony!” Natasha scolded again, as she turned to him, her arms crossed over her chest, “I think it’s the other way around.” she declared as she looked back at you.

You couldn't hear a single word anyone else was saying. All you could hear was the strong, steady, glorious thumping of his heart beneath your cheek. You looked up into his face, meeting the deeply adoring, starry look in his blue eyes.

"How?" you whispered, your voice shaking.

"Because we are soulmates," he whispered back softly.

Then he lowered his head and crashed his lips straight onto yours, pulling you into a deep, breathless, touch-starved kiss.

"You were right," he murmured against your mouth between fierce, desperate kisses. "There is nothing our love couldn't fix, after all."

You smiled right into the kiss, tears of pure happiness slipping down your cheeks. On the inside of your wrist, your soulmark pulsed with a warm, steady glow for the very first time—finally whole, finally quieted, completely consumed by the feeling of his strong hands, his breathless kisses, and his overwhelming, eternal love.

—

Taglist: @midasgard @awkwardgiraffe726 @gurlidkiread @claytaysversion @mediocre-introvert @orchidame @sinceimetyou @beachysisi @padmeisgay @mruizsworld @neteswifexx @landocat

Masterlist

Almost none of you.

Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.

He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.

He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.

Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.

It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.

Asked.

Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.

You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.

“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.

You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.

Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.

You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-

“Sit up.”

Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.

There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.

He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.

“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.

Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.

He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.

Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.

No one hates Steve Rogers.

He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.

So you must be the fucking problem.

You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.

And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.

“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.”

Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.

“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”

You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.

Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is. 

“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.

“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.

“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”

“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.

The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.

“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”

He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.

You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.

It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”

Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”

“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”

You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.

His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.

“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”

You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”

Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.

Not this again.

“If someone got the jump on you-“

“No one gets the jump on me.”

“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“

“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.

 “I didn’t say that-“

“Then what were you going to say-“’

“That you need to be careful-“

“And why do you care-“

“I don’t-“

“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You- You fucking-“

“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”

You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.

You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.

“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.

Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.

“Nothing important-“

“It looked important.”

Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”

He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.

But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.

You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.

Passion, he said.

Idiot.

It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.

“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”

You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.

“Tony, what’s going on-“

“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“

You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”

“Well, I know it’s your fault-“

“Because everything is my fault-“

“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”

“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“

“I’m not in trouble-“

“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“

“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”

You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”

Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.

“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”

“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”

A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.

“You should sit down, buddy.”

Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”

“Don’t stand there like a creep.”

His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.

“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”

Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”

You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”

Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“

He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.  

From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.

“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.

Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.

Secret Love In the Avengers.

It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.

“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”

Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”

“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.

“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”

Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So what, do you need us to do another release-“

“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“

“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“

“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”

“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“

“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Yes. I do. And you do too.”

You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”

“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”

Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“

“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.

“They- What?!”

“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”

You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.

He never does.

“Did you know about this?” You hiss.

He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“

“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”

“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”

Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”

Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”

“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“

“Just- Not now-“

“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”

Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“

“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”

Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.

You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.

There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-

No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.

You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.

You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?  

He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.

Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.

Oh, no.

You want to fuck him.

Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.

He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.

There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute.  Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.

“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.

And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.

You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.

God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.

But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.

“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.

“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“

“We really don’t-“

“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“

You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.

Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.

“Let go-“

“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“

“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”

Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.

“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”

“Aw. I’m a woman-“

“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.

And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.

“I’m a problem?”

Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’ll live.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.

“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”

“You’re impossible-“

“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.

“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“

“Yes. You do.”

“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“

“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”

You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.

Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.

“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”

You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“

“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“

“Steve-“

“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“

“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”

You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.

No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.

But Steve…

He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.

“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.

“Since the second I saw you.”

“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”

His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“

“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.

Stares for a second longer, then nods.

“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.

“Okay?”

 You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.

Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-

Steve snaps.

His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.

You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.

“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.

“Shut up, I could still stop this-“

“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”

Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“

“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”

Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.

He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.

“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.

“You would’ve killed me.”

And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.

“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”

Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.

He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t  been thinking small.

“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”

You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.

“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”

“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”

You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.

“You- You’re such an ass-“

“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.

A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.

“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“

You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.

“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“

Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.

And he’s still so hard.

You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.

“You’re- Uh-“

“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“

“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”

He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.

You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.

“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.

Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.

“You like that, doll?”

“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.

“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”

Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.

“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”

“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“

“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”

God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.

“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”

He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.

“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“

“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.

You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.

“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”

He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.

Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.

He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.

Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.

He’s looking at your tits.

He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.

“Steve- Ooh-“

“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“

Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.

He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”

And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.

You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.

He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.

You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“

You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.

When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.

“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.

You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.

This feels real.

You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.

“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”

You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”

“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”

You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.

“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”

You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.

“You gotta hold on.”

“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.

“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“

“I’m holding on tight.”

“Hold on tighter.”

You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.

“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.

“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“

“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“

“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”

He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.

His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.

“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”

“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”

Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”

And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.

The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-

Steve.

You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.

