“ fuck sweetheart . ” those are probably the least offending words you ever heard him say . his fingers tightened on your hips , skirt caught up around the circumference of your waist and panties pulled on the side while his dick disappeared in your gummy walls . you could feel the fabric of his costume pants brush against your thighs at each of his thrusts. a few moans spilled from your lips and and you started to wonder how you'd ended up there .
stan edgar asked you to go fetch soldier boy from whatever shit he had been doing and bring him straight to his office . you weren’t surprised when you found him high on the immense couch dominating his penthouse living room .
the french tips of your nails dug in the leather material of the couch.
“ you’re tighter than a fucking virgin—look at her dripping on my fucking cock . ” his thumb slipped past the rims of your butthole and you immediately clenched both around his thumb and length. your slick gushed down the girth to form a white ring at the base of his cock .
there was something wrong about hearing the wet squelch of his dick driving into your weeping cunt and the grunts that escaped both of you in ben’s quarters .
“ you sure love it raw , yeah ? didn’t know you were a dirty little slut . ”
plus size my ass. you’re talking about a girl with a big ass and giant boobs with a a small belly. no one talks about chubby girls with little tits and a flat ass.
yall also always do the fucking same thing in EVERY “plus size!reader” fics. she’s insecure, the love interest reassures them by having sex with them where he gropes her body.
so anyway i will always be a hater of the “plus soze!reader” fics. (except if they’re ACTUALLY accurate and not just about the objectification of a curvy woman.)
You noticed it the second you stepped inside—warm, thick, like honey in the air. Completely wrong for a place that usually reeked of metal and grime.
“Oi,” Butcher muttered from the counter, pouring another drink. “Why’s it smell like a bloody flower shop in ‘ere?”
You glanced around, frowning. “Yeah… that’s not normal.”
Frenchie had brought in some Vought sample earlier—claimed it was harmless. Waved it around like a trophy before vanishing. Apparently, he’d been full of shit. The scent grew heavier by the second, sinking into your lungs, settling under your skin. Your chest tightened. Your pulse kicked up.
Across the room, Butcher stiffened, rolling his shoulders like something itched beneath his skin. He dragged a hand down his face, blinking hard. “Bloody hell…”
You leaned against the wall, dizzy. “Do you feel… weird?”
A strained laugh left him. “Define weird, love.”
The air between you felt thick—charged. Your body was hot, too hot, your skin buzzing with restless energy you couldn’t place. Butcher stared at you longer than usual, his gaze dragging down your body slow and deliberate before snapping back to your face.
“…Right,” he muttered. “That’s not good.”
“What?”
He gestured vaguely down the hall. “That Vought toy Frenchie nicked? Pretty sure it’s pumping this place full of some kinda aphrodisiac.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh.”
Another wave hit—stronger. Heat pooled low in your stomach, and you grabbed the counter to steady yourself. Across from you, Butcher inhaled sharply. “Christ.” The way he looked at you now—hungry.
You swallowed. “Maybe we should… go outside.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved.
The tension tightened with every second, your pulse loud in your ears. Butcher took a step closer. Just one—but it felt massive.
“Y’know,” he said quietly, voice rough, “this stuff messes with your head.”
“I noticed.”
His eyes flicked to your lips and stayed there a beat too long. “We should stay on opposite sides of the room.”
“Probably.”
He didn’t move away. Instead, he stepped closer again, until he was right in front of you, heat rolling off him, the scent wrapping around you both like a trap.
He leaned in, voice low against your ear. “Bloody pollen’s got excellent timing, doesn’t it?”
Your breath hitched. “Shut up.”
He laughed softly, and then his hand slid to your waist—hesitant, testing. You didn’t stop him.
That was all it took.
He exhaled slowly. “Right.” Then he pulled you flush against him. Your hands fisted in his shirt, and for a second he just looked at you—
You kissed him. Hard.
And that was it. No slow buildup, no softness—just heat and teeth and a low, frustrated growl when you gave it right back. He kissed like he was pissed about it, like he hated how much he wanted you.
Your hands were already under his shirt, palms dragging over warm skin. His stomach flexed under your touch, and he hissed when your nails scraped down his sides. “Fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered against your mouth. “You’ve been waitin’ for this too, haven’t ya?”
You didn’t answer—just yanked at his shirt until buttons popped and scattered. He didn’t care, helping you shove it off. Then suddenly you were turned around, palms braced on the counter, his chest pressed to your back. One arm held you there—solid, grounding—while his other hand worked your jeans open, dragging them down in one rough pull.
He paused, just for a second,hesitant. You grabbed his hair and yanked him closer.
That snapped whatever restraint he had left. His fingers slid between your legs, finding you already soaked. He groaned, pushing in slow at first, then deeper when you gasped and rocked back against him. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that had your thighs shaking almost instantly.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re fuckin’ dripping, love.”
You couldn’t speak—just whimper, grinding against his hand. He curled his fingers just right, and your vision blurred.
“Butcher—”
“Yeah?” he said, wrecked and smug all at once. “Gonna come for me already?”
Your body locked up, a broken sound tearing from your throat as you clenched around him. He didn’t stop—dragged it out until you were shaking, oversensitive, pushing at his hand. Only then did he pull away.
You heard his belt, his zipper—then felt him slide against you, hot and slick.
“Gonna fuck you right here,” he said low. “Been thinkin’ about bendin’ you over this counter for longer than I care to admit.”
“Do it,” you gasped.
He didn’t hesitate. One hard thrust and he was inside you, knocking the breath from your lungs. He groaned—long, rough—then gave you a second before pulling back and slamming in again.
It wasn’t gentle. Just deep, punishing thrusts that made the counter creak, your hands slip, every movement knocking the air out of you and sending sparks behind your eyes.
His hand slid up, wrapping loosely around your throat—not squeezing, just there. Possessive.
“Fuck, listen to you,” he panted. “Takin’ it so good.”
You pushed back against him, greedy, chasing it, already climbing again too fast. “Butcher—I’m—fuck—”
“I know,” he rasped. “Feel you squeezin’ me. Come again.”
His fingers found your clit again, fast and messy.
That was it.
You shattered with a cry, walls tightening around him. He swore, rhythm breaking. “Where—fuck—where d’you want it?”
“Inside—please—”
He buried himself deep, hips jerking as he came with a guttural groan. Heat flooded you, making you shiver all over again. His grip tightened for a second, then eased as he sagged against you.
For a moment, neither of you moved—just breathing, shaking.
Eventually he pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the sensitivity. His arms came around you, softer now—one hand rubbing slow circles over your stomach, the other brushing your hair back.
The scent had faded to something dull in the background.
Butcher pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “Still smells like a fuckin’ perfume counter exploded,” he muttered.
You laughed, breathless. “Yeah. But at least we did something about it.”
He smirked, thumb brushing your jaw. “Pollen wears off,” he said. “But I reckon we might need another round. Just to be sure.”
You tugged him down by his ruined collar.
“Count on it, Butcher.”
ʜᴏᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀ
The penthouse was too quiet.
You’d only come up because Vought demanded a status report on the latest supe containment op, and Homelander had insisted you deliver it in person. No assistants. No cameras. Just you, standing in the middle of his sprawling, sterile living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
The moment the elevator doors closed behind you, you smelled it.
Sweet. Cloying. Like overripe nectar and warm skin. It coated the back of your throat instantly, thick enough to taste.
Homelander was already there, standing by the massive windows in his full suit, cape draped over the back of the couch like he’d torn it off in irritation. His head snapped toward you the second you stepped inside, nostrils flaring.
“What the fuck is that?” His voice was sharp, but there was an edge underneath it—something unsteady.
You set the tablet down on the marble island, trying to keep your breathing even. “I don’t know. It wasn’t here when I—”
He cut you off with a low growl, stalking closer. “It’s everywhere. In the vents. In the fucking air.” His eyes—those piercing blue ones—narrowed. “One of the labs. They were testing something new. Some kind of… airborne compound. They said it was contained.”
Clearly it wasn’t.
The scent thickened with every second, sinking into your lungs, spreading through your veins like liquid fire. Your skin prickled. Your pulse spiked hard enough that you could feel it in your throat, between your legs, everywhere.
You took a step back toward the elevator. “I should—”
“Don’t.” The single word cracked like a whip. He was already too close, heat rolling off him in waves even through the kevlar suit. His chest rose and fell faster than normal. “You’re not leaving.”
“Homelander—”
He inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering half-shut for a split second before snapping open again. Hungrier. “You smell it too. Don’t you?” His voice dropped, velvet over steel. “It’s making you wet already. I can hear your heart. I can smell that, too.”
Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Shame and heat twisted together low in your belly. “This isn’t—”
“Real?” He laughed, but it came out broken, almost frantic. “Oh, it’s real."
He was right in front of you now, towering, cape forgotten. One gloved hand came up, hovering just shy of your cheek like he was fighting himself. The leather creaked as his fingers curled into a fist.
“You think you can just walk in here, reeking of need, and walk back out?” His smile was all teeth.
Your back hit the cold glass of the window. The city sparkled far below. His body caged you in, one hand bracing beside your head hard enough to spiderweb the reinforced pane.
“I can smell how soaked you are,” he whispered, voice shaking with restraint and fury and raw want. “It’s driving me insane.”
You tried to speak, but it came out as a whimper. Your hands lifted without permission, pressing against his chest. The suit was warm from his body heat.
That small touch snapped something in him.
He surged forward, mouth crashing into yours—brutal, possessive, claiming. No hesitation. His tongue pushed past your lips like he owned the air in your lungs. One hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour you deeper. The other slid down your side, squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise.
You moaned into his mouth and he answered with a growl that vibrated through your entire body.
Clothes didn’t last long.
He ripped your blouse open with one sharp tug—buttons scattering across the marble like hail. Your skirt was shoved up around your waist in the next breath. He didn’t bother with your panties; he simply tore them off and tossed the ruined lace aside.
Then he was on his knees.
The most powerful man in the world, on his knees for you.
Homelander buried his face between your thighs like a starving man, tongue dragging through your folds with obscene hunger. He groaned loudly—filthy, unrestrained—when he tasted how wet you already were.
“Fuck—yes—” he panted against your cunt. “So fucking sweet. Better than anything I've ever tasted.”
Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that made your knees buckle. His mouth sealed around your clit, sucking relentlessly while his tongue flicked in tight, merciless circles.
You came embarrassingly fast, crying out, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, then kept going, forcing a second orgasm out of you before you’d even caught your breath.
Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove, eyes wild and glowing faintly red.
“My turn.”
He spun you around, pressing your chest to the window. The glass was freezing against your bare breasts. Below, the city moved on, oblivious.
You heard the suit unzip. Felt the blunt, burning head of his cock nudge against your dripping entrance.
"You’re fucking dripping for me.” he rasped against your ear.
He thrust in with one brutal stroke—bottoming out so deep your vision whited out. A broken cry tore from your throat. He was huge, stretching you to the limit.
Homelander moaned—loud, shameless—as your walls clenched around him. “That’s it… take it. Take every inch like the good little toy you are.”
He fucked you hard against the glass, hips snapping with superhuman force that would have shattered a normal person. Each thrust lifted you onto your toes. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on the slick surface, leaving sweaty streaks.
One of his hands wrapped around your throat from behind, just holding. The other slid between your legs, rubbing your swollen clit in tight circles.
“Come on my cock,” he demanded, voice cracking with need. “Let me feel you milk me.”
You shattered again, screaming his name as your orgasm crashed through you. He snarled, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering.
“Inside,” you gasped, barely coherent. “Please—inside—”
“Fuck—yes—”
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural roar that shook the windows. Pulse after pulse of hot cum flooded you, so much it leaked down your thighs even while he was still inside.
He stayed pressed against your back, breathing ragged, forehead resting against the glass beside yours. His arms caged you in, almost gentle now.
The sweet scent in the air had dulled to a faint background hum.
After a long moment, he pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the sensitivity. He turned you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly so your legs wrapped around his waist.
His eyes searched yours—still glowing, still hungry, but something softer flickering underneath the madness.
“The pollen will wear off eventually,” he murmured, voice rough. One hand stroked your hair almost tenderly. “But I’m not done with you.”
He carried you toward the bedroom, already hardening again against your thigh.
“Not even close.”
ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ ʙᴏʏ
The bunker was supposed to be secure.
Deep underground, reinforced concrete, stocked with enough MREs and whiskey to last a small army a month. Butcher had shoved you and Soldier Boy down here after the last op went sideways—said the feds were crawling everywhere topside and you two needed to lay low for forty-eight hours.
Forty-eight hours alone with Soldier Boy.
You’d been down here six when the scent hit.
Sweet. Thick. Like warm maple and gun oil and something darker underneath. It rolled out of the ventilation system in slow, lazy waves, filling the concrete corridors until the whole place smelled like a goddamn candy store had exploded inside a whorehouse.
Soldier Boy noticed it first.
He was sprawled on the old army cot in the main room, boots kicked up on a crate, half a bottle of whiskey already gone. His shield leaned against the wall like a silent threat. The second the smell thickened, his head snapped up, green eyes narrowing.
“What the fuck is this shit?” His voice was gravel and smoke, laced with immediate suspicion.
You paused halfway through inventorying the weapons locker. “Smells like… flowers? Syrup? I don’t know. Maybe the air filters are fucked.”
“Bullshit.” He stood slowly, rolling his massive shoulders. The tight black tac shirt stretched across his chest as he inhaled deep through his nose. His jaw clenched so hard you heard the pop. “That ain’t normal. Smells like pussy and perfume mixed together.”
Your face heated. The scent was already sinking in—warmth blooming low in your belly, skin tingling like every nerve ending had been stroked at once. You shifted your weight, trying to ignore the sudden slickness between your thighs.
Soldier Boy’s gaze snapped to you. His nostrils flared again.
“Don’t,” he growled, low and warning. “Don’t you fucking start.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you shot back, but your voice came out breathier than you wanted.
He took a step back, boots scraping concrete. One gloved hand scrubbed roughly over his beard. “This is some Vought lab rat poison. Some new weapon. Ain’t touching me. I’m Soldier Boy. I don’t get phased by pussy gas or whatever the fuck this is.”
But the pollen didn’t care about his ego.
Another wave rolled through the room, thicker this time. Your knees nearly buckled. Heat flooded your core so fast it stole your breath. You grabbed the edge of the metal table to steady yourself, thighs pressing together.
Across the room, Soldier Boy’s breathing changed—deeper, rougher. His pupils blew wide. The front of his tac pants was already tenting obscenely.
“Fuck this,” he snarled. He turned away from you, bracing both hands on the concrete wall like he could physically push the feeling out of his body. “I’m a goddamn hero. Fought Nazis. Took down supes twice my size. This cheap chemical whore shit ain’t gonna break me.”
You watched the muscles in his back flex under the shirt. Sweat was already beading at the nape of his neck. His hips twitched once, involuntarily.
“Ben…” you said softly, using his real name like a test.
“Don’t.” The word cracked like a whip. He didn’t turn around. “Stay the fuck over there. I can smell you. Jesus Christ, I can smell how wet you are already. It’s making my dick hurt.”
The crude words sent another pulse of heat through you. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.
He laughed—bitter, strained. “You think I’m gonna bend you over just ‘cause some lab made fuck-gas? Nah. I’m above this. I’m Soldier Boy. I fuck who I want, when I want. Not because some pussy perfume tells me to.”
But his body was betraying him. His hips rocked forward once against nothing, a helpless little thrust. A low groan escaped him before he could choke it back.
You took one step closer.
He whipped around, eyes blazing. “I said stay back!”
His chest was heaving now. The front of his pants looked painfully tight. One hand dropped down, palming himself roughly through the fabric like he could force the erection away by sheer willpower.
It only made it worse.
“Fuck—fuck—” He squeezed his eyes shut. "My balls feel like they’re on fire. I ain’t never needed to nut this bad in my life.”
Another heavy wave of scent crashed over both of you.
That was the breaking point.
Soldier Boy’s control shattered with a vicious growl. In two strides he was on you, slamming you back against the cold concrete wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. His mouth crashed into yours—angry, punishing, like he was mad at you for making him lose.
“I hate this,” he snarled against your lips, even as his hands tore at your clothes. Your shirt ripped down the front. Your jeans were yanked down your legs so fast the denim burned your skin. “I’m supposed to be stronger than this shit.”
His gloved hand shoved between your thighs, two thick fingers pushing into your soaked cunt without warning. You cried out, clenching around him instantly.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re dripping down my wrist. So fucking sloppy already.”
He finger-fucked you hard and fast, thumb grinding mercilessly over your clit. His other hand pinned your hip to the wall, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You came with a cry, walls fluttering around his fingers. He didn’t even let you ride it out—he ripped his hand away, spun you around, and shoved your chest against the wall.
“Gonna fuck this out of my system,” he rasped, voice shaking with fury and raw need. You heard his belt, his zipper, then the heavy, burning length of his cock slapped against your ass. “One time. Then I’m done. I’m still Soldier Boy. Still in control.”
He lined up and slammed into you in one brutal thrust—burying every thick inch to the hilt.
The sound that tore out of him was half groan, half roar.
“Fuuuuck—tight little cunt sucking me in.” His hips snapped forward again, punishing, deep. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed off the concrete.
He fucked you like he was trying to punish the pollen itself—hard, relentless strokes that lifted you onto your toes with every thrust. One massive hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could growl right against your ear.
“Tell me you feel it too,” he demanded, voice cracking. “Tell me this shit’s wrecking you just as bad.”
“It is—Ben—fuck—harder—”
He snarled and gave you exactly what you asked for, pounding into you so deep you saw stars. His free hand snaked around to rub your clit in rough, frantic circles.
You came again with a broken scream, clenching down on his cock like a vice.
That finally dragged him over the edge.
“Shit—gonna fill you up—fuck—”
He buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a guttural shout, hips jerking violently as pulse after pulse of hot cum flooded you.
For a long moment he just stayed there, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, breathing like he’d run a marathon. His body was still trembling with aftershocks.
Then, slowly, he pulled out.
He turned you around, hands surprisingly gentle now as they cupped your face. His eyes were still dark with leftover hunger, but the rage had burned down to something quieter.
“The pollen’s still in the air,” he muttered, voice rough. He glanced toward the vents like they were enemies. “Probably got hours left.”
You reached up, brushing your thumb over his lower lip.
He swallowed hard, then smirked—that cocky, arrogant tilt of his mouth you knew so well.
“Guess I’m gonna have to fuck you again,” he said, already hardening against your stomach. “Just to prove I can handle it. Multiple rounds. Still in control.”
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you toward the cot.
“American hero shit,” he growled against your mouth before kissing you deep and filthy. “Don’t you forget it.”
thoughts on butcher who gets off on making you cry from fucking you so good 👀👀
There was no stopping the onslaught of tears that pooled in your eyes, the stream slipping down your cheeks as you let out a strangled moan.
Billy had you pinned beneath him, arms held above your head as his cock plunged in and out of your swollen pussy, each thrust sending jolts from the myriad of orgasms he’s given you.
Overwhelmed, overstimulated- and you were beyond any comprehension as you blubbered his name, legs quivering around his waist.
“B-Billy- I can’t-“ you whimpered, a hiccup leaving you as his pelvis bumped your clit deliciously.
“Shh…” Billy cooed, never letting his rhythm slip. “You can, you have… just one more f’ me…”
He indulged in how you cried, the beautiful tears that left your eyes made him drive himself into you even harder, the twitch in his shaft wanting to make you cry for him more.
“Billy-y fuck- fuck I’m so- so so close- please-“ you were inconsolably in euphoria, the weeping beg of release so difficult for butcher to deny you of.
“Yeah, cry f’ me, come f’ me.” Butcher muttered lowly, giving a sloppy kiss to your cheek as he tasted the hot, salty moisture on your skin. “Let me know how I fucked you so good that you’re sobbin’ beneath me.”
Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public
Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios
God, I love Marvel Comics...
Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man
Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.
He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.
“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.
Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.
Tony Stark aka. Iron Man
Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.
He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.
He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”
The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.
Steve Rogers aka. Captain America
Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.
He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.
“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”
But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.
Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder
Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.
He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.
The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”
Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.
Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief
Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.
He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.
His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.
Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.
Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye
Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.
He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.
“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”
The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.
Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow
Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.
She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.
The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.
Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.
Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier
Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.
He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.
Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.
Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.
Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil
Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.
Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.
“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.
Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.
Frank Castle aka. The Punisher
Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.
He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.
The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.
Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.
Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight
Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.
He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."
“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.
Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.
Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch
Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.
He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.
Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.
The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.
Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic
Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.
He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.
For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”
Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.
Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat
Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.
She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.
Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”
Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.
Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange
Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.
He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.
His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”
The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.
Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner
Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.
He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.
The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.
Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.
Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider
Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.
The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.
“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”
Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.
Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom
Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.
He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—
“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.
Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.
T’Challa aka. Black Panther
T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.
He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.
Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”
Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.
Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra
Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.
The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.
“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”
Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.
Summary: You and Thor are hit with the reality of your fathers arranging a union between your houses. By you marrying each other. You could deal with it, until you find out that he has a mortal lover.
Content: Arranged Marriage, Idiots in love, Miscommunication, Jealous thor, Possessive thor, OBSESSED thor, jealous reader, cursing, explicit SMUT at the end (I am so ashamed of myself).
Word Count: 25k
English is my second language please keep that in mind, I’m sorry for the mistakes if there are any💕
Minors Do Not Interact
You sat at the long table, the heavy, stiff silk of your gown beaded with obsidian that caught the torchlight feeling more like a suit of plate than a dress. The Great Hall was a cavern of gold and shadow, the room smelled of roasted meats and the sharp aroma of bitter-sweet mead.
Across from you, Thor was mid-laugh, his voice a boisterous thunder that always seemed to vibrate in your very teeth. He was tearing into a loaf of bread, gesturing wildly toward Loki, who was watching him with a tired look.
“I’m telling you, brother,” Thor boomed, a stray crumb catching in his beard. “The beast didn't even see the hammer until it was—“
“Thor,” Odin’s voice didn't rise, but the entire hall went ghost-silent. The All-Father sat at the head of the table, his one eye fixed on the three of you. Your father sat beside him, his expression unreadable, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, satisfied beat against the wood. “Enough of the war stories. We have a pact to honor.”
You felt a warm, liquid heat spark at your fingertips, a shimmering gold hum beneath the table that mirrored the gilded carvings of the hall. Your father cleared his throat.
“The stars have aligned, and the blood-oath made at your births is ready to be sealed. The union of our houses, the betrothal of the Prince and the Lady of the High House, is to be finalized by the turn of the moon.”
Thor’s hand froze. The bread hit the table with a dull thud. You felt the oxygen leave the room, your gaze snapping from your father to Odin, then to Thor, whose expression shifted from mindless cheer to pure, wide-eyed confusion.
Beside him, Loki’s goblet paused halfway to his lips. His pale eyes widened, darting between the All-Father and the two of you in genuine shock.
“Betrothal?” Thor stammered, his loud bravado vanishing into a stunned silence. “To her? Father, we are—we are barely acquaintances! She spends her time in the library or the gardens weaving spells, and I am in the mud—the battlefield! There is no—“
“Surely this is a misplaced jest, All-Father,” you cut in, your voice tight and sharp as a blade. You gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood groaned. “We have never even had a conversation that didn't end in an argument. We don't even like each other.”
Loki finally set his glass down, his voice uncharacteristically small. “Wait. You truly— you mean this is not a metaphor?”
Odin looked from Thor to you, then to his younger son, a look of displeasure crossing his face. “The scrolls were signed when you were in your cradles. You have no say in this, this wedding will happen.”
“I am not marrying her!” Thor stood up abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. He turned to you “No offense, sunshine.”
Sunshine, your mind echoed without meaning to.
He’s been calling you that since you were little kids.
Then he turned back to his father, “I am the protector of the Nine Realms! I cannot be tied to a woman who is more concerned with the fabric of a dress than the weight of a sword!”
“And I will not be tied to a man who thinks a date involves a wrestling match in the rain!” you snapped back, rising to meet his gaze across the table.
“Silence!” Odin’s Gungnir struck the floor, the vibration rattling the plates. The air in the room grew heavy, the weight of his authority overpowering. He looked at Thor, his gaze turning icy. “You think your worthiness is a permanent thing, son? Before I sent you to Midgard, I whispered a command into the heart of Mjolnir. If you defy the peace of this realm—if you break the oath I made to my oldest ally—the hammer will remember. You will find that it no more deems you worthy, and you shall be a prince with no crown and no weapon.”
Thor blanched, his eyes darting instinctively to Mjolnir resting on the side table.
Odin then turned his gaze to you. Your father leaned forward, “And you, daughter. You enjoy your status? Your magic, your influence, your life of absolute refinement? Should you refuse this, you will find yourself with nothing. Not a single coin, not a thread of silk, and no name. You will be a commoner in the streets of the lower city by dawn.” he said, his voice threatening.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the table. Thor looked at you, his blue eyes wide and horrified, his usual boisterous energy completely drained. You looked back at him, the golden sparks of your magic dying out in the face of such a cold reality.
Oh, fuck.
You looked from Thor’s stunned, bearded face to the All-Father, your chin tilting up with the practiced defiance of a woman who had never been told no.
“If this is truly a matter of blood-oaths and political alliances,” you began, your voice smooth as silk but laced with a spoiled, desperate edge, “surely the house of Odin has more than one option. If I must be tethered to a Prince to keep my inheritance, I’ll trade the hammer for the silver tongue. I’ll take Loki.”
Across the table, Loki paused, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his thin lips. He leaned back, his eyes dancing with the sheer chaos of the suggestion. “I must say, I am flattered, little bird. Your taste in conversation is clearly improving—“
“No.”
The word was a low growl. Thor’s eyes narrowed, the sapphire blue turning dark as a brewing storm. He stepped forward from where he was standing, his massive hands coming down on the top of the table with enough force to make the wood groan. He effectively erased Loki from the conversation.
“We are to be married then, my lady,” Thor said, his voice dropping into a register that was no longer boisterous, but commanding. He held your gaze, his chest heaving slightly under his leather armor. “Let us accept the hand we have been dealt and not try to change our husbands before the ink is even dry, shall we?”
You let a slow, mocking smile pull at the corners of your mouth. You looked him up and down from his messy half-up hair to his mud-stained boots with a clinical, devastating lack of interest.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were taking a husband too, Thor?” you asked, your voice dripping with faux-innocence. “Who is he? Is he cute? Does he also struggle with the concept of a bath?”
Loki let out a sharp, muffled bark of laughter into his palm, but it was cut short.
“Enough!” Your father’s voice cracked like a whip. He stood, his shadow stretching long and dark across the table. “This is not a negotiation, and it is certainly not a theater for your petulant bickering. You are the future of Asgard, and you will behave as such.”
Odin rose slowly, his presence filling the room until the very air started pressing down on your shoulders. “The healers and the heralds are already preparing. You will have a week to reconcile yourselves to this union. After that, the two of you will be joined, whether you are smiling or screaming.”
“Well,” Loki whispered, leaning back as he processed the disaster. “This is going to be a very long week.”
Thor’s jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving yours. The dorky prince that you’ve grown used to over the years was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he was already calculating the cost of the war he’d just been drafted into. You felt the gold of your magic settle into a cold, hard knot in your stomach.
—
The transition from the gold-leafed tension of the palace to the cool, clinical elegance of your family’s estate was a blur of clicking heels and your anger simmering deep inside you. You didn't wait for the servants to take your cloak; you threw it onto a velvet divan and stormed toward the West Wing, your golden energy trailing behind you like sparks from a dying fire.
You were looking for your mother who wasn’t able to attend the betrayal of a dinner you just came back from, because apparently she was not feeling good.
You found your mother in her private solar, draped in pale silks, the scent of healing herbs and lavender heavy in the air. She looked up from her book, her eyes widening as you burst through the heavy oak doors.
“Did you know of this, Mother?” your voice was a low, dangerous vibration. You stood at the foot of her chaise lounge, your hands trembling with the effort of keeping your magic from shattering the crystals on the side table.
She blinked, a look of genuine confusion softening her features. “The betrothal? Of course, darling. I thought you did too.”
So everyone knew.
Except the two people who should.
She reached out a hand as if to soothe you, but you stepped back, the obsidian beads on your gown clashing like tiny teeth.
“Why else would you have been going to the castle so regularly all this time?” she asked, her voice tilting with a touch of maternal logic that made your blood boil. “The tea with the Queen, the training sessions in the gardens, the dinners... I assumed you were finally making an effort with your future husband.”
You froze, a cold, sharp glare settling on your face. The realization that your regular visits—which you had spent mostly in the library or hiding in the gardens to avoid the very man you were now tied to—had been misinterpreted as courtship made you want to scream.
“Mother, I am friends with Loki, that is why I was visiting.” you said, each word a piece of ice. “I had no idea! Or else I would’ve kept my distance from him! I would have stayed on the furthest moon of the Nine Realms if I knew he was the end goal of my afternoon strolls!”
Your mother sighed, sinking back into her pillows. “Regardless of your intentions, the All-Father has spoken. You have a wedding to prepare for, my darling, and a husband to endure.”
The torture had officially begun.
—
You walked beside your mother, to try on your wedding dress, the heavy hem of your skirts sweeping over the pristine stone path. The morning air in the palace gardens was thick with the scent of blooming Asgardian lilies, but to you, it felt like incense at a funeral.
Behind you, two handmaidens trailed with a hovering casket of lacquered wood—the wedding gown. It was crafted from star-spun silk, a fabric so rare it supposedly held the light of dead suns, structured with reinforced golden stays that felt more like a cage than a bodice.
“You must breathe, darling,” your mother murmured, her hand resting light as a feather on your arm. “The seamstresses have spent years on this piece. It is the pride of our house.”
“It’s a shroud, Mother,” you snapped, your eyes fixed on the horizon. “Just a very expensive one.”
“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
The smooth, melodic voice made you stop in your tracks. Loki emerged from behind a marble statue of Borr, a faint, sharp-edged smirk playing on his lips. He fell into step on your other side, his hands folded neatly behind his back.
“I’ve heard of people weeping at weddings, but usually they wait for the vows,” he teased, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “I must say, the doomed bride aesthetic suits your complexion. Very tragic. Very high-court.”
“Careful, Loki,” you countered, not even looking at him. “If I’m truly as tragic as you say, I might just decide to take you down with me. I'm sure there’s a forgotten contract in the archives that could bind you to a frost giantess. I hear the winters there are lovely for your skin.”
Loki let out a short, genuine huff of a laugh, nudging your shoulder with his. “Touché. But truly, the look on his face when he realized he had to trade his tavern brawls for your dinner etiquette? It was surely worth the headache of the announcement.”
You actually felt a genuine smile tug at your lips, a rare spark of joy breaking through the dread. You leaned toward him, lowering your voice. “If he brings a turkey leg to the altar, I am using my magic to turn his cape into a flock of geese. I swear it on the All-Father.”
Loki laughed properly then, the sound echoing through the hall as you transitioned from the gardens into the royal wing.
But the laughter died the moment you rounded the corner.
Thor was standing by a massive bay window, Mjolnir hanging heavy in his grasp. He looked tired, his brow furrowed as he spoke to a guard, but his head snapped toward the sound of your voice instantly. His blue eyes narrowed, darting from your smiling face to Loki’s hand, which was still hovering near your arm. The relaxed, boisterous Prince vanished.
He didn't say a word. He simply began to follow.
Your mother ushered you inside the fitting room, though this was not just any fitting room; it was Queen Frigga's private dressing suite, a circular room bathed in natural light filtering through tall, arched windows that looked out over the Golden City.
Queen Frigga stood near a velvet-covered pedestal, her presence instantly bringing a sense of calm serenity a stark contrast to your own mother’s anxious energy. She was dressed in soft, flowing greens and golds, her hair intricately braided. Beside her, on a high stand, was the other casket—the one holding the ancestral jewelry.
“You look lovely, child,” Frigga murmured, her voice like warm honey as she turned to watch you enter. Her eyes, so similar to Thor’s yet filled with centuries of wisdom, drifted to Loki, who was still smirking beside you. “And Loki, I see you are still finding amusement in your brother’s obligation.”
Loki dropped into a elegant bow, his smirk softening just a fraction. “Only performing my brotherly duty, Mother. Ensuring the bride doesn't run screaming before the I do's.”
“More like ensuring he doesn't,” you muttered, stepping toward the pedestal.
Frigga smiled faintly, motioning for the handmaidens to open the main lacquered casket. “We will have none of that talk today. This dress is a masterpiece, and it is traditional that the Queen Mother sees the bride in her finery before the All-Father, to offer her blessing.”
You felt the heavy, cold whoosh of air as the star-spun silk was lifted. Behind you, the heavy oak doors swung open, catching the light.
Thor stood on the threshold, his presence immediately making the high ceilings feel suffocatingly low. He held Mjolnir loosely in his grip, the smell of a distant storm clinging to him like a second skin. He didn't say a word, his gaze immediately narrowing as he spotted Loki standing next to you.
Every pair of eyebrows in the room shot upward. Your mother gasped, clutching her silks to her chest. Frigga turned, her eyebrows arched slightly. “Thor? What are you doing here? This is not the training yard, nor is it the Great Hall.”
“I am aware, Mother,” Thor said, his voice flat, dangerously devoid of its usual boisterous cheer. He didn't look at his mother; his blue eyes were locked on your back. He walked into the room, pulling a heavy gilded chair from the wall and dropping into it with a dull thud, crossing his massive arms. “I merely wish to ensure my future wife isn’t plotting my demise with my brother under the guise of a fitting. I’ve heard she prefers the so called silver tongue.”
Loki let out a short, sharp bark of laughter into his fist, but Frigga merely sighed, a practiced look of disappointment crossing her features. “Thor. It is the height of ill fortune for the groom to see the bride in her finery before the ceremony. The Norns do not look kindly on broken tradition.”
Thor shrugged, a reckless, tight-lipped gesture. “I have faced the armies of the Dark Elves and many more. I think I can survive a bit of bad luck from a piece of fabric. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze fixed on Loki again, “I have no desire to be the last to know anything.”
“I don't need a dress to plot your demise, Thor,” you muttered over your shoulder, refusing to turn and face him as the handmaidens began the grueling process of draping the silk over your frame.
For ten minutes, the only sound in the room was the rustle of priceless fabric, the clink of golden pins, and your mother’s sharp, anxious inhalations. You felt Thor’s gaze like a branding iron on your back—unblinking, focused, stripping away your composure. Loki stood nearby, watching the tension with a dark, satisfied amusement, while Frigga stood by the jewelry stand, her expression a mix of observation and silent concern.
Finally, the stays were tightened, molding the structured silk and chiffon to your body. The high, elegant collar was fastened. The handmaidens stepped back, and you turned slowly to face the wall of mirrors.
The dress was architectural sorcery. The star-spun silk caught the light, shifting from white to a blinding, liquid gold that mirrored the gold magic pulsing at your fingertips. It was structured, rigid, and utterly cold.
You turned slowly to face the room.
Thor had been leaning back in his chair, a bored, defensive, and likely dorky excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue. He was likely prepared to mock the choice of color or the sheer practicality of the train.
But once you stepped into the light, his demeanor changed.
His jaw locked.
The gilded chair groaned as his grip tightened on the armrests, his massive knuckles turning white as snow.
The air in the room suddenly felt thick, the smell of rain faint but unmistakable. He didn't speak nor make a joke. He merely stared at you, his pupils blown wide, trying to make sense of what he was feeling.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
“Thor?” Frigga whispered, her voice gentle but commanding as she took a step toward her son.
He blinked once, slowly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He stood up abruptly, the chair skidding back. “It— it is functional,” he managed, his voice sounding like he’d been swallowing broken glass.He didn't look at you again as he turned for the door. “Try not to trip on the hem, my lady.”
He was out the door before the wood stopped vibrating.
Frigga turned back to you, her expression unreadable, but a faint, knowing light dancing in her wise eyes. “Functional,” she repeated softly, her voice tilting with a silent amusement.
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, only one question coming to your mind;
Why is everyone acting so weird?
—
The following evening, the palace gardens were a sea of gold and emerald, the air thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the rhythmic, distant thrum of Asgardian lutes. It was the eve of the wedding—the final celebration of your so called freedom.
You arrived with your parents, your steps measured and precise. Your gown tonight was structured, midnight-toned velvet, the high collar framed by sharp, golden embroidery that caught the torchlight like a warning.
As you rounded the marble fountain, you saw him waiting at the entrance of the garden.
Thor stood tall, draped in his heavy ceremonial armor. The polished silver and deep blues of his chestplate caught the moonlight, but it was the cape that drew the eye—a thick, crimson shroud weighted by a massive mantle of dark fur that sat broad across his shoulders. It made him look twice his size, a looming figure of mythic weight rather than the prince who usually tripped over his own jokes. When his eyes met yours, that strange, dark look from the fitting room flickered for a second before he masked it with a lopsided, defensive grin.
Your mother and father exchanged a pointed, satisfied look, stepping ahead with a synchronized grace that left you and Thor standing alone in the shadow of the archway.
“You look remarkably less like a sun-god today, my lady,” Thor remarked, falling into step beside you. The fur of his mantle brushed against your shoulder—a heavy, soft contact that sent a jolt of irritation through you. “I see you’ve returned to your usual brooding colors.”
“And you look remarkably like someone who hasn't been in a tavern brawl for at least three hours,” you countered, tilting your head to look up at him. “It’s a terrifying look for you, Thor. Almost civilized.”
Thor let out a deep, rolling chuckle, the sound vibrating in the space between you. “I’ll have you know I spent the afternoon in the library. Loki insisted I learn the proper sequence of the ceremonial toasts so I don't humiliate them before the first course.”
“A wise move,” you said, a genuine, sharp smile pulling at your lips. “Though I’m surprised you managed to sit still long enough to read. I thought your attention span was measured in how long it takes to throw a hammer.”
“It's measured in how long it takes to win a fight,” he corrected, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at you. “Currently, I am fighting the urge to rip this fur off and head for the lower city taverns. Would you join me, or are you too refined for cheap ale and loud songs?”
“I would join you,” you said, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “but I suspect my father has guards stationed at every exit specifically to prevent me from escaping your company.”
Thor stopped walking, turning to face you fully, the feel of his presence sharpening in the cool night air.
He looked down at you, his blue eyes searching yours.
“Then your father and I finally agree on something,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, vibrato rumble. “For I have no intention of letting you out of my sight tonight, sunshine. It would be a shame to lose my only source of entertainment before the feast even begins.”
He reached out, his large hand—calloused and warm—hovering near your waist as if to guide you, his fingers ghosting against the velvet of your dress. For a fleeting second, the mockery died in your throat.
You looked up at him, the gold of your magic stirring restlessly beneath your skin, mirroring the heat radiating off him. It was a moment—sharp, silent, and dangerously real.
Then, he blinked, the shadow of a smirk returning to his face. He pulled his hand back to hook it into his belt, the prince mask sliding back into place. “Besides,” he added, “if I let you run now, Loki would never let me hear the end of it. He’s already placed bets on how long it takes for you to hex me at the altar.”
You let out a huff of laughter, the tension breaking as quickly as it had formed. “I hope you bet against him, Thor. I’m planning to wait at least until the first dance.”
You both started walking again, the shared smile lingering just a second too long for two people who supposedly couldn’t stand the sight of each other.
As you reached the heavy arched entrance, the gold of your magic prickled at your fingertips—a warning of the social exhaustion to come.
“Go on, sunshine,” Thor said, gesturing toward the doors with a lazy sweep of his hand, his fur-lined cape swaying with the movement. “I shall find us a place at the table before Loki drinks all the vintage mead.”
“Actually, go ahead without me,” you said, smoothing the velvet of your skirts. “I need to compose myself. I’ll meet you inside.”
“I will wait,” he countered, his voice dropping into that stubborn, protective rumble. He leaned back against the stone pillar, crossing his arms over his chestplate. “The corridors are busy tonight. It wouldn't do for the bride to be lost in the crowd.”
