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Just A Friend That’s All

Masterlist

Pairing: Thor Odinson X Reader

Summary: You have been best friends with Thor since your childhood, he was always there whenever you needed him. He’s always been a good friend, cared for you—did anything for you, really. Except you didn’t want him to merely be your friend. You were in love with him. But it wasn’t possible for you to be with him, because he didn’t love you. At least that’s what you thought.

Content: Slow burn, Mutual Pining, Best Friends to Lovers, Idiots In Love, Angst, Yearning, Tension, Miscommunication is so bad in this one, OBSESSED Thor, Jealous Thor, Possessive Thor, Jealous Reader, A lot of cursing, Explicit SMUT at the end. (Note: English isn’t my first language)

Word Count: 27k

Minors Do Not Interact

—

The sun was setting over Asgard, painting the training grounds in hues of deep amber and violet. It was the Golden Hour, a time when the city felt less like a fortress and more like a dream. You were sitting on the edge of a weathered stone fountain, the cool spray of the water a welcome relief against the heat of your skin after a day of drills.

Thor sat on the grass between your knees, his heavy back leaning against your legs as if they were his favorite throne. He had discarded his heavy cape and silver-plated armor, leaving him in a simple tunic that did little to hide the massive breadth of his shoulders.

It was a routine as old as time.

You were mindlessly running your fingers through his golden hair, detangling the knots left by wind. Thor let out a low, contented hum that vibrated through your shins and up into your very bones.

“You should have seen Sif today,” Thor murmured, his eyes closed. “She fought like she was possessed. There is a feast tonight in her honor, she asked if I would sit beside her on the dais.”

Your fingers faltered in the golden strands for a heartbeat.

A sharp, cold needle of jealousy pricked at your chest—not because you didn't like Sif, but because the thought of Thor sitting beside anyone else felt like a displacement of the natural order.

“You should,” you said, your voice sounding tighter than you intended. “You two always did make a striking pair on the dais.”

Thor stiffened. He opened his eyes, looking up at you from over his shoulder. Up close, the blue of his eyes was electric, searching yours with a sudden, uncharacteristic intensity. “And where would you be sitting, Little Spark?”

He had called you that since the first time you’d ever stood your ground against him during a childhood training session. He’d summoned a tiny, accidental bolt of static that had singed your hair, and instead of crying, you’d tackled him into the mud and demanded a rematch. He’d laughed, crowning you his Little Spark—the only person who didn't flicker out when his lightning got too close. Now, it was the only name he used to refer to you.

“Oh, probably at the lower tables with the other commanders. Or perhaps I’ll stay in. I have a lingering ache in my shoulder from sparring.”

Thor turned around fully now, his large hands coming up to rest on your knees. It was a touch that was far too intimate, yet he did it with the ease of breathing. “I will not go if you are not there,” he rumbled, his thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded circles on the fabric over your skin.

“What fun is a feast if I cannot lean over and whisper the gossip of the court into your ear? I would be bored to tears within the hour.”

“Thor, you are a Prince. You cannot skip every event because your best friend is tired,” you laughed weakly, trying to ignore the way your heart was currently trying to kick its way out of your ribs.

“I can and I will,” he countered, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, his expression darkening as a new thought crossed his mind. “Besides, I heard that young Captain Borison has been asking after you again. If you stay in, he might take it as a sign of availability.”

Thor’s grip on your knees tightened just a fraction.

He was right, he would think that. It’s because Thor was always with you that he tried staying away from you. But the second you decide to stay in for a festive night, be without Thor beside your side, he would come knocking on your door.

“And what if I am available?” you challenged softly, your breath hitching.

“You aren't,” he snapped, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous sound.

“And why is that?”

He opened his mouth to answer—to say that the thought of another man’s hand on your waist made him want to level the palace—but the word friendship stood like a sentry at his lips. He couldn't risk the one thing that kept you by his side.

“Because... because we are a team,” he managed, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Through thick and thin, remember? You are a Goddess of Asgard. You don't waste your time with Captains when you have a King-to-be to keep in line.”

As Thor turned back around, leaning his head against your knee again, you stared at the top of his head with an ache that felt like a searing wound.

He’s so close, you thought, your fingers trembling slightly as they returned to his hair. You can feel the heat of him, the way he leans on you like you are the only solid thing in his world.

But that’s all I am to him, you thought.

A pillar. The girl he grew up with.

You were in love with him—hopelessly, devastatingly in love with the way he laughed and the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.

You wanted to scream it, to tell the Prince of Asgard that his Little Spark wanted to be his Queen, to be the one he came home to every night, not just the one he sparred with in the mud.

But to confess it? It felt like a gamble where the only outcome was losing your home. Because Thor was Thor. He was affectionate with everyone. He flirted because it was his nature. He touched you because he was a creature of comfort, and you were his safest place. To him, the hand on your knee was just friendship. To him, the name Little Spark was just a relic of childhood.

Don't mistake his familiarity for favor, you warned yourself. He doesn't want you. He just doesn't want anyone else to have you because he’s a Prince who hates to share his toys.

And yet, as he grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips for a lingering kiss on your knuckles, the line between friendship and something much more divine felt thinner than a sword’s edge.

Loki stood at the edge of the fountain, his arms crossed over his chest and a look of profound boredom masking his sharp features. He had been tasked with finding Thor by Odin.

He hadn't needed to search for long, a simple inquiry into where you had gone was the most reliable way to find his brother.

“Of course,” Loki mumbled under his breath, watching the two of you with a roll of his eyes. “How predictable.”

The God of Mischief stepped into the quiet space, his shadow stretching over the stone. “Father is looking for you, brother,” he announced, his voice smooth and laced with a hint of mockery.

“Apparently, the future King of Asgard has more pressing matters than lounging in the grass.”

He then turned his gaze toward you, his lips curling into a feline smirk. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Loki,” you mumbled, still feeling the warmth of Thor’s weight against your legs.

You didn't notice the way Thor’s posture shifted instantly. His right hand, resting on the grass, curled into a tight fist at Loki’s casual endearment. The relaxed ease he had shown moments ago vanished, replaced by a rigid, stony silence.

“I’m coming, brother,” Thor’s voice boomed, the sound echoing across the grounds with a sudden, heavy weight.

Thor stood up, his massive frame towering over both of you, but his focus never wavered from your face. He moved back into your space, his large, warm hands coming up to cradle your cheeks. The callouses on his palms were rough against your skin, a grounding contrast to the whirlwind in your chest.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, a gesture so tender it made your eyes flutter shut, and leaned in to whisper against your skin.

“See you tonight, Little Spark.”

He pulled away, but his eyes stayed locked on yours for a heartbeat too long before he turned to follow Loki toward the palace.

As they walked away, you could hear Loki’s voice drifting back to you. “Honestly, brother, the dramatics. One would think you were going to war rather than a simple council meeting.”

“Silence, Loki,” Thor grumbled, his stride long and hurried.

You remained on the fountain, the spot where his lips had touched your forehead feeling like it was still burning. Your heart was thundering against your ribs, a beat of hope and terror.

You knew you shouldn't read into it. He had no idea what he was doing to you. He was just being Thor.

And that was the most painful part of all.

—

You were in the chambers that Thor had personally seen commissioned for you years ago, situated in the very heart of the royal wing. He had been adamant that his best friend be close enough that he could reach your door in a few short strides whenever he had a victory to boast of, a restless thought to share, or a wound that required your specific touch.

Tonight, the room was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of scented candles, their amber light dancing across the vaulted ceiling. You stood before the tall, silver-rimmed mirror, your fingers trembling as you adjusted the heavy drape of your gown.

You were the Goddess of Health and Beauty, a title that usually carried a weight of effortless confidence, yet as you looked at your reflection, a rare, gnawing doubt took hold.

What will he think? The question echoed in the quiet of the room. Will he think you are pretty? Or will he only watch her—Sif, in all her golden warrior glory—and never once glance your way?

You shook your head, trying to dislodge the thought. You were a commander of Asgard, not a pining girl in a storybook. You reached for a small crystal vial of shimmering oil, rubbing it into your skin.

As you moved, the faint scar on your collarbone—a souvenir from a particularly bloody skirmish in the Borderlands—caught the light.

It was a reminder of who you were when the silks were stripped away; a warrior who had bled beside him.

Your power hummed just beneath the surface, a soft, rose-colored energy that pulsed in time with your racing heart. You focused on your breathing, forcing the pink light to stay settled, invisible beneath the midnight-blue silk of your skirts.

The walk to the Great Hall felt longer than any march you’d ever taken across the Bifrost.

The heels of your golden boots clicked against the white marble as you stepped into the hallway. The royal wing was quiet, the walls lined with tapestries depicting the great battles you and Thor had fought side-by-side.

You passed a portrait of a younger Thor, long-haired and grinning, and you had to look away.

As you descended the grand staircase, the air began to change. The scent of roasted meat, heavy mead, and expensive incense drifted up from the Great Hall. You could hear the distant roar of laughter and the rhythmic thrum of Asgardian drums.

The two Einherjar guards at the entrance straightened as you approached. They knew you well; you had healed their wounds in the field. With a synchronized grunt of respect, they pulled the massive oak doors open.

You didn't look at the lower tables. You kept your gaze fixed forward, your chin tilted high, walking with the measured, predatory grace of a hunter. The blue silk of your skirts swished against the stone floor, flowing behind you like a river.

As you neared the high table, the space where the royal family sat, the noise around you seemed to dim. You felt the weight of a thousand eyes, but you only cared about one pair. Thor was leaning back in his chair, a silver goblet halfway to his lips as he listened to Fandral tell a joke.

Then, he saw you.

The goblet paused in mid-air. His pupils dilated, his gaze sweeping from the crown of your head down to the hem of the blue dress. The rowdy grin he’d been wearing faded, replaced by a hard—unreadable stare that made your breath catch in your throat.

He didn't say a word, his jaw tightening as he watched you approach.

You didn't stop, closing the distance until you stood directly before him.

Thor stumbled to his feet, the heavy gilded chair scraping harshly against the stone floor in his haste. Sif was indeed sitting to his right, her silver armor gleaming under the torchlight. He had listened to your advice.

Your blood ran cold, a sharp, hollow ache opening up in your chest. It’s okay, you told yourself, forcing your features into a mask of regal indifference. It’s no big deal.

You looked at the now occupied seat where you usually sat, then back to him. His blue eyes were wide, shadowed with guilt, his gaze pleading with you across the distance.

“I had to—“ he started, his voice hushed and desperate.

“It is none of my business, really,” you cut him off before he could start, your voice clipped and professional.

The seat to his left was vacant, and for a fleeting second, the impulse to take it nearly overcame your pride.

You wanted to sit there. You ached to sit there.

But that seat was traditionally reserved for his closest tactical advisor or a visiting dignitary. Since Sif was in your usual spot to his right, you either sat in a seat you weren't technically assigned to, or you didn't sit with him at all.

Protocol dictated that as a commander of your rank, you remained with the high-ranking officers at the secondary tables.

You turned your gaze to the woman beside him. “Lady Sif,” you said, inclined your head in a stiff, formal greeting.

Thor didn't sit back down. He stood like a statue, watching with a silent, mounting frustration as you moved past him.

You took your place at the head of the secondary table, the blue silk of your skirts rustling as you settled into the chair right next to a young, decorated General. He was handsome, with dark, sweeping hair and a smile that was far too bright as he leaned in.

“A Goddess of Beauty in a dress like that?” the General murmured, his hand lingering on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing your shoulder with a casual, practiced charm.

“I fear the mead will be the second most intoxicating thing at this table tonight.”

Across the small gap between the tables, you could feel Thor’s gaze. He was gripping his silver goblet like a madman, his knuckles trembling. He stayed standing, his gaze fixed on the General’s hand near your skin.

“Brother, sit down,” Loki hissed from further down the table, eyes darting between Thor’s rigid back and your interaction with the General. “You’re hovering like a gargoyle.”

Thor kept his eyes locked on you even as he finally sank back into his chair. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle was jumping in his cheek, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

The General kept talking to you, oblivious to the divine lightning brewing feet away. He began asking about your hobbies, his tone bright and inquisitive like a goddamn child.

You felt the pink light of your power prickling at your fingertips, fueled by the irritation humming in your veins. You rolled your eyes, staring down into the depths of your drink.

“Killing men for fun,” you mumbled to yourself, taking a long, sharp gulp of the liquor.

The General paused, his brows furrowed in genuine confusion as he tilted his head. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.”

You lowered the glass, tilting your head back to give him a fake, dazzling smile that felt like it was cracking your face. “Oh, I said killing my time reading. I’m quite the scholar when I'm not on duty.”

“Ah, a woman of letters as well as war. Truly intoxicating,” he chuckled, reaching out to place his hand on the table, terrifyingly close to yours.

You kept your gaze to your plate, feeling your social battery drain.

He’s an energy vampire, you thought.

The General took your silence as an invitation to dive into a self-aggrandizing monologue. He launched into a story about a skirmish in the Vanaheim foothills, his gestures wide and animated.

His stories were pale, hollow things compared to the battles you and Thor had weathered together—the fire of Muspelheim, the bone-chilling frost of Jotunheim.

You stared at your plate, picking at a piece of roasted fowl, trying to keep the mounting boredom from showing on your face. “Mhm,” you mumbled, offering a hollow, melodic laugh when he paused for effect.

You didn't have the energy to argue or to walk away. You were too busy watching the high table out of the corner of your eye.

To you, the scene was agonizingly clear: Thor was sitting with Sif, their heads close together as she spoke to him. He looked every bit the future King, settled and right in the spot his father had chosen for him. Every time he shifted in his seat, you felt a fresh wave of bitterness.

He’s having the best time, you thought, the blue silk of your dress feeling like a heavy, mocking weight. He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, and I am just a simple soul in his golden life.

But across the gap, Thor was simmering in a hell of his own making.

He wasn't listening to Sif. He couldn't hear a word she said over the sound of your laughter—that fake, practiced sound that he, in his blind jealousy, mistook for genuine delight.

To Thor, you looked radiant, glowing in the soft pink light of your own power as you smiled at a man who wasn't him.

He knew your real laughs—the deep, belly-shaking ones you shared by the fountain—but the green-eyed monster clawing at his insides told him that perhaps you had found a new reason to shine.

The General reached out, his hand hovering close to your arm as he made a point.

Thor’s knuckles became so white they looked like bone. He felt the phantom itch of Mjolnir in his palm, the urge to level the table between you becoming almost physical.

He was a Prince of Asgard, bound by a royal decree to sit beside a woman he hadn't chosen, watching a stranger try to claim his safest harbor.

He watched you look up at the General, that fake smile still plastered on your face, and he felt a snap deep within his chest. He couldn't take it anymore.

He strode toward the secondary table, his cape snapping behind him like a war banner. The General didn't even have time to stand before Thor was there, looming over both of you, his shadow swallowing the table.

“Get up,” Thor commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that brooked no argument.

You looked up, startled, the fake smile finally dropping. “Thor? What are you—“

“Get up,” he repeated, his eyes burning into yours with a raw, possessive gaze that made the pink light at your fingertips flare into a bright, hot rose. He didn't spare a glance at the General. He reached down, his large hand wrapping firmly around your wrist, his thumb pressing against your pulse point.

