Summary: He was your grumpy trainer, a handler to help you keep your newly discovered powers at bay. You were hopelessly in love with him yet you knew he couldn't look at you that way. Oh, how wrong you turned out to be.
Content: Grumpy and Sunshine Dynamic, Angst, King Thor, Infinity War-Endgame Thor, Yearning, Tension, Possessive Thor, Jealous Thor, OBSESSED Thor, Jealous Reader, Age Gap (Thor is a god hello), A Lot Of Bad Jokes, Reader Is Annoying Him, Reader In Her Early To Late 20's (you could interpret it as older, I do not specify her age but she definitely has so much energy), Explicit SMUT At The End. (Note: My first language is not English.)
Word Count: 32k (Basically a novella guys)
Minors Do Not Interact
—
You sat on a rolling stool, slowly swinging your legs, while a robotic arm scanned your vitals. Every time you got excited, purple sparks jumped from your ponytail, making the nearby monitors glitch.
“So, let me get this straight,” you said, leaning forward to peek at Tony Stark’s holographic displays. “I’m not dying? I’m just spicy now?”
Tony didn't look up from his tablet, but his brow was furrowed in that way that meant he was doing math that would make your head explode. “You’re not spicy, kid. You’re a biological anomaly. And the opposite. You can’t die. When the Stones did their thing, you caught a stray wave of gamma and astral radiation. Most people turned to dust, you turned into an immortal high-voltage capacitor.”
“So I'm an Avenger? Do I get a suit? I was thinking something with pockets. Real pockets, not those fake ones they put on women's jeans.”
Tony finally looked at you, giving you a dry, pitying stare. “You get a handler. You’ve had these powers for forty-eight hours, and you’ve already accidentally melted your neighbor's refrigerator. You need a tutor.”
“Is it Captain America? I’d be okay with that. He seems like he gives great ‘I'm disappointed in you’ speeches.”
“No,” Tony muttered, heading for the door. “Steve is too nice. You’d eat him alive. You need someone who can actually withstand a direct hit from you. Follow me.”
The elevator opened, and you practically bounced out. You were terrified, sure, but the adrenaline of being in the actual Avengers Compound was winning.
Then, you saw him.
Thor was standing by the window. He wasn't wearing the regal armor or the flowing cape. He was in a dark, tactical shirt that strained against his shoulders, his short hair making him look like a rugged, battle-worn mercenary. He looked like he carried the weight of the entire universe on his back. Oh, he was so hot.
Your heart started thudding against your ribs.
He turned around, his gaze landing on you. For a split second, the air left his lungs.
He saw the way the violet light swirled in your eyes—it looked like the nebulas he used to fly through with his brother. He thought you were stunning, a rare flash of vibrant life in a world that had gone dark.
Then, you opened your mouth.
You just had to open your mouth didn’t you?
“Hold on,” you said, eyes narrowed. “You’re the God of Thunder? I thought you’d be— I don't know, older now? Like, beard-to-the-floor, wizard-hat older. But you’re actually still kind of a babe. A very grumpy, scarred babe.”
Thor blinked. The celestial beauty image in his mind cracked and fell apart instantly. “A... babe?”
“Yeah! And the eye! Is it glass? Can I see it? Does it pop out?” You walked right into his personal space, peering up at him like he was a science project. “Tony says I’m assigned to you. I do the purple sparks. You do the blue ones. We’re like a matching set! Though, I heard you missed the head on the big bad. Don't worry, I’m great at aiming. I once won a giant teddy bear at a carnival by hitting a moving target. I can totally teach you.”
Thor’s jaw tightened. He looked over your head at Tony, his face a mask of pure, mounting horror. “Stark. What is this? Why is this mortal child speaking to me about carnivals and my aim?”
“Hey! I am not a mortal anymore, nor am I a child. I'm a whole ass adult!” you said looking at both of them. First Tony calls you kid, and now Thor calls you a child.
You have noticed a pattern here. Good for you.
“She’s your problem now, Point Break,” Tony called out, retreating back into the elevator. “She’s a human energy-well. You're the only one who won't turn into a charcoal briquette during her training. Enjoy the youth!”
The doors closed. You beamed up at Thor, your fingers sparking with a happy violet light. “So! Training! Do we start with the sparks, or do we start with the workout? Because I have to tell you, I haven't done a sit-up since 2019 and I don't plan on starting now.”
Thor looked at your bright, grinning face, then up at the ceiling, his hand tightening on the handle of Stormbreaker. He was 1,500 years old. He had fought dragons. He had faced Thanos. And yet, he had never felt more defeated.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, the word a low rumble of thunder.
“Was that a yes to no sit-ups?!” you cheered. “You're already the best teacher ever!”
Thor didn't answer. He just turned and began marching toward the gym, his cape—which he had summoned just to feel more like a King—billowing behind him in an angry, red cloud.
“Wait for me, Thunder Bolt!” you yelled, running after him.
“Seven AM tomorrow,” he barked over his shoulder. “If you speak before the sun is fully up, I will throw you into the Hudson.”
“Is that a promise? Because I can't drown now, so that sounds like a fun Saturday!” you yelled back, stopping in your tracks.
Thor’s pace doubled. He didn't look back.
You stood in the hallway, watching his broad shoulders disappear around the corner. You were grinning, but deep down, a little knot of anxiety twisted in your stomach.
He hated you, didn't he? Or at least, he found you as pleasant as a persistent toothache.
You were just a job to him—a loud, sparkly, annoying Midgardian job.
—
The next morning, the panic hit before the memories did. You bolted upright, your hair a tangled static-charged mess that looked like you’d stuck your finger in a socket. Your chest heaved as you looked at the sterile, high-tech walls of the room.
Where the fuck am I?, you thought as you scrambled out of bed, heart hammering against your ribs, and lunged for the door.
Then, you stopped. The cool touch of the metal handle grounded you. The Compound. The Avengers. The Sparks.
“Oh,” you breathed, a deep, shaky sigh of relief escaping your lungs. You weren't in your tiny, blown-up apartment anymore. This was your life now. You weren't just a girl who got lucky, your DNA had been rewritten into something immortal and unbreakable.
You spent the next twenty minutes trying to look like you could handle the power of a star.
How does one look like that anyway?
You pulled on your black leggings and a skin-tight t-shirt that hugged your frame, the fabric stretching over the faint, violet veins of energy that pulsed near your collarbone.
When you walked into the common area, the scent of expensive coffee and cedarwood hit you.
And then, you caught sight of him. Thor was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a simple grey hoodie that made him look human and dangerously approachable. He was staring at a tablet, his rugged, handsome face illuminated by the screen's glow.
He looked so beautiful it actually hurt.
You stood there for a second, your breath catching in your throat, feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room.
Get it together, you scolded yourself. He thinks you're a nuisance. Don't let him see you melt, act normal.
“Good morning, Thunder-Thighs!” you called out, your voice a little too loud, a little too bright, masking the fact that your heart was doing backflips.
Yeah, so much for acting normal. Idiot.
You couldn’t help it okay? You rambled when you were nervous and he made you really nervous.
He just looked sideways at you, his gaze lingering on your messy hair for a fraction of a second before he turned back to his cup. “Good morning, Little One,” he mumbled into his coffee.
Your brows furrowed. “Little One?” you repeated, stepping closer. “Is that the new nickname? Because like I told you before, I am an adult, thank you very much.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips—just a tiny, fleeting flicker—as he looked up at you. It was the first time he’d looked at you without immediate exasperation. “You are so much younger and smaller than me, aren't you?”
Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath hitched. You were standing close enough to see the stubble on his jaw and the way the grey fabric of his hoodie stretched over his chest.
“I'm compact,” you squeaked, your face heating up. “Highly concentrated energy. Like a—like a shot of espresso. Smaller than you but lethal.” Thor let out a low, huffing sound that might have been a laugh.
Then you added, “And I’ll outlive most things.”
Thor’s expression shifted, a shadow of something heavy crossing his eyes. He knew you were like him now—someone who would watch the years pass while others faded.
How could this be?, he wondered. How were you going to handle losing everyone around when the time came? He didn’t want you losing your spark, he couldn’t bear the thought of it, but you would eventually. And that was something he didn’t want to witness. Ever.
He stood up, towering over you, the sheer scale of him reminding you that he was a celestial being and you were just a girl with a sudden power-up.
“The espresso is twenty minutes late for training,” he rumbled, his tone shifting back to that cold distance. The smile was gone. The wall was back up. “Eat your breakfast. The mat does not wait.”
You finished your breakfast in record time, shoving the last bite of toast down as you sprinted toward the training wing. Your pulse was already racing, a frantic staccato that had nothing to do with the cardio and everything to do with the man waiting for you behind those reinforced doors.
When you entered, Thor was already there, shedding his grey hoodie to reveal a black compression shirt that clung to the topographical map of his muscles like a second skin. He didn't need to look at you, he could likely feel the chaotic hum of your energy the moment you crossed the threshold.
“You're late,” he rumbled, his back to you. “Later than twenty minutes.”
“I was savoring the jam. It’s a delicate process, Thor. You can't rush art,” you chirped, though your voice felt thin. You stepped onto the mat, the silence of the room suddenly feeling very small, very intimate. “So, what’s the plan? Are we doing the floaty-sparky thing you do or are you gonna show me how to throw a punch without breaking my own thumb?”
Thor turned slowly. His expression was a fortress of indifference, but his eyes—those stormy, ancient eyes—lingered on the pulse point of your neck. “Stance first,” he commanded. “If the foundation is weak, the house falls. Feet shoulder-width apart. Arms up.”
You obeyed, trying to look like a warrior and failing miserably as you wobbled. “Like this? I feel like a very aggressive penguin.”
He stepped toward you. The distance between you vanished in three heavy, deliberate strides.
He reached out then, moving behind you, his massive frame looming like a shadow that promised both protection and ruin. You felt the heat of him before you felt his touch—a wall of radiation that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. His hands settled on your waist to square your hips.
Your breath hitched, a sharp sound in the quiet gym.
He’s burning me, you thought, your mind spinning into a haze. His touch was a brand, a searing imprint that seemed to sink through your leggings and into your very bones.
Thor’s fingers lingered, his grip firm yet strangely careful, as if he were trying to steady a fluttering bird. He leaned down, his chest brushing against your back, his voice a low, gravelly vibration right against your ear. “Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Do not lean back.”
How am I supposed to lean anywhere but toward you? you screamed internally.
“Right. Balls of feet. No leaning. Got it,” you squeaked. Your skin was flaming wherever he touched you. To distract yourself from the way your heart was trying to escape your chest, you leaned into the annoyance. “You know, you're really getting into the personal space zone. Is this part of the Asgardian curriculum? ‘Introduction to Close-Contact Brooding’?”
Thor stiffened. From your position, you couldn't see his face, but you could hear the shift in his breathing. He moved his hands from your waist to your arms, sliding them up to your elbows to lift them higher.
He was so fucked.
As he stood there, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, the scent of you filled his senses. He closed his eyes for a treacherous second, inhaling deeply.
You were the most annoying woman he had ever encountered—a chattering, bright, chaotic light in his gray world—wrapped in the body of a goddess carved from his darkest, most secret fantasies.
She’s a torture device, he decided. A weapon specifically forged by the Norns to ensure his downfall. And you were so young. A blink of an eye in his long life. It had to be a sick, cosmic joke.
“Silence,” he rasped, but the command lacked its usual bite. His hands slid down your forearms, his calloused palms grazing yours, and the friction sent a jolt of violet sparks dancing between your fingers.
“Whoops,” you whispered, looking down at where your hands were joined. “I think I just gave you a high-five from the universe. Or maybe that was just my heart stopping, really hard to tell.”
He let his hands linger over yours, his thumbs tracing the line of your knuckles in an agonizingly slow stroke. Your heart skipped a beat.
Has it always been this hard to breathe?
“Your heart has nothing wrong with it, Little One,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, “Though, your mind lacks discipline.”
“My mind is busy,” you replied, turning your head just enough to catch the glint of his eye. “It’s currently occupied by the fact that you smell really, really nice—“
He couldn’t hear the rest, his gaze fell towards your lips, his breathing heavy. What would she do if I kissed her?, he wondered, Would she stop talking or would she keep pushing my buttons?
Not even a whole day had passed and he was thinking of kissing you.
He couldn’t kiss you. It was wrong. He really had to stay away from you, he was being a total creep.
Thor’s jaw tightened. He pulled back, the sudden loss of his heat making you feel like you’d been plunged into ice water. He walked to the center of the mat, his back rigid, his hands fisted at his sides as if he were trying to crush the sensation of your skin.
“Again,” he barked, the wall slamming back into place with a resounding thud. “And if you speak again, I will add twenty laps to your session. Begin.”
Day 10
The morning of your tenth day at the Compound arrived not with a sunrise, but with a dull thrumming behind your temples—the cosmic price of having a heart that beat in violet lightning. You rubbed your eyes, trying to quiet the static in your soul, and pulled on your gear.
When you entered the common room, the heavyweights were all there—a pantheon of heroes nursing mugs of coffee like they were holy relics. Steve, Nat, Tony, Bruce, Scott and then there was Rocket, hunched over the counter like a disgruntled mechanic.
And Thor. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, the grey fabric of his hoodie straining against shoulders that seemed wide enough to carry the sky. He looked beautiful in that exhausted, jagged way of his—a masterpiece of scars and sorrow.
Your blood pressure was rising. You could feel it.
Calm your tits, babe, you whispered to yourself in your mind, He was a god of antiquity, a king of a fallen world, and you—not even a quarter of his lifetime—human who still forgot to take the tags off her new clothes. He didn't like you, he was just a very handsome, very hot celestial babysitter.
“Good morning, legends, icons, and sentient trash pandas!” you chirped, sliding into the stool next to Rocket.
“Watch it, Sparky,” Rocket growled, not looking up from a piece of twisted metal. “One more crack about my species and I’m gonna rewire your hair dryer to deliver a tactical nuke to your scalp.”
“You love me, Rocket. I’m the only one who appreciates your craft,” you teased, sticking your tongue out at him.
Thor looked up then, his gaze heavy and slow, like a deep ocean current. “Good morning, Little One,” he mumbled. His voice was a low, resonant vibration that made the marrow in your bones ache.
“Morning, Thunder-Thighs,” you beamed, trying to ignore the way your heart did a clumsy somersault. He stood up, heading for the sleek, high-tech espresso machine with the weary grace of a man who hadn't slept since the dawn of time.
This is it, you thought. Show him you’re useful. Show him you’re more than just a loud mouth.
“You look like you're struggling, big guy,” you said, hopping off your stool and skipping over. You stood beside him, the heat radiating off his body feeling like a physical pull, a gravity you couldn't escape. “Let me give that a little jumpstart. An artisanal, hand-crafted spark to get the water boiling.”
Thor paused, his hand hovering over the button. He looked down at you, his eyes narrowed in a silent plea for peace. “The internal workings are delicate, Sparky. Do not meddle.”
“I'm not meddling, I'm enhancing! Think of it as a gift from the cosmos.”
You focused, channeling a sliver of your energy into your fingertip. You wanted a whisper, a tiny flicker, a gentle kiss of energy to the machine's heart. You touched the chrome casing, your eyes locked on his, hoping to see a flash of impressed wonder.
Instead, the energy lunged. Literally.
A violet arc of static tore from your finger, bypassing every safety fuse in the building. The machine shrieked, a violent, metallic clack-hiss erupted as the motherboard turned into a puddle of molten plastic.
BOOM.
The explosion was small but spectacular. A cloud of scalding white steam and soggy coffee grounds erupted into the air, coating everything in a three-foot radius.
Silence fell over the room. Tony hid his face in his hands. Rocket broke into a wheezing cackle.
Thor stood perfectly still. He was covered in a fine mist of dark roast, a single, wet coffee bean clinging to the bridge of his nose. He didn't move. He just stared at the smoking, twisted corpse of the only thing that brought him joy in the mornings.
“Oops?” you whispered, your face burning a deeper red than a beet. You waved a hand through the steam, your stomach sinking through the floor. “On the bright side, the room smells like a toasted marshmallow now? It’s very autumnal.”
Thor slowly turned his head to look at you. The look in his eye was a tragedy in three acts. He didn't say a word; he simply lifted a single, trembling finger and pointed it toward the training room door.
“Right. Moving. Training. I'll just go be an idiot over there,” you mumbled, scurrying away with your tail between your legs.
As you fled, you could feel his gaze burning into the small of your back. But he wasn't merely annoyed. He was obsessed with the chaos you brought into his quiet, grieving world, and the fact that you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was a torture he wasn't sure he could survive.
Day 20
The twentieth day arrived with a rhythm you were beginning to recognize—the hum of the Compound’s lights, the scent of morning mist over the Hudson, and the inevitable, bone-deep anticipation of seeing him. You were slowly finding your footing, your body learning the language of combat that Thor spoke so fluently.
You were sparring, a dance of violet sparks and redirected thunder.
“Again,” Thor rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in your chest.
He moved with the grace of a predatory cat, stepping into your guard. He reached out, his massive hands catching your waist to pivot you into a defensive stance. You bit your lip so hard you tasted iron, your breath hitching as his palms grazed the skin above your leggings. The touch was a brand; it was a searing imprint that made your blood sing a desperate song.
You were breathless, but it wasn't from the tempo.
It was him.
It was the way his thumbs lingered on your hips for a fraction of a second too long, the way his stormy gaze tracked the pulse jumping in your throat. You were so caught up in the heat of his proximity that your brain simply disconnected from your feet.
You tripped over nothing but your own dizzying heart, stumbling forward and landing face-first on his heavy, leather-bound boots.
The silence that followed was deafening. You stayed there for a beat, eyes squeezed shut, wishing the floor would simply swallow you whole and deposit you in another dimension. Mortified didn't even begin to cover it.
Slowly, you looked up.
Thor was staring down at you, his head tilted, his expression a masterpiece of genuine confusion. He looked like a mountain from this angle—vast, rugged, and impossibly handsome.
“How is it,” he asked, his voice low and bewildered, “that you have the power to level a forest but cannot navigate a flat floor?”
You gulped, your throat tight as you stayed on your knees at his feet. It felt dangerously improper, sitting there in the shadow of a god, looking up at the sharp line of his jaw and the beautiful scar over his eye.
Then, his gaze changed. The confusion died a sudden, violent death, replaced by a dark, hooded gaze that made your heart stop.
Thor looked down at you—flushed, breathless, and looking like a dream fallen to his mercy—and for a heartbeat, he was truly, utterly undone. Fuck, he thought, the word a silent plea in his mind. You were most definitely a torture device specifically designed for his ruin. He was sure of it now.
He averted his eyes quickly, his jaw tightening as he cleared his throat to regain his composure. He had treated you like a child learning to walk, a nuisance to be tolerated, but the man behind the king was aware that you were a fire he couldn't put out.
He did something then that he hadn't done before. Instead of barking a command or turning his back, he slowly held out his hand, his fingers calloused and steady. “Come on,” he murmured.
You reached out, your smaller hand disappearing into his. As he pulled you up, his other hand found your waist, holding you loosely to steady you. The touch was light, almost ghostly, but it burned through you like a wildfire. You were so deep in the depths of this burning ache that you didn't think you’d ever find the surface.
“I’m just testing the floor's structural integrity,” you squeaked, trying to find your voice. “It passed. Very sturdy. Good job, Stark.”
Thor didn't let go immediately. His hand stayed on your waist, his thumb grazing the fabric of your shirt in a slow, subconscious rhythm that felt like a secret.
“The floor is fine,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, soft tone. “It is your focus that wavers.”
“Hard not to waver when the room is so—“ you gulped, “tall,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.
Thor’s grip tightened for a fleeting second before he finally pulled back, the loss of his heat leaving you shivering. “Again,” he commanded, though his eyes lingered on your lips for a beat too long. “And try to stay on your feet, Little One.”
12 Weeks Later
Twelve weeks. Ninety-one days of waking up in a room that still felt too big, in a body that still felt too loud, and in a heart that had become a casualty of war.
You were humming a soft, wandering tune as you waited for the elevator, your fingers tracing the seam of your running leggings. You looked down at your hands; they were steady now, the energy humming just beneath the surface like a loyal pet rather than a feral beast. Living here, under the watchful, stormy eye of a God, had changed you. You weren't merely a girl anymore; you were a weapon being honed by the finest blacksmith in the Nine Realms.
But the cost was high.
Every time Thor touched you—adjusting the curve of your spine, his calloused palms lingering just a second too long on your ribs—you felt like you were being rewritten. You lived for those fragments of him. A ghost of a smile, a muttered “Well done, Little One,” a lingering gaze when he thought you weren't looking.
It was pathetic, really.
You were starving for a man who saw you as a chaotic nuisance, a cosmic accident he was tasked to fix.
The elevator doors hissed open, and there was Steve.
He was leaning against the back wall, looking every bit the Captain in a simple navy henley that made his blue eyes pop. He smiled when he saw you, that genuine, steady-as-a-heartbeat smile that usually made people feel like the world wasn't actually falling apart.
“Heading out?” he asked, pushing off the wall of the elevator with an easy grace.
“Thought I’d give the pavement some trouble,” you chirped, stepping in beside him. The hum of the descent began, a low vibration beneath your sneakers. “The sun is actually out. I figured I should go appreciate it before Tony decides to build a dome over the Compound or something.”
Steve chuckled, a warm, grounded sound.
Over the last two months, he’d become your anchor. He understood the silence of the Compound. He understood what it was like to look around and see the empty spaces where friends used to be. When he’d told you about Bucky, you’d felt a sharp, empathetic pang. He’s all alone, just like me, you’d thought. Different worlds, different eras, but the same hollow ache.
“Mind if I join you for a few miles?” Steve asked as the floor numbers flickered by. “I could use the air. And I promise not to say ‘on your left’ more than a strictly necessary amount of times.”
“Make it only three times and you’ve got a deal, Rogers,” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours. “But I have to warn you, I’ve been training with a literal God. My pace is, well, let's just say it's almost godly.”
Steve grinned. “I think I can keep up.”
As the doors opened into the lobby, you were laughing at something he said about Scott’s latest mishap in the lab. You were comfortable, light—a rare version of yourself. Then, you caught sight of him. Thor was standing by the glass entrance, his arms crossed over the broad expanse of his chest. He looked like a statue of ancient, silent judgment.
His gaze fell on you first, then flicked to Steve, and finally settled on the way you were standing just a little too close to the Captain’s side.
It felt like the atmospheric pressure had suddenly dropped, the way it does right before a devastating strike of lightning.
“Thor!” you called out, trying to keep your voice airy despite the way your heart immediately started its frantic, traitorous thumping. “You're back. Did you run out of things to scowl at in the city?”
Thor didn't smile. Not even a flicker. His gaze was dark, fixed on Steve’s hand, which was currently resting platonically near your elbow.
“I was finished,” Thor rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to make the very glass of the windows shiver. He looked at Steve, his jaw tightening until you heard the faint, sharp click of his teeth. “Captain. I did not realize you were scheduled for training this morning.”
“We're just going for a run, Thor,” Steve said, his tone even, though he clearly felt the shift in the air.
Thor’s gaze snapped back to you. He looked at you with an intensity so sharp it felt like the weight of a thousand planets, a mix of silent agony and a possessiveness he was desperately trying to mask as disappointment.
To him, you were a vibrant, shimmering sun, and he was a man who had walked through the dark for too long. He felt ancient, broken and utterly out of place in your presence—but seeing you smile at Steve felt like a spear to his ribs.
“A run,” Thor repeated, the word sounding like a curse. He stepped forward, his shadow falling over you, smelling of rain and cedar. “Ensure you do not overexert yourself, Little One. You still have three hours of sparring this afternoon. I would hate for you to be distracted.”
The way he said distracted made your skin flame. You looked up at him, your joyful mask slipping for just a second. “I'm never distracted when I'm with you, Thor. You make sure of that.”
Thor froze. For an agonizing heartbeat, his gaze dropped to your lips, his pupils blowing wide.
He wanted to snatch you away, to pull you into a corner of the world where no one else could see how bright you were. He felt like a fool, a man haunted by his own student, but he couldn't stop the cold jealousy from clawing at his throat.
“See that you aren't,” he rasped, then turned on his heel and marched toward the elevators without another word.
“Well,” Steve muttered, looking at the retreating back of the God of Thunder. “That was intense.”
“That's just Thor,” you said, your voice shaking as you tried to laugh it off. “He’s just really protective of his training schedule. Or maybe he just hates my running shoes.”
But as you walked out into the sun with Steve, you couldn't stop thinking about the way Thor’s hand had twitched, as if he were gripping a weapon he didn't have.
He wasn't just grumpy like his usual self. He was fuming.
You and Steve were about three miles in, and the so called godly pace you’d promised was rapidly turning into a desperate struggle for oxygen. You were keeping up, mostly out of pure, stubborn pride, but your lungs were starting to feel like they were being scrubbed with sandpaper.
Steve was barely even glowing with sweat. He was listening to you ramble about a movie you’d seen, laughing in that easy, golden-boy way of his that made the grueling run feel almost like a normal morning.
“I’m telling you, Steve, the ending made zero sense. If she had just—“
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy, rhythmic footfalls approached from behind, fast and deliberate. You didn't even have time to glance over your shoulder before a massive shadow fell over you, cutting through the morning sun.
You turned your head, and your heart stalled out completely.
Thor was right there. He was matching your stride with an effortless, predatory grace. He had swapped his sweatpants for charcoal running shorts and a grey t-shirt that looked like a sin on him—the fabric was tight, clinging to the ridges of his chest and the sharp lines of his torso in a way that made your throat go dry.
Your steps faltered, your sneakers scuffing the pavement as you nearly tripped over your own surprise.
“Thor?” you managed to mutter, your voice sounding a lot less grounded and a lot more breathless.
“Yes, Little One,” he said, his voice as steady as if he were sitting on a couch rather than sprinting. He didn't look at Steve nor did he look at the scenery. He just gave you a brief, sideways glance that felt like a touch.
“What are you doing? Our training session isn't until later this afternoon,” you said, blinking the sweat out of your eyes, your mind racing to find a reason why he'd suddenly joined you.
“I am training you,” he replied simply.
“Like—like this? We're just running?”
“We run too,” he rumbled.
“But you don't like only running,” you challenged, your eyebrows shooting up in genuine confusion. “Every time we do cardio, you make me do a lot of side quests while we run. You make me carry heavy stuff or jump over moving obstacles. You said running in a straight line was a ‘waste of a warrior's time.’ Why the sudden change of heart?”
“I do like running,” he cut you off, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. He increased his pace by just a fraction—just enough to force himself between you and Steve, effectively carving out a space where he was the only thing in your peripheral vision.
You stared at him, bewildered. Was he just having a mood? Maybe the coffee machine incident was still haunting him and he needed to burn off the grumpiness.
Steve, who had been suspiciously quiet, let out a soft, stifled sound. You glanced past Thor’s massive shoulder to see the Captain biting his lip, his eyes crinkling as he stared straight ahead, clearly trying to swallow a laugh.
“Is there something funny, Steve?” you asked, looking between the two of them. “Because I'm over here dying and Thor is acting like he’s practicing for the Olympics out of nowhere.”
“Nothing,” Steve managed to say, though his voice was strained. “Just enjoying the fresh air.”
Thor’s gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, but the muscle in his cheek jumped. “Focus on your breathing, Little One. You are wasting your oxygen on useless questions. If you have the energy to interrogate me, you are not running fast enough.”
“I was running plenty fast before you showed up like a localized thunderstorm!” you huffed, a violet spark dancing at your fingertip as you tried to keep up with his suddenly brutal pace.
He didn't answer, but his presence was absolute, a wall of heat and muscle that refused to let you look anywhere else. He looked rugged, untouchable, and so far out of your league it was a joke—yet here he was, breathing the same air, his shoulder almost brushing yours with every stride. It made no sense, but you just pushed harder, trying to ignore how much your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the run.
Steve adjusted his pace, seemingly oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature radiating from the man between you. “Anyways, doll, let’s continue our conversation,” he said, his voice easy and warm. “You were saying? About the movie?”
Thor’s head whipped toward him so fast it was a wonder he didn't give himself whiplash. The rhythmic thud of his shoes on the pavement suddenly sounded like a war drum.
“Doll?” Thor’s voice dropped into a low, dangerous sound that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Is that how you talk to a lady, Rogers? Like she is a trinket on a shelf?”
You blinked, your steps stuttering. What the hell was up with him today? He was acting like someone had replaced his morning coffee with pure vinegar.
“Yes, Thor, he usually calls me that,” you said, looking at him with genuine confusion. “It’s fine. It’s just a nickname.”
What is wrong with him calling me that? you wondered. It wasn't like Thor had ever offered a sweet nickname. To him, you were just ‘Little One’ or ‘Sparky’—labels that felt more like he was describing a pet or a project than a woman.
Thor turned his gaze toward you then, his blue eye wide with a flash of something that looked like disbelief. “Usually calls you that? What—” He stopped himself, his chest heaving under that grey t-shirt as he took a long, deep breath that looked like it took every ounce of his godly restraint.
He gripped his hands into fists as he ran, his knuckles white. “Continue your conversation, please,” he rasped, though he looked like he wanted to do anything but listen.
Your eyebrows furrowed. He was being weird. Really, really weird.
“Right... anyway,” you said, turning back toward Steve, or at least trying to. Every time Steve tried to catch your eye, Thor was there—a massive, muscular wall of grey cotton and brooding energy. He shifted his stride, his broad shoulders perfectly eclipsing Steve’s face so that you were effectively trapped in Thor’s orbit.
“So, Steve,” you started, raising your voice to be heard over the sound of Thor’s heavy breathing. “I was thinking about that vintage record shop you mentioned. The one in Brooklyn? Do you think they’d have any old soul records? I’ve been wanting to start a collection.”
Steve leaned forward, trying to see around the mountain that was Thor. “I’m sure they would, doll. In fact, I could take you there this weekend if you—”
As the word doll left Steve’s lips, the sun, which had been bright and golden only moments ago, was suddenly swallowed by a thick, heavy cloud. The light turned grey and muted, matching the stormy mood radiating from the man beside you.
Thor drifted even closer to you, his arm nearly brushing yours. He was so tall, so imposing. Every time Steve tried to glance at you, Thor seemed to grow an inch, his presence blinding the two of you from each other.
“A record shop?” Thor interjected, his voice tight. “Midgardian music is—it is loud. You should be focused on your studies, not on ancient plastic discs.”
“It’s a hobby, Thor!” you huffed, frustrated by his sudden interference. “And Steve is being nice. Why are you being so—un-Thor-like?”
“I am being a mentor,” he grumbled, and as he spoke, the clouds overhead turned a darker, bruised shade of purple. The wind picked up, whipping your hair across your face. “A mentor who realizes that dolls do not need record collections. They need discipline.”
Steve let out a soft, knowing huff behind Thor’s shoulder. “It’s just a shop, Thor. No need for the heavy weather.”
Thor didn't answer. He just dug his heels in, his pace becoming a brutal, punishing sprint that forced you to stop talking just to keep your lungs from collapsing.
You looked at the back of his neck, at the handsome set of his jaw, and felt that familiar, hopeless ache. He was acting like a jerk, but even a jerk version of Thor was the most captivating thing you’d ever seen. You just wished you knew why he was so determined to ruin your morning with Steve.
“Okay, weird…” you muttered, the word nearly lost to the wind as you struggled to match the sudden, punishing rhythm of his stride.
You tried to focus on your breathing, but your gaze kept betrayed you, sliding sideways to the rhythmic flex of his arms. His biceps were massive, the grey fabric of his shirt straining against the sheer volume of his strength. A traitorous thought flickered through your mind—the image of those arms locking you in, your head tucked securely between his forearm and that iron-hard bicep. God, I’m such a pervert, you scolded yourself, a flush that had nothing to do with cardio creeping up your neck. Thirsting after a man who had seen empires rise and fall was probably some kind of cosmic crime, yet here you were, losing your mind over his biceps.
“Your form is improving, Little One,” Thor said.
Suddenly, the grey heavy clouds parted. A bright, defiant beam of golden sunlight broke through, warming the top of your head and illuminating the path.
His voice had lost that sharp edge of disappointment, replaced by a low, melodic resonance that felt like a caress. “Your stride is more purposeful than it was weeks ago. You are learning to carry your power rather than being dragged by it.”
You beamed at him, your heart doing a little skip that had zero to do with your now purposeful pace. “Really? You're not just saying that so I don't blow up any more appliances?”
“I never speak untruths regarding the warrior’s path,” he murmured, and for a fleeting second, his gaze softened as it landed on your face, lingering with a heavy warmth.
“Well, thanks, Thor.” you said, your voice softening. “That actually means a lot.”
As you spoke to him, the sun burned brighter, turning the Hudson into a sheet of sparkling diamonds. But then, Steve’s voice drifted over from the other side of the mountain.
“She’s a fast learner, Thor. I was telling her earlier, she’s got the heart of a—“
Flash.
A thick, bruised cloud lunged across the sun, plunging the sidewalk back into a chilly, muted grey. The temperature dropped five degrees instantly.
“The Captain’s observations are noted,” Thor bit out, his voice returning to a jagged frost. “But he does not see the nuances of your energy as I do.”
You blinked, looking up at the sky and then back at Thor. What are the chances? Every time you shared a moment with Thor, the world turned golden; every time Steve so much as complimented you, the weather acted like it was preparing for a funeral.
“Okay, is the weather following our conversation or am I actually losing my mind?” you asked, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead.
“The sky is as restless as your focus,” Thor grumbled, though he drifted an inch closer to you, his heat radiating through your clothes. “We are finished with this jog. The energy you are wasting on Steve’s chatter would be better spent on sustenance.”
He slowed his pace to a walk, and because he stopped, the whole group stopped. He stood between you and Steve like a literal barricade of muscle.
“Breakfast,” Thor commanded, the word final and absolute. “Now. Before you faint from a lack of discipline.”
“I'm not gonna faint, I'm just hungry!” you huffed, though you didn't protest as he began leading the way back toward the Compound.
As the three of you walked toward the common room, you stayed tucked in the shadow of the God of Thunder.
Steve gave you a small, sympathetic shrug behind Thor’s back, but you were too busy watching the way the sunlight flickered intermittently over Thor’s broad shoulders. You were confused and starving—but as long as he kept looking at you with that heavy, wordless gaze, you figured you could handle a little bit of weird weather.
The common room was a chaotic sanctuary of clinking silverware and the smell of sizzling eggs. Tony was squinting at a holographic screen over his coffee, Natasha was elegantly dissecting an omelet, and Rocket was perched on a chair, currently mid-argument with a very calm-looking Groot.
“I'm tellin' ya, twigs, if you put the engine coolant in the blender, it’s not science, it's an insurance claim!”Rocket barked, before his yellow eyes flicked to you as you slid into the seat next to him. “Well, look who survived the morning marathon. You look like a beet with legs, kid.”
“And you look like you haven't slept since the Great Depression, Rocket,” you fired back, reaching for the orange juice. “Be nice, or I’ll tell Groot you actually like his singing.”
“You wouldn't dare,” the raccoon narrowed his eyes, though he shoved a plate of hash browns toward you. “Eat up. You’re vibrating. It’s making my fur stand on end.”
You laughed, the sound bright and easy, but your heart was still doing that frantic, uneven dance. Thor sat directly across from you. He had shed the damp grey shirt for a fresh black tank top, his skin still radiating a lingering heat that seemed to hum across the table. The conversation around the table was a comfortable hum of “pass the salt” and ”did you see the news?”
Thor was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on his plate, though his presence was as heavy as a mountain. He reached out for the bowl of fruit in the center of the table, his fingers brushing against the rim.
“Pass the honey, would you, honey?” he murmured to you, his voice a low, distracted rumble.
The table went dead silent.
The clatter of Tony’s fork hitting his plate was the only sound. Natasha’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Rocket’s jaw actually dropped, a piece of bacon falling forgotten from his paw.
Thor froze. The realization of what had just slipped past his lips seemed to hit him in slow motion. His hand stayed outstretched, his knuckles turning a faint, dusty pink that crawled up his neck to the tips of his ears. He didn't look up, his blue eye fixed on the table as if he were trying to command the wood to swallow him whole.
Your heart felt like it had been jump-started by a star. The word hung in the air, sweet and heavy, a slip of the tongue that felt like a secret he hadn't meant to tell.
“Sure thing, big guy,” you said, your voice breathless, nearly a whisper.
You pushed the small glass jar toward him, your fingers trembling. You felt like you were floating, your skin humming with a warmth that had nothing to do with your powers.
Honey. The word coming from him, in that deep, gravelly baritone, was enough to make your knees weak even while sitting down.
Thor finally looked up, his gaze meeting yours for an electrifying second. He was only a man who was terrified by the weight of his own heart.
“Thank you,” he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
Tony cleared his throat loudly, breaking the spell. “Right. So... honey. Great for the throat. Very medicinal,” he muttered, though he shot a knowing, amused look at Natasha.
The table slowly returned to life, the clinking of plates resuming, but the air had changed. It was thicker, sweeter, and dangerously charged. You kept your head down, focusing on your breakfast, but you could feel Thor’s presence across from you—a silent, brooding storm that had accidentally let a ray of sunshine slip through the clouds.
You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, and you definitely wanted him to say it again. Instead, you just bit your lip, trying to hide the smile that felt like it was going to light up the entire room.
You watched Thor leave when he was done with his breakfast, the sheer scale of him making the doorway look like a toy frame. He moved with a heavy, unhurried power that always made the air feel thinner when he left a room. You hated to see him go, but you certainly loved watching him walk away—the way the muscles in his back shifted under that tank top was a masterpiece you weren’t quite finished studying.
“What?” you asked, suddenly aware of Natasha leaning against the counter next to you, her head tilted with a knowing, lethal sort of curiosity.
“What is going on between you two?” she asked, her voice low and smooth.
“What could there be going on?” You tried for confused, but your voice pitched a little too high. “He’s teaching me not to explode. It’s a very professional, very electric student-teacher dynamic.”
“He’s obviously into you,” Nat countered, a small, amused smirk playing on her lips.
Your eyes widened, your chest heaving as the oxygen seemed to vanish from the kitchen. “What?” you stammered. “He most definitely isn't. Don’t be ridiculous, Nat. I was a mortal just three months ago. He’s... he’s a monument. He doesn't look at me like that.”
You pushed away from the table, needing to escape the heat of her gaze. “Everyone has gone insane,” you muttered, heading for the exit.
“He is, Sparky! He definitely is!” she called out after you, her laughter trailing behind you like a taunt.
You walked down the hallway, your mind a whirlwind of the sound of Thor’s voice saying honey. It was impossible. Natasha was a master spy, but she was clearly misreading the data. Thor was ancient, a king of a dead world; he was just protective because you were a walking hazard.
You were so lost in your head that you didn't see the figure turning the corner until you nearly bowled him over.
“Whoa, steady there,” a smooth voice caught you.
You looked up, blinking. It was an agent—one you’d seen around the Compound, but never this close. He was ridiculously good-looking, with a sharp jawline, messy brown hair, and striking green eyes that seemed to crinkle at the corners as he smiled down at you.
“Oh, hello there,” he said, his voice warm.
“Hello,” you replied, trying to regain your composure.
“You're the girl Thor’s training, right?” he asked, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
“Yes. Is something the matter? Am I leaning on a restricted wall again?”
“Oh—no,” he chuckled, the sound rich and easy. “It’s just that the other agents were talking about you and your stunning looks. I see now they were actually underselling you.”
You felt the heat climb up your neck, a genuine blush staining your cheeks. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
“No need for thanks,” he said, stepping a fraction closer. He wasn't a god, he didn't smell like a storm, but he was handsome and human and attainable. “Just let me take you out sometime. Dinner, maybe?”
The idea of anyone who wasn't Thor asking you out felt like a strange kind of blasphemy. It felt like trying to read a paperback after being immersed in an epic poem. But then you remembered Natasha’s words, and you remembered the way Thor called you Little One like you weren’t of importance.
Your feelings for him were a slow-motion car crash. You needed an exit ramp. You needed to remember what it felt like to be looked at by someone who didn't think you were a distraction or a project.
And you needed someone more appropriate. Closer to your age.
You nodded sheepishly, your fingers trembling slightly as you pulled out your phone. “Sure,” you murmured, giving him your number. “I think I'd like that.”
As you walked away toward your room, your heart felt heavy, a dull ache of guilt that made no sense. You hadn't done anything wrong, but the violet light beneath your skin felt restless, flickering as if the stars themselves were displeased with the arrangement.
Thor had heard it all.
He had been standing just around the corridor’s edge, his hand braced against the cold industrial wall, intending to find you and apologize for the ‘honey’ slip. Instead, he had listened to the smooth cadence of a man who hadn't seen the end of the world—a man who looked at you and saw a pretty girl, not a celestial event.
His heart felt as though it had been carved out of his chest with a dull blade.
Competition. The word felt foreign and foul in his mind. In the twelve weeks you had been his, he had never considered it. You were his trainee. You were his nuisance. You were his Little One. You were the girl who blew up his coffee machine and looked at him like he was the sun. You were his.
The logic of a king tried to surface—that this mortal was appropriate, that he was your age, that he wouldn't bring the weight of a thousand years of grief into your bed. But that logic was drowned out by a primal roar of possessiveness. He didn't want you to have appropriate. He wanted you to stay in his shadow, where it was safe and where he could watch the light of your sparks dance against the dark.
How could he stop it?
He was the God of Thunder, but he was also a man who felt like a ghost in your presence. He couldn't forbid you. But as he marched toward the gym, his footsteps echoing like rolling thunder, the only thing he knew was that he would make that date a physical impossibility.
In your quarters, you were a whirlwind of reckless hope.
He’s into you, Natasha’s voice echoed in your head. It was a dangerous, intoxicating thought. You pulled on your usual gear—the black leggings and the skin-tight shirt that left nothing to the imagination—but today, you didn't stop there.
You leaned into the mirror, your hands trembling as you applied a layer of clear, high-shine lip gloss. It made your lips look soft, plush, and utterly sinful. Then, you dabbed a scented body oil onto your wrists and the hollow of your throat—a fragrance of vanilla and white musk that bloomed in the heat of your skin.
You were playing with fire, you knew it. You made your way to the gym, the energy in your veins humming with a sharp frequency. When the doors hissed open, you saw him. Thor was already on the mat, his back to you, his muscles so tense they looked like they were made of corded steel.
“Hello, big guy,” you said, your voice a little lower, a little steadier than usual.
Thor turned, and he froze. He didn't greet you back, he didn't even blink. His gaze landed on your mouth—on the shimmering, wet glow of your lips—and his pupils blew wide until the blue of his eye was a thin, jagged ring. The scent of the vanilla hit him, mixing with the scent of the gym until it was all he could breathe.