It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-

“Is that me?”

Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.

“Stay.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“

He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.

“You like that, huh?”

“Shut up-“

“No, you liked that-“

“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.

“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“

“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.

Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”

“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“

“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”

“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”

And all your protests slip out of your head.

I love you.

He- He said-

“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.

“I love you.”

He said it again. “Wh- Why?”

“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”

“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“

“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.

“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“

“It’s not.”

“But-“

Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“

“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.

It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.

“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”

You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.

“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“

“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”

Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.

“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”

Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.

He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.

“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”

You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.

“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.

“Yes?”

You glare at him, and he raises his brows.

“You getting on, or not?” 

For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.

Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.

“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”

He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.

“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.

You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.

He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”

You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.

“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”

You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.

But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.

You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.

Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”

You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.

“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”

“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“

“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”

Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.

“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”

He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.

“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.

It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.

“St- Steve-“

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“

“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“

 Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.

“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.

“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.

“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“ 

It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.

There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.

He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.

“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.

You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.

“You gonna talk to me?”

You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.

“I didn’t hurt you-“

You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“

He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.

“Honey, it’s everywhere.”

You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.

Like a real couple.

You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.

A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

But now-

You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.

“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“

 You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.

Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.

“I love you,” you croak out.

His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.

And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.

And he might really be the only thing in yours.

“Is this okay?” Erling asked as he hovered over you. Both of his arms resting on the sides of your head to help support himself.

“Perfect.” You smiled, leaning up to kiss him, your hands snuck up his back, pulling him down against you.”

“Y/n.” Erling warned, looking at you.

“Don’t worry,“ you whispered, cupping his face in your hands and leaning up “you won’t break me.” You giggled before kissing him, again.

—

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Erling moaned, his massive hands grabbing onto your hips, holding you in place as he fucked into you.

He remembered to be gentle, taking his time with you, easing you into things. It took a few minutes for you to adjust to him but once you were comfortable, he wouldn’t let go, he was going to ruin you, and that’s exactly what you wanted.

He towered over you completely, compared to him, you were extremely tiny, but the size difference was everything to you.

“You like this, don’t you?” He murmurs, his arm extending and gripping the headboard, driving deeper and harder into you.

“Yes.” You moan, staring up at him, your tiny hands resting on his lower back, digging deep.

Erling’s eyes watched, completely mesmerized by you, by the way your tits bounced with each thrust, the way your eyes flutter shut and your lips part as you moan.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day.” Erling whispers, his face buried in the crook of your neck, continuing to rock his hips against yours. His hand slid down your leg, pushing it against him.

“Yeah?” You moan, arching your back, pushing your bare chest against his. Your hand now tangled in his hair tugging gently. You could feel him nodding against your skin.

“Been wanting to have you like this, for a while now.” Erling moans as his cock goes deeper inside you, the tip brushing against your sweet spot.

“Erling.” You whimper, your cunt squeezing him.

His hips began to move faster, slamming against you. The headboard slightly hitting against the wall. “I know, love.” He kisses your shoulder, rutting into you as his release approaches.

Your moans became more consistent as your orgasm took over, tightening your grip on him as you cried out his name.

Most students went home for the holiday weekend, and those who stayed behind the others took the kids out to a nearby local festivals to blow off some steam from the semester and have some fun.

You opted to stay home tonight, looking forward to a peaceful night in. Having an empty mansion was a rare treat.

Correction.

Almost empty.

You were staring out from the kitchen through the glass sliding doors that led to the patio, out into the large freshly cut lawn. The night sky has settled in bathing the lawn and forests beyond in darkness, with only the moon and speckled glow of lightning bugs providing any light.

Lost in thought, with your arms wrapped around yourself. You watched heat lightning flash occasionally in the distance. The scent of your dinner filled the kitchen and brought you back into reality. A few blinks at your reflection in the glass and you realized you weren't alone.

You turned around, met with Logan's smile, and a quirk of his brow.

"Your dinner was burning." He says. "Daydreaming about something, sweetheart?"

"No." You reply softly, "Just thinking about stuff."

He briefly nods, stepping closer into your space. "Place still empty. Thought everyone would be back by now."

You shrugged and smiled. "Jubilee probably convinced Scott to stay for another hour."

"Yeah, which means we'll have the place to ourselves just a bit longer."

Slowly your smile faded as you looked up at him. He reached up to cup your cheek, but you turned away from his touch. Slowly, but obvious. His hand lingered in the air.

"So?" You ask after a brief glance to the floor. You looked up at him.

He sighs, pressing his hand against the glass behind you. He doesn't get any closer, but you could feel his body heat and his stare felt like it was burning right through you.

After a moment of silence, he finally talks again.

"You ever think about that kiss?"

"No." You answer quickly- way too quickly. Because you were thinking about it, just now as he showed up. If you didn't know better you would have thought he was a telepath. The twitch of his lip tells you he was hiding a smile at your answer. You pressed your lips together, forcing yourself not to look away from him and appear even more guilty. Likely a moot point though- He can hear your heart.