“You are sitting with me. To my left.”

“Thor, the advisor’s seat—“ you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“I do not care for advisors tonight,” he snapped, his grip tightening just enough to pull you toward him. “I care for my commander. Walk.”

You could feel the heat of a thousand eyes burning into your back, but Thor seemed utterly oblivious to the scandal he was courting.

He did not let go of your wrist until you were standing directly before the advisor’s chair. With a sharp, fluid motion, he slid the heavy gilded seat out for you. His expression had shifted with terrifying speed; the stormy look was gone, replaced by a dashing, triumphant smile. He looked down at you with a spark of pure contentment in his eyes, his chest puffing out slightly now that he had successfully reclaimed his territory from the General.

“Sit,” he murmured, gesturing toward the seat with a flourish of his hand that felt more like a royal decree than a suggestion.

You sank into the chair, the blue silk of your skirts rustling loudly in the quiet. Your mind was racing, your heart hammering against your chest.

What has gotten into him? you thought, your skin still tingling where his palm had pressed against your pulse. To break protocol so publicly, to shove aside the tactical seat just to pull you from a conversation—it was madness.

To your right, Sif was a statue of simmering fury. Her expression had soured into one of deep, sharp irritation, her jaw set so tight you could see the tension in her neck. She didn't look at you; she stared straight ahead, her fingers curled around the stem of her goblet as if she meant to snap it in two. She was the one chosen by the King for this night, yet the Prince had just made it very clear who he actually intended to spend it with.

Thor settled back into his own throne, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in. He didn't look at his father, who was watching from the center of the dais with a furrowed brow, and he certainly didn't look at Sif. He picked up his mangled goblet, the bent silver a testament to his earlier rage, and looked at you with a terrifyingly bright expression.

“That General was a bore,” Thor said, his voice loud enough to carry just far enough to be heard by those closest to them. He leaned closer, the scent of his skin enveloping you. “I could see the light draining from your eyes with every word he spoke. I simply couldn't allow my best warrior to be bored to death before the first course was even finished.”

You looked at him, searching his face for a hint of the playfulness he usually wore, but his gaze was too heavy, too anchored on your lips.

You swallowed, the pink light of your magic was pulsing erratically beneath your skin, threatening to spill over and illuminate the entire high table in a guilty, rose-colored glow.

“You broke protocol, Thor,” you whispered, leaning your head toward his so the court wouldn't catch your words. “Everyone is staring. Sif is—”

“Let them stare,” he interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, possessive rumble that seemed to vibrate against your very skin. He reached out, his fingers tracing a slow, absent-minded line over the midnight-blue silk on your arm, a touch that was entirely too lingering for the public eye. “I am the Prince of Asgard. If I wish for my best friend to sit at my side, then that is where she shall sit.”

His hand stilled on your arm, his fingers tightening just a fraction as he leaned closer, his scent of leather and mountain air clouding your senses. “Now, tell me,” he demanded, his gaze boring into yours making your pulse jump. “What was that nonsense he was saying that made you laugh like that?”

You looked into his eyes, seeing a flash of something dark and restless behind the blue. “His stories about his heroic maneuvers in Vanaheim,” you responded, the words feeling thin in your throat.

“Nonsense,” he mumbled, his jaw setting. “I believe we were both there, Little Spark. And I remember him spending most of the battle behind a rock.”

As he spoke, he threw his arm over the back of your chair, his hand dangling just inches from your shoulder, effectively caging you into his space. You snorted, your head hanging low as a genuine smile finally broke through your mask. “He definitely was. I even heard him scream a bit when the brush caught fire.”

That made Thor laugh—a loud, boisterous sound that drew even more eyes to the high table—though his expression straightened back into something sharp and inquisitive almost instantly. He leaned down, his voice dropping so only you could hear. “Has he made any advances on you?”

You lifted your gaze to him, your voice light and dripping with irony. “He has. And I was quite enjoying it,” you said, wanting to see if you could prick that royal arrogance of his.

His gaze sharpened, the playful glint vanishing as his pupils dilated. The hand on the back of your chair curled into a fist, and he leaned in until your foreheads were nearly touching, the heat radiating off him in waves. You didn’t expect his reaction to be this.

“Your affections are set on him?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, searching every inch of your face for a tell. He looked like he was trying to read your very soul, his breath hitching as he waited for an answer he clearly didn't want to hear. “You would truly find interest in a man who hides behind stones over—over the company you already have?”

You gripped his hand, your thumb tracing the familiar terrain of his knuckles. It was an old habit, a grounding gesture the two of you had shared since you were children, something that felt as natural as breathing.

But in the heavy, candlelit atmosphere of the high table, with a thousand eyes tracking the Prince’s every move, the touch felt loaded. To anyone else, it looked like the quiet, intimate reassurance of a lover.

“Calm down, Thor. I was only joking,” you whispered, your brow furrowed in genuine confusion at the storm still raging in his eyes. “You do not have to be this protective over me.”

He let out a long, ragged breath of relief, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to bleed away. “His hands were all over you, that is all,” he grumbled, though his voice had lost its edge. He looked down at you, his gaze softening into something deep and dangerously focused. “I cannot let my best girl be left in the hands of a low-ranking man.”

Before you could process the weight of those words, he caught the hand that had been grazing his knuckles. He brought it to his face, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your skin.

You watched, your throat suddenly going dry as you focused on his lips. You saw the way they moved against your hand, and when he finally pulled away, a small patch of dampness remained where his mouth had been. As the air hit the moisture, the spot turned cold, the chill contrasting sharply with the heat rising in your cheeks.

You cleared your throat, quickly looking away to break the spell. Your eyes scanned the hall, searching for any distraction, only to land directly on Loki.

The God of Mischief was leaning back, a silver cup poised at his lips, watching the two of you with a sharp, knowing smirk. His eyes were alive with amusement, tracking the way your hand still lingered near Thor’s chest.

Loki knew. Of course he did. He had always been able to read the tremors in your heart better than you could yourself. He knew of your love for Thor, even though you had denied it with every breath during those long nights in the library or the training grounds.

You averted your eyes from his mocking gaze, turning back to find that Thor had already shifted.

His posture had relaxed as he engaged with Sif, his body angling toward her in a way that made your chest tighten. The tension that had gripped him while you sat with the General seemingly vanished now that he had you within arm's reach. Your left eye twitched, a hot, bitter surge of jealousy burning deep inside you.

They looked so effortless together—the golden Prince and the perfect warrior woman. They made a good pair, a matched set of Asgardian perfection, and the sight of him giving her that easy, familiar attention felt like a blade sliding between your ribs.

“The border skirmishes in the East were handled well, Sif,” Thor said, his voice regaining its usual booming resonance. “Father mentioned your leadership was vital in holding the pass.”

Sif tilted her head, a rare, genuine smile softening her warrior's features. “The men fought bravely, Thor. But I suspect they were merely eager to return for the feast. Though,” she added, her eyes flicking toward you for a brief, sharp second, “some seem more interested in the spoils of peace than the glories of war.”

Thor laughed, his hand brushing the table near hers as he reached for a piece of fruit from a silver platter, a sight that made you want to get up and walk right back to the General. “Peace has its own charms, does it not? We have bled enough for one season.” He then shifted in his seat, physically drawing you into the space between them.

“Don't you agree? I was just telling Sif how the eastern front could have used your healing touch, though I am glad I did not have to see you in that mud.”

Sif’s smile didn't reach her eyes as she looked at you, her gaze sweeping over your midnight-blue gown. “Indeed. Though it seems our Goddess is finding plenty of attention here in the gilded halls.”

She leaned back, swirling the wine in her glass.

“I heard Captain Borison was asking after you earlier. He’s been quite vocal about his admiration. You two make quite the striking pair, actually. He is a man of high standing and even higher ambition.”

You felt Thor stiffen beside you, the relaxed drape of his arm over your chair turning rigid.

Thor cleared his throat, the sound sharp and grating. The contentment he had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a sudden, brooding darkness.

“Do not talk of nonsense, Sif,” he countered, his voice low and dangerously flat. “Borison is a man of loud words and little substance. He is not a fit topic for this table.”

Thor looked at Sif, his eyes vacant for a moment before he dropped his gaze to the dark depths of his drink, his thumb tracing the rim of his goblet with a brooding rhythm.

Why not? you thought, the bitterness in your chest blooming into a sharp, defiant heat.

Sif was right; Borison was a man of high standing, a warrior who had proven himself. More importantly, he was a man who didn't have a throne or a royal bloodline dictating his every move.

Thor clearly was not going to miraculously confess his love for you. It was an impossibility—a beautiful, crushing lie you had lived in for too long.

You cleared your throat, the sound brittle in the sudden silence of the high table.

“I do not see how that is relevant to this conversation, Lady Sif,” you said, your voice remarkably cool even as your heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. “But yes, I am aware of his advances. I was indeed thinking of accepting them.”

Thor’s head snapped toward you with such force it was a wonder his neck didn't crack. The silver goblet in his hand hit the table with a dull thud, mead splashing over his fingers, but he didn't blink.

“What?” he asked, the word sounding choked, as if the air had been kicked from his lungs. “I thought we talked about this? You are not available.”

He was panicking. You could see it in the way his pupils blew wide, the way his chest hitched as he struggled to process the words you’d just thrown like a spear.

The raw, messy desperation bled into his features, a stark contrast to the regal Prince who had been comfortably chatting with Sif just seconds ago. He looked at you as if you were a ghost, his hand twitching on the table as if he wanted to reach out and pull the words back into your mouth.

You looked at him, meeting that frantic blue gaze with a cool, measured stare. “You talked about it, not me, Thor. I haven't decided anything yet.”

The words cut through him visibly. He flinched as if you’d struck him across the face, his jaw dropping slightly before he clamped it shut, a pained, desperate look crossing his features.

“You haven't...” he trailed off, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper that was far too intimate for a table shared with Sif and the High Council.

He leaned in, his shoulder pressing hard against yours, his hand finding your arm again—not with a trace, but with a firm, grounding grip. “You cannot be serious. Borison? He is—he is nothing. You cannot give him your time.”

“And why not?” you challenged, your voice dropping to match his. “I am a commander of Asgard, perhaps it is time I look toward my own future, rather than just waiting at the heels of yours.”

Thor looked like he wanted to scream, his face flushing a deep, angry red as he struggled to find an argument that didn't involve him dragging you out of the hall and locking the doors.

To his right, Sif watched the exchange with a cold, piercing silence, but Thor didn't even remember she was there. He only saw you, and the terrifying possibility that his best friend might finally belong to someone else.

He didn't have it in him. He didn't have it in him to tell you that you were his, that you couldn't go near a man who was not him, let alone be acquainted with him. He didn't have it in him to reach across the table, take your hands, and pull you toward him until he could kiss you so deeply you couldn't remember your own name.

Because he was sure you would never reciprocate his feelings. He saw your laughs with the General and your defense of Borison as a sign that you were finally outgrowing him—that the best friend title was a cage you were trying to escape.

The silence between you stretched, agonizing and heavy, as the internal war behind his eyes reached a stalemate. He was sure you would never reciprocate his feelings; to him, you were the light of Asgard, a warrior of pure intent, and he was just a man bound by duty who hadn't earned the right to claim you.

All he could do was swallow the lump in his throat and look down at his gold-rimmed plate. “I see,” he mumbled, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the roar of the feast.

He pulled his hand back from your arm as if it had suddenly turned to ice. The sudden absence of his touch felt like a blow to your stomach, leaving your skin cold.

You stared at his retreating hand, your heart sinking into a hollow, aching pit. That's it? you thought, the bitterness rising like bile. His silence was the loudest thing in the room. You had practically handed him your heart on a silver platter, daring him to claim it, and he had simply looked away.

To you, his coldness was indifference. It was a confirmation of your worst fears: that you were a convenience, a companion, but never a choice. If he cared, he would have roared. If he loved you, he would have fought.

Instead, he sat there, seemingly content to let you walk into the arms of another man as long as his own seat next to Sif remained undisturbed.

Thor’s gaze went distant, his eyes darkening into a shade of blue that looked like a stormy sea at midnight. While he sat there, seemingly defeated, his mind was already shifting away from the laws of the court and toward the laws of the blade.

He began calculating.

He thought of the training grounds, the dark corners of the armory, or perhaps a hunting accident in the deep woods of the palace outskirts.

He mapped out exactly how to dispose of the man in question’s cold, unmoving body. Borison wouldn't even see the lightning coming.

If Thor couldn't have you, he would at least ensure that no one else ever dared to try.

“Thor?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of hurt and confusion at his sudden, chilling stillness.

He didn't look at you. He picked up a knife from the table, his grip white-knuckled as he began to methodically slice through a piece of meat, his movements precise and terrifyingly calm. “Enjoy the rest of the wine, Little Spark.” he said, his tone devoid of its usual warmth.

You turned back to your own plate then, your face determined. Determined to talk to Borison the first thing in the morning, oblivious to the plans of the man sitting on your right.

The feast had finally wound down into a hum of drunken laughter and flickering torches. You walked through the vaulted corridors toward your chambers, your skirts whispering against the stone floors. You were lost in your own thoughts, your face set in a mask of quiet determination.

If Thor could be so detached—if he could simply mutter an ‘I see’ and return to his meat while your heart was breaking—then you would follow through. You’d find Borison at dawn. You’d accept the flowers, the walks, the hollow flattery. Anything to fill the void Thor had left behind.

You were utterly oblivious to the fact that Thor was trailing hot behind you, his footsteps heavy but synchronized with yours. He couldn't let you walk these halls alone, not while his mind was a storm of protective rage and fractured pride.

To you, his sudden coldness at the table was a sign that he didn't care for you as a prized possession anymore. To you, he had finally let go.

Meanwhile, Thor’s predatory pace faltered as a slender, dark figure stepped out from the shadows of a marble pillar, blocking his path.

“I see you’re stalking her like a madman as usual, brother,” Loki drawled, leaning back against the cold stone with a look of pure, agonizing mischief.

“Get out of my way, Loki,” Thor snapped, his eyes fixed on the turn in the corridor where your blue dress had just vanished. He tried to brush past, his pulse drumming a thundering beat in his ears.

He couldn't let you out of his sight. Not for a second.

“You are obsessed with her, are you aware of it?” Loki’s voice was like silk over a blade.

“I do not know what you mean,” Thor said, his steps becoming uneven, his breath hitching.

“She is quite taken with you too, really,” Loki continued, pushing off the wall to walk in a slow circle around his brother. “If both of you just opened your eyes, you would see it. But since you're content to sit with Sif and let our little commander wither... oh, maybe I should ask for her hand? See if she forgets about you in my shadows. Maybe then you will see what you’re missing?”

In a blur of movement too fast for the human eye to follow, Thor had Loki pinned against the palace wall. His forearm was crushed against Loki’s throat, and he was breathing into his brother’s face like a dragon protecting its hoard.

“You stay away from her, Loki,” Thor vibrated, his voice a low, terrifying snarl that shook the tapestries on the walls. “If you so much as breathe the same air as her with those intentions, I will forget our bond. I will tear the tongue from your mouth before you can speak a single charm to her. She is not a game. She is not a piece on your board. She is mine.”