He felt a muscle in his jaw snap. He knew that scent wasn't for the gym. He knew those lips were for the man in the hallway.
You had a crush and you were dressing up.
You walked onto the mat, your skin humming with the vanilla-scented oil you’d applied, feeling the weight of Thor’s stare. “You're staring, big guy,” you chirped, “Is there something on my face, or did you finally realize my eyelashes are a masterpiece of structural engineering? I was really spent time on wasn't I?”
Thor cleared his throat, a broken, rough sound. He tore his eyes away from your mouth, looking instead at the wall behind you as if it held the secrets to the universe. “Your appearance is certainly noted,” he managed to rumble, his voice lower than usual. “Let us begin, Little One. Focus on the mat, not your masterpieces.”
“Focus is my middle name,” you teased, sliding into a stance that was still a little too shaky to be professional. “Well, technically it’s Disaster, but I’m rebranding. Come on, Thunder-Thighs. Try to hit me. I promise I won't cry.”
Thor’s jaw tightened. He stepped toward you, the heat radiating off him feeling like a literal wall. Just as he raised his hands to catch your wrists, the heavy doors of the gym hissed open.
Steve walked in, his shield slung over his back, looking every bit the weary commander. He stopped at the edge of the mat, his eyes darting between your flushed face and Thor’s rigid, towering frame.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Steve said, his voice level and serious. “But Tony just got a ping on the signature we've been tracking. We’re heading out tomorrow morning. All of us.” He looked at you, a small, encouraging nod following. “It’ll be your first mission. Congrats, Sparky.”
The world seemed to stop. Your first mission. A chance to prove you weren't just a project.
“No,” Thor barked instantly, the word cracking like a whip. He turned to Steve, his brow furrowed in a deep, ancient scowl. “She is not prepared. Her control is still—“
Oh here we go, you thought rolling your eyes.
He stopped. The air in his lungs seemed to hitch as a memory flashed through his mind—the agent in the hallway, the phone number, the date that was supposed to happen while the rest of the world moved on.
If you stayed behind, you’d be with him. The mortal with the green eyes. You’d be laughing at a dinner table while Thor was light-years away, or miles away, or anywhere that wasn't beside you.
Thor’s fingers twitched at his sides. His face went through a rapid-fire sequence of emotions—protectiveness, hesitation, and then a cold, dark resolve.
“—still developing,” he continued, his sentence shifting mid-breath, “but she will never learn the true nature of her power within these walls. She comes with us.”
Are you hearing this right?
You blinked, stunned by the sudden pivot. “Wait, really? I thought I was still a liability in leggings?”
Thor turned back to you, his gaze dropping once more to your lips, his expression unreadable and heavy. “The liability is leaving you here,” he muttered, the words sounding more like a confession to himself than an answer to you. He looked at Steve. “Tell Stark we will be ready. Her training continues through the night if necessary.”
Steve looked between the two of you, a glimmer of realization dawning in his blue eyes, but he simply nodded. “Suit up at 06.00.”
As Steve left, you looked at Thor, your eyebrows furrowed. “That was a quick U-turn, big guy. One second I'm a hothouse flower, the next I'm an Avenger? What changed?”
“The mission parameters,” Thor said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he stepped back into your space, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Now, again. If you cannot defend yourself against me, you have no business facing the world. Stance.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, your mind racing to keep up with his sudden shift. Thor was usually as stubborn as the mountains he came from, but you weren't about to argue with a field promotion.
“Mhm... sure thing,” you said, shifting your weight. You knew you should leave it at that, but with the scent of vanilla still clinging to you and his eyes fixed on your mouth, you couldn't help yourself. You leaned in just a fraction, a mischievous grin playing on your shimmering lips. “Honey.”
The effect was a total explosion.
Thor’s entire body went rigid, his breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp. For a second, the God of Thunder looked completely rattled, his composure shattered by a single syllable aimed back at him. He averted his eyes, his jaw working as he stared at the floor, looking for all the world like a man trying to remember how to speak his own language.
What was he going to do with you? You were a walking riot, a chaotic spark that seemed determined to set his very soul on fire.
Then, he looked back. The stormy darkness in his eyes was still there, but it was swimming with a sudden, dangerous amusement. He stepped closer, invading your personal space until you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze.
“I said let us start,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a register so low it made your bones ache. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Darling.”
The air left your lungs in a silent rush. You definitely stopped breathing. You knew he was just playing the game, tossing your own weapon back at you with interest, but it didn't matter. The word—spoken in that ancient, gravelly baritone—hit you like a weight.
You cleared your throat, trying to find your voice. “Fine,” you managed, your voice a little higher than you intended. “Train me as hard as you can, then. Don't hold back just because you think I'm delicate.”
Thor didn't laugh, but his gaze didn't waver for a second. “I have no intention of holding back,” he said, and the way he said it made your skin flame.
The sparring match began in earnest.
All the grueling drills he’d put you through over the last months—the endless repetitions, the stance corrections, the lessons on weight distribution—were finally clicking. He was moving with the speed of a storm, forcing you to react, and you gave him back the same energy, your violet sparks snapping at your fingertips as you parried his strikes.
Thor watched you, his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the exertion. I cannot go hard on her, he thought, his jaw tightening as he watched the fierce concentration on your face. You looked so innocent and pretty while you were trying to focus, your brow slightly furrowed and your hair beginning to escape your ponytail. He knew it was wrong to be this distracted, to let his guard drop because he was mesmerized by the way you moved, but he couldn't help it. Not when you looked like that.
As he lunged forward for a mock strike, his hand moved a fraction too close. His knuckles unintentionally grazed the sensitive skin of your throat.
Your breath stuttered. The contact was electric, sending a jolt through your system that made your footing falter. The world tilted as you lost your balance, but your instincts kicked in.
You reached out, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and you yanked him toward you with every ounce of your strength.
Usually, Thor was an immovable force, a mountain that couldn't be unfooted by such a maneuver—especially from a student. But he was so lost in the scent of you and the sight of your shimmering lips that his center of gravity vanished. He fell.
The air was knocked out of you as he landed on top of you, his sheer weight pressing you deep into the padded mat. He braced his forearms on either side of your head, but his chest was flush against yours, rising and falling in heavy, ragged bursts.
Your faces were so close that your lips were only inches apart. You could feel the heat of his breath, smell the cedar and the storm, and see every fleck of gold in his turbulent blue eyes.
I could just die like this and I'd be happy, you thought to yourself, your fingers still clutching his shirt, your heart beating so hard you were sure he could feel it against his own ribs.
Thor couldn't move, he just stared down at you, his gaze fixated on your mouth with a look of pure hunger that made your blood turn to liquid fire.
You couldn't breathe. Your own gaze was fixed on his lips, and before your brain could tell your body to stop, your hands ascended, your fingers curling around his thick, corded neck.
His breathing hitched, turning into a series of fast, shallow rasps. You were touching him. You were actually touching him, and he looked like he was losing the ability to function just from the friction of your skin against his. His torso was pressed tight to yours, his heavy heat burning through your clothes, making your mind go to dangerous places. You could feel every muscle in his chest and thighs, solid as stone, pinning you down.
Breathe, girl, breathe, you told yourself, but your lungs weren't cooperating.
Thor’s massive left hand moved, his fingers grazing through your hair as he cupped the side of your head. “How do you manage to fall every single time we spar, sweet girl?” he mumbled.
Sweet girl? He was trying to kill you. He had to be. The way he said it was so tender and yet so heavy with wanting that it felt like it was actually pressing on your chest.
You bit your lip, watching his eyes drop to the movement instantly. “I think I might have balance issues,” you whispered.
You didn't have balance issues. Your only issue was the six-foot-four God of Thunder currently crushing you into the floor.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The voice was dry, loud, and unmistakably Tony Stark.
You both averted your eyes, you took a sharp intake of breath at the sudden interference. Thor scrambled back, his movements uncharacteristically frantic as he shoved himself off you and stood up in one fluid, jerky motion. He offered you a hand, but he wouldn't look at you, his face flushed a deep, tell-tale red that reached all the way to his collar.
You took his hand and sat up, smoothing your hair and trying to ignore the fact that your heart was trying to kick its way out of your ribs. You looked toward the door where Tony was standing, leaning against the frame with a smirk that said he’d seen enough to fuel a year's worth of teasing.
“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “What is it with people barging in today?”
“Just checking on the progress of our newest recruit,” Tony said, his eyes dancing between your ruffled appearance and Thor’s rigid, silent back. “But it looks like you two are—well, you're definitely working on your close-quarters combat. Keep it up—on second thought, don't. Actually, for the sake of the plumbing in this building, maybe take a lap.”
You felt like your face was actually radiating heat. You squeezed your eyes shut for a fleeting second, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
“Nothing to say now, Sparky? No comeback?” Tony’s voice was dripping with a delight that made you want to hurl a violet energy bolt at his head. “Congrats on the first mission, kiddo. Good luck tomorrow. You’re clearly in capable hands.”
He left with a devilish chuckle that echoed down the hallway, leaving a silence behind that was ten times more suffocating than the noise.
“Damn you, Stark,” Thor mumbled, the words barely a breath.
He finally turned his body toward you, but the bravado from moments ago was gone. Both of you were suddenly fascinated by different patches of the ceiling, your gazes refusing to collide. The air felt heavy, charged with everything that had almost happened and the crushing embarrassment of being caught.
“Should we—“ Thor started. “We should—“ you blurted out at the exact same time.
You were a stuttering mess, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The memory of him looking at your lips and his weight pressing you into the mat was a screaming siren in your brain.
“I will just go,” you said, the words tripping over each other. You couldn't look up at him; you were terrified of what you’d see in his eyes—or worse, what he’d see in yours. You turned and started for the door, your legs feeling like they belonged to a newborn giraffe.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a rough scrape as he cleared his throat again. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
You didn't look back. You bolted out of the gym and didn't stop until you were deep in the labyrinth of the hallway leading to your quarters. Your heart was thumping against the back of your teeth, making it hard to swallow.
Your fingers went to your neck, tracing the spot where his knuckles had grazed you. You could still feel the phantom pressure of him. What was that? What the fuck had just happened? One minute he was treating you like a nuisance, and the next he was calling you sweet girl and looking at you like you were the only thing in the universe worth breathing for.
Did you even see it right?
You must’ve imagined it.
You reached your door and leaned your forehead against the cool metal, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Tomorrow was your first mission. Tomorrow everything would change. But as you stood there in the quiet corridor, all you could think about was the heat of his skin and the way the world had narrowed down to just the inches between your lips and his.
—
The sharp rap on your door felt like it was echoing inside your skull. “Sparky? We're leaving in an hour. Wake up,” Natasha’s voice called out, crisp and far too alert for 5:00 AM.
“Uhhh,” you groaned into your pillow, the sound muffled by the fabric. Living at the Compound had its perks, but these ungodly hours were definitely not one of them. “I am awake!” you yelled back, though you remained horizontal for another thirty seconds, questioning every life choice that had led you to this moment. Right. The powers. The sparks that tended to blow up blenders when you got frustrated. You didn't really have a choice.
You dragged yourself out of bed and pulled on the tactical gear they’d designed for you. It was sleek, black, and functional, hugging your curves in a way that made you feel a bit more like a soldier and a bit less like a walking hazard.
When you stumbled into the common room, the smell of brewing coffee was the only thing keeping you upright. You headed straight for the machine, only to find a massive, familiar silhouette already there.
“Morning, sweet girl,” he mumbled.
The words hit you like a low-frequency hum, vibrating right in your chest. Your heart gave a violent thud. So you were doing this now? He was actually going to call you that?
You forced yourself to look up, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips. “Good morning, good looking,” you said back.
The compliment caught him off guard. Thor paused, his hand hovering over a mug as he turned to look at you. A small, slow smirk started to spread across his face—the kind that reached his eyes and made the stormy blue soften.
“Good looking?” he questioned, his voice amused.
“Yes,” you said, feeling a sudden surge of caffeine-free adrenaline. You tilted your head to the right, looking up at him through your lashes, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be dangerous. “You don't like it?”
The weight of your words hit you then. Were you flirting with him? At five in the morning? In front of the industrial-sized coffee maker? Apparently, you were.
You knew you were hoping for something that would never happen, he would never see you more than a rookie, but you couldn't help yourself.
Thor actually smiled then—a real, breathtaking smile that made your stomach do a somersault. His heart soared at the compliment. He knew you didn’t mean it in the way he wanted you to. Though he kept hoping. “I do, darling,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone. He let his gaze sweep over you, lingering on the new suit. “Your gear suits you. I like it.”
And that was it. Before you could even think of a witty comeback, he turned and made his way to the couch, leaving you standing by the counter with your heart in your mouth.
You turned back to the coffee machine, your face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson. “Thank you,” you said, your voice coming out thin and a little breathless. You stared at the dripping coffee, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for a spoon. If this was how the mission was starting, you weren't sure your heart would survive until the afternoon.
Thor sat on the edge of the sofa, ostensibly focused on his mug, but his eyes were doing a slow, treacherous lap of the room—specifically the space you occupied. He watched the way the tactical suit moved as you reached for the milk, his gaze tracing your curves with a heavy, unblinking focus. Stop it, he scolded himself, his grip tightening on the ceramic. You are being a creep. She is a comrade. Focus on the coffee.
He let out a low, frustrated grunt and forced his eyes down into the dark depths of his drink.
“You massive pervert!”
The voice cracked through the quiet morning like a gunshot. Thor flinched so hard coffee slopped over the rim of his mug, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. He looked down to see Rocket perched on the coffee table directly in front of him, arms crossed and a look of pure, judgmental glee on his face.
“Shut up, rat. You scared me,” Thor mumbled, his face flushing a furious shade of red. He tried to reclaim his dignity by narrowing his eyes and giving Rocket a look that would have withered a lesser creature.
Rocket’s smirk didn't even waver. “I’m not a rat, pervert. And I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. You were just too busy studying the scenery to notice.”
You finished fixing your coffee and turned around, catching the tail end of Thor’s jump-scare. You couldn't help it; a bright, melodic giggle escaped you, the sound cutting through the morning tension.
Thor’s head whipped around, his attention snapping back to you instantly. The embarrassment in his eyes was warring with the way they softened just at the sight of you.
“Morning, rat,” you chirped as you walked over and sank into the chair next to the couch. You blew on your coffee, looking between the two of them curiously. “Wait, why are you calling him a perver—“
Before the word could even leave your mouth, Thor was on his feet.
“Time for the rat to go! Come on!” Thor boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
In one fluid, desperate motion, he reached out and snatched Rocket up by the back of his tactical vest with his left hand. As Rocket opened his mouth to likely spill every secret he’d just witnessed, Thor’s massive palm clamped over the raccoon’s snout, effectively muffling a string of very colorful curses.
“We have... preparations!” Thor announced to the room at large, hauling a kicking, muffled Rocket toward the exit.
You sat there, leaning back in your chair and giggling into your mug as you watched the God of Thunder practically flee the room to keep his dignity intact. He didn't look back, but the tips of his ears were still glowing red. Your gaze turned into one of confusion then.
What could Rocket possibly tell you? Was Thor embarrassed?
You shook your head, it was 5 AM, you had no energy to think about anything.
—
The interior of the Quinjet was bathed in the clinical glow of tactical lights as it cut through the heavy, humid air above the Amazon. Steve stood by the holotable, his expression grim as he pointed to a digital map of a fortified research outpost hidden deep within the dense green canopy below.
“Alright, listen up,” Steve’s voice was steady, cutting through the low thrum of the engines. “We’re tracking a rogue splinter cell that’s weaponized a cache of Chitauri tech. They’ve built a localized gravity well in the heart of the basin. If they turn it on, they’ll pull every aircraft within a five-hundred-mile radius out of the sky. Tony and Bruce, you’re on tech suppression. Nat, Clint—flank the cooling vents. Thor, you’re the heavy hitter. You lead the charge through the main gate.”
Steve looked at you, giving you a sharp, professional nod. “Sparky, you’re paired with Thor. Your job is to disrupt their shielding so he can get through. Stay on his six. We move as a unit, but in that jungle, visibility is zero. Don’t lose sight of him.”
Through the reinforced windows, you could see the endless stretch of passing trees blurring into a dark, emerald sea as the jet banked sharply. You felt a sharp prickle of adrenaline. This was it. You looked over at Thor, who was leaning against the bulkhead, the massive, jagged silhouette of Stormbreaker resting against his shoulder. He looked restless, his jaw set so tight the muscles were bulging. You caught his gaze just as he jerked his head away, staring intensely at the floor.
Without thinking, you reached out and gripped his bicep. The sheer firmness of the muscle underneath his gear made your pulse skip. Get it together, you scolded yourself. You felt a familiar, dull ache in your chest. A god like him—a king who carried a weapon forged in the heart of a dying star—could never truly want someone as fleeting as you. You were just a trainee, a girl with a power she couldn't control. You were a project to him, a momentary distraction in a life that spanned centuries.
Thor looked down at you, his blue eye wide and startled by your touch.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” you asked, tilting your head. “About me? On the field?”
“I am not, sweet girl. Don’t worry,” he rumbled, his voice a low, forced calm.
He was a liar. He was terrified. He was so fucking scared that something was going to happen to you that he could barely feel the weight of the handle in his hand. He looked at you—beautiful and so full of light—and felt like a ghost. He was a man of war, a survivor of loss after loss. How could you ever want someone so full of agony and broken? You deserved someone who didn't carry the scent of war and ancient grief. You deserved a life in the sun, not a life in the middle of his storm.
“Just stay close to me, will you?” he continued, his hand briefly covering yours on his arm, his grip almost bruising in its sudden intensity.
Your eyebrows furrowed. You couldn’t quite dissect the raw, dark vulnerability in his expression. It didn't match his casual words. You slowly nodded, your fingers tightening on the warm marble of his arm.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Always.”
“Good,” he muttered, his fingers lingering on yours for a second too long before he reached back to steady Stormbreaker.
The jet gave a final, heavy jolt as it hovered just above the clearing. The ramp of the Quinjet hissed as it lowered, the humid jungle air rushing in to replace the sterile chill of the cabin. Thor turned to face the open forest, his cape fluttering violently in the downdraft. He wouldn't let you see the fear, and he certainly wouldn't let you see the longing. He would just be the lightning that cleared your path.
The humidity hit your face as you followed Thor out of the jet, your boots squelching into the thick, dark mud of the Amazon floor. The jungle was a symphony of screeching birds and humming machinery, but all you could focus on was the broad, armored back of the man in front of you.
It felt like a heavy, wet blanket was cradling you as you pushed deeper toward the facility's main gate. Every time you tripped over a stray vine or the mud threatened to claim one of your boots, a massive, gauntlet-clad hand was there to steady you—a brief, searing contact that lingered just a second too long before he’d jerk his hand back as if he’d touched an open flame.
“Keep your eyes up,” Thor commanded, his voice dropping into a combat-ready growl. Stormbreaker hummed in his hand, the air around the axe beginning to crackle with premature static.
“Eyes are up, good looking,” you whispered, ducking under a massive, waxy leaf. “Mostly focused on that cape, though. Does it have a high thread count? It looks expensive to get mud out of.”
Thor’s shoulder hitched—a suppressed laugh or a suppressed groan, you couldn't tell. “Focus on the perimeter, not my tailoring.”
A sudden hiss of steam erupted from a hidden vent in the facility’s exterior wall, followed by a barrage of pulse-fire. Three Hydra sentries in tactical exoskeletons burst through.You didn't even have time to flinch before Thor was over you. He stepped in front of you then he swept you back with one massive arm, his body taking the brunt of the heat as he swung Stormbreaker to deflect a second volley.
“I had it, you know!” you yelled over the din, firing a bolt of violet energy that shattered a sentry's visor. “I’m not just here for the scenery!”
With a roar, he unleashed a bolt of lightning that turned the nearest sentry into a heap of molten scrap. You didn't stay idle, though. You lunged out from behind him, your hands glowing a fierce violet. You slammed your palms together, sending a shockwave of energy that shattered the remaining pulse-rifles and sent the Hydra guards sprawling.
Thor turned to you, his chest heaving, his cape singed at the edges. He stepped into your space, his presence overwhelming, and before you could make another retort, his hand came up. He cradled your face.
His palm was massive, his skin calloused and burning with a heat that made your breath hitch in your throat. His thumb grazed your cheekbone, trembling just a fraction. The touch was so intimate, so wildly out of place in the middle of a war zone, that the world seemed to tilt on its axis. He looked at you as if you were the only thing in the jungle that wasn't made of shadows and violence.
“You did well,” he rasped, his voice pained and thick. He stared down at you, his blue eye searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping you bare. Then, his jaw tightened, the mentor mask struggling to stay in place. “But do not make me tell you again—stay behind me.”
“So demanding,” you muttered, though your heart was doing backflips against your ribs. “Is this how you treat all your damsels, or am I special?”
“You are a nuisance,” he countered. He pulled his hand away, his fingers brushing against your hair in a slow, reluctant trail that left your skin tingling.
He turned back toward the gate, but the set of his shoulders was tense. He couldn't understand why his heart was racing faster from your gaze than from the battle. He was a god of war; he shouldn't be undone by the way you looked at him through your lashes. He was terrified of the way you made him feel—like he had something to lose again.
You watched his back, biting your lip. He probably just saw you as a responsibility he had to keep alive, a duty he had to fulfill. A king didn't fall for the woman who made jokes about his cape. You forced yourself to focus on the violet sparks at your fingertips, trying to drown out the burning sensation on your cheek where his hand had just been.
“The gate is dead ahead,” he rumbled, not looking back. “Stay close.”
“Right behind you,” you whispered, moving back into his shadow.
Thor made sure the gate ceased to exist. With a single, thunderous overhead swing of Stormbreaker, the reinforced titanium buckled like parchment, shrieking as it was torn from its hinges.
“Disrupt the internal shielding!” Thor roared over the alarms. “Now, Little One!”
You didn't need to be told twice. You sprinted past him into the main foyer, your hands glowing a deep, violent amethyst. The facility's defense grid was humming, a translucent blue shimmer of Chitauri energy blocking the path to the core. You slammed your hands against the floor, let out a jagged breath, and funneled everything you had into the ground.
The violet energy raced forward like lightning, clashing with the blue shield in a spray of white-hot sparks. The friction of the two powers meeting sent a shockwave back toward you, nearly knocking you off your feet.
Suddenly, a heavy, solid weight pressed against your back. Thor had moved up behind you, his chest flush against your shoulder blades, his massive hand coming down over your shoulder to steady your aim. The heat of him was staggering, a living furnace in the middle of the cold, sterile lab.
“Hold the line,” he growled into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I am here. Do not let it break you.”
With his strength anchoring you, you let out a scream of effort and pushed. The blue shield shattered like glass.
“Shield's down!” you panted, your knees buckling for a second.
Thor’s arm hooked around your waist instantly, hoisting you back up before you could hit the floor. For a split second, he held you tight against his side, his fingers digging into the fabric of your tactical suit. He looked down at you, his face splattered with soot, his eyes searching yours with a raw, desperate relief that he quickly tried to smother.
“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice a rough, private rasp.
“I can run,” you joked weakly, trying to ignore how his thumb was tracing the curve of your hip through the gear. “Just... maybe don't make me do the exploding walls thing for another five minutes.”
He didn't let go immediately. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then snapped back to the hallway ahead where more sentries were closing in. “Stay behind me,” he repeated, but this time it didn't sound like a command. It sounded like a plea.
As you moved toward the gravity core, the narrow corridors forced you together. Every time a blast shook the facility, you were thrown against him. Your hand would find the small of his back; his arm would find your shoulders. Every touch was a jolt, a burning friction that made the actual combat feel like a secondary concern.
You ducked behind a console as a hail of pulse-fire swept the room. Thor stood over you, Stormbreaker spinning in a blur of silver and blue, a literal wall of lightning protecting you.
“You know,” you yelled over the deafening crack of his axe hitting a sentry, “if you wanted to be this close to me, you could have just asked for my number like a normal person!”
Thor slammed the butt of Stormbreaker into the floor, a wave of electricity clearing the room. He turned to you, a stray spark of blue dancing in his hair.
“I have no need for numbers, nuisance,” he muttered, reaching down to haul you up. But as he pulled you close, his hand lingered on your forearm, his skin searing against yours. He leaned in, his face inches from yours. “And you are far from a normal person.”
He let go abruptly, turning back to the heavy blast doors of the core, but you stayed there for a second, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. He was terrified of how much he wanted to protect you, and you were terrified that he only saw a girl who needed saving.
The gravity core pulsed with an unstable light, the air vibrating so violently it made your teeth ache. Steve’s voice crackled over the comms, strained: “Thor, Sparky—the containment field is failing. If that core blows, the entire basin goes with it. You have to stabilize it now.”
Thor looked at the swirling vortex, then at you. His eyes were dark with a conflict you couldn't read. “Can you do it?”
"I—“ you gulped, “I think so,” you whispered. You stepped forward, thrusting your hands toward the core. The violet energy erupted, it tore out of you like a scream, linking your nervous system directly to the Chitauri tech. For a moment, you held it. The shield stabilized. But then, the feedback hit.
A massive surge of raw, unfiltered power slammed back into your chest. You were thrown through the air like a ragdoll, hitting the reinforced bulkhead with a sickening thud. A sharp, white-hot agony flared in your ribs, and the world splintered into a thousand jagged pieces. You tried to breathe, but your lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass.
“No!” Thor’s roar was louder than the sirens.
He was at your side in a heartbeat, Stormbreaker clattering to the floor as he slid into the grime. He gathered you into his lap, his massive hands trembling as he framed your face. You let out a broken whimper, your head lolling against his bicep.
“Sweet girl? No, no, look at me. Open your eyes,” he pleaded.
Blood trickled from a cut on your forehead, blurring your vision. Every breath was a fresh wave of torture, a barbed lump in your throat that made you want to scream, but you couldn't find the air.
“Thor...” you wheezed, your fingers feebly clutching at the cold metal of his chest plate. “It hurts—“ you gasped, “it hurts so much.”
“I am here. I have you,” he mumbled, his voice breaking as he pressed his forehead against yours. His thumb frantically wiped at the blood on your skin, his touch a desperate, burning friction against your cold skin. “Stay with me, darling. Please. Stay with me.”
The sound of heavy boots echoed—Hydra reinforcements, dozens of them, closing in on the wounded God and the girl dying in his arms.
Thor’s head snapped up. The grief in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, white-hot vacuum of rage. He gently lowered your head to the floor, his fingers lingering on your cheek for one last second.
“Do not close your eyes,” he commanded softly. Then he stood.
He became a cataclysm. Stormbreaker glowed with a blinding, celestial light as he leapt into the center of the room. Every swing was a thunderclap that shook the very foundations of the earth. He leveled the reinforcements in seconds, then turned his fury on the facility itself. Lightning channeled through the floor, shattering the gravity core and vaporizing the walls. By the time the rest of the Avengers burst into the room, there was nothing left but a smoking crater and Thor, standing in the center of the ruins, cradling you against his chest again.
“Thor! What happened?” Steve shouted, running toward the wreckage. Tony landed nearby, his faceplate disappearing. “Kid? Is she okay? Bruce, get the med-vac ready, we'll get her to the Compound—“
“No.” The word was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through your aching body. Thor didn't look up at any of his friends. He held you so tight it was as if he were trying to merge your bodies, his heart hammering against your ear.
“She needs the cradle, Thor, she's internal—“ Tony started, stepping forward.
“I said no!” Thor snapped, his blue eyes flashing with lethal lightning. He looked down at your pale face, his heart twisting with a guilt that felt like a blade.
This was his fault. He had let his blind jealousy, the petty fear of losing you to someone else, cloud his judgment. He had allowed you into a war zone when you weren't ready, just to keep you under his wing where he could watch you.
“I will not leave her life to your Midgardian trinkets,” Thor rasped, his voice thick with self-loathing. “I am the reason she bleeds. I will take her to my people in New Asgard. They have remedies older than your civilization. They will fix what I have broken.”
“Thor, wait—“ Steve began, but it was useless.
Thor didn't wait for permission. He called to the heavens, the Bifrost light beginning to hum around you both. He looked down at you, his fingers grazing your throat one last time, feeling the stutter of your pulse.
“I have you, sweet girl,” he whispered into your hair, his voice a broken promise. “I will never let you go again.”
In a flash of rainbow light, the Amazon jungle vanished, replaced by the salt-spray air and the rugged, comforting cliffs of New Asgard.
Thor didn’t stop to greet his subjects; he moved through the streets of New Asgard like a force of nature, his boots cracking the stone beneath him.
”Quickly, send healers to my estate!” he roared, his voice booming across the harbor. His people didn't even have time to celebrate the return of their King; the raw, bleeding desperation in his tone sent them into a frantic scramble.
Brunnhilde ran over to him, her brows furrowed as she struggled to match his relentless pace. “What’s going on? Who is she? What happened?” she asked, her eyes darting to your limp, broken form in his arms.
“Me happened,” Thor responded, his voice a desperate edge of self-loathing. He didn't look at her, his eyes fixed solely on your pale face. “I break every single person I get near.”
Inside your head, the world was a cacophony of white noise. Your ears were ringing so loud that the King’s shouts and the sounds of the bustling village were muffled, distant. The only thing that felt real was the heat radiating from him. With an effort that felt like lifting a mountain, you managed to bring your hand up. Your fingers, stained with dirt, found the scruff of his jaw.
“Thor,” you whispered, your eyes glazed over, struggling to find his amidst the blur of gold and blue.
He turned his attention back to you immediately, the storm in his expression breaking for a fraction of a second. “Yes, my sweet, sweet girl,” he said, his voice dropping into a tender, broken rasp as he instinctively leaned his face into your palm. The contact was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He would not lose you. He refused to let the universe take one more thing from him.
When your eyes began to flutter shut and your head lolled against his chest, a fresh wave of panic surged through him. He turned his face into your hand, his lips pressing a lingering, desperate kiss against the inside of your wrist. It was the last thing you felt—the ghost of his warmth and the scratch of his beard—and a small, faint smile touched your lips just as the world finally faded into total darkness.
—
Your eyes fluttered open, the world blurry at the edges as the last remnants of sleep fell away. “She is stable, though she needs to be careful. Her injuries were severe; we managed to fix a few but not all. Our magic will linger in her, fixing her. Try not to have her do too much, Your Majesty.” The voice was unfamiliar—calm and clinical. As your senses returned, you felt a firm, heavy hold on your hand.
“Thank you,” came Thor’s voice, deep and sandpaper-rough. You heard the soft thud of footsteps slowly fading away as the healer left the room.
You tried to shift, but the movement sent a dull, throbbing ache radiating through your body. It wasn't the splintering agony of the jungle, but every single bone in your body seemed to hum with a quiet, persistent pain. You blinked, trying to take in your surroundings. The ceiling was made of heavy timber, and the air was cool.
“Where are we?” your voice cracked, sounding like dry leaves skipping across stone.
Thor’s hand, which had been a steady, grounding weight over yours, tightened instantly. His other hand moved to the top of your head, his fingers grazing through your hair with a tenderness that made your heart stutter more than any injury ever could.
“We are at New Asgard, honey,” he whispered, the endearment slipping out as naturally as a breath. “How are you feeling?”
You took a slow, cautious breath. Every inch of your skin felt sensitive, a lingering hum of Asgardian magic working beneath the surface to knit your muscle and bone back together. “I am better, thank you,” you said, forcing a small smile as you turned your hand within his, gripping him back. The warmth of his palm was the only thing that felt truly solid in the room.
“How long have we been here?” you asked, your eyes searching his.
“A day,” he mumbled.
His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles beneath them telling a story of a man who hadn't closed his eyes once since the Bifrost had landed. He looked disheveled.
“You stood by my side all that time?” you asked, your voice softening in disbelief.
“No need for silly questions, of course I did, darling,” he said, his thumb beginning a slow, rhythmic stroke across your knuckles. He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping into a low, fiercely protective register. "I was not going to leave you. Not after what I allowed to happen."
The guilt in his voice was a barbed lump, thick and heavy. He looked at your bandaged frame and then back to your eyes, a silent war raging behind his blue gaze. He wanted to tell you he was sorry—that he was a fool for letting his own selfish desire to keep you close put you in the line of fire—but the words seemed trapped behind the sheer relief of seeing you awake.
“You look so pale,” he whispered, his hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, his touch burning like a brand. “I thought… for a moment in that forest, I thought the light had gone out of the world.”
Your thumb grazed his knuckles, your body moving on autopilot. Even through the haze of pain and the dull throb in your ribs, your first instinct was to soothe the tremor in his hands.
“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, your voice still a bit airy. “I would have wanted to come to the mission anyway. Even if you didn’t approve of it.” You managed a broken, tired smirk, your eyes searching his. “You know, I’ve noticed I can make almost anyone say yes to me.”
Thor gulped, his thumb pausing its rhythm on your cheek as he looked at you with a gaze so heavy it felt like a scorching iron. “You do have that effect on people, yes,” he admitted, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face.
The moment was intimate, the air between you thick with everything that hadn't been said, until the heavy wooden door creaked open.
“Still moping, Your Majesty?”
Brunnhilde walked in, her gait confident and effortless. She looked like she belonged in this world in a way you weren't sure you ever could. She walked straight over to the bed, her eyes scanning your form with a professional, yet slightly amused, curiosity.
“The healers say she’s made of tougher stuff than she looks,” she said, before turning her attention to Thor. She reached out, casually wrapping her arm around his broad shoulders and leaning some of her weight against him.
Your mind went completely blank. The warmth you’d felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp pang in your chest that had nothing to do with your injuries. You watched the way she stood so close to him, the ease with which she touched him—a familiarity that only came from years of... what?
Who was she?
You looked at Thor, but he didn't pull away. He just stood there, letting her hang off him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A sickening thought spiraled through your head: Has he had a lover all this time? Did the petnames mean nothing more than a king being kind to a stray he’d picked up?
You felt your hand twitch in his, suddenly wanting to pull away, to hide yourself under the covers and disappear. The pain in your body was nothing compared to the sudden realization that you might have completely misread the storm in his eyes. A small, desperate part of you had hoped those pet names and the way he’d cradled your face in the mud meant something more than duty. But seeing her arm draped so comfortably over him, you felt the cold reality sink in. You were a trainee, a mortal flicker; she was a woman of his own kind. You already knew he’d never look at you like that, but seeing the ease of their connection made the ache in your chest sharper than the break in your ribs.
“Oh, good! You’re not dead. That’s a real plus for the team morale!”
The new voice was deep, gravelly, and strangely cheerful. You turned your head—wincing as the movement pulled at your neck—and saw a towering mass of blue rocks lumbering toward the bed. Every step he took resulted in a series of rhythmic clacks and thuds that echoed off the timber walls.
Your eyebrows furrowed in genuine bewilderment, your mind momentarily jolting away from the agonizing sight of beside you.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” you blurted out, a weak, bewildered laugh bubbling up. “Did a mountain range decide to grow legs and start talking?”
The rock creature didn't seem offended at all. He waved a massive stony hand. “Common mistake! I’m Korg. I’m made of rocks, as you can see, but don’t let that intimidate you. Unless you’re made of scissors. Then we might have a bit of a rock-paper-scissors situation on our hands, which is never fun for the scissors.”
Despite the dull throb in your side and the heavy weight in your heart, you couldn't help it. A genuine, wide grin broke across your face at the sheer absurdity of his voice and his gentle demeanor. “Oh my god, I love you,” you said, leaning back into the pillows, trying to ignore the way Thor’s hand was still holding yours while his other shoulder supported her. “You're so precious.”
You kept your eyes fixed on Korg, pouring all your energy into the conversation, terrified that if you looked back at Thor, he’d see the cracks in your expression. You were determined to tear your attention away from the man whose touch still burned your skin, even if it meant falling in love with a talking pile of rocks just to survive the afternoon.
“Oh, you are a fast lady,” Korg said, his rocky face shifting into what passed for a bashful expression. “Though I can certainly see myself falling in love with yo—“
Thor’s hand tightened on yours with a sudden, bone-crushing intensity. His head snapped toward Korg, his eyes flashing with a sudden, stormy blue light. “Let’s not get over our heads here,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerously deep rumble that made the loose items on the bedside table rattle.
You turned your head toward him, finding the sheer suddenness of his irritation hilarious despite the lump in your throat. “Why are you standing between me and my great love right now?” you asked, amusement dancing in your eyes.
Thor’s attention snapped back to you, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. He didn't look amused. He looked feral. “Do not piss me off,” he rumbled, the room suddenly smelling of rain. “You just woke up.”
Your smile faltered. The playful light in your eyes died down as you realized he wasn't just being dramatic—he was actually pissed. But the logic didn't track. He had her practically draped over him, yet he was growling at a pile of rocks for making a joke?
He’s just being a King, you reminded yourself, the cold weight returning to your stomach. He was possessive of his subjects, and right now, you were a broken project he felt responsible for. He didn't want you; he just didn't want his things touched.
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the sting of that thought. “You are no fun, Thunder-Thighs.”
She let out a sudden, sharp cackle that broke the tension, her arm still hooked over Thor's shoulder as she looked at you with newfound respect. “I actually like her. Can we keep her?”
She shifted, finally releasing Thor and stepping closer to the bed. She extended a hand toward you, her grip looking like it could snap a sword in half. “I am Brunnhilde.”
Can we keep her? The phrase echoed in your mind. As if you were a new pet for the royal court. You reached out, your fingers feeling small and fragile against her warrior-calloused palm, and gave it a weak shake.
“It's nice meeting you, you can call me Sparky.” you mumbled, your voice losing its edge. You looked from her to Thor, the two of them standing together like pillars of Asgardian history, and you felt smaller than ever. You were just a girl in a room full of legends, and no amount of sweet pet names from Thor was going to change the fact that you didn't belong in their world.
You needed to get away from this view—the ease of Brunnhilde’s touch, the way they stood together, the crushing reminder of where you stood in his hierarchy.
“I want a tour of New Asgard,” you said, your voice gaining a bit of false bravado. You looked at Thor, the smirk returning to your face as a shield. “Wanna see if there’s more of you where you come from.”
Thor’s eyes slid shut, his jaw working as if he were trying to grind his teeth into dust.
Absolutely not.
The sight of you flirting with a literal pile of rocks was already enough to make him lose his composure; he could feel the lightning buzzing under his skin, a restless, jealous hum. The thought of you wandering the village, throwing that same devastating smile at his subjects—his men subjects—was intolerable.
“No,” he said, his voice flat and absolute.
You gasped, playing up the indignation. “Why not? I do wanna see some Asgardian men—”
Thor’s grip on your hand tightened instantly, his fingers nearly bruising. He leaned in, his shadow falling over you, his blue eye burning with a dark, possessive heat. “You will not be leaving this room for eternity if you keep talking like that.”
Oh.
The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out. He was so incredibly hot when he was like this—possessive, looming, and clearly fighting a losing battle with his own restraint. You tilted your head down, looking up at him through your lashes, letting that innocent gaze of yours do the work for you.
“Why not, big guy?” you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, teasing hum. “But I really want to see.”
Thor’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked at your lips, then back to your eyes, his resolve crumbling like the facility back in the jungle. He was the King of Asgard, a God of Thunder, yet he was completely defenseless against a single look from you.
“Fine,” he grumbled, his shoulders dropping in defeat. He couldn't say no to that face, even if it meant he’d have to spend the entire afternoon glaring at every man who dared to look in your direction.
Brunnhilde let out another cackle, leaning back against the wall with an amused smirk. “Good luck, Majesty. You're going to need a bigger axe to keep the suitors away. If there is one bigger than the one you already have.”
Thor didn't respond to her. He just reached down, his hand sliding from your knuckles to your forearm, his touch still burning like a brand. “But I am the one taking you,” he added, his voice possessive. “And you stay within my reach. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I promise I won’t leave your side,” you said, a grin of victory overtaking your face.
You knew your puppy-dog gaze was your secret weapon, but as Thor began to help you up, a flicker of confusion crossed your mind. Why did Brunnhilde say good luck like that? If they were a couple, why was she just standing there cackling while her man acted like a possessive dragon over another girl? You shook the thought away—Asgardian couples were clearly built different.
“Come on then, let’s go,” Thor said. His movements were agonizingly careful. One hand gripped your elbow, steadying your frame, while his other hand slid firmly around your waist to hoist you from the bed. The heat from his palm through your attire made your heart beat so fast you were worried the healers would hear it from the other room.
The torture began the second you stepped outside. The salt air hit your face, and your eyes wandered over the rugged beauty of New Asgard. It was a picturesque, bustling village, but your attention was quickly snatched by a man walking toward the docks. He was tall, with long, golden hair caught in the wind and a thick, groomed beard. He looked remarkably like the old version of Thor—the one you’ve seen from the screens.
You didn't hide it. You looked him up and down appreciatively, a slow smirk spreading across your lips. It was official: you definitely had a type. Nobody could truly be Thor—no man on Earth or Asgard could come close to the God of Thunder beside you—but this guy was a very, very solid runner-up.
Beside you, the air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Thor’s gaze locked onto the man with the ferocity of a predator. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you an inch closer to his hip, marking his territory in front of half the village.
“All-Fathers, give me strength,” Thor mumbled under his breath, his knuckles turning white as he prayed for the patience not to smite his own subject where he stood.
You turned your head back to him, your eyes dancing with mischief. “I couldn’t quite catch that,” you said innocently. “Did you say something, or were you just admiring the scenery too? Because the view out here is excellent.”
He looked down at you, his blue eye burning with a mixture of raw jealousy and a protective instinct so strong it was almost vibrating. “The view is treacherous,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he steered you firmly in the opposite direction of the blond Asgardian. “And you are supposed to be resting your eyes. Perhaps I should carry you back inside if they are going to wander so much.”
“Do not dare!” You rolled your eyes, a light giggle escaping you as you leaned slightly into the support of his arm. “I am merely admiring the view, big guy. Don't be ridiculous.”
He was being ridiculous. He knew it. He had no claim on you, no right to feel this possessive surge that made his blood boil every time your eyes lingered on another man. In his mind, he told himself it was absurd to pursue anything—you were a mortal, a flicker of light in his long, shadowed history. But as he looked down at the top of your head, a darker, more primitive part of him—the side of him that had conquered realms and held thrones—was whispering. Hide her. Do not let her look at another. Own her until she forgets any other man even draws breath.
He felt the roar of that possessive instinct in his chest, and before he could think, the words tumbled out.
“I am a view to be admired too,” he rumbled, his voice low and thick. “Why won't you admire me?”
The moment the question left his lips, Thor closed his eyes, a wave of internal swearing following it. He was going to ruin everything. He was a King, a warrior, and here he was, practically begging for your attention like a petulant boy.