“I am perfectly capable of walking twenty paces alone, Thor. No need, really.”
“I insist,” he said, his eyes glinting with a maddening persistence. “I have nothing but time, and I’ve already memorized the toasts. Go. I’ll be right here.”
You rolled your eyes, letting out a huff of irritation that was only half-real, and ducked into the private chambers nearby.
Inside, the air was cooler, the silence a brief mercy. You leaned over the polished basin, staring at your reflection in the silver-glass mirror. Your makeup was flawless, your eyes sharp, but beneath the mask, your heart was hammering against your ribs.
In less than twenty-four hours, you would be tied to him. To the noise, the ale, the way he called you sunshine, the way his voice sounded when he called you my lady. You took a deep breath, reaching for a silk cloth to blot your skin, trying to summon the icy discipline your father had raised you with.
Then, voices filtered through the heavy oak door from the corridor—the sharp, hushed tones of the palace maids.
“Can you believe the audacity of it?” one whispered, followed by a low, gossiping giggle. “The All-Father forcing a union when the Prince’s heart is still wandering Midgard.”
Your hand froze.
“I heard she was a mortal,” the second one hissed. “A scientist. He was ready to stay there for her. And now he’s out there acting the part of the dutiful fiancé while he probably has a lock of her hair tucked into his armor.”
“A scandal, truly. Imagine being the Lady of the High House and merely being the replacement for a human girl who doesn't even know how to bow.”
The silk cloth in your hand crumpled as a searing heat flared in your chest. A mortal?
You knew they have said that you were promised to each other when you were born, but that did not stop you from thinking that you were being used to cover up the Prince's sentimental mess.
You felt humiliated. Every smile he’d given you in the gardens just now, every lingering look, suddenly felt like a calculated insult.
He was mourning someone else and you were the gilded cage he was being shoved into.
You didn't wait. You shoved the door open with a force that made the hinges groan.
The maids jumped, their faces turning a ghostly white as they saw you standing there, your eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous gold. They didn't even wait for a reprimand; they scrambled, skirts rustling as they scurried down the hall like frightened mice.
You stood there for a moment, your breath coming in sharp hitches, your vision tunneling with rage. Then, you turned the corner.
Thor was exactly where he said he’d be. He was leaning against the pillar, his head tilted back, a small, genuine smile starting to form on his face the moment he spotted you. He looked regal, powerful, and utterly relaxed.
“Ah, there you are, sunshine,” he said, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward you. “I was beginning to think you’d found a secret passage to—“
He stopped. His smile faltered as he took in the rigid line of your shoulders and the cold, murderous fire in your gaze.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, his voice losing its playfulness and sharpening into that all business tone. He reached out as if to steady you, but you flinched back before his hand could even get close.
You brushed past Thor, your shoulder barely grazing the fur of his mantle, refusing to give him even a sliver of eye contact.
“I am absolutely fine,” you said, the lie tasting like iron in your mouth.
Thor didn’t move at first. He stood his ground, his head tilted as his blue eyes fixed on you, scanning your face with an intense look in his eyes that stripped away his usual lightheartedness. He was watching the tension in your jaw and the way your fingers were curled into tight, pale fists, trying to read the sudden shift in the air like a change in the weather.
“I am pretty sure something is wrong,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, authoritative rumble as he began to trail behind you. The heavy thud of his boots on the stone floor sounded like a countdown. “Your magic smells off, sunshine. It didn't smell like that ten minutes ago.”
“Drop it, Thor,” you snapped over your shoulder, not slowing your pace. You could feel the heat of him just inches away, a constant, looming presence that felt like a suffocating weight. “We have a celebration to attend. Do not make a scene.”
He went silent, but you could feel his gaze burning into the back of your neck. He knew the peace had shattered, but with the massive oak doors of the Great Hall swinging open, he was forced to tuck his questions away. He stepped up beside you, his jaw tight, offering his arm with a rigid, formal politeness.
The moment you stepped inside, the roar of the court hit you. Hundreds of Asgardian nobles cheered, their golden goblets raised in a toast to a union built on a secret. You walked to the high table, every step feeling like a march toward a cliffside, and took your seat.
Loki was already there, leaning back in his chair with a predatory grace, swirling a dark, vintage mead in his glass. He didn't even wait for you to settle before he spoke.
“Hello there, little bird,” Loki drawled, his pale eyes flickering between your icy expression and Thor’s uncharacteristic brooding. A slow, mocking smirk stretched across his face. “I see you two are already attached at the hip. Tell me, brother, did you have to drag her here, or did she finally realize that fleeing is a bit difficult in those shoes?”
At the mention of the nickname, Thor’s jaw visibly tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He sat down heavily, the fur of his cape spilling over the side of the gilded chair like a dark cloud.
“Do not call her that, Loki,” Thor muttered, his voice low and threatening. He didn't look at his brother; his eyes were still fixed on the side of your head, searching for the crack in your armor.
You didn't give him one. You picked up your silver fork, your movements clinical and cold, your mind still screaming with the words;
The replacement.
“Such a charming atmosphere,” Loki continued, clearly delighted by the ripple of irritation he'd caused in his brother. He leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a theatrical stage-whisper. “If the wedding is half as cheerful as this dinner, little bird, we shall all need to double the wine order.”
Thor’s hand clamped onto the edge of the table, his knuckles white against the dark wood. “What did I just tell you, brother?”
Loki’s smirk sharpened into a devilish, knowing smile. He leaned back, spreading his hands as if to marvel at the spectacle. “My, my. Not even at the altar yet, and already so possessive, Thor? I didn't realize the Lady of the High House had managed to chain the God of Thunder so securely to her heel before the first toast was even poured. It’s quite the transformation.”
“Possessive?” You let out a short, hollow laugh that didn't reach your eyes. You finally turned your head, not to Thor, but to Loki, your voice dripping with a detached mockery. “Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea why he is acting so territorial, Loki. It seems a waste of energy, especially since he surely has lovers scattered across the realms waiting for his return while he plays the part of the dutiful fiancé here.”
The table went deathly quiet. Loki’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, his devilish smile faltering into genuine, sharp-eyed surprise. “What are you talking ab—“
“You truly think so little of me?”
Thor’s voice was a whip-crack. He turned to you fully now, his massive frame shifting so he was looming over your side of the table, the fur of his mantle brushing your arm. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep, sincere confusion, but beneath it was a growing, hurt spark of indignation.
“That I would have lovers—let alone a lover—when I am to be bound to you tomorrow?” he demanded, his blue eyes searching yours desperately. “When I have spent these days preparing to honor our houses and this union? I am a Prince of Asgard, my lady. I do not hide behind the skirts of others while I prepare to give you my word at the altar. Is that truly what you think of my character?”
He reached toward you, his hand hovering near yours on the table as if wanting to force you to see the truth in his expression. The heat radiating from him was overwhelming, the scent of rain and leather filling your senses.
You didn’t spare a glance at his hand. Instead, you turned your gaze to him and offered a small, broken smile—one that was sharp and brittle as glass. You didn't believe a single word of his righteous defense; the whispers of the maids were still ringing too loudly in your ears, painting him as a liar playing a role for the court.
“I think you are exactly the man the All-Father raised you to be, Thor,” you whispered, “A very good actor.”
Thor’s jaw tightened, his mouth slightly agape as the word actor hung in the air like a physical blow. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned closer, his blue eyes searching yours desperately.
“Has someone said something to you?” he asked, his voice a low, urgent vibration that ignored the clinking of glasses and the roar of the hall. “Because if they have—“
“To the Prince and his Lady! To the future of Asgard!”
Volstagg’s boisterous roar cut him off as the Warriors Three and Sif descended upon your corner of the table, their heavy mugs slamming together in a deafening celebratory chorus.
Thor was pulled into a flurry of shoulder-slaps and booming jests about his final night of freedom, but his eyes never truly left yours. He looked like a man being dragged away from a burning building while the survivors were still inside.
You turned your gaze away, staring fixedly at the dark, shimmering surface of your mead.
“Little bird.”
Loki’s voice was no longer drawling or mocking. It was a sharp, quiet whisper that barely carried over the laughter of the warriors. He leaned in, his green eyes narrowed and uncharacteristically grave. He wasn't smirking anymore, he was studying the way your hands were trembling beneath the table.
“Something has happened,” Loki murmured, his gaze flicking toward the maids near the tapestries and back to you. “Whatever you've heard, whatever is eating at you, just tell me.”
“I do not wish to talk about it, Loki,” you whispered, your voice brittle. “Not here. Not ever.”
Loki’s expression shifted, a rare look of genuine concern softening the sharp angles of his face. He knew his brother—knew his faults, his arrogance, and his temper—but he also knew that Thor, for all his bluster, was incapable of the kind of calculated, two-faced cruelty you were implying.
“We will talk about it,” Loki stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But later. When we are alone.”
Across the table, Thor was nodding at Fandral’s jokes and accepting a fresh goblet of ale, but his focus was entirely fractured.
He watched the way Loki leaned toward you, the way your shoulders finally slumped slightly at his brother's whispered words, and the way you refused to even glance in his direction.
A dark, hot sensation began to boil deep in Thor's chest—a raw, territorial feeling he felt before. Because of you.
He didn't understand your hurt, but he understood the sight of his brother comforting his bride-to-be.
He found himself unable to swallow.
He was still staring, his grip on his goblet so tight the silver began to complain, his blue eyes clouded with a turbulent, dark energy as he watched Loki’s lingering proximity to you. His chest heaving under his armor as if the air in the room had suddenly grown too thin to breathe.
“You must be vibrating with excitement,” Lady Sif remarked to you, leaning across the table, her keen eyes tracing the sharp lines of your expression. “To be joined to the greatest warrior in the Nine Realms by this time tomorrow—it is a transition few could handle with such grace.”
You forced your attention away from Loki and the burning heat of Thor’s gaze, turning to her with a well crafted smile.
“Very much so, Sif,” you replied, your voice smooth and hollow. “It is everything I was raised to expect.”
The double meaning hung in the air, unnoticed by the boisterous warriors but caught instantly by the two brothers flanking you. You could feel the weight of Thor’s stare on the side of your face—heavy, searching, and increasingly desperate.
He looked as if he wanted to reach out and physically turn you toward him, to demand an explanation for the wall of glass you had built between you in the span of a single hour.
He didn't understand why your rejection stung so sharply; he had told himself this was a duty, a contract, yet the sight of you looking through him made his blood run hot with a fever he couldn't justify.
Then, the rhythmic pounding of a staff echoed through the hall, silencing the chatter.
“The toasts!” Volstagg bellowed, standing up with a massive flagon raised high.
All the memorized lines had vaporized from Thor’s mind. Nothing was right, now that you weren't even acknowledging him.
He had to improvise.
Volstagg continued, “To the union of the High House and the Throne! To the future Queen who will keep our Thunderer in line!”
The hall erupted in a chorus of “To the bride!” and “To Asgard!”
Beside you, Thor stood slowly, his crimson cape and fur mantle shifting with a heavy rustle. He didn't look at the crowd nor did he look at his father. He looked down at you, his pupils blown wide, his jaw set in a hard, pained line that spoke of a pride wounded by a woman he claimed not to care for.
“A toast,” Thor murmured, his voice sounding like grinding stone,
“To the union of our houses, and to the vows we shall take when the sun next rises. To a future where we may learn to cherish one another, to find a common ground built on more than just duty and ancient laws. And to the hope that we might one day find a love that rivals the legends of old.”
The last sentence made you turn your head to him, meeting his tormented gaze.
He leaned down then, the scent of him enveloping you as he whispered the final words close to your ear, his voice barely a breath against your skin.
The hair on your arms stood up.
“And to the hope that one day, sunshine, you will look at me with something other than contempt.”
He straightened back up and drained his goblet in one smooth motion, his gaze never leaving yours as he did so.
Loki watched from your other side, his fingers tapping a restless, silent beat against the table.
Every noble in the Great Hall, every guard, and every servant was watching. Your parents and the All-Father were seated together, their eyes fixed on you, waiting for the traditional response that would seal the evening’s festivities.
“You will not make a toast, my lady?” Sif whispered to you, her keen eyes darting between your drained face and Thor’s brooding profile.
You cleared your throat, the collar of you dress suddenly feeling like it was tightening around your neck. The whispers of the maids about his mortal lover were still screaming in your mind, making his words about love and honesty feel like a cruel, elaborate joke.
“Right,” you murmured, your voice brittle. “Of course I will, Lady Sif.”
You stood, your midnight-velvet skirts falling into perfect, rigid lines. You lifted your gold-rimmed glass, the liquid inside shimmering under the chandeliers, and looked out over the sea of expectant faces, purposely avoiding the burning blue gaze of the man sitting next to you.
“To Asgard,” you began, your voice clear and cold, carrying a cutting edge. “To a realm built on tradition, on secrets, and on the strength of those who know how to play their parts perfectly. May we all find the comfort we seek in the roles we are forced to inhabit, and may the truth never be as heavy as the crowns we wear.”
You tilted your glass toward Thor—a gesture that was technically a salute but felt more like a challenge—and drank. The bitter-sweet mead burned your throat, matching the fire of the unacknowledged feelings and the hurt currently eating you alive.
Loki’s fingers stopped their restless tapping. He looked up at you, his green eyes flashing with a mix of genuine concern and dark intrigue. He knew that toast wasn't for the kingdom. It was a spear, aimed directly at his brother's heart.
—
You were in the dressing suite that smelled of lavender and expensive oils, and felt entirely devoid of oxygen. Your lady’s maids hovered like colorful moths, their nimble fingers tucking stray hairs and smoothing the rigid gold embroidery of your bodice. The dress was a masterpiece, molding to your frame until it felt less like fabric and more like a second, cold skin.
It was beautiful.
It was suffocating.
You tilted your head back, staring at the vaulted ceiling to force the hot, stinging tears back into their ducts.
You weren't fond of him—not really. He was loud, he was reckless, and he represented everything you hadn't chosen for yourself. But the humiliation of the secret was a different kind of pain. It was not only a political contract anymore. It was the realization that while you were being braced for a lifetime of duty, he was yearning for a mortal woman. You weren't his partner, no, you were the ornate lid he was using to bury his past.
The heavy oak doors groaned open, and your father stepped into the room. He looked at you, his chest swelling with a pride that felt like a betrayal.
“The moment has come,” he said, his voice steady and grounding. He walked toward you, resting a firm hand on your shoulder. “Are you ready to walk, my darling?”
You couldn't find your voice. You only nodded, the weight of the ancestral jewelry pulling at your neck.
“Thor is a great man,” your father murmured, misinterpreting the tremor in your hands for bridal nerves. “He has the heart of a king and the strength of a storm. He will be good to you. He will protect you.”
You offered him a smile that felt like it was made of cracked porcelain—brittle, sharp, and ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
You didn't believe him. You didn't believe in the great man who hid Midgardian scientists in his heart while standing at an Asgardian altar.
“I am sure he will, Father,” you whispered.
“Then let us go.” He held out his arm, a formal, rigid invitation.
I can do this, you told yourself, the words a mantra of survival. I can play the part. I can be the ghost.
You tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers grazing the fine wool of his ceremonial tunic. As he led you out of the room, the distant, low trill of the ceremonial horns began to echo through the halls.
As the massive doors of the Throne Room swung open, the sea of gold-clad nobles fell into a suffocating, expectant silence.
The aisle seemed to stretch for miles, a river of deep blue carpet leading toward the man who waited at the end. Thor stood before the All-Father, draped in his ceremonial plate, the crimson of his cape stark against the silver of his armor. He looked immovable, a pillar of thunder and ancient duty. But as you drew closer, you saw the way his jaw was set—rigid, pained, as if he were bracing for an impact.
Your father’s arm was a steady, grounding weight, but your focus was entirely on the Prince. His beautiful blue eyes were fixed on yours, unblinking and intense, searching your face for a sliver of the woman he’d shared a laugh with only days ago. Instead, he found only the sharp, porcelain mask of a bride walking to her sentence.
As you reached his side, the familiar scent of rain and leather enveloped you, a physical presence that made your breath hitch in the back of your throat.
He reached out, his large hand trembling almost imperceptibly as he took yours to lead you to the final step. The contact sent a spark of gold and static through your skin, a reminder of the power simmering between you—power that currently felt like a cage.
He leaned in, his voice a low, secret rasp that barely carried past the fur of his mantle.
“You look breathtaking, sunshine,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a desperate, raw honesty that made your heart ache with a sudden, violent flare of anger.
The nickname has always been a playful jab, but now it only felt like a lie designed to keep you quiet. You didn't look at him. You kept your gaze fixed on the All-Father, your profile as cold and sharp as a winter moon.
“Save your lines for the vows, Thor,” you murmured, your voice a brittle thread. “We both know you’ve had plenty of practice playing the part.”
Thor flinched as if you’d struck him, his grip on your hand tightening for a fraction of a second before he caught himself.
Beside him, Loki watched the exchange, his green eyes flashing with pity.
It was a rare sight indeed.
“Calm down, my lady,” Loki breathed, his voice a ghost of a sound as he stepped into place behind his brother. “Try not to break the Prince before the blessing is finished.”
You stood there, shoulder to shoulder with a man you didn't know if you could ever trust, while the weight of a kingdom and a secret mortal lover pressed down on you both.
The ceremony began, the ancient words of the All-Father washing over you like a tide, but all you could feel was the heat of Thor’s body next to yours and the suffocating realization that there was no turning back.
As the All-Father raised his spear, the atmosphere began to shimmer. Gold-flecked mist from your own magic began to swirl around your feet, coiling upward to meet the faint, blue-white arcs of electricity that danced off Thor’s armor.
“The Binding,” Odin’s voice boomed, echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a death knell. “Two souls, two powers, woven into one tapestry.”
You felt your fingers turning to ice, the blood retreating from your extremities as the reality of the moment settled into your bones. When Thor reached his other hand out, his large, calloused hand sliding against yours, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. The heat of him was staggering—a furnace of sun-warmed leather and raw, pulsing energy—but it was the contact that broke your composure.
The moment your palms pressed together, a literal spark erupted between you—a violent, beautiful fusion of gold and lightning that raced up your arms.
You both flinched, a mutual, instinctive jolt of surprise, but the magic held you fast. Your fingers were locked together by a force far greater than your own will, a magnetic force that refused to let you pull away.
Thor’s chest heaved, his breath coming in shallow hitches as he looked down at your joined hands, then up into your eyes. He looked dazed, as if the physical connection had short-circuited his very being.
Odin began the ancient incantations of the union, but the world had narrowed down to the heat of Thor's grip and the way his thumb brushed almost tentatively over your knuckles.
“The vows,” Odin commanded, his one eye fixed on his son.
Thor leaned in toward you, his massive frame casting a shadow over you, his voice dropping into a raw, gravelly register that shook with a force you weren't prepared for.
“I, Thor Odinson, take you to be my wife, my partner, and my equal,” he began, his blue eyes searching yours with a desperate, confused sincerity.
“I vow to stand before you in every storm and to shield your light with my own life if the need arises. I know we have walked a path of shadows and silence, and I know I have not always been the man you deserved. But I give you my word, here before the All-Father and the Nine Realms, that I will spend every day of our lives trying to be the man who earns the right to stand beside you.”
He paused, his voice cracking slightly,
“I choose you,” he whispered, so low only you could hear. “Not because I must, but because I cannot imagine the throne without you.”
Your eyebrows knitted desperately, your confused gaze not leaving his.
It was a beautiful lie. It was so perfectly, devastatingly sincere that for a fleeting second, you almost believed him. You almost forgot the whispers and the phantom of the mortal woman he’d left behind on Midgard.
But then, the cold weight of the star-spun silk reminded you of the role you were playing, and the broken smile returned to your lips.
You looked up at him, your gold-flecked eyes hard and bright, prepared to deliver the lines you had practiced until they bled.
You tore your gaze away from Thor, the heat from his hands still searing your skin where they were locked together in the magnetic pull of the binding. You needed to do this. You needed to play the role of the dutiful, silent replacement.