Only Thor’s ragged breathing could be heard in the silence. Loki merely smiled, a thin, pained quirk of his lips, satisfied that he had finally forced the truth out into the open, even if it was through a throat-clutch.

Thor suddenly blinked, the red haze receding just enough for him to realize what he was doing, seeing through his brother’s game at the last second.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his cape as if nothing had happened, and let go of his brother with a sharp shove.

“I must go now,” he muttered, his voice thick. He turned and started back on his walk, his heart roaring in his chest.

Meanwhile, you reached your heavy doors, still entirely oblivious to the wreckage and the admission Thor had just left in his wake.

You pushed the door open, the silence of your room feeling like a sentence, unaware that the detached man you were mourning was currently burning down the world behind you.

—

The morning sun was an intrusive, biting thing as it filtered through the heavy curtains, hurting your eyes the moment you slung your legs over the side of the bed. Your head felt heavy, a dull ache lingering from the wine and the emotional exhaustion of the night before.

You moved with a cold, sharp purpose, pulling on your prettiest dress.

It was a garment of intricate silk that clung to your frame in all the right places, a deliberate choice meant to broadcast your availability to the world.

You were going to find Captain Borison. He was a handsome man—brown hair, a dashing smile, and green eyes that were kind.

He was stable. He was safe.

But as you looked in the mirror, your heart ached with a familiar, agonizing hollow.

He could never be him.

No matter how many green-eyed captains smiled at you, they weren't the man with the golden locks and the rugged, beautiful face that was currently seared into the back of your mind.

“Shit,” you whispered, closing your eyes tightly against the image of Thor’s smirk.

You needed to get going before you lost your mind and crawled back under the covers.

You pulled your doors open, stepping out into the hall just as the door across from yours swung wide.

Your gazes collided instantly.

Thor was there, looking as if he hadn't slept a wink, his golden hair slightly mussed.

His eyebrows descended toward his eyelids the moment his eyes swept over your attire.

The sight of you, polished and breathtakingly beautiful, seemed to hit him like an explosion.

“Good morning, Little Spark.” he rasped, his voice thick. He stepped into the corridor, his eyes fixed on the curve of your neck.

“Is there an important event that I do not know of? Some ceremony of sorts?”

You felt a prick of irritation.

You took his tone for displeasure—as if he were questioning why you’d bother to put in the effort when there was no official reason to.

You couldn’t see the way his eyes had actually darkened with a raw, suffocating hunger.

You couldn’t hear the way his heart was thundering against his ribs, making his pulse echo in his ears.

She looks so beautiful it hurts, he thought, his throat tightening so much he could barely swallow. He wanted to tell you to go back inside, to hide you away from every other pair of eyes in the palace.

His thoughts were cut off by your voice, sharp and laced with a defensive tone. “There has to be an occasion for me to be dressed this way?”

The thought jabbed at you: was the idea of you looking like this so foreign to him?

Did he think you were so unworthy of beauty that you only donned it for a scheduled event?

“I was not aware I needed a royal decree to wear my own clothes, Thor,” you added, your voice tight as you moved to brush past him.

Thor reached out, his hand hovering near your waist before he pulled it back, his fingers curling into a fist.

He felt the phantom weight of his conversation with Loki, the threat he’d made, and the boiling jealousy he had toward the man you were likely going to see.

“That is not what I meant,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, possessive sound that always made your resolve waver.

He stepped into your path, forcing you to look up at him. “You look... you look more than the occasion requires. I am merely wondering whose eyes you are trying to catch so early in the day.”

Yours, you wanted to say.

Your eyes are the only ones I want on me, you wanted to scream until your lungs burned.

You wanted to grab him by the collar and force him to see that this entire display—the dress, the hair, the defiance— was a pathetic attempt to make him look at you for one second longer than a friend should.

A desperate plea for him to finally see you.

But you couldn't.

You saw the way his eyebrows drew together, the way he seemed almost annoyed by your appearance.

His reaction was clear: he was bored of you. He had Sif, a woman who belonged at his side by blood and status, and your presence was becoming an inconvenience.

If he wanted you, he would have said something by now. Since he hadn't, you had to find a way to move on before the sight of him with someone else truly destroyed you.

He had clearly made his choice, and it wasn't you.

It would never be you.

“Whoever’s eye I happen to catch, I suppose,” you said, your voice airy and detached, though the words felt like lead on your tongue.

Thor stood frozen, the casual cruelty of your words sinking into his skin like shards of ice. He looked at you, stunning in a way that made his breath catch in his throat, and he felt a sickening wave of certainty

He was sure now. You truly did not want him. You were done with the intimate jokes and the lingering touches; you were ready for a man like Borison, someone who could offer you a future without the complications of a throne.

He was watching you bloom for someone else, and the thought was a slow-acting poison in his veins.

He was convinced that if he told you he loved you now, you would only look at him with pity—or worse, laughter.

“You speak as if you are a prize to be won at a village fair,” he growled, the possessiveness surging to the surface to mask the ache in his chest.

He stepped closer, his body a wall of heat, his eyes dark with a misery you mistook for judgment. “Is your company truly so easily bargained for? Are you so eager to leave my side that you would seek the validation of a common captain the moment my back is turned?”

“Your side?” you echoed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “You were quite comfortable at Sif's side last night, Thor. I am merely following your lead. I wouldn't want to hold you back from your important conversations.”

Thor’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap.

He saw your defiance as a sign that you were already halfway out the door, and you saw his silence as the final nail in the coffin of your hopes.

Two idiots, standing inches apart in a silent hallway, both convinced they were the only ones who cared.

Thor’s expression softened, the edges of his anger crumbling under the sheer weight of his affection for you.

He couldn't help it; he never could stay cold when you were within reach.

His right hand drifted upward, his palm settling against your cheek with a familiar, grounding warmth that made your heart sing a traitorous melody.

He stepped closer, his thumb grazing your skin as if he were trying to memorize the texture of you.

“I would never trade our conversations for anyone else’s. Don’t you know that?” he murmured, his voice dropping into a tone so intimate it felt like a confession. “Don’t you know you’re the only one I care for? My best friend, my prized treasure. The only one who stood by my side through thick and thin.”

Your breath hitched.

He wouldn't trade you?

The word treasure rattled around your brain, mocking the dress you had put on for a man who wasn't him.

Thor’s hand was still on your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with a tenderness that felt like a plea. But the weight of his words—the only one who stood by my side—had pulled you back to the darkness of that night.

It drifted back to the night that had forged the unbreakable bond he was now invoking.

Yes you always have been best friends, but that night was something else entirely.

That mournful night.

The night you lost Frigga, Thor’s mother.

5 Years Ago

You were jolted from a deep sleep in the middle of the night by a sound that felt like the palace itself was cracking open.

It was the heart-wrenching sound of Thor’s screams echoing through the stone corridors—a raw, primal agony that tore through the silence.

You scrambled up from your bed, panic surging through your veins. You didn't even have the time to find your slippers; you threw open your doors and started running toward the sound, your bare feet slapping against the cold floor.

Your heart was beating in your mouth, his agony ringing in your ears like a death knell.

Did something happen to him? Is he hurt?

Is he dying?

You couldn't even bear the last thought; the mere idea of an Asgard without Thor’s light made your lungs seize, your speed becoming more brutal as you sprinted through the dark.

When you finally reached the main chambers of the Queen and King, you found the source of the sound. The room felt heavy, stagnant with grief.

Thor was kneeling beside Frigga’s unmoving body on the bed. He was clutching her hand, his forehead pressed hard against her cold skin as if he could force his own life back into her through sheer will.

Odin stood nearby, frozen like a statue of salt, his face a mask of shock. Loki, on the other hand, had resigned himself to the far corner of the room, his back turned, not having the heart to look at the wreckage of his family.

Your heart stopped. The world felt like it had tilted on its axis.

“Thor?” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the ringing in your ears.

His head lifted toward you, the force of the movement so sudden and violent it looked as though his neck might break.

His eyes were bloodshot, swimming in a sea of red from crying, and his face was distorted by a pain so deep it looked like a physical wound.

Your own tears started to well in your eyes, blurring the sight of the broken Prince before you. You didn't see a God then; you only saw the man you loved, shattered into a thousand pieces.

He kept looking at you then, his tears still tracking wet, shimmering lines down his cheeks. He looked lost, a man drowning in a storm he couldn't fight his way out of.

You fled to him.

You collapsed toward him, attempting to drop down next to him with such desperation that your bare knees almost hit the stone with bone-breaking force.

But even in the depths of his soul-crushing grief, Thor was aware of you.

Before your skin could strike the floor, he reached out, circling his massive arms around your waist. He caught you, shielding you even then, his grip steadying your descent as he slowly let you settle your knees onto the ground.

The moment you were level with him, the last of his strength seemed to vanish. He leaned forward, burying his face against your chest, his forehead pressing into the soft fabric of your nightgown.

He began to sob.

It was a heavy, racking sound that shook his entire frame. Your hands found his golden hair immediately, your fingers weaving through the tangled locks as you pulled him closer, instinctively trying to shield him from the cold reality of the room.

“Shh, I am here,” you whispered, your voice a fragile caress as you shushed him.

In that moment, he felt so small. It was a heart-wrenching contrast—this powerful deity, the Prince of Asgard who could destroy planets, was broken down and trembling in your arms.

He clung to you like a man lost at sea, his hands bunching the fabric at your back as he wept for the mother he had lost, and for the world that would never be the same.

You held him, your own tears falling into his hair, oblivious to the King or the God of Mischief. There was only the weight of him against you, the sound of his heartbreak, and the silent vow you made as you rocked him back and forth: that as long as you drew breath, he would never have to face the darkness alone.

You didn't know for how long you stayed there, anchored to the cold floor, serving as the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark. The world outside that room had ceased to exist; there was only the rhythm of his fading sobs and the weight of his grief against your heart.

But eventually, the healers and the guards moved in. When the time came for Frigga to be removed from the bed, the reality of the vigil shifted. You knew he couldn't stay here any longer.

“Thor, sweetheart…” you whispered, your hand cupping the back of his neck.

He lifted his head from your chest, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He gulped, the sound thick in his throat as he tried to find his footing in a world that had suddenly lost its axis.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice a ghost of its usual self.

“We have to go. We have to rest, and then,” you gulped, “we have to be ready for the funeral preparations,” you said softly. You didn't want to say the words, but you knew he needed the structure of duty to keep from shattering again.

He nodded slowly, his movements robotic. “You’re right.”

As he pulled away from you, the sudden loss of his heat made the midnight air of the palace feel like ice. You both stood up, and Thor instinctively extended his hand to help you find your balance. But as his fingers brushed yours, his gaze drifted downward.

He noticed it then—the way you were barely dressed in your short, thin nightgown, and how your feet were not covered, pressed against the freezing marble.

His expression changed instantly, a flicker of protective instinct piercing through his mourning.

“Darling, you must be freezing,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, concerned rumble.

You were.

Now that the adrenaline was fading, you were shivering so hard your teeth were nearly chattering, but you shook your head. To you, your comfort was an afterthought. The only thing that mattered was him.

”It’s okay, I’m okay—”

Thor didn't listen. He couldn't let you freeze, and he certainly couldn't let the passing servants see his best friend in such a vulnerable state of attire.

“No, you are not. Come here,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You protested weakly as he stepped closer. “Really, there's no need—”

Before you could finish, he reached down and swept you up into his arms, lifting you in a smooth, effortless bridal style. Your hands instinctively circled his neck to steady yourself, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thor, what are you doing?” you asked, your eyes wide as you looked up at his rugged, tear-stained face.

“I’m carrying you,” he answered simply, his grip tightening around you as if you were the only solid thing left in the Nine Realms.

“I can see that. Why are you carrying me?”

“So you do not walk barefoot,” he murmured, his gaze softening for a fleeting second before he turned and began to walk, shielding your body with his own as he carried you through the silent, grieving halls.

He carried you all the way back, his stride steady despite the weight of the grief pressing down on both of you. When you reached your chambers, he set you down on the edge of the bed with lingering care, ensuring your feet never touched that freezing marble again.

Before he could pull away, you reached out and softly caught his hand. You drew slow, rhythmic circles over his knuckles, your own grief finally leaking through the cracks of your composure.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, your voice thick. “For caring for me. For carrying me.”

Thor gave you a broken smile, one that didn't reach his bloodshot eyes. “When do I not care for you?”

He turned to leave, but he didn't make it past the threshold. He stopped right in front of your doors, his forehead thudding against the dark wood. His left hand curled into a white-knuckled fist against the frame as he let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“Can I—” His voice cracked, sounding small and stripped bare. “Can I sleep with you tonight? Just... tonight?”

You froze, your heart skipping a beat in the heavy silence.

Here?

With you?

The request was so raw, so devoid of his usual princely bravado, that for a second, you couldn't find your breath.

But Thor mistook your silence for the cold wall of rejection.

“Never mind, it was stu—“

“Yes,” you cut him off, your voice urgent. “Yes, you can.”

You slid back toward the head of the bed, disappearing under the heavy covers and pulling them back to open the other side for him. Thor turned, his movements slow and hesitant, as if he were afraid he might wake up from a dream. He lay down beside you, his massive frame taking up most of the bed, and turned on his side to face you.

”You’re my everything, Little Spark,” he whispered into the space between you.

The ringing in your ears started then—a high, hopeful frequency that made your chest ache.

You wanted to believe there was more behind those words, but the best friend label felt like a shield he was holding between you.

You forced a smile, moving closer until you could lay your head against his broad chest, listening to the steady thrum of his life.

“I love you, Thor,” you told him, the truth slipping out under the cover of the dark.

Underneath your ear, Thor’s heart suddenly spiked, racing with a violent, thundering speed that made your brows knit in confusion. You felt the vibration of it through his ribs.

Why is it beating so fast?

Thor squeezed his eyes shut, his arms tightening around you. Hope flared like a dying star in his chest, but he quickly smothered it.

He was certain you meant it the way you always did—as a friend, as the person who had just watched him fall apart. He was convinced you could never love a man as broken as he felt in that moment.

But as he tucked his chin over the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair, he knew one thing with absolute, terrifying certainty: he would never let you go. No matter what the future held, no matter who tried to claim you, you were the only anchor he had left in the universe.

He had told you he would stay just that one night. But the shadows of grief were long, and they refused to retreat.

The nightmares became a relentless tide, driving him to your door in the middle of the night, his eyes haunted and his voice thick with apologies.

Each time, you would pull back the covers and tell him the same thing: that it was okay, that you would always be there.

But eventually, the routine of him coming to your room shifted.

One night, it wasn't a knock on your door that woke you, but his voice—a broken, desperate scream of your name that tore through the silence of the royal wing.

You didn't think, you ran.

You burst into his chambers to find him thrashing against his sheets, his skin slick with sweat.

“Thor? What’s going on? Are you okay?” you cried out, rushing to his bedside.

But he was still trapped in the dark. “No, don't touch her—leave her alone! She’s all I have—please!”

Your blood ran cold. He wasn't dreaming of his mother or the war; he was dreaming of you.

He was dreaming of losing the only thing he had left. You were at his side in seconds, your hands trembling as you cradled his face.

“Thor, wake up, please!” you called out desperately.