You turned your head toward him so fast the world did a little spin, forcing you to grip his arm tighter to stay upright. Your heart was thundering against your ribs. What is wrong with him? you thought, a flash of irritation warring with the sudden, sharp heat in your cheeks. How could he ask that? He was a god, he had Brunnhilde, and he definitely didn't have feelings for you. He had to be playing—mocking you, even.
You gulped, trying to keep your voice steady as you forced a meek smile. “Who says I don’t?” you joked back.
But the words felt heavy, lacking the punch of a real joke. It wasn't a joke—not to you. You admired him every single second you were in his presence, from the way his muscles shifted to the way he looked when he thought no one was watching.
Thor opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you so close that you could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart—a heavy, steady hammer against your side.
She cannot mean that. The thought raced through his mind, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Did she mean that? For a moment, he couldn't breathe, the sheer weight of your words taking the air out of his lungs. He searched your expression for the punchline, for the quick-witted retort that usually followed your barbs. Surely you were joking, just as you usually did to keep him on his toes. He smiled nervously, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing his features as he finally averted his gaze, looking out toward the horizon.
“I am honored, honey,” he murmured, his voice slightly strained. “I too... admire you.”
Before the silence could get too heavy, he started hauling you over toward a row of shops, his grip on your waist firm as he guided your unsteady steps. Your heart stuttered. You knew he wasn't being serious, he couldn't be, but the mere possibility of him admiring you made your chest ache with a bittersweet longing. You were just a woman from Midgard; he was a legend carved from lightning.
As you walked, your attention was caught by a group of Asgardian women sitting on a low stone wall. They were giggling, their fingers moving with practiced grace as they braided each other's hair, weaving small silver charms into the strands. They were applying iridescent pigments to their eyelids, their laughter ringing out like bells in the crisp air. They looked so effortless, so full of life and sisterhood. Your heart soared at the sight. It was so far removed from the cold steel of the facility or the mud of the jungle.
Thor noticed the way your pace slowed, his gaze following yours to the circle of women. “You want to join them?” he asked, his voice softening.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. You wanted to, more than anything, but the sudden surge of self-consciousness held you back. You were covered in the faint remnants of grime, your hair was a mess from the battle, and you felt like an intruder in their perfect world.
“I don’t know... would it be weird?” you asked, your voice small.
Thor looked down at you, his expression melting into something so incredibly tender it made your knees weak. He reached up, his thumb grazing your temple to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all, darling,” he said, a proud smile tugging at his lips. Without another word, he turned his steps toward the women, his hand remaining possessively at your waist as he led you into their circle, determined to give you even a moment of the peace you had bled for.
The women rose instantly, their laughter quieting into a gesture of deep respect as they bowed the moment they saw their King.
“Would you be so kind as to let my friend here join you ladies for a while?” Thor asked, his voice booming with a warmth that made the women beam.
They welcomed you immediately, pulling you into their circle with eager hands. For the next hour, the war and the pain felt a lifetime away. You leaned back, closing your eyes as one of the women began to weave a complex, delicate braid through your hair, her fingers light and nimble. Another sat beside you, carefully applying a shimmering, iridescent lip gloss that tasted like wild berries. You swapped stories, learning their names and laughing as they told you about the quirks of living in New Asgard. You were finally at peace.
Thor didn't move far. He stood a few paces away, leaning against a weathered wooden post, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He was watching you. His heart soared at the sight of you in sync with his people, your laughter blending perfectly with theirs. A wholehearted, genuine smile broke across his face, one that reached his eyes and stayed there. Seeing you like this, safe and glowing, felt like the greatest victory he’d ever won.
When it was finally time to go, you found yourself hugging the girls, tapping your phone number into their devices and promising to show them Midgardian glam next time. You thanked them for the girly experience, your face flushed with a genuine happiness that hadn't been there since before the mission.
Then, you turned and walked over to him.
Thor’s breath caught in his throat, a hitch that made his chest tighten. You looked so breathtakingly beautiful that it felt like a blow to his solar plexus. The intricate braids framed your face perfectly, making your features pop, and the way you smiled—wide and triumphant—made his head spin.
But it was your lips that did him in. The gloss shimmered in the sun, making them look soft, wet, and utterly inviting. He stared at you, his pulse thundering in his ears, feeling like he was about to die from the sheer, overwhelming force of wanting to close the distance between you.
“How do I look, big guy?” you asked, spinning in a small circle, your eyes bright.
Thor couldn't speak for a second. He just stood there, his blue eye fixed on the shimmer of your lips, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and touch the braids he’d just watched being made. He felt like he was drowning in the sight of you.
“You look—” he started, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that he couldn't quite control. “You look like a Queen of the Stars.”
He cradled your face, “Thank you,” you managed to breathe. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and searching, oblivious to the way the light in your veins was beginning to pulse in sync with the heavy thud of his heart.
Thor stared down at you, his thumb hooked under your chin, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your throat.
She cannot be real, he thought, his chest tight with a hunger that felt both holy and devastating. She was made to undo me.
Then, the world seemed to tilt. He moved his thumb, dragging the pad of it slowly across the plush curve of your lower lip. He caught the shimmering, wet gloss, his touch searing, and then—with a deliberation that made your knees buckle—he brought his thumb to his own mouth.
He tasted it. He fucking tasted it.
He closed his eyes, humming a low, resonant sound as he sucked the tip of his thumb, his jaw working as he savored the sweetness of the gloss and the essence of you.
Your mouth fell open, your breath hitching in a broken sob of shock.
The God of Thunder, the King of Asgard, was standing in the middle of New Asgard, tasting your lip gloss like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
It was the most intimate, most improper, most exhilarating thing you had ever witnessed.
“You like it?” you whispered, your voice trembling and soft, barely audible over the hum of the people chattering in the streets. Thor opened his eyes, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like a sea before a hurricane. He let his hand drop from your chin, but he didn't move back.
He stayed in your space, his heat a physical wall. “I do,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave until it was a rough, velvet growl. “It tastes exactly as I imagined.”
The world spun. He had imagined it. He had looked at your mouth and wondered what you tasted like.
Thor’s world narrowed until it was nothing but the heat radiating off your skin and the salt-tinged breeze of the harbor. When you took his forearms in your hands, your fingers curling around the thick, corded muscle of his limbs, his entire body went rigid. The pulse in your veins felt like it was humming directly against his palms, a rhythmic, electric tether binding your souls together in the middle of the crowded street.
“Would you like another taste?” you whispered. The question was a spark in a room full of gunpowder. Thor’s pupils dilated until the blue of his eyes was almost entirely swallowed by a predatory, desperate black. His heart slammed against his ribs—a frantic, heavy thunder that you could feel vibrating through his arms.
He didn't answer with words. He couldn't.
His hands moved from your face to your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a possessive strength that pulled you flush against him. There was no space left between you, no air, no logic. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a fraction of a second, his ragged breath ghosting over your dampened lips.
“You have no idea,” he rasped, the vibration of his voice rattling in your chest, “what you are asking of me.” He tilted his head, his gaze dropping back to your mouth, watching the way the shimmering gloss caught the golden sun. There was a raw, starving hunger in his gaze that had been building since the moment he first saw you. He leaned in until his lips were a mere hair's breadth from yours, pausing there in the agonizing friction of the almost. He let out a low, shaky exhale, his nose brushing against yours.
“If I start,” he groaned, his voice a rough, velvet warning against your mouth, “I will not be able to stop. I will consume you, sweet girl.”
Your grip on his forearms tightened, your nails biting into his skin as you pulled him that final, impossible inch.
When his lips finally crashed against yours, it wasn't the gentle kiss of a king; it was the crash of two storms. He tasted like rain and desperation, his mouth moving over yours with a frantic, soul-searing intensity. His tongue swept across your lower lip, reclaiming the sweetness of the gloss and replacing it with the heat of his own fire.
The world around you—the shops, the shouting children, the presence of Brunnhilde somewhere in the distance—completely vanished. He was consuming you, his left hand anchoring your waist while his right firmly gripped the back of your neck, fingers tangling into the fresh braids to pull you impossibly flush against him. Your own hands found his firm shoulders, gripping onto the rough fabric of his tunic for dear life as you stood on your tiptoes to meet him.
You forgot where you were. You forgot to breathe. You forgot your own name.
There was only the taste of him and the way his massive body felt pressed against yours like a shield and a cage all at once. Your heart sang at the contact, a wild, soaring melody that reached a crescendo in your chest.
You were hopelessly in love with him.
Love. The word struck you with the force of a thunderclap, clearing the fog of passion just long enough for a single image to flash in your mind: Brunnhilde.
Her arm wrapped around his shoulder. Her cackle. The ease between them.
You parted away from him so fast it was like a train had hit you. Your boots stumbled back on the uneven stones, and your breath came in ragged, panicked hitches. The reality of the street rushed back—the whispers of the townspeople who had stopped to stare at their King, the judgment in the air.
“What’s wrong?” Thor asked, his voice thick and dazed. He reached out for you, his gaze clouded with a raw, lingering hunger, looking completely unmoored.
Your heart sank into your stomach, heavy as lead. “How could we?” you asked, your voice trembling.
You looked at him—at the King of Asgard—and the weight of what you'd just done felt like it was crushing your lungs. How could you let this happen? You were helping him betray the life he had built here, the woman who stood by his side.
Thor froze. He saw the horror in your eyes, the way you were looking at him as if he were a stranger. His mind raced, misinterpreting every second of your silence. He saw the way you recoiled, the way you looked at him with what he could only perceive as regret—or worse, fear.
He thought he had failed you. He thought he had taken advantage of your recovery, using his power and your vulnerability to force a moment you didn't actually want. He thought he had creeped you out, becoming the very monster he feared he was.
He cleared his throat then, the sound sharp and sudden, as if he were trying to shake off a spell. He stepped back just an inch—enough for you to breathe, but not enough for you to feel safe. He had fucked it up. He had fucked it all up.
“Forgive me,” his voice was pained, strained through a throat that looked like it was choking on his own heartbeat. “I do not know what came over me. It was… unseemly. I have misread the situation entirely.”
He took his hands off of you as if your very skin had turned into white-hot iron, burning him. You stumbled backwards, your skin still flaming where his hands—his lips—had been.
“Unseemly,” you repeated, the word tasting like ash. You thought he was regretting the betrayal; he thought he was apologizing for being a predator.
“I have taken advantage of your state,” he rasped, refusing to meet your eyes now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder at the churning grey sea. “I am your mentor. I am responsible for your safety. Please... forget my conduct. It will not happen again.”He looked at his hands and clenched them into white-knuckled fists, the silence between you opening up like a vast, yawning chasm.
“I—“ You gulped, the word sticking in your throat as you looked at his boots, unable to meet that turbulent blue gaze. “I would like to go back to the Compound now.”
Thor nodded, the movement stiff and formal. “Okay.”
He extended his hand toward you, his palm open but his eyes fixed firmly on the horizon behind you. With his other hand, he reached out and summoned Stormbreaker; the weapon flew into his grip with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed through the quiet street. You took his hand, your own fingers trembling so violently you were sure he could feel the vibration of your bones.
Thor felt that tremble. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, his jaw tightening as if he were bracing for a blow. He didn't say a word, but he pulled you closer—careful to keep a professional distance this time—and held Stormbreaker aloft.
The rainbow light of the Bifrost engulfed you, and for a heartbeat, you were suspended in a roar of color and sound. Then, the familiar concrete of the Avengers Compound floor was beneath your feet.
The moment the light faded, you scrambled away from him, your hand dropping his as if his touch had become toxic. Steve and Natasha were there in an instant, having been waiting on the landing pad. They looked at each other, their expressions shifting from relief to concern the moment they saw the wreckage of your expression.
“Are you okay, doll?” Steve asked, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to steady you. You nodded mindlessly, not trusting your voice, not looking back at the God of Thunder standing like a statue behind you.
You reached the safety of your room, slamming the door shut and locking it with a trembling hand. You didn't make it to the bed; you slid down against the wood, pulling your knees to your chest. The silence of the quarters pressed in on you, heavy and suffocating.
You looked at your phone lying on the bed. The agent’s number was still there in your messages. A human. Someone who wouldn't look at you like a regret. Someone who was available, who didn't have a warrior-queen waiting for him or a thousand years of baggage.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, your chest aching with a crushing weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. You were going on that date. You didn’t want to—not really—but the storm of what had happened in New Asgard was too much to bear alone. You needed to feel seen by someone who wasn't apologizing for wanting you.
—
The next morning, your head was thudding with a dull, rhythmic ache that had nothing to do with your injuries and everything to do with the heavy silence of your quarters. You didn’t want to go to the common room. You didn’t want to see him, to look into that single blue eye and see the regret reflecting back at you. You wanted nothing to do with him.
You reached for your phone, your thumb hovering over the agent’s name. You sent the text. He replied almost instantly—he wanted to take you out tonight. You agreed, the hollow victory of the date feeling like a bitter pill to swallow.
You got up and got ready for breakfast nonetheless, masking your exhaustion with a sharp look that felt more like armor than an outfit. You made your way toward the common room, and the air immediately felt thick, charged with the same tension that had nearly snapped yesterday.
Your gaze found him instantly. Thor was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his massive hands wrapped around a coffee mug that looked fragile in his grip. He was gazing mindlessly at the far wall, his expression vacant and haunted. He felt you enter; you saw his shoulders tighten, his posture becoming even more rigid, but he didn’t turn around.
You didn’t say a word. You walked straight to the coffee machine, the silence in the room deafening.
Tony, Natasha, Steve, Bruce, and Rocket were all gathered at the table, exchanging looks that practically screamed, What the hell? The men all pointed subtly toward you and then toward Thor, gesturing wildly to Natasha as if to say Fix it.
Natasha shook her head exasperatedly, pushing off from the table and making her way toward you. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” she asked, her voice low but sharp.
You gave her a dry side-eye as you waited for your cup to fill. “Good morning, Nat.”
She didn’t back off. She stepped into your personal space, narrowing her eyes. “Thor has been staring at nothing for an hour now, and you are being awfully quiet.”
Your body locked, your shoulders tightening to match his. “What makes you say something happened?”
“It’s obvious. Spill it.”
You looked down at the counter, the steam from the coffee hitting your face. “We kissed,” you muttered, the admission feeling like a confession. She kept looking at you, waiting for more. When you didn't continue, you felt a surge of indignation. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she looking at you like you were the problem?
“And he already has a partner?” you said, your voice dripping with disbelief. “He’s a King, Nat. He has responsibilities. He has her.” Only then did Natasha’s expression change. Her eyebrows knitted together in genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? He’s not in a relationship. He hasn’t been for years.”
Your own eyebrows furrowed. The world seemed to stall. “What? What about Brunnhilde?”
Natasha actually let out a dry, huffed laugh. “She’s just his friend. Trust me, she’d be more interested in you anyway. She’s got a liking for women.”
Your whole world tilted upside down. The floor felt like it was falling away, leaving you suspended in a vacuum of your own making. He wasn't a cheater. He wasn't taken.
And the apology, the way he had pulled away like he was a monster... it wasn't about her.
It was only about you.
“But he apologized—”
Natasha shrugged, leaning her hip against the counter with a cool, analytical stare. “He probably thinks you regret the kiss. He's a bit of a dramatic idiot like that.”
“But I don’t— He does,” you said, your heart performing a painful somersault in your chest. You were so confused, the adrenaline from the realization mixing with the lingering sting of his rejection. “And… I have a date tonight.” You turned your gaze toward your hands, unable to look at her anymore.
“What? With who?” Natasha asked, her voice sharpening.
“Just an agent,” you said, keeping the name to yourself as you turned to leave. You didn’t wait for her to respond; you left the room as fast as your legs would carry you. But just as you were stepping into the hallway, you heard her mutter a low, ominous, “Oh, no.”
Back at the table, the boys were still hovering, trying to get Thor to spill the beans. He remained a statue of grief until Natasha marched back over and dropped the bombshell without any preamble. “She thought you were in a relationship with Brunnhilde,” she stated the moment she reached him.
For the first time in an hour, Thor’s gaze snapped away from the wall. The movement was so sudden it almost looked painful. “What?” he boomed, the word vibrating the coffee mugs on the table.
“And now she knows you’re not. You’re welcome,” Natasha said, sliding into her chair with cat-like ease. “Though she now thinks you regret the kiss because of her. Sorry about that one.”
Tony’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “The kiss? You kissed? Since when are we kissing the trainees? Was I not invited to this memo?”
But Thor wasn't hearing a word Tony said. His brain was stuck on the fact that the horror he saw in your eyes wasn't because of him—it was because you thought he was a betrayer.
Then Natasha added the finishing blow. “Oh, and she has a date tonight. With some agent she's been talking to.” Steve’s head snapped toward her, his expression darkening instantly. “A date? She's still recovering. And some of those tactical guys—they aren't exactly looking for a long-term commitment. They can be bad news.”
Thor was plunged into a new kind of trance. This one wasn't silent; it was electric. His jaw tightened so hard his beard bristled. You were going on that date? With a mortal stranger? While you still had the taste of Asgard on your lips?
The air in the common room began to hum with the faint, unmistakable smell of a coming storm. Thor didn't look like a grieving king anymore. He was a god who had just realized he'd almost surrendered his most precious treasure over a misunderstanding.
He was going to explain himself to you, even if you didn’t want him.
—
You locked yourself in your room, the heavy click of the deadbolt echoing the finality of your decision. You needed to drown out the noise—the confusion, the embarrassment, and the lingering heat of Thor’s touch.
You took an everything shower, the steam filling the room as you scrubbed every inch of your skin as if you could wash away the sensation of his hands on your waist.
Afterward, you spent an eternity applying body lotions, the floral scent masking the faint smell of rain that seemed to follow you from New Asgard. You were putting in an incredible amount of effort, but it wasn't for the man waiting for you. It was a distraction, a way to make the hours pass until you didn't have to think anymore.
With your earphones blasting music to drown out the world, you hadn't heard a single thing outside your door. You had no idea that Steve had been hovering in the hallway, his face pinched with worry, or that Natasha had practically tried to pick the lock before giving up in exasperation. To them, you were being stubborn. To you, you were just trying to survive.
You pulled on a black bandeau midi dress that hugged your curves, the dark fabric perfectly complementing your features. It was sleek, sophisticated, and left your shoulders bare. Then, you stepped into your four-inch heels. They were a nightmare to walk in, the thin straps biting into your skin, but they made you feel sharp, and untouchable. You applied the finishing touches of your makeup and a heavy mist of your favorite perfume. You were done.
You picked up your clutch, checking your reflection one last time. You looked good—really good. The shimmering lip gloss was back—a different brand, a different scent, but the memory of Thor’s thumb dragging across your lip flashed in your mind like a lightning strike.
You closed your eyes as you shoved it down.
You took a deep breath opening your eyes back, adjusted the hem of your dress, and finally pulled your earphones out. You looked at your your phone, saw the “I'm outside” text from the agent, and headed for the door. You tried to avoid everyone as you made your way outside to where Agent Vance was waiting.
You didn't see Thor, but he saw you. He had spent the last hour pacing, finally deciding that even if you didn't feel the same, he had to tell you the truth. He wanted to tell you how he’d wanted to kiss you from the very first moment he caught sight of you. He wanted to confess how he had to restrain himself every single time your skin made contact with his during training, how his heart thudded every time he heard your voice, and how he had felt like a predator for harboring such intense feelings for his student. He was in love with you. He had fallen for you hard.
He had been working up the courage to reach your room, to catch you before you could leave, but the sight of you in those heels and that sinful black dress caught him completely off guard. You looked beautiful—like you had stepped right out of his most forbidden fantasies. His heart thudded once against his ribs, and then it sank into his stomach.
You were dressed like this for another man.
Before he could make a move, you were out the door. He watched from the shadows of the corridor as you reached the agent, who gave you a slow, approving look-over that made Thor’s left eye twitch.
He wasn't going to let you be courted by another. He couldn't bear the thought of it. He knew it wasn’t ethical, knew he was being unreasonable, but he had to follow you.
Steve came up right next to him then, his face etched with concern. “What happened? You couldn't make it to her room in time?”
Thor turned toward him, his expression grim. "No," he said simply. With a sharp shake of Stormbreaker, the casual clothes vanished, replaced by the heavy, shimmering plates of his Asgardian armor.
“Who was she with?” Steve asked, peering toward the exit.
“That agent with the brown hair, green eyes. The ugly one,” Thor rumbled, his voice low and dangerous.
“The handsome one?” Steve cut him off, his eyes wide.
Thor gave him a sharp side-eye that could have curdled milk. Steve ignored it, his worry deepening. “Oh, fudge. That guy's the worst. It hasn't been proved yet but he’s got a reputation for—“
Thor didn't let him finish. He didn't need to hear about Vance's reputation; he could already feel the protective, possessive rage bubbling in his blood. He had to find you. Without another word, he lifted Stormbreaker high, the scent of storm exploding in the hallway, and ascended into the sky in a flash of blue light.
The ride in the car was suffocating. Vance kept glancing at your chest as he drove, his eyes lingering far longer than they should have, making you squirm uncomfortably in the leather seat. You adjusted the neckline of your black dress, a cold knot of dread tightening in your stomach.
Had you made a massive mistake?
“Where are we going?” you asked, forcing a small, fragile smile.
“It's a surprise. You'll see,” Vance said, glancing at you with a devilish smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Okay, weird. The creepy vibes were hitting you in waves now, but you tried to bury them deep. You told yourself it was just because you didn't want to be here—because your heart was still back at the Compound with a man who thought he’d offended you.
But then, Vance turned onto a desolate, abandoned street, the streetlights flickering over cracked pavement and empty warehouses.
Your heart started thudding against your chest, a frantic rhythm that made your breath short.
“Wow, if you wanted to murder me, you could have just invited me to a Nickelback concert. It’s cheaper and achieves the same result,” you rambled, the joke slipping out before you could stop it. Like you always did when you were terrified, you were using humor as a shield.
Vance’s brows furrowed, his expression darkening as if your voice was an annoyance. He didn't even crack a smile. He just slowed the car to a halt in front of an ominous, windowless building that looked like it hadn't seen life in decades.
“Get out,” he told you, his voice flat and cold.
Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. This couldn't be happening. You sat frozen, your fingers gripping your clutch so hard your knuckles turned white. When you made no move to leave the safety of the car, Vance’s patience snapped.
He rounded the car and ripped the door open. Before you could even protest, his fingers clamped around your upper arm, his grip so tight it felt like his fingers were sinking into the bone.
“Ow! What the fuck?” you yelled, wincing as he hauled you out of the seat. The four-inch heels made you stumble on the gravel, your ankles nearly snapping as he started dragging you toward the heavy steel doors of the building. “Let go of me! This isn't funny, Vance!”
Your vision glazed over for a second. You knew how to fight back; you had the power humming in your veins, and you’d spent months training for this. But your body betrayed you. You were still weak from your injuries, the Asgardian magic still busy knitting your insides back together. You stumbled, the heels catching on a crack in the pavement.
“What are you doing? Let me go!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the cold concrete.
Vance spun around, his face contorted. “Shut up!” he yelled, and with a sickening force, he slammed you against the brick wall of the building.
The air left your lungs, and your eyebrows furrowed in a flash of pure, unadulterated fury. But as he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you, he leaned in until you could smell the stale scent of his breath. “Maybe I should just have you right here? In your slutty, tight dress?”
Your blood ran cold. The sheer audacity of his words, the way he looked at you like you were an object to be broken, made your skin crawl.
High above, Thor was a silhouette against the rising darkness. He had been looking for you everywhere, his gaze frantically tracing the city streets like a hawk. Every second you were with that mortal was a second of agony for him.
His blood boiled when he finally caught sight of the car parked in that desolate alley. When he saw the fucker corner you, slamming you against the wall, Thor saw red. He knew you were vulnerable; he knew your body was still fragile from the battle, still healing under the very magic he had gifted you.
The clouds over the city curdled. A violent, deep purple vortex began to spin directly over the warehouse, the rumble of thunder echoing through the buildings like the growl of a dying god.
You looked up, the terror in your chest suddenly replaced by a strange, soaring calm. Above the silhouette of the man threatening you, the sky was glazing over with a familiar, electric wrath. Your heart gave a relieved thud; the primal rumble of the sky was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard. He was here.
In a blinding flash of blue light, the air exploded. The pressure change was so sudden it knocked the breath out of Vance. You watched as Thor descended, not like a savior, but like an executioner. He landed ten feet away, the concrete shattering beneath his boots, Stormbreaker humming with a low, lethal vibration in his hand.
His cape billowed in the wind of his own making, and his eyes were glowing, overflowing with the lightning of a thousand storms. He didn't look at Vance. He looked at you, his gaze tracing the bruise already forming on your arm and the way your dress was hitched up from the struggle. The growl that came out of his chest wasn't human. “Get your hands,” Thor rasped, the sky cracking above him in punctuation, “off of her.”
Vance let go of you immediately, stumbling back as the sheer presence of the God of Thunder seemed to suck the oxygen out of the alley. You let out a shaky, relieved breath, standing your ground despite the thudding in your chest and the sting on your arm. You weren't going to let this piece of trash see you crumble.
Thor was a blur of silver and shadow as he strode toward Vance, his hand lashing out to snatch the man by his collar. He lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing, slamming him back against the same brick wall where you had just been pinned.
“How dare you touch her?!” Thor’s voice rumbled, a low-frequency growl that made the glass in the nearby warehouse windows rattle.
Vance’s eyes widened, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. “She—she was asking for it—I swear—“
Thor’s left hand came up, white-hot static dancing over his knuckles, the air smelling sharply of scorched earth. “You will pay for that,” he rasped, his grip tightening until Vance’s feet dangled uselessly above the gravel.
Then, you turned your head. Through the haze of the storm, you saw a flash of light—a phone lens. A man stood at the end of the alley, recording the entire thing. Your blood ran cold. Without context, this looked like the King of New Asgard assaulting a human civilian. If Thor did something—anything—to Vance right now, the world would call him a murderer.
“Thor!” you yelled, stepping toward him and grabbing his massive bicep. You looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Someone's recording us, stop,” you mumbled, your voice urgent.
He glanced at you, the glowing white in his eyes flickering but staying bright as he looked back at the man in his grip. “No,” he said, the thunder above echoing his refusal.
You leaned in closer, your thumb soothing the corded muscle of his bicep in a desperate, rhythmic motion. “Please, handsome,” you whispered.
He relaxed then. The static on his knuckles died down, and he dropped Vance to the floor with a heavy, unceremonious thud. Vance huddled on the gravel, gasping for air, but Thor didn't spare him another glance. He turned to you, his arms immediately hauling you into the crushing safety of his embrace, pulling your back against his chest.
“Are you okay, my sweet girl?” he asked, his voice dropping into that tender, gravelly tone. He rested his chin atop your head, one hand soothing over your hair, smoothing the strands that had been ruffled in the scuffle. You nodded, leaning back into the solid heat of his armor. He turned his head toward the man recording in the shadows, his expression shifting back into that of a cold, protective King.
“Go away, mortal,” he rumbled. The command was so absolute, so heavy with divine authority, that the man didn't even hesitate. He tucked his phone away and scrambled into the darkness as fast as his legs would carry him.
Thor turned you around in his arms then, his hands moving to your shoulders, his gaze scanning your face. “I should have never let you leave,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
The moment of peace was shattered by a sharp scoff from the gravel. Vance was clutching his throat, his face twisted in a sneer. “The slut calls you handsome and you immediately melt,” he spat.
Both of your heads snapped toward him at the same time. Thor let out a low, guttural growl, his grip on Stormbreaker tightening, but before he could move, your own rage boiled over. Your eyes flared with a sudden, violent violet glow. A jagged arc of purple electricity tore through the air, striking Vance square in the chest. He didn't even have time to scream before he slumped over, his body going completely still.
You froze, the static still dancing over your fingertips.
“Why haven't you done that before?” Thor grumbled, looking at the man's unmoving body with an entirely unfazed expression.
You turned toward him, your chest heaving. “Because I was paralyzed with shock!” you yelled, the adrenaline finally making your voice crack.
Thor’s expression shifted, the tenderness from a moment ago hardening into something cold and distant. “Let's go,” he said. He turned on his heel, not looking back at you as he began walking toward the exit of the narrow street.
He was moving with purpose, his gaze darkened as he searched for an open space proper enough to summon the Bifrost. His mind was a storm of its own, swirling with the sting of your earlier assumption. How could she think so little of me? To believe I would lead her into such a moment while another woman held my heart? The perceived betrayal of your thoughts felt like a blade between his ribs.
“What's wrong?” you asked, trying to keep up with his long, effortless strides.
He didn't answer. His pace only fastened. “We'll talk later,” he said, his back a wall of shimmering cape and muscle. You hurried after him, the uneven pavement a minefield. “Slow down, Thor!” you gasped. Your heels were a death trap on this terrain, offering zero stability as you tried to match his god-like gait. He still wasn't turning around.
“Will you slow dow—“ Your ankle snapped to the side. You let out a sharp cry as you hit the ground hard, the force of the fall knocking the breath right out of your lungs.
Thor stopped. He closed his eyes for a brief, pained second, a flicker of exasperation crossing his features—how could someone be so clumsy? But the irritation was gone as quickly as it arrived, replaced by a surge of pure panic. He turned toward you instantly, dropping Stormbreaker to the side as he rushed back. His gaze was overflowing with raw concern as he reached for you.
“How do you always manage to fall down?” he asked, his voice a mix of exasperation and genuine worry as he knelt to inspect your ankle.
Your eyes narrowed, the pain in your leg sharpening your tongue. “This one is your fault! Why wouldn't you just slow down?” you yelled at him, gesturing wildly at the desolate street.
“I'm sorry, darling,” he murmured, the sudden softness of the endearment catching you off guard. “You're right.”
Before you could argue further, he locked his left arm under your legs and his right one firmly behind your back, lifting you up bridal style. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his neck to steady yourself. Your heart started beating out of your chest; being this close to him, feeling the cold metal of his armor against your skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat, was overwhelming.
“Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he began walking, eyes scanning for a clearing.
“What?” you asked, breathless.
He looked directly into your eyes, his gaze heavy and knowing. “You fall an awful lot, and I always end up either helping you up or carrying you.”
Your eyes widened, and you immediately averted your gaze, feeling the heat creep up your neck. "No," you mumbled shyly, though you couldn't help the way your fingers curled slightly into the nape of his hair.
He chuckled—a deep, vibrating sound that you felt in your own chest. He finally found a clear spot and lifted Stormbreaker high, summoning the Bifrost. In a blur of light and sound, the world smeared into colors until the familiar, sterile scent of the Avengers Compound replaced the city grime.
But Thor didn't set you down, he strode through the hallways with a silent, regal determination—his boots echoing against the floor until he came to a stop right in front of his doors. Wait. His doors?
You gazed up at him, your brow furrowed in confusion. “Why are we in front of your quarters?”
He looked at you as he opened the door with one hand while holding you, kicking it open with a heavy thud. “We are going to have a little chat,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin tingle.
Your throat went bone-dry. This was it. This was where he told you he couldn't train you anymore—that the boundaries had been overstepped and there was no going back. You didn't want to hear his rejection; you didn't want to hear him say it was a mistake.
“No need—“
“Yes, need,” he cut you off, sitting you down firmly on the edge of his bed.
He immediately started pacing the length of the room in front of you, his cape swirling like a storm cloud with every sharp turn. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror facing the bed—your expression was broken, your makeup slightly smudged, looking like a girl who had just survived a wreck.
“You are so irresponsible!” he started yelling, his voice booming in the confined space.
Your eyebrows furrowed, your own temper flickering to life. “How am I irresponsible? I am not a child—“
He held up a finger, a silent command that stopped the words in your throat. “You keep trying me. Let me speak,” he rumbled. You nodded, gulping hard as he turned back to his scolding.
“You go on a date with a bastard like him? You do no background check on the men who you let take you out?!” He ran a hand through his hair, gripping his head as if it were about to explode. “And him? After we kissed?”
He stopped pacing then, looking you dead in the eye. Your breath caught in your throat, the air in the room suddenly feeling very thin. You gulped, “I thought you—“
“I know what you thought, and I am even more mad because of that! No, actually, I’m not mad,” he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I’m furious.” Your gaze fell to the floor, unable to hold that intense, electric stare.
“How could you think I could kiss you while I have another’s hands holding mine?” he asked, his voice shaking with the weight of his words. “How could you think me so low of a man that I would betray anyone’s—your trust like that?”
He took a deep breath, stepping into your personal space until his boots were touching your heels. He reached down, his large hand cupping your face and grabbing your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The glow was back in his eyes, but it wasn't the wrath of the storm—it was something far more consuming.
“How could you think I could even look at another woman,” he whispered, his thumb grazing your lower lip, “while there is you?”
Your chest started heaving, the rhythm of your breath erratic as the weight of his words settled over you. His thumb continued its slow, hypnotic soothing over your chin, and he gulped, his gaze anchored to your face. He looked at you with a hunger that was almost painful—taking in your beautiful eyes, your consuming expression, and those lips he had branded just a day before.
“I know you do not want me,” he said, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “I know you think I'm a creep—“
“What do you mean? I do not think such a thing,” you interrupted, your eyebrows furrowing in genuine shock. You reached up, your hand covering his as you cradled his palm against your cheek, needing the contact to stay grounded.
“Don't deny it—I know you do,” he mumbled, a flicker of insecurity crossing his rugged features. “But I am consumed by you. Your jokes annoyed me at first, but now they are the only things I want to hear. Your voice soothes my soul; the sight of you makes my heart sing.”
You stopped breathing entirely. The room seemed to shrink until there was nothing but the heat radiating from his body.
“I kissed you and apologized because I thought I had taken advantage of you,” he took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for a rejection that wasn't coming. “I wanted to kiss you since the first time I caught sight of you. I fell for you the first time you talked to me with that vibrant voice of yours.”
The world seemed to tilt. What?
“I love you, Little One.”
You couldn't take one more breath. Your eyes welled up with hot, thick tears that blurred your vision. Through all this time—all the training sessions where you’d felt like a nuisance, all the moments you thought you were just a responsibility—he had loved you?
“Shut up,” you breathed. Before he could respond, you reached up and caught his neck, pulling him down toward you with a strength that surprised you both. His breath hitched in his chest as he was forced into your space. “I love you too, handsome,” you mumbled against his lips.
He froze. All the months he had spent trying to distance himself, trying to play the stoic mentor because he was terrified of his own heart—and you had wanted him all along? You loved him?
Then, Thor smiled, It was a wide, radiant expression of pure, unadulterated joy that seared its way into your heart, brighter than any lightning he had ever summoned.
You smiled back, a soft, shaky thing that finally reached your eyes, but just as he was leaning in to close the distance, you let out a small, troubled mumble. “I never thought you could love me,” you whispered, your brow furrowing.
His expression shifted instantly, his eyes filled with confusion. “How? I thought I had made it very clear that I want you.”
You rolled your eyes, a dry, sarcastic huff escaping you as you pulled him back toward your lips. “Yeah, you have a very strange way of showing it, grumpy.” you murmured, your voice dripping with irony.
Your lips collided then, and the world outside the room ceased to exist. You kissed him with everything you had—all those times of yearning and frustration pouring into the contact. But the height difference from your position on the bed was nagging at him. Thor reached down, his massive hands catching your waist as he hauled you up to your feet. You gasped, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you stabilized. He didn't let go; instead, his large hand slid down, his palm tracing the length of your left thigh as you stood before him.
“I love those heels,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly sound. His fingers hooked firmly behind the back of your knee, and with a sudden, possessive tug, he brought your leg up, pinning it against his hip.
Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs at the sheer boldness of the move. Your midi dress had ridden up until it was sitting just below your ass, revealing your legs to him. “And I love those legs.” He mumbled again looking down at the sight of your legs hungrily. He didn't wait for you to recover; he was kissing you again, pressing you firmly against his solid frame. You opened your mouth in a long, shaky moan, and Thor took the permission instantly. He grabbed your jaw, his massive hand tipping your head back further, deepening the kiss with a primal hunger.
His tongue brushed over your teeth, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat between you spiked. His chest was pressed right against yours—solid, secure, and terrifyingly hot. You had never felt a burn like this just from a few kisses.
It was passionate and messy. It was Thor.
His broad, calloused fingers dug into your soft skin, grounding you as his solid body anchored yours. You combed your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly, and he let out a low, guttural groan. The noise vibrated through his chest and directly into yours, making you shudder with a sudden, burning, needy heat that made the rest of the world fall away into ash.
He sucks on your lower lip, a slow and deliberate pressure before releasing it with a wet pop. He licks over the sensitized skin, his tongue soothing the sting before his mouth begins to travel. He moves over your cheeks, then down the sharp line of your jaw, repeating the same rhythmic, grounding motion. Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, pulling him closer as your hips buck mindlessy against his, seeking the solid heat of him.
“My love,” he mumbles against your skin. The sound of him calling you that—so easily, so naturally—makes your heart hammer against your ribs. “Hm?” you murmur, completely breathless from the weight of his kisses.
“Say it again,” he commands softly, his forehead resting against yours as his eyes search yours. “Say you love me.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, a soft, genuine thing. “I love you, baby,” you mumble directly over his lips.
Thor smiles back, a look of pure, unshielded adoration that makes him look younger, softer. “I’m never going to get over that,” he whispers. He begins to move, slowly descending you toward the bed, laying you down against the soft sheets with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the storm outside.
He stands over you then, his breathing heavy as he begins discarding his armor. The metallic clatter of the plates hitting the floor is the only sound in the room, and the sight of him makes a rush of heat flare through your core.
He is truly a god. As the layers come off, he reveals the rugged landscape of his body—the short, messy hair, the massive breadth of his shoulders, and those biceps that had been driving you toward the edge of sanity for months. You gulp, your eyes roaming over the sheer power of him, and you instinctively bite your lower lip, your pulse thrumming in your throat. He notices the look, a dark, confident smirk playing on his lips as he steps closer to the edge of the bed.
You were up on your elbows now, looking up at him while still biting your lip. The sight of him without the armor was almost too much to take in—all corded muscle and golden skin. He climbed onto the bed, bracing one knee down beside you, his right hand reaching out to catch your chin. His thumb moved with a gentle, calloused pressure, unhooking your lip from your teeth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he smiled down at you, his voice like rolling thunder.
“Like what?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, playing oblivious even as your heart tried to leap out of your chest.
“Like you want to devour me whole,” he rumbled. You gulped, the honesty of the moment stripping away your filters. “But I do,” you said.
His chest staggered, his breath hitching as he looked at you with a new level of intensity. “Don’t say things like that, sweet girl. It only makes me want to keep you here until the end of the universe.”
Your breathing got heavier, the room thick with the scent of him and his skin. “Maybe I want you to keep me here forever,” you mumbled. You were down bad, and at this point, you didn't care if he knew it.
His gaze darkened instantly, the blue of his eye turning into the deep, turbulent indigo of a storm. “Oh, now you’re being a bad girl, darling. You’re playing with fire,” he said. He took hold of your left hand, his grip firm and possessive. The momentum almost made your back hit the bed, but he kept you upright, his strength anchoring you in place.
Once he was sure you were steady, he leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. “Wanna feel me, baby?”
You nodded immediately, licking your lower lip expectantly, your gaze fixed on him.
He took your hand and placed it right over his stomach. The moment your palm met his skin, he gasped out a sharp, guttural groan, his abdominal muscles rippling and tightening under your touch. It was like a circuit had been completed; your touch burned through him, sending a physical jolt through his frame that made him shudder against you.
Your gaze was fixed on his eyes, looking up at him through your lashes as you slowly glided your hand upwards, tracing the ridge of his ribs until your palm rested over the heavy thud of his heart. Then, you began lowering it, your fingers exploring the hard, defined planes of his abdominal muscles. It felt incredible to be touching him like this—to finally be feeling him up without the barrier of training gear or armor.
Your hands moved lower, your gaze now fixed on his torso as you watched his skin ripple under your touch. When your hand reached the waistband of his trousers, you smiled wickedly. You shifted your grip, fisting the hard length of him through the fabric.
Thor let out a choked, guttural groan, his eyes snapping shut as his head fell back. You kept palming him, your eyes fixed on his face to watch every flicker of pleasure, every sharp intake of breath. You were going to be the end of him, and you knew it. He was breathing heavily, his entire body straining as he fought for control, trying not to lose himself right then and there.
Just as your fingers found the tab of his zipper, he reached down and caught your hand, his grip firm but trembling with restraint.
“Stop, baby,” he mumbled, his voice a low, ragged rasp.
“Why?” you breathed, looking up at him with a pout.
“Because there’s only one place I’m intending on coming in tonight,” he rumbled, his eyes opening to reveal a gaze so hungry it made your toes curl, “and it isn’t my pants.”
You giggled breathlessly, the sound a mix of nerves and pure excitement. His hands moved then, reaching around to the back of your dress. You felt the cool air hit your skin as he began to pull the zipper down, the smooth slide of the metal the only sound in the room besides your shared, frantic breathing.
When the zipper was down, he didn't waste a second, his large hands tugging the top of the dress down. The cool air hit your skin, revealing your breasts and your hardened nipples to the dim light of the room.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, the word caught in a ragged exhale as he looked down at them.
He pushed you back onto the bed then, the mattress dipping under your weight as he kept tugging the fabric lower. The dress caught momentarily at your hips, the tight fabric clinging to your curves before he worked it free. His hungry gaze traced every inch of skin he uncovered, his eyes dark with a possessive intensity as he stripped the dress completely from your body and tossed it aside.
He looked at your heels then, the silver hardware glinting. When you made a move to reach down and remove them, his hand flashed out, catching your wrist to stop you.
“Keep the heels on,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a command that made your blood sing.
Oh, fuck.
You nodded frantically, the friction and the sight of him making your black lace panties dampen even more. He looked you over, his gaze traveling slowly back up your legs until it snagged on the lace. His eyes darted from the delicate fabric to your face, his jaw tightening as a flash of that protective, jealous God returned.
“You wore those for him?” he grumbled, his voice low and dangerous as he loomed over you.
You shook your head, your heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “No—“
He was over you in an instant, the heat from his skin radiating against yours as he hovered over your right breast. “Don't lie to me,” he rumbled against your skin before biting down on your nipple. The sharp, stinging pleasure made you squeal, your breath leaving you in a sharp puff. His left hand gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your hip, while his right hand rested flat against your stomach, anchoring you to the bed.
“I'm not lyin',” you gasped, your fingers knotting into the sheets.
“Are you not?” he asked, his voice a low vibration. He licked over the mark he’d just made, his tongue hot and soothing, while his right thumb found your clit over the black lace. He didn't waste time; he pressed down firmly, right on the center of your pleasure.