You looked up at the All-Father, your expression a perfectly crafted mask of icy, royal detachment. Your voice, when it came, was a smooth, even blade, cutting through the heavy silence of the Throne Room.
“I take you, Thor Odinson, as my husband and my King,” you recited, each word delivered with the sterile, practiced grace of a court official. “I pledge to stand as the shield of Asgard, to honor our alliance with my life, and to perform the duties required of this throne. I vow to build a future for this realm, to give it an heir, and to maintain the dignity of the crown until my very last breath.”
You didn't look at Thor as you spoke. You didn't offer him the hope of honesty or the comfort of a common ground. You gave him a contract, sealed in gold and ice, an answer to the desperate plea he’d made minutes ago.
You saw his jaw tighten, his blue eyes clouding with a complex mix of frustration and defeat as he registered the deliberate coldness of your response.
He was searching your face, starved for a single glance, a single thought, but found only the marble surface you intended for him to see.
Odin watched the two of you, the silence stretching uncomfortably. He saw the fire in his son and the ice in his bride, and a flicker of doubt crossed his face before it was replaced by a grim resolve.
“The union is witnessed,” Odin boomed, bringing Gungnir down in a definitive crash that sent a visible shockwave through the floorboards.
“You may kiss the bride.”
The command froze you. Thor didn't hesitate. He moved with a focused urgency, his large, burning hands moving to cup your face, his palms like branded irons against your skin.
You swallowed hard, your chest hitching as his right hand descended, settling firmly against your waist. The heat of his touch was instantaneous and undeniable, seeping through the structured star-spun silk.
His eyes searched yours, desperate, before they fluttered shut and he leaned in.
The moment his lips pressed against yours, the relief was so violent it felt like the force of a thousand stars. A soft sigh escaped you, mirrored by the low, guttural groan that vibrated in Thor’s chest as he sealed the contract. The unmoving state of your lips slowly starting to dissolve into a slow, gentle kiss. His lips were moving in a tender way, slowly kissing you, like he was afraid this moment would be taken from him.
Though, the gentleness of the seal didn't last. The kiss shifted instantly, turning into something raw and desperate, a mutual collision of two drowning people. Thor didn't hold back; his lips moved with a bruising need, his tongue grazing your lower lip as he angled his head, cradling you against him.
He was not only sealing a vow but he was trying to devour the shadow of the mortal woman he was supposed to love.
You were no better.
Your fingers found his massive biceps, nails digging in so hard you could feel the leather starting to give under the pressure. The gold of your magic sparked wildly against the static blue of his skin, a physical manifestation of the electricity arcing between you.
It felt right. In the middle of all the lies and the whispers, this—the heat, the desperation, the frantic need for ground—was the only thing that felt true. He was your anchor.
For that singular heartbeat, the storm inside of you stopped.
Odin’s impatient clearing of his throat cracked through the hall like a gunshot.
Loki leaned back, that familiar, devilish smile spreading across his face as he took in the spectacle.
Your chest was heaving as you pulled apart from Thor with a snap, the cold air of the room hitting your damp lips. You tore your gaze away immediately, staring at the floor, finding it hard to breathe.
Thor stood there, dazed, his hands hovering awkwardly in mid-air as if he didn't know where to put them, the regal Prince instantly replaced by a man who looked utterly undone by the ghost of a kiss.
You were both breathless.
You had found your anchors in the dark, but as you stood shoulder-to-shoulder to face the cheering crowd, the frustration was a physical ache in your throat. You were more trapped, and more confused, than you had ever been before.
Odin moved with a heavy stride, his golden spear thumping against the floor as he descended from the altar.
You wanted to move, too—to run, to hide, to do anything but exist in that space—but you were a statue, your feet rooted to the spot. Thor stayed put, his massive frame looming beside you, neither of you brave enough to break the silence.
“Are you two planning on spending the rest of the decade here?” Loki’s drawl cut through the tension like a blade. “Or is the dramatic scene a new part of the ceremony I wasn't informed of?”
You both jumped, snapping out of the trance as if you’d been physically struck. You turned to look at each other, but the moment your eyes nearly met, you both flinched away, unable to hold the contact. Thor cleared his throat, the sound small in the vast hall.
You focused on the broad, overwhelming line of his shoulders, your gaze fixed on the intricate silver work of his armor because you couldn't bear to look him in the eye. “Let's go downst—“
“Yes,” Thor cut you off, his deep voice dropping into a register that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. “My wife.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. My wife. Your heart started beating a violent rhythm against your ribcage, trying to break free of the suffocating dress. His eyes were burning into the side of your face, a heavy weight that made your skin feel too tight. You averted your eyes again, blinking rapidly.
He offered you his hand, an open invitation. “Let's go, then.”
When you made no move to take it—your body frozen in a silent protest you didn't understand—he didn't wait. He simply engulfed your trembling hand in his giant, warm palm. The feel of his hand was electric, making your skin tingle and your lungs constrict until you were sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.
You looked down at your joined hands, your mouth agape and your brows knitted in a dreamy look.
Thor didn't look away. He was tracing the line of your knitted brows, his gaze descending slowly to the bridge of your nose before locking onto your parted lips. His own heart started thumping against his chest, a heavy, dull roar that he hoped you couldn't hear. Fuck, he thought, the word a silent curse in his mind. She is mesmerizing.
You lifted your head, catching the raw, unshielded intensity in his blue eyes. You gulped, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He didn't pull back. He couldn't help himself. “You’re the most breathtaking sight I have ever set my eyes upon in my life.”
The sincerity in his voice felt like a trap.
Is he playing a game with me?
You couldn't find a retort, your usual sharp tongue failing you as a hot, traitorous blush crawled up your cheeks. You turned your head, searching the space past him, expecting to see Loki’s mocking grin, but the spot where he’d stood was empty. He’d already descended.
Thor’s eyebrows furrowed, his expression darkening instantly.
“Are you looking for someone, sunshine?”
That unnerving sensation from the dinner was back, boiling in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn't feel like this—for you especially. But the suspicion was a blade carved in his chest.
You turned back to him, your voice small. “Yes. For Loki.”
Thor didn't respond with words. Instead, a burning, white-hot sensation engulfed him, something more primitive and violent than he had ever felt in his life. His grasp on your hand tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin with a possessive, crushing strength.
You had just married him, and you were already looking for his brother. Thor’s jaw locked, his eyes turning into a turbulent, dark sea as he began to lead you down the stairs, his thumb digging into your palm with a silent, furious warning.
He moved with a relentless, heavy stride, the crimson of his cape snapping behind him like a battle flag. You were forced into a hasty, uneven pace, your feet stumbling over your skirts just to keep from falling. One of his steps was equivalent to two of yours, and he was using every bit of that advantage.
“Thor, could you loosen your grip a little? You’re hurting my hand,” you said, your voice tight with rising irritation. He didn't even flinch. It was like he had suddenly developed hearing problems, his focus locked straight ahead, leading you to the feast.
“Thor? Do you not hear me?” you tried again, louder this time. He didn't turn back, just kept walking, his massive hand a crushing weight around yours. “Thor? What is wrong with you?”You exhaled a sharp sigh, closing your eyes for a brief second to beg the Norns for patience. “Are you deaf, husband?”
That stopped him. He halted in his tracks so abruptly you nearly collided with his back. He turned his head slowly, his profile silhouetted against the torchlight. “Yes, darling?”
The tone was honey over a blade.
He has to be fucking kidding. He stops now? He’s a prick.
“What is wrong with you?” you snapped, your brows knitted in a sharp, defensive line. “Are you not aware you’re a giant? You’re dragging me behind you like a rag doll!”
He turned fully toward you then, his gaze heavy and clouded. “My apologies, treasure.”
Your eyebrows shot up. Treasure. Now that was new. The word felt strange coming from him, a stark contrast to the territorial storm he was radiating. Your thumb instinctively grazed the back of his hand—a sliver of compassion that slipped through your guard before you could catch it. His eyes followed the movement of your thumb, his rigid posture softening.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice dropping. “Why are you so worked up?”
For a moment, it was as if you had cleared a thick fog from his mind. His expression shifted, the anger receding into something sharper, something more focused. “Stay away from Loki.”
You were taken aback, physically stepping away from him. The words felt like a slap.
So he thinks I am so beneath him that I am not even worthy of being friends with his brother.
You scoffed, a dry, bitter sound. “You have no say in that.”
He exhaled a harsh, hot breath through his nose, his eyes darkening to a turbulent navy. “I am your husband now. Yes, I do.”
You forced your hand out of his grip as if his skin had suddenly turned to white-hot iron. You stared at him, your eyes wide with disbelief at the sheer cruelty of his demand. Just as the retort was bubbling up in your throat—just as you were ready to tear into him, a feminine voice was heard.
“Can I steal your bride away, son?”
Frigga appeared between you like a calming tide. She didn't wait for an answer, her gentle but firm hands reaching out to intertwine her arm with yours. “I want to introduce her to some of my friends.”
She began to lead you away, her touch a stark contrast to Thor’s crushing grip. You let her drag you toward the sea of guests, but you couldn't help but look back over your shoulder. Thor stood exactly where you’d left him, a solitary, brooding figure in the middle of the hall, his hand still half-extended as if he were still trying to hold onto a ghost.
Frigga led you through the shimmering crowd, her presence a calm anchor in the sea of gold and loud laughter. She squeezed your arm gently, her voice a warm murmur meant only for your ears.
“I know the weight of a crown can be heavy, especially when it is placed on your head so suddenly,” she said, glancing at you with those knowing, maternal eyes. “But Thor is a good man. He is headstrong, yes, but he is clearly quite taken with you, dear.”
You nearly tripped over your own hem. You came to a dead stop, staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Thor? Are we actually talking about the same Thor, Queen Mother? What on earth makes you say that?”
She only offered a small, mysterious smile, undeterred by your skepticism. “I know my son. I’ve seen him in battle and I’ve seen him in love, and the way he looks at you... it is a different kind of storm entirely.”
You frowned, lines forming between your brows. “You must be mistaken,” you whispered.
She cannot be telling the truth. There is Jane. There is the ghost he actually wants.
Before you could press her further, she swept you toward a group of high-ranking noblewomen. “Ladies, may I introduce the new Princess of Asgard.”
The next twenty minutes were a blur of forced smiles and endless congratulations. You nodded and thanked them, your dress feeling heavier with every lie you told. She's wrong, you thought to yourself, watching the crowd. She has to be.
Suddenly, the sea of people parted. Loki appeared as if he had materialized from the shadows, his green silk tunic catching the light. He stepped forward with a predatory grace, offering a shallow, mocking bow to the ladies.
“If I may be so bold as to steal the woman of the hour,” Loki drawled, his eyes locked on yours. “I haven't properly congratulated my dearest friend on her promotion.”
You couldn’t help the cackle that left you at his words.
Promotion?
He’s an idiot.
Frigga gave a knowing nod, and Loki wasted no time whisking you away toward a quieter alcove behind a massive marble pillar. The second you were out of the immediate line of sight, the mask dropped. His expression turned uncharacteristically grave, his eyes searching your face.
“Alright,” he whispered, leaning in so close you could smell the faint scent of old books and magic. “The ceremony is over, the knot is tied. Now, tell me what happened. What is really eating at you, little bird?”
The tension that had been coiling in your chest like a wire finally snapped, replaced by the cool, familiar presence of the one person who actually saw you.
Loki’s proximity was a balm, a sanctuary of shared history that allowed your shoulders to finally drop from their rigid, defensive height.
He had been your confidant through every court scandal and every quiet rebellion, but this felt different.
How were you supposed to put this into words? How could you tell him his brother was a pretentious asshole, a man who had just stood at an altar and pledged a life of honesty while his heart beat for a mortal ghost? How could you explain that you were nothing but a gilded lid meant to bury his past?
Your expression soured, crumpling into a mask of pure agony that you couldn't hide from him. Loki’s neutral, mocking mask vanished instantly, his gaze sharpening with a rare, genuine concern. Without a word, he stepped into your space, his arms engulfing you in a firm, steadying hug. He pulled you against the cool silk of his tunic, his presence a silent vow of protection.
“Just tell me,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and grounding. “Tell me everything.”
For a heartbeat, you let yourself lean into him, thinking that no matter how suffocating this marriage became, you still had your friend.
But what you did not know was that Thor had seen everything. From across the crowded hall, he had watched Loki guide you away from Frigga and her friends, leading you into the shadows of the alcove.
He had seen the way you went willingly, the way your guard dropped for his brother in a way it never had for him.
He had followed, his heavy boots silent against the stone, his blood beginning to boil with a heat he still couldn't name.
And he was not happy with the scene he was witnessing.
A shadow fell over the both of you, massive—intimidating.
“What are you two doing here?”
Thor’s voice boomed, a low-frequency rumble that vibrated in your teeth and sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your system. You jumped, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pulled back from Loki, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Thor stood at the entrance of the alcove, his crimson cape billowing slightly as if caught in an invisible wind. His blue eyes were turbulent, flashing with a dangerous heat as he took in the sight of his brother holding his bride. His jaw was set so hard you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his gaze fixed on Loki.
“We are talking, as you can see,” Loki stated, his voice smooth and dangerously calm, though his eyes remained fixed on his brother’s volatile expression.
But Thor wasn’t having it. A storm barely contained beneath his skin.
“Do not lie to me. What is going on with you two?”
He was beyond furious; he was vibrating with a heat that seemed to shrink the very walls of the alcove.
“Thor, have you gone mad?” you snapped, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “What are you implying? Loki and I have been friends since forever and you know that. We all grew up together, for gods' sake!”
Thor didn't answer immediately. He closed his eyes, his jaw working as he fought for some semblance of control. He held out his hand, a silent, heavy command. “Come here.”
You looked at his hand—large, calloused, and still pulsing with a faint blue light—and then back to his agitated face.
He has gone mad, you thought, a cold shiver tracing your spine. He was being possessive because you were his wife; he saw you merely as his property, a prize to be guarded.
“Come here,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a pained, gravelly register. “Before I lose my fucking mind.”
He looked tortured when he opened his eyes, his blue orbs blown wide and dark with a conflict he couldn't contain. Your hand finally found his, and the moment your skin touched, he released a sharp breath, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he’d been given a hope of life again. Without a word, he turned, his grip tightening as he started walking away, taking you with him and leaving Loki in the shadows.
“You can't just do this, you know!” you started, your anger finally seeping through the cracks of your regal mask.
You waited until you were out in the corridors, the sounds of the feast fading into a dull roar behind heavy stone walls. Once you were sure no one was watching, you started yelling, your voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “You cannot claim me like that and go have a fucking mistress, Thor!”
He stopped then. He turned to you, his brows knitted in a look of pure confusion. “Are you hearing yourself, my treasure? There is no mistress.”
You scoffed, a dry, bitter sound. You were done with his pathetic lies.
You tried to tear your hand away from his iron-like grip, your nails digging into the leather of his bracers. “I’m talking about Jane, Thor!”
The name hit the air like a physical strike. Thor’s expression shifted instantly from anger to a stunned, hollowed-out confusion. “How do you know about her?”
“Oh, so now you’re not denying it?” You were still struggling, your chest heaving as the star-spun silk of your gown constricted your lungs. “Let go of my hand this instant!”
He didn't move. He looked like he’d been turned to stone by the sound of her name. Frustrated and feeling the walls closing in, you didn't wait for him to find his words. You summoned a sharp, concussive burst of your gold magic, the energy slamming into his chest and forcing him to take a stumbling step back.
The physical break felt like a release of pressure. You took a gasping breath, the heat of him finally receding. You turned and started walking through the corridors, your heels clicking sharply against the marble.
“Do not follow me!” you threw over your shoulder, not looking back to see the pained, fractured look on your husband's face as he stood alone in the dark.
The clicking of your heels on the marble was a frantic, uneven beat, but then you heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps behind you.
“Do you even know where you are going?” he called out, his voice closing the distance with terrifying ease.
Your steps were no match for his giant ones. Panicked and fueled by a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you started running—or trying to, at least, while wrestling with the weight of your wedding gown and the height of your heels. The gown felt like a cage around your legs, threatening to tangle you at every turn.
“I am going to my room!” you threw over your shoulder, your breath hitching.
“And do you know where your room is?”
You didn't have the slightest clue, but you weren't about to give him the satisfaction. “I do!”
“Oh, please do show me where it is then, my dear wife,” he responded, his voice dripping with a dry sarcasm that made you want to scream.
You rounded a corner too sharply, your foot catching on the hem of your dress. You stumbled, a small gasp escaping you as you nearly hit the floor, but you forced yourself to keep going, your heart hammering against your ribs. Behind you, the mocking tone in Thor's voice vanished instantly.
“Would you please stop? You're going to fall, my treasure,” he called out, his tone shifting into something desperate and pained. “I beg of you—where are you even going?!”
You had no intention of stopping. You saw a set of massive, ornate doors and barged through them, desperate for sanctuary. But as you crossed the threshold, his hand caught your arm with a firm, inescapable grip.
He stopped you—he pulled your body towards him, spinning you around so quickly that the world blurred for a second. Your back hit the heavy wood of the door with a dull thud, and suddenly, he was there, crowding into your space. You do not even know when he closed the doors.
He made you face him, his hands gripping your upper arms as he pinned you against the door. Your faces were inches apart—close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against your lips and see the desperate look in his blue eyes.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of both of your chests heaving in the quiet of the room. He looked as if he wanted to yell and pull you closer all at once, his jaw set in that tortured line as he stared down at you.
“Do you even know where you've run off to without noticing?” he whispered, his voice low, a strong vibration that seemed to hum right against your skin.
He leaned in further, his nose brushing against yours, forcing you to look up. His gaze dropped to your lips, a heavy, focused weight that made your pulse erratic. You gulped, the sound loud in the sudden quiet of the room. “No,” you breathed, your voice barely a thread.
Your breathing was becoming dangerously uneven.
A sudden, sharp nervousness flared in your chest, a heat that had nothing to do with the palace's warmth.
Had you always felt this way? Was this the real reason you had spent years perfecting the art of avoiding him—because the gravity of his presence was too much to fight?
“You were right,” he murmured, a slow, dark smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You did know where you were going.”
He lifted his gaze slowly, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a physical grip. “These are my chambers—our chambers. You did find your room.”
Our? Is he out of his mind?
“Our chambers?” you repeated, the words tasting like copper in your mouth. “We’re going to sleep in the same room? I don’t have my own?”
The heavy silk of your gown felt colder now. You could feel a light breeze drifting in from the open balcony, grazing your right side and sending a violent shiver up your spine. The room was vast, filled with the scent of leather and mountain air, but it felt smaller than the alcove with him standing this close.
“Yes, our chambers. Congratulations, sunshine, we are going to be roommates.” Thor replied, smiling in a devilish way you never thought it possible for him to have it in him. Then his expression hardened into something more pragmatic, though his eyes never left yours. “How do you think our fathers would feel if they noticed us sleeping in separate rooms on our wedding night?”
He stayed rooted in your space, his hands still firm on your arms.
He knew he was acting irrational, but the moment he had seen the maids preparing a separate suite for you, something in him had snapped. He’d dismissed them with a sharp word, claiming you would be staying with him—an impulse he’d rather face Surtur than admit to you.
Your mouth was agape, your body frozen like a deer caught in headlights. “I—“ you started, but the words died in your throat.
A traitorous blush crept up your neck and flooded your cheeks. The realization of what this meant hit you with the force of a thousand stars.
Staying in the same room was one thing, but sharing that massive, fur-draped bed? On your wedding night? Oh, gods.
You looked down, suddenly overwhelmed by a shyness that felt entirely too vulnerable. Because the truth was, you wanted it. You weren't blind. You had spent years sharpening your tongue against him precisely because you wanted him so badly it hurt. You just couldn't admit it to yourself, until now.
He had always been irritatingly handsome—those silky golden locks that framed his face, that massive, powerful frame that made you feel so small, and that face that seemed carved by the gods themselves.
His left hand slowly ascended from your arm, his large fingers tracing the line of your shoulder before coming to cradle your face with a reverence that felt almost holy. At the same time, his right hand slid around your waist, his grip tightening as he glued you to his front. The heat of him through the fabric was staggering. Your hands instinctively found his chest, feeling the heavy thud of his heart beneath the silver plates of his armor.