He didn't hear you at first, his head tossing as he continued to mumble broken pleas to an unseen enemy. You had to shake him, your voice rising in panic. “Thor, please! You’re having a nightmare!”

He jolted awake with a violent gasp, his lungs heaving as if he had just been pulled from the depths of the sea. His eyes darted around the shadows of the room until they landed on you, standing there in the moonlight.

In an instant, he lunged for you.

He collided with you, his massive arms circling your frame and pinning you to his chest with a grip so tight you could barely draw breath.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he rasped into your hair, his voice vibrating with a terrifying raw sound.

He pulled back just enough to cradle your face in his large hands, his thumbs frantically searching your skin, checking your shoulders, your arms, looking for any sign of a wound that wasn't there. Then, he looked into your eyes with a gaze so intense it felt like he was baring his very soul.

“Do not leave me,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. “You are my sun, my stars—my whole universe.”

The weight of his words made your heart hammer against your ribs.

He’s only talking like this because of the adrenaline, your thoughts intercepted.

“I will not, sweetheart. Calm down,” you whispered, trying to soothe the tremors in his hands. “I'm right here.”

He gulped, the sound heavy in the quiet room.

He didn't let you go back to your chambers that night. He held you through the remaining hours of darkness, his limbs tangled with yours as if he were physically anchoring you to the world of the living.

And that was when the whispers in the palace curdled into something undeniable.

The servants, the guards, even the High Council—they all watched the way he hovered over you, the way you stayed in his rooms until dawn, and the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching.

“They are lovers,” the voices hissed behind gilded fans and stone pillars. “They definitely are. How can they not be? Look at them. He doesn't even see the rest of us.”

Neither of you addressed the rumors.

To you, it was a friendship forged in fire and grief.

To him, it was a desperate, silent claim.

Present

As you stood in the hallway five years later, wearing a dress meant for another man, those whispers felt like a prophecy you were both too terrified to fulfill.

Thor was still holding your face, his gaze anchored to yours with a depth that made the air feel thin.

You closed your eyes for a heartbeat, unable to stop yourself from leaning into his palm. It was a reflex, a muscle memory born from those long, dark nights years ago when you were the only thing keeping him whole.

“My pretty girl…” he murmured.

The words were a low vibration against your skin, his thumb grazing your cheekbone with devastating tenderness.

To anyone watching, it was the look of a man hopelessly in love.

But to you, it felt like a beautiful cruelty. He did this because you were his—his anchor, his best friend, his treasure.

He didn't realize that every soft word and intimate touch was searing itself into your soul, feeding a hope that was slowly starving you.

You kept thinking you had a chance, that the whispers in the palace were right, but the lack of a confession was your only reality.

He would never be yours. He was the Crown Prince, and you were just the girl who had caught him when he fell.

You opened your eyes, pulling back with a sharp, forced inhalation. The loss of his warmth was immediate and jarring. “We should get going,” you told him, separating yourself from his touch with a finality that made your own chest ache.

Thor’s expression turned grim. The softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dark, brooding stillness.

He looked as if you had slapped him.

In his mind, your withdrawal was a rejection of him, a sign that you didn't even want his hand on your skin anymore because you were already thinking of someone else.

“Alright,” he whispered, the word sounding hollow.

Without another word, you both started walking. You set a brisk pace toward the training grounds, walking through the palace gardens, your jaw set.

You were going to meet Captain Borison, to finally see if a life of simple love was possible.

But as the silence between you and Thor stretched, you realized something that made your eyebrows furrow.

He wasn't turning off toward the throne room or the armory. He was matching you stride for stride, his cape snapping behind him, his hand holding Mjolnir in a relaxed grip.

“Thor,” you said, glancing at him sideways as the clatter of training blades grew louder in the distance. “Why are you following me?”

“I am not following you,” he replied, his voice flat and deceptively calm, though his eyes were fixed straight ahead with a predatory focus.

“I simply realized that the training of the captains has been lax lately. I intend to oversee the morning drills personally.”

You bit your lip to keep from pointing out that he hadn't overseen a morning drill in months.

He wasn't there to lead anything, he was there to hunt.

You looked ahead and saw Borison standing near the weapon racks, his green eyes lighting up the moment he spotted you in your dress.

Beside you, Thor’s entire body went rigid, a low, dangerous rumble beginning to stir in his chest that had nothing to do with friendship.

Thor’s massive frame eclipsed the sun, casting a long, heavy shadow over you that effectively erased Borison from your sight. He stood like a mountain of gold and red, his shoulders squared, his presence suddenly suffocatingly close.

What the hell?

The irritation flared in your chest, hot and sharp. “Thor, get out of my way. What are you doing?”

He didn't move. He stood as still as a statue in the palace gardens, though the muscle in his jaw was ticking rhythmically. “Ah, apologies. I didn’t notice I was in your way, darling,” he said, his voice dripping with a mock-politeness that made your teeth grit.

Yet, he continued standing there, a wall of muscle and stubbornness. When you tried to step to the left to wave at the Captain, Thor shifted his weight with a deceptive grace, blocking your path again. You moved to the right; he mirrored you instantly.

“Are you playing a game?” you snapped, looking up at him with a glare that would have withered any other warrior. “We are not children anymore, I hope you are aware, my Prince.”

The title felt like a slap, a cold reminder of the distance between you, and for a second, a flicker of genuine hurt crossed his features.

But it was quickly swallowed by those dark, irrational thoughts.

“No, we are not,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. He looked over his shoulder at Borison, who was now looking confused, then back at you. A desperate, wild light danced in his eyes. “But that is a good idea. I miss our childhood. Let us play a game.”

He knew he was being irrational, but he couldn’t help himself.

Before you could protest that you had a life, that you were a grown woman, his hand shot out and gripped your wrist—not painfully, but with an unyielding strength.

“Thor! What—Let go!”

He didn't. He began pulling you away, his stride long and purposeful, dragging you toward the secluded stone archways that led to the private gardens, effectively hauling you out of the Captain's eyesight.

“Thor, stop this! This is ridiculous!” you cried, stumbling slightly to keep up with his pace.

He didn't look back at you until you were well behind the thick ivy walls, hidden from the training grounds.

When he finally stopped, he spun you around, his hands landing on the stone wall on either side of your head, pinning you into the small space between his body and the cold rock.

“The game is called Silence,” he rasped, his breath hot against your forehead, his eyes searching yours with a frantic, messy hunger. “And the first one to speak of another man loses.”

“You are being ridiculous,” you whispered, looking up at him, your eyes wide and searching.

“I am simply nostalgic, is all. Just go along with it, will you?” he replied. His voice was a slow, rough vibration.

His gaze traced the bridge of your nose before getting hopelessly stuck on your lips.

You noticed. The world felt like it was tilting. Your own gaze traced the same path, settling on his mouth.

You were both heaving, your chests nearly brushing with every breath.

The proximity of him was erasing every logical thought, every bit of hurt from the night before, leaving only a raw, magnetic pull.

“What happens if I speak of another man?” you whispered, the challenge dancing on your tongue.

His gaze snapped back to yours, darkening until it was the color of a midnight storm. “Try it.”

Your gaze sharpened. You were tired of the games, tired of the silence. ”Boris—”

He couldn’t help himself.

He could not fucking help himself.

Before the second syllable could even leave your mouth, his hand shot out, his fingers tangling in the hair at the back of your neck. He pulled you forward with a desperate force, his lips slanting over yours.

He kissed you.

He fucking kissed you.

You pulled away abruptly, your heart hammering against your ribs, your eyes wide as saucers as you stared at him.

Thor froze.

The reality of what he had done crashed down on him. The friendship he had protected so fiercely felt like it was crumbling.

“I am very sorry—I—”

You didn't let him finish. This time, you were the one to lunge. You grabbed the back of his neck, your fingers digging into his flesh as you pulled him back down to you.

A low, guttural groan escaped his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender.

His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him. His right hand began to trail upwards, tracing the curve of your spine until he reached the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him.

You were kissing him hard, his lips bruising yours, his movements hungry and starving. He pushed you back against the stone wall, his body a heavy, glorious weight against yours.

He was grabbing at you, trying to feel every inch of you, trying to become one with you.

When his tongue grazed the seam of your lips, you opened for him instantly, giving him everything you had. He pulled you even closer, pressing you to his front as if you were his only lifeline in a world that had gone dark.

Then—the sharp snap of a twig nearby.

You pulled away, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a fraction of a second before it broke.

Your heart dropped into your stomach like a stone. The silence that followed was deafening. You looked at Thor, your chest heaving, and panic began to set in.

How did this happen?

He was your best friend. He had spent all these years treating you like a sister-in-arms.

He probably only kissed you because he was jealous and territorial, not because he actually wanted a life with you.

Surely, he was already regretting it.

Thor watched your expression shift from passion to horror. He saw the way you looked at him—with what he thought was pure regret.

His heart felt like it had been sliced through with a dull blade. You didn't want him. You were horrified that your friend had crossed the line.

He was a fool.

A massive, arrogant fool.

“I’m sorry,” he started, his voice cracking, his hands dropping from your body as if he’d been burned. “I didn’t mean to—I lost my head—”

“You didn’t mean to?” Your voice was a broken whisper.

The agony in your chest was unlike anything you had ever felt. He had just kissed you like you were his entire world, and now he was calling it a mistake? A lapse in judgment?

You shook your head, the tears of frustration stinging your eyes. “I cannot believe you.”

Before he could reach out, before he could explain the mess of love and fear in his head, you shoved him away.

You pushed against his chest with all your might, pushing him away from your body and away from your heart.

You turned on your heel and bolted out of the ivy-covered archway, your face set in a mask of cold, hurt determination.

You didn't look back. You were even more set on finding the Captain now—not because you wanted him.

Because you needed to prove to yourself that you didn't need a man who only saw you as an accident. You needed to get over him.

Thor stood alone in the shadows of the garden, his lips still tasting of you, watching the woman he loved march toward another man.

He couldn't move a muscle; it felt as though the very lightning in his veins had turned to lead.

I fucked it all up. The thought hammered against his skull.

She hates me now. My universe hates me.

He had seen that look in your eyes—that flash of what he was sure was regret—and it had leveled him more than any blow from a Frost Giant ever could. He stayed there, rooted to the spot, until the silence of the garden became unbearable. Finally, his feet moved, acting on a desperate, masochistic impulse to see where you had gone.

He stepped out from the shadows just enough to see the training grounds.

He watched you. He watched the way your frame was still shaking, even from a distance, as you neared the weapon racks. Then, he saw him.

Captain Borison’s face lit up with a blinding, triumphant smile the moment he saw you in that dress. The Captain didn't even wait for you to reach him; he started making his way toward you, his stride confident and eager.

And then, Thor felt his soul fracture.

He watched you smile back at the Captain—a sweet, practiced smile that looked, from a distance, like nothing had happened. Like his lips hadn't just been bruising yours seconds ago. Like your worlds hadn't just collided and shattered.

Thor’s hand moved to the leather-wrapped hilt of Mjolnir hanging at his side, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the hammer. He didn't realize that the sky above Asgard was beginning to darken, the clouds swirling in response to the static leaping off his skin.

He knew what he was supposed to do. He was a Prince; he was supposed to have dignity. He was supposed to let you go, to let you find a man who wouldn't drag you into his nightmares or drown you in his grief. He had to forget you. He had to turn around and accept a life of duty and cold, empty rooms.

But as he watched Borison reach out to touch your arm, Thor realized with a terrifying, bone-deep clarity that he couldn't do it. He couldn't find it in him to let go of the one person he truly cared about. The only one he would ever care about.

He wasn't going back to the palace.

He stood there, a silent predator at the edge of the field, his eyes burning as he watched another man step into the space that belonged to him. The weight of Mjolnir felt heavy in his hand, a silent witness to his mounting desperation. He had told Loki he would never let you go, and as he watched you talk to the Captain, the despair in his heart began to twist into something much more dangerous: a final, stubborn resolve.

He wouldn't let this be the end. Even if you hated him, he would rather be the villain in your story than a ghost in someone else's.

The captain had to be removed.

The thought was a cold, hard stone in the center of Thor’s chest. But before the removal, before the thunder, there was a more agonizing task: he had to make sure you forgave him.

He had to crawl back into your good graces, even if it was under the guise of the best friend title that was now a burning brand against his soul. He would accept being just a friend again if it meant he didn't have to exist in a world where you looked at him with that expression on your face.

Meanwhile, Borison had led you away from the training grounds, guiding you toward a more secluded stroll along the palace terrace. His gaze was lingering, far too bold, over the curves of the dress—the dress you had chosen to prove a point, but now felt like a shroud.

Your heart was aching in a pulsing way that made your vision blur.

Your lips were still burning, sensitized by the memory of the way Thor had tasted of honey and lightning. You were certain you had lost him. By kissing him back with that much hunger, you had broken the unspoken rule of all these years.

You had shown him your heart, and he had called it a mistake. You had lost the only person who truly bound you to this life.

Even though he was cruel for kissing you like that and saying it was a mistake, your feelings didn't just vanish in a second.

Your eyes started to burn with the threat of tears.

Not now, you pleaded with yourself. Don't cry in front of him.

“My lady?”

Captain Borison’s voice tore you away from the edge of the abyss. You blinked rapidly, forcing your attention back to the man at your side.

“Yes?” you managed, your voice sounding thin and distant to your own ears.

“Are you being courted by anyone else at the moment?” Borison asked, his tone light but his green eyes sharp with calculation. “Like our Prince, perhaps? The rumors in the palace are quite persistent.”

You gulped, a bitter, hysterical bubble of laughter rising in your throat. You let it out—a short, sharp sound that felt like a sick joke.

“No,” you said, the word tasting like ash. “He’s just my friend.”

Was my friend, your mind echoed, the words a silent scream. He was my everything, and I threw it away for a moment of skin on skin.

“I am glad to hear it,” Borison murmured, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your shoulder. “A man like that, he is a storm. One cannot build a home in a storm. You deserve something much more stable.”

From behind a marble balustrade twenty yards away, Thor’s fingers tightened around the handle of Mjolnir until the leather creaked.

He could see Borison’s hand on you. He could see your downcast eyes. The stable life Borison was offering looked to Thor like a cage, and the lightning under his skin began to hum with a deadly warning.

He waited. He would let the Captain have his moment of perceived safety.

He would let the man think he was winning. But the moment you were alone, Thor would be there. He would do whatever it takes to make you look at him without that devastating sorrow again.

—

You were getting ready to go out with Captain Borison, your fingers trembling slightly as you adjusted the delicate, sheer layers of your chiffon dress.

The fabric was light as a whisper, fluttering with every movement, but it offered no comfort against the chill in your heart.

He had invited you to have some fun at the tavern with him, mentioning that he would be there with some of his friends. You had agreed almost instantly—not that you were eager for his company, but you couldn't stay in the palace a second longer.

The golden walls felt like they were caving in on you, every corner of the halls whispering Thor’s name and echoing the memory of that kiss.

You had to get away from him.

The tavern was a riot of noise,the atmosphere was thick with heat, spilled ale, and the raucous laughter of soldiers. It was supposed to be a place where you could lose yourself.

But the moment you stepped through the heavy oak doors, your soul felt a familiar, magnetic pull. Your heart stopped when you saw him.