You let out a broken moan, your head tossing back against the sheets. You gulped, trying to find your voice through the haze. “I'm not—please—“
“Mm, what do you want, my love?” he asked, his tone deceptively sweet as his thumb began to circle your clit over the fabric, the friction building a frantic, tight heat. “Who did you wear them for then?”
He shifted his focus back to your nipple, slowly kissing, then sucking, then biting again, a relentless rhythm of praise and punishment. You were losing your mind. Your hips tried to buck up, desperate to meet the pressure of his hand, but his left hand stayed heavy on your waist, effortlessly pushing you down.
God, he was so strong. The sheer power in his touch made another rush of wetness pool at your core, soaking into the lace.
“I want you—I wore them for you! I swear!” you moaned, the truth tearing out of you as you arched your back, desperate for him to believe you, desperate for him to not stop.
Thor chuckled deeply, a vibration that felt like it was coming from the very earth beneath the bed. “Should I believe you, darling?” he asked. His thumb didn't stop, the rhythmic circling against the wet lace driving him into a frenzy. He could feel the heat radiating from you, the slick friction of the fabric becoming a testament to your hunger.
“You’re soaking through the lace, sweet girl,” he whispered against your skin, his voice a gravelly secret.
You nodded, your mouth agape as you fought for air, your brows knit together in a pained, perfect pleasure. “Yes... because of you,” you managed to breathe out. “It’s because of you. Only you.”
Thor paused, looking up at you with a gaze full of raw, unadulterated adoration. “You are so beautiful it burns me,” he said, his voice thick with a reverence that made your heart swell.
He didn't wait for an answer. He started a trail of fiery kisses down your stomach, moving past your navel until his hands found the edges of your panties. With one decisive, powerful motion, he ripped the lace apart, the sound of the fabric tearing lost in your sharp gasp.
He parted your legs wide, his large hands anchoring your knees as he caught sight of you, glistening and open for him. His tongue darted out to dampen his lower lip as his right hand made contact, his fingers gently parting your folds to take in every inch of you. The sound of your own slickness squelched under his touch, a wet, heavy sound that filled the quiet room as you instinctively clenched down on nothing but air.
“Looks delicious,” he mumbled, his voice a dark hunger.
He lowered himself between your parted thighs, his beard grazing your sensitive inner skin before his lips found your clit. He gave it one soft, lingering kiss that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your spine. Your eyes snapped shut, and you let out a long, broken moan that echoed against the walls of his quarters.
Your legs instinctively tried to snap shut around his head, your heels clicking sharply as your feet collided against his broad, muscled back. But he didn't budge. He caught your thighs, forcing them wide and pinning them against the mattress with a strength that made you feel delightfully small.
“Behave, little one,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you moaned helplessly, your head tossing back. “Or I will not let you come until you’re crying for me to let you.”
Then, in a blur, his right hand came down and slapped your pussy. It was a sharp, stinging contact that landed right on your clit, making your breath hitch so violently you couldn't even get a moan out. Your vision swam for a second, the shock of the impact sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.
He didn't give you a moment to recover. He placed his hand back on your thigh, his grip bruisingly tight, and lowered his mouth again. This time, there was no gentle kissing. He started suctioning on your clit, his tongue swirling in a frantic, expert rhythm while his fingers began to work their way inside you, seeking to stretch you out for the god currently devouring you.
Your mind was a complete haze of heat and pleasure. The weight of his hand on your thigh felt like it was branding your skin, and every swirl of his tongue against your clit sent waves of pleasure straight to your core. When his thick fingers began to push deep inside you, stretching you and moving in a rhythmic, relentless pace, you felt yourself hurtling toward the edge of that sweet release.
Your hands found the short, rugged hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers knotting in the strands as you pulled him closer. “Please—I’m so close—Please baby,” you begged, your voice breaking.
Thor didn't slow down. He kept the pressure constant, his fingers curling inside you as he felt your internal walls begin to quiver and tighten. He knew exactly where you were. Just as your vision started to go black and the first sparks of an orgasm began to explode behind your eyelids, you cried out, “I’m going to come!”
In an instant, he vanished.
His mouth left your clit and his fingers slid out of you. Before you could even register the loss, his hand—glistening with your own slickness—came down on your pussy in a hard, stinging slap.
The contact sent a jolt through your nervous system that forced a choked moan from your throat. “Why did you do that?” you whined, the sudden frustration of being cut off making your breath hitch. Your lower lip wobbled as the peak you were chasing evaporated into a dull, throbbing ache. “I was about to come...”
Thor smirked up at you, his eyes dark and overflowing with a playful, possessive malice. “That was for wearing those panties,” he rumbled.
“But I wore them for you—”
Crack. Another slap landed, sharp and rhythmic. You whined again, your back arching off the bed in a desperate, failed attempt to find his touch. “Please—”
“Beg me, my love,” he mumbled, his voice a low, commanding vibration as he leaned back over you, his chest hovering just inches from your aching breasts. “Beg me to let you come.”
His tongue traced your lower lip, tasting the salt of your desperation as your hands flew to his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you from drowning.
“Please baby, please,” you begged, your eyebrows knitting together in a pained, beautiful expression of need. “Please let me come.”
“Mm,” he hummed, leaning back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark with the power he held over you. “Let me think on it.”
The wait was agonizing, but it didn't last long. He was back between your legs in a heartbeat, his tongue tracing your clit with an agonizingly slow, light pressure that made you want to scream. Your breath hitched, a broken sound escaping your lips. “Oh my god—“
You didn't know where to put your hands; you were clawing at the sheets, then reaching for him, your body a live wire of unspent tension. He was torturing you, and he knew it. “Please, I’m begging you,” you whispered, hot tears beginning to cloud your gaze and spill over. At this moment, the world outside this room didn't exist. You couldn't feel anything but the heat of his skin and the hunger in his touch.
His fingers stopped at your entrance, hovering there, teasing the sensitive skin. He looked up at you, that devilish smile returning to his rugged face. “Should I let you come, sweet girl?” he asked again, watching the tears run down your cheeks with a gaze that was both possessive and adoring.
“Please—I’ll do anything,” you sobbed out, the words a frantic surrender.
Thor made a deep, approving sound from his chest—a rumble that felt like distant thunder. “Okay then, if you insist.”
He didn't hold back this time. He started devouring you, his tongue moving with a fierce, rhythmic intensity that shattered whatever was left of your composure.
“You taste so good,” he growled in between his attacks on your clit. The vibration of his voice against your most sensitive spot was so delicious you literally saw stars. You gasped for air, your back arching. “You taste just like I imagined,” he said, his voice thick with praise as he worked you toward the edge. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just for me.”
“Mhm,” you mumbled, your body shuddering as his fingers curled deep inside you, hooking against your G-spot with a strength that made your vision swim. “Just for you,” you managed to choke out, though your voice was thinning, reduced to a desperate, airy thread.
He didn't let up. The assault on your clit was relentless, a perfect, punishing rhythm that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. The world was nothing but the scent of him and the white-hot friction between your legs.
“I—” you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your knuckles white. “Can I come now?” you mumbled, the words barely audible over the sound of your own frantic breathing.
Thor paused for a fraction of a second, his head lifting just enough to flash a possessive, triumphant smile. “Good girl, asking for permission,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that made your skin prickle. “Look how much of a good girl I’ve turned you into, baby. My good girl.”
He went back to work, his tongue swirling and his fingers driving into you with a new, frantic energy. You were past the point of no return. You were soaring, your internal muscles clenching violently around his fingers, milking them before the release even hit. “Please, please, please—” you begged, your voice rising in pitch.
“Come for me then, my heart,” he commanded, his voice thick with authority.
The moment the words left his lips, the dam broke. You came hard, your entire body stiffening as a violent, rhythmic pulsing took over. You whined out his name, over and over, the sound muffled against the crook of your arm as your world shattered into a thousand shards of violet light.
Thor didn’t pull away. He stayed right there, buried in you, holding you through the aftershocks. He kept mumbling praises against your sensitive skin, his voice a soothing balm to the intensity of the climax.
“You did so good, baby,” he whispered, his fingers still twitching inside you to draw out every last spark of pleasure. “Just like that. Give it all to me. C’mon, that’s it.”
He kept going, his tongue and fingers relentless until you were twitching away from his touch, your nerves fried in the best way possible. He surged back up over you then, his hand gripping your chin to hold you still as he kissed you deeply, making you taste yourself on his tongue. You let out a broken whine against his mouth, your hands frantically finding his shoulders for purchase.
As he moved, his painful bulge pressed firmly against your swollen clit through the rough fabric of his trousers. You gasped, flinching instinctively; you were so overstimulated from the orgasm he’d just gifted you that the contact felt like lightning. But he wasn't letting you move. He kept your hips locked in place, grinding himself over you with a heavy, guttural groan that forced another moan from your throat. “Thor—it’s too much, please,” you whined, your head tossing on the bed.
It was like he didn't even hear you. He slanted his lips over yours again, effectively shutting you up, and every time the fabric of his pants grazed your sensitive skin, you cried into his mouth. Your breathing was hard and ragged, and despite the overstimulation, the relentless pace of his grinding started to build that familiar, heavy pressure inside you again. Your legs instinctively widened for him, your body betraying your words as you silently begged him to keep going.
Then, he stopped. He pulled his lips from yours, hovering just inches away. You felt like you were going mad. “What are you trying to do?” you whined, your hands reaching down to grab his ass, trying to force him to move again, to give you that friction you were suddenly desperate for.
But he was a wall of muscle. He easily removed your hands from his frame, pinning your wrists to the bed for a brief second as he smiled down at you—a dark, promise-filled expression.
“I’m getting you ready to be fucked, baby,” he rumbled.
He moved then, parting from you just enough to stand on his knees on the bed. Your eyes widened as he began to remove his trousers and boxers in one fluid motion. The sight of him—completely unshielded and massive—made the breath die in your throat. You were finally seeing all of him, and the reality of what was about to happen made your core pulse with a renewed, frantic ache.
Your empty hole clenched with the sharp, agonizing anticipation of finally having him inside you. Thor began descending on you again, his weight a heavy, welcome shadow. His angry pink tip was already leaking with precum, a glistening drop trailing down the side. You couldn't help yourself; your thumb found his tip, smearing a bit of his cum onto your skin before you brought it to your lips.
Keeping your gaze locked on his, you slid your thumb into your mouth and started sucking the moisture off. You closed your eyes, letting out a low, vibrating hum—mimicking exactly what he had done with your lip gloss.
Thor couldn't breathe. The sight of you—so hungry for him, so unraveled that you would do something so bold—made him let out a groan of desperate, primal hunger. He looked like he was going to consume you whole. But a sudden, dark idea popped into his mind.
His massive hands grabbed your waist, and with a sudden surge of strength, he pivoted your entire body. You squealed as he turned you around so your head was toward the footing of the bed and your feet were near the headboard.
“What are you doing?” you asked, looking up at him, startled and breathless as he laid you back down.
He didn't answer. He simply loomed over you, his hands groping at your thighs and forcing them wide once more, your heels still on, catching the light. He leaned down, placing the head of his cock right between your lips—not your mouth, but the swollen, aching folds of your pussy. He started gliding it over you, the friction of his skin against yours making him bite his lower lip and groan in a way that sounded like a physical ache.
You mewled, your hips bucking up to try and force the entry. “Just fuck me already!” you cried out, your voice cracking with the need to be filled.
He chuckled, the sound low and dark as he used your own slickness to coat the length of him. He finally obliged, positioning himself at your entrance. Your hips bucked instinctively, reaching for the relief of him, but he held you firm.
“Stop squirming,” he commanded, his large hands anchoring your hips to the mattress. Then, he started easing inside. He let out a long, pained groan at the way your tight walls immediately clamped around him, welcoming him with a desperate heat. You moaned, your hands flying to his back, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as your legs dangled over his waist, your heels hovering in the air.
He was so deep, stretching you in a way that made you feel completely delirious.
“Shit,” he cursed, his voice cracking. He looked down, and the sight of your stomach slightly bulging with the sheer length of him made him twitch violently inside you.
You moaned again, your voice a broken plea. “Move... I’m begging you.”
Then, he started to move. He was relentless, each thrust a deliberate, heavy weight that filled you to the brink. His left hand reached down, grabbing your right hand and forcing it flat against your own stomach, pressing down right where he was hitting you from the inside.
Your eyes widened, your pupils dilating until there was hardly any color left. “Oh my god—” you mewled, the sensation of feeling him from both the inside and out making your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
“You feel me? Deep in you, marking you, my sweet girl?” he mumbled, his pace fastening.
The rhythm became primal. Your heel-clad feet made rhythmic, thudding noises against his back with every thrust, the silver hardware clicking. His right hand stayed clamped onto your left thigh, keeping you open and vulnerable. You were a total mess—your hair was tangled against the sheets, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps, your eyes fluttering as you lost the ability to process anything but the friction and the fullness.
Suddenly, he shifted. His left hand left yours on your stomach and moved upward, his large palm cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.
“Open your eyes, baby,” he rumbled, his own gaze burning with a divine, terrifying hunger. “Look at me while I take you.”
You opened your eyes, your gaze clouded over and unfocused, but Thor wasn't finished with you yet. He tilted your head back, his hand firm against your jaw, until your line of sight hit the large mirror facing the wall.
The reflection was a shock to your system. You saw everything: the frantic, flushed look of your own face, your mouth agape, and your legs—still adorned in those sharp, elegant heels—dangling over his massive waist. You saw the rhythmic, powerful motion of him driving in and out of you, the sight of his bronzed, muscled skin against yours.
“Oh,” you whined, the visual of your bodies joined together sending a fresh jolt of electricity through your nerves.
“Watch us, baby,” he rumbled, his movements getting faster and more punishing. “Watch yourself take every inch of me.”
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling praise and possessive commands as he bit down on the sensitive cord of your throat. His left hand never wavered, keeping your head tilted at that exact angle so you couldn't look away from the mirror.
He lifted his head then, catching your gaze in the reflection. Sweat was running down his temples, dripping onto your chest, and his eyebrows were knitted in deep, concentrated pleasure. He looked like a man possessed, a god losing himself in a mortal. Well, an immortal now.
The friction, the sight of him in the mirror, and the relentless depth of his thrusts pushed you over the cliff. You couldn't take it anymore; the pressure in your core was a physical weight, a sparking fuse that had finally reached its end.
“I’m—I’m gonna come,” you managed to gasp out, your body beginning to tremble violently beneath him.
His left hand loosened its grip on your jaw, sliding up to cup your cheek as he pulled your gaze away from the mirror and directly toward him.
“Look in my eyes when you come, my heart,” he commanded, his voice a low, ragged rasp. His own pleasure was building behind his eyes, a storm of blue and gold. “Come with me, baby. Come on.”
His adoring gaze burned through you, anchoring you even as the world began to dissolve. Your pulse raced, your internal walls spasming around him in a tight, desperate rhythm until the pleasure finally clouded over your vision and you came, your back arching off the bed as you cried out his name.
“Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice strained and thick as he fought to keep his composure, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“In me, please,” you gasped out, the words hitting him like an explosion.
He didn't need to be told twice. Thor let out a primal, guttural groan and surged into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. He came right after you, his entire frame shuddering as your walls milked him, driving him into a state of pure, unadulterated bliss. He filled you up completely, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he breathed through the intensity of the release.
The room fell quiet, save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his large hand gently petting your hair, smoothing the tangled strands away from your face.
“You okay, sweet girl?” he asked, his eyes soft and overflowing with love.
You nodded, a wide, breathless grin breaking across your face as the aftershocks continued to hum through your skin. “More than okay,” you said. You reached up, pulling his head back down to yours, and slanted your lips over his in a slow, sweet kiss.
Thor hummed, a low, contented sound that vibrated through his chest as he shifted your position on the bed. He pulled you back against him, spooning you so your back was pressed against the furnace of his skin. He reached around, his large, calloused hands cradling your face with a tenderness that felt almost sacred.
“I lost everything, honey. Lost my home, my mother, my father, my brother. Even my hammer at one point. I was a hollow shell of a man before I met you.” he mumbled against the shell of your ear, his voice thick with a vulnerability he rarely showed. “But I found my universe now. I found you.”
He went quiet for a heartbeat, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. “I know this is going to be a lot, and we have the weight of worlds on our shoulders, but—” He cleared his throat, the sound slightly nervous. “Would you be mine? And perhaps, in the future... my wife?”
Your heart soared, a wild, ecstatic heat blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the physical exhaustion of moments ago. You turned in his arms, smiling wildly as you hugged him with everything you had.
“Of course I would, Thunder-Thighs,” you chirped, burying your face in the crook of his neck.
Thor let out a heavy, mock-suffering groan at the nickname, though he couldn't hide the way his lips quirked upward. “You have to stop calling me that,” he rumbled, though he squeezed you tighter, his smile widening against your hair.
“No way,” you mumbled, pressing a final, cheeky kiss to his collarbone.
—
LONG.AS.FUCK. I know, I just can’t help it 😭 Let me know what you think please💞💕
Summary: Thor was your best friend, your whole world really. You were in love with him, desperately so. Though just as you thought he felt the same way about you, you overheard him say that you were just a tool of the throne. Heartbroken, you leave asgard for a year, only to return to a Thor who clearly dispises you.
Content: Best Friends to Enemies To Lovers, Slow Burn, ANGST, Yearning, Tension, A Lot Of Arguments, Desperate Thor, Possessive Thor, Obsessed Thor, Jealous Thor, Denial Of Feelings, MISUNDERSTANDINGS, Miscommunication, Explicit SMUT (oral)
Word Count: 30k
Minors Do Not Interact
—
He was so close.
Your heart wasn’t beating fast and if anyone said so it would be a lie.
Because it stopped beating from the sheer excitement of having him this close to you.
The adrenaline from the battle was still humming in your veins, a sharp contrast to the heavy warmth of Thor’s arm anchored around your waist.
His grip burned through you, your lungs constricting on themselves as you tried to breathe.
As the Bifrost’s rainbow bridge faded into the golden halls of Asgard, he didn't pull away. If anything, his grip tightened, his hand splayed firm against your side as if he were tethering himself to the earth through you.
The observatory smelled of burnt stars, but all you could breathe was him.
“Should we head and have a few drinks, Treasure?” Thor’s voice was a gentle rumble against your temple, thick with the post-battle high that usually sent him shouting into the Great Hall. But here, with you, it was soft. Private.
You giggled—a sound so light and unburdened it felt foreign to a warrior of your standing. You couldn't help it; you were utterly smitten, caught in the gravity of him. “I'd love to, but I have things to do, big guy. Also, I'm rather tired.”
Thor stopped walking, turning you slightly so he could look down at you. For a moment, the God of Thunder seemed caught in a trance, his blue eyes searching yours as if he were reading a poem written in the sparks of your gaze.
Gods, you were beautiful—splattered with the dust of foreign lands, hair wild, yet radiant.
He cleared his throat, the sound slightly rough. “Alright. What are you going to do? Let me help,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving into that devastating, boyish smile.
“I don't think it’s appropriate for the Prince to help with my gear—“
“It is if I deem it fit,” he interrupted, his tone playful yet possessing that quiet authority that always made your pulse skip.
“Okay then,” you huffed, the heat rising to your cheeks as you smiled back, unable to resist his stubbornness. Together, you began the trek toward the royal armory, your steps falling into a familiar, rhythmic sync.
The walk from the Bifrost to the palace was a blur of banter and shared laughter. Thor still hadn't fully relinquished his hold on you; his arm had shifted from your waist to draped heavily, comfortably, across your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you navigated the bustling streets of Asgard.
“You must admit,” Thor said, his voice booming with a celebratory tone that turned the heads of passing noblemen, “my intervention with the rock-troll was nothing short of legendary. A masterpiece of timing!”
You snorted, leaning your weight into him as you ducked under a low-hanging banner. “A masterpiece? You nearly knocked me into the ravine along with the troll! I believe the word you’re looking for is clumsy, Thor.”
Thor let out a dramatic gasp, his chest vibrating against your arm. “Clumsy? I am the God of Thunder, I move with the grace of a summer storm.”
“Summer storms break flowerpots and ruin picnics, big guy. So, yes, the comparison holds,” you shot back, flashing him a cheeky grin.
He barked a laugh, pulling you closer for a brief, playful squeeze that made your heart do a frantic little dance. “You are far too sharp for your own good. Perhaps I should have left you to wrestle that beast after all.”
“And miss the chance to play the hero? We both know you couldn't help yourself.”
“True,” he murmured, his tone dropping an octave, losing its bravado. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the curve of your shoulder. “But the hero only plays his part when the prize is worth the effort.”
You gulped as you reached the heavy, iron-studded doors of the Royal Armory, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved to open them. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of deep violet and burning orange.
Thor finally reached out, his hand lingering on the door handle, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours. “Are you truly so tired?” he asked softly. “Or are you simply trying to escape my clumsy company?”
“I could never escape you,” you whispered, the honesty of it catching in your throat. “Even if I wanted to.”
He smiled—a slow, genuine thing that didn't reach for glory, only for you.
With a gentle push, the doors groaned open, revealing the cool, dim sanctuary of the armory. The scent of oil and cold stone rushed out to meet you, a silent witness to the years of shared drills and quiet moments you had spent within these walls.
As you stepped inside, the shadows of the high-vaulted ceiling wrapped around you both, making the rest of Asgard feel a million miles away. You moved toward your stone bench, but Thor was already there, waiting to help you shed the weight of the war you’d just left behind.
The heavy iron doors of the armory groaned shut behind you, sealing out the rest of Asgard and leaving only the rhythmic drip of water and the distant hum of the city. The cool air should have been a relief, but as Thor guided you toward the stone bench, the atmosphere felt thicker than the smoke of the battlefield.
He placed a steadying hand on your waist to help you sit, his touch firm through the leather of your gambeson. Then, he dropped onto the bench beside you. His large frame jostled yours—a casual, practiced closeness that sent a jolt through your side, his heat bleeding into you immediately.
Thor was so close that the heat radiating from his chest was a taunt, a reminder of the proximity you’ve allowed yourself to crave.
His thumb brushed the column of your neck—a touch so casual, so practiced, that it made your skin sting. Your face started to burn. You’ve never let him see you falter, but the ache of just wanting him was insistent, clawing at your throat like a hurricane you could never outrun.
“You will work on the steel? When there are more fun things we could do together,” he rasped. His voice was low, vibrating through the stone bench and into your marrow.
You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper, just to keep your composure from splintering. “Some of us don't have the luxury of lightning to mend our mistakes, Thor.”
He let his fingers slide down your arm, a slow, agonizing descent until he took the leather cloth from your trembling hand. His fingers interlaced with yours for a second—one, two, three beats too long—and your heart slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird.
He looked at you, the softness in his blue eyes making your pulse erratic. He wasn’t looking at a mere soldier. He was looking at you, with an expression that felt like a question you aren’t brave enough to answer.
He leaned a fraction closer, the scent of sandalwood and a brewing storm enveloping you until you were drowning in him. “You know,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that made your knees weak, “the palace feels more like home when you are within its walls.”
You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t want to. You were caught in his orbit, your heart slamming against your chest so hard you felt it in your throat.
You tilted your head just a fraction, an invitation you didn't know you were brave enough to give.
Thor’s hand migrated to your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip with agonizing slowness. He was looking at you like you were the only steady thing in a crumbling universe. His breath, warm and smelling of mint and honey-wine, was fanning over your face.
“Always you,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp.
He started to close the distance. You closed your eyes, the world narrowing down to the heat of his skin and the static charge in the air. You could feel the ghost of his lips against yours—a promise, a beginning—
CLANG.
The heavy thud of a spear hitting stone echoed through the high ceiling.
“Your Highness? The All-Father requests your presence in the council chambers. Immediately.”
Thor froze, his forehead resting against yours for one lingering, frustrated second. He let out a long, shaky exhale that shuddered through both of you. He didn’t pull away immediately; his hand lingered on your cheek, his fingers curling into your hair as if he was trying to memorize the feeling before he was forced to let go.
“I have to go,” he whispered, his voice thick and strained. He looked at you then, his blue eyes dark and searching and for a heartbeat, the act of the Prince was completely gone. There was an intensity there, a raw, magnetic pull that mirrored exactly what was screaming in your own chest. You realized, with a jolt that made your pulse spike, that he wasn’t just playing—he was just as undone as you were.
He stood up, the loss of his heat feeling like cold water had been poured over your skin. He reached out, his fingers grazing yours in one last, fleeting touch before he had to remember his station.
“Later,” he said, the word a promise that vibrated in the air between you. “At the feast. Find me.”
You swallowed, nodding silently because your voice was trapped behind the hammering beat of your heart. You watched him walk away, his cape billowing behind him like a storm cloud, and you were left alone in the dim armory. The scent of him still clung to you, a ghost of his presence that made your skin tingle.
You touched your fingers to your lips, the air in the room finally returning, though it felt too thin to breathe. You had a few hours to compose yourself, but as you stared at the heavy doors he just vanished through, you knew it was useless. You were already counting the minutes until the sun went down.
You walked back to your chambers, your right hand stayed pressed to your chest, as if you could physically keep your heart from leaping out of your ribs.
He feels the same way. The thought was a beautiful loop in your mind. It wasn't just the almost-kiss; it was everything. It was the way he gravitated toward you in a crowded room, the way his voice dropped an octave when he spoke your name. And that word.
Treasure.
He’d started calling you that after the Siege of the Black Peaks. You’d been separated from the main unit, pinned down by a shadow-beast, and for ten minutes, Thor thought you were gone. When he finally broke through the lines and found you, he’d hauled you into his arms with a desperation that shook his entire frame. “I thought I lost you,” he’d rasped into your hair, his voice breaking. “The gold of Asgard is nothing. You are the only treasure I cannot afford to lose.”
He hadn't stopped using it since.
Once inside your chambers, you moved with a sense of purpose you hadn't felt in years, your fingers trembling slightly as you began to prepare. You pulled out the most beautiful piece you owned: a deep, midnight-toned chiffon bandeau gown. It was a striking shade that made your skin shine, the fabric hugging your waist perfectly before flowing out like a dark mist.
You reached for the glass vials on your vanity, pouring rich, scented oils into your palms. You smoothed them over your shoulders and collarbones, the fragrance of jasmine and cedarwood rising in the warm air. You wanted to glow for him. You wanted to be so radiant that he couldn't look away, not even for a second.
As you stood before the tall silver mirror, catching your reflection, the nerves finally started to bite. How should you do your hair? Should it be down, soft and inviting, or pinned back to show the curve of your neck? Would he like the way the fabric caught the light?
You looked at yourself, your eyes bright and your skin shimmering with the oil, and for the first time, you didn't see the soldier. You saw the woman who was going to meet her Prince—and this time, there would be no guards to stop him.
You left your chambers, the weight of the chiffon gown whispering against your legs as you move. You passed a few maids in the hall, and you couldnt help but smile at them—a smile so bright, so unburdened, it felt like the sun itself has taken residence in your chest. You’ve never felt this light. You’ve never felt so seen.
But as you rounded the corner toward the gallery, a voice stopped the blood in your veins.
Loki’s voice, silk-spun and dripping with that familiar, mocking tone of his, drifted through a door left slightly ajar. “Honestly, Thor, the way you moon over your loyal shadow is becoming a public spectacle. Tell me, do you intend to make an honest woman of your little soldier, or is this merely a tactical distraction?”
You stopped in your tracks. Your heart started hammering against your ribs, a frantic, warning beat. You creeped closer to the door, your hand trembling as you reached toward the heavy wood, peering through the gap.
You just wanted to hear him claim you. You just wanted to hear him say that the way he looked at you in the armory meant everything.
Thor stood by the window, the moonlight catching the gold of his hair. He looked every bit the future King—distant, powerful, and cold.
“Court her? Brother, do not be absurd,” Thor’s voice rang out. It was a sharp, defensive bark—the sound of a man cornered. “She is a warrior, a tool of the throne. One does not weave poems or bring flowers for the blade that guards the gate.”
Loki’s laughter was a cold, silver chime. “So, no soft words for your favorite companion? No romantic gestures for the one who bleeds at your side?”
“Romantic gestures are for court ladies who stay behind the walls,” Thor snapped, his voice rising as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Loki. “She doesn't need trinkets. She is steel. She is—“
Your heart dropped to your stomach, leaving a cold, hollow ache that made you lose your breath.
You couldn't hear anything, the ringing in your ears too much to bear.
He played you. And you, desperate and foolish, believed him.
It was all a lie. The lingering touches, the way he called you Treasure, the way he looked at your lips—it was a performance. A way to keep his favorite weapon sharp and loyal.
Your face started to burn, the heat of humiliation radiating from your cheeks. The ache of just missing him—the version of him from an hour ago—was insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back the tears, and usually, that worked.
It was useless now. The first tears burned on your cheeks, and you wiped them away with trembling hands. Your chest heaved, a painful, barbed lump forming in your throat. A pathetic, choked sob ripped from your throat.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered to the empty hallway, your voice full of pain. You turned and shot toward your chambers, your feet silent on the stone, fleeing before Loki could find the source of the sound.
Inside the room, Loki turned toward the sound, but you were gone before he could see the wreckage he’s made.
The silence in your chambers was suffocating.
You’ve never felt the weight of Asgardian stone quite like this—it pressed against your ribs, making every breath a jagged, painful effort. The tears were insistent. They were a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore, blurring the sight of the shimmering chiffon dress pooled at your feet like a discarded skin.
The first tears burned paths through the expensive oils on your cheeks. You looked in the mirror and loathed the glow you worked so hard to achieve. You weren't a woman to him. You were a weapon. A tool of the throne.
One does not weave poems for the blade that guards the gate.
You realized with a sickening clarity that every lingering touch in the armory was just maintenance. He was sharpening his blade. He played you, and you believed him because you wanted to believe in the poetry he never intended to write.
Something snapped near your ribs—a clean, agonizing break of the heart. You couldn’t stay here, not like this. You moved to your desk, your movements stiff and mechanical. You began to plan. You mapped out the border patrols, the long-term scouting missions to the frozen wastes of Jotunheim—anywhere the air is too cold for feelings to survive. You were going to lose this version of yourself. You were going to become the blade he wants.
Across the palace, the Great Hall was a riot of color and sound, but for Thor, it was silent.
He stood near the entrance, his frame tense, eyes scouring every face that enters the hall. He was looking for a smile—your smile—the one he’s convinced himself is the only light left in the Nine Realms. He rasped your name under his breath, a low, hopeful sound lost in the roar of the crowd.
But you never came.
As the hours bled into the night, Thor took a lurching step toward the door, his hand reaching out as if to go find you, before he yanked it back. His voice was thick and strained when he finally spoke to the guard, asking if you’d been seen.
The answer was a hollow no.
A dam broke in his chest. He stared at the empty seat beside him, and the sight of you not being there was suffocating him. He realized, with a crushing weight, that he must have misread everything. The looks, the touches—it was just loyalty. You didn't want the Prince; you only wanted the commander.
She doesn't want me, he thought, the realization devastating and impossible to ignore.
That night, the warmth of the armory became a ghost. You heard he didn't want you; he thought you didn't want him.
And so, the hope of a new beginning died, replaced by the silent, cold steel of two strangers standing guard over a gate that had already been breached.
1 Year Later
The air in Asgard was too sweet, too warm. It felt like a taunt against your skin after twelve months of the biting winds of Jotunheim.
You walked through the golden streets, every step a reminder of the exhaustion buried deep in your marrow. Beside you, Einar rambled about the mead he was going to drown himself in and the bed he hadn't slept in since the winter solstice. You gave him a sharp nod every few minutes, playing the role of the attentive comrade while your mind was miles away.
Your heavy plate armor felt like lead, digging into your shoulders and chafing at your hips. You had grown to loathe it. You hated that for a whole damn year, your skin hadn't touched anything softer than boiled leather and frost-bitten steel. You hated that you had forgotten what it felt like to move without the constant clatter of gear.
But God, you loved the distance.
The ice was a sanctuary because it was empty of him. There were no blue eyes tracking your every move, no deep voice calling you names that meant nothing, and no sight of that stupidly handsome face that used to make your pulse trip over itself.
You had spent three hundred and sixty-five days sharpening your resentment into a shield, hoping it was thick enough to survive a return to the palace.
You really needed a drink.
“Try not to fall asleep during your report,” Einar joked, clapping you on the shoulder as you reached the fork in the path. “See you at the training grounds.”
“If I don't die of boredom first,” you replied, your voice sounding thin and rough.
You watched him head off into the city, toward the warmth of a tavern, while you turned toward the high, gilded gates. Your stomach twisted. This was it. The throne room, the court, and the inevitable moment you had to stand in the same room as the man who dismantled you.
You let out a shaky breath, forcing the tension out of your hands. You weren’t the girl who giggled in the armory anymore. You had spent a year killing that version of yourself in the snow.
You squared your shoulders, the metal plates of your spaulders grinding together, and began the climb. You were coming back as the weapon he wanted. You just had to hope he wouldn't see how much it cost you to forge it.
The heavy doors of the palace swung open, and the scent of aged wood and incense drifted toward you. It was a familiar peace that seeped into your bones, a comfort you hadn't realized you were starving for.
You had missed this. You missed the high vaulted ceilings, the privacy of your own chambers, and for a traitorous second, the thought of him flickered in your mind.
You missed him.
You shook your head violently, trying to rattle the thought loose.
Keep it together, you scolded yourself.
As you moved deeper into the halls, the comfort was replaced by a cold, heavy dread. It was a new sensation, seeing your home and feeling like you were walking toward a firing squad.
You blamed him for every ounce of it. You hated him with an intensity that physically ached, a deep-seated resentment that made your spine feel brittle. It was a struggle to keep your shoulders back and your chin level, but you forced the posture anyway.
You refused to let a single soul see a crack in your resolve. You were never going to be that vulnerable girl again. Not in this lifetime.
When you finally reached your chambers and the door clicked shut behind you, the sudden quiet was a mercy. The exhaustion of the year seemed to pour out of you all at once. You needed the grime of Jotunheim off your skin. You needed a bath hot enough to burn away the memory of the ice, a dress that didn't weigh forty pounds, and enough scents to mask the lingering smell of iron and war.
You wanted to feel like a person again, even if you were only doing it to prepare for the battle that was about to happen in the throne room.
You drew the bath, the steam rising to meet the cool air of the room, but you couldn't force your muscles to unknot. There was too much to do. You had to report the mission details to the All-Father, and more importantly, you had to map out every corridor of this palace to ensure you never crossed paths with the Crown Prince.
As the thought of him infiltrated your mind again, you scrubbed your skin harder, the sponge grazing your shoulders until they were flushed red. You had to stop torturing yourself. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to let the panic take hold.
You stepped out of the water, the dampness clinging to you as you tried to steady your racing heart. You moved toward the wardrobe, expecting to find the faded, travel-worn garments you had left behind.
Instead, you stopped dead.
Your breath hitched. Every single one of your dresses had been replaced. In their place hung renewed, far more expensive versions of your old wardrobe—silk that felt like liquid, intricate Asgardian embroidery, and fabrics so fine they seemed to shimmer under the candlelight.
What the fuck?
Was this his doing? Had he spent the year you were gone replacing the very things he claimed you didn't need?
Is he fucking kidding?
With trembling hands, you sifted through the racks, your fingers catching on the soft pleats of a deep emerald gown. Once you found one that felt right, you began the familiar ritual of preparation. You applied the oils, the scent of flowers and spice grounding you, and carefully painted your face until the warrior was hidden beneath a mask of elegance.
You pulled the dress on, the fabric hugging your waist and flowing around your legs in a way that felt like a homecoming. You turned to the mirror and stared at your reflection.
This life suited you. It certainly suited you more than the biting, relentless cold of Jotunheim. The dresses, the dressing up, the glow of the gold—it all belonged to you. You looked like the woman who deserved poems, even if the man who should have written them didn't deserve a second of your time.
You took a deep breath and stepped out of your chambers, your heels clicking against the marble as you set your path to deliver your report. But the air was sucked out of your lungs instantly.
You felt as though you had been stabbed a thousand times over.
Thor was standing there. His beautiful, stupid face was the first thing you saw, and the sight of him made the year of progress you'd made in the ice feel like it was melting away in seconds.
Thor stopped breathing. He was certain he was dead and dreaming. You had left him—vanished for a whole year without a single word, leaving him to stand at that feast like a fool while the entire court watched him wait for a ghost. The sight of you now, in a dress that clung to every curve, your skin glowing and that scent—the fucking scent that he’d tried so hard to scrub from his memory—made his lungs ache.
His hands went cold, trembling with the sudden urge to reach out and anchor you there so you could never run again.
But he couldn't. You clearly despised him; you had chosen twelve months of frostbite and misery over facing him.
He couldn't even swallow past the knot in his throat. He hated you in that moment. He hated you for the power you held over his pulse and for the agonizing silence of the last year.
So, he did the only thing he could think of. He decided to stab you back, just as you had stabbed him with your absence. He weaponized his voice, his tone dripping with a cold, regal distance that he knew would cut.
“I see the tool has returned to its shed,” Thor said, his voice hard and mocking, though his eyes burned with a desperate fire he couldn't quite extinguish. “Tell me, did the All-Father's errand girl manage to find her way back, or did you simply run out of things to kill in the north?”
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his gaze raking over the expensive silk of your dress with a sneer. “You look quite well-rested for a soldier. I suppose the dresses fit? I had them replaced so you wouldn't have to worry about looking like a common grunt while you're busy avoiding your betters.”
Thor’s heart thrashed against his ribs, each cruel word he spat feeling like a serrated blade across his own throat. He had spent hours in the royal tailor’s quarters, running his calloused fingers over the finest silks and velvets in Asgard, obsessing over which shades of gold and deep emerald would best compliment the fire in your eyes.
He had done it because he could, but mostly because he was desperate. He had hoped—foolishly—that if you came back to find your wardrobe filled with his offerings, you might look at him with a glimmer of the warmth he’d missed for a year. He wanted to see you happy. He wanted to see you wear them for him.
But the bitterness of being left behind had poisoned his tongue.
The world felt like it was tilting on its axis. What the actual fuck? Never in your life had you expected him to weaponize his words so viciously.
You had merely left to find air, to survive the suffocating weight of his earlier betrayal. You hadn't said a word to him because you were broken, and now he was treating you like a nuisance he'd picked up off the street.
The realization settled over you like a shroud: he was a two-faced liar. All those years of being your anchor, your best friend, your Thor—it had been a performance. He had played the part of the devoted friend while secretly viewing you as nothing more than an errand girl for the throne.
Your mind raced, a hundred different insults and defenses clawing at your throat, but the pain was too sharp to let them through. You didn't give him the satisfaction of a shout or a tear. You simply turned your head, refusing to even look at the man who had just destroyed the last shred of hope you carried back from the ice.
You didn't say a word. You just started walking, your heels clicking a steady rhythm on the marble as you moved past him as if he were nothing more than a statue in the hall.
For Thor, that silence was a death sentence. He watched your retreating back, the dress he had meticulously chosen swaying with every step you took away from him.
He had wanted a reaction—an argument, a scream, anything to prove you still cared—but your indifference was a far more lethal blow. You walked away like he meant absolutely nothing, leaving him standing in the hallway, suffocating on the very words he had used to hurt you.
Every step felt like walking through deep water, your chest tightening until each breath was a shallow, broken effort. He reopened the wound then when it wasn’t enough he started grinding his heel into it, watching the light leave your eyes with a smirk you wanted to claw off his face.
You pushed through the heavy doors of the throne room, the gold and grandeur blurring at the edges of your vision. The All-Father sat upon the throne, his single eye tracking your approach with a calculated stillness.
You stood before him, your spine locked into a rigid line to keep from trembling. Your voice was a low, hollow rasp as you delivered the intelligence from the north—troop movements, the thinning of the frost-giant clans, the structural integrity of the border outposts.
Each word felt like shards of glass were being dragged out of your throat, your lungs pressing in on themselves until you were lightheaded.
“You have done well,” Odin remarked, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. “Asgard is safer for your vigilance. You shall be honored at the feast tonight, alongside the other returning warriors.”
At the feast? Your head started spinning.
“I... I must decline, All-Father,” you managed, your voice cracking. “The journey was long, and I am not fit for—“
“It is a celebration in your honor,” Odin interrupted, the finality in his tone leaving no room for dissent. “The people expect to see the heroes of the Jotunheim campaign. You will be there.”
You felt the air leave you entirely. You couldn't say no again. Not to him. You just nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor because you couldn't bear to look at anyone. Not the King, and certainly not the Prince you knew was likely lurking just outside those doors.
“As you wish,” you whispered to the cold stone at your feet.
The moment you were dismissed, you turned and fled. You moved with the frantic urgency of someone escaping a burning building. You had to get out. You had to get back to the silence of your room before your composure shattered and the screams you were holding back finally tore their way out. The thought of sitting across from him for hours, watching him pretend you were just another soldier to be toasted, was a nightmare you weren't sure you could survive.
Thor watched you from the shadows of the pillars, his eyes tracking every movement of your lips as you spoke to his father. He hated you—he told himself that with every heartbeat—but his gaze was a desperate scout, searching for the slightest limp, a stiff shoulder, or a hidden scar beneath that expensive silk.
He hated you, yet the thought of you bleeding out in the snow while he wasn't there to shield you made his chest feel like it was being crushed in a vice.
Hearing your voice again was a bittersweet agony. It was a melody he hadn't heard in a year, and it smoothed the jagged edges of his temper until he realized how much power you still held over him. That thought turned his blood to fire. How dare she speak to the King with such poise and deny me even a glance?
As you fled the room, he didn't hesitate. He followed you, his stride heavy and purposeful. He was starving for a drop of your attention. He didn't care if you screamed at him, cursed his name, or told him you wished he were dead—he just needed you to acknowledge that he existed. He needed those eyes, the ones that used to look at him with such warmth, to at least burn him with their hatred. Anything was better than being a ghost in your world.
Driven by a desperate, toxic mix of longing and fury, he closed the distance between you in the empty corridor.
Before you could turn the corner, his massive hand clamped around your bicep. The heat of his skin through your sleeve was a shock, a sudden spark that sent a jolt through your weary frame. Without a word, he used his sheer strength to haul you sideways, his momentum carrying you both into a small, dimly lit sitting room.
The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that made the air jump. He didn't let go as he shoved you back against the wood of the door, his large frame looming over you, effectively trapping you between his body and the exit. His breath was ragged, his blue eyes dark with a storm that had been brewing for twelve long months.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in the small space. “You will not walk away from me again. Speak. Tell me you hate me, tell me I'm a monster, but you will not give me silence!”