“Look at me, my sun,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly command.
You lifted your gaze, and the breath died in your lungs. The blue of his eyes had darkened into a turbulent sea of burning desire.
Fuck, he wanted you. This wasn't just a role for the All-Father anymore. He had carried a crush on you since you were children, a quiet thing tucked behind boyish bravado, but it had morphed into something far more dangerous as he watched you grow.
You were killing him. Your figure, which could put the goddesses of the higher realms to shame, and that smooth, soft skin that seemed to catch the light of the sun itself—it was all his undoing.
He was captivated by your eyes, the most beautiful he had ever seen, yet he was equally maddened by the sharp, snarky tongue that had kept him at arm’s length for years. Every snide remark and cold shoulder had only fueled the fire, making the want for you a permanent ache in his marrow.
You felt naked under his gaze, stripped of every royal defense. The massive chamber, with its high vaulted ceilings and sprawling balconies, felt suddenly, claustrophobically small with him inside it. He had a way of making the world shrink until there was only him.
“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
You didn't give him a verbal answer; you couldn't find the air for one. Instead, your hands moved, your fingers tangling in those silky golden locks as you cradled his face. You pulled him down, pressing your lips to his burning ones with a desperation that shattered the last of your resolve.
He reciprocated almost immediately, his groan lost against your mouth as his hand slid to the back of your head, fingers tangling deep into your hair to tilt you further into him. His lips were moving in a desperate rhythm, unravelling you in a way that made you feel impossible things. The sensation of his smooth lips gliding over yours made the world tilt on its axis, leaving you high on the sheer proximity of him.
When he proceeded to graze his tongue along the seam of your lips, the last of your resolve simply evaporated. You moaned helplessly, the sound vibrating between you, and he took the opportunity to slam you back into the door. As your lips parted, he glided his tongue over yours, taking everything you were willing to give and demanding more.
You’ve never kissed anyone like this. You’ve never been kissed by anyone like this—with a hunger that felt like it could consume the entire realm.
His hands, large and trembling with a sudden, hasty energy, found the back of your gown. You felt the cool air of the chambers hit your skin as he slowly, methodically undid the laces of the corset. He broke the kiss then, his breath coming in shallow hitches as he watched the star-spun silk lose its grip and pool in a shimmering heap at your feet.
His eyes roamed over you, taking in the sight of your white lace matching set against your smooth skin. “Fuck,” he murmured, his voice a broken, gravelly rasp. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as if the sight were too much to bear, before looking back at you with a raw, enchanted look in his eyes. “I’ve never seen a woman as beautiful as you, my treasure.”
His right hand descended from your waist, his palm burning a trail down your skin until it hooked under your left leg. He lifted it with effortless strength, pinning you firmly against the wood of the door as he crowded back into your space, his forehead resting against yours.
“My beautiful, breathtaking wife,” he whispered, the words vibrating against your skin and sinking into your bones.
You looked up at him, your gaze dazed and heavy-lidded. Your lips were swollen from the friction of his kisses, your hair a tangled mess against the dark wood of the door. Your chest rose and fell in slow, shallow hitches, every breath a struggle in the state you were in. You were completely and utterly undone, stripped of the royal mask and the sharp defenses you’d spent years building.
And you liked it. You loved being undone by him, finally yielding to the gravity that had been pulling at you since childhood.
You gulped, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. “Just keep kissing me, please,” you begged, your voice a fractured, desperate thread.
A slow, triumphant smile pulled at his lips. It was as if he had been dropped directly into one of his most fevered fantasies, the reality of you in his arms finally eclipsing the years of longing. His lips found yours again, deeper and more possessive this time, as your left hand rose to cradle his right cheek, your skin feeling the rough heat of his stubble. Your right hand gripped his massive shoulder, your nails digging into the hard muscle as if trying to anchor yourself to the earth.
He didn't break the kiss as his left hand moved to the heavy, fur-collared cape at his shoulders. With a single, fluid motion, he discarded it, the heavy fabric falling to the marble floor with a dull thud.
The chamber was filled with the scent of leather and the warmth of his skin as his hand moved from your waist to hook under your right leg. With effortless, terrifying strength, he lifted you up completely. You let out a soft, sharp gasp, your legs instinctively circling his waist to hold on.
The motion brought you flush against him, your private parts rubbing together through the thin lace of your matching set and the heavy fabric of his trousers. The friction was delicious, a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat that made your toes curl and your head fall back against the door.
He groaned, his face faliing into your neck, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessive, crushing strength.
“My treasure,” he started, his voice dropping into a low rumble as he looked down at you, trying to use your dazed state to his advantage. “What is going on between you and my brother?”
He realized his mistake the second the question left his lips, but his pride—and that gnawing ache in his chest—wouldn't let him take it back.
The question hit you like a bucket of ice water. The haze of pleasure evaporated instantly, leaving you cold and vibrating with a sharp, sudden clarity. You stopped breathing for a heartbeat, the memory of his earlier cruelty in the corridor rushing back to drown out the heat of the moment.
Thor watched as you pulled away, the warmth of your skin replaced by a biting chill that seemed to seep into the room.
“Let me down, Thor,” you demanded, your voice flat and hard.
He furrowed his brows, his jaw tightening as he refused to loosen his grip. You hadn't answered him, and in his mind, your silence was a confession. The heat in his eyes shifted from desire to a dark, simmering hellfire. “You love him, then?”
“Thor—“
“You will not see him again,” he snarled, his hold on your legs tightening until it was almost painful. “I forbid you.”
You scoffed, a dry, incredulous sound. He was unbelievable. A possessive, arrogant hypocrite. “What if I do, Thor? You cannot forbid me from doing anything. You are not my owner.”
You fought against him, forcefully sliding your left leg down, then your right, until your feet hit the cold marble. He opened his mouth to roar back an answer, but you cut him off with a finger pointed at his chest.
“Before you open your mouth, be mindful of your words,” you snapped, your eyes flashing with a righteous fury. “You forbid me from seeing him while you have Jane? Might I remind you of that? I am merely mirroring your actions.”
You cleared your throat, the sound sharp in the quiet of the room. Thor looked like he had been struck, his face pale. “You don't understand, my sun—“
“I will go now,” you cut him off again, refusing to let him poison the air with more excuses. “Consider our wedding night done.”
He lifted his arm, reaching out to catch you, to pull you back into the heat, but you were faster. You kneeled down, sliding back into the star-spun silk of your wedding gown with practiced, frantic grace. You didn't even bother with the laces; you held the fabric against your chest, your dignity the only thing you had left.
You turned back to the massive doors, your hand gripping the handle.
“Where are you going?” he called out, his voice sounding broken, almost small.
You did not answer. You stepped out into the dark, silent corridor and slammed the heavy wood shut in his face. The sound echoed like a funeral bell. You were alone, half-dressed in the heart of the palace, and you had to find somewhere to sleep—anywhere that didn't smell like him.
—
You woke up to the morning sun creeping through the heavy curtains, the light feeling like needles against your skin. You winced, a dull ache throbbing behind your temples—a parting gift from the adrenaline and tears of the night before.
You weren't in the royal wing. You were in a guest room, tucked away in a quiet corner of the palace. One of your lady’s maids had found you in the corridor last night—shaking, half-undressed, and clutching your gown to your chest like a shield. She hadn't asked questions, for which you were eternally grateful; she had simply ushered you into this room with a hushed efficiency, shielding your shame from the rest of the court.
You were a married woman now. By all accounts, you should have been waking up to the warmth of a husband and the pride of your new title. You were the Princess of Asgard. But as you stared at the unfamiliar gold-leafed ceiling, the palace walls felt less like a home and more like a tomb closing in on you.
With a heavy sigh, you slid the silken covers aside. Your movements were slow, your body feeling weighed down by a leaden exhaustion. You sat up, sliding your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet meeting the cold, polished floor.
It was your honeymoon. In any other circumstance, this would be a time of celebration, of travel or private intimacy. But for you, the calendar was terrifyingly blank. Except for the breakfast today, there were no duties, no meetings with the Council, no diplomatic galas to hide behind. You had nothing to do but exist in the wreckage of your wedding night.
Usually, a lady’s maid would be fluttering about you now, readying the new bride for her first public appearance. But you didn't have the patience for their hushed whispers or the energy to endure their pitying glances. You had always been the architect of your own strength; no matter how much your world crumbled, you never let the cracks show.
Moving with a slow, deliberate grace, you settled for your own skillful hands. You reached for a chiffon lavender gown, the fabric soft and bruised like a twilight sky. You sat before the vanity, masking the exhaustion with practiced precision—a touch of shimmering eyeshadow to brighten your eyes, a sharp, regal wing of eyeliner to sharpen your gaze. You pinned your hair back until not a single strand was out of place, a crown of gold that felt more like armor. You looked at your reflection, decided it was enough, and stood. You wouldn't give Thor the satisfaction of seeing you ruined.
The Grand Hall of Asgard was a symphony of gold and morning light, but for you, it felt like a gilded cage. This was the “Morning of the Union,” a tradition you had always found archaic—the high society of Asgard gathered to scrutinize the newlyweds, hunting for any sign of weakness or discord.
Your gaze found him immediately. Thor was dressed in his royal finery, his golden hair caught in the morning light, looking every bit the hero-prince the realms worshipped. He was sitting stiffly in his ceremonial chair, his massive frame looking cramped and restless. Odin was leaning toward him, murmuring something in a low, stern tone.
The moment you entered his line of sight, Thor stopped listening to his father. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a heartbeat, the volatile anger from the night before was replaced by a look of raw, unadulterated hunger. He took in the way the lavender fabric clung to your curves and the way you held your head high despite the wreckage of your wedding night.
“The Princess has arrived,” Odin announced, his voice booming through the hall.
Thor stood up immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the stone. He stepped toward you, his hand outstretched as if he had every right to touch you, his presence filling the air with that familiar, heavy heat.
“You look...” he started, his voice a low rumble that lacked its usual bravado. He looked pained, as if seeing you so beautiful and yet so distant was a torture he couldn’t endure.
“I am here,” you said, your voice cool and perfectly level. You ignored his hand, moving past him to take your seat. “Let the tradition be served so we can be done with it.”
The rejection was visible. Thor’s hand curled into a fist before he sat back down, the air around him beginning to vibrate with a restless energy.
“Some honey for your bread, my sun?” He asked, his voice forced and unnervingly gentle as he reached for a jar.
“No, thank you, Prince Thor,” you replied, your voice as sharp as a Northern frost. You didn't even look at him, focusing instead on the steam rising from your tea.
Thor’s hand paused in mid-air. The use of his title was a slap to the face, a clear reminder that the intimacy of the previous night was dead and buried.
Across the table, Loki hid a smirk behind his cup of wine, his green eyes dancing with the chaos of it all.
The heavy doors of the hall swung open, and Commander Tyr entered. Tyr had been the one man who had almost convinced you that love was possible. He was tall, scarred, and had spent years trying to win your hand before suddenly—and mysteriously—withdrawing his interest three years ago. As he approached Odin to deliver his report, his eyes instinctively sought yours. There was a raw, aching longing in his gaze that hadn't faded with time.
As he bowed low before you now, his eyes lingered on the swell of your breasts beneath the chiffon, his gaze full of the regret of a man who had lost his greatest treasure.
“Princess,” Tyr murmured, his voice thick, bowing his head toward you with more reverence than he showed the All-Father. “May I offer my congratulations? Asgard has never seen a more radiant bride.”
The sound of metal snapping echoed through the hall.
You looked over to see that Thor had completely crushed the silver handle of his chalice. His knuckles were white, his blue eyes fixed on Tyr with murder written in them.
“The Commander's congratulations are noted,” Thor spat, his voice like grinding stones. He leaned toward Tyr, his presence suddenly suffocatingly large. “Now, I believe you have troops to inspect. Or have you forgotten your place in this court?”
Tyr stiffened, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword by instinct. “I meant no offense, My Prince. I was merely—“
“You were staring,” Thor interrupted, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet register that made the hair on your arms stand up. “And I have half a mind to gouge out those eyes for even thinking they are worthy of looking at her.”
The Hall went dead silent.
“Thor, be civil,” Frigga chided gently, but her eyes were worried.
You scoffed, finally turning to look at your husband. “He was being polite, Thor. Something you might want to practice. Tyr has always been a gentleman.”
Thor’s jaw set so hard you thought his teeth might break. He leaned in close, his scent of rain and heated metal surrounding you. “He is looking at you like he still has a right to you,” he hissed under his breath, so low only you could hear. “He was lucky I let him keep his head the first time he tried to touch you. I will not be so merciful a second time.”
You froze. What is he talking about?
The first time?
You looked at him, your heart skipping a beat. “What did you do to him three years ago?”
Thor turned his head toward you, his eyes turning into the ones of a madman. “He cannot look at what is mine,” he said, “I made sure he understood that you were never an option for the likes of him. I would have torn the Nine Realms apart before I let any other man put a ring on your finger. You were always going to be mine.”
The confession hit you like an explosion.
You finally came to the realization that every time a man courted you, after a while they left you. They always came up with a reason to stop seeing you.
Every single one of them. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they were into you—they always left you, one way or another.
For all this time you kept thinking there was something wrong with the way you were acting—not your looks, never your looks. You were painfully aware that you are drop dead gorgeous, so they were too.
And the very reason was incredibly close to you, but not you.
It was him.
It was fucking him.
He had been haunting your life for years, threatening every suitor behind your back before the both of you even knew you were promised to one another.
You were left gaping at him, your pulse hammering so violently in your throat it felt like it might choke you. Every rejection, every sudden disappearance of a man who had sworn his devotion—it all clicked into place with a sickening snap.
He didn't even look ashamed. Instead, he leaned in closer, his blue eyes searching yours with a chilling intensity. “Where were you last night?” he demanded, his voice dropping into a low, possessive growl. “Where did you sleep?”
It was as if he hadn't just admitted to systematically dismantling your entire personal life for years. You felt a sharp, disbelieving breath leave your lips. “Are you kidding me right now?”
Thor didn't blink, his expression dead serious. “As you can see, I am serious. Were you with Loki? Did you go to him?”
A jagged, hysterical laugh ripped from your throat. You were going out of your mind; the sheer audacity of his question, combined with the revelation of his long-term stalking, sent you into an angered state of pure disbelief.
His eyebrows furrowed at the sound of your laughter, his jaw tightening again. “I can’t believe you just fucking asked me that!” you hissed, leaning into his space until your noses nearly touched. “No, I wasn't with Loki, for gods' sake! You are mentally ill, Thor. You actually fucking chased all my suitors away? You sabotaged my life before you even had a claim to it?”
Thor didn't flinch. Instead, he released a long, relieved breath, his shoulders losing a fraction of their tension as if your lack of infidelity was the only thing that mattered.
“Yes, I did,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were discussing the weather rather than his obsession.
“You say it like it's no big deal!” you whispered, your hands curling into fists against the fine linen of the tablecloth. “You spent years isolating me, making me think I was the problem, while you were off doing whatever—whoever—you wanted!”
“I was ensuring my future,” he corrected, his voice hardening. “I was sure of what I wanted long before I knew the All-Father put it in a contract. I wasn't going to let some lesser man touch what belonged to me.”
“I am not an object, Thor!” you hissed, the words vibrating with a mixture of fury and a sudden, confusing rush of heat.
The realization that he hadn't been forced into this—that he had been actively, ruthlessly clearing the path to you for years—changed everything. It wasn't just a cold alliance or a burden he was forced to carry. He had wanted this. He had wanted you.
Thor’s gaze didn't waver. He didn't look like a man who had done something wrong; he looked like a man who had successfully defended his kingdom. “I never said you were,” he countered, his voice dropping into a private register as he leaned closer, his scent of rain and warm sandalwood drowning out the smell of the breakfast feast. “But you are my wife. And you have always been the only woman I intended to stand beside.”
You did not respond to him, not having the energy to do so, you merely turned your head from him.
Thor’s jaw tightened at your dismissal. He hadn't meant to lay his cards on the table so recklessly, but the sight of Tyr’s lingering gaze had acted like a spark in a powder keg. Now that the truth was out—that he had been the silent architect of your isolation, the shadow that scared away every man who dared to love you—he expected fire. He expected your sharp tongue to lash out and your anger to fill the hall.
He didn't expect this cold, hollow silence.
You now fully turned back to your plate, the lavender chiffon of your sleeves fluttering as you picked up your fork with a hand that trembled only slightly.
A part of you, a dark, hidden corner of your soul, reveled in the idea of being so fiercely desired that a God would sabotage the realms for you.
But the rest of you was drowning in the betrayal of it.
“You are not going to say anything?” Thor asked, his voice laced with a growing confusion.
He leaned toward you, his massive presence usually enough to command the attention of any room, but you remained a statue of ice. You took a slow bite of your meal, the food tasting like ash, but you chewed and swallowed as if he weren't there at all.
“Sunshine?” he tried again, his voice dropping an octave, sounding uncharacteristically small.
You finally looked up, but not with the fire he wanted. Your eyes were dead, reflecting the wreckage of a trust you hadn't even realized was being built. “What do you want me to say, Thor?” you asked, your voice a flat, dangerous whisper. “Please stop talking. I have no intention of listening to you. I do not want to hear a single thing out of your mouth. Stay away from me.”
You dropped your gaze back to your plate, effectively cutting the invisible thread between you.
Thor sat frozen, his hand still hovering near yours on the table. He was used to your snark, your temper, and your wit. He was used to the woman who fought him at every turn. But this silence? It made him feel hollow, as if he had finally won the prize he spent years fighting for, only to find he’d broken it in the process.
He watched you eat, his blue eyes searching your face for a crack in the silence. The persistent hum of his lightning felt subdued, replaced by a heavy, sinking weight in his chest. He had cleared the path to you, yes. He had ensured no other man would ever claim you. But as you sat there, refusing to even acknowledge his existence, Thor realized that owning your hand in marriage was nothing compared to the war he had just started for your heart.
—
Every word Thor had admitted played on a loop in your mind—a haunting, rhythmic reminder that your life had been curated by his hand long before you wore his ring. It was torture to realize that while you were questioning your own worth, wondering why every man you cared for eventually fled, he had been the one pulling the strings.
He was one lucky bastard; the royal arrangement had merely been the final piece of a puzzle he’d been building for years.
You were back in the main chambers now. The guest room had been a sanctuary for only one night, but the walls of the palace had ears, and the whispers had already begun.
The marriage is falling apart.
The new Princess isn't enough to hold the God of Thunder's interest.
They saw you as the problem, the weak link in the golden chain of Asgard.
You were in the middle of pulling on your brown leather armor, your movements sharp and fueled by a need to shed the damsel persona the court had forced upon you. You were in only your fitted leather pants and a simple bra when the heavy doors groaned open.
Thor barged in, his expression stormy and distracted, clearly not expecting to find you there. He froze in the doorway, the room suddenly thickening with a familiar, suffocating heat.
You hastily reached for your leather vest, sliding it on and buckling the straps with practiced, trembling fingers. You refused to let him see you vulnerable, not after he’d admitted to stalking your heart like prey.
“Apologies,” he said, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always seemed to make your skin prickle. “I didn't think you’d be here.”
“I was just leaving,” you replied, your voice flat. You spared him no glance, focusing entirely on the silver fastenings of your gauntlets.
His gaze was roaming over you, taking in the sight of your arms and the way the rugged leather hugged your figure.
“What’s with the attire?” he asked, his eyes focused as they tracked the curve of your waist.
“Going to the training grounds, husband,” you replied, the title dripping with a cold, mocking irony.
“What will you do there?” he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.
You paused, finally cutting your eyes toward him. “You must be unwell, Thor. I’m going to train, like I do in my spare time. What else would one do in the pits?”
He looked as if you had just spoken in a forgotten tongue. He hadn't expected this.
In all the years of his obsession, the years he spent lurking in your shadows and threatening your suitors, he had somehow remained blind to this part of you. He had seen the the radiant goddess in perfectly fitted dresses, but he had never imagined the warrior beneath.