There, at a large central table cluttered with empty tankards, sat Thor. He wasn't the regal Prince you’d seen earlier; he looked disheveled, his collar loosened, his hair a golden mess.

And he wasn't alone. A woman—stunning, with hair the color of spun wheat and eyes like the Asgardian summer sky—was leaning into his space, her hand resting boldly on his bicep as she whispered something into his ear.

Thor threw his head back and laughed, a loud, booming sound that didn't reach his eyes. He was performing, a desperate display of joy designed to drown the agonizing memory of your lips on his.

You froze. A hot, toxic wave of hatred surged through you—hatred for the woman whose name you didn't know.

How could he? How could he hold you until dawn for years, kiss you until the world stopped spinning, and then sit here flirting with a stranger like you were nothing but an inconvenience?

Then, his gaze shifted. He saw you.

Thor’s heart dropped to his stomach. He watched as the Captain walked beside you, his hand a constant, irritating presence at your side.

Of all the places in Asgard, Borison had brought you here.

This was the tavern where you usually came with him—your sanctuary, your escape. Seeing the soft, translucent fabric of your dress—a look so intimate, so ethereal—beside another man in this space hurt so much he couldn't take a single breath for a few seconds.

Your gazes touched, and for a moment, the noise of the tavern drowned out. The world fell away until there was only the two of you, locked in a silent, agonizing stare.

Your heart skipped a beat, a painful thud against your ribs.

He’s cruel, you thought, your eyes stinging. A cruel, beautiful God.

He was using this woman to show you he didn't care, to prove that the kiss meant nothing to him.

You didn't have it in you to watch him whisper in her ear or touch her hand. You couldn't bear to see the deity who had once held you through your darkest nights give that same warmth to a stranger.

You turned your head sharply, breaking the connection before the tears could fall.

You didn't look back at him as you proceeded to sit with Borison and his friends, forcing a smile that felt like it was cutting through your face.

Across the room, Thor watched you disappear into the crowd of common soldiers. His hand tightened around his tankard until the metal began to groan and warp.

The blonde woman said something else to him, her fingers brushing his neck, but he didn't hear her. He could only see the back of your head, and the way Borison was leaning in to catch your scent.

His mind drifted then, caught in the gravity of a specific evening two years ago.

A night seared into the very fabric of his soul.

2 Years Ago

The adrenaline of the battlefield was still humming in his veins as you both strode through the palace gates. You and Thor had just returned from another victory, the dust of conflict still clinging to your cloaks, but your spirits were alight.

“We should go to the tavern right away, Little Spark,” he boomed, his voice resonant with that infectious, golden energy. He turned to you, his eyes bright with the thrill of the win. “This is a victory to be celebrated immediately.”

It was your tradition; you always sought the warmth of the tavern after a triumph, or simply whenever you wanted to get away from the stifling air of the court. But this victory was different; it needed an immediate celebration.

You giggled, the sound a light, musical chime that cut through his bravado. “Calm down,” you said, smiling at him with a radiance that made his entire world tilt. “Let me take a bath first.”

His breath got stuck in his throat.

He had seen the goddesses of the Nine Realms, had been surrounded by beauty his entire life.

But you? You were different.

He knew you were the Goddess of Beauty and Health, so it was normal for him to be attracted to you—it was your very essence.

But it was more than divine nature; His heart soared, a wild, untamed thing, just at the sight of you—in a way that had nothing to do with titles. In his eyes, you were the only woman in the entire universe who had ever made him feel this way—a singular force of nature that had managed to lay claim to his spirit. You were the only woman who could ever truly hold his heart.

His smile faded, placed by a sudden, heavy longing that made his pulse race. The weight of his unspoken devotion making him gulp as he looked at you.

“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping as he anchored his gaze to yours. “I will be waiting for you.”

“Perfect.” You kept smiling as you turned toward your chambers, the light of your expression lingering in the air long after you had disappeared behind the heavy oak.

Thor stood there for a moment, his heart beating at his throat as he watched your door close. Even as he retreated to his own rooms to wash away the grime of battle, he could not find peace. The sight of your smile was nailed to the back of his mind; every time he closed his eyes, the image of your radiance burned against his eyelids.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his hands trembling slightly as he dressed. The victory in the field felt hollow compared to the war currently raging in his chest.

He opened his doors, leaning against the frame as he waited for you, his anticipation coiled tight. Then, you opened yours.

His lungs seized. His heart stopped for a fraction of a second, the rhythm of his life stuttering at the sight of you.

You were dressed in a dress so sinfully beautiful it hurt his very soul just to look at it.

You were a sight to behold—and the realization hit him taking his breath away from his lungs: he did not want any other man witnessing your beauty. He did not want to share the light of you with the world.

He cleared his throat, his voice sounding gravelly and forced as he tried to mask his sudden, sharp possessiveness.

“Darling, maybe we should stay in the palace,” he said, his eyes darting away from the curve of your neck. “Have our drinks here. I am rather tired.”

It was a clumsy excuse, a desperate attempt to keep you shielded away from the hungry eyes of the city.

But your expression shifted instantly into one of confusion, a shadow falling over your features.

He doesn't want to be seen with me like this, you thought, a cold ache spreading through your chest. He’s ashamed of me.

His words cut deep through you, wounding you in a way no blade ever could.

“But you said we should go right away? I don’t understand?” you asked, your voice wavering for a fleeting second before you found your composure.

If he doesn't like the way I look, you told yourself bitterly, then another man will.

You would not be hidden away like a secret he was embarrassed to keep. You rolled your eyes, a mask of defiance settling over your hurt.

“We will go, Thor. I got ready to go out. I am not wasting this dress to stay in here.”

Thor closed his eyes, a silent sigh escaping him as he felt his resolve crumble. He was the Prince of Asgard, a commander of armies, but he was utterly powerless against your will.

He just couldn't say no to you, could he?

“Alright, Little Spark,” he murmured, reopening his eyes to look at you with a gaze full of tragic, hidden adoration. “Whatever you say.”

You walked toward the tavern then, your pace brisk and determined. You had told him you wanted to bleed off the excess energy left behind by the adrenaline of the fight, your spirit still buzzing even as the sun dipped below the horizon.

She’s impossible, he thought, watching the determined sway of your hips from just a step behind. I could never keep up with her energy; I do not deserve her.

Yet, despite the growing weight of his own exhaustion and the mounting protective dread in his gut, he agreed. He would follow you to the ends of the Nine Realms if you asked.

Your legs were beginning to ache with every step, the muscles tight and protesting, but that was exactly what you wanted. You craved the physical burn, a tangible pain to help drown out the sharp, stinging hurt caused by the belief that he was ashamed to be seen with you.

You leaned into the discomfort, using it as an anchor.

You reached the heavy oak doors of the tavern, and Thor moved ahead, pulling them open for you with the effortless grace of a gentleman.

He’s perfect, you thought, your breath hitching as you looked up at him. I could never be worthy of a man like him.

You offered him a small, genuine smile, and your heart soared at the way he looked down at you, his blue eyes softening as he held the door, the golden light from inside casting a halo around his shoulders.

The rich, savory aroma of roasted boar and the sweet, cloying fragrance of spilled honey-mead filled your nostrils the moment you stepped inside. The tavern was a sprawling labyrinth of dark, weathered timber and rough-hewn stone, illuminated by the flickering orange glow of a massive central hearth. Iron chandeliers hung precariously from the rafters, dripping wax onto the sawdust-covered floor, while the shadows danced wildly against the walls.

Suddenly, the noise of the tavern faltered. Every single pair of eyes in the establishment turned toward you, the collective silence falling like a heavy curtain.

You were taken aback, your hand instinctively fluttering to your throat. Are they looking because of the Prince? you wondered, feeling the heat of their stares.

Thor’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He didn't miss the way the men's gazes lingered on the curve of your waist or the way the chiffon of your dress caught the firelight.

Without a word, he placed his heavy, warm arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his side.

Your heart started thundering against your ribs.

In that moment, the realization hit you like a thunderclap: This was why he hadn't wanted to come here. This was why he had suggested staying at the palace.

He hadn't been ashamed of you—he had been terrified of this exact scene. He had wanted to hoard your beauty, to keep the world from devouring you with its eyes.

He began to lead you away from the exposed entrance, his body acting as a shield between you and the crowd. He navigated the room with a grim focus until he found a more secluded booth tucked away in a shadowed corner. He sat you down, his large frame looming over the table as he leaned in close.

“Do not leave my sight,” he told you, his voice stern and vibrating with a low, dangerous warning.

You nodded slowly, your mind racing, still not fully understanding the sheer depth of the possessive storm brewing behind his eyes.

He then slid onto the bench right next to you, his thigh glued to yours in a line of solid, radiating heat. Your side felt as though it were burning from his proximity; he was a living wall of muscle and gold, shielding you from the lingering, hungry eyes that still drifted toward your corner.

A moment later, a pretty waitress arrived at your booth.

She leaned in far further than necessary, her voice dropping into a honeyed lilt as she asked what the Prince would like to drink, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw in open flirtation.

Your blood ran hot instantly, jealousy burning through your veins. You gripped the edge of the table, expecting him to offer her even a fraction of that charming, royal smile he gave so easily.

But he didn't even spare her a glance. He didn't acknowledge her presence as anything more than a shadow.

“What would you like to drink, Little Spark?”

He kept his eyes locked on yours, his gaze heavy and unwavering.

The waitress froze, visibly taken aback and offended by the total lack of interest from the God of Thunder.

You were caught in the pull of his stare, gazing into the blue depths of his eyes as if you were drowning.

“Asgardian ale,” you mumbled, your voice barely a breath.

He finally spoke to the woman, but even then, he did not remove his gaze from you. “Two Asgardian ales.”

The waitress stiffened and spun on her heel, leaving as quickly as she had arrived. The silence that settled between you was thick, charged with the lingering static of the battle and the newer, more dangerous tension of the night.

“So,” he mumbled, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling vibration that you felt in your very bones. “Anyone in here catch your eye?”

He couldn't help but ask. The question was a poison in his mind; if someone indeed had caught your eye, he needed to know. He needed to identify the threat so he could systematically remove it from existence.

He wouldn't let another man dream of the Goddess who sat within his reach.

You, you wanted to say.

The word was right there, trembling on the tip of your tongue, but you held it back, terrified of breaking the fragile peace between you.

“Not anyone in particular,” you mumbled just as the drinks arrived at the table.

You watched the golden liquid being served, your heart still racing from the way he had just chosen you over the world, even if only for a drink order.

“Hm, I was hoping you would say me,” he said, the words slipping out with a low, dangerous smoothness before he took a slow sip of his drink.

Your whole body locked in an instant. The air in your lungs seemed to vanish, leaving you breathless and lightheaded. What? You couldn't breathe. Was he... was he actually flirting with you?

A cold panic seized Thor’s chest.

I cannot believe I just said that, his mind screamed. He had been flirting with you, openly and without the shield of a joke to hide behind. His heart dropped to his stomach, a leaden weight of regret and terror.

He couldn't even blame the alcohol; the condensation was still fresh on the mug, and he had only just taken his first sip. He had exposed himself, his true desire leaking out through a crack in his armor.

You smiled, though it felt shaky.

He must be joking, you thought, your mind frantically reaching for a way to rationalize his words. You refused to give yourself the hope that he was actually pursuing you.

“Oh, you always catch my eye, handsome,” you said, forcing your voice to stay light and airy, as if you were merely tossing back a casual compliment.

But you were flirting back. The moment the word left your lips, you felt the heat of it.

Handsome?

Fuck.

The way you said it—with that soft, unintentional lilt—was a sound that would undoubtedly be seared into his mind for a long, long time. Until the day he died, probably.

Thor's heart started thundering against his ribs like a war drum. He smiled nervously, his bravado wavering because he couldn't let himself believe you were being serious. Yet, the challenge of it was too intoxicating to drop.

“Handsome? I am flattered,” he drawled, the vibration of his voice reaching deep into your chest. “It has real meaning coming from the Goddess of Beauty herself.”

The tension was becoming unbearable. In a fit of sheer nervousness, you gripped your mug and downed the entire drink in one long, desperate draught, the cold ale burning a path down your throat. You set the tankard down with a sharp thud, your face flushed.

Thor leaned in then, his shadow falling over you, his blue eyes turning dark and predatory in the flickering candlelight.

“I would kill any other man who caught your attention anyways, darling.”

The air left you entirely. You couldn't breathe. The raw, violent possessiveness in his tone wasn't a joke—it was a promise, whispered by a God who looked ready to tear the world apart just to keep your gaze fixed on him.

He was sitting so close that your thighs were still fused together, a single line of radiating heat that seemed to be the only thing keeping you upright.

You couldn't find the words to reply; the Asgardian ale, notoriously potent even for a goddess, was already beginning to take its toll. Your head started spinning in a slow, dizzying whirl, and your muscles went soft and heavy. You were drunk—utterly, foolishly drunk—from just that one tankard downed in a fit of pure embarrassment.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked then.

The words didn't just fall on your ears; they etched themselves deep into your heart. Your pulse spiked so violently you could practically feel the thrum of it in your mouth.

“Am I?” you whispered, a small, airy giggle escaping your lips as you leaned slightly into his strength.

He nodded, his blue eyes dark and fixed on your face with an intensity that was burning you. “So beautiful it hurts me, really. Breathtakingly gorgeous.”

He was admitting everything. The walls he had spent years building were crumbling in the dim light of a tavern corner.

I am going to ruin everything, he thought, even as the words continued to pour out of him. He couldn't stop. He was drowning in the sight of you.

You bit your lip, the sensation sending a jolt through your hazy mind. “Thank you, sweetheart,” you mumbled, the endearment slipping out before you could catch it.

You couldn't think straight anymore. The room was a blur of shadows and noise, but Thor was sharp, vibrant, and agonizingly close. Your gaze locked onto his lips, tracing the curve of them with a hunger you could no longer hide.

He saw it. His breath hitched as he searched your gaze, looking for any fault, any sign that he was misinterpreting the invitation.

Am I seeing this right?, his mind echoed.

He leaned in, his own eyes dropping to find your mouth, his scent overwhelming your senses.

Your hand found his shoulder, your fingers digging into the hard muscle as you pulled him down to your level. You pressed your forehead against his, the world narrowing down to the space between your breaths.

“I really want to kiss you now, handsome,” you mumbled against his skin.

He gulped, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a trembling reverence. “I’ve been dreaming of kissing you for years, darling,” he whispered back.

Your ears were ringing.

Years?

Was he telling the truth, or was the ale playing tricks on your mind? You didn't care.

With the reckless courage born of your drunken state, you lunged for him, closing the final inch and slanting your lips over his in a desperate crash.

The world outside the booth—the clatter of tankards, the shouting, the crackle of the hearth—vanished into a dull, distant hum. There was only the heat of him and the electric shock of his skin against yours.

Thor returned—no, he claimed the kiss. His hands slid from your jaw to your waist, his large fingers digging into the soft chiffon, anchoring you to him as if he feared you might evaporate if he let go.

Your waist burned where he touched you, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin fabric and igniting every nerve ending in its path.