"You didn't like it?" He asks with a small tilt of his head towards you. There was a hint of humor in his voice.

"It's not that." You respond. "But you do a lot of kissing, don't you?"

You could see him become physically smaller at your words- and admittedly you enjoyed it.

There's been something between you and Logan and you can't figure it out. Because one moment he's an asshole, hurling insults to Scott, Charles, Hank- anyone in his way. Refusing to be apart of the team, he spent most nights away and not coming back until late mornings. Then, all of the sudden you've seemed to catch his attention- and you're not sure you want it.

No secret Logan was a regular Casanova. You've heard from both Ororo, Jean, even Emma about his flirtatious whims with them. No one ever took it serious, and neither did you when it became your turn.

There was a brief period where you almost did fall for his whims - He's charming, handsome, and has a way with his words. Only to realize you were just one of many.

You thought he'd move on when you quickly and forcefully shut him down. You're not interested in casual, or quick hook-ups- and especially not with your fellow X-men. The drama around here was already an all-time high, no reason to make it worse.

and maybe, you were also protecting yourself. You were no stranger to heartbreaks and Logan had potential of being your biggest one.

He didn't move on.

He got closer, and under your skin. Moments where he almost convinces you that he cares. Small touches, acts of kindness, soft and quiet conversations when no one else was around where he almost bares his heart to you but always backtracks.. Then it led to a kiss, during a dangerous mission where you both thought you wouldn't get out alive. He kissed you like his life depended on it and you let him and then you pushed him away and pretended everything was fine. Even though you could still taste the blood and dust on his lips even a month after that kiss. He got the message and followed your lead, until now.

"Is that why you want nothing to do with me? Because of my past?" His lips turn down, and his brows crease together into a familiar scowl. You could see the muscles of his arm tense up besides you.

"No." You say. "Because you refuse to commit- To anything, and anyone"

"You haven't given me a chance."

"Your actions say otherwise." You crossed your arms. It felt like a weak argument- but you weren't trying to justify it to Logan, just to yourself. Give yourself a reason to walk away. You don't want to be cruel either. "Look, Lo...I think you're great, you can be really sweet, and I value you here- I just think we'd be better off as just friends."

He clenches his jaw, staring you down- but it wasn't with anger. There was a hint of desperation in his eyes. You finally looked away because you thought if you kept looking at him, you'll break.

His arm dropped back to his side and for a moment you believed maybe he finally given up. It led to a sinking pit in your belly. The awkwardness and tension of the moment was unbearable and you wanted nothing more than to go back to your room and pretend nothing has happened- like always.

His hand grabbed your chin and made you look up at him.

"Give me a chance."

You felt your heart skip a beat. The pit in your stomach starts to close up with hope. You can't give in with just a few words though. You didn't say anything, just stared back at him- at his face that was making the biggest, most serious puppy eyes you could ever see a man make.

Your silence only steeled his resolve. He slowly moves and you thought he was moving away.

No

He went down onto his knees. Large hands resting over your thighs as he looks up at you like a man begging for mercy. He leans in close, so his chin rests against your belly.

"Logan-" You nearly laugh at the ridiculousness. "Get up."

"Not until you give me a chance sweetheart. See what you're doing to me?" His hands squeezed your thighs, softly moving up and down your legs until they go around to cup the back of your thighs. He's not smooth, you know what he's doing. "Making a man beg..." He clicks his tongue.

"People are going to walk in and see you- Us-!"

"Let em." He lowers his head, pressing his forehead against your belly. Your hands went to his shoulders, wanting to push him away but at the same time... "I know I'm a terrible man sweetheart." He mumbles into your shirt. "I never been one for sticking around, when you live as long as I do... You just accept it as fact but you-"

He tips his head up at you again. "You make me want to stay."

Your hands clung to the fabric of his shirt, an unconscious move you did in response to his words. You want him to stay too. He shares a moment of eye contact with you, reading your expression- probably trying to read your mind and figure out what you're thinking because your voice seems to have left you.

He continues on,

"I can take care of you." He lowers his head again, still looking up into yours eyes and his lips press into the fabric of your shirt, against your belly. He lowers, pressing a small trail of kisses down your shirt while still holding your stare.

"Lo..." You tried to regain your composure. "My dinner is going to get cold..." But you words weren't serious. A last ditch effort of distraction. Your body was buzzing with his words, his hands felt like comfort.

"I can make you happy, make ya feel good." His voice turns into a purr, it sends shivers through you. "We can have something good. Something real." He presses a kiss into the button of your jeans and it takes your breath away. One of his hand squeezed your thigh, the other moved to just linger over your ass, fingers barely flitting under your shirt to graze over your lower back- Trying in every way he can to touch you.

You want to give in, but you can't help but wonder. Is this all a game for him? What if he just wants sex? Sees you as something to win over- and once he's bored he'll drop you.

"How do I know you're serious?" You ask, your grip on his shirt still tight. He suddenly felt like a lifeline to you. If he lets go now, you're not sure how you'll fall.