“I thought...” He trailed off, his eyes dark with a sudden, surging interest. “I thought you only spent your time there to practice your magic with the healers.”
“Then you haven't been paying as much attention as you thought,” you snapped, grabbing your twin daggers from the bed and sliding them into the sheaths at your thighs.
The sight of the steel against your skin seemed to do something to him.
Thor’s breath hitched, his gaze fixed on your hands as you checked the blades. For a man who lived for the glory of battle, seeing his wife transition into a lethal force was a total system shock.
The blood was already beginning to rush to his southern regions, his pupils dilating as he watched you prepare for violence.
He had cleared the path to you because he wanted to protect you, to own you—but seeing you like this, ready to draw blood, made him realize he hadn't just married a wife.
He had married a match.
“I'm coming with you,” he stated, his voice now a commanding rumble.
“I told you at breakfast, husband,” you said, walking toward the door and forcing him to step back or be trampled. “Stay away from me.”
“And I did not ask, dear wife,” Thor countered, his voice an immovable rumble that vibrated through the stone floor beneath your boots. He didn't wait for your permission; he simply turned and followed you through the winding gold-leafed halls, his massive frame casting a long, imposing shadow that seemed to swallow your own.
He was like a guard dog, really—every time you took two faster steps, trying to outrun the heavy thud of his boots, he matched your pace effortlessly. It was like he was designed to expect the moves you were about to do before you.
He was half-crazed with the lingering feelings from the breakfast encounter, his mind clearly stuck on the way Tyr had dared to look at you, his left hand closing in a fist time to time.
The silence between you was suffocating, filled only by the sharp strike of your footsteps.
For all these years, you had lived under the crushing belief that he despised you—that you were a burden he was forced to bear. You had built walls of ice and practiced your sharpest wit to protect yourself from his perceived hatred, only to find out the situation was the exact opposite. He hadn't been avoiding you, he had been gatekeeping you, ruthlessly clearing the field until he was the only one left.
But the confusion still burned like acid in your throat. Then why has he gone to her? Why does he have her? You tried to swallow the lump of resentment, but the thought of that Midgardian woman consumed you, igniting a dark, territorial side of your soul you hadn't known existed.
He is my husband, you thought.
By law, by magic, and by his own admission. He is mine.
You shook your head, your hair whipping against your neck. Stop thinking. Just move.
You reached the training grounds, scent of dust and the metallic tang of clashing steel filling in your nostrils.
A few younger soldiers were already there, their bare torsos glistening with sweat as they sparred in the center pit.
The moment they caught sight of you in your rugged brown leather armor, the soldiers faltered. Their eyes traveled over the sharp, structured lines of your gear, the twin daggers strapped to your thighs, and the fierce, lethal beauty of your expression.
They were young, and their admiration was written plainly across their faces as they took in the sight of their new Princess looking ready for war.
Thor felt the air in his lungs turn to fire. His blue eyes swept the room, landing on each soldier with a look that promised a swift and painful end to anyone who let their gaze linger a second too long.
He stepped closer to you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours—his hand hovering over your waist, making it undeniably clear to everyone in the pits exactly who you belonged to.
He was breathing heavily, the sight of you in this environment, surrounded by men and dressed for violence, sending a surge of heat straight to his lungs. He had spent years obsessing over you from afar, but seeing you here, in his world of grit and steel, was more than his self-control could handle. He didn't just want to watch you train, he wanted to remind every man in Asgard that you were the one treasure they weren't even allowed to dream of touching.
You readied yourself, stepping into the center of the pit with a predatory grace. You scanned the line of younger soldiers, choosing one who looked particularly capable, and announced with a sharp, clear voice that you wanted to spar.
Their demeanors shifted, the soldiers stood straighter, their faces lighting up with a mixture of excitement and nerves at the prospect of testing their steel against the breathtaking new Princess.
But just as they were stepping forward, Thor held up his right hand. It was a silent, kingly command that froze every man in his tracks, his movements smug.
You rolled your eyes, the leather of your gear creaking as you shifted your weight. “Let me guess,” you said, your voice dripping with exhaustion at his relentless antics. “You want to be the one to spar with me.”
He smiled—that dashing, heart-stopping grin that had graced a thousand tapestries, the one that made you want to both kiss him and punch him in the jaw.
“Exactly, my love,” he rumbled, the endearment hitting you like a blow, making your heart stop for a treacherous beat. “You know me so well. I noticed we truly were made for each other.”
He was an arrogant, handsome asshole, and he knew it.
You forced your expression into a thin, reptilian smile, refusing to let him see how that name had affected you.
“Fine,” you said, your voice coming out as a dangerous purr. “But what I have truly noticed is that you are quite like a leech, husband. You never leave me to be.”
Thor’s eyes darkened at the insult, but the grin didn't leave his face. If anything, it grew more heated.
He began to unbuckle his own bracers, his gaze never leaving yours, tracking the way your chest heaved with suppressed rage. The soldiers scrambled out of the pit, sensing the tension radiating from the Prince.
“A leech?” Thor repeated, stepping into the dust of the ring. He moved toward you until you could feel the radiant heat coming off his body, the scent of rain thick enough to choke on. “I prefer to think of myself as a man who simply knows the value of what he holds. Now, draw your steel, wife. Let's see if that tongue is the only thing you have that cuts.”
“Hmm,” you hummed, “You will see,” the words a promise that vibrated in the small space between you.
Then, the dance began.
His crushing, immovable frame against your lethal, flickering speed. You moved like liquid , your daggers spinning in your palms as you sought the gaps in his defense.
Thor, usually the storm that broke the world, was uncharacteristically still. He couldn't think straight; the sight of you moving with such predatory grace, the leather of your gear creaking with every strike, had his mind clouded in a haze of heat and disbelief.
He didn't want to hurt you. He couldn't fight back—not truly. The thought of raising a hand to you in a violent way was an impossibility, a sacrilege he wouldn't commit.
Instead, he played a game of pure evasion. Every time you lunged, he drifted just out of reach, his large hands coming out not to strike, but to deflect. He caught your wrists with a touch that was too lingering, his palms grazing your skin in places that sent a jolt through your system, staggering your breathing.
Your expression twisted into one of pure irritation. “What do you think you're doing? Fight me back!” you snapped, your frustration boiling over. Your moves became more violent, your strikes faster and more desperate to draw blood, to make him acknowledge you as a warrior and not just a prize. You spun, a blur of steel and leather, forcing him to backtrack toward the edge of the pit.
You were a whirlwind, and for a moment, even the God of Thunder looked overwhelmed by the sheer, beautiful violence of your spirit.
But in your blind rage, the ground betrayed you.
Just as you pivoted to drive a hard kick into his chest, your ankle turned in a gut-wrenching, sickening snap. The sudden loss of balance sent you spiraling. In the frantic second of your fall, the dagger in your right hand sliced deep through your own thigh.
You hit the dirt hard. Thor had no time to catch you, the angle of your strike had kept him just far enough away that his reaching fingers only caught the air.
“Sunshine!” His voice tore through the training grounds.
He was on his knees beside you in an instant, his movements frantic, borderline hysterical. “Darling, are you alright?” His hand came up to graze your hair, his touch intimate and terrifyingly loving, his fingers trembling as they pushed the damp strands from your forehead.
You kept your eyes squeezed shut, your teeth gritted against the white-hot pain shooting from your ankle and the searing burn in your thigh.
The embarrassment was almost worse than the injury—you had come here to prove your strength, and instead, you were bleeding in the dust at his feet.
Thor looked down at your thigh, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe. The sight of your blood, red and vivid against the dark leather, put him into a sudden, agonizing trance.
The God of Thunder, who had stood amidst the slaughter of thousands without flinching, looked like his own soul was being carved out of his chest.
His eyes were wide, darting over your injury with a frantic, desperate guilt. It was his fault. If he hadn't followed you, if he hadn't provoked you, if he had just fought back like you asked, you wouldn't be broken on the floor. Every sharp intake of breath you took felt like a dagger in his own lungs.
“I've got you,” he choked out, his voice thick with desperate protectiveness that bordered on worship. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, my love.”
He didn't wait for a protest. He immediately hooked his right arm under your knees, his left one embracing your back, pulling you flush against the heat of his chest. He stood up in one fluid, powerful motion, cradling you as if you were made of the thinnest glass. He ignored the eyes of the younger soldiers, ignored the blood staining his front—the only thing that existed in his world was the weight of your pain, and the terrifying reality that seeing you hurt was a thousand times worse than any wound he had ever taken in battle.
Thor rushed you toward the royal chambers, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird of prey. The sound was deafening in the hollow of his chest as he sprinted, your weight in his arms feeling like both a blessing and a death sentence.
“Get the healers to our chambers! Immediately!” he roared, his voice a thunderous crack that echoed off the ceilings, sending servants and guards scrambling in his wake.
Your hands were circled tightly around his thick neck, your knuckles white as you clung to him for dear life. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, the familiar, intoxicating scent of rain and warm sandalwood grounding you, a small mercy against the agony pulsing through your leg.
But as the adrenaline began to fade, the tears finally formed. It wasn't just the physical pain of the gash or your ankle. It was everything. Every hidden threat he'd made to your suitors, the crushing weight of a marriage built on a shadow-plan, the betrayal of his Midgardian lover—it all came crashing down at once, a tidal wave of resentment and hurt that you could no longer hold back.
The moment his boots hit the soft rugs of your chambers, he set you down on the edge of the expansive bed with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. As he pulled back, he felt the dampness on his neck—your tears.
His chest tightened so sharply he nearly gasped, the air leaving his lungs at the sight of your fractured composure.
He had seen you angry, sharp, and defiant, but seeing you in so much pain that it broke your spirit made him feel like he was the one being cut.
His trembling hands reached out to cradle your face, his large thumbs gently brushing away the salt streak on your cheeks. “Does it hurt that much?” he choked out, his voice a whisper of desperation. “Please... please do not cry, my love. It is going to be okay. The healers are coming. You are going to be well.”
You let out a broken sob and shook your head.
“What? No, you will be okay,” he insisted, his eyes wide and searching yours, his own breathing coming in shallow, panicked bursts. “Do not shake your head at me, sunshine. You must be well.”
You shook your head again, a fresh wave of tears flowing faster down your cheeks, your breath hitching violently against the hand you held over your mouth to stifle the sound of your grief.
“No, Thor,” you managed to whisper, your voice thick and trembling. “It hurts—it hurts so much. But what hurts truly is my heart.”
Thor went completely still, his hands frozen against your skin as your words hung in the heavy air of the chamber. “Have I hurt you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, sounding genuinely broken—as if the mere thought were a blasphemy.
Before you could answer, the doors swung open and the healers rushed in, their silken robes trailing behind them in a blur of motion. They moved with a clinical, hushed urgency, but Thor didn't move. He sat on the edge of the bed, a massive, immovable mountain of muscle and guilt, acting as your only anchor while the magic began.
The lead healer placed a glowing hand over your shattered ankle. The sensation was immediate and agonizing—a white-hot surge of energy that felt like your bones were being liquified and restacked all at once. You let out a choked gasp, your back arching off the mattress as the physical trauma was forcefully undone.
Thor’s hand instantly found yours. His palm was rough and calloused, a stark contrast to the ethereal, cool hum of the magic, but his grip was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I have you,” he murmured, leaning over you until his face was all you could see, his eyes swimming with a reflection of your own pain.
“Squeeze my hand, sunshine. Break my bones if you must, but do not let go.”
As the magic knitted the torn flesh on your thigh, the stinging burn made your vision swim. You squeezed his hand with every ounce of strength you had left, your knuckles white, and he didn't even flinch. He watched every tremor of your muscles, every tear that escaped your lashes, his jaw set in a grimace that suggested he was feeling every single nerve ending fire right along with you. He looked like a man watching his world burn, utterly helpless to stop the flames.
Finally, the healers withdrew, their task finished. The room grew quiet again, the only sound the beat of your heart and the low crackle of the hearth. Thor remained, his thumb tracing the back of your hand in a slow, rhythmic circle.
He gulped, the column of his throat moving as he searched for his voice.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, his eyes bloodshot and weary.
You took a deep, shuddering breath, the physical pain replaced by a definite clarity. “I do, yes. Thank you.”
But you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't live in this state of whiplash—one moment he was the possessive shadow sabotaging your suitors, and the next he was the tender husband holding you through the agony of a broken bone. All while his heart, his true affection, allegedly laid elsewhere. You slowly withdrew your hand from his, the loss of his warmth feeling like a physical bruise.
“I cannot do this, Thor,” you said, your voice gaining a terrifying, quiet strength. “I would like to separate our rooms. I will fulfill my duty. I will bear your heirs and I will be a good Queen to Asgard when the time comes, but I can never be your wife. You have hurt me too much.”
You began to struggle to your feet, determined to put distance between your bodies, but Thor’s hands were on your shoulders in an instant, holding you back. He looked taken aback, his confusion rapidly turning into a defensive, volatile spark.
“Where do you think you're going?” he demanded, his grip tightening just enough to keep you in place. “What is this about? Is this about that fucker Tyr again? Or Loki? Have they filled your head with—“
“It's about Jane, you idiot!” you screamed, the name tearing out of you like a piece of glass.
Thor stared at you for a heartbeat, his hands still firm on your shoulders, looking at you like you had truly lost your mind.
“Who told you about her? And why do you keep bringing her up?” he demanded, his voice confused.
Your expression only grew more furious, the tears hot and stinging against your cheeks. “She is your mortal lover! Of course I bring her up! How am I supposed to be a wife to a man whose heart is buried in the dirt of Midgard?”
Thor looked at you for a beat, his eyes wide, and then he started laughing.
It wasn't a soft chuckle. He was hysterically laughing, his massive frame shaking so hard he had to release your shoulders to hold his stomach. He doubled over, the sound echoing off the golden walls of the chamber as if you had just told the most ridiculous joke in the history of the Nine Realms.
“Why are you laughing?” you snapped, your voice cracking with fresh humiliation. “Is this funny to you? My pain is a joke to you?”
Thor bit his lower lip, a rogue dimple flashing as he tried to keep himself from laughing further. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at you, his blue eyes bright with a terrifying clarity.
“My love,” he rumbled, his voice thick with an intensity that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Jane hasn’t been in my life for years. Do you truly think I could ever get over you?”
He stepped back into your space, his heat enveloping you as he reached out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “I threatened every man that came near you. I sabotaged your life, I haunted your shadows, I am obsessed with you. She doesn’t even come close. She was merely a distraction to keep my obsession for you in line.”
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his presence drowning out everything else. “Which failed miserably, by the way. She was only there when my father cast me away to Earth. I couldn't live with the thought of not seeing you, of being separated from the one person I’ve wanted since I first understood the word. I tried to distract myself with a mortal heart, but it was like trying to put out a forest fire with a single drop of rain.”
He confessed it all now, his pride completely stripped away, leaving only the ugly truth of his devotion.
Wait.
The realization hit you, making your head spin.
All those nights spent in silent agony, all the rage you felt whenever you thought of her, all the distance you had put between you and your husband because of a phantom—it was for nothing?
You had been obsessing over a woman who was a footnote in a story where you were the entire book.
Thor watched the realization dawn on your face, his expression shifting from amusement to something much darker and hungrier. He saw the way your walls were crumbling, the way your breath was hitching not from pain, but from the sheer shock of his honesty.
“There is no one else,” he whispered, his hand sliding from your face to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. “There never was. Every battle I fought, every suitor I broke, every breath I took was a step closer to making you mine. You really think I’d let a memory stand between us?”
Your mouth was agape as the weight of your own assumptions crashed down around you.
You sat up straighter, slinging your legs over the edge of the bed despite the lingering throb in your ankle.
“I didn't even let you explain,” you whispered, the regret dripping out of every syllable, thick and heavy.
Thor nodded, shrugging his massive shoulders as a playful, slightly smug expression scrunched his face. “Yeah, that’s on you,” he rumbled.
“Not really my fault you wouldn’t listen.” He let out a soft huff of a laugh then, his gaze softening as it traveled over your face. “I've always liked that you're a difficult woman, though. Comes with the package, I guess.”
He moved with a sudden, quiet grace, kneeling down on the rug beside the bed so he was eye-level with you.
He looked like a king who had finally found his throne—not on a chair of gold, but right here at your feet.
“I'm sorry, baby,” you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as your hands found his handsome face. Your thumbs grazed over his high cheekbones, feeling the slight stubble and the heat of his skin.
Thor’s eyes fluttered shut at the contact. He leaned into your palms with a low, visceral groan, looking like a man who needed your touch every second of the day just to keep his heart beating.
He looked vulnerable, stripped of the God of Thunder's bravado, appearing only as a man who was utterly consumed by the woman in front of him.
“And for your information,” you added, your voice regaining a hint of its usual spark, “Loki basically is my sibling. I have no idea how you could think I could be in love with him when there is you.”
Thor opened his eyes at that, the blue depths swirling with a mix of relief and that same possessive fire.
A slow, triumphant smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“I know,” he whispered, his hands coming up to cover yours, pinning your palms against his cheeks as if he never intended to let you pull away again. “But I told you, I’m not rational when it comes to you. I see a man breathe the same air as you and I want to tear the world apart. Imagine how I feel when it's my own brother's manipulative tongue whispering in your ear.”
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Say it again,” he commanded softly. “Tell me there is only me.”
“There’s only you, my love,” you whisper against his skin, the confession tasting like a surrender you’ve been fighting for years. “There’s only ever been you.”
Thor lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-growl, his large hands sliding up to grab your thighs with a firm, possessive heat. He’s careful, his touch mindful of the newly healed flesh on your leg, but the look in his eyes is anything but gentle. He hums deep in his throat, a vibration you feel in your own chest.
“Now that,” he rumbles, his voice laced with a sudden, surging hunger, “does something to me.”
He claims your lips before you can breathe, his kiss tasting of desperate relief and a decade of suppressed longing. You circle your arms around his massive shoulders immediately, pulling him closer, but the cold, unyielding bite of his silver-plated armor creates a barrier you can't stand.
You need to feel him—all of him.
You pull back just an inch, your breath coming in shallow hitches. Thor’s eyebrows knit together, his head instinctively following your lips as you retreat, looking like a man who’s been denied water in a desert.
“Baby,” you breathe, your hands tugging at the leather straps and metal buckles. “Take your armor off. It’s annoying me.”
Thor’s expression shifts, a slow, devilish smirk spreading across his face. “You’re in a rush to get me naked, my lady?” he tsked, a playful glint in his blue eyes. “Very naughty.”
You slap him lightly on the chest, a muffled thud against the metal, and he lets out a booming, triumphant laugh. He stands up, his movements quick and fluid as he unclips his heavy crimson cape, letting it pool on the floor like a spill of wine. He works the fastenings of his chest piece with practiced ease, discarding the silver plating until it clatters beside the bed.
When he finally turns back to you, his torso is bare, his trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips. You bite your lip, your gaze traveling over the rugged landscape of his body.
The sharp, deep V-line of his hips, the massive shoulders that look like they could shield you from the dangers of the entire universe, and arms the size of your head—he is a deity, through and through, carved from gold and lightning.
The sight makes your pulse spike making heat flare in your gut. You hold out your hands impatiently, your fingers flexing as you demand him back in your space.
A low chuckle vibrates from his chest as he sees the hunger in your eyes. He moves toward you, the air around him crackling with that familiar electric charge.
“Come on, come here,” you urge, your voice dropping into a desperate purr. “I can't wait to get my hands on my handsome husband.”
Thor doesn't need to be told twice. He crowds back into your space, his bare skin meeting yours for the first time, the contact sending a shock through your system that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the man who has haunted your soul since the beginning.
Thor’s hands were like brands against your skin, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass cheeks as he hoisted you effortlessly, laying you back against the silk sheets with a controlled power.
The bed groaned under his weight as he settled between your thighs, his massive frame a golden canopy over you. You let out a small, breathless squeal at the suddenness of his manhandling, your heart hammering against your ribs. It was intoxicating—the sheer strength of him finally directed entirely at you.