In a move that made your head spin faster than the ale ever could, he hooked his arms beneath you and hoisted you upward. You felt the dizzying sensation of being lifted before you were settled firmly onto his lap.

Your legs instinctively parted to place your legs over the sides of his. He pulled you flush against the hard, unforgiving planes of his chest.

As you shifted, your clothed center grazed directly over the heavy, pulsing heat of his bulge. A broken moan escaped your throat, and Thor responded with a low, guttural groan that vibrated through your entire body.

You were killing him. Years of restraint were snapping like dry twigs in a forest fire. You kissed him with a primal, possessed insanity, your lips bruising his as you fought for dominance.

He wasn't gentle. He bit your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp, and the moment your mouth parted, he invaded. His tongue swept into your mouth with a desperate, searching hunger, searing the taste of him deep into your senses.

You mewled into the kiss, your left hand sliding down the broad expanse of his back, your fingernails tracing the line of his spine through the fine linen of his asgardian tunic.

Thor sighed against your lips—a sound of pure, agonizing surrender—before he tore his mouth away.

He couldn't stay on your lips and keep his sanity.

He dragged his kisses across the heated skin of your cheek, his beard light and scratchy against you, before trailing down the line of your jaw.

“You have no idea,” he rasped against your skin, his voice a raw, broken whisper. “No idea what you're doing to me.”

His lips found the sensitive cord of your neck, and he pressed a hot, lingering kiss there, his breath hitching as he felt your pulse hammering wildly against his mouth.

He was marking you, claiming the Goddess of Beauty as his own in the shadows of a crowded room, oblivious to the fact that he was breaking every rule he had ever set for himself.

Your eyes were squeezed shut in pure ecstasy, the world around you dissolving into a haze of gold and shadow. You began to grind your hips against him, your mouth falling agape as you sought more of the friction that was making you delirious.

You were just kissing him—just touching him—and yet you felt like you were coming apart at the seams.

The moment you moved your hips against him, Thor’s judgment shattered. The sight of your open mouth, the way you were biting your lip and grabbing at him as if trying to merge your very souls, sent a surge of heat through him that rivaled the sun.

Keep going, his inner voice roared, a dark, primal command. Make her yours. Brand her. Own her.

He wanted you so badly his soul felt raw with it.

But then, through the fog of his own lust, he felt the slight, uneven rhythm of your breath. He felt the way your movements faltered, your coordination slipping.

The realization hit him like ice water. You were drunk. You had downed that potent ale in one desperate go, and he could feel the intoxication claiming you.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't take what he had wanted for years while you weren't fully yourself.

He stopped, his hands moving to your shoulders to gently steady you.

“Why did—“ You hiccuped, your dazed, heavy-lidded gaze searching his. “Why did you stop?”

Thor gulped, his knuckles white as he held you at a distance. “You are drunk, darling. We cannot do this right now.”

You rolled your eyes, a defiant pout on your lips as you tried to pull his face back down to yours. “You are no fun,” you mumbled, the words slurring slightly.

Those four words turned him to stone.

Fun?

Is that all this was to you? A drunken game?

A way to pass the time in a tavern?

He felt the air leave his lungs in a sharp, painful rush. You didn't want him—not the way he wanted you. You were merely playing with him because the alcohol had lowered your guard.

“Stop, Little Spark,” he mumbled, his voice sounding hollowed out.

You frowned, your expression that of a spoiled child being denied a toy. “Fine.” you snapped, but as the word left your lips, your strength finally gave out. Your head lolled forward, coming to rest heavily on his shoulder.

Your movements ceased, your breathing evening out into the rhythmic, deep sighs of sleep.

Did she just fall asleep on me? he thought, a bitter, tragic laugh bubbling in his chest.

He sighed, the sound heavy with a thousand unspoken words. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered into your hair.

He didn't wake you. He reached out, tossed a handful of coins onto the table to settle the tab, and adjusted you in his arms. He stood up, carrying you out of the tavern and back toward the palace through the cool Asgardian night.

His heart felt like it had been systematically broken into a thousand pieces; he was convinced now that your passion had been a byproduct of the ale, not a reflection of your heart.

He had no idea how much you truly wanted him.

When the sun rose the next morning, casting long golden fingers across your bed, you woke with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like copper and old mead.

You sat up, clutching your head, staring at the familiar walls of your chamber.

You remembered the tavern. You remembered the blonde woman. You remembered the burning jealousy.

But after that, nothing.

The night was a blank, dark void. You had no memory of the kiss, no memory of his lap, and no memory of the confession that had nearly changed everything.

And he knew you wouldn't remember any of it, so he acted like nothing ever happened.

Present

The memory of that night—the night he had carried your sleeping form through the moonlit gardens with a heart made of lead—burned through Thor like scorching iron. Standing here now, in the very same tavern, the ghost of your lips on his felt more real than the cold ale in his hand. He searched your face from across the room, his throat tight with a dry, aching heat, but you didn't spare him so much as a glance.

You could feel his stare like a physical weight on your skin, but your mind was a storm of static. All you could see was the way he had been laughing with that woman. You couldn't help yourself; you turned your head just enough to see her fingers still draped possessively over his bicep, her blue eyes fluttering as she preened under his supposed attention.

In that instant, your restraint snapped.

Your magic, usually as fluid and graceful as your namesake, recoiled and lashed out.

It crept across the floor like a silent, invisible frost, finding the woman and unraveling her.

You didn't mean to—not really—but the sheer force of your jealousy acted as a sculptor.

You turned her ugly. You fucking turned her into the antithesis of everything she was.

You gasped, snapping your gaze away as the realization of what you'd done hit you. Not my best moment, really, you thought, your heart hammering against your ribs. But the guilt was quickly swallowed by a sharp, defensive spike of anger.

If he wasn’t everywhere you went—if he wasn’t haunting your every step and flirting with strangers in your sanctuary—then this wouldn't have happened. It was his own fault, really.

Thor watched in absolute, paralyzed horror as the woman in front of him began to rot. Her radiant, youthful skin puckered and scarred; her shimmering blonde hair turned a dry, brittle grey. Her nose hooked and slumped, and deep wrinkles carved themselves into her once-plump face until she looked like the hunched, terrifying witch from the Midgardian tale of Hansel and Gretel.

The woman screamed, her voice cracking into a high-pitched rasp when she looked at her hands, she watched as she felt her own vitality wither.

Thor’s eyes became as wide as saucers.

He didn't need to see the magic to know its source.

There was only one person in the Nine Realms whose power could manifest with such raw, beautiful, and terrifying precision.

He didn't look at the crone sobbing at his table.

Slowly, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line, he turned his head toward your table.

He looked at you but something was biting at him. Thor’s gaze dropped from your face to your shoulder, and the tavern’s rowdy chorus fell into a suffocating silence.

The Captain’s arm was slung over you—careless, possessive, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress.

The sight of Borison’s hand on you was the final spark in a room full of gunpowder.

Thor had intended to find the man alone this morning to deal with him, but you were alongside Thor going to him. Now though, you had brought the bastard right to his feet. He didn't care about decorum anymore, or the fact that half of the city’s warriors were watching.

You were his light, his goddess, and the idea of you under another man's touch was a blasphemy he would no longer tolerate.

He began to move. His massive form cut through the sea of warriors like a predator, his presence so overpowering that men instinctively scrambled out of his path.

You watched him approach, your heart hammering against your teeth as he seized a vacant wooden chair. He dragged it across the floor with a screech that cut through the murmurs and slammed it down directly to your left, effectively boxing you in.

He knows, your mind screamed. He knows what you did to that woman.

But when you looked at him, he wasn't wearing the face of a punisher. Instead, he leaned back, a dashing, terrifyingly handsome smile spreading across his lips—the kind of smile a hunter gives a cornered prize.

“Hello, darling,” he rumbled, his voice a honeyed tone. “Care to explain our little situation here?”

For a second, you thought he was talking about the mangled, aged woman sobbing across the room. But Thor didn't even glance back at her. His eyes were fixed on Borison’s arm, his stare so sharp it felt like it could sever the Captain's limb at the shoulder.

You gulped, your pulse performing a frantic dance in your chest, but you forced your expression into one of innocent confusion.

You leaned back slightly, offering him your sweetest, most porcelain smile. “What situation, Thor?” you asked, your voice light and deceptively calm.

Thor’s smile didn't falter, but his hand reached out, his thick fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic beat on the table. A countdown.

Borison spoke beside you, his voice oily with a confidence that was about to cost him everything. “Is something the matter, sweetheart? You told me he was just your friend.”

Sweetheart? This fucker just called you sweetheart?

Thor’s blood reached a boiling point in a heartbeat. “Sweetheart?” his voice boomed, a low, guttural roar that made the heavy ale mugs on the table rattle.

Oh, no. Oh, fuck no. You knew he was going to make a scene. You had always been aware that he was overprotective—possessive, really—but you had convinced yourself it was merely because you were his best friend, his favorite companion, and he was a spoiled Prince who liked to keep his treasures to himself.

Thor moved in a blur of gold and fury. Within seconds, his hand clamped onto Borison’s arm like a vice. He yanked it from your shoulder and wrenched it behind the man’s back, angling it with a sickening, wet crack as the bone snapped. Borison’s howl of agony filled the tavern, the sound raw and jagged, but he didn't even have the time to process the pain.

With a snarl, Thor slammed Borison’s face into the heavy timber of the table, pinning him there by the back of his neck. The wood groaned under the impact. Borison’s friends all scrambled to their feet, their chairs clattering back against the floor, but they stood frozen. They didn't have the courage to face the God of Thunder—not here, not anywhere.

You scrambled up from your seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You grabbed onto Thor’s massive bicep, your fingers digging into the hard muscle as you yelled at him, “What are you doing? Let him go!”

Thor didn't move. He didn't even flinch at your touch. He kept his weight pressed down on the Captain, his eyes fixed on your face with a terrifying, unblinking intensity. The Prince was gone; there was only a man who had seen someone touch his goddess, and he looked ready to burn the tavern down around you both.

He looked at Borison, then back to you, his blue eyes burning with an unyielding possessiveness that made the tavern's hearth fire look like a flickering candle.

“He touched you, Little Spark,” Thor rasped, his voice a jagged tremor. He didn't look at the man sobbing beneath his hand; instead, his gaze bore into yours, watching the fear flicker in your eyes. “He cannot touch what's mine. You are my treasure. Mine.”

Borison was breathing in heavy, ragged gasps, his body thrashing in a desperate, futile attempt to escape the God’s crushing strength. But he was pinned like an insect. “I thought you said he was just a friend!” the Captain yelled, his face turning a bruised, angry red as he struggled against the agony in his arm.

You turned to Borison, your voice shrill with panic. “Yes, he's just a friend! That's all!” you yelled back, desperate to de-escalate the violence before someone truly died.

That was the breaking point.

Thor's anger doubled, surging through him like a tide. He didn't care if your history was about to crumble into dust. He didn't care about the onlookers or the royal scandal brewing in the sawdust. He cared only about the lie falling from your lips.

“Just a fucking friend?” he roared, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. “Why the fuck did you kiss me back, then? Care to explain that?”

The tavern went deathly silent. Every eye was on you, the secret of the garden now laid bare in the most brutal way possible.

You straightened, your spine turning into a rigid line of ice. The world seemed to tilt. He was mocking you. He had realized your true feelings and he was using them as a weapon in a tavern brawl. He was parading your heart around just to win an argument.

“Are you mocking me?” you whispered, the words barely finding the air. You couldn't breathe. Your vision began to blur, the edges of the room fraying as tears welled in your eyes.

Thor’s expression shifted in an instant. The fury drained from his face, replaced by a look of sudden, sharp agony. He saw the way you were looking at him—the look of someone who had been betrayed to their core. Why is she so hurt? What have I done? his mind echoed in a frantic loop.

“I never thought you of all people could be so cruel,” you said, your voice trembling. Your fingers let go of his bicep as if the contact had burned your skin to the bone. “Do not speak to me ever again.” Then you started for the door.

Thor’s whole world turned upside down at the finality in your voice. Not speak to you? The very thought was a physical impossibility, a sentence of slow death he refused to accept.

“Do not go near her again,” he snarled at the broken man beneath him. In a final, blind surge of fury, he slammed Borison’s head into the timber one last time. The Captain’s body went limp, his eyes rolling back as he slipped into unconsciousness. Thor let go of the unmoving form as if it were nothing more than refuse and bolted for the exit.

He burst through the heavy doors, trailing hot behind you into the cool night air. The distance between you was growing, and the sight of your retreating figure sent a spike of panic through his chest.

“Where do you think you are going?!” he yelled after you, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. “You cannot go!”

He saw your steps fasten, your silhouette shimmering under the moonlight as you hurried away. The desperation in his gut tightened; he was a god who could catch lightning, yet he felt as though you were slipping through his fingers like smoke.

“Go away, Thor!” you screamed back at him, your voice cracking. You didn't turn around, but he could hear the ragged edge of your breath, the sound of your heart breaking in every word. Tears trailed down your cheeks, hot and stinging, blurring the cobblestones beneath your feet.

You were still so far from the palace gates, trapped in the shadows of the lower city with him.

“I will not!” he roared, closing the gap with his heavy, ground-eating strides. “I will not let you walk away thinking I am the monster you just described!”

You felt him closing the distance, the heavy vibration of his boots against the cobblestones growing louder. You couldn't let him see the ruin of your face, the way your pride had crumbled into salt and tears, so you pushed off into a sprint. You were a warrior, possessing the lethal precision of a wild cat, and you darted through the shadows of the lower city with a speed that would have left any other man breathless.

“Wait—“ Thor shouted, the sound of his own heavy footsteps accelerating behind you. “Will you wait? It is not safe for a woman to wander through these streets alone!” he pleaded, his voice thick with worry.

“I am a warrior, Thor! I can take care of myself, are you kidding me?!” you screamed over your shoulder, your breath hitching as you navigated a sharp turn. The palace gates loomed in the distance, a beacon of golden light against the dark sky, but they still felt miles away.

He was gaining on you, his sheer physical power allowing him to bridge the gap despite your agility. “I know, darling, but I just have to make sure you're safe!”

Your steps staggered at the endearment. The word, once a comfort, now felt like a twist of a blade in an open wound. “Do not call me that!” you shrieked, your voice raw.

He saw your rhythm break, the way your foot caught on an uneven stone. “Please stop, you’re going to fall!” he yelled from behind you, his shadow stretching out to reach yours.

You saw the palace gates now, mere hundreds of yards away. You pushed yourself harder, your lungs burning, determined to reach the serenity of your chambers where you could lock the world—lock him out.

But suddenly, the ground vanished beneath your feet.

You felt massive, calloused hands wrap firmly around your middle, halting your momentum with the strength of an iron vice. Before you could even gasp, he spun you around in one fluid, powerful motion and slung you over his broad shoulder like a trophy of war.

The air was knocked out of you as your stomach hit his hard muscle. You were breathless, dangling against his back as he stood his ground in the middle of the empty street.

“What the fuck, Thor?!” you yelled, finding your voice and slamming your fists against his cape-clad back. “Put me down!”

“I am not going to put you down. I know you will flee the second I let you go. We are going to talk,” he said, his voice dropping into a stubborn, immovable tone. He didn't even break his stride, turning his path toward the palace gates while carrying you as if you weighed no more than a bundle of chiffon.