You fixed your gaze towards the back of him, your eyes not meeting even an inch of him. He grabbed your chin his thumb brushing against your lower lip as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your skin. You gasped, his touch burned you—searing itself so deep into you that you didn’t see how you could scrub it clean this time.
“Why won’t you look at me?” He pleaded, his eyes searching your face. “I beg of you, say something, Treasure. Anything. Just don’t act like I dont exist.” He sounded like he was in deep pain.
At the sound of that name—the one he had used when he’d looked at you as if you were the only thing in Asgard worth protecting—your gaze finally snapped to his.
“Don’t touch me,” you rasped. The words were sharp, tearing at your throat as they left. You felt his fingers twitch against your jaw.
His hand dropped as if you had burned him, his head bowing under the weight of your rejection. “You leave for a year,” he began, his voice thick and trembling with a mix of hurt and disbelief. “Not letting me know—not letting your best friend know—and then the first thing you say to me is not to touch you?” He let out a harsh, hollow scoff, his eyes searching yours for a trace of the girl who used to follow him into every battle. “Are you kidding me? You have to be joking.”
“I had no idea I had to let you know of every step I take like I am a toddler, my Prince,” you replied. The formal title was a wall, high and impenetrable. You watched his jaw tighten at the coldness of it. “What more would you have liked to hear me say?”
“That you’re sorry!” he barked, the sound echoing off the small room's walls. He stepped back into your space, his chest heaving. “I stood there. At the feast. I waited until the fires went out and the servants began to clear the tables. I thought you were dead. I thought you had been taken. I spent weeks scouring the city before my father told me he had granted you a commission to the North.”
You scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. The irony of it was a poison in your mouth. “Why would I say something that I do not mean?”
“You aren't sorry?” Thor stepped even closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You aren't sorry for leaving me in that silence? For making me wonder if I had imagined everything we were to each other?”
“A blade doesn't owe its wielder an apology for being sharpened.”you said, your voice finally steady, though your heart was screaming.
Screaming at you to shut up, screaming at you to just say you’re sorry and hold him. Screaming at you that once you apologise, everything will go back to the way it was. Your heart was a desperate bitch.
But you knew the truth, you knew that it would never go back to the way it was, if you apologised or not. It didn’t matter anymore. So you continued.
“We were nothing but a warrior and her Prince, Thor,”
Thor looked at you as if you had just reached into his chest and physically ripped the heart from his ribs. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale and hollowed out.
His expression curdled. The pain transformed into something sharp, dark, and cruel.
“I hate you,” he mumbled. The words weren't shouted; they were whispered, which made them ten times more lethal. His gaze filled with a loathing so absolute that it felt like the temperature in the room plummeted, matching the Jotunheim frost you had just escaped.
Those three words etched themselves into your skin, sinking deeper and deeper until you didn’t know where the pain began or where it ended. You felt the air leave you, the blow hitting harder than any mace or spear ever could. You swallowed hard, forcing your face to remain a mask of cold, unfeeling stone, even as you felt your soul fracturing.
“Good,” you whispered back, staring directly into the storm of his eyes, refusing to blink. “I hate you too.”
His blood ran cold. He wanted you to talk to him, he told you to tell him he’s a monster, tell him you hate him even, but he didn’t expect you to actually say those words that turned his world upside down. He didn’t expect you to say those words with so much meaning in them, like you actually hated him.
You actually hated him.
Before he could respond, before he could see the way your hands were beginning to shake, you shoved him. You put every ounce of your warrior’s strength into his chest, forcing him to stumble back just enough to give you a path.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you said, your voice a brittle, frozen blade. “I have to get ready for tonight, my Prince.”
You didn't wait for a dismissal. You turned and walked out of the room, your spine rigid and your head held high. You kept your pace steady until you turned the corner, and only then did you let out the breath that was burning in your lungs.
Your ears were ringing from the sheer adrenaline that the encounter had pulled out of you, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the distant sounds of the palace. Every nerve ending felt raw, as if the skin had been stripped from your body.
He had thrown your heart—the one he had held in his palm for years—to the ground, and he had stepped on it. He stepped on it so hard you could practically hear the squelching sound it made as it was crushed underneath his heavy boot.
You reached your chambers and practically fell through the entrance. You slammed the door shut and leaned against it with all your might, your palms flat against the wood, as if your weight alone could keep the ghost of him from bursting through. You stayed there, chest heaving, listening to the silence of the room that felt far too large and far too empty.
Down in the corridor, Thor stood frozen. He followed you out the door and watched as you glided away from him for the second time that day, the silk of your dress vanishing around the corner like a fading dream. Your scent, your intoxicating scent, clung to his clothes and filled his lungs, refusing to leave him.
He dragged his palms over his face, his breathing ragged and uneven. He felt the sting of his own words echoing in the empty hallway, tasting like ash.
What had he done?
—
You got ready for the feast with trembling hands and a broken heart, putting on a burgundy dress from your wardrobe.
Gods, you were an idiot—the biggest idiot in the universe, probably. For all these years, you had thought he was your best friend. But it wasn't your fault, was it? He had hidden himself so well that he made you think he could be into you even, not merely your friend. You hated him with all your being.
You walked toward the great hall, breathing hard, clad in one of the dresses he had chosen for you. The fabric was suffocating, burning your skin like the sun does at noon. When you reached the entrance, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You didn't want to be here; you didn't want to sit near him, and you certainly didn't want to hear his infuriating voice.
Calm down, girl, you chastised yourself. You had to do this. You could not defy the All-Father. You opened your eyes and stepped inside.
Unfortunately for you, the first eyes you met were his. And even though you hated him—even though he was the last man in the universe you would ever pursue now—your heartbeat stuttered. He was dressed in his ceremonial armor; the chest plates were familiar, but he wore a new, fur-trimmed collar that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and made him look devastatingly masculine.
He looked like a King, and it made you hate him more.
Thor froze as you entered, his goblet halting halfway to his lips. The chatter of the hall seemed to fade into a dull hum in his ears as his gaze raked over you. You were wearing the dress—the one he had agonized over, the one he had hoped would make you feel like the treasure he once called you. Seeing you in it, with your skin glowing under the torchlight and your hair styled with such precision, made the hate he had proclaimed feel like a pathetic lie.
I hate her, he assured himself, Don’t I?, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the silver stem of his cup. He wanted to look away, to show you the same cold indifference you had shown him, but he was a starving man presented with a feast.
He watched you approach the high table, his eyes dark and turbulent, the fur of his collar shifting with his heavy, uneven breaths. He had intended to ignore you all night, but seeing you standing there, a vision of Asgardian grace, he knew he was already losing the war.
As you approached, you caught sight of the seating chart, and felt the blood drain from your face. You were positioned directly to the right of the Crown Prince.
“Fuck,” you mouthed, the word lost in the swell of the music and the roar of the crowd.
You took your seat, feeling Odin's approving gaze from the head of the table. He looked pleased, likely thinking he was doing his son a favor by placing his best friend at his side after a long year apart. He had no idea that the two of you were currently locked in a silent war, or that his son was capable of the biting cruelty he’d shown you today.
You settled into the chair, the proximity making your head swim. He was a furnace beside you, his heat searing through the fine fabric of your dress and making you feel dizzy. You reached for your glass of mead with a hand that you prayed wouldn't shake, your throat dry as you took a desperate gulp to ground yourself. Then you grabbed a fork and started your plate.
Thor leaned toward you, the fur of his collar brushing against your bare shoulder as he spoke, his voice low and irritatingly steady. His masculine scent invading your space and making your head swim despite your hatred. He didn't look at you, instead keeping his eyes on the feast as he spoke.
“I see you finally remembered which fork to use for the first course,” he murmured, his voice low enough to be a secret. “I was worried a year in the caves of the north might have turned your manners entirely feral.”
You took a long, slow sip of the mead, feeling the heat of him searing through your side. You turned to him with a fake, sugar-sweet smile.
“And I see you've finally learned how to sit through a ceremony without spilling wine down your front, my Prince,” you countered, your tone dripping with mock praise. “Though the night is young; I'm sure your usual grace will fail you eventually.”
Thor’s fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet, his jaw ticking. He hated that your wit was still as sharp as your sword, and he hated even more that he wanted to hear you use it all night.
The proximity was a slow torture; every time he moved, the scent of him invaded your space, making the dizziness return with a vengeance. You focused on the glass in your hand, determined to survive the next three hours without letting him see how much his presence still unsettled your soul.
“So,” Odin started, his voice booming through the hall and forcing your head up toward him.
“Now that you two are united, I would like to send you both on a mission,” he continued, his single eye moving between you and his son. “Just like you usually do.”
Your mouth soured instantly, and your expression turned grim. Thor used to be your mission partner, your shadow and your shield, but that was a year ago. Clearly, Odin wanted you both back together on missions as if you had never left. No, please don’t do this to me, you begged in your mind, the thought of being trapped in the wilderness with him feeling more dangerous than any Jotunheim frost.
“Yes, Father,” Thor said beside you, though his voice sounded tight. His mind was occupied by a single, terrifying question: how could he survive a mission with you when the mere scent of you made his lungs ache with a longing he refused to name?
Odin leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. “Reports have come from the borders of Vanaheim. A group of marauders has discovered a cache of ancient relics that do not belong in mortal hands. They are moving through the Shimmering Woods. I want you both to intercept them and ensure those artifacts are returned to the palace vaults. It requires stealth, precision, and the kind of unspoken trust you two have always shared.”
The irony of his words slapped you in the face. Unspoken trust. The only thing unspoken between you now was the depth of your mutual resentment.
“You will leave in two days' time,” Odin concluded, his glass raised to the room. “It will give you time to rest from your travels and prepare for the journey. To the return of our most formidable pair.”
Beside you, Thor’s hand tightened around his goblet until the silver groaned under his strength. You stared into your mead, the deep burgundy of your dress feeling like a funeral shroud for the peace you had hoped to find back home.
The two-day reprieve felt like a double-edged sword. It was forty-eight hours of extra air, but it was also forty-eight hours of dreading the inevitable—being trapped in the silence of the Shimmering Woods with the man who had just told you he hated you.
“Yes, Father,” Thor said beside you, though his voice was tight. He finally let go of his goblet, his knuckles slowly returning to their natural color. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the tension radiating off his massive frame, the fur of his collar nearly brushing your cheek as he shifted in his seat.
Two days. You had two fucking days to figure out how to be a soldier again while your heart was still lying in pieces on the marble floor.
Thor sat like a statue of ice beside you, though his blood was boiling. He could feel your dread radiating off you in waves, noticing the way your breathing turned ragged and your fingers shook. Did you truly despise him that much? Did his mere proximity make you shudder with revulsion?
His gaze hardened, his blue eyes turning into flint as he watched your trembling hands. If you wanted to play the victim, he would let you—but he was going to make you regret ever leaving him standing alone at that feast a year ago. He would make you regret treating his devotion like a game.
The dinner officially concluded, and the hall exploded into a cacophony of chatter and the sloshing of drinks. You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the stone walls, tracing the patterns of the masonry as if they were the most fascinating things in Asgard. These are such nice walls... you thought desperately, your mind trying to latch onto anything that wasn't the man sitting inches away.
What am I thinking?
You shook your head, forcing yourself back to reality, and tried to focus on the conversation happening between the two brothers.
“A mission to Vanaheim? Truly, Father has a sense of humor,” Loki said, his voice smooth and dripping with his usual mischief as he leaned toward Thor. “The two of you, back in the wild. It’s almost poetic. Or perhaps tragic, depending on who bleeds first.”
Thor didn't even spare a glance at his brother, his attention still anchored to your profile. “It is a matter of duty, Loki. Nothing more. We have a task to complete, and we will complete it with the professionalism expected of Asgardian soldiers.”
“Professionalism,” Loki echoed, a sharp, knowing glint in his eyes as he looked between your shaking hands and Thor's white-knuckled grip on his chair. “Is that what we're calling it these days? You both look as though you're preparing for an execution, not a retrieval mission.”
Loki’s smirk deepened, a flash of genuine curiosity cutting through his usual facade of boredom. “Seriously though, whatever happened between you two?” his voice asked, sounding genuinely confused.
The question caught your attention, pulling your gaze away from the walls. “What makes you think something happened?” you snapped, your voice thick with defensiveness.
Loki let out a dry, melodic laugh. “Clearly something has happened. I haven't seen you two together since you came back, which is a rare occurrence as it is, but you guys haven't even touched since you sat down. Not a bit”. He leaned in, his eyes darting between your rigid posture and Thor’s brooding silence. “All of Asgard knows of your lack of boundaries with each other—“
The words were barely out of Loki’s mouth before Thor’s hand clamped over his brother's face, effectively silencing him. “Shut up, brother,” Thor rumbled, his expression darkening with displeasure.
You gulped, the air in the hall suddenly feeling like thin shards of glass, slicing your insides with every breath you took. Loki was right; everyone in the palace was used to seeing the two of you attached at the hip, your boundaries often blurred by years of shared battles and private moments. The contrast of tonight’s frozen distance was a screaming admission of guilt.
“Excuse me,” you murmured, the words barely audible over the roar of the feast. You didn't wait for a response as you stood up and made your way toward the restroom, your steps hurried as you tried to escape the weight of everyone's eyes.
The cold stone of the restroom walls offered no comfort as you collapsed against them, your breathing ragged and shallow. Your lungs felt like lead weights in your chest, and the world was a collapsing ruin of gold and marble. You were clawing at the debris of your own life, but the more you fought, the deeper you sank. You were drowning in the middle of a palace.
Your palms pressed hard into your eye sockets, your fingers digging into your temples as if you could physically push the panic back inside.
Keep it together. Keep it in line. Every sound from the Great Hall—the thrum of the lutes, the muffled roar of laughter, even your own fucking heartbeat—felt like a hammer blow against your skull.
On the battlefield, you were a force of nature. You had stared down Frost Giants without a flicker of doubt, your blade an extension of your will. But here, in the quiet, you were fracturing.
Thor was the only one who truly knew. Long before you ever held a sword, he had seen you crumble like this in the gardens of the palace. He knew that while you were a lioness in a fight, your own mind could be your most treacherous enemy. He was the one who had seen the overwhelm coming and told you to channel that storm into steel. He was the reason you were a warrior at all.
You exhaled a sharp, jagged breath. Your body reached for the muscle memory of his comfort—the way his large, calloused hands would rest on your shoulders—on your cheeks to anchor you to the earth.
Inhale for four seconds.
The air felt sharp, like needles.
Hold for seven.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, demanding release.
Exhale for eight.
The air left you in a long, shaky hiss.
Just like he taught you. Just like he had held you through every night of terror for a decade. The irony was a fresh wound— the man who had given you the tools to survive your own mind was the same man currently tearing it apart. You stood there, trapped in a rhythm he created, using his ghost to survive his presence.
Your mind wandered then, back to the time you almost lost him—and yourself along with him.
Svartalfheim, Three Years Ago.
The sky was a bruised purple, choked with the soot of a thousand fallen dark elves. You were in the thick of it, your gaze sharp and your focus unwavering. Your breathing was hard but steady as you drove your sword into the chest of a dark elf, the resistance of the armor meeting your strength before yielding.
A few yards away, Thor was a storm made flesh. He was on a killing streak that seemed endless, Mjolnir circling him like a loyal predator, dropping enemies one by one as he summoned pillars of lightning that shook the very foundations of the realm. This was his natural state—war. He could go on for months without stopping; he didn't need food, or drink, or sleep when the blood of battle sang in his veins.
But he needed you. He needed you like he needed to breathe.
Even in the chaos, he couldn't help himself. He was watching you. He always did, even though he was the one who had practically dragged you to the training grounds as children, the one who insisted you had the spirit of a Valkyrie.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments between campaigns, he deeply resented himself for it. He could have kept his mouth shut. He could have kept you safe in the golden gardens of Asgard, draped in silks rather than stained in gore.
His suggestion for you to become a warrior had been a double-edged sword for him. He wanted you by his side because he couldn't breathe without you, but he spent every second of every battle dying a thousand deaths, terrified that one day he wouldn't be fast enough to be your shield.
His heart dropped when he saw it.
A dark elf, blending into the obsidian shadows of the terrain, was closing in on your blind spot. You were too focused on the enemy in front of you, your blade locked in a struggle, to notice the jagged, poisoned spear aimed directly at your heart.
“NO!”
Thor’s voice boomed over the clashing of steel, a sound more terrifying than the thunder he commanded.
You heard a grunt of pure, physical exertion, followed by the impact of giant hands against your shoulders. The force was immense, sending you flying through the air. You didn't even have time to register what was happening—the only thought screaming in your head was him.
What the hell did he do?
The world felt like it was moving in slow motion as you scrambled back up, your boots slipping briefly on the blood-slicked earth of Svartalfheim. The ringing in your ears from the thunder was deafening, but it was the silence that followed Thor's grunt that made your stomach drop.
You turned, your sword gripped so hard your knuckles were white, and your breath hitched.
Thor was on one knee. He, the God of Thunder, who looked like an immovable mountain in every other battle, was hunched over. He had thrown himself between you and the dark elf's cursed blade—a jagged, obsidian weapon pulsing with dark energy that was meant for you. Instead, it was buried in his side, just below the ribs where his armor had shifted as he lunged to push you.
The dark elf didn't get a second chance; Thor’s hand, still sparking with residual lightning, reached out and crushed the creature's throat in a blind, protective reflex, but the damage was done.
“Thor!” you screamed, the sound tearing from your lungs as you bridged the gap between you in a single, desperate stride.
He looked up at you, his face smeared with soot and grime, his blue eyes hazy with a sudden, sharp pain. You dropped down in front of him, your hands beginning to shake. Even then, as the dark energy of the blade began to seep into his veins, his first instinct wasn't to check his wound. His hand, heavy and trembling, reached out to grab your shoulder, checking the integrity of your armor, searching your face for any sign that you had been hurt in the fall.
“You—“ he wheezed, a crimson stain spreading rapidly across his armour. “Are you unharmed?”
“You idiot!” You dropped your sword, not caring that the battle was still raging around you, and caught him as he began to tilt forward. His weight was immense, nearly crushing you, but you held on with everything you had. “Why would you do that? I had it! I could have moved!”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though it looked more like a grimace. “I could not take the chance,” he whispered, his head falling heavily against your shoulder. “Not with you.”
Your sight became blurred then, hot tears spilling over and carving tracks through the grime on your cheeks.
The God of Thunder, the strongest being you had ever known—the man who could level entire planets with a single strike—was at the brink of death because of a fucking poison?
No, not just a poison. The poison. A substance brewed from ancient, concentrated loathing, specifically designed to rot the immortality out of a god’s veins.
“Ho-how do I fix this?” you begged, the words fracturing in your throat before you could even finish the sentence.
He grunted—a low, wet sound of agony that sent a fresh jolt of terror through your spine. Your eyes went wide and frantic as you watched the obsidian veins of the toxin begin to crawl up his neck. Your lungs were constricting, turning your chest into a cage of iron, and your hands were shaking so violently that Thor could feel the tremors through his armor.
“Please, don't leave me—“ you breathed, the air barely reaching your throat. “Say something, say you're going to be okay— anything—“
You couldn't finish. You couldn't breathe. The panic was surrounding you, a suffocating darkness rising to meet the chaos of the battlefield around you. Not here, not like this, please, you begged silently. You were spiraling, losing your grip on reality while holding the dying weight of a prince in your arms.
Thor felt the frantic rhythm of your heart through your chest, the way your hands clawed at him in a desperate attempt to keep him grounded. Despite the dark magic eating at his insides, he forced his head up. He let out a pained grunt, his muscles screaming as he lifted both of his massive, blood-stained hands to cradle your face.
“I am going to be okay,” he murmured, his voice strained and thick with the effort of staying conscious. His expression was twisted in pain, yet his eyes remained locked on yours with a terrifying intensity.
“Breathe for me, sweet girl,” he mumbled. Even as the life was being leeched out of him, he lowered his voice, smoothing it into a gentle, rhythmic rumble intended to anchor you. He didn't care about the spear in his side; he cared about the way you were gasping for air.
You leaned into his touch, your own hands flying up to cover his where they held your face, trying to follow his lead—but it wasn't working. The sounds of clashing steel and the smell of dirt were too much. You were terrified that if you closed your eyes to breathe, he would be gone when you opened them.
“I have you,” he whispered, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, smearing the blood and tears. “Focus on me. Just me. Inhale—that's it, again.”
You choked on a sob, forcing a jagged breath into your lungs because he asked it of you. You watched him, your anchor in the middle of a slaughter, realizing that even at the edge of the abyss, his only priority was making sure you didn't fall in after him. You gulped, your tears fell uncontrollably, blurring the sight of his pained face.
“Treasure,” he whispered, his voice a ragged rasp. He used the last of his strength to pull your face closer to his, bridging the gap until his forehead rested against yours. “I beg of you, breathe.”
He pressed a lingering, desperate kiss to your forehead, his lips hot and dry. The contact forced your eyes shut. You had to calm down. You couldn't lose him—the only person in the Nine Realms you wouldn't trade for anything. So you fought for it. You fought for the air, forcing your lungs to expand even as they felt like they were filled with glass. You did it for him. To get him home. To get him back to life.
As you finally caught a shaky, deep breath, you heard his low, strained praise. “Good girl—just like that.” He grunted again, his eyes slamming shut as his expression twisted into a mask of pure agony. The obsidian veins were climbing higher now, mocking your efforts.
“Thor, please don't die on me,” you begged, your voice finally returning, though it was raw with terror. “I’m going to get you back, big guy. Do you hear me? I’m getting you back.”
Present
Standing in the cold silence of the restroom, you stared at your reflection in the polished basin, your hands still gripping the edges of the marble. You had gotten him back in time. You had dragged him through the chaos, defied the odds, and seen the healers purge that filth from his blood.
But the echoes of that day still lived in your marrow. You could still hear your own frantic cries—the way you had pleaded for him to live, to not leave you in a world that felt empty without his shadow. You remembered the sheer, hysterical desperation that had led you to threaten to take your own life right there on the battlefield, promising to haunt him in Valhalla for eternity.
It was extreme—you could admit that now—but at the time, the thought of a universe without Thor was a reality you refused to inhabit.
Thor had been furious when he finally recovered, his blue eyes burning with a rage that rivaled his lightning. He was angry you’d suggested such a thing, but mostly he was angry that you thought you could ever be a haunting to him.
“You could only make my afterlife better, treasure,” he had murmured to you back then, his voice thick with a dark, protective possessiveness.
You splashed cold water on your face, the chill snapping you back to the present. The man who had said those words, the man who had found his only peace in the thought of your company in the afterlife, was currently sitting just a few yards away, nursing a glass of mead and a heart full of bitterness.
He had saved your life, and you had saved his. You had shared blood and breath, and yet here you were, wearing a burgundy dress he didn’t even look at, preparing to go on a mission with a stranger who happened to wear Thor's face.
The man who had taken a poisoned spear for you was the same man who had just used his words to poison your very soul.
You straightened your spine, smoothed the skirts of your gown, and took one last four-seven-eight breath.
Meanwhile, inside the hall, Thor was reeling. His gaze had followed your every move as you practically fled toward the restroom, and it hadn't shifted since. It had been fifteen minutes. His hands were clamped into fists on the table, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed on the exit of the hall as if he could burn holes through the heavy oak doors.
What is taking her so long? Displeasure, mixed with a sharp, cold dread, settled into his gut. Had something happened? Had you fainted from the stress? Were you—He cut the thought off. He was being ridiculous. You were a warrior of Asgard; you could handle yourself.
But then twenty minutes passed, and Thor was anything but calm.
“Calm down, brother,” Loki murmured from beside him, his voice smooth and irritating. “She's probably okay.”
Thor snapped his head toward him, his eyes flashing like a summer storm. “Who said anything about her?”
Loki pinched the bridge of his nose, looking as though Thor were giving him a physical headache. “All you ever do is think about her—“
“Go check on her,” Thor cut him off, his voice low and urgent.
“What?” Loki said, taken aback. “Why would I check on her? Go check on her yourself.”
Thor ached to do exactly that. Every fiber of his being wanted to burst through those doors and make sure you were still breathing, still whole. But his stubbornness—the bitter wall of dislike he had built to protect himself—held him back. He couldn't go to you, not after the coldness he'd displayed. So he settled for the next best thing: his brother.
“Go, Loki,” Thor commanded. He reached out, his hand gripping the back of Loki's head with a firm, threatening pressure. “You know nothing can stop Mjolnir as it comes back to my hand. Go now, or I swear I wi—“
Loki stood up abruptly, shaking Thor's hand off with a look of pure exasperation. “Your affections for her are maddeningly annoying,” he muttered under his breath, smoothing his robes as he started on his way to find you.
Thor didn't respond to him. He simply turned his gaze back to the door, his chest heaving, waiting for a sign that you were safe-even if he was pretending not to care at all.
He merely hated you, he didn't want you harmed, okay?
Just as you pulled the heavy door open, you were face-to-face with Loki. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“What are you doing here, Loki?” you asked, your voice still a bit breathless from your panic attack.
Loki smiled dashingly at you, leaning against the stone archway. “Just checking in on my dearest friend,” he said, opening his arms wide in a theatrical gesture.
His words immediately made you suspicious. You narrowed your eyes, looking him up and down from head to toe. “Right,” you said, your voice dripping with skepticism. “Consider me convinced.” You didn't wait for a further explanation, brushing past him as you started the long walk back toward the feast, your heart still heavy.
“So, dear, will you please tell me what happened? Because Thor is not talking and I hate not knowing things—“
You turned to him abruptly, narrowing your gaze as you looked up at the trickster god. “Shut up, Loki. I swear to the All-Father, I will kill you and fake-cry at your funeral like I had nothing to do with it.” You jabbed your right index finger into his chest for emphasis.
He smirked, unfazed by the threat. “Lovely. Just the woman for my brother—or for me, you could never know with these things, real—“
You punched him in the stomach, rolling your eyes as you did.
“Ouch,” he grunted, though the grin didn't entirely leave his face. “What was that for?”
“Do not try me, Loki. You might be my friend, but I won't be so merciful the next time you say I'm the right woman for your brother,” you warned, turning back to continue your march toward the hall.
Loki was hot on your heels. “Oh my, you’re not bothered I included myself, but you’re bothered I talked about him? You really are mad at him,” he said, his gaze rolling over you with newfound amusement. “Please, tell me what happened, I must know immediately.”
You palmed your face, the headache behind your eyes pulsing. “Shut up, Loki.”
But as you passed through the grand gates, you were stopped by a man appearing directly in your path. He was tall, with sharp features and hair the color of spun silver, wearing the polished, intricate armor of the High Commander of the Vanguard.
“My, my, if it isn't the hero of the last campaign,” said Commander Valerius, his voice smooth and carrying across the nearby tables.
The moment you stepped back into the hall, the crushing weight in Thor’s chest finally eased. You were alive, you were whole. He could breathe again.
But the relief was incinerated in a heartbeat.
Thor watched, paralyzed by a sudden, violent surge of adrenaline, as Valerius intercepted you. His vision bled red at the edges, his fingers digging into the edge of the heavy wooden table, the wood groaning and splintering under his strength.
What the fuck did that vulture think he was doing?
Valerius took a step closer, his eyes scanning you with an appreciative, lingering look that felt entirely too heavy. “We have missed your blade in the training circles, and your presence in the courts. I had heard the North was cold, but it seems to have only sharpened your beauty.”
As Loki sauntered back to the table, pointedly ignoring Thor’s silent, homicidal glares, you felt Thor’s gaze boring into the side of your head. It was a familiar heat that made your skin prickle under the expensive dress, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back. Instead, you focused every ounce of your will on Valerius.
Thor’s hatred for Valerius was legendary. The Commander was a thorn in his side—arrogant, opportunistic, and always subtly testing the boundaries of Thor's authority. But more than that, Valerius had always been a shark circling you. He knew exactly what you were to the Prince, and he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in trying to catch you alone.
So, you leaned into it. If Thor wanted to treat you like an enemy of his, like a fucking stranger, you would show him exactly what a stranger looked like.
You tilted your head, letting a stray lock of hair fall over your shoulder as you offered Valerius a shy, practiced smile. “You are too kind, Commander. Thank you,” you said, looking up at him through your lashes.
Internally, your stomach twisted, the mere act of playing along felt like a betrayal of your own heart. You felt nauseous, your soul recoiling at the idea of anyone but Thor standing this close, but the anger kept you upright. You hated Thor for this—for forcing you to use another man as a shield just to survive a damn gathering.
Valerius’s breath hitched. He had clearly expected your usual cold dismissal, but seeing you soften made his smirk widen into something more predatory. “I am only telling the truth, my lady,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping an octave. “Asgard is a much dimmer place when its brightest star is tucked away in the North.”
Thor’s eyes darted to Loki, his expression a desperate, silent command: Stop this. Now. Loki, however, simply pulled out his chair with a flourish. He met Thor's gaze, mouthed a very clear, very deliberate ‘No,’ and sat down, picking up a grape with agonizing slowness.
Thor turned back to the scene at the gate. He saw you tilt your head. He saw the shy smile—the one he thought belonged only to him, or at least to the version of him you didn't hate. When you looked up at Valerius through your lashes, a low, guttural growl vibrated in Thor’s chest, a sound felt more than heard by those sitting nearest to him.
Valerius stepped into your personal space—space that Thor had occupied exclusively for years. The Prince’s hand twitched toward the empty space at his hip where Mjolnir usually rested. He wanted to level the hall. He wanted to rip the High Commander's tongue out of his mouth.
He fucking hated you for doing this to him. How could you?
Standing him up after that moment in the armory—after the air between you had turned to fire and he had almost, almost pressed his lips to yours—was that not enough? Leaving him waiting for an entire year hadn't been enough?
Every single morning for three hundred and sixty-five days, Thor had woken up with your name on the tip of his tongue, the phantom weight of you in the palace halls making his heart ache, only to be slapped by the cold reality that you were gone. And now, you were pursuing Valerius?
The God of Thunder felt a crackle of static electricity jump from his fingertips to the silverware. He wanted to scream that you were his, that your smile was his, that your loyalty was the only thing that kept him anchored to this realm. But he had been the one to say he hated you. He had been the one to cast the first stone tonight.
Your skin felt like it was being licked by flames. You didn't need to look at the royal table to know exactly what Thor was doing; you could feel him. His energy was a localized storm, a heavy pressure that settled over your shoulders like a cloak.
That invisible string—the one you had believed in since you were children, the one that bound your souls together across battlefields and through starlit nights—was tugging violently. It thrummed with his fury, his betrayal, his raw displeasure.
Good, you thought, though the word tasted like ash. Let him feel it. Let him sit there and watch his blade be courted by a man who actually treated her like a woman. Let him feel the same hollow betrayal that had emptied your chest when he reduced your entire existence to a cold piece of steel.
“Is everything alright, my lady?” Valerius asked, his hand hovering near your elbow. “You seem spirited tonight.”
“I've never felt better, Commander,” you lied, your voice silky and loud enough to carry as you finally let your gaze drift toward the high table.
Your breath caught in your throat when your eyes collided with his.
Thor was leaned back in his heavy oak chair, the picture of a brooding storm. His right hand was tucked under his chin, index finger pressed firmly over his mouth as if physically holding back a roar. His left hand gripped the seat’s handle so hard that the ancient wood groaned and creaked, a sound that surely reached the ears of every noble nearby.
His eyes were like two black holes, consuming every bit of light in the hall, and little sparks of static electricity danced like angry hornets over his knuckles.
He didn't move a muscle as he just kept looking at you with a cold, piercing look—as if you were the most disgraceful creature in the Nine Realms. Of course, you thought, the wound in your chest throbbing. He really does hate me.
Thor was fuming, his mind a dark workshop of violence. He was mentally cataloging the ways to end Commander Valerius. Should it be slow? Or slow with a side of excruciating torture? He wanted to pull the man’s silver-plated heart out through his ribs.
But then your head turned, and your eyes caught his. His stomach churned at the sight; your dislike for him was so evident, so sharp, it felt like a blade to his throat. He gulped, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thick to swallow. He couldn't sit here and watch this anymore. He had to stop this—now.
He leaned toward his father, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that demanded attention.
“Father,” Thor said, his eyes never leaving you and Valerius. “Did you not say that Commander Valerius was needed at the Northern Outposts to oversee the new defense fortifications? Reports from the scouts suggested the border was weak, and I believe he mentioned he was eager to prove his diligence.”
Odin looked at his son, his one eye glinting with a knowing, weary wisdom. He looked at you, then back to the Commander. “Ah, yes. The fortifications. A pressing matter, indeed.”
Odin raised his voice, his authority cutting through the music like a scythe. “Commander Valerius! A word. My son reminds me of your eagerness to depart for the Northern border. There are logistical matters we must discuss before you leave tonight.”
Valerius stiffened as the smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a mask of professional obedience. He couldn't defy the king’s summons, especially one framed by the Prince’s recommendation.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Valerius murmured. He turned back to you, leaning in one last time to press a lingering kiss to the back of your hand—a final act of defiance against Thor. “It seems our time is cut short, my lady. But I shall look for you upon my return.”
As he walked away toward the high table, Thor’s hand finally snapped the handle of his chair clean off. The sound of the splintering wood echoed through the hall, a sharp crack that silenced the nearby conversations. Every pair of eyes turned toward Thor’s display of unnecessary power. Odin’s eyebrows shot up, his one eye locked onto the now-dismantled chair handle in his son's grip.
“This seat is really fragile, I’m afraid,” Thor muttered, trying to find an excuse while offering a sheepish, unconvincing smile to his father. Odin only shook his head in weary silence before turning his attention back to a confused Valerius.
What the fuck is he doing? you thought, your anger clouding your vision as you made your way back to the table. You sat down with a sharp movement, your gaze narrowing as you looked directly at the Prince.
“What is your problem?” you asked, your voice low but vibrating with fury.
Thor cleared his throat, leaning back with a feigned nonchalance that didn't reach his stormy eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Treasure?”
Your heart started beating in your mouth. His persistent use of that name, the one that used to mean safety and belonging, made you lightheaded even now. “Do not call me that,” you defied him, despite the way your pulse raced. Get a grip, you scolded yourself.
“I will call you whatever I like,” he countered, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that felt like it was burning through you, body and soul.
“I know you just made your father call on Valerius on purpose—“
His gaze darkened instantly, the sparks of static over his fingers flaring. “I see you're on a first-name basis now,” he mumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerously threatening tone. “I suggest you address your superiors by their title.”
Your blood ran cold. Your fingertips felt frozen as the weight of his implication settled in. He was doing it again—reducing you to a mere subordinate, a piece of the military machine. The blade of the throne as he had called you a year ago.
You scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Not everyone sees me as a tool like you do, Your Highness.”
Thor’s fury took hold of him, his eyebrows descending low over his eyelids as the air around the table grew heavy with the weight of your words. The fuck did you just call him?
“You fucking promised not to ever address me that way,” he grumbled, his hand snaking out to grab your bicep. His grip wasn't painful, but it was possessive, desperate, and trembling with a rage he couldn't quite stifle.
The memory of that promise hit you, making your breath shudder as you exhaled.
You were children—barely tall enough to reach the weapon racks—when your parents had chastised you for the disrespect of addressing the Crown Prince by his given name. You had taken the lesson to heart, and the next morning, when you saw him in the training gardens, you had bowed your head and whispered, “Your Highness.”
His expression had soured instantly, as if you had uttered a blasphemy you specifically should never commit. “Do not call me that,” he had said, his small face twisted in confusion. “Aren't we best friends? Have I done something?” He had genuinely thought the fault lay with him.
“Oh,” you had murmured then. “Of course we are. My parents told me this was the proper way for me to address you, that is all.”
“Promise me you will never call me that again,” he had insisted, his voice already carrying the weight of a future king. “That title is not for you to use. You are the only person forbidden from using it ever again.”
And yes, you knew you were being cruel by breaking that sacred vow now. But wasn't he being cruel too?
“I did promise,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your bicep burned under his palm. “But that was before I got to know how much you liked pulling rank on me, my Prince.”
Thor’s breath hitched, a broken sound that was swallowed by the surrounding din of the feast. His thumb pressed into your skin, a silent plea or a silent threat—you couldn't tell anymore.
“How could you say that?” he whispered, the words breaking as they left his lips, sounding like a wounded animal—a deer that had been shot multiple times and was taking it's last breaths.
“Will you leave me be, my Prince? I am trying to listen to the All-Father.”
You turned your head away, fixing your gaze forward on Odin as your eyes began ache. You felt the familiar, hot prickle of tears clouding your vision, you couldn't cry here—not in this hall, not in front of the court that saw you only as a decorated hero.
You bit your bottom lip, the sharp pressure anchoring you to the present until you could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood. You didn't care. You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down as you tried to calm the irregular rhythm of your poor, broken heart.
The feast was over half an hour later. Everyone, some thoroughly drunk and others merely exhausted, began to scramble away from the Great Hall, leaving a trail of empty chalices and hushed conversations behind them. You stood up from your seat, your fingers trembling slightly as you smoothed down the deep burgundy skirts of your gown.
Thor had sat there the entire time, unmoving, his eyes burning holes into the side of your head—the sole culprit behind his thoroughly soured mood. You hadn't spared him a single glance during those agonizing final minutes, keeping your chin held high and your eyes locked forward.
But when you took your first step to leave, you were stopped dead in your tracks. Odin’s right hand lifted, his index finger pointing directly toward you and Thor.
“You two are not leaving. I have to talk to you.”
Your mouth went instantly dry. Your poor heart, already battered from the confrontation, started to beat even faster as a heavy dread settled deep in your stomach.
Had the All-Father heard you and Thor? No, he couldn't have—you two had been whispering, your voices kept low beneath the din of the music. Were you whispering? Anxious and entirely off-balance, you settled back into your chair, the heavy wood practically biting into your tense muscles.
“Is something the matter, Father?” Thor asked from beside you, his voice tight but carrying a genuine spark of curiosity.
“No, no,” Odin replied, a small, uncharacteristic smile gracing his old features as he looked between the two of you. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I think I have news that will make you two rather joyful.”
Thor’s eyebrows furrowed in immediate suspicion, matching your own expression perfectly. “How so?” Thor pressed.
“You two will get married.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Thor’s hand, which had been resting on the table, immediately went up to plow through his thick hair as if trying to physically process the words. Did he hear his father correctly?
“What?” Thor asked, his voice cracking slightly and raising up an entire octave.
You sat frozen, the blood rushing in your ears. Did you hear that right? “Pardon me, All-Father,” you stammered, offering a tight, incredibly nervous smile, desperately hoping you had just misunderstood a royal decree. “I think I must have heard you wrong. Did you say Thor and I will get married?”
Odin chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “You heard correctly, child.”
What the fuck? The phrase screamed in your mind, but your lips wouldn't move.
“You two have been friends for years. You have fought beside each other, you laugh together, you protect one another—you have been through everything,” Odin continued, his one eye glowing with a terrifyingly calm certainty while you tried to grasp the sheer gravity of what was happening.
“The best foundation for love is friendship. And I am well aware that you two are great friends, though you have stubbornly refused to notice your love for each other for years.”
You couldn’t breathe nor could you think. The irony of the All-Father’s words was suffocating you. He thought he was playing matchmaker to a beautiful, budding romance born of a lifelong bond.
He had no idea that the son he was so proud of had shattered your soul by calling you nothing but a tool of the state. He didn't know you had spent a year bleeding in Jotunheim just to escape the memory of his words, he only thought you were there for the sake of Asgard.
Thor could see your face clearly from where he sat. As you leaned back against the harsh wood of your chair, you looked at Odin with wide, terrified eyes, the color completely drained from your cheeks.
A year ago, he would have been utterly delighted to hear this news. His best friend—the woman he was desperately, hopelessly in love with—was to be married to him.
Now, though? He couldn’t bear the thought of it. The sheer weight of you being shackled to him—to a man you clearly despised so much that you had fled the realm for a year without a second thought after he almost kissed you—tore at his insides. His father surely was a man of impeccable timing.
“Father, we cannot—” Thor started, his voice thick, though Odin immediately lifted a sharp hand to cut him off.
“You will. There will come a time when I won’t be here, Thor, and you are in desperate need of a wife to be king. I’d rather you get married to your best friend than leave you to a loveless marriage forged of necessity.”
Thor closed his eyes slowly, taking a desperate, heavy breath. The irony was a knife in his gut. His father didn’t know this would exactly be that loveless, forced marriage. How could his father know that his best friend was not even his friend anymore?
Your throat was burning. You brought your shaky hands down toward your stomach, tightly interlacing your fingers as you tried to ground yourself, trying to stop the room from spinning.
A year ago, this would have been the greatest gift you could ever receive. The man you had loved in secret for years, finally becoming your husband? Oh, what a beautiful dream it would have been.
But the thought of his newfound hatred, the memory of his degrading eyes dancing all over your skin, and the echo of his betrayal prodded violently at your mind. How were you to endure a lifetime of this?
“I—” you started, but the syllable was too thin, cracking before it could even leave your lips. You swallowed hard, clearing your throat before trying again. “I do not think I am fit for marriage—”
Odin’s expression turned sour instantly, the lines on his face hardening. “You are the only woman in Asgard fit to marry my son,” he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
You gulped, your throat aching as you gave a hollow, defeated nod. “I see,” was the only thing that managed to come out of your mouth.
“I will not hear any more of this nonsense,” Odin declared, rising from his throne. “Now go. Your wedding will be three days after your return from the mission. To give you time to rest.” He turned and strode out of the hall, his heavy footsteps signaling that the conversation was entirely over.
You remained frozen, your gaze still glued to the empty throne where Odin had just been sitting. You were utterly unable to move a single muscle, your dress suddenly feeling like a shroud.
How did it come to this? You had gone to the ends of the Nine Realms to escape him, and now, the universe was forcing you right back into his arms—as his damn wife.
—
You woke up, already dreading the day that was to come. After two days of trying to get used to the idea of marrying Thor—and desperately avoiding the rest of the palace by not getting out of your chambers unless it was to eat—it was finally time for the mission. Gods, you were mad at destiny for playing this cruel, twisted joke on you.
You got out of bed, taking a few deep, ragged breaths to calm yourself down as you got ready. You braided your hair tight against your head, buckled your armor over your chest, packed a few spare clothes, and you were done.
The moment you opened your heavy chamber door, you saw him. He was leaning his back against the stone wall across the corridor, clearly waiting for you.
“Finally,” he mumbled under his breath.
You narrowed your eyes at him, having heard him as clear as day. As he left the wall and started to walk down the hall, his eyes slid over you, assessing your gear.
“Did I keep you waiting for too long, Your Highness?” you asked, falling into step behind him.