He shifted, his hands sliding up from your hips to rest flat against your stomach, the heat of his palms seeping through your skin. His blue eyes were dark, swirling with a possessive storm as he looked down at you.
“You would like to live our wedding night now, baby?” he asked, his voice a gravelly vibration that made your toes curl.
You nodded almost immediately, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as the anticipation turned into a physical ache. You were eager—desperate—to finally feel the full heat of him, to have him fill the space you’d been saving for him without even knowing it.
His left thumb moved with agonizing slowness, hooking over your chin to tug your lower lip free from your teeth. “Those lips are mine to bite,” he growled, a warning and a promise all at once.
He didn't give you time to breathe before he descended, taking your lower lip between his own, sucking and then nipping with a sharp, controlled hunger that made you mewl into his mouth. Your hands flew to his back, your nails grazing the hard muscle of his spine as you tried to pull him even closer.
He didn't miss a beat, one of his hands moving to the buckles of your leather training vest. He worked them with efficiency, the leather creaking as he began to discard the barrier.
You were high on him—on the scent of his skin, the weight of his body. Oh, he was so heavy and it felt so, so good to be underneath him.
Thor’s mouth was a searing trail of fire against your skin, his open-mouthed kisses leaving a damp, heated map from your jawline down to your collarbone. You arched beneath him, your fingers tangling in his thick hair as his tongue glided over the curve of your chest, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. The uncontrolled mewls escaping you only seemed to fuel him, his breathing turning into a ragged, desperate sound.
When he finally unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, his reaction was visceral. He froze for a heartbeat, his blue eyes blown wide as he took in the sight of you completely bared to him.
“Oh gods,” he murmured, the words sounding like a prayer. He didn't wait another second, leaning down to take your right nipple into his mouth. The sensation of his hot tongue and the slight friction of his stubble made you cry out, your head snapping back against the bed. His right hand wasn't idle, his large palm covering your left breast, kneading the soft flesh with a possessive rhythm that made your vision swim.
“These are the most beautiful pair of tits I’ve ever seen, sunshine,” he growled against your skin, his voice vibrating deep in your chest. “You’re unreal. I must be dreaming.”
He began a slow, agonizing descent, his kisses trailing over the underside of your breasts and down the center of your ribs. He lingered at your stomach, his tongue swirling around your navel until you were squirming beneath him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for purchase.
He stopped at the waistband of your leather trousers, his large hands gripping your waist so firmly it felt like he was branding you. He looked up at you one more time, his face flushed with a primal, focused hunger, before he hooked his fingers into the leather and the panties beneath them.
With a fast-paced, impatient rhythm, he began to tug the pants down over your hips. The sound of the leather sliding against your skin was loud in the quiet room, punctuated only by the heavy, frantic thuds of your hearts. He stripped the barrier away, his gaze following the movement with a terrifying precision, as if he were finally uncovering the most sacred relic in the Nine Realms.
He was trembling now, the legendary restraint of the God of Thunder finally snapping as he prepared to see every single inch of what he had spent a lifetime claiming.
The gasp that left your lips was sharp and desperate as the cool air of the chamber hit your dampened core, sending a shiver of anticipation through your entire frame. You reached out blindly, your fingers tangling in the silk bedsheets and knotting them into tight balls as Thor pulled back just enough to take you in.
He was entirely focused now, his gaze anchored between your legs. You could see the frantic twitch of the heavy bulge beneath his trousers, his own body reacting violently to the sight of you completely bared and glistening for him. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, ready to fall.
“I can't wait to taste you, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He wasn't even looking at your face; his words were directed solely at the center of your heat, talking to your pussy as if it were the only thing in the universe that mattered.
The sheer, possessive reality of it—the way he spoke to you like you were his favorite sin—sent a fresh surge of wetness down your thighs.
You stopped breathing entirely when his large, calloused hands hooked firmly under your knees. With a surge of effortless strength, he lifted your legs, draping them over his massive shoulders until you were completely open, vulnerable, and perfectly positioned for him.
Without sparing a glance at your face, he dived in.
The first contact was a long, slow lick—a broad stripe of fire that traveled from your entrance all the way up to your clit. You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as his lips followed, suctioning tightly over that sensitive bundle of nerves.
His tongue flicked with a rhythmic, torturous precision, his mouth a hot, wet vacuum that seemed intent on drawing every secret from your body. Your hands gripped the sheets until your knuckles turned white, your hips stuttering upward in a frantic, instinctive search for more of that devastating friction.
“Stop squirming,” he growled directly into your heat, the command vibrating through your sensitive flesh and sending a fresh jolt of electricity straight to your spine. His voice, muffled by your own wetness, made your hips stutter uncontrollably as a broken moan tore from your throat.
Thor’s massive hands clamped onto your hips like iron bands, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you perfectly still.
He wasn't having it; he wanted to devour you, to map every inch of your sweetness without you slipping away.
Driven by a desperate need to see him, you strained your neck, lifting your head from the where it was laying.
The sight was downright sinful.
The God of Thunder was buried between your thighs, his golden hair messy and his jaw glistening. He looked up at you then, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the blue of his irises, his tongue never once slowing its rhythmic, punishing assault on your clit. The contrast of his primal, predatory gaze against the worshipful way he used his mouth was too much to bear.
The tension in your core snapped. Your head fell back into the mattress as the first wave of a violent orgasm took hold of you. You were helpless, your body trembling in his grip as high-pitched mewls spilled out of you, echoing off the high ceilings of the chamber.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into the climax, his suction deepening as he drank in the evidence of your pleasure, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hip bones while his mouth stayed ruthlessly attached to you, making sure you felt every agonizingly perfect second of the release.
He didn't let up. As the first wave of your climax began to plateau, he kept going, his tongue flickering with a relentless, overstimulating rhythm that had your nerves screaming.
“Thor, please—“ you gasped, trying to squirm away from the sheer intensity of his touch, but his grip was absolute.
“C'mon,” he rumbled against your inner thigh, his voice thick and dark. He didn't stop the assault. “You can give me one more, my love. I have to prepare you properly.”
He removed his left hand from your hip and, without a second's hesitation, drove his middle finger deep inside you, his finger sliding in easily—your juices helping him. Your mouth fell open, but no sound could escape; you were physically stunned by the intrusion. Even a single finger was massive, stretching you with a blunt force that made your breath hitch in your throat.
He didn't give you time to adjust before he added his ring finger, the metal of his wedding band a cold, sharp contrast to the searing warmth of your insides. The sensation was a violent reminder of the reality you had tried so hard to ignore.
You had forgotten about the rings—the gold and silver symbols of a contract you’d thought was a cage. But as that band slid in and out of you, slick with your own wetness, the truth crashed down: you had a husband. A real, living, breathing husband who was currently unraveling you on your bed.
His right hand moved then, his fingers spreading your pussy lips wide to get a better angle, his tongue returning to your clit with a renewed, suctioning fervor.
The combination of his massive fingers stretching you and the possessive, territorial thoughts of him finally claiming you was the tipping point.
The heat in your belly flared back into a white-hot roar. You were drowning in him, in the weight of his name and the feel of his ring inside you. Your back arched so high it nearly left the bed, your legs shaking on his shoulders as you came a second time, a broken cry finally tearing from your lungs as you collapsed back into the bed, completely conquered by him.
Thor lapped up the remnants of your release with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, a deep, vibrating moan rumbling through his chest and into your very bones. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face slick and his eyes burning with a primal satisfaction.
“You taste so good, my treasure,” he rasped, the endearment sounding like a heavy vow in the quiet of the room.
Your mind was a thick, syrupy haze of pleasure, and the only thing you could manage was a breathless, “Thank you—oh!”
The words were cut short as he pressed his thumb firmly against your oversensitive clit, a sharp jolt of electricity snapping through you. He chuckled, a dark, rich sound. “No need to thank me, darling. Thank you for letting me have a taste of you.”
Then, he stood at the edge of the bed. His eyes never left yours as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. He moved agonizingly slow, the fabric rustling as it dropped, and your breath hitched. His cock sprang free the moment the pressure was gone—thick, heavy, and pulsing with a life of its own. A bead of precum glistened at the pink tip, gliding down the length of his shaft which stood rigid against his stomach, the veins standing out like marble carvings.
A sudden, genuine wave of panic flickered through your desire.
How was he going to fit that in me?
Thor didn't miss the way your eyes widened or the thoughtful, slightly terrified gaze you fixed on him. He leaned back over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. “What’s wrong, baby?”
You looked up at his face, your voice small and trembling. “How is that going to fit in me?”
Thor’s eyes slid shut for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening so hard you heard his teeth grind. That was the most erotic thing he had ever heard—the admission of your own smallness against him, the raw vulnerability of your question. It was making his self-control fray at the edges, the scent of your arousal and the sight of your doubt driving him to the brink of madness.
He cleared his throat, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost a growl. “It’ll fit, sunshine. We’ll make it fit.”
He moved back into your space, crawling over you until his massive weight was hovering just above, his heat radiating like a furnace. He cradled your face in his large, calloused hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that contradicted the sheer size of the man.
“You were made for me, remember?” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “Your body was built to hold mine. Every inch of you was designed for this.”
You looked up into those blown-out blue eyes and nodded, a silent surrender passing between you. He wasn't just your husband; he was the force of nature you were destined to house, and as he guided his tip to your entrance, the first touch of his heat against your opening made you realize he was right. You were his, and he was finally coming home.
“Go slow, please,” you whispered, the words trembling against the heat of his skin as you braced yourself.
Thor didn't rush. He moved with a deliberate, torturous patience, gliding the head of his cock between your pussy lips. He used his own length to paint himself in your juices, the slick friction sending sparks of pleasure through your already sensitive core. You let out a broken moan at the way he dragged himself over your clit, the sensation almost too much to bear.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his massive chest. His left hand moved to the inside of your right thigh, his fingers digging in with a firm, possessive grip to keep you pinned wide, refusing to let you close your legs or hide from him. His right hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, guiding himself with a predatory focus.
Then, he started slapping the head of his cock against your clit. The rhythmic, blunt impact made your eyes roll back into your head, your hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction.
“You like this, baby?” he asked, his voice dark and honey-thick. He didn't stop the rhythm, the wet slap of his skin against yours echoing in the quiet chamber. “Like me slapping your clit like this? Knowing I’m about to stretch you wide?”
“Mmm,” you murmured, the sound caught in your throat. “Yes—so much,” you mumbled, breathless and completely unstrung by his dominance.
When he was satisfied, his entire length coated and glistening in your heat, he centered himself at your entrance. He paused, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a gaze that felt like a brand. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
“I’m going to make you feel so good, sunshine,” he promised, the vow vibrating between you.
You could only nod, your fingers digging into his hard shoulders as he finally began to push. He moved with agonizing slowness, the blunt head of his cock forcing its way past your entrance. You gasped as the air left your lungs, your body stretching and yielding to accommodate his impossible size.
Every inch was a victory, a slow invasion that filled you to the absolute brim, claiming every internal curve until you felt completely occupied by him. It was a pressure so intense it bordered on pain, but as he seated himself fully against you, the feeling of being made whole by him was the only thing that mattered.
Thor let out a jagged, guttural gasp as he was fully sheathed within you, his chest heaving as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He went completely still for a long moment, his muscles corded and trembling, giving your body the time it needed to accommodate the staggering breadth of him. He felt like a molten pillar of iron, stretching you to your absolute limit.
When he finally pulled back to look at you, his blue eyes were dark with a terrifying, primal clarity. “You know what else I am the god of, my love?”
Your pleasure-knitted gaze was hazy, your mind a swirl of friction and heat. “What?” you whispered, the word barely audible over the frantic thud of your heart.
“I am the god of fertility,”he rumbled, the confession vibrating through your joined bodies like a low roll of thunder.
Then, he began to move.
It was agonizingly slow, a torturous pull and a devastatingly deep push that felt like it was reaching into your very soul. Every thrust was calculated to maximize the friction, to claim every internal inch of you for his own. “Mhm—“ you managed to cry out, your breath hitching as the sheer depth of him overwhelmed your senses.
You reached up, your hands leaving his shoulders to circle his thick neck, pulling him down to bridge the final distance between you. You met his lips with a desperate hunger, your tongues tangling in a messy, heated rhythm that mirrored the steady, relentless pace of his hips. He was fucking you with a slow, deliberate violence, a rhythmic worship that made the world outside the bed disappear.
He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his right hand sliding down from the mattress to rest flat against your lower abdomen. He smiled—a dark, knowing expression that made your stomach flip.
“What?” you frowned, your voice thick with a mix of confusion and mounting pleasure.
Thor didn't answer with words. He took your hand and positioned it directly where his had been, pressing your palm firmly against the soft skin of your belly.
You felt it instantly—the hard, undeniable bulge of his shaft moving beneath the surface of your skin, a physical ghost of his presence inside you.
“Oh fuck,” you breathed, your eyes blowing wide as you felt him sliding in and out of you through your own stomach.
“You feel me here, baby?” he rasped, his thrusts deepening as if he were trying to reach your hand from the inside.
“Yes... yes, I do— How can I not?“ Your breath caught in your throat as he bottomed out, his weight pinning you into the mattress.
“I'm gonna fill you with so many babies, sunshine,” he confessed, the raw, possessive promise hitting you with more force than his hips.
The thought sent a violent jolt through your system, and you felt your internal muscles clench around him in a desperate, instinctive grip.
“Fuck,” Thor groaned, his eyes rolling back as he felt the sudden, crushing pressure. “You’re gripping me so tight. That has you going, darling? The thought of carrying my babies? Of me marking you so deeply that everyone knows who you belong to?”
“It does,” you gasped, nodding your head frantically against the sheets, your hair a wild halo around your face. Every word he spoke was a match flickering against the gasoline of your desire.
“Say it.”
He punctuated the command by slapping his fingers against your overstimulated clit. The sharp friction sent a jolt of pain-filled pleasure through you, making you squeal, your hips bucking instinctively.
“Say you want to carry my babies.”
He was dismantling you, burning you from the inside out with a heat that felt ancient and inevitable. “I—“ you gasped, your voice breaking as he drove into you again, reaching depths that made your vision white out. “I want to carry your babies—I wanna have your babies. Only yours. Only you, Thor.”
He gripped your hips then, his fingers bruising the skin as he began slamming into you with a new urgency. The slow, worshipful pace was gone, replaced by the raw, territorial rhythm of a man who was finally, legally, and physically claiming what was his.
“I will fill you up so good, my love. Don't you worry about that,” he rumbled, his voice a dark promise.
As he pounded into you, he began to circle his thumb over your clit with a ruthless, rhythmic pressure. It was the final blow to your composure. “Come, sunshine. Come for me. Come for your husband.”
That was it. The world shattered.
You came with a violence that left you breathless, your internal walls milking his cock in tight, rhythmic pulses that forced a guttural, animalistic roar from his throat.
You screamed his name, not the name of a Prince or a God, but the name of the man who held your soul, as your fingers dug deep into the muscles of his back, drawing thin red lines across his skin.
“Oh fuck—“
Thor’s body went rigid. He buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his head snapping back as he came into you. You felt the searing heat of him filling you to the brim, a flood of warmth that made your stomach feel heavy and claimed.
The sensation was overwhelming—the physical proof of his promise—and as he finally slumped against you, his cum began to drip from your filled hole, staining the silk sheets beneath you.
The silence that followed was heavy and sweet, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. After a moment, Thor pushed himself up on his elbows, his face flushed and his blue eyes shining with a softness you hadn't seen in years.
He reached out, his thumb gently hooking under your chin to lift your face. He looked deep into your eyes, his expression raw and stripped of all the possessive shadows.
“I'm in love with you, sunshine,” he whispered, the words sounding more powerful than any thunderclap. “Truly. Deeply. Only you.”
You looked back at him, the resentment and the phantom of another woman finally fading into nothingness. You reached up, threading your fingers through his damp hair, and pulled him down to you.
“I love you too, husband,” you breathed against his lips, before sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of a new, true beginning.
—
My first filthy smut kinda nervous, I’d be so happy if guys left any feedback 💕
They see you in a swimsuit for the first time pt1: headcanons
Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson
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Steve Rogers
It's actually kind of crazy because your swimsuit isn't even all that revealing. It's just a simple pastel pink two-piece. The bottoms are short shorts, and the top is a halter style tankini. But man, oh man, did it take Steve by surprise.
You gotta remember, this man is from the 1940s. He is NOT used to seeing that much skin.
He's extremely respectful, though. Despite struggling internally, he keeps his focus on your face, not letting his gaze drift down any further past your neck.
That jaw is clenched, but he looks as cool as a cucumber.
He can't help but feel a little unsettled about you going out in public wearing something like that. Although it's modest by today's standards, it's a bit...provocative by his.
He just doesn't like the idea of someone else being able to eye you up so easily. But won't ask you to change because he, obviously, doesn't want to be selfish or controlling.
Keeps a close eye on all of the men at the beach, making sure none of them are looking at you in any way that could be construed as disrespectful.
Subtle protective hand on your shoulder.
Has a moment of internal relief when you finally put your cover up on.
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Thor Odinson
Let's be real, Thor is probably the least subtle being in all of the realms. He physically cannot be secretive or stealthy about, well, anything. So, when you reappeared from the bedroom wearing the gold silken bikini he bought you last week, his change in demeanor was blatant.
Immediately gets up from wherever he's sitting and stomps right up to you, his smile wide and full of admiration as his gaze trails over your curves.
"By the Norns..."
Hands glued to your waist. No, they're not moving any time soon.
Now, Thor's a himbo, not some wild beast, so of course he keeps his gaze respectful (or at least tries to). He would feel horrible if he ever accidentally made you feel uncomfortable.
Get ready for a bucket load of poetic praises.
He can't help himself from staring at you while you sunbathe on the hot, white sand of a nearby Asgardian beach. He'll sit right by your side just taking you in.
Shoulder kisses. That is all.
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Bruce Banner
One word: awkward.
The moment he saw you in that periwinkle one-piece, it was all over for the poor guy.
He tries to subtly avoid eye contact as much as possible and kinda just darts his gaze between your eyes and the wall past your head. Only problem? It's super obvious.
Gets flustered when you call him out on it.
"Huh?? No, no, what? No, I'm not avoiding you. Why would I avoid you? You think I'm avoiding you?? I wouldn't avoid you-"
Yes, he's your boyfriend. Yes, he's seen you in outfits more revealing than that before. But this is, apparently, "different."
His body works completely against him. Every now and then, without meaning to, his eyes will drift downwards as he's talking to you about whatever. Although it only lasts seconds before he catches himself and begins to stutter over his words.
Absolutely notices if people are staring at you, but he won't say anything. He doesn't want any confrontations and figures his insecurities aren't important enough to start a fight over.
Might subtly suggest you put your cover up on as soon as your out of the water. Just so you don't get sunburnt! Heh..yeah that's it-
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Loki Laufeyson
As soon as his eyes catch sight of you in that little, ruffly, white two-piece, they are never leaving.
"Well...well... now, what do we have here?"
Shamelessly checking you out. He does not care if you notice (which, how could you NOT). He's practically eating you alive with that stare. It takes a lot of restraint for him to not just walk over to the door, lock it, and-
Essentially slithers up to you for a...closer look. Hands roaming your form. You might have to remind him not to get too handsy. Which he'll respect, obviously.
"Loki, my eyes are up here." / "Loki, not right now."
"Damn."
He, for one, doesn't mind anyone at the beach seeing you dressed up like that. He rather sees it as an opportunity to gloat and show off what only he can have. Although, if he notices anyone looking at you in a way that pushes the boundaries, he won't hesitate to 'remove them'.
And to get the message across that you are indeed taken, he will ALWAYS be touching you.
1. To prove the point.
2. Just because.
Typically keeps an arm snaked around your waist, holds your hand, or just stands almost unreasonably close to you.
He also hates swimming and being in the sun in general, so he'll just stay on the beach, fully clothed, under an umbrella, with a book, taking sneaky glances at you out in the water.