“Like this?!” you yelled, your voice muffled against his back. You couldn't believe the sheer audacity of it—the Prince of Asgard parading you through the streets like a conquered prize.

“Exactly, like this,” he replied, giving a firm nod that you could feel through his shoulder.

“Thor, I cannot believe you!” you screamed. The shock had burned away the last of your tears, leaving your cheeks stiff and hardened with the salt of your grief, replaced now by a white-hot fury.

He didn't budge. As he reached the palace gates, he didn't even slow down. The guards stationed at the entrance stood like statues, their expressions a mix of bewilderment and sheer terror as they watched the God of Thunder march past.

Thor merely offered them a relaxed, charming smile—the kind he wore at banquets—as if everything were perfectly ordinary. As if carrying the Goddess of Beauty over his shoulder in the middle of the night was simply part of the evening's schedule.

“You're acting like a caveman!” you shrieked, your fists thumping against his armor, though it was like hitting a mountain.

“Shh, my treasure. Calm down,” he murmured, his tone maddeningly affectionate. “It is not as if I am kidnapping you.”

“You are kidnapping me! This is exactly how kidnappings go!”

A low, rumbling vibration started in his chest, and you felt his broad shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“You wound me,” he chuckled, his grip on your legs tightening just enough to ensure the delicate chiffon of your skirts didn't snag as he ensured you stayed exactly where he wanted you.

“I am merely escorting my favorite person to a place where she cannot run away from me.”

You were deep in the palace now, the rhythmic thud of his boots echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the corridors. Maids and servants froze in their tracks, laundry baskets nearly slipping from their hands as they gawked at the sight of the Crown Prince carrying a high-ranking warrior and goddess over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He was paving the way for a scandal that would be the talk of the court for weeks, but he seemed entirely unbothered.

“Yeah, right. Your favorite person,”’you mumbled, your voice thick with bitter sarcasm.

He stopped right in his tracks, his body tensing beneath you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

You scoffed, the movement awkward while upside down. “You claim I am your favorite person, but you sat with her at the feast. You chose her.” Your head was beginning to ache from the blood rushing to your skull, the throbbing behind your eyes matching the rhythm of your racing heart.

“You told me to sit with her—“

“Oh, like you do everything I say to you!” you cut him off sharply.

He growled, a sound of pure frustration, and started back on his path toward your chambers. He hit the grand staircase, his strides powerful as he began the ascent. “Except I do exactly what you say every single time! You know what? Not our topic. I was not going to sit with her—“

“Doesn't matter anymore—“

“Will you stop cutting me off and listen?!” he yelled, his voice booming through the stairwell.

He stopped his ascent abruptly in the middle of the grand stairs. In one swift motion, he lowered you from his shoulder, but he didn't let you go. He pressed you back against the cold marble banister, caging you in with his massive arms on either side of your head. He leaned in until his chest was inches from yours, his heat radiating through your chiffon dress.

He was close again. So close you could see the flecks of gold in his stormy eyes. You gulped, your eyes wide as you felt the sudden shift from his playful arrogance to raw, desperate sincerity.

“Okay...” you whispered, your voice small and breathless.

Thor’s expression softened instantly at the sight of your wide eyes and the way you looked so small within his reach. He took a sharp breath, clearly struggling to keep his composure from fraying under your gaze.

“I was going to sit with you, as usual,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft, urgent rumble. “Then her father talked to my father to arrange that seating plan. It was a matter of diplomacy, a move made without my knowledge while I was already looking for you in the crowd. You just did not let me explain.”

“Why are you mad, anyway? I got up from my seat and made you sit to my left. It's a clear sign that I did not choose her over you,” Thor continued, his voice thick with a desperate kind of urgency. “I would never—I could never choose anyone over you.”

You remained pinned against the marble, looking up at him with a defiant tilt of your chin despite the way your heart was hammering. “You only did that because you didn't want your favorite toy sitting next to another man,” you mumbled, the words tasting like poison on your tongue.

The air around him seemed to crackle. His eyes flashed with a sudden, searing anger that made you flinch. “Do you hear yourself? You think I see you as a toy?” he yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a maid hovering near a pillar, her head ducked as she tried to eavesdrop on the royal meltdown. His patience snapped.

“You know what? We will not talk of this here.”

He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He grabbed your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and began dragging you toward the heavy oak doors of his own chambers.

“Go back to your duties!” he roared over his shoulder at the nosy maid, who vanished in a blur of fabric.

He reached his room, shoved the doors open, and practically hauled you inside before slamming them shut with a thud that vibrated through the floorboards.

“The hell, Thor?!” you yelled, stumbling slightly as he finally let go of your wrist. You smoothed out the wrinkled chiffon of your skirts, your face flushed with a mix of fury and exhaustion. “Stop dragging me around like a doll!”

Thor turned to face you, his chest heaving as he paced the length of the rug like a caged lion. He looked at you, his blue eyes searching yours with an agonizing intensity that made the room feel far too small.

“A toy? A doll?” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl. “Is that truly what you think of me? That I would spend years of my life yearning for a toy?”

“Yearning? Is that what you call this? You have the nerve to talk like you're my fucking lover, Thor!”

“I do lo—“ he started, his voice cracking with a sudden, raw vulnerability, but you weren't hearing him. The rush of blood in your ears and the pounding of your heart drowned out the fact that he was seconds away from a confession.

“I will not listen to you!” you yelled, spinning on your heel and lunging for the heavy oak doors.

He blocked your path instantly, his massive frame a wall you couldn't hope to move. “You will not leave this room until you hear what I have to say! If you keep being this stubborn, I will lock us both in here and not let you out until you listen!”

You took a sharp step back, your chest heaving under the delicate chiffon of your dress. “You just yelled at me for calling myself a toy, but you're threatening to lock me up?! Do you hear yourself?! Try it then—try locking me up!”

A dark, decisive flicker ignited in his eyes. He didn't say another word. He turned to the door, grabbed the heavy iron key, and twisted it. The thunk of the bolt sliding into place echoed through the silent chamber.

Just as you thought he was simply being dramatic, he pulled the key from the lock and started walking toward the balcony with a grim, purposeful stride.

Your blood turned to ice.

He wouldn't.

He couldn't.

“Do not dare try what you're thinking—“ you warned, trailing hot behind him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

But you were too late. He reached the marble railing, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent the key soaring into the darkness of the palace gardens below. You watched, horrified, as the small glint of metal vanished into the dense thicket of trees and fountains hundreds of feet down.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU PSYCHOPATH?!” you screamed, rushing to the edge and looking down at the impossible drop.

Thor turned back to you, leaning his weight against the railing. He looked entirely too calm for a man who had just trapped himself with a furious goddess.

“I have ensured that we have the time we need,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into that low, possessive tone that always made your knees weak.

“Now, sit. Or don't. But you are going to listen to every word I have been dying to tell you since that night in the tavern.”

“The night in the tavern? Which night in the tavern?” you echoed, your brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

“The night when you kissed me, Little Spark.”

You froze.

The world seemed to stop spinning for a heartbeat.

The night you kissed him?

“What? I kissed you? When?”

Your heart was drumming against your ribs so hard it was almost painful, and Thor was looking at you as if the weight of a thousand dying stars were pressing down on his soul.

“You kissed me that night of our victory over the Frost Giants,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, mournful cadence. “You called me handsome. You made me believe you wanted me. Then you proceeded to call it fun and fell asleep in my arms.”

Suddenly, the fog in your mind began to thin. The memories started flooding back like a tidal wave—the heavy, metallic taste of Asgardian ale, the way he had shielded you from the gaze of other men, the way he had whispered how beautiful you were. And the kiss. The desperate, searing kiss that had felt like lightning and rain.

You took a sharp breath, your hand flying to your mouth. “I—“ You tried to swallow, but your throat was too dry. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—“

“You're sorry you kissed me?” he echoed, the words coming out as a whisper. He looked at you with an unshielded, naked hurt that made your stomach twist.

But then, the memory of the garden—of the way he had pulled away and left you standing in the cold moonlight—surfaced. The sting of it brought the anger back, hot and defensive. “Yes! Just like you're sorry you kissed me in the gardens! Remember? The way you looked at me like I was a fucking mistake?!”

He started toward you, his massive frame closing the distance until he was towering over you. “I did no such thing!” he yelled, his eyes flashing with a storm of his own.

“You did though!” you shrieked, spinning around to head back inside the chamber, desperate to put a wall between you.

He followed you, his patience finally snapping. You let out a small squeal as he caught your arm, his strength undeniable as he spun you around and pinned you against the stone wall.

He didn't face you, instead, he pressed your chest against the cold masonry—his own body flush against your back, trapping you in a cage of heat and muscle. The delicate chiffon of your dress offered no protection against the solid weight of him.

“You truly are a cavema—“

He clamped his hand over your mouth, silencing the insult before it could leave your lips. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

“Stop talking, I beg of you,” he groaned, his voice a ragged plea. “You do not let me speak. Ever. For once in your life, darling, just listen.”

His body was pressed firmly into yours, the heat of him making your back burn through the delicate chiffon. He kept his hand over your mouth, his touch firm but trembling with a restraint you’d never seen from him.

“I kept beating every single one of your suitors not because I was being possessive as your friend or because I saw you as a toy,” he rasped, his voice vibrating against your spine. “I did it because I was jealous. Consumed by it.”

Your breathing quickened, your chest heaving against the stone wall.

Is this really happening?

“For years, I kept you by my side—as my friend, as my confidant. But I never saw you as just a friend. Not really.” He took a deep, jagged breath. You turned your face sideways, looking back at him over your shoulder. His blue eyes were the most genuine they had ever looked, stripped of the prince’s bravado and the warrior’s steel.

”I burn for you. I yearn for you. I seek you wherever I go,” he confessed, his gaze searching yours.

“I want to kill every single man who dares to look at you. I find peace in the sound of your voice. I kissed you because I wanted to and I do not regret a single moment of it.”

He gulped, “I have been yearning for you for years. I love you. My soul sings for you. You are my everything; my sun, my stars, my universe.”

He took another shaky breath as your heart seemed to drop straight to your stomach.

He loves me, you thought, the realization echoing through the hollow ache in your chest.

“I know you only see me as your friend,” he whispered, his thumb grazing your cheek as his expression crumbled. “But I cannot keep living like this. I need to know, is there a chance—why are you crying? Did I say something wrong?”

You shook your head frantically. He hadn't said anything wrong; he was saying every word you had been starving to hear from him. Only him.

Slowly, he removed his hand from your mouth and turned you fully toward him, caging you between his body and the wall.

“Why do you think I just turned that woman into that wretched thing?” you started, your voice thick with a sob. “I yearn for you—I love you. You’re the only one I want, the only one I will ever want.”

The air left his lungs in a sharp huff. The God of Thunder looked as though he'd been struck by his own lightning.

You loved him?

In that silent, charged moment, the sheer absurdity of the years you spent with each other hit you both at once. All the missed signals, the misplaced jealousy, the just friends lies—you had both been absolute idiots.

A small, watery giggle escaped you, and Thor began to laugh too, a deep, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated relief.

“I cannot believe you did that, my love,” he murmured, his laughter fading into something much more intimate. He took your face between his massive, calloused hands, and you covered them with your own, leaning into his touch.

“I know, I didn't mean to—it just happened,” you whispered, “I really do have to turn her back though.” a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

“You do, my love, you really do.” he said, his smile still on his face.

His smile faltered then, at the sight of your smile, replaced by a look of such raw devotion it made your breath hitch.

“My soul burns when I see you, darling. You are the most beautiful woman my eyes have ever beheld.”

He whispered the words as his forehead dropped to rest against yours. Your heart sang, a wild, joyous melody that drowned out the rest of Asgard. You smiled, closing your eyes and finally letting the warmth of him anchor you.

The clink of metal against stone echoed from the gardens below, followed by a voice that was far too smooth and far too amused.

“I have your key, don't worry, brother! You guys have the best time!” Loki’s voice drifted up, dripping with mischief.

Your eyes snapped open, widening as they met Thor’s. The romantic atmosphere shattered into a shard of panic.

You both scrambled toward the balcony railing, leaning over the marble to see Loki standing on the path below, twirling Thor’s chamber key around his finger with a predatory grin.

“Brother!” Thor roared, his voice booming across the palace grounds. “Throw it back to me, now!”

“Don’t you dare, Loki!” you shrieked at the same time, your face heating up with the realization that the God of Mischief had likely witnessed most of the dramatic display.

“No! I think I shall keep it,” Loki laughed, a sharp, sinister sound that faded as he turned back toward the palace interior. “I intend to let you out only when I feel like it. Enjoy the solitude!”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“I hate him,” you mumbled, leaning your forehead against the cool stone of the railing.

“Me too,” Thor grumbled, his jaw set in a hard line.

You whipped around to face him, the adrenaline finally curdled into fresh annoyance. “This is your fault, I hope you know that! This entire mess!”

Thor’s eyebrows shot upward, his blue eyes sparking. “How is it my fault that you kept trying to run away from me, you crazy woman? I was forced into drastic measures!”

“Well, I certainly didn't tell you to lock us in and throw the fucki—“

“Fucking brat,” he cut you off, the insult coming out as a low, gravelly growl.

Before you could snap back, he moved.

His hands clamped onto your waist and he pulled you flush against him, silencing you with a kiss so fierce your breath caught in your throat.

He wasn't asking this time. He was claiming. He kissed you like you were the last source of oxygen on a planet devoid of it, his lips biting yours with a desperate hunger.

He was eating you alive.

“You got a mouth on you, you know that?” He mumbled against your lips.

He grazed his tongue over the seam of your lips, biting down again until you let out a soft, broken moan against his mouth.

He parted from you just an inch, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a heat that made the summer night feel like ice.

“Do not worry, I'll teach you some manners, baby,” he whispered softly against your swollen lips, the endearment sending a lightning strike down your spine.

You felt a rush of excitement run through you, down to your core.

Then, he kissed you again, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Your chiffon skirts fluttered around his legs as he turned back toward the bed, leaving the locked door and the missing key—and Loki—to the shadows of the night.

Thor carried you toward the massive bed, his stride heavy and purposeful. When he reached the edge, he didn't gently lay you down; he tossed you onto the covers with a suddenness that made you squeal, caught entirely off guard by his newfound aggression.

He stood at the foot of the bed, looking you dead in the eye as he began to tally your crimes.

“Let's see what you did so we can decide your punishment,” he rumbled, holding up his hand and ticking off a finger. “First, you talked back to me.”

“Thor—”

“Second, you did not listen to me,” he continued, ignoring your protest and raising another finger. “Third, you strolled around with that bastard—”

“How does that deserve a punishment?!” you yelled, pushing yourself up on your elbows.

“Ah, how could I forget?” He tilted his head, a dark, playful glint in his eyes. “You keep cutting me off. Let's add it to the list. You cut me off... how many times now?”

He paused, tapped his chin, and looked at you as if he were truly trying to calculate the total. Your eyes went wide. He has gone insane, you thought, a hysterical bubble of laughter trapped in your chest. I finally made him lose his mind.

“You know what? Your punishment will take too long if we count how many times you cut me off. Let's just say five for now, shall we?”