His head immediately snapped toward you, his eyes darkening with immediate anger at the title. “I am to be your husband, Treasure. I suggest you keep that title out of your mouth,” he warned, his gaze tearing into yours. But as he kept looking at you, his anger morphed into something far more sinister, and a dark, mocking smirk found his lips. “Mm, actually, I think you should call me dear husband. Fits our situation much better.”
You huffed, violently turning your gaze away from him to look straight ahead. “I suggest you shut your mouth, then, my Prince,” you shot back.
Your heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to leap clean out of your chest. He was cruel. He was so incredibly cruel.
You walked over the rainbow bridge in absolute silence, the distance between you filled with a suffocating tension as you made your way to the observatory. But the moment you stepped inside and caught sight of Heimdall, a wide, genuine smile broke across your face. He hadn't been at his post for a while because he had other cosmic matters to handle, and seeing him back brought a wave of comfort over you, even if it was fleeting.
“Heimdall!” Thor’s booming voice echoed through the dome, and his deep, hearty chuckle scratched uncomfortably at your ears.
Heimdall smiled as Thor strode over to him with open arms, enveloping the gatekeeper in a massive bear hug. Gods, you missed those hugs. You missed being the one wrapped up in them.
Keep it together, you fiercely commanded yourself in your mind.
Heimdall then turned to you, opening his arms with a warm look. Your smile widened even further as you stepped into his space and hugged him back tightly.
“I'm so glad you're back,” you mumbled against his armor.
“I missed you two,” Heimdall said, chuckling softly as you parted from the embrace. Then, his smile grew even wider as he looked at the two of you standing side-by-side. “Congratulations. I heard the good news.”
“What?” you said, the smile instantly falling from your face. “I heard you are to be married,” Heimdall said, proudly patting both of your backs while you nearly choked on your own spit. “My two dear friends! I always knew you were made for each other.”
“How do you know of that?” Thor asked, his voice tightening with a sudden hesitancy.
“I know everything,” Heimdall replied with a knowing wink.
Of course he knows, you thought, rolling your eyes toward the ceiling.
“Though, I think practically everyone knows by now,” Heimdall added, still smiling warmly. “It is a royal wedding, after all.”
You and Thor shot a sudden, panicked look at each other. Realizing you were in public and a performance was required, Thor reached out and pulled you into an awkward, rigid side-hug for show. You both forced yourselves to look back at Heimdall, offering stiff, hesitant smiles.
“Thank you,” you both muttered in unison.
Your entire side felt like it was burning from Thor’s sudden closeness. For a split second, your resolve crumbled as you closed your eyes and deeply inhaled his scent—rain, sandalwood, and leather. Stop it, you thought to yourself desperately, snapping your eyes open. Stop it right now.
“We should get going,” Thor said abruptly, cutting off any further talk of the wedding as he faced Hofund. “Send us to the Whispering Marshes of Vanaheim.”
As he spoke, his grip tightened on you. He didn't let go. Instead, knowing the crushing pull of the cosmic wormhole was coming, Thor glued his hand firmly to your waist. He was desperate to feel you—to feel your skin against his, to have your breath fanning over his neck, to feel your hands gripping his chest for support just like you used to do every single time you travelled the stars together. While his expression remained perfectly stable, a violent war was raging inside him. Why the fuck did he still want to touch you like this? What the hell was wrong with him?
Heimdall nodded, his golden eyes reflecting the swirling colors of the Bifrost as his expression turned serious. “Very well.”
He raised his great sword, Hofund, and drove it deep into the center of the observatory. The mechanism groaned, the massive rings spinning at a blinding speed until a torrent of prismatic light erupted from the ceiling, swallowing you and Thor whole.
The heat of Thor’s side against yours deepened as the realm-travel claimed you. For a few agonizing seconds, the universe was nothing but deafening sound and blinding color, pulling at your atoms until the rainbow light shattered, and your boots slammed hard into thick, damp earth.
The moment you landed, your eyes instinctively went to Thor's chest, where your hand had subconsciously clamped onto his armor. Realizing what you were doing, you stumbled backward a step, tearing yourself completely away from his touch. You coughed as the heavy, humid air of Vanaheim filled your lungs, trying to erase the memory of his scent.
The forest around you was dense, suffocatingly green, and draped in a thick shroud of low-hanging fog. The faint scent of rotting moss and old magic hung heavily in the air, pressing down on you.
“Stay close,” Thor ordered. His voice dropped any trace of the lightheartedness it had held with Heimdall, returning instantly to the gruff, commanding tone of a general. He unclipped Mjolnir from his belt, the leather handle firm in his massive grip. “The marshes are treacherous. Keep your eyes on the treeline.”
“I am a warrior, Your Highness, not a child,” you shot back, pulling your own sword from its sheath. The cold weight of the handle was an instant comfort, a familiar anchor against the panic that had been threatening to surface since you woke up. “Might I remind you that I survived a year in the frozen wastes of Jotunheim. Surely, I can handle a few marshes.”
Thor stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head just enough for you to see the hard, rigid line of his jaw in the dim light. He didn't say a word, but the way his knuckles whitened around Mjolnir told you exactly how much your reminder of Jotunheim galled him. He hated that you had left. He hated that you had survived a whole year without him.
Without a word, he plunged ahead into the thick fog, his broad shoulders cutting through the heavy mist like the prow of a warship.
You followed a few paces behind, your sword held low, your gaze sharp as you watched his back out of pure habit.
It was impossible to tell if it was day or night. Vanaheim’s Whispering Marshes existed in a perpetual, eerie twilight. The canopy of ancient, weeping trees was so dense that it choked out the sky entirely, leaving only a sickly, bioluminescent green glow that pulsed faintly from the moss beneath your boots. Every step you took made a wet, sucking sound in the mud, a rhythmic reminder of how easily these bogs could swallow a warrior whole.
And then there were the whispers.
They started as a low hum, a trick of the wind rustling through the damp ferns, but as you marched deeper into the fog, the sounds began to shape themselves into syllables. Voices—fragmented memories.
“...a blade that guards the gate...” a voice sighed through the mist.
Your breath hitched. You squeezed the handle of your sword so tight your leather glove creaked. The marsh was already feeding on your mind, pulling the worst day of your life from the shadows of your memory.
Ahead of you, Thor stiffened as his pace slowed, his broad back rigid beneath his crimson cape. He had heard it too. The fog seemed to thicken around him, curling like smoke over his shoulders.
“...you are the only person forbidden from using it...” another whisper drifted by, sounding agonizingly like Thor’s younger, gentler voice from your childhood.
“Do not listen to them,” Thor growled, his voice a low rumble that cut through the supernatural haze. He didn't turn around, but his shoulders were hunched, his posture defensive. “The magic of this place uses your own thoughts to disorient you. Focus on the path.”
“I am perfectly focused, my Prince,” you said, your voice tight as you forced your eyes to scan the gnarled treeline.
You both kept walking for hours, the oppressive twilight of the marshes stretching on endlessly. The environment wasn't the only thing testing your patience; the silence between you quickly dissolved into a bitter, exhausting bickering. Every decision became a battlefield.
“We should veer left,” Thor muttered, his eyes tracking a faint, muddy ridge. “The ground looks more stable there.”
“If we go left, we plunge directly into the weeping roots,” you countered sharply, deliberately stepping right past him. “The moss to the right is thicker. It means there’s solid stone underneath. Or did your year of sitting on a comfortable Asgardian throne erase your basic tracking instincts?”
Thor stepped into your path, forcing you to a halt. His eyes flashed. “My tracking instincts are perfectly intact. And I was not sitting comfortably, I was—“ He bit off his words, shaking his head. “We are going left.”
“Go left alone, then,” you snapped, brushing past his broad shoulder. “I am not a soldier under your command on this trip, Thor. I am a partner. Act like it.”
“A partner usually listens when someone tries to keep them from sinking into a bog!” he roared softly, his heavy boots splashing in the mire as he caught up to you.
“I managed to avoid sinking into ice shelves for an entire year without your supreme guidance,” you shot back, your voice dripping with venom. “I think I can handle a little mud.”
“Jotunheim again,” Thor growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You speak of it as if you went on a grand adventure, rather than fleeing like a thief in the night.”
“I did not flee!” you said, stopping and turning to face him, your chest heaving against your armor. “I left to become exactly what you always thought I was. A tool—a blade. I simply went to sharpen myself.”
Thor opened his mouth to reply, his eyes wide and burning with a mixture of rage and a strange, desperate agony, but the words died in his throat. He looked around, suddenly realizing that the gnarled trees surrounding you looked identical to the ones you had passed two hours ago.
The thick, rolling fog had disoriented both of you. The bioluminescent moss was pulsing slower now, fading into a deeper, darker hue that signaled the onset of Vanaheim's true, freezing night.
You were utterly lost.
Thor let out a long, defeated breath, his broad shoulders sagging slightly as he unclipped Mjolnir and let out a frustrated sigh. He looked at you, his features softening just a fraction into the tired man beneath the warrior prince.
“We are walking in circles,” he admitted, his voice dropping the commanding tone. “The marsh-magic is thickening with the night. If we keep moving in this darkness, we will stumble into a sinkhole.”
You looked around, hating that he was right. Your muscles were aching from the damp cold, and the heavy atmosphere was pressing down on your skull like a vice.
“So what do you suggest, big guy?” you asked, the name you always called him slipping out from your tongue, though the bite in your voice was weakened by sheer exhaustion.
“We rest,” Thor said, his gaze locking onto a small, elevated clearing beneath the massive, twisted roots of a dead ironwood tree. The ground there looked relatively dry, shielded by the canopy above. “We pitch camp here for the night. We gather our strength, let the fog clear, and find the temple at first light.”
You wanted to protest, but you simply didn't have the energy left to do so. You were acutely aware of how thoroughly lost you were in the twisting fog, so you only sighed a long, heavy breath as you nodded.
“Okay,” you mumbled, looking up at him through the dim twilight.
He nodded back, a silent truce passing between you as you both made your way toward the massive, twisted roots of the dead ironwood tree to set up camp. You dropped your pack onto the dry patch of earth, the leather hitting the ground with a heavy thud, and looked around.
This forest was fucking eerie. If Thor were still your Thor, you wouldn't have hesitated for a second; you would have stuck right to his side, practically glued to his shoulder as he prepared a fire for you to keep the shadows at bay. But you were not in that position anymore. So instead, you bit your bottom lip, standing a few paces back as you watched him work.
His golden locks dropped over his perfect face as he leaned down, coaxing a flame from the dry wood he'd gathered. Even from where you stood, the heat of the growing fire began to push back the damp chill, bringing with it his faint, unmistakable scent of rain and sandalwood. He was a nightmare. A beautiful, fucking nightmare that you couldn't wake up from.
Thor suddenly looked up at you from his kneeling position, and his heart stopped beating entirely.
You were looking down at him, your angelic face twisted in pure, quiet focus, your gaze so burning that his lungs couldn't manage to take in another breath.
And you were biting your lips. Those sinful, fucking lips that he had been so painfully close to kissing in the dark of the armory. The memory hit him so hard he felt it pierce through him, forcing him to sharply turn his gaze away before he lost his mind completely.
With a tight jaw, he managed to light the fire, the orange flames casting long, dancing shadows against the ancient roots. He stood up to his full height, dusting off his hands as he looked back at you.
“What is it?” he asked. His voice came out so gentle, so entirely devoid of the anger from earlier, that your eyes burned with sudden, unwanted tears.
“Nothing,”’you said quickly, turning your gaze away from him and focusing on the flickering flames, desperately trying to lock your emotions back behind the wall you had built.
“Why do you do this?” he asked you.
You turned your gaze back to him, the crackling orange firelight cutting through the heavy fog. “Do what?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes already shining with the hot tears to come.
“You look at me with a despise so great it breaks me,” he breathed, the raw vulnerability in his tone catching you completely off guard. “And then, a second later, I see you looking at me like you used to. With that look so full of love it takes my breath away.”
Your throat burned as you opened your mouth, your heart threatening to leap clean out of your chest. His right hand hovered, lingering just over your cheek as if he were actively deciding if he even had the right to touch you anymore.
“You're the one to talk,” you scoffed, a bitter defense mechanism against the ache in your ribs. “If you saw how you fucking look at me all day—with so much disgust it makes me nauseous—you would hate yourself.”
Thor stepped closer, the heat radiating off him easily eclipsing the campfire. “Do you?”
“What?”
“You said you hate me,” he asked, his knuckles finally dropping to gently graze your cheek. You tried to gulp, but the air was stuck in your throat, thick and heavy. “But do you hate me?”
“I don't,” you confessed, the truth slipping out before you could stop it. You closed your eyes, unable to look at him as you asked the mirror question. “Do you?”
“I could never,” he replied instantly. His entire hand moved to cup the side of your face, warm and rough against your skin. Helpless against a year of longing, you instinctively leaned into his touch, your cheek resting in his palm.
“Then why?” he asked, his voice suddenly becoming tighter, the brief gentleness fracturing. “Why do you do this to me?” His tone dropped into a deeper, darker register, vibrating with a frustration that was right on the verge of yelling. “Why did you leave me?”
You shook your head violently against his palm, reality snapping back as you tried to pull away from him. You couldn't do this. You couldn't let him hold you while your soul was still bleeding from what he did.
“Why did you fucking flirt with him?!” he suddenly yelled, his hand snapping down to grip your arm tightly, preventing you from backing out into the dark forest.
Your eyes widened in sheer disbelief. Is this what this was all about? “Is this what's bothering you?! Are you serious?!” you yelled back, planting your hands against his armored chest and trying to push him off, but he was too strong, completely unyielding.
“Tell me,” he demanded, leaning his face down toward yours until you could feel the furious huff of his breath. “Tell me why you would fucking betray me like that.”
You let out a sharp, incredulous breath, entirely unable to believe the audacity of what you were hearing. “I can talk to men however I please. He just happened to be the one who was there,” you said, your gaze sharpening into steel.
“You can't,” he growled.
“Oh, I most definitely can. You don't decide that,” you shot back, defiantly glaring up into his stormy eyes.
“I am to be your husband. I can decide that,” he pushed back, his jaw clenching as he laid claim to the title neither of you had wanted an hour ago. “You will not talk to him again.”
He was playing the husband card. Great. Absolutely fantastic.
“Oh, you're eager to be my husband now?” you hissed, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your throat as you slammed your hands against his armored chest.
“I am stating a fact,” Thor growled, his grip on your arm tightening just enough to keep you pinned beneath his heavy, dark gaze.
“I can't fucking deal with you!” You shook your head violently, the raw frustration tearing through your chest. “I will talk to him. I will talk to all the men you don't like! What the fuck can you do about it?!” you yelled, daring him to push further.
“All-Fathers give me strength,” he muttered, looking away from you for a split second as if trying to summon every ounce of restraint left in his body. Then, his head snapped back, his eyes boring into yours with that dark, suffocating intensity. “I will bury them six feet under, myself, Treasure.”
His hand shot up, his large fingers tangling into the hair at the back of your neck, gripping you just firmly enough to anchor you to him.
You gulped, your eyes widening as you looked up at him. He had always been possessive over you—always lingering a little too close, always watching whoever stepped into your space—but he had never threatened to kill anyone. At least, he had never admitted it to your face with such terrifying, calm certainty.
Your breathing became heavy, your chest heaving in perfect tandem with his as you stood chest-to-chest in the freezing Vanaheim night. The contrast was maddening. He was furious, he was irrational, and he was so incredibly hot. The heat radiating off his skin was a direct contradiction to the cold fog surrounding you, and the sheer power humming beneath his armor made your pulse spike in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
His thumb slid against the nape of your neck, his gaze dropping down to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, waiting for you to defy him again.
“Fuck it,” he mumbled.
He decided then and there, no matter what the outcome was, no matter how much you might hate him for it tomorrow, he was going to taste those beautiful lips of yours in this lifetime.
Before you could even draw another breath, he crashed his lips down onto yours. He was desperate to taste you, desperate to feel you, pouring a year's worth of agony and unspent devotion into the collision.
What he didn’t expect, what completely broke his remaining restraint, was you kissing him back just as desperately. Your mouth opened against his, and you tasted sweet—so much sweeter than he had ever imagined in his darkest, most vivid dreams—and the sheer perfection of it killed him.
You couldn’t believe it. After a whole year of icy loneliness, you were finally kissing him. His left arm snaked around your waist, pulling you so tight against his armor that you thought you might pass out for a second, but you didn't care. He was eating you alive. His teeth bit down on your lower lip, sharp and demanding, only for him to immediately soothe the sting over with his tongue. You moaned, a low, obscene sound that rippled through the quiet fog, the heavy feel of him getting you completely high.
He began to walk you backward through the dark camp. Your heel caught onto a rogue twig, almost making you trip, but his grip instantly tightened around your chest, anchoring you. He grumbled something low and dark against your mouth about your clumsiness, never breaking the contact. He pressed you back into the heavy trunk of the ironwood tree, the solid wood knocking the remaining breath from your lungs as he continued to kiss you feverishly. Fuck, he was killing you.
Your hands tangled into his golden hair, sliding down to his neck and caressing his nape tenderly. The gentle touch made him groan deeply into your mouth, a vibration you felt all the way down to your chest. He pressed the full weight of his body into yours, forcing you to feel him—to feel how massive he was compared to you, to feel how completely he was consuming you, to feel how fucking desperate he was to crawl inside your skin.
You gasped as his mouth slid away from yours, his kisses marking a trail of fire along your jaw line. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin, before descending to your neck. Desperate for more, you arched your neck, moving your head back to give him space—but the movement was too sudden, and a faint, dull thud echoed from the back of your head making contact with the tree trunk.
Thor froze instantly. He ripped himself away from your neck, looking down at you with tightly knitted eyebrows, the raw passion in his eyes suddenly laced with sharp panic.
“Did that hurt?” he mumbled, his voice thick and rough.
“No,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.
Gods, you were a sight. Your lips were flushed and puffy from his kisses, your tight warrior braid was completely coming loose, almost entirely let down over your shoulders, and your eyes were so desperate, so entirely expectant, that it knifed right through his heart.
Even though you whispered that it didn't hurt, he didn't care. He gently brought his large hands up to your head, carefully checking the spot for damage before pressing a incredibly tender kiss to your crown, the sudden shift to gentleness stealing the air right out of your lungs. Did he have to be so caring? Did he have to remind you of the man you loved so much?
Then, keeping his gaze locked on yours, he placed his massive, calloused hand flat against the bark at the back of your head, making a protective barricade between your soft skin and the rough tree trunk.
“It’s okay,” he growled softly, leaning back down, his thumb sweeping across your damp lower lip. “I'm not letting you get hurt again.”
You nodded, dazed, like he knew the code to the universe. Even though the contact with the tree hadn't really hurt you, he knew what was best for you in your own eyes. That was how completely you were drowning in him.
He smiled down at your expression, a soft, rare expression that reached his eyes. Gods, he wanted to keep you like this—all for himself, high on his kisses, with not a single doubt left in your mind. You grabbed at the back of his neck, trying to pull him back down to you, and he happily obliged. He gave you a brief, lingering kiss, and then he went right back to his previous work. He caught a soft patch of skin on your neck, giving it a slow, deliberate bite before sucking on it until your head began to swim. Your grasp on his nape tightened as he tasted your skin, making your toes curl; you simply couldn't get enough of him.
You could feel your panties dampen as the friction of his heavy body pressed against yours. His hands began to work at the straps of your harsh armor, but before he unbuckled it completely, he paused. He looked into your eyes for confirmation. You gave it happily, biting your lower lip as a silent yes.
He could never get enough of you. As he discarded your heavy chest piece and shoulder guards, letting them drop to the damp moss below, you could feel his thick bulge pressing firmly against your front. He left you in just your tight, long-sleeved shirt and your trousers. He quickly took hold of the hem of your shirt—not taking it off entirely, but pulling it far enough up that he could see your bare breasts. Because your armor usually lent enough support and cover, you weren't wearing a bra, and your chest heaved under his dark, heated gaze.
Thor bit his own lip, immediately cupping your left breast in his massive right hand.
“You’re killing me, Treasure,” he mumbled against your skin as you gasped at the sudden contact. “You are so beautiful, sweetheart.”
You felt a sudden surge of impatience, your hands reaching up to clumsily tug at the fastenings of his top armor, trying to get rid of the metal between you. He chuckled lightly—a low, rumbling sound that made you look up at him through the dark.
“Get rid of it,” you said, pouting slightly as you pulled at his chest piece. “I want to touch you, too.”
Thor closed his eyes, taking a ragged breath. You were going to be the absolute end of him. He smiled down at your expression, leaning in to give you a sweet, little peck on your lips. “Whatever you want, baby,” he murmured.
With practiced ease, he unbuckled his own top armor and tossed it aside. And oh, it was so worth it. Your eyes skimmed over the hard, massive planes of his chest, his damn biceps that looked as big as your head, and his rock-hard abs. You felt lightheaded just from the sight of him standing bare-chested over you in the firelight.
You whined, desperately reaching out. “Come here.”
Your right hand wrapped around his left bicep while your other hand slid lower, mapping out the ridges of his abs. You were in absolute heaven. You pulled him down and kissed him again, your fingers tracing every inch of his bare skin, and Thor groaned deeply into your mouth, clearly drunk on your attention and completely happy to let you consume him.
The friction of his bare, heated skin against your tight shirt sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core. Thor groaned deep into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your tongue, clearly drunk on the attention as your fingers traced the hard, sculpted ridges of his abs. He was radiating a staggering amount of heat, practically melting the damp Vanaheim chill that hung in the air around the dead ironwood tree.
His right hand, still gripping your left breast, squeezed firmly, his thumb sweeping over the tight peak and making you arch off the rough bark. You whined into the kiss, your hips instinctively tilting upward, seeking the blunt, heavy pressure of the bulge straining against his trousers. You entire being was ablaze now, thrumming with raw, unfiltered lust.
“More,” you breathed against his lips when he finally tore his mouth away to catch his breath. “Thor, please...”
He didn't need to be told twice. His eyes were entirely blown out, the stormy grey replaced by a dark, feral hunger. He slid his hand from your breast down to the waistband of your trousers, his calloused fingers hooking into the fabric. He leaned his forehead against yours for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving as he looked down at your flushed, ruined expression.
“I've got you, Treasure,” he rasped, his voice incredibly deep and thick with promise. “I'm right here, honey.”
With a sudden, possessive tug, he began to work at the fastenings of your trousers, his large body pressing you flat against his protective hand, trapping you completely in his heat.
When he was finally done with the fastenings, he paused, his gaze dropping toward the damp ground. He was clearly calculating something, his brow furrowing slightly as he assessed the cold, muddy earth. Turning back to you, he gently lifted you by your waist, removing you from the tree trunk.
He knelt down on the moss, his large fingers working quickly to unfasten his heavy crimson cape from his discarded armor, and he laid the thick fabric carefully across the ground.
He took your hand in his, giving it a soft tug to pull you toward him. “Is this okay?” he asked, gesturing with his head toward the cape on the floor.
It was more than okay. He was trying to make you comfortable, wanting to get you laid down so you could actually relax despite the harsh environment. In that moment, he was your Thor again, even if it was just for tonight. You nodded, smiling up at him.
“Of course it is, big guy,” you said radiantly.
He couldn't take it. His gaze, which had been locked on your eyes, descended instantly toward your lips and that fucking smile that completely lit up the dark night. He missed you. He missed your scent, he missed touching you, and he missed your smile so much it physically hurt his very being.
Wasting no more time, he grabbed you again, manhandling you down to the ground so quickly that you squealed in surprise. He chuckled at the sound, the low rumble vibrating in his chest; gods, he had even missed your silly little noises.
Within seconds, he was hovering over you again, your legs instinctively spreading apart to accommodate his massive frame between them. He started pulling down your trousers, and you helped him by lifting your hips a bit higher, allowing him to slide them off until they were fully discarded.
He took hold of your bare legs, his warm hands gliding up your skin as he settled back into his former position between your thighs.
“I can’t handle this—” he breathed, closing his eyes in a wave of sheer agony. “You are beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing—I can’t even bear to look at you. You are burning me,” he whispered, opening his eyes to look down at you, completely consumed by the fire you had started.
“Thor,” you mumbled, your heart beating so hard it felt like it was right in your throat. You didn't know what to say or how to process the sheer adoration in his eyes, so you did the first thing you could think of: you yanked him down toward you by his neck.
You crashed your lips against his, kissing him with a wild, unbridled desperation, before trailing down to press open-mouthed, burning kisses along his jaw and into the hollow of his throat. Instinctively, you hitched your legs higher, wrapping them tightly around his thick waist and pulling him in until his heavy bulge pressed directly against your core. The friction made a ragged whine escape your lips, and Thor let out a deep, guttural groan that shook his entire chest.
“I want you,” you managed to choke out against his skin, your mind spinning. “I want you so bad, please.”
You were begging him now, completely delirious with want. The ache between your thighs was unbearable, your panties soaked through and clinging to your pussy. You needed his touch like you needed air.
“I know, honey, I know,” he mumbled, his voice thick and rough as he slid his large hand down between your bodies.
He didn't waste another second, pressing his broad thumb directly against your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear. Even with the barrier, the direct pressure made your hips jerk upward, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispered, his own breath catching as his thumb slid over the damp material, applying a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. He gulped, his eyes dark and blown out as he looked down at you. “I can feel it right through your panties. You're completely ready for me, aren't you, my Treasure?”
You whined, feeling yourself getting more and more soaked by the second, the friction of his heavy thumb against your clit driving you completely crazy.
“Yes, oh gods, yes,” you managed to pant out, your hips moving uncontrollably against his hand, chasing the friction.
“Look at you,” he mumbled, biting his lip as his eyes darkened to a shade of pure, possessive storm. “My woman. My wife.”
The words sent a thrill straight down your spine just as he hooked his fingers into the edge of your underwear and slid your panties to the side, finally touching your bare skin without any barriers left.
“Oh,” you whined, a high, broken sound escaping you the moment his warm, calloused palm made contact with your soaking slit.
“I have to taste you, little bird,” he mumbled against your lips, his voice dropping into a deep tone.
Without waiting another second, he began to completely roll your panties down your legs. You could feel the crisp, cold Vanaheim air hit your drenched pussy the moment he pulled the black lace over your feet and discarded them onto the moss.
“Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath. His gaze focused intently on your center, his large hands sliding back up to massage your thighs, his thumbs smoothing over your sensitive skin.
He took firm hold of your legs and carefully but unyieldingly planted them over his massive shoulders, completely opening you up and baring your most intimate parts to him. He looked up at you from his position between your thighs, the orange firelight making his golden hair glow as his thumbs gently separated your swollen lips. He leaned down and licked a slow, wet stripe from your aching entrance all the way up to your clit.
“Thor!” you gasped out, your fingers instantly flying to tangle themselves into his golden locks.
Even that single, devastating lick was enough to make you see stars behind your eyelids. You were completely his—you realized it with a terrifying clarity in that moment—body and soul, no matter how much you had tried to deny it over the past year.
He leaned in deeper, his mouth devouring you as he began sucking on your clit with a bruising, desperate hunger. At the same time, his thumb slipped down to circle your wet entrance, driving you to the absolute brink. You arched off his cape, your hands gripping his hair to push him closer, completely drunk on the sensation.
But then, he stopped suddenly. He lifted his head, his mouth wet and his lips flushed, leaving you completely stranded at the edge of a cliff.
“Why did you stop?” you cried out, your voice laced with a desperate, whining sob as your hips hitched upward, trying to find his mouth again.
Thor held your thighs firmly against his chest, pinning you in place. His blue eyes burned into yours, raw, vulnerable, and completely unyielding.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of his own desperation. “Tell me there is only me. Tell me no one else has touched you like this. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I—” you began, the word catching painfully in your dry throat.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You were his—you had always been his. Your heart still belonged to him entirely, and in a few short days, you were going to be bound to him by Asgardian law. You hadn't let any other man touch you like this, but a stubborn, defensive wall slammed down inside your mind. You couldn't let him know that. You couldn't give him that satisfaction and hand him even more power over your already shattered emotions. You knew he wanted your body right now, but you were still entirely convinced he didn't reciprocate your actual feelings. To him, you were still just a tool he was possessive over.
“I am not,” you defied him, your chin lifting as your eyes twinkled with a dangerous, reckless spark.
Thor’s expression shifted instantly, the passion freezing into a cold, terrifying rage. His eyes narrowed down on you until they looked like two cracks of lightning. “Who the fuck touched you?”
You gulped, a sudden spike of panic hitting you. Fuck. You had to find a lie, and you had to find it fast.
“Doesn’t matter anymore,” you mumbled, trying to deflect as you tightened your fingers in his golden hair, trying to pull him back down to distract him.
“Oh, it matters, baby,” Thor growled, his voice dropping so deep it made the earth beneath his cape vibrate. He didn't budge an inch, his massive hands tightening on your thighs like iron bands, pinning your legs over his shoulders.
“I think I have made it pretty damn obvious who I belonged to for years,” he continued, leaning over you until his chest practically crushed yours, his breath hot and furious against your face. “Spending all my time with you. Not letting you out of my sight even for a single second. Everyone in Asgard knew you were mine to guard. So tell me...”
He dipped his head lower, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped, his blue eyes burning directly into your soul.
“...which fucker defied his prince and laid his hands on you? Give me a name.”
Did he just say he belonged to you?
Your lungs burned, your chest heaving with the crushing weight of your damn feelings. He was pushing you down so hard emotionally that you weren’t sure if you could ever find a way out of this anymore. It was bad enough that you were letting him touch you like this—he had broken your heart once already, and now you were actively giving him the opportunity to do it all over again. He must be lying just to get you to tell him a name, your logic screamed at you, desperate to protect what was left of your sanity.
“What will you do to him if I tell you?” you whispered, your eyes tracing the sharp, perfectly chiseled planes of his face.
Thor was fucking furious. The air around you felt thick, charged with the dangerous, crackling energy of a storm about to break. He was laying his heart bare to you, and you were still protecting another man. You had broken his heart once by leaving, and now he felt like he was giving you the perfect chance to break it a second time.
“I will decide when I know who it is,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He snapped his right hand up to grab your chin, his massive palm covering most of your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.
“I don't remember his name,” you lied through your teeth, your mind spinning too fast to construct a more specific or believable story.
You were fucking lying, and he knew it. He could read you too well; he saw the subtle shift in your eyes, the slight tremor in your breathing. But instead of pushing for the name, his expression hardened, shifting into something far more determined, dark, and utterly possessive.
“Then I’m gonna make damn sure you won’t remember a single thing about any other man,” he vowed, his left thumb wiping aggressively against the inside of your right thigh. He slid right back into his former position, settling firmly between your knees as your legs remained draped over his massive shoulders. The orange firelight caught the sweat sheen on his bare back, casting long shadows across his protective crimson cape spread beneath you.
“You will be my wife,” he commanded, his voice thick with a raw, unyielding promise that left no room for argument, his blue eyes burning directly into yours as he stared you down. “There is only me now. You had better get used to it, Treasure.”
With that final declaration, keeping that piercing gaze locked onto yours, he dipped his head again— his wet, heated mouth crashing back down against your aching center with a bruising, desperate hunger that instantly made you see stars.
He was sucking your soul right out of you. Your high, desperate mewls of pleasure were only drawing him on, driving him deeper into his own possessive hunger. Your breaths came out ragged and shallow as you instinctively bucked your hips upward, trying to force more of him inside you.
He gripped your hips with iron hands, pinning you firmly against his crimson cape. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly command against your sensitive skin.
To punish your impatience, he gave your swollen clit a sharp little kiss, immediately resuming his relentless suckling. Wet, heavy sounds echoed in the quiet Vanaheim night as he worked over your drenched pussy. He was basically making out with your center, and oh gods, did you fucking like it. You were completely helpless beneath him.
“Thor, baby, please,” you begged, your fingers knotting tightly into his hair as your head thrashed against his cape.
In response, he slid his thick middle finger straight into your dripping hole. “Oh gods,” you breathed, your eyes snapping open to look down at him.
His blue eyes hadn't left your face for even a fraction of a second. He watched your undoing with a raw, predatory satisfaction, and the sheer sight of his intense gaze magnified the pressure in your lower stomach tenfold. You closed your eyes, your knuckles turning white in his golden locks. “I’m so close—Thor, oh!”
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, his voice vibrating against your inner thighs. “My pretty girl,” he mumbled through his suckling, the praise dripping with an intoxicating sweetness that made your heart ache just as much as your core.
He was deliberately trying to stretch you out, his single finger moving deep inside you, making your aching, wet walls burn with a delicious friction. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he hooked his ring finger alongside the first, pushing both deep into your heat and making you mewl in a high, broken sob.
“Please,” you pleaded, your internal muscles clenching tightly around his intrusion. His fingers were stretching you so much that you felt like you were already being filled to the absolute brim.
A sudden, devastating thought crossed your mind. If his mere fingers were making you feel this completely full, what the hell was going to happen when his massive cock was finally inside you?
The mental image of him burying his full size into you was the final, lethal blow. You couldn't hold it back for another second. The pressure in your lower stomach broke, and you went entirely rigid, your hips locking as a violent wave of pleasure crashed over you. You came hard right on his mouth, screaming his name into the dark forest as your walls squeezed his fingers in tight, rhythmic spasms.
He lapped up your juices eagerly, the action causing wet slurping sounds to come out in the quiet of the night. His tongue didn't stop its assault for even a second, and his two fingers were still buried deep inside you, pumping in a ruthless, perfect rhythm that made you squirm and writhe against his crimson cape.
When it became too much, when the pleasure turned into a sharp, electric overload, you tried prying him off of you, your fingers desperately pushing at his broad shoulders.
But it was absolutely no use; he was an immovable wall. Your hips backed away from him instinctively, your whines not stopping as his fingers stretched you from the inside while his mouth continued ruthlessly attacking your overstimulated clit.
“Please—it's too much,” you begged him, your voice cracking, on the very verge of crying from the sheer intensity of it.
“You can take it,” he said, his gravelly voice vibrating right against your thighs. He looked straight up into your eyes and took your swollen clit directly between his lips, giving it a firm, deliberate suck while his fingers curled deep inside your wet hole.
Your mouth fell agape as a second, completely unexpected wave of pleasure started brewing deep in your core. “Fuck,” you gasped, your logic completely melting away as your hips lifted up again, betraying your earlier words to chase the relief only he could give you.
“There you go, my good girl,” he mumbled through his relentless assaults on your clit, his fingers driving in deeper, stretching your aching walls to their absolute limit.
“Thor—!” you screamed into the foggy canopy as your second orgasm hit you, your tight muscles clamping down around his buried fingers.
You were absolutely delirious with pleasure. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your hands, still tightly tangled in his golden hair, pulled hard on his locks as your entire body trembled under the assault of his mouth and hand.
When he was finally done, he slid his fingers out of your soaking wetness with a soft, squelching sound and slid up your body, settling himself right back over you. His massive, bare chest pressed against yours, his face perfectly in line with yours.
Without a word, he captured your lips, kissing you deeply and making you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimacy of it sent a shiver through your spine. You cupped his jaw with your hands, kissing him back eagerly, losing yourself in the hot, wet rhythm.
When he finally separated his mouth from yours, the friction caused a thin string of saliva to appear between your lips.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his breathing still heavy as his blue eyes searched your face, looking over you with genuine concern for anything wrong.
You nodded your head, your chest heaving against his. “I’m amazing,” you breathed out.
He smiled, his features softening completely as he leaned down to give you another sweet, lingering peck. But then, he did something you never, ever expected from him.
Instead of reaching for the waistband of his own trousers, he shifted down your body. He reached into the darkness, grabbed your discarded black lace panties, and began pulling them back over your feet and up your legs, carefully covering your bare skin.
“What are you doing?” you asked, your gaze turning completely confused, your brow knitting together as you looked down at him through the firelight.
“I think it’s obvious what I’m doing, Treasure,” he said, locking his gaze with yours as he found your trousers and started pulling them over your legs, too.
“But don’t you want to— what about you?” you asked, pointing with your eyes toward the huge bulge straining against his trousers.
“It’s okay,” he mumbled, his hands sweeping across the moss as he looked for your armor and top.
What the hell is his problem? You thought to yourself, a piercing cold washing over your skin. He doesn't want me?
You pulled your knees to your chest, sitting up now as your arms crossed tightly over your bare breasts, a harsh chill going straight through your spine. Your gaze locked onto the dancing orange flames of the fire, your expression turning completely grim.
How could I have been such a fool? The thoughts echoed brutally in your mind, your throat tightening as the familiar ache of rejection from a year ago slammed back into your chest. You had bared your body and soul to him, and he was dressing you back up.
When Thor finally found the rest of your gear, he smiled in triumph and turned back over to you, ready to help you back into it. But the smile died on his face instantly.
He looked over to see you curled into yourself, your arms shielding your body from him, your face turned away.
Your angelic face looked so incredibly sad, so deeply regretful, that he felt the breath get taken clean out of his lungs.
A sharp pang of panic hit his chest. Did he do something he shouldn't have? But if that was true, why would you have kissed him back with that much desperate passion?
He crawled closer to you, the heavy weight of his bare body shifting the cape beneath you. He reached out, his large, warm fingers gently wrapping around your right wrist, tugging softly to make you look up at him. Your eyes were wide, shining brilliantly with brewing tears that threatened to spill over at any second.
“Treasure, what’s wrong?” he asked desperately, his voice cracking as he immediately cupped your face with both of his massive, warm hands, forcing you to feel his heat.
“I thought you wanted me,” you whispered, the words so impossibly low and broken that he had to lean in just a fraction more to be able to catch them over the crackle of the fire.
Thor froze, his thumbs halting against your cheekbones as your words registered. His jaw dropped slightly, his blue eyes widening in utter disbelief that you could even think such a thing.
“You think I don’t want you? After that?” he rasped, his voice vibrating with a sudden, fierce intensity. He slid his hands from your jaw down to your shoulders, gripping you firmly as if trying to shake the thought straight out of your head.
“Look at me. Look at what you do to me. I am burning alive for you, sweetheart. I have been since the moment I saw you grew up into this woman.” He let out a frustrated breath, his forehead dropping heavily against yours.
“Then why did you—”
“I'm trying to be a gentleman, you stubborn little bird. I’m trying so hard to keep my composure,” he admitted, his voice strained with the sheer effort of it. “I don't want to just take you in the dirt. I want to take you to a bed—I want to marry you properly. Gods, don't you ever think I don't want you. Because I do—so much it burns me.”
His words made your pulse skip a beat, echoing in the quiet night. They circled around you, hugging you so tight you were completely unable to take another breath. You kept looking up at him, your expression frozen in one of pure shock.
“Treasure,” he mumbled, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, his touch so incredibly full of love you could feel it burn right through your skin. “My treasure, my one and only.”
He leaned down, claiming your lips in a soft, grounding kiss that felt entirely different from the desperate heat from before. “I never stopped wanting you. Even when you left me—I didn’t have it in me to stop,” he mumbled against your lips, the confession raw and bleeding.
“I do not know what to say—” you started, the wall around your heart cracking wide open.
But he gently cut you off. “You don't have to say anything.”
Then, keeping his promise, he started dressing you again. He carefully pulled your top down, smoothing the fabric down over your skin with a tenderness that made your throat ache. Once you were covered, he wrapped his massive arms around you, pulling your back flat against his bare, heated chest as he laid down onto his heavy crimson cape.
He tucked your head under his chin, his strong embrace shielding you entirely from the chill. “Let's rest now, honey,” he murmured into your hair, his heartbeat a steady thud beneath your hand.
—
The steady, heavy thud of Thor’s heartbeat against your cheek was the first thing that anchored you back to reality. You blinked your eyes open, finding yourself completely cocooned in his heat.
Your head was still tucked securely under his chin, his massive arms wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against his bare front. The crisp morning air was biting, but you wouldn't have known it from the sheer warmth radiating off him.
For a second, you just stayed there, letting your cheek remain smushed against his chest, watching the faint blue veins beneath his skin. It was, without a doubt, the best way you had woken up in three hundred and sixty-five days. You had imagined this—waking up next to him, feeling his heat burn you so good, so right, you didn’t know if you ever wanted to leave. If you ever even could leave.
Then, the weight of last night settled back into your bones. You kissed. Kissed with so much passion—so desperate that you almost went there with him.
The desperate kisses, the dirt, the heavy promises muttered in the dark—they all weighed on you, all at once. And the glaring fact remained that despite the physical eruption, the massive chasm between you hadn't actually been fixed. You still hadn't told him why you left, and he still hadn't explained the disgust you were certain you'd seen in his eyes.
The wall was cracked, but it was still standing. Even after his confession to you, you were certain he still despised you; he was just physically attracted to you.
As if sensing your shift in breathing, Thor shifted. A low, gravelly rumble vibrated in his chest, and his grip around your waist tightened instinctively before his eyes even opened.
“Morning, Treasure,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his breath stirring the loose strands of your hair.
“Morning,” you whispered, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of how close you were. You gently pressed your palms against his chest, signaling for him to let you up.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, an unspoken reluctance lingering in the air. Though when he opened his eyes and saw your face, your expression was so full of regret, so fucking full of sadness, it made him nauseous. She regrets everything, he thought bitterly.
His arms loosened, letting you sit up reluctantly, his fingers curling into tight fists for a fleeting second before he completely dropped his hands. The cold air immediately hit your skin, making you shiver as you reached for your discarded top armor lying on the moss. The domestic softness of the night evaporated quickly as you both strapped your armor back on.
It was a silent coordination, the tension between you thick but different now. It wasn't the sharp, biting hostility from yesterday; it was a heavy, charged awareness. Every time his boots crunched on the frozen leaves, or your shoulder brushed his as you packed up the camp, your pulse gave a small, traitorous leap.
Thor hoisted his heavy chest piece over his broad shoulders, buckling it with practiced ease before picking up his cape. He shook the dirt and pine needles from the crimson fabric, then turned his stormy blue eyes toward you. The raw, desperate vulnerability from last night was tucked away, replaced by the stoic prince you were meant to accompany.
“The fog is lifting,” Thor said, his voice carrying its usual authoritative weight, though his eyes lingered on your flushed lips for a beat too long. Oh, how he longed to kiss them now that he had a taste. It took every ounce of his legendary restraint not to step across the small clearing and pull you back against him. “If we move quickly, we can reach the outpost before midday.”
“Good,” you replied, your voice trembling for a second as you saw his eyes lock in on your lips. You breathed out, quickly averting your eyes as you checked the daggers at your waist, deliberately keeping your gaze focused on your weapons. “The sooner we finish this patrol, the sooner we can get back to Asgard.”
Back to Asgard. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. Back to the looming wedding, back to the public eyes, and back to the suffocating armor of their official titles.
“Right.” He cleared his throat, turning to extinguish the remaining embers of the fire with the heel of his boot. “Let's move out.”