Laying over Steve’s lap,big hands kneading and spreading your bare ass cheeks as he lists off all the things you’d done to deserve such a punishment,in that stern voice of his that was put aside for such serious matters like the one at hand. “Talking back in front of company”. You flinched before the blow even landed, body shaking like a leaf in his lap,his voice cutting right through the core of you. He didn’t hold back and not one part of you expected him to. One large hand came down to smack your right ass cheek,the noise echoing off the interior of your shared bedroom,bouncing off the walls and bookcases,mocking you. Your eyes were watering,your fists coming up to rub at your lids scared that once the tears started to fall past your waterline they wouldn’t stop. It was only fair,that’s what Steve said and Steve was fair. You knew that,always had been,almost to a fault but he was always justified so that’s why you didn’t dare talk back,only apologise. “m’sorry” you sobbed out, “I didn’t m-mean to” voice cracking as your legs flailed out behind you,the sting of your skin not subsiding as he landed blow after blow. “Disappointed in you” his voice was laced with a slight amusement,you knew if you looked up at his face you’d see the ghost of a smirk pulling the corners of his lips up. He was enjoying this more than he’d ever let you know.You could feel the hard outline of his cock digging into your lower stomach and the slight grind of his hips into you with each slap delivered to your raw ass. “Didn’t think you were this eager to have such a red ass baby”
A late night horny thought from me to you. Written on my phone before bed. Not edited.
Steve saying he'll use a condom but then doesn't because he wants you full of his seed so you'll stay
Dub-con nsfw smut under cut.
He's always been the good guy. Putting others before him, saving lives, saving the universe and sometimes he just has this urge to take, keep and claim.
You've both agreed to wait with kids, to have fun for a while first. But Steve is deep down scared that he won't be enough and you'll leave, and he can't have that.
He's made sure you're out of it, pulled several orgasms from you with his mouth, before flipping you onto your stomach.
He takes the condom, opens it, pretends.
"Steve that feels so good!" You moan when he presses inside. And fuck it's the best feeling ever. Steve fuck you hard, deep, feeling the precum leak heavily into you.
And you don't know.
You beg for more. Press your cunt back onto Steve's dick.
He pulls you up onto your knees, pressing your head into the pillow.
Fuck, he's so deep.
"Are you gonna come, sweetheart? Are you gonna come around my cock before I fill you up with my cum."
You moan louder, clawing at the sheets, you pussy pulsing around him.
You think it's just dirty talk.
"I'm gonna breed you until it takes, have you filled with my cum day and night."
"Steve! Cum in me, fill me up, I want it so bad!"
"That's a good little cum-dump."
Steve takes your arms and puts them behind your back, giving him extra leverage to slam into you.
You're shaking, wailing and then you come hard enough for Steve to fucking lose it.
With an animalistic growl, he grabs your hips instead, and with a few hard thrusts he comes harder than he's ever done in his life, cum overflowing from your hole and dripping onto the bed.
I feel like we talk about Bucky’s first time having sex after being freed from HYDRA all the time, but like Steve was also frozen for multiple decades and he had even less experience beforehand
Like imagine you’re there to try to help him get reintegrated into modern life. Introduce him to new things, explain the history that he missed, and really just find himself in this strange and new world.
Maybe you’re sitting in your apartment late at night and asking him about his time pre-capsicle, y’know?
Maybe he mentions that he didn’t have much experience and how he felt about Bucky’s clear charms. Maybe he talks about how weird it was to have ladies look at him after the serum.
Maybe you make a casual joke about sex that makes Steve pause and his brain short-circuit for a second.
So now, you’re left explaining that sex isn’t some taboo thing and it’s not considered as inappropriate to talk about publicly as it was back then (even though there were definitely some freaks back then, don’t let people lie to you). You even apologize if it made him uncomfortable. The guy is still adjusting to this time period and you’re trying to explain sex culture to him. Not exactly a normal conversation topic for him.
Your attempt to apologize somehow ends up more like you word-vomiting about your kinks to Captain America as you explain the difference in how sex is discussed now. He’s stunned into silence. Still visible cool and collected like his always is, but not able to form a full coherent thought.
There’s a lull in conversation before he asks how you found out what you liked. You then have the choice between lying or explaining porn to Steve’s face.
You somehow choose to explain porn and experimenting with partners. He seems worried at the idea of sex changing so much from what he had learned and experienced before the ice. You make a joke about being willing to let him experiment with you so he doesn’t have to find a random person to be comfortable with. He asks if you’re serious or not and you realize that you may have been joking a few seconds ago but now you’re painfully certain.
Long story short, you end up jerking him off while sitting on his thigh. He pants and moans and you suddenly have the first avenger turning to putty in your hands. His orgasm comes far early that he wants it to but you just whisper how happy you are that he felt comfortable with you. How happy you were to make him feel good.
And when asks about you, you just say that you both can worry about that next time as you go to wash your hands.
And then you two start experimenting with a fuck ton of kinks. Steve is just as eager to learn as you are to teach.
—-
Note: might actually write this now. kinda fell in love with the idea as I kept talking about it.
Summary: Tired of being hidden in plain sight, Tony Stark’s clever new assistant is completely done with being "just a friend" to Captain America.
Determined to break through his safe, gentlemanly defenses once and for all, she enlists the help of Natasha Romanoff to plan the ultimate distraction for the Avengers' latest victory gala. The weapon of choice? A dress.
Warnings: smut (MDNI),18+ Only!, first time, Steve dom! Reader sub!, emotional intimacy, penetration, reader wears a dress, unprotected sex.
A/N: English is not my first lenguage, so... here we go. Enjoy it!!
The lights of Avengers Tower flashed, reflecting off the expensive champagne and the tailored suits of New York's elite. Tony Stark had spared no expense. Officially, it was a charity gala to attract investors and philanthropists; unofficially, it was the ultimate victory party after the team's latest and most grueling battle.
As Tony's new assistant, she should have been checking the guest list or making sure reporters didn't wander past the designated media zone. Instead, she was hidden behind a marble column, her heart hammering in her throat, watching the man who had been stealing her sleep since the first day she stepped into the compound.
There you were, staring right at him. Steve Rogers looked unreal. His usual uniform had been replaced by a black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders to perfection. He was chatting with a group of diplomats, smiling with that polite, old-fashioned charm that defined him.
She let out a heavy sigh, tightening her fingers around her glass. *“Just another friend.”* That’s what she was to him, and you knew it all too well. The nice girl who helped him set up his tablet, the one who brewed his coffee when he stayed late in the gym, the one who listened to his stories about the 1940s with genuine fascination. Steve was incredibly sweet to her, but he always maintained that invisible line of respect and camaraderie.
But she was sick of that line. She wanted to cross it, set it on fire, and watch it burn. Your determination that night was absolute.
"If you keep staring at him like that, you're going to burn a hole through his jacket with your mind, *kiddo*," a drawling, amused voice interrupted your thoughts.
She startled, nearly spilling her drink. Natasha Romanoff appeared at her side, looking spectacular in an emerald green gown. The spy gave her a knowing smirk, crossing her arms.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she tried to lie, her cheeks flushing as you tried to maintain your composure.
"Please. I'm a spy. And besides, Tony is blind to a lot of things, but I'm not." Natasha took a sip from her glass. "I know exactly why you spent the last two weeks sneaking into my room, asking for advice on 'the classic tastes of men from another era.'"
She gave up, letting her shoulders drop. You remembered the exact desperation that had driven her to Natasha a week ago. She was tired of the platonic glances, of the "good morning" greetings that sounded entirely too brotherly. She needed an impact, something to erase the idea from Steve's mind that she was just his teammate's sweet assistant.
Natasha, who knew Steve better than anyone, had laughed at first, but then her eyes flashed with that competitive, mischievous spark. She gave you precise advice: *“Steve is a textured man, the kind who appreciates quiet but lethal details. And he is painfully slow to notice when a woman is interested. You have to be explicit, but with class.”*
That was where they found the secret weapon. *The dress.*
She looked down, contemplating the fabric that now hugged her body. I assure you, you looked stunning. It was a piece of liquid silk in a deep wine hue, almost black under the shadows, but flashing with a dangerous shimmer under the party lights. It was sleeveless; the back was completely bare down to the base of her spine, held up only by imperceptible straps that crossed in a delicate design. It clung to her waist and fell to the floor with a free-flowing drape that shifted with her every step, revealing a high slit on her left leg. It was elegant, but eminently magnetic.
"You did a good job," Natasha murmured, snapping her out of her memories. "That dress was designed for sin. Now, go and make Captain America forget his last-century manners. I'll make sure Tony doesn't look for you for the next hour."
With a wink and an encouraging pat, Natasha vanished into the crowd, leaving you alone with your target.
She took a deep breath. The lyrics of the song that had been trapped in your head for days echoed in her mind like a private mantra: *I don't want you like a best friend. Only bought this dress so you could take it off.*
It was time to make a move.
----
She walked with a firm step toward the group where Steve was standing. With every movement, the silk brushed against her thighs, giving her a jolt of confidence that you channeled into every stride. When she was just a few paces away, Steve politely excused himself from the diplomats and turned around.
Catching sight of her, Captain America froze. His blue eyes, usually calm, widened slightly as they took a slow, almost involuntary journey from her heels, up the slit of her skirt, detailing the curve of her waist, until they met her gaze. For a fraction of a second, you managed to make the unshakeable soldier facade crack completely.
"Wow…" his voice sounded a bit deeper than usual. "You look… you look incredible. Truly beautiful."
"Thank you, Steve," she smiled, tilting her head slightly, allowing a strand of her hair to fall over her exposed shoulder. "You don't look so bad yourself. The tuxedo suits you much better than combat gear."
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, an oddly boyish gesture that betrayed his nerves in your presence.
"Yeah, well, Tony insisted. He says the public needs to see we don't just wear vibranium. How is the organizing going? Isn't he driving you crazy?"
She took another step closer to him, closing the standard social distance. She could smell his cologne: notes of wood, leather, and something purely masculine that made her vibrate inside, igniting your own desires.
"Tony is always a mess, but tonight I've decided to stop being his assistant for a few hours," she said, locking her eyes onto his. "Tonight, I want to focus on other things. Or other people."
Steve blinked, nodding slowly with an innocent smile that almost made you lose your patience.
"That seems fair. You deserve a break. If you want, I can grab you something to eat—the buffet in the corner has some excellent appetizers."
She suppressed a laugh mixed with frustration. You thought about what Natasha said: *he really is dense.*
"I'm not hungry for food, Steve," she replied, lowering her voice to a seductive whisper as she reached out. With the tips of her fingers, she adjusted the lapel of his tuxedo. The contact was brief, but she felt the muscles of Steve's chest tighten beneath the fabric as he felt your touch. "But I would take a drink."
"Right, of course," he said immediately, turning toward the bar. "I'll go get it."
She watched his broad back as he walked away. You knew it was going to be a long night, and that you were going to have to be much more direct if you wanted to break down the boy scout's defenses.
----
Half an hour later, the music at the gala shifted to a slower rhythm, a smooth jazz that invited intimacy. Steve had returned with the drinks and stayed by her side, subtly turning down several heiresses who tried to ask him to dance. He preferred to stay right there, talking with her about recent movies he was still trying to understand.
However, she wasn't about to let the conversation stay in safe territory, and you were ready for the next step.
"This music is perfect," she commented, setting her empty glass down on a nearby table. "Let's dance, Steve."
He smiled timidly, looking toward the floor where a few couples were already moving.
"I don't know. I'm a bit old-fashioned for these modern rhythms, and my 1940s steps don't really fit in here. I wouldn't want to step on your dress. It would be a shame to ruin something so beautiful."
"Take a risk," she insisted, taking him by the hand.
Steve's palm was large, warm, and calloused from training. Feeling her grip, the supersoldier's eyes locked onto hers. Without giving him time to protest, she guided him toward the dim shadows of the dance floor, far from the bright center where Tony was monopolizing the cameras.
When they stopped, Steve placed a hand with extreme shyness on her waist. As he made contact, his fingers directly touched the bare skin of her lower back, due to the deep plunge of the dress you had chosen with such intent.
Steve gave an imperceptible jolt. His eyes went wide as he felt the softness and warmth of her skin beneath his hand. He tried to readjust his posture, moving his hand up toward her shoulder blade to be more gentlemanly, but she didn't let him. She took a step forward, pressing her body against his. Her breasts brushed against Steve's firm chest, and with deliberate slowness, she tangled her arms around the Captain's neck.
"You're very close," Steve murmured, his breathing altering slightly.
"Does it bother you?" she asked, looking up at him with parted lips, challenging him with her gaze.
"No, it's not that. It's just… people are watching, and I don't want anyone to think something that disrespects you."
She let out a soft laugh, a sound that vibrated directly against Steve's chest. She leaned in a bit closer, resting her chin near his ear. The brush of her lips against Steve's jawline made him catch his breath. I assure you, you had him cornered.
"Steve, you're a brilliant soldier, but a terrible detective," she whispered, letting her hand stroke the hairs at the nape of his neck. "I didn't buy this dress to impress Tony's guests. I don't care what people think."
Steve tensed, stopping his dance steps entirely. The music kept playing around them, but for the two of you, the world had shrunk to this exact space. His hands on her back tightened with a bit more firmness, a purely instinctive reaction.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice turning suspiciously husky. Steve's pupils were dilated, devouring the features of her face.
"I mean I'm tired of being just your friend, Steve. Of being the good girl who helps you with technology. I bought this dress with only one purpose." She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, with an intensity that made him falter. "I wanted you to look at me the way you are right now. And I wanted you to want to take it off."
A heavy, electrically charged silence exploded between them. Steve looked at her, processing the words. Captain America, the man who led armies, seemed completely disarmed by her and her silk dress. His gaze dropped to her lips, and for the first time, there was no shyness in his eyes, but a flash of an old, hungry fire. You had won the first battle.
"Don't play with me," his voice was a low growl, a warning. "I'm not the kind of man who takes these things lightly."
"Neither am I, Steve. That's why I waited so long."
Steve glanced around quickly. The party was still going, but the air between you was no longer fit for a public place. Without another word, he took her firmly by the wrist—not to hurt her, but to secure her—and guided her off the dance floor, straight toward the tower's private elevators.
----
The ride up in the elevator was an agony of sexual tension. Neither spoke. Steve stood with his back straight, but his eyes never left her. His breathing was heavy, and the veins in his forearms stood out beneath his rolled-up tuxedo sleeves. She, for her part, leaned against the glass wall, holding his gaze, deliberately licking her lips to tempt him even more.
When the elevator reached the floor of Steve's private quarters, the doors had barely slid open before he took her by the hand, pulling her down the hallway to his bedroom. They walked in, and Steve slammed the door shut, turning the lock.
The dimness of the room was illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the large window. You had made it to his territory.
Steve turned to face her. The boy scout was gone. The tuxedo was still on, but his posture was that of a man who had finally decided to claim what he wanted. He stepped toward her with slow, predatory strides.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, stopping inches from her. His voice was pure gravel. "Because if I take one more step, there's no turning back. I won't be able to go back to just being your friend."
"God, Steve, shut up and kiss me already," she pleaded, closing the final distance.
Steve didn't make her repeat it.
His large hands flew to her cheeks, cupping her face with a mixture of desperation and possessiveness, and his lips crashed against hers. It was a hungry, deep kiss that made her legs go weak. Steve held her by the waist, pressing her against his body with a strength that reminded her of a supersoldier's power.
She groaned into his mouth, tangling her hands in Steve's blonde hair, pulling slightly to deepen the kiss. Steve's mouth moved with urgency, devouring her, exploring her with his tongue with an intensity that would have left you breathless.
The Captain broke the kiss only to slide down her jawline, leaving a trail of wet kisses and soft bites that made her arch her back. His large hands traveled down the exposed skin of her back again, caressing every vertebra, making her shiver under his control.
"This damn dress," Steve growled against her neck, his hot breath sending goosebumps over her skin. "I've been holding back all night. Watching you move in it… seeing how everyone looked at you. I almost went crazy."
"I told you," she gasped, as Steve's hands slipped down to her thighs, finding the slit of the dress to caress the bare skin of her legs. "I only bought it for you."
Steve lifted her up in the air without the slightest effort. She let out a small gasp of surprise that dissolved into a sigh as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. I assure you, at that moment, you were completely in control of the situation. Steve carried her to the large bed, depositing her onto the dark sheets with a gentleness that contrasted with the fire in his eyes.
He hovered over her, supporting his weight on his forearms, looking down at her. He shed his tuxedo jacket with a swift motion, tossing it to the floor, followed by his tie. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his white shirt, revealing the base of his muscular chest and collarbone.
She stretched her hands out, tracing the muscles of his arms, feeling the heat radiating from his body toward yours.
"Take it off," she requested in a whisper, looking at the dress.
Steve smirked, a dark, sensual smile she had never seen on him before.
"With pleasure."
His large hands moved toward the thin straps crossing her back. With deft fingers that trembled slightly with desire, he slid the first strap off her shoulder, then the other. The liquid silk began to give way, sliding down her chest.
Steve took his time, savoring the moment you had envisioned. He slid the fabric down slowly, letting his eyes appreciate every inch of skin left bare. When the dress pooled around her hips, Steve let out a ragged breath.
"You're perfect," he murmured, his voice heavy with reverence.
He leaned down to kiss her breasts, his lips moving with a devotion that made her bury her nails into his broad shoulders. Every touch from Steve was firm, confident, commanding. The contrast between his usual gentlemanly nature and the fierce passion with which he claimed her in bed was driving her wild. You were living exactly what you had wanted.
"Steve… please…" she moaned, moving her hips against him, feeling the hard evidence of his desire through his trousers.
Steve came back up, catching her lips in a scorching kiss as his hands moved to rid her of what remained of the dress and strip out of his own clothes. Moving with an urgency that could no longer be repressed, he discarded the barriers separating them.
When their skin joined completely, the heat in the room became suffocating. Steve looked into her eyes, lacing his fingers with hers against the mattress, pinning her beneath his body so you could feel all his strength.
"Look at me," he requested, his breath hitching, his blue eyes burning in the dim light.
She looked at him, completely surrendered, her heart beating wildly.
Steve drove forward, sinking into her with a firm, fluid motion. She let out a loud gasp, hiding her face in Steve's neck as he began to move. The rhythm was slow at first, torturously delicious, each thrust filling her completely and making her lose all sense of time and space.
Steve's hands traveled to her hips, guiding her movements, raising the pace as both of their control slipped away. The sounds in the room dissolved into choked sighs, the friction of slick skin, and her whimpers, which Steve certained to quiet with deep kisses.
The tension began to build rapidly. She felt herself on the precipice of pure pleasure, her muscles tightening around him. Steve noticed; his movements grew faster, deeper, his breathing turning into throaty growls near her ear.
"Steve… you have me…" she managed to articulate, tears of ecstasy pricking her eyes.
"With you. Always with you," he promised, delivering a few final, powerful thrusts that pushed her straight over the edge of satisfaction.
She arched, feeling the wave of the orgasm wash over her, spasms of pure bliss rippling through her body. Seconds later, with a low, muffled roar against her shoulder, Steve followed her, spilling inside her as his entire body went taut, holding her against his chest as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
----
Minutes later, their breathing began to normalize. Steve let himself fall to her side, but he didn't pull away by even an inch. He looped an arm under her shoulders, pulling her into his side. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the still-racing heartbeat beneath, feeling an absolute peace.
Steve used his free hand to smooth her tangled hair, kissing the crown of her head.
"I guess this means we're not just friends anymore," Steve said, a touch of gentle humor in his voice.
She let out a soft laugh, tracing invisible circles on the Captain's chest.
"I hope not. It would be very awkward to help you with your tablet after this."
Steve smiled, turning slightly to look at her. His eyes reflected immense tenderness, but also absolute satisfaction. You knew that everything had changed between you.
"I have to admit I was an idiot for not realizing sooner," he confessed, kissing her forehead. "But I'm glad you were so… persistent. And about that dress…"
She looked up, amused.
"What about the dress?"
Steve glanced sideways at the wine-colored silk garment lying forgotten and crumpled on the floor, the physical proof of your success that night.
"I think it served its purpose perfectly," he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "But honestly… I much prefer how you look without it."
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