He didn't wait for an answer. With a fluid, practiced motion, he unfastened his heavy red cape and let it pool on the floor like spilled wine. Then came the armor plates, clattering softly as he stripped them away until he was standing before you completely bare from the waist up.

“I have decided,” he declared.

He extended his hand toward you, but you couldn't move. You were too busy staring. He was unreal—a mountain of golden skin and functional muscle. His shoulders were so wide they seemed to block out the rest of the room, and his biceps were thick enough to crush your skull if he so much as flexed. You felt a different kind of insanity creeping into your own mind just looking at him.

Slowly, you reached out and took his hand. He gripped your fingers firmly, pulling you up from the bed until you were standing flush against his heated chest.

“You like what you see, my heart?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, smug vibration. He looked down at you, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed the way you were practically devouring him with your gaze.

You gulped, the air in the room suddenly feeling very thin.

“I like it so much,” you murmured, looking up at him with wide, honest eyes.

Thor’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his expression softening into something hungrier, more primal. He didn't say another word; he simply pulled you closer, his hands sliding down to the small of your back, pinning you against his bare skin.

“That could erase one of your disrespects,” he purred, the sound vibrating against your chest. His large, calloused hands slid to your back, his fingers finding the hidden zipper of your chiffon dress and beginning the slow, deliberate descent.

But you just couldn't help yourself. It was an instinct, a survival mechanism honed over years of friendship: you lived to annoy him.

“Why did you throw me if you were going to tell me to get up?” you asked suddenly, your voice tilting with a challenge.

The zipper stopped. Thor froze, his jaw tightening as the last of his romantic resolve vanished. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his soft demeanor replaced by a look of sheer, incredulous annoyance. Is she serious? he thought, his eyes darkening with a different kind of fire.

“You couldn't stop talking for a second, could you? You just had to add another one.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He gripped the bodice of your dress and tugged it down—hard. The fabric gave way instantly, and the air in the room hit your bare skin as the dress pooled around your waist.

You weren't wearing a bra, and your breasts were bared to him in an instant, your nipples hardening as much from the sudden exposure as from the intensity in his gaze. You stood there in nothing but your simple white lace panties, your heart hammering against your ribs.

I really shouldn’t have said that, you thought, your bravado finally faltering.

Thor didn't move for a long moment, his eyes sweeping over you with an appreciative, predatory hunger that made your skin tingle. Then, he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, reaching out to grab your hips. He hauled you forward, throwing you over his thick, muscular thighs before you could even think to scramble away.

Then, something you never expected happened.

His massive hand came down, striking your right cheek with a sharp, stinging force. The slap made a loud, echoing sound in the quiet chamber. You flinched, your breath hitching as a shockwave of heat blossomed where he’d hit you.

Did he just spank you?

“You will count every time I spank you. Until we get to nine. You got it?” he rumbled, his voice thick and commanding.

You couldn't give him an answer; the sheer shock of the sensation had sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and you could feel your panties already soaking through the delicate lace.

Thor didn't like the silence. He reached down, his fingers hooking under your chin to force your head up, bringing your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes were burning, darker than a midnight storm.

“You got it?” he repeated, his thumb pressing firmly against your lower lip.

Oh gods, he was so hot.

The power, the possessiveness, the raw authority in his voice—it was more than you could handle. You nodded quickly, your pulse racing.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Start counting.”

Then his hand came down again, harder this time, and the heat intensified, leaving you breathless.

“One,” you breathed, your forehead falling against the hard muscle of his thigh as the sting began to hum under your skin.

He struck again, the impact echoing through the room. “Two—this is ridiculous,” you managed to get out, your voice breathless and tight.

Thor stopped instantly. The room went silent, save for the sound of your combined, heavy breathing.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble.

“Nothing,” you whispered into his skin.

He struck again, the force of it making you jump. “Three.” Your voice was much smaller now, the defiance finally bleeding out of you.

Suddenly, the sting was replaced by an agonizingly soft sensation. Thor’s large hand began to soothe the skin he’d just punished, his palm grazing over the heat in a slow, loving circle. “You okay, darling?” he asked, the genuine concern in his voice nearly undoing you.

You nodded against his leg, unable to find your words. Taking that as your consent to continue, he struck again. “Four,” you gasped out, the sound hitching in your throat.

But he didn't pull his hand away this time. Instead, he slid his palm lower, his thumb pressing firmly against your center through the thin, damp fabric of your lace panties. Your hips moved instinctively, following the direction of his hand as a broken mewl escaped your lips.

“You're soaked, my heart,” he rumbled, his voice thick with a dark, triumphant discovery. He moved his hand, hooking his fingers into the edge of the lace and tugging it to the side. His thumb found your slick, heated skin, running through the moisture you'd produced just for him. You moaned again, your head spinning as you buried your face deeper into his thigh.

“You're a dirty, dirty girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against the small of your back. “Acting like you think this is crazy, but you are soaking wet just from me spanking you.”

The shame and the pleasure swirled together, making you feel lightheaded.

“We should get rid of this, baby,” he whispered against your skin. Before you could even process the words, you heard the violent rip of delicate lace. With the effortless strength of a god, he tore the white panties clean off your body.

The sudden exposure to the cool air of the chamber, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze, made your breath hitch and stall in your chest. You were completely bare for him now, pinned across his lap, trembling as the weight of his attention settled over you.

“Fuck,” he murmured, “widen your legs for me pretty girl.” he nudged the insides of your thighs further apart, exposing every inch of your flushed skin to the light of the chamber.

He leaned over you, his thumb finding the sensitive, swollen peak of your clit and beginning to grind in slow, agonizing circles. The friction was perfect, a white-hot contrast to the cool air hitting your wet skin.

Then, his hand came down again—not on your cheek this time, but directly against your pussy. The impact was sharp and heavy, sending a jolt of pure lightning through your nervous system that made you see stars behind your eyelids.

“Five!” you gasped, your voice hitting a high-pitched, desperate note as you arched your back, your hips bucking instinctively against his lap.

He chuckled, the sound dark and triumphant. “You like that, don't you?”

You couldn't even find the air to answer him. He slapped you again, the sting hitting your clit directly, sending a wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You felt the muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, your internal walls clenching around nothing.

“Six—please—“ you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscle of his thigh as you pleaded for relief.

This time he slapped again, two times in a row. You didn't have it in you to talk. All you could do was moan, it was too much. You were consumed by him.

“Seven and eight,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, possessive growl. He was relentless, his heat radiating against you as he prepared for the final strike of your punishment. “You're doing so well, my heart. Just one more.”

He struck your pussy one last time, the impact so sharp and perfect it sent a final, blinding bolt of pleasure through your spine. “Nine!” you moaned, the sound breaking into a sob of pure release as your head fell back.

He didn't leave you draped over his thighs for long. “You did so good for me, my love,” he murmured, his voice thick with pride and desire. “You want your reward?”

Before you could even find the breath to answer, he shifted. He pulled you up, hauling your body around until you were sitting on his lap, facing away from him. Your back was pressed flush against his broad, bare chest, and your legs were spread wide open over his heavy thighs, leaving you completely exposed to his touch. You leaned your head back, resting it against the hollow of his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

“That's it, Little Spark,” he rumbled, his arms winding around you.

His hand slid down between your thighs, his thumb finding your clit again to resume those torturous, heavy circles. Then, he pushed his middle finger deep into your hole. You let out a broken cry, the sensation of him finally being inside you making your hips buck instinctively.

“Gods you're tight.” he mumbled into your hair. He began finger-fucking you, his pace steady and relentless. Every thrust made your juices squelch loudly in the quiet of the chamber, the sound of your own arousal making your face flush. You were a moaning mess, your head lolling against his chest as he bottomed out inside you.

“Please, baby... please,” you begged, your hands reaching back to grip his bicep, feeling the hard, flexed muscle under your fingers.

“I have you,” he grunted, his own composure finally cracking. He added his ring finger, the sudden stretch wider than you had ever been, making you gasp at the delicious fullness.

He didn't slow down. With two fingers driving deep and his thumb rhythmically punishing your clit, the world narrowed down to the heat of his touch. All it took was a few more powerful thrusts and one heavy press of his thumb before your vision went white.

Your orgasm washed over you in violent, pulsing waves, your internal muscles clamping down on his fingers as you shook in his arms, gasping for air.

You could feel his bulge straining beneath you, a hard, insistent weight that made your pulse jump.

Thor reached down, taking his glistening fingers—slick with your own essence—and slowly put them in his mouth. You looked up at him from the hollow of his neck, mesmerized, as he sucked them clean while holding your gaze. His bulge twitched against you.

“Fuck,”he whispered, his voice a gravelly ruin once he got a taste of you. “You taste divine—just like I imagined.”

The admission sent another surge of heat straight to your core. He moved with a sudden, desperate grace, placing you back on the bed until your head hit the pillows.

“I cannot wait—I have to have you, my love,” he said, his breathing ragged. He stood for a moment to discard his trousers, and your gaze shamelessly tracked the movement. His cock sprung up against his stomach, the tip already leaking with precum.

Your eyes widened. He was huge. Unreal. You felt a flash of genuine fear—you weren't sure something that size could actually fit inside you. You hadn't done this before; you had never let a man touch you like this. You couldn't have, not when your heart had always belonged to him.

Thor began to climb back over you, but he stopped when he caught the look of concern on your face.

“What's wrong? Have I hurt you?” he asked, his voice shifting instantly from lust to urgent worry. He looked at you intently. “Tell me.”

He looked as though he couldn't live with himself if he had actually caused you pain. You shook your head quickly.

“No, you didn't—I'm okay. It's just that,” You took a deep breath, your voice small. “I haven't done this before.” Thor froze. The air in the room seemed to go still as the weight of your words settled over him.

Thor froze, his weight braced on his forearms as he hovered over you. The raw, primal hunger in his eyes shifted instantly into something profound—a mixture of awe, reverence, and an almost painful tenderness.

“You...” he started, his voice cracking. “In all these years, with all those who sought your hand...”

He looked down at you, seeing the vulnerability in your wide eyes and the flush on your cheeks. The realization hit him like a physical blow: you had saved yourself for a love you weren't even sure was returned. You had waited for him.

“My heart,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His massive frame was trembling, not from lust now, but from the sheer weight of the gift you were giving him. “I will be so gentle with you. I promise.”

He shifted, trailing a row of soft, worshipful kisses along your jawline and down to the hollow of your throat. His hand, once so demanding and firm, now stroked your hair back with a touch as light as a summer breeze.

“We will go as slow as you need,” he murmured against your skin, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. “You are more precious to me than the throne, more than the Nine Realms themselves. I want this to be perfect for you.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again, his own shimmering with a depth of emotion that made your chest ache. The intimidating size of him seemed to soften as he focused entirely on your comfort.

“If it becomes too much, if you wish to stop, you need only whisper it,” he promised, his voice a low, solemn vow. “I am yours, in this and in all things. Do you trust me?” You nodded, your voice a faint, trembling thread. “I do. I trust you, my love,” you whispered against his skin.

A slow, radiant smile spread across Thor’s face, one that reached his eyes and stayed there. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was achingly tender, even as his hand moved back down between your thighs. When his thumb found your clit again, the familiar spark of pleasure flared up, helping to soothe the tension in your body. You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled and needy.

He kept circling you with a steady, grounding rhythm as he centered the head of his length at your entrance. He paused there for a heartbeat, his muscles rippling under your touch, waiting for you to breathe. Then, with an agonizingly slow deliberation, he began to ease in.

You gasped, your eyes flying open as he started to slide inside. The sensation of fullness was overwhelming, and for a moment, a sharp sting of pain took over. Your hands flew to his broad back, your nails digging deep into his skin as your body instinctively tensed against the intrusion.

He stopped instantly, his arms shaking from the effort of holding his weight back. He was only partway in, his face strained with the effort of self-control. “You okay, my heart?” He whispered, his voice thick and strained. He stayed perfectly still, giving you time to stretch, time to get used to the feel of him.

You took a ragged breath, the initial sting beginning to fade into a heavy, pulsing heat. You looked up at him, seeing the devotion in his eyes, and felt the last of your fear melt away. You nodded, your lips reaching up to find his again in a soft, reassuring kiss.

The ache was turning into a desperate, hollow craving that only he could fill. You shifted your hips slightly, seeking more of him. “Move,” you told him, your voice gaining strength as the pleasure began to outrun the pain. “Move, please.”

He started moving then, a slow, rhythmic pull and push that felt like the tide coming in. He groaned into your ear, a deep, guttural sound as he found a pace that allowed you to adjust to every inch of him. As the initial ache dissolved into a heavy, radiating warmth, you realized he wasn’t just taking you; he was making love to you.

He pulled back, bracing himself on his elbows so he could look at you. His gaze was intense, searching your eyes and your very soul as he continued his steady rhythm. He looked at you with such adoring reverence that it made your breath hitch.

“Gods,” he rasped, his voice trembling. “I have fantasized about this moment for so long, but I never thought it would be like this. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He leaned down to kiss you tenderly, his lips soft and lingering even as his lower body remained relentless. You were high on the feel of him, your eyes glazing over as the pleasure began to build into something sharp and undeniable.

“Be my wife,” he said suddenly, the words puncturing the quiet of the room.

You clenched around him at the words, a small moan escaping your lips as the friction intensified.

“Be my wife, my queen, the mother of my children,” he continued, his voice thick with a solemn, desperate vow. “Marry me.”

You nodded frantically, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “I will marry you. I will be your wife,” you gasped, your heart overflowing. “I love you so much.”

He bit his lip, his eyes darkening as he reached his limit. “I love you too, my treasure.” He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more urgent. “I’m gonna come, my love—let me cum in you. Let me mark you.”

You looked up at him through a heavy-lidded gaze, completely lost in him. “Yes—do it, please!” you pleaded, arching your hips to meet him.He reached down, his thumb finding your clit one last time and circling it with a frantic, heavy pressure. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the world splintered into a thousand points of light.

“Oh—!” you cried out, your body tightening in a violent, beautiful release at the exact same moment he bucked against you, his own roar of triumph muffled against your neck as he filled you with his warmth, finally making you his in every way possible.

The heavy silence of the chamber was now filled with the soft, synchronized sound of your breathing.

Thor shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling you flush against his heated skin. He tucked your head into the crook of his shoulder, his large hand resting protectively over your hip.

“I never thought this could happen,” he murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating with a quiet, stunned wonder. The fiery warrior who had stormed through the palace hours ago was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he had finally found his home.

You smiled, the exhaustion and the lingering hum of pleasure making your limbs feel heavy and warm. You tilted your head back to look at him, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. “Me neither,” you whispered. “But I’m glad it happened. I’m glad it was you.”

He smiled back, a genuine, soft expression that reached his eyes, making the blue of them look like a clear summer sky. “Me too, my heart. A thousand times over.”

He leaned down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips—a silent promise of the lifetime you had just agreed to share. Outside, the palace was still, the scandal of the evening already fading into the shadow of the deep Asgardian night, leaving the two of you alone in your own locked universe.

—

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE FED INTO ANY AI BOTS. THIS INCLUDES CHARACTER.AI, JANITOR.AI, ETC. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED, REPOSTED, REWORKED IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM.

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