You fell into step just a pace behind him, the familiar rhythm of the mission taking over. The silence between you stretched across the rocky Vanaheim terrain, but the space felt smaller now. Every brush of his hand against yours as you navigated the steep, root-tangled path felt like a live wire, a constant reminder of what lay beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break.
The damp forest gradually gave way to jagged stone ridges, the heavy canopy thinning enough to let the pale morning sun filter through. Thor moved with a cautious deliberation, his hand occasionally dropping near the hilt of his weapon, his eyes scanning the dense treeline. He was entirely focused on the path ahead, yet his posture remained stiff, his shoulders tense. He was painfully aware of your every breath behind him.
She wants to get back to Asgard so badly because she can't stand being alone with me, he thought, his chest tightening as he gripped a stone ledge to pull himself up.
He hated the silence. He hated that the moment the sun rose, you had built that damn wall right back up, treating him like a prince instead of the man who had been worshiping you on his knees just hours before.
You watched the broad expanse of his back. Your fingers still tingled with the memory of his skin, and your core still throbbed with a faint, lingering ache.
He said he belonged to me, you reasoned with yourself, trying to steady your uneven breathing as you climbed the rocky slope. But he only said those things because he was consumed by lust. The moment we return, he will go back to being distant. He will go back to looking at me with that hidden judgment. You couldn't let your guard down. You had to protect whatever pieces of your heart remained intact.
Suddenly, Thor halted, raising a hand to signal you to stop. The sudden change in his demeanor instantly snapped you out of your thoughts. You instinctively gripped the hilt of your dagger, stepping up beside him, your eyes following his sharp gaze toward a narrow ravine just ahead.
The quiet of the forest had changed. The usual morning bird calls had completely died out, replaced by a low, unnatural scraping sound echoing from the shadows of the rocks below.
Thor didn’t speak, but his jaw tightened as he slid a glance down at you, checking your stance. Even with the emotional wall built solidly between you, your instincts as a warrior were completely in sync with his. You dropped low, minimizing your silhouette against the grey stone ridge, your fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of your dagger.
The scraping sound grew louder, accompanied by the distinct smell of wet ash and rotting wood—the telltale scent of a Marauder scouting party, or worse, beasts driven mad by the lingering dark magic in Vanaheim’s deeper wilds.
“Two,” Thor whispered, his voice so low it was barely heard against the wind as his eyes tracked a movement down in the ravine. “Maybe three. Hiding in the blind spot of the ridge.”
“I’ll take the high flank,” you breathed back, your tone strictly professional, burying the flutter in your chest under a layer of cold battlefield focus. “Keep their attention on the path. I’ll drop behind them.”
Thor’s eyes snapped to yours then, a fierce flash of protective anger flaring in his blue eyes. His fingers twitched over his weapon. He hated you taking the flank alone, especially today when his chest felt hollowed out by your silence. But he knew your skills—he knew you were more than capable.
“Don't take risks,” he commanded gruffly. “If it’s a trap, you pull back to me. Immediately.”
“I know my duty, my prince,” you replied quietly, the title slipping from your lips like a shield, intentionally reminding him of where you both stood.
A muscle jumped in his cheek at the formality, a dark shadow crossing his face. It was a slap to the face after the broken whimpers of his name you had cried into the dark forest hours ago. “I thought I told you not to address me that wa—”
Before he could say anything more, you slipped away, moving like a shadow across the upper crags of the ravine. Thor watched your retreating form for a split second, his heart hammering with a toxic mix of adrenaline and lingering possessiveness, before he stepped openly onto the rocky ledge, intentionally letting his heavy armor clank against the stone.
Below, three hulking, grey-skinned Marauders snapped their heads up, their crude iron blades instantly unsheathing as they spotted the Asgardian prince standing bare-faced in the sunlight. With a collective, guttural roar, they lunged up the steep incline toward him.
From your position above, you waited for the perfect moment. Watching Thor step into battle was always a terrifyingly beautiful sight. His raw strength was unmatched; he caught the first creature's blade with his hand, twisting the metal out of its grip and throwing a heavy, bone-crushing right hook that sent the beast crashing into the dirt, while the thunderous hum of his hammer rattled the stone beneath him.
But your focus snapped to the third creature, who was unhooking poisoned spear, aiming directly for the exposed seam in Thor’s side armor while he was occupied with the second enemy. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you took in a sharp breath, not again.
Not on my watch.
You leaped from the ridge, your blue cape flaring behind you as you drove your body weight down into the third Marauder. Your daggers found their marks with lethal precision, the beast collapsing beneath you onto the damp moss with a heavy thud.
Thor’s head whipped around at the sound, his breathing heavy as he pinned the remaining creature to the stone. His heart stopped beating for a moment as his eyes locked onto you, scanning your body instantly from head to toe for any signs of blood, any signs of injury.
His heart hung heavy in his chest until he found you were completely unharmed, and the sheer, panicked terror in his expression finally eased, replaced by a dark, simmering intensity.
You stood up, wiping your blade on the side of your trousers, your chest heaving from the exertion. The silence returned, heavier now, punctuated only by the crackle of dry leaves under your boots.
Thor dropped the last unconscious beast to the ground, stepping over its body until he was standing directly in your space. He was radiating that staggering, familiar heat again, his heavy breathing filling the gap between you. He grabbed your right wrist as he got closer to you, his grip ironclad.
“Are you crazy?!” he yelled at you, his eyes keeping up their frantic check over your armor, searching for a single drop of your blood. “Why the fuck did you do that?!”
You gulped, looking up into the absolute terror and fury warring in his face. “Because I couldn't let the same thing happen—“
“What if you got stabbed?” he cut you off completely, his furious gaze burning into yours, his chest heaving violently against his armor.
“Why is this even that big of a deal?” you asked, panic and frustration rising in your own throat as you tried prying your wrist out of his suffocating grasp. “I must serve the throne after all—“
“You do not put yourself in danger. Ever. Do you hear me?” he commanded, his desperate, raw voice filling your veins and shaking you to your very core.
“But—“
Before you could finish, he dropped his hold on your wrist and framed your face with both of his massive hands, his palms incredibly hot against your skin. “Do not. I beg you,” he breathed out, his voice dropping into a broken, vulnerable whisper. He looked down at your lips, breathing in heavy, staggering breaths, his body so close you could feel his heart hammering right through his chest piece.
Your pulse skipped a beat, your fingers tightening around your dagger with all your might. He shouldn't have this much power over my heart, you thought—screamed to yourself—as you stared back into the raging storm of his eyes.
“Okay,” you whispered, completely undone by the raw desperation in his face. You cleared your throat, sheathing your daggers and held his large hands where they rested on your cheeks, giving them a gentle, lingering graze with your fingers, trying to ground both of him and yourself.
Reluctantly loosening your grip, you lowered your hands and muttered out, “We should keep moving.” Your voice was remarkably steady despite the chaotic, deafening hammering of your heart. “The scuffle might have drawn more of them.”
“Let them come,” Thor rumbled, dropping his hands as he finally took a half-step back, giving you just even a fraction of room to draw a clean breath. He called Mjolnir back to his hand with a low, electric hum, the leather strap wrapping securely around his wrist. “But you are right. The outpost is still an hour's march through the valley.”
You turned and began navigating the rocky downward slope, deliberately setting a fast pace to keep a safe distance between you. But Thor remained right on your heel, his presence an undeniable pressure at your back. Every time you had to leap over a fallen ironwood trunk or navigate a patch of loose gravel, you could feel his eyes tracking your movements, his hand twitching as if waiting for you to stumble just so he could catch you.
Why was he doing this? Looking after you as if you mattered—like he used to. It fucking hurt you. It hurt you more than his gaze full of hate ever did, because now he was pretending. Pretending to care for you when you knew what he truly felt about you deep down. You had let him kiss you, let him completely dismantle you last night, even though you knew the truth. Even though he had made it clear before that he didn't see you as anything more than a tool. You were just a stupid, gullible girl who didn't know how to keep her goddamn composure near him.
I don't want to just take you in the dirt, his voice echoed brutally in your mind, the gravelly sincerity of it tearing at your defenses. I want to marry you properly.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief second as you walked, shaking the torturous memory right out of your head. Lust, you told yourself firmly, your boots sinking into the damp earth as you forced your feet to keep moving. It's just the adrenaline of the mission and the fact that we're bound by an arranged marriage in a few days. He doesn't mean it. He can't. If he truly loved you, if he truly wanted you the way he claimed in the dark, he wouldn't have looked at you with such cold, biting disdain. He wouldn't have let you walk away a year ago without a fight.
Behind you, Thor’s thoughts were just as turbulent. He watched the tight swing of your shoulders, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth. The formal mask you had put back on was driving him insane. He wanted to reach out, to wrap his hand around your wrist and force you to confront him, to make you admit that your heart was beating just as fast as his. But the memory of the profound sadness and regret on your face when you woke up held him back like iron chains.
She thinks she made a mistake, he thought bitterly, his fingers tightening around the handle of Mjolnir until his knuckles turned white. She will never feel the same way. He had promised to be a gentleman, to wait until they were in a bed, until they were bound properly before the gods—but watching you treat him like a mere commanding officer after what you had shared was a specialized kind of torture.
He could feel his lungs constrict in his chest, making it hard to draw a clean breath of the crisp morning air. Yeah, he was fucked. He tried pushing his feelings away, tried burying them so deep so that they could never try to make their way to the surface. He had tried masking them as hatred for a whole damn year, and he had desperately, miserably failed.
He was so in love with you it hurt him. It fucking hurt him so much he could physically feel a dull, aching pain in his chest with every step he took behind you. He was desperately in love with a woman who had left him without a shred of doubt, and the worst part was, he would still do anything to keep you safe. Anything to keep you happy—even if it took from his own happiness, he didn't care. If pretending to be your distant prince was what you needed to stay whole, he would play the part, even if it tore him apart from the inside out.
By the time the stone walls of the Asgardian vanguard outpost finally broke through the heavy morning mist, the silence between you had hardened into something impenetrable.
The guards at the iron gates immediately snapped to attention, their armor clanking as they saluted the approaching prince. "Prince Thor! My lady. We did not expect you until nightfall."
"The patrol was clear, save for a minor scouting party in the lower ravine," Thor reported. His voice instantly shifted, adopting the booming, authoritative tone of a commander, though his shoulder remained rigidly locked right next to yours as you entered the stone courtyard. “We will rest here for an hour, secure fresh rations, and prepare the horses for the journey back to the capital.”
“Right away, Your Highness.”
As the guards scattered to fulfill the orders, the domestic illusion of the forest was officially dead. You were back in the real world now, surrounded by soldiers, duties, and the looming reality of Asgard.
You turned on your heel, your blue cape sweeping against the stone ground as you looked for any excuse to get away from his suffocating warmth. "I'll go check on the stable arrangements and ensure the horses are fed for the ride back."
“The outpost guards can handle the beasts,” Thor said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its public commander edge and turning into that low, private rumble meant only for you.
“I prefer to see to my own mount, my prince,” you countered quietly, deliberately throwing the formal title in his face like a physical barrier. You needed him to remember his place. More importantly, you needed to remember yours.
A muscle jumped violently in his jaw, his blue eyes flashing with a dangerous, dark frustration. He took a single step closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you, blocking out the rest of the busy courtyard. "You are pushing your luck today," he growled, the warning vibrating in his chest.
“I am doing my job,” you whispered back, lifting your chin defensively, refusing to let him see how much your hands were shaking inside your gauntlets. “Nothing more.”
He stared down at you for a long, agonizing beat, his breathing heavy as his gaze dropped to your lips one final time—a silent, burning promise that made your knees feel traitorously weak—before he abruptly turned away. “Go then,” he muttered roughly. “We depart within the hour.”
You didn't wait for him to change his mind. You walked toward the back of the outpost, your heart hammering against your ribs so loudly you were certain the guards could hear it. The moment you stepped into the dim, shadow-filled stables, the scent of hay and leather enveloped you, providing a temporary sanctuary. You leaned your back against the wooden post of an empty stall, letting out a ragged breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
A tool. That’s all you were to the throne. An arranged bride to secure an alliance, a capable warrior to shield his back. If you let yourself believe his desperate whispers in the dirt, you would end up ruined all over again.
Outside, Thor stood in the center of the courtyard, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he watched the empty arched doorway of the stables. The pain in his chest was killing him. Every time you called him my prince, it felt like you were ripping out a piece of his soul. He wanted to storm into those stables, pin you against the wall, and kiss the cold, defensive titles right out of your mouth. He wanted to demand why you looked at him with so much hidden fear, why you thought he didn't want you.
But he couldn't. He had promised to protect your happiness, even if it meant letting you hide behind your duty.
“Prince Thor?” a lieutenant asked, approaching cautiously with a leather map case. “The scouts report a heavy Vanaheim downpour is rolling in from the peaks. The mountain trails will be pure mud within the hour.”
Thor looked up at the gathering dark clouds. A storm meant nothing to him—he could split the sky open and clear a path with a single thought if he wanted to. But as he glanced back toward the stables where you were hiding from him, his expression hardened into a mask of stoic royal duty. A delayed journey meant more hours trapped in this agonizing, silent proximity with you. If he cleared the weather, he was only rushing you both back to the suffocating public eye of Asgard.
“Let it rain,” Thor commanded flatly, his voice cutting through the wind. “We don't waste time. Have the men pack the rations. We ride through it.”
Exactly forty-five minutes later, you emerged from the stables, leading your armored mare by the reins. You kept your eyes fixed on the saddle, deliberately ignoring the giant of a man mounting his own towering stallion in the center of the yard. When you climbed into your saddle, you fell back into your proper position—exactly one horse-length behind the prince.
As the iron gates of the outpost groaned open, Thor guided his mount forward into the darkening Vanaheim wilderness. The natural wind picked up, whipping his crimson cape behind him as the first heavy drops of cold rain began to fall, matching the turbulent, unyielding tension that hung heavily between the two of you.
As Thor had commanded, you rode straight through the heavy Vanaheim downpour. The rain lashed at your faces and turned the steep mountain paths into treacherous rivers of mud, but neither of you uttered a word. You kept your mare exactly one horse-length behind his towering stallion, the heavy, unresolved tension from the night before still twisting painfully in your stomach.
Two hours later, you finally reached the coordinates of the retrieval mission: a long-abandoned, half-collapsed stone vault embedded deep within the mountain crags, rumored to hold a missing Asgardian relic from the old wars.
With Mjolnir’s lightning cutting through the pitch-black darkness of the cavern, you cleared out a nest of lingering cave-dwellers while Thor breached the ancient iron doors. Within minutes, the relic—a glowing, heavily inscribed silver urn—was securely fastened to Thor’s saddlebags.
The mission was officially a success. The artifact was secured.
But the moment you both stepped back out of the cavern and onto the narrow, slick mountain ridge to begin the journey home, the true danger struck. The relentless rain had compromised the very foundation of the peak.
High above the trail, a massive chunk of the fracturing rock shelf groaned, completely detaching directly over Thor’s head. He was focused on checking the secure straps of the relic on his saddle, his back completely turned to the collapsing cliffside. He didn't see the massive boulder cascading straight down toward him.
Your mind went entirely blank. The bitter logic that had screamed at you all morning to stay away from him, the walls you had built to protect your broken heart—it all evaporated in a single, terrifying heartbeat.
“Thor!” you screamed.
Without a second thought, you dug your spurs into your mare's sides. The horse lunged forward, bridging the distance between you in a desperate, muddy surge. Thor snapped his head around at your scream, his blue eyes widening in sudden shock as he saw you charging directly at him.
Before he could even register the danger above, you threw yourself sideways out of your saddle, your body colliding heavily into his armored torso. The sheer force of your momentum shoved him and his stallion forward, clearing the direct path of the collapse.
An instant later, the mountain fell.
The massive boulder slammed onto the trail exactly where Thor had been standing a millisecond prior. A stray, jagged piece of the fracturing rock whipped through the air with lethal velocity. You didn't have time to dodge. The sharp stone caught you squarely against your side, tearing through the seam of your armor with a sickening crunch.
The force of the blow ripped you completely from your horse, sending you crashing hard onto the slick, muddy stone of the trail.
“No!” Thor’s voice tore out of his throat, a raw, primal scream of pure agony that didn't sound human.
He didn't care about his footing; he threw himself off his stallion before the beast had even come to a halt, hitting the mud on his knees and scrambling desperately toward you through the falling debris. The sheer panic radiating off him was blinding.
You lay flat on your back in the mud, the breath completely knocked out of your lungs. A sharp, burning agony flared in your side, so intense it made your vision go entirely black around the edges. Your fingers twitched against the wet earth, your chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps as the rain poured over your face.
“Treasure! Treasure, look at me!” Thor roared, his large hands trembling violently as he reached for you. He didn't dare pull you into his lap yet, terrified of worsening the injury. His face was completely pale, the stoic prince entirely gone. “Gods, please—open your eyes!”
You forced your eyelids open, your breathing rattling in your chest. Through the haze of pain and rain, you saw his face hovering over yours. His blue eyes were wild, completely frantic, and filled with a raw, agonizing terror that went far deeper than mere concern for a comrade-in-arms.
“I told you...” Thor choked out, his voice cracking violently as his hands hovered over the deep, bloody gash in your side armor, blood mixing with the rainwater. “I told you never to put yourself in danger! Why don't you ever listen to me?!”
“You…” you whispered, a small, pained wheeze escaping your lips as you stared into the absolute devastation in his eyes. Even now, your stubborn heart tried to find a reason to doubt him. “You are the prince… I had to ensure we made it back…”
“Fuck the throne!” he yelled, his composure completely fracturing as a tear mixed with the rain on his cheek. He carefully slid his massive arms under your back and knees, lifting you against his chest with a desperate, crushing tightness, as if he could physically hold your life force inside you. “You think I give a damn about the throne if you are not there? Look at me! I am nothing without you! Do you hear me? Nothing!”
“I—“ You gulped, though your throat was impossibly dry, and you could feel the chaotic, frantic beat of his heart pressing right against your uninjured side. “I'm sorry,” you mumbled, the words catching in your throat as the cold rain hit your face. “You did save me—a lot of times—so it’s only fair that I—“
“I'd rather die than see you hurt!” he yelled, his voice cracking with an agonizing mixture of fury and terror. He didn't let you finish, couldn't bear to hear you rationalize your own blood. He looked up toward the heavy, dark clouds, his voice booming over the thunder. “Heimdall—!”
“Are we going back? But we can't yet—“ you managed to protest through the searing pain, but when you saw the sudden, terrifying look in his eyes, you stopped completely.
He looked absolutely petrified. His brilliant blue eyes were blown wide, the pupils dilated with a desperation so raw it made your own chest tighten. You had seen him face armies without flinching, but looking down at you, he looked entirely defeated.
“Is it that bad?” you asked suddenly, a cold pit forming in your stomach. You tried to shift, trying to look down at your side and midsection, but he instantly stopped you, his large hand pressing firmly but carefully against your uninjured shoulder, shaking his head frantically.
“It isn't, darling. Stop. Don't look,” he pleaded, his voice trembling.
But his panic only fed yours. You felt a dark, heavy dread settle over you as you fought against his grip, straining to see the state of your injury—though you really, really shouldn't have. You were already feeling dangerously lightheaded from the shock, but the moment your eyes caught the state of your stomach, the reality of it settled deep into your bones.
The silver alloy of your armor was torn completely open, jagged edges pushed inward, and the fabric beneath was soaked in a deep, terrifying crimson that the rain couldn't wash away fast enough. You could feel panic rise like a tidal wave in your chest, your hands trembling violently as your expression turned into one of absolute horror. Oh, no.
“Thor—“ you wheezed out, your voice dropping to a terrified whisper.
He saw the sudden change in your face, saw the realization dawn in your eyes, and he immediately knew what was coming. Shock was setting in, and if your heart rate spiked any further, he would lose you right here on the mountain trail.
Abandoning his call to the sky, he lowered himself with you in his arms immediately, sitting heavily in the freezing mud. He pulled you flush against his lap, one of his massive hands coming up to grab your face, his palm hot against your icy skin. He knew you couldn't travel like this—even the intense, pulling pressure of the Bifrost might tear the wound further. You needed to be stabilized now.
“Take in a deep breath for me, sweetheart. Come on,” he urged desperately, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he tried to keep your bleeding gaze locked entirely on his eyes. “Keep your eyes on me.”
He demanded it, his voice a gravelly anchor in the middle of the storm. He gripped your jaw with one hand to keep your head turned toward him, while his other hand moved blindly down, covering your injury with his large palm, shielding it completely from your sight.
His own face was entirely full of panic—you were absolutely sure of it, could see the way his jaw quivered and how the rain mixed with the moisture in his eyes—though he was trying with every ounce of his godlike strength to keep his composure for your sake.
“Look at me, Treasure. Just look at me,” he whispered over the lashing rain, his forehead leaning down to touch yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. “I've got you. I'm right here.”
You tried nodding, but your head felt incredibly heavy, the weight of the blood loss dragging you down into a dangerous lethargy. Your fingers twitched against the wet earth before you reached up, grabbing his wrist with all the strength you had left, trying to find your rhythm as you fought for air.
“Just like I taught you, darling,” he said, his voice a frantic, low rumble against your ear as the rain beat down around you. “I have to get you to Asgard. Breathe in for four seconds.”
You did exactly what he asked of you, pulling the crisp, damp Vanaheim air into your lungs as he counted.
“Hold it, baby. Hold it,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your jawline as his eyes tracked the frantic rise and fall of your chest, counting the seven seconds out loud with a desperate focus. “Exhale now, come on.” He started counting down to eight, his own chest heaving as he matched your pace. “Keep going, honey.”
He reassured you over and over, his voice a steady, grounding anchor in the chaos as he kept his stormy blue eyes locked entirely onto yours. You didn't know how long he kept doing it—how many cycles of numbers and pet names were whispered into the storm—but slowly, the suffocating panic eased off. Your heart settled into a more manageable, rhythmic beat against your ribs.
The moment he felt the frantic tension leave your frame, Thor didn't waste another second. He immediately got up from the freezing mud, lifting you securely against his chest with an effortless, protective strength.
“I don't know why you left me,” he mumbled into your hair, the raw, bleeding truth finally slipping past his guard as your heavy eyelids began to flutter closed. He squeezed you tighter, his large form shielding you from the lashing rain. “But you are not leaving me again. Not like this.”
His words sent a sudden, piercing wave of dread washing over you, cutting straight through the numbness of the shock. What if you died right here? What if you closed your eyes and never woke up, leaving him to live the rest of his immortal life believing a lie? Leaving him to believe you simply didn't care? You couldn't leave it like this.
He had to get you to the healers immediately, Thor looked up at the darkening sky, his voice booming with the full, terrifying authority of the God of Thunder as he roared, “Heimdall, get us back!”
The sky split open, and just as the roaring, blinding colors of the Bifrost began to engulf your bodies, pulling you up and away from the muddy mountain, you forced your cracked lips open. You whispered into the hollow of his neck, answering the question that had haunted him for a year.
“Because I heard you.”
The rainbow light pulled at you, but beneath the rushing sound of the cosmos, you felt Thor stiffen instantly. His entire body turned to stone beneath you, his grip tightening to a near-bruising fracture as the words echoed in his ears.
Just spent like two hours reading this because you know..
AND IT'S A DAMN ROLLERCOASTER OF FEELINGS
They are going to kill me with everything they left unsaid. It's so intense and so painful, you know exactly how to write those scenes with so much detail and having an effect as if you are watching them in real life. UGH.
Possessive Thor and then losing it all and so many times is a major kink now, hahaha.
Summary: Thor was your best friend, your whole world really. You were in love with him, desperately so. Though just as you thought he felt the same way about you, you overheard him say that you were just a tool of the throne. Heartbroken, you left asgard for a year, only to return to a Thor who clearly dispised you.
Content: Best Friends to Enemies To Lovers, Slow Burn, ANGST, Yearning, Tension, A Lot Of Arguments, Desperate Thor, Possessive Thor, Obsessed Thor, Jealous Thor, Denial Of Feelings, MISUNDERSTANDINGS, Miscommunication, Explicit SMUT (oral)
Word Count: 30k
Minors Do Not Interact
—
He was so close.
Your heart wasn’t beating fast and if anyone said so it would be a lie.
Because it stopped beating from the sheer excitement of having him this close to you.
The adrenaline from the battle was still humming in your veins, a sharp contrast to the heavy warmth of Thor’s arm anchored around your waist.
His grip burned through you, your lungs constricting on themselves as you tried to breathe.
As the Bifrost’s rainbow bridge faded into the golden halls of Asgard, he didn't pull away. If anything, his grip tightened, his hand splayed firm against your side as if he were tethering himself to the earth through you.
The observatory smelled of burnt stars, but all you could breathe was him.
“Should we head and have a few drinks, Treasure?” Thor’s voice was a gentle rumble against your temple, thick with the post-battle high that usually sent him shouting into the Great Hall. But here, with you, it was soft. Private.
You giggled—a sound so light and unburdened it felt foreign to a warrior of your standing. You couldn't help it; you were utterly smitten, caught in the gravity of him. “I'd love to, but I have things to do, big guy. Also, I'm rather tired.”
Thor stopped walking, turning you slightly so he could look down at you. For a moment, the God of Thunder seemed caught in a trance, his blue eyes searching yours as if he were reading a poem written in the sparks of your gaze.
Gods, you were beautiful—splattered with the dust of foreign lands, hair wild, yet radiant.
He cleared his throat, the sound slightly rough. “Alright. What are you going to do? Let me help,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving into that devastating, boyish smile.
“I don't think it’s appropriate for the Prince to help with my gear—“
“It is if I deem it fit,” he interrupted, his tone playful yet possessing that quiet authority that always made your pulse skip.
“Okay then,” you huffed, the heat rising to your cheeks as you smiled back, unable to resist his stubbornness. Together, you began the trek toward the royal armory, your steps falling into a familiar, rhythmic sync.
The walk from the Bifrost to the palace was a blur of banter and shared laughter. Thor still hadn't fully relinquished his hold on you; his arm had shifted from your waist to draped heavily, comfortably, across your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you navigated the bustling streets of Asgard.
“You must admit,” Thor said, his voice booming with a celebratory tone that turned the heads of passing noblemen, “my intervention with the rock-troll was nothing short of legendary. A masterpiece of timing!”
You snorted, leaning your weight into him as you ducked under a low-hanging banner. “A masterpiece? You nearly knocked me into the ravine along with the troll! I believe the word you’re looking for is clumsy, Thor.”
Thor let out a dramatic gasp, his chest vibrating against your arm. “Clumsy? I am the God of Thunder, I move with the grace of a summer storm.”
“Summer storms break flowerpots and ruin picnics, big guy. So, yes, the comparison holds,” you shot back, flashing him a cheeky grin.
He barked a laugh, pulling you closer for a brief, playful squeeze that made your heart do a frantic little dance. “You are far too sharp for your own good. Perhaps I should have left you to wrestle that beast after all.”
“And miss the chance to play the hero? We both know you couldn't help yourself.”
“True,” he murmured, his tone dropping an octave, losing its bravado. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the curve of your shoulder. “But the hero only plays his part when the prize is worth the effort.”
You gulped as you reached the heavy, iron-studded doors of the Royal Armory, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved to open them. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of deep violet and burning orange.
Thor finally reached out, his hand lingering on the door handle, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours. “Are you truly so tired?” he asked softly. “Or are you simply trying to escape my clumsy company?”
“I could never escape you,” you whispered, the honesty of it catching in your throat. “Even if I wanted to.”
He smiled—a slow, genuine thing that didn't reach for glory, only for you.
With a gentle push, the doors groaned open, revealing the cool, dim sanctuary of the armory. The scent of oil and cold stone rushed out to meet you, a silent witness to the years of shared drills and quiet moments you had spent within these walls.
As you stepped inside, the shadows of the high-vaulted ceiling wrapped around you both, making the rest of Asgard feel a million miles away. You moved toward your stone bench, but Thor was already there, waiting to help you shed the weight of the war you’d just left behind.
The heavy iron doors of the armory groaned shut behind you, sealing out the rest of Asgard and leaving only the rhythmic drip of water and the distant hum of the city. The cool air should have been a relief, but as Thor guided you toward the stone bench, the atmosphere felt thicker than the smoke of the battlefield.
He placed a steadying hand on your waist to help you sit, his touch firm through the leather of your gambeson. Then, he dropped onto the bench beside you. His large frame jostled yours—a casual, practiced closeness that sent a jolt through your side, his heat bleeding into you immediately.
Thor was so close that the heat radiating from his chest was a taunt, a reminder of the proximity you’ve allowed yourself to crave.
His thumb brushed the column of your neck—a touch so casual, so practiced, that it made your skin sting. Your face started to burn. You’ve never let him see you falter, but the ache of just wanting him was insistent, clawing at your throat like a hurricane you could never outrun.
“You will work on the steel? When there are more fun things we could do together,” he rasped. His voice was low, vibrating through the stone bench and into your marrow.
You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper, just to keep your composure from splintering. “Some of us don't have the luxury of lightning to mend our mistakes, Thor.”
He let his fingers slide down your arm, a slow, agonizing descent until he took the leather cloth from your trembling hand. His fingers interlaced with yours for a second—one, two, three beats too long—and your heart slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird.
He looked at you, the softness in his blue eyes making your pulse erratic. He wasn’t looking at a mere soldier. He was looking at you, with an expression that felt like a question you aren’t brave enough to answer.
He leaned a fraction closer, the scent of sandalwood and a brewing storm enveloping you until you were drowning in him. “You know,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that made your knees weak, “the palace feels more like home when you are within its walls.”
You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t want to. You were caught in his orbit, your heart slamming against your chest so hard you felt it in your throat.
You tilted your head just a fraction, an invitation you didn't know you were brave enough to give.
Thor’s hand migrated to your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip with agonizing slowness. He was looking at you like you were the only steady thing in a crumbling universe. His breath, warm and smelling of mint and honey-wine, was fanning over your face.
“Always you,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp.
He started to close the distance. You closed your eyes, the world narrowing down to the heat of his skin and the static charge in the air. You could feel the ghost of his lips against yours—a promise, a beginning—
CLANG.
The heavy thud of a spear hitting stone echoed through the high ceiling.
“Your Highness? The All-Father requests your presence in the council chambers. Immediately.”
Thor froze, his forehead resting against yours for one lingering, frustrated second. He let out a long, shaky exhale that shuddered through both of you. He didn’t pull away immediately; his hand lingered on your cheek, his fingers curling into your hair as if he was trying to memorize the feeling before he was forced to let go.
“I have to go,” he whispered, his voice thick and strained. He looked at you then, his blue eyes dark and searching and for a heartbeat, the act of the Prince was completely gone. There was an intensity there, a raw, magnetic pull that mirrored exactly what was screaming in your own chest. You realized, with a jolt that made your pulse spike, that he wasn’t just playing—he was just as undone as you were.
He stood up, the loss of his heat feeling like cold water had been poured over your skin. He reached out, his fingers grazing yours in one last, fleeting touch before he had to remember his station.
“Later,” he said, the word a promise that vibrated in the air between you. “At the feast. Find me.”
You swallowed, nodding silently because your voice was trapped behind the hammering beat of your heart. You watched him walk away, his cape billowing behind him like a storm cloud, and you were left alone in the dim armory. The scent of him still clung to you, a ghost of his presence that made your skin tingle.
You touched your fingers to your lips, the air in the room finally returning, though it felt too thin to breathe. You had a few hours to compose yourself, but as you stared at the heavy doors he just vanished through, you knew it was useless. You were already counting the minutes until the sun went down.
You walked back to your chambers, your right hand stayed pressed to your chest, as if you could physically keep your heart from leaping out of your ribs.
He feels the same way. The thought was a beautiful loop in your mind. It wasn't just the almost-kiss; it was everything. It was the way he gravitated toward you in a crowded room, the way his voice dropped an octave when he spoke your name. And that word.
Treasure.
He’d started calling you that after the Siege of the Black Peaks. You’d been separated from the main unit, pinned down by a shadow-beast, and for ten minutes, Thor thought you were gone. When he finally broke through the lines and found you, he’d hauled you into his arms with a desperation that shook his entire frame. “I thought I lost you,” he’d rasped into your hair, his voice breaking. “The gold of Asgard is nothing. You are the only treasure I cannot afford to lose.”
He hadn't stopped using it since.
Once inside your chambers, you moved with a sense of purpose you hadn't felt in years, your fingers trembling slightly as you began to prepare. You pulled out the most beautiful piece you owned: a deep, midnight-toned chiffon bandeau gown. It was a striking shade that made your skin shine, the fabric hugging your waist perfectly before flowing out like a dark mist.
You reached for the glass vials on your vanity, pouring rich, scented oils into your palms. You smoothed them over your shoulders and collarbones, the fragrance of jasmine and cedarwood rising in the warm air. You wanted to glow for him. You wanted to be so radiant that he couldn't look away, not even for a second.
As you stood before the tall silver mirror, catching your reflection, the nerves finally started to bite. How should you do your hair? Should it be down, soft and inviting, or pinned back to show the curve of your neck? Would he like the way the fabric caught the light?
You looked at yourself, your eyes bright and your skin shimmering with the oil, and for the first time, you didn't see the soldier. You saw the woman who was going to meet her Prince—and this time, there would be no guards to stop him.
You left your chambers, the weight of the chiffon gown whispering against your legs as you move. You passed a few maids in the hall, and you couldnt help but smile at them—a smile so bright, so unburdened, it felt like the sun itself has taken residence in your chest. You’ve never felt this light. You’ve never felt so seen.
But as you rounded the corner toward the gallery, a voice stopped the blood in your veins.
Loki’s voice, silk-spun and dripping with that familiar, mocking tone of his, drifted through a door left slightly ajar. “Honestly, Thor, the way you moon over your loyal shadow is becoming a public spectacle. Tell me, do you intend to make an honest woman of your little soldier, or is this merely a tactical distraction?”
You stopped in your tracks. Your heart started hammering against your ribs, a frantic, warning beat. You creeped closer to the door, your hand trembling as you reached toward the heavy wood, peering through the gap.
You just wanted to hear him claim you. You just wanted to hear him say that the way he looked at you in the armory meant everything.
Thor stood by the window, the moonlight catching the gold of his hair. He looked every bit the future King—distant, powerful, and cold.
“Court her? Brother, do not be absurd,” Thor’s voice rang out. It was a sharp, defensive bark—the sound of a man cornered. “She is a warrior, a tool of the throne. One does not weave poems or bring flowers for the blade that guards the gate.”
Loki’s laughter was a cold, silver chime. “So, no soft words for your favorite companion? No romantic gestures for the one who bleeds at your side?”
“Romantic gestures are for court ladies who stay behind the walls,” Thor snapped, his voice rising as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Loki. “She doesn't need trinkets. She is steel. She is—“
Your heart dropped to your stomach, leaving a cold, hollow ache that made you lose your breath.
You couldn't hear anything, the ringing in your ears too much to bear.
He played you. And you, desperate and foolish, believed him.
It was all a lie. The lingering touches, the way he called you Treasure, the way he looked at your lips—it was a performance. A way to keep his favorite weapon sharp and loyal.
Your face started to burn, the heat of humiliation radiating from your cheeks. The ache of just missing him—the version of him from an hour ago—was insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back the tears, and usually, that worked.
It was useless now. The first tears burned on your cheeks, and you wiped them away with trembling hands. Your chest heaved, a painful, barbed lump forming in your throat. A pathetic, choked sob ripped from your throat.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered to the empty hallway, your voice full of pain. You turned and shot toward your chambers, your feet silent on the stone, fleeing before Loki could find the source of the sound.
Inside the room, Loki turned toward the sound, but you were gone before he could see the wreckage he’s made.
The silence in your chambers was suffocating.
You’ve never felt the weight of Asgardian stone quite like this—it pressed against your ribs, making every breath a jagged, painful effort. The tears were insistent. They were a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore, blurring the sight of the shimmering chiffon dress pooled at your feet like a discarded skin.
The first tears burned paths through the expensive oils on your cheeks. You looked in the mirror and loathed the glow you worked so hard to achieve. You weren't a woman to him. You were a weapon. A tool of the throne.
One does not weave poems for the blade that guards the gate.
You realized with a sickening clarity that every lingering touch in the armory was just maintenance. He was sharpening his blade. He played you, and you believed him because you wanted to believe in the poetry he never intended to write.
Something snapped near your ribs—a clean, agonizing break of the heart. You couldn’t stay here, not like this. You moved to your desk, your movements stiff and mechanical. You began to plan. You mapped out the border patrols, the long-term scouting missions to the frozen wastes of Jotunheim—anywhere the air is too cold for feelings to survive. You were going to lose this version of yourself. You were going to become the blade he wants.
Across the palace, the Great Hall was a riot of color and sound, but for Thor, it was silent.
He stood near the entrance, his frame tense, eyes scouring every face that enters the hall. He was looking for a smile—your smile—the one he’s convinced himself is the only light left in the Nine Realms. He rasped your name under his breath, a low, hopeful sound lost in the roar of the crowd.
But you never came.
As the hours bled into the night, Thor took a lurching step toward the door, his hand reaching out as if to go find you, before he yanked it back. His voice was thick and strained when he finally spoke to the guard, asking if you’d been seen.
The answer was a hollow no.
A dam broke in his chest. He stared at the empty seat beside him, and the sight of you not being there was suffocating him. He realized, with a crushing weight, that he must have misread everything. The looks, the touches—it was just loyalty. You didn't want the Prince; you only wanted the commander.
She doesn't want me, he thought, the realization devastating and impossible to ignore.
That night, the warmth of the armory became a ghost. You heard he didn't want you; he thought you didn't want him.
And so, the hope of a new beginning died, replaced by the silent, cold steel of two strangers standing guard over a gate that had already been breached.
1 Year Later
The air in Asgard was too sweet, too warm. It felt like a taunt against your skin after twelve months of the biting winds of Jotunheim.
You walked through the golden streets, every step a reminder of the exhaustion buried deep in your marrow. Beside you, Einar rambled about the mead he was going to drown himself in and the bed he hadn't slept in since the winter solstice. You gave him a sharp nod every few minutes, playing the role of the attentive comrade while your mind was miles away.
Your heavy plate armor felt like lead, digging into your shoulders and chafing at your hips. You had grown to loathe it. You hated that for a whole damn year, your skin hadn't touched anything softer than boiled leather and frost-bitten steel. You hated that you had forgotten what it felt like to move without the constant clatter of gear.
But God, you loved the distance.
The ice was a sanctuary because it was empty of him. There were no blue eyes tracking your every move, no deep voice calling you names that meant nothing, and no sight of that stupidly handsome face that used to make your pulse trip over itself.
You had spent three hundred and sixty-five days sharpening your resentment into a shield, hoping it was thick enough to survive a return to the palace.
You really needed a drink.
“Try not to fall asleep during your report,” Einar joked, clapping you on the shoulder as you reached the fork in the path. “See you at the training grounds.”
“If I don't die of boredom first,” you replied, your voice sounding thin and rough.
You watched him head off into the city, toward the warmth of a tavern, while you turned toward the high, gilded gates. Your stomach twisted. This was it. The throne room, the court, and the inevitable moment you had to stand in the same room as the man who dismantled you.
You let out a shaky breath, forcing the tension out of your hands. You weren’t the girl who giggled in the armory anymore. You had spent a year killing that version of yourself in the snow.
You squared your shoulders, the metal plates of your spaulders grinding together, and began the climb. You were coming back as the weapon he wanted. You just had to hope he wouldn't see how much it cost you to forge it.
The heavy doors of the palace swung open, and the scent of aged wood and incense drifted toward you. It was a familiar peace that seeped into your bones, a comfort you hadn't realized you were starving for.
You had missed this. You missed the high vaulted ceilings, the privacy of your own chambers, and for a traitorous second, the thought of him flickered in your mind.
You missed him.
You shook your head violently, trying to rattle the thought loose.
Keep it together, you scolded yourself.
As you moved deeper into the halls, the comfort was replaced by a cold, heavy dread. It was a new sensation, seeing your home and feeling like you were walking toward a firing squad.
You blamed him for every ounce of it. You hated him with an intensity that physically ached, a deep-seated resentment that made your spine feel brittle. It was a struggle to keep your shoulders back and your chin level, but you forced the posture anyway.
You refused to let a single soul see a crack in your resolve. You were never going to be that vulnerable girl again. Not in this lifetime.
When you finally reached your chambers and the door clicked shut behind you, the sudden quiet was a mercy. The exhaustion of the year seemed to pour out of you all at once. You needed the grime of Jotunheim off your skin. You needed a bath hot enough to burn away the memory of the ice, a dress that didn't weigh forty pounds, and enough scents to mask the lingering smell of iron and war.
You wanted to feel like a person again, even if you were only doing it to prepare for the battle that was about to happen in the throne room.
You drew the bath, the steam rising to meet the cool air of the room, but you couldn't force your muscles to unknot. There was too much to do. You had to report the mission details to the All-Father, and more importantly, you had to map out every corridor of this palace to ensure you never crossed paths with the Crown Prince.
As the thought of him infiltrated your mind again, you scrubbed your skin harder, the sponge grazing your shoulders until they were flushed red. You had to stop torturing yourself. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to let the panic take hold.
You stepped out of the water, the dampness clinging to you as you tried to steady your racing heart. You moved toward the wardrobe, expecting to find the faded, travel-worn garments you had left behind.
Instead, you stopped dead.
Your breath hitched. Every single one of your dresses had been replaced. In their place hung renewed, far more expensive versions of your old wardrobe—silk that felt like liquid, intricate Asgardian embroidery, and fabrics so fine they seemed to shimmer under the candlelight.
What the fuck?
Was this his doing? Had he spent the year you were gone replacing the very things he claimed you didn't need?
Is he fucking kidding?
With trembling hands, you sifted through the racks, your fingers catching on the soft pleats of a deep emerald gown. Once you found one that felt right, you began the familiar ritual of preparation. You applied the oils, the scent of flowers and spice grounding you, and carefully painted your face until the warrior was hidden beneath a mask of elegance.
You pulled the dress on, the fabric hugging your waist and flowing around your legs in a way that felt like a homecoming. You turned to the mirror and stared at your reflection.
This life suited you. It certainly suited you more than the biting, relentless cold of Jotunheim. The dresses, the dressing up, the glow of the gold—it all belonged to you. You looked like the woman who deserved poems, even if the man who should have written them didn't deserve a second of your time.
You took a deep breath and stepped out of your chambers, your heels clicking against the marble as you set your path to deliver your report. But the air was sucked out of your lungs instantly.
You felt as though you had been stabbed a thousand times over.
Thor was standing there. His beautiful, stupid face was the first thing you saw, and the sight of him made the year of progress you'd made in the ice feel like it was melting away in seconds.
Thor stopped breathing. He was certain he was dead and dreaming. You had left him—vanished for a whole year without a single word, leaving him to stand at that feast like a fool while the entire court watched him wait for a ghost. The sight of you now, in a dress that clung to every curve, your skin glowing and that scent—the fucking scent that he’d tried so hard to scrub from his memory—made his lungs ache.
His hands went cold, trembling with the sudden urge to reach out and anchor you there so you could never run again.
But he couldn't. You clearly despised him; you had chosen twelve months of frostbite and misery over facing him.
He couldn't even swallow past the knot in his throat. He hated you in that moment. He hated you for the power you held over his pulse and for the agonizing silence of the last year.
So, he did the only thing he could think of. He decided to stab you back, just as you had stabbed him with your absence. He weaponized his voice, his tone dripping with a cold, regal distance that he knew would cut.
“I see the tool has returned to its shed,” Thor said, his voice hard and mocking, though his eyes burned with a desperate fire he couldn't quite extinguish. “Tell me, did the All-Father's errand girl manage to find her way back, or did you simply run out of things to kill in the north?”
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his gaze raking over the expensive silk of your dress with a sneer. “You look quite well-rested for a soldier. I suppose the dresses fit? I had them replaced so you wouldn't have to worry about looking like a common grunt while you're busy avoiding your betters.”
Thor’s heart thrashed against his ribs, each cruel word he spat feeling like a serrated blade across his own throat. He had spent hours in the royal tailor’s quarters, running his calloused fingers over the finest silks and velvets in Asgard, obsessing over which shades of gold and deep emerald would best compliment the fire in your eyes.
He had done it because he could, but mostly because he was desperate. He had hoped—foolishly—that if you came back to find your wardrobe filled with his offerings, you might look at him with a glimmer of the warmth he’d missed for a year. He wanted to see you happy. He wanted to see you wear them for him.
But the bitterness of being left behind had poisoned his tongue.
The world felt like it was tilting on its axis. What the actual fuck? Never in your life had you expected him to weaponize his words so viciously.
You had merely left to find air, to survive the suffocating weight of his earlier betrayal. You hadn't said a word to him because you were broken, and now he was treating you like a nuisance he'd picked up off the street.
The realization settled over you like a shroud: he was a two-faced liar. All those years of being your anchor, your best friend, your Thor—it had been a performance. He had played the part of the devoted friend while secretly viewing you as nothing more than an errand girl for the throne.
Your mind raced, a hundred different insults and defenses clawing at your throat, but the pain was too sharp to let them through. You didn't give him the satisfaction of a shout or a tear. You simply turned your head, refusing to even look at the man who had just destroyed the last shred of hope you carried back from the ice.
You didn't say a word. You just started walking, your heels clicking a steady rhythm on the marble as you moved past him as if he were nothing more than a statue in the hall.
For Thor, that silence was a death sentence. He watched your retreating back, the dress he had meticulously chosen swaying with every step you took away from him.
He had wanted a reaction—an argument, a scream, anything to prove you still cared—but your indifference was a far more lethal blow. You walked away like he meant absolutely nothing, leaving him standing in the hallway, suffocating on the very words he had used to hurt you.
Every step felt like walking through deep water, your chest tightening until each breath was a shallow, broken effort. He reopened the wound then when it wasn’t enough he started grinding his heel into it, watching the light leave your eyes with a smirk you wanted to claw off his face.
You pushed through the heavy doors of the throne room, the gold and grandeur blurring at the edges of your vision. The All-Father sat upon the throne, his single eye tracking your approach with a calculated stillness.
You stood before him, your spine locked into a rigid line to keep from trembling. Your voice was a low, hollow rasp as you delivered the intelligence from the north—troop movements, the thinning of the frost-giant clans, the structural integrity of the border outposts.
Each word felt like shards of glass were being dragged out of your throat, your lungs pressing in on themselves until you were lightheaded.
“You have done well,” Odin remarked, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. “Asgard is safer for your vigilance. You shall be honored at the feast tonight, alongside the other returning warriors.”
At the feast? Your head started spinning.
“I... I must decline, All-Father,” you managed, your voice cracking. “The journey was long, and I am not fit for—“
“It is a celebration in your honor,” Odin interrupted, the finality in his tone leaving no room for dissent. “The people expect to see the heroes of the Jotunheim campaign. You will be there.”
You felt the air leave you entirely. You couldn't say no again. Not to him. You just nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor because you couldn't bear to look at anyone. Not the King, and certainly not the Prince you knew was likely lurking just outside those doors.
“As you wish,” you whispered to the cold stone at your feet.
The moment you were dismissed, you turned and fled. You moved with the frantic urgency of someone escaping a burning building. You had to get out. You had to get back to the silence of your room before your composure shattered and the screams you were holding back finally tore their way out. The thought of sitting across from him for hours, watching him pretend you were just another soldier to be toasted, was a nightmare you weren't sure you could survive.
Thor watched you from the shadows of the pillars, his eyes tracking every movement of your lips as you spoke to his father. He hated you—he told himself that with every heartbeat—but his gaze was a desperate scout, searching for the slightest limp, a stiff shoulder, or a hidden scar beneath that expensive silk.
He hated you, yet the thought of you bleeding out in the snow while he wasn't there to shield you made his chest feel like it was being crushed in a vice.
Hearing your voice again was a bittersweet agony. It was a melody he hadn't heard in a year, and it smoothed the jagged edges of his temper until he realized how much power you still held over him. That thought turned his blood to fire. How dare she speak to the King with such poise and deny me even a glance?
As you fled the room, he didn't hesitate. He followed you, his stride heavy and purposeful. He was starving for a drop of your attention. He didn't care if you screamed at him, cursed his name, or told him you wished he were dead—he just needed you to acknowledge that he existed. He needed those eyes, the ones that used to look at him with such warmth, to at least burn him with their hatred. Anything was better than being a ghost in your world.
Driven by a desperate, toxic mix of longing and fury, he closed the distance between you in the empty corridor.
Before you could turn the corner, his massive hand clamped around your bicep. The heat of his skin through your sleeve was a shock, a sudden spark that sent a jolt through your weary frame. Without a word, he used his sheer strength to haul you sideways, his momentum carrying you both into a small, dimly lit sitting room.
The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that made the air jump. He didn't let go as he shoved you back against the wood of the door, his large frame looming over you, effectively trapping you between his body and the exit. His breath was ragged, his blue eyes dark with a storm that had been brewing for twelve long months.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in the small space. “You will not walk away from me again. Speak. Tell me you hate me, tell me I'm a monster, but you will not give me silence!”
You fixed your gaze towards the back of him, your eyes not meeting even an inch of him. He grabbed your chin his thumb brushing against your lower lip as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your skin. You gasped, his touch burned you—searing itself so deep into you that you didn’t see how you could scrub it clean this time.
“Why won’t you look at me?” He pleaded, his eyes searching your face. “I beg of you, say something, Treasure. Anything. Just don’t act like I dont exist.” He sounded like he was in deep pain.
At the sound of that name—the one he had used when he’d looked at you as if you were the only thing in Asgard worth protecting—your gaze finally snapped to his.
“Don’t touch me,” you rasped. The words were sharp, tearing at your throat as they left. You felt his fingers twitch against your jaw.
His hand dropped as if you had burned him, his head bowing under the weight of your rejection. “You leave for a year,” he began, his voice thick and trembling with a mix of hurt and disbelief. “Not letting me know—not letting your best friend know—and then the first thing you say to me is not to touch you?” He let out a harsh, hollow scoff, his eyes searching yours for a trace of the girl who used to follow him into every battle. “Are you kidding me? You have to be joking.”
“I had no idea I had to let you know of every step I take like I am a toddler, my Prince,” you replied. The formal title was a wall, high and impenetrable. You watched his jaw tighten at the coldness of it. “What more would you have liked to hear me say?”
“That you’re sorry!” he barked, the sound echoing off the small room's walls. He stepped back into your space, his chest heaving. “I stood there. At the feast. I waited until the fires went out and the servants began to clear the tables. I thought you were dead. I thought you had been taken. I spent weeks scouring the city before my father told me he had granted you a commission to the North.”
You scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. The irony of it was a poison in your mouth. “Why would I say something that I do not mean?”
“You aren't sorry?” Thor stepped even closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You aren't sorry for leaving me in that silence? For making me wonder if I had imagined everything we were to each other?”
“A blade doesn't owe its wielder an apology for being sharpened.”you said, your voice finally steady, though your heart was screaming.
Screaming at you to shut up, screaming at you to just say you’re sorry and hold him. Screaming at you that once you apologise, everything will go back to the way it was. Your heart was a desperate bitch.
But you knew the truth, you knew that it would never go back to the way it was, if you apologised or not. It didn’t matter anymore. So you continued.
“We were nothing but a warrior and her Prince, Thor,”
Thor looked at you as if you had just reached into his chest and physically ripped the heart from his ribs. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale and hollowed out.
His expression curdled. The pain transformed into something sharp, dark, and cruel.
“I hate you,” he mumbled. The words weren't shouted; they were whispered, which made them ten times more lethal. His gaze filled with a loathing so absolute that it felt like the temperature in the room plummeted, matching the Jotunheim frost you had just escaped.
Those three words etched themselves into your skin, sinking deeper and deeper until you didn’t know where the pain began or where it ended. You felt the air leave you, the blow hitting harder than any mace or spear ever could. You swallowed hard, forcing your face to remain a mask of cold, unfeeling stone, even as you felt your soul fracturing.
“Good,” you whispered back, staring directly into the storm of his eyes, refusing to blink. “I hate you too.”
His blood ran cold. He wanted you to talk to him, he told you to tell him he’s a monster, tell him you hate him even, but he didn’t expect you to actually say those words that turned his world upside down. He didn’t expect you to say those words with so much meaning in them, like you actually hated him.
You actually hated him.
Before he could respond, before he could see the way your hands were beginning to shake, you shoved him. You put every ounce of your warrior’s strength into his chest, forcing him to stumble back just enough to give you a path.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you said, your voice a brittle, frozen blade. “I have to get ready for tonight, my Prince.”
You didn't wait for a dismissal. You turned and walked out of the room, your spine rigid and your head held high. You kept your pace steady until you turned the corner, and only then did you let out the breath that was burning in your lungs.
Your ears were ringing from the sheer adrenaline that the encounter had pulled out of you, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the distant sounds of the palace. Every nerve ending felt raw, as if the skin had been stripped from your body.
He had thrown your heart—the one he had held in his palm for years—to the ground, and he had stepped on it. He stepped on it so hard you could practically hear the squelching sound it made as it was crushed underneath his heavy boot.
You reached your chambers and practically fell through the entrance. You slammed the door shut and leaned against it with all your might, your palms flat against the wood, as if your weight alone could keep the ghost of him from bursting through. You stayed there, chest heaving, listening to the silence of the room that felt far too large and far too empty.
Down in the corridor, Thor stood frozen. He followed you out the door and watched as you glided away from him for the second time that day, the silk of your dress vanishing around the corner like a fading dream. Your scent, your intoxicating scent, clung to his clothes and filled his lungs, refusing to leave him.
He dragged his palms over his face, his breathing ragged and uneven. He felt the sting of his own words echoing in the empty hallway, tasting like ash.
What had he done?
—
You got ready for the feast with trembling hands and a broken heart, putting on a burgundy dress from your wardrobe.
Gods, you were an idiot—the biggest idiot in the universe, probably. For all these years, you had thought he was your best friend. But it wasn't your fault, was it? He had hidden himself so well that he made you think he could be into you even, not merely your friend. You hated him with all your being.
You walked toward the great hall, breathing hard, clad in one of the dresses he had chosen for you. The fabric was suffocating, burning your skin like the sun does at noon. When you reached the entrance, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You didn't want to be here; you didn't want to sit near him, and you certainly didn't want to hear his infuriating voice.
Calm down, girl, you chastised yourself. You had to do this. You could not defy the All-Father. You opened your eyes and stepped inside.
Unfortunately for you, the first eyes you met were his. And even though you hated him—even though he was the last man in the universe you would ever pursue now—your heartbeat stuttered. He was dressed in his ceremonial armor; the chest plates were familiar, but he wore a new, fur-trimmed collar that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and made him look devastatingly masculine.
He looked like a King, and it made you hate him more.
Thor froze as you entered, his goblet halting halfway to his lips. The chatter of the hall seemed to fade into a dull hum in his ears as his gaze raked over you. You were wearing the dress—the one he had agonized over, the one he had hoped would make you feel like the treasure he once called you. Seeing you in it, with your skin glowing under the torchlight and your hair styled with such precision, made the hate he had proclaimed feel like a pathetic lie.
I hate her, he assured himself, Don’t I?, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the silver stem of his cup. He wanted to look away, to show you the same cold indifference you had shown him, but he was a starving man presented with a feast.
He watched you approach the high table, his eyes dark and turbulent, the fur of his collar shifting with his heavy, uneven breaths. He had intended to ignore you all night, but seeing you standing there, a vision of Asgardian grace, he knew he was already losing the war.
As you approached, you caught sight of the seating chart, and felt the blood drain from your face. You were positioned directly to the right of the Crown Prince.
“Fuck,” you mouthed, the word lost in the swell of the music and the roar of the crowd.
You took your seat, feeling Odin's approving gaze from the head of the table. He looked pleased, likely thinking he was doing his son a favor by placing his best friend at his side after a long year apart. He had no idea that the two of you were currently locked in a silent war, or that his son was capable of the biting cruelty he’d shown you today.
You settled into the chair, the proximity making your head swim. He was a furnace beside you, his heat searing through the fine fabric of your dress and making you feel dizzy. You reached for your glass of mead with a hand that you prayed wouldn't shake, your throat dry as you took a desperate gulp to ground yourself. Then you grabbed a fork and started your plate.
Thor leaned toward you, the fur of his collar brushing against your bare shoulder as he spoke, his voice low and irritatingly steady. His masculine scent invading your space and making your head swim despite your hatred. He didn't look at you, instead keeping his eyes on the feast as he spoke.
“I see you finally remembered which fork to use for the first course,” he murmured, his voice low enough to be a secret. “I was worried a year in the caves of the north might have turned your manners entirely feral.”
You took a long, slow sip of the mead, feeling the heat of him searing through your side. You turned to him with a fake, sugar-sweet smile.
“And I see you've finally learned how to sit through a ceremony without spilling wine down your front, my Prince,” you countered, your tone dripping with mock praise. “Though the night is young; I'm sure your usual grace will fail you eventually.”
Thor’s fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet, his jaw ticking. He hated that your wit was still as sharp as your sword, and he hated even more that he wanted to hear you use it all night.
The proximity was a slow torture; every time he moved, the scent of him invaded your space, making the dizziness return with a vengeance. You focused on the glass in your hand, determined to survive the next three hours without letting him see how much his presence still unsettled your soul.
“So,” Odin started, his voice booming through the hall and forcing your head up toward him.
“Now that you two are united, I would like to send you both on a mission,” he continued, his single eye moving between you and his son. “Just like you usually do.”
Your mouth soured instantly, and your expression turned grim. Thor used to be your mission partner, your shadow and your shield, but that was a year ago. Clearly, Odin wanted you both back together on missions as if you had never left. No, please don’t do this to me, you begged in your mind, the thought of being trapped in the wilderness with him feeling more dangerous than any Jotunheim frost.
“Yes, Father,” Thor said beside you, though his voice sounded tight. His mind was occupied by a single, terrifying question: how could he survive a mission with you when the mere scent of you made his lungs ache with a longing he refused to name?
Odin leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. “Reports have come from the borders of Vanaheim. A group of marauders has discovered a cache of ancient relics that do not belong in mortal hands. They are moving through the Shimmering Woods. I want you both to intercept them and ensure those artifacts are returned to the palace vaults. It requires stealth, precision, and the kind of unspoken trust you two have always shared.”
The irony of his words slapped you in the face. Unspoken trust. The only thing unspoken between you now was the depth of your mutual resentment.
“You will leave in two days' time,” Odin concluded, his glass raised to the room. “It will give you time to rest from your travels and prepare for the journey. To the return of our most formidable pair.”
Beside you, Thor’s hand tightened around his goblet until the silver groaned under his strength. You stared into your mead, the deep burgundy of your dress feeling like a funeral shroud for the peace you had hoped to find back home.
The two-day reprieve felt like a double-edged sword. It was forty-eight hours of extra air, but it was also forty-eight hours of dreading the inevitable—being trapped in the silence of the Shimmering Woods with the man who had just told you he hated you.
“Yes, Father,” Thor said beside you, though his voice was tight. He finally let go of his goblet, his knuckles slowly returning to their natural color. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the tension radiating off his massive frame, the fur of his collar nearly brushing your cheek as he shifted in his seat.
Two days. You had two fucking days to figure out how to be a soldier again while your heart was still lying in pieces on the marble floor.
Thor sat like a statue of ice beside you, though his blood was boiling. He could feel your dread radiating off you in waves, noticing the way your breathing turned ragged and your fingers shook. Did you truly despise him that much? Did his mere proximity make you shudder with revulsion?
His gaze hardened, his blue eyes turning into flint as he watched your trembling hands. If you wanted to play the victim, he would let you—but he was going to make you regret ever leaving him standing alone at that feast a year ago. He would make you regret treating his devotion like a game.
The dinner officially concluded, and the hall exploded into a cacophony of chatter and the sloshing of drinks. You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the stone walls, tracing the patterns of the masonry as if they were the most fascinating things in Asgard. These are such nice walls... you thought desperately, your mind trying to latch onto anything that wasn't the man sitting inches away.
What am I thinking?
You shook your head, forcing yourself back to reality, and tried to focus on the conversation happening between the two brothers.
“A mission to Vanaheim? Truly, Father has a sense of humor,” Loki said, his voice smooth and dripping with his usual mischief as he leaned toward Thor. “The two of you, back in the wild. It’s almost poetic. Or perhaps tragic, depending on who bleeds first.”
Thor didn't even spare a glance at his brother, his attention still anchored to your profile. “It is a matter of duty, Loki. Nothing more. We have a task to complete, and we will complete it with the professionalism expected of Asgardian soldiers.”
“Professionalism,” Loki echoed, a sharp, knowing glint in his eyes as he looked between your shaking hands and Thor's white-knuckled grip on his chair. “Is that what we're calling it these days? You both look as though you're preparing for an execution, not a retrieval mission.”
Loki’s smirk deepened, a flash of genuine curiosity cutting through his usual facade of boredom. “Seriously though, whatever happened between you two?” his voice asked, sounding genuinely confused.
The question caught your attention, pulling your gaze away from the walls. “What makes you think something happened?” you snapped, your voice thick with defensiveness.
Loki let out a dry, melodic laugh. “Clearly something has happened. I haven't seen you two together since you came back, which is a rare occurrence as it is, but you guys haven't even touched since you sat down. Not a bit”. He leaned in, his eyes darting between your rigid posture and Thor’s brooding silence. “All of Asgard knows of your lack of boundaries with each other—“
The words were barely out of Loki’s mouth before Thor’s hand clamped over his brother's face, effectively silencing him. “Shut up, brother,” Thor rumbled, his expression darkening with displeasure.
You gulped, the air in the hall suddenly feeling like thin shards of glass, slicing your insides with every breath you took. Loki was right; everyone in the palace was used to seeing the two of you attached at the hip, your boundaries often blurred by years of shared battles and private moments. The contrast of tonight’s frozen distance was a screaming admission of guilt.
“Excuse me,” you murmured, the words barely audible over the roar of the feast. You didn't wait for a response as you stood up and made your way toward the restroom, your steps hurried as you tried to escape the weight of everyone's eyes.
The cold stone of the restroom walls offered no comfort as you collapsed against them, your breathing ragged and shallow. Your lungs felt like lead weights in your chest, and the world was a collapsing ruin of gold and marble. You were clawing at the debris of your own life, but the more you fought, the deeper you sank. You were drowning in the middle of a palace.
Your palms pressed hard into your eye sockets, your fingers digging into your temples as if you could physically push the panic back inside.
Keep it together. Keep it in line. Every sound from the Great Hall—the thrum of the lutes, the muffled roar of laughter, even your own fucking heartbeat—felt like a hammer blow against your skull.
On the battlefield, you were a force of nature. You had stared down Frost Giants without a flicker of doubt, your blade an extension of your will. But here, in the quiet, you were fracturing.
Thor was the only one who truly knew. Long before you ever held a sword, he had seen you crumble like this in the gardens of the palace. He knew that while you were a lioness in a fight, your own mind could be your most treacherous enemy. He was the one who had seen the overwhelm coming and told you to channel that storm into steel. He was the reason you were a warrior at all.
You exhaled a sharp, jagged breath. Your body reached for the muscle memory of his comfort—the way his large, calloused hands would rest on your shoulders—on your cheeks to anchor you to the earth.
Inhale for four seconds.
The air felt sharp, like needles.
Hold for seven.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, demanding release.
Exhale for eight.
The air left you in a long, shaky hiss.
Just like he taught you. Just like he had held you through every night of terror for a decade. The irony was a fresh wound— the man who had given you the tools to survive your own mind was the same man currently tearing it apart. You stood there, trapped in a rhythm he created, using his ghost to survive his presence.
Your mind wandered then, back to the time you almost lost him—and yourself along with him.
Svartalfheim, Three Years Ago.
The sky was a bruised purple, choked with the soot of a thousand fallen dark elves. You were in the thick of it, your gaze sharp and your focus unwavering. Your breathing was hard but steady as you drove your sword into the chest of a dark elf, the resistance of the armor meeting your strength before yielding.
A few yards away, Thor was a storm made flesh. He was on a killing streak that seemed endless, Mjolnir circling him like a loyal predator, dropping enemies one by one as he summoned pillars of lightning that shook the very foundations of the realm. This was his natural state—war. He could go on for months without stopping; he didn't need food, or drink, or sleep when the blood of battle sang in his veins.
But he needed you. He needed you like he needed to breathe.
Even in the chaos, he couldn't help himself. He was watching you. He always did, even though he was the one who had practically dragged you to the training grounds as children, the one who insisted you had the spirit of a Valkyrie.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments between campaigns, he deeply resented himself for it. He could have kept his mouth shut. He could have kept you safe in the golden gardens of Asgard, draped in silks rather than stained in gore.
His suggestion for you to become a warrior had been a double-edged sword for him. He wanted you by his side because he couldn't breathe without you, but he spent every second of every battle dying a thousand deaths, terrified that one day he wouldn't be fast enough to be your shield.
His heart dropped when he saw it.
A dark elf, blending into the obsidian shadows of the terrain, was closing in on your blind spot. You were too focused on the enemy in front of you, your blade locked in a struggle, to notice the jagged, poisoned spear aimed directly at your heart.
“NO!”
Thor’s voice boomed over the clashing of steel, a sound more terrifying than the thunder he commanded.
You heard a grunt of pure, physical exertion, followed by the impact of giant hands against your shoulders. The force was immense, sending you flying through the air. You didn't even have time to register what was happening—the only thought screaming in your head was him.
What the hell did he do?
The world felt like it was moving in slow motion as you scrambled back up, your boots slipping briefly on the blood-slicked earth of Svartalfheim. The ringing in your ears from the thunder was deafening, but it was the silence that followed Thor's grunt that made your stomach drop.
You turned, your sword gripped so hard your knuckles were white, and your breath hitched.
Thor was on one knee. He, the God of Thunder, who looked like an immovable mountain in every other battle, was hunched over. He had thrown himself between you and the dark elf's cursed blade—a jagged, obsidian weapon pulsing with dark energy that was meant for you. Instead, it was buried in his side, just below the ribs where his armor had shifted as he lunged to push you.
The dark elf didn't get a second chance; Thor’s hand, still sparking with residual lightning, reached out and crushed the creature's throat in a blind, protective reflex, but the damage was done.
“Thor!” you screamed, the sound tearing from your lungs as you bridged the gap between you in a single, desperate stride.
He looked up at you, his face smeared with soot and grime, his blue eyes hazy with a sudden, sharp pain. You dropped down in front of him, your hands beginning to shake. Even then, as the dark energy of the blade began to seep into his veins, his first instinct wasn't to check his wound. His hand, heavy and trembling, reached out to grab your shoulder, checking the integrity of your armor, searching your face for any sign that you had been hurt in the fall.
“You—“ he wheezed, a crimson stain spreading rapidly across his armour. “Are you unharmed?”
“You idiot!” You dropped your sword, not caring that the battle was still raging around you, and caught him as he began to tilt forward. His weight was immense, nearly crushing you, but you held on with everything you had. “Why would you do that? I had it! I could have moved!”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though it looked more like a grimace. “I could not take the chance,” he whispered, his head falling heavily against your shoulder. “Not with you.”
Your sight became blurred then, hot tears spilling over and carving tracks through the grime on your cheeks.
The God of Thunder, the strongest being you had ever known—the man who could level entire planets with a single strike—was at the brink of death because of a fucking poison?
No, not just a poison. The poison. A substance brewed from ancient, concentrated loathing, specifically designed to rot the immortality out of a god’s veins.
“Ho-how do I fix this?” you begged, the words fracturing in your throat before you could even finish the sentence.
He grunted—a low, wet sound of agony that sent a fresh jolt of terror through your spine. Your eyes went wide and frantic as you watched the obsidian veins of the toxin begin to crawl up his neck. Your lungs were constricting, turning your chest into a cage of iron, and your hands were shaking so violently that Thor could feel the tremors through his armor.
“Please, don't leave me—“ you breathed, the air barely reaching your throat. “Say something, say you're going to be okay— anything—“
You couldn't finish. You couldn't breathe. The panic was surrounding you, a suffocating darkness rising to meet the chaos of the battlefield around you. Not here, not like this, please, you begged silently. You were spiraling, losing your grip on reality while holding the dying weight of a prince in your arms.
Thor felt the frantic rhythm of your heart through your chest, the way your hands clawed at him in a desperate attempt to keep him grounded. Despite the dark magic eating at his insides, he forced his head up. He let out a pained grunt, his muscles screaming as he lifted both of his massive, blood-stained hands to cradle your face.
“I am going to be okay,” he murmured, his voice strained and thick with the effort of staying conscious. His expression was twisted in pain, yet his eyes remained locked on yours with a terrifying intensity.
“Breathe for me, sweet girl,” he mumbled. Even as the life was being leeched out of him, he lowered his voice, smoothing it into a gentle, rhythmic rumble intended to anchor you. He didn't care about the spear in his side; he cared about the way you were gasping for air.
You leaned into his touch, your own hands flying up to cover his where they held your face, trying to follow his lead—but it wasn't working. The sounds of clashing steel and the smell of dirt were too much. You were terrified that if you closed your eyes to breathe, he would be gone when you opened them.
“I have you,” he whispered, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, smearing the blood and tears. “Focus on me. Just me. Inhale—that's it, again.”
You choked on a sob, forcing a jagged breath into your lungs because he asked it of you. You watched him, your anchor in the middle of a slaughter, realizing that even at the edge of the abyss, his only priority was making sure you didn't fall in after him. You gulped, your tears fell uncontrollably, blurring the sight of his pained face.
“Treasure,” he whispered, his voice a ragged rasp. He used the last of his strength to pull your face closer to his, bridging the gap until his forehead rested against yours. “I beg of you, breathe.”
He pressed a lingering, desperate kiss to your forehead, his lips hot and dry. The contact forced your eyes shut. You had to calm down. You couldn't lose him—the only person in the Nine Realms you wouldn't trade for anything. So you fought for it. You fought for the air, forcing your lungs to expand even as they felt like they were filled with glass. You did it for him. To get him home. To get him back to life.
As you finally caught a shaky, deep breath, you heard his low, strained praise. “Good girl—just like that.” He grunted again, his eyes slamming shut as his expression twisted into a mask of pure agony. The obsidian veins were climbing higher now, mocking your efforts.
“Thor, please don't die on me,” you begged, your voice finally returning, though it was raw with terror. “I’m going to get you back, big guy. Do you hear me? I’m getting you back.”
Present
Standing in the cold silence of the restroom, you stared at your reflection in the polished basin, your hands still gripping the edges of the marble. You had gotten him back in time. You had dragged him through the chaos, defied the odds, and seen the healers purge that filth from his blood.
But the echoes of that day still lived in your marrow. You could still hear your own frantic cries—the way you had pleaded for him to live, to not leave you in a world that felt empty without his shadow. You remembered the sheer, hysterical desperation that had led you to threaten to take your own life right there on the battlefield, promising to haunt him in Valhalla for eternity.
It was extreme—you could admit that now—but at the time, the thought of a universe without Thor was a reality you refused to inhabit.
Thor had been furious when he finally recovered, his blue eyes burning with a rage that rivaled his lightning. He was angry you’d suggested such a thing, but mostly he was angry that you thought you could ever be a haunting to him.
“You could only make my afterlife better, treasure,” he had murmured to you back then, his voice thick with a dark, protective possessiveness.
You splashed cold water on your face, the chill snapping you back to the present. The man who had said those words, the man who had found his only peace in the thought of your company in the afterlife, was currently sitting just a few yards away, nursing a glass of mead and a heart full of bitterness.
He had saved your life, and you had saved his. You had shared blood and breath, and yet here you were, wearing a burgundy dress he didn’t even look at, preparing to go on a mission with a stranger who happened to wear Thor's face.
The man who had taken a poisoned spear for you was the same man who had just used his words to poison your very soul.
You straightened your spine, smoothed the skirts of your gown, and took one last four-seven-eight breath.
Meanwhile, inside the hall, Thor was reeling. His gaze had followed your every move as you practically fled toward the restroom, and it hadn't shifted since. It had been fifteen minutes. His hands were clamped into fists on the table, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed on the exit of the hall as if he could burn holes through the heavy oak doors.
What is taking her so long? Displeasure, mixed with a sharp, cold dread, settled into his gut. Had something happened? Had you fainted from the stress? Were you—He cut the thought off. He was being ridiculous. You were a warrior of Asgard; you could handle yourself.
But then twenty minutes passed, and Thor was anything but calm.
“Calm down, brother,” Loki murmured from beside him, his voice smooth and irritating. “She's probably okay.”
Thor snapped his head toward him, his eyes flashing like a summer storm. “Who said anything about her?”
Loki pinched the bridge of his nose, looking as though Thor were giving him a physical headache. “All you ever do is think about her—“
“Go check on her,” Thor cut him off, his voice low and urgent.
“What?” Loki said, taken aback. “Why would I check on her? Go check on her yourself.”
Thor ached to do exactly that. Every fiber of his being wanted to burst through those doors and make sure you were still breathing, still whole. But his stubbornness—the bitter wall of dislike he had built to protect himself—held him back. He couldn't go to you, not after the coldness he'd displayed. So he settled for the next best thing: his brother.
“Go, Loki,” Thor commanded. He reached out, his hand gripping the back of Loki's head with a firm, threatening pressure. “You know nothing can stop Mjolnir as it comes back to my hand. Go now, or I swear I wi—“
Loki stood up abruptly, shaking Thor's hand off with a look of pure exasperation. “Your affections for her are maddeningly annoying,” he muttered under his breath, smoothing his robes as he started on his way to find you.
Thor didn't respond to him. He simply turned his gaze back to the door, his chest heaving, waiting for a sign that you were safe-even if he was pretending not to care at all.
He merely hated you, he didn't want you harmed, okay?
Just as you pulled the heavy door open, you were face-to-face with Loki. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“What are you doing here, Loki?” you asked, your voice still a bit breathless from your panic attack.
Loki smiled dashingly at you, leaning against the stone archway. “Just checking in on my dearest friend,” he said, opening his arms wide in a theatrical gesture.
His words immediately made you suspicious. You narrowed your eyes, looking him up and down from head to toe. “Right,” you said, your voice dripping with skepticism. “Consider me convinced.” You didn't wait for a further explanation, brushing past him as you started the long walk back toward the feast, your heart still heavy.
“So, dear, will you please tell me what happened? Because Thor is not talking and I hate not knowing things—“
You turned to him abruptly, narrowing your gaze as you looked up at the trickster god. “Shut up, Loki. I swear to the All-Father, I will kill you and fake-cry at your funeral like I had nothing to do with it.” You jabbed your right index finger into his chest for emphasis.
He smirked, unfazed by the threat. “Lovely. Just the woman for my brother—or for me, you could never know with these things, real—“
You punched him in the stomach, rolling your eyes as you did.
“Ouch,” he grunted, though the grin didn't entirely leave his face. “What was that for?”
“Do not try me, Loki. You might be my friend, but I won't be so merciful the next time you say I'm the right woman for your brother,” you warned, turning back to continue your march toward the hall.
Loki was hot on your heels. “Oh my, you’re not bothered I included myself, but you’re bothered I talked about him? You really are mad at him,” he said, his gaze rolling over you with newfound amusement. “Please, tell me what happened, I must know immediately.”
You palmed your face, the headache behind your eyes pulsing. “Shut up, Loki.”
But as you passed through the grand gates, you were stopped by a man appearing directly in your path. He was tall, with sharp features and hair the color of spun silver, wearing the polished, intricate armor of the High Commander of the Vanguard.
“My, my, if it isn't the hero of the last campaign,” said Commander Valerius, his voice smooth and carrying across the nearby tables.
The moment you stepped back into the hall, the crushing weight in Thor’s chest finally eased. You were alive, you were whole. He could breathe again.
But the relief was incinerated in a heartbeat.
Thor watched, paralyzed by a sudden, violent surge of adrenaline, as Valerius intercepted you. His vision bled red at the edges, his fingers digging into the edge of the heavy wooden table, the wood groaning and splintering under his strength.
What the fuck did that vulture think he was doing?
Valerius took a step closer, his eyes scanning you with an appreciative, lingering look that felt entirely too heavy. “We have missed your blade in the training circles, and your presence in the courts. I had heard the North was cold, but it seems to have only sharpened your beauty.”
As Loki sauntered back to the table, pointedly ignoring Thor’s silent, homicidal glares, you felt Thor’s gaze boring into the side of your head. It was a familiar heat that made your skin prickle under the expensive dress, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back. Instead, you focused every ounce of your will on Valerius.
Thor’s hatred for Valerius was legendary. The Commander was a thorn in his side—arrogant, opportunistic, and always subtly testing the boundaries of Thor's authority. But more than that, Valerius had always been a shark circling you. He knew exactly what you were to the Prince, and he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in trying to catch you alone.
So, you leaned into it. If Thor wanted to treat you like an enemy of his, like a fucking stranger, you would show him exactly what a stranger looked like.
You tilted your head, letting a stray lock of hair fall over your shoulder as you offered Valerius a shy, practiced smile. “You are too kind, Commander. Thank you,” you said, looking up at him through your lashes.
Internally, your stomach twisted, the mere act of playing along felt like a betrayal of your own heart. You felt nauseous, your soul recoiling at the idea of anyone but Thor standing this close, but the anger kept you upright. You hated Thor for this—for forcing you to use another man as a shield just to survive a damn gathering.
Valerius’s breath hitched. He had clearly expected your usual cold dismissal, but seeing you soften made his smirk widen into something more predatory. “I am only telling the truth, my lady,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping an octave. “Asgard is a much dimmer place when its brightest star is tucked away in the North.”
Thor’s eyes darted to Loki, his expression a desperate, silent command: Stop this. Now. Loki, however, simply pulled out his chair with a flourish. He met Thor's gaze, mouthed a very clear, very deliberate ‘No,’ and sat down, picking up a grape with agonizing slowness.
Thor turned back to the scene at the gate. He saw you tilt your head. He saw the shy smile—the one he thought belonged only to him, or at least to the version of him you didn't hate. When you looked up at Valerius through your lashes, a low, guttural growl vibrated in Thor’s chest, a sound felt more than heard by those sitting nearest to him.
Valerius stepped into your personal space—space that Thor had occupied exclusively for years. The Prince’s hand twitched toward the empty space at his hip where Mjolnir usually rested. He wanted to level the hall. He wanted to rip the High Commander's tongue out of his mouth.
He fucking hated you for doing this to him. How could you?
Standing him up after that moment in the armory—after the air between you had turned to fire and he had almost, almost pressed his lips to yours—was that not enough? Leaving him waiting for an entire year hadn't been enough?
Every single morning for three hundred and sixty-five days, Thor had woken up with your name on the tip of his tongue, the phantom weight of you in the palace halls making his heart ache, only to be slapped by the cold reality that you were gone. And now, you were pursuing Valerius?
The God of Thunder felt a crackle of static electricity jump from his fingertips to the silverware. He wanted to scream that you were his, that your smile was his, that your loyalty was the only thing that kept him anchored to this realm. But he had been the one to say he hated you. He had been the one to cast the first stone tonight.
Your skin felt like it was being licked by flames. You didn't need to look at the royal table to know exactly what Thor was doing; you could feel him. His energy was a localized storm, a heavy pressure that settled over your shoulders like a cloak.
That invisible string—the one you had believed in since you were children, the one that bound your souls together across battlefields and through starlit nights—was tugging violently. It thrummed with his fury, his betrayal, his raw displeasure.
Good, you thought, though the word tasted like ash. Let him feel it. Let him sit there and watch his blade be courted by a man who actually treated her like a woman. Let him feel the same hollow betrayal that had emptied your chest when he reduced your entire existence to a cold piece of steel.
“Is everything alright, my lady?” Valerius asked, his hand hovering near your elbow. “You seem spirited tonight.”
“I've never felt better, Commander,” you lied, your voice silky and loud enough to carry as you finally let your gaze drift toward the high table.
Your breath caught in your throat when your eyes collided with his.
Thor was leaned back in his heavy oak chair, the picture of a brooding storm. His right hand was tucked under his chin, index finger pressed firmly over his mouth as if physically holding back a roar. His left hand gripped the seat’s handle so hard that the ancient wood groaned and creaked, a sound that surely reached the ears of every noble nearby.
His eyes were like two black holes, consuming every bit of light in the hall, and little sparks of static electricity danced like angry hornets over his knuckles.
He didn't move a muscle as he just kept looking at you with a cold, piercing look—as if you were the most disgraceful creature in the Nine Realms. Of course, you thought, the wound in your chest throbbing. He really does hate me.
Thor was fuming, his mind a dark workshop of violence. He was mentally cataloging the ways to end Commander Valerius. Should it be slow? Or slow with a side of excruciating torture? He wanted to pull the man’s silver-plated heart out through his ribs.
But then your head turned, and your eyes caught his. His stomach churned at the sight; your dislike for him was so evident, so sharp, it felt like a blade to his throat. He gulped, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thick to swallow. He couldn't sit here and watch this anymore. He had to stop this—now.
He leaned toward his father, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that demanded attention.
“Father,” Thor said, his eyes never leaving you and Valerius. “Did you not say that Commander Valerius was needed at the Northern Outposts to oversee the new defense fortifications? Reports from the scouts suggested the border was weak, and I believe he mentioned he was eager to prove his diligence.”
Odin looked at his son, his one eye glinting with a knowing, weary wisdom. He looked at you, then back to the Commander. “Ah, yes. The fortifications. A pressing matter, indeed.”
Odin raised his voice, his authority cutting through the music like a scythe. “Commander Valerius! A word. My son reminds me of your eagerness to depart for the Northern border. There are logistical matters we must discuss before you leave tonight.”
Valerius stiffened as the smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a mask of professional obedience. He couldn't defy the king’s summons, especially one framed by the Prince’s recommendation.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Valerius murmured. He turned back to you, leaning in one last time to press a lingering kiss to the back of your hand—a final act of defiance against Thor. “It seems our time is cut short, my lady. But I shall look for you upon my return.”
As he walked away toward the high table, Thor’s hand finally snapped the handle of his chair clean off. The sound of the splintering wood echoed through the hall, a sharp crack that silenced the nearby conversations. Every pair of eyes turned toward Thor’s display of unnecessary power. Odin’s eyebrows shot up, his one eye locked onto the now-dismantled chair handle in his son's grip.
“This seat is really fragile, I’m afraid,” Thor muttered, trying to find an excuse while offering a sheepish, unconvincing smile to his father. Odin only shook his head in weary silence before turning his attention back to a confused Valerius.
What the fuck is he doing? you thought, your anger clouding your vision as you made your way back to the table. You sat down with a sharp movement, your gaze narrowing as you looked directly at the Prince.
“What is your problem?” you asked, your voice low but vibrating with fury.
Thor cleared his throat, leaning back with a feigned nonchalance that didn't reach his stormy eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Treasure?”
Your heart started beating in your mouth. His persistent use of that name, the one that used to mean safety and belonging, made you lightheaded even now. “Do not call me that,” you defied him, despite the way your pulse raced. Get a grip, you scolded yourself.
“I will call you whatever I like,” he countered, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that felt like it was burning through you, body and soul.
“I know you just made your father call on Valerius on purpose—“
His gaze darkened instantly, the sparks of static over his fingers flaring. “I see you're on a first-name basis now,” he mumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerously threatening tone. “I suggest you address your superiors by their title.”
Your blood ran cold. Your fingertips felt frozen as the weight of his implication settled in. He was doing it again—reducing you to a mere subordinate, a piece of the military machine. The blade of the throne as he had called you a year ago.
You scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Not everyone sees me as a tool like you do, Your Highness.”
Thor’s fury took hold of him, his eyebrows descending low over his eyelids as the air around the table grew heavy with the weight of your words. The fuck did you just call him?
“You fucking promised not to ever address me that way,” he grumbled, his hand snaking out to grab your bicep. His grip wasn't painful, but it was possessive, desperate, and trembling with a rage he couldn't quite stifle.
The memory of that promise hit you, making your breath shudder as you exhaled.
You were children—barely tall enough to reach the weapon racks—when your parents had chastised you for the disrespect of addressing the Crown Prince by his given name. You had taken the lesson to heart, and the next morning, when you saw him in the training gardens, you had bowed your head and whispered, “Your Highness.”
His expression had soured instantly, as if you had uttered a blasphemy you specifically should never commit. “Do not call me that,” he had said, his small face twisted in confusion. “Aren't we best friends? Have I done something?” He had genuinely thought the fault lay with him.
“Oh,” you had murmured then. “Of course we are. My parents told me this was the proper way for me to address you, that is all.”
“Promise me you will never call me that again,” he had insisted, his voice already carrying the weight of a future king. “That title is not for you to use. You are the only person forbidden from using it ever again.”
And yes, you knew you were being cruel by breaking that sacred vow now. But wasn't he being cruel too?
“I did promise,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your bicep burned under his palm. “But that was before I got to know how much you liked pulling rank on me, my Prince.”
Thor’s breath hitched, a broken sound that was swallowed by the surrounding din of the feast. His thumb pressed into your skin, a silent plea or a silent threat—you couldn't tell anymore.
“How could you say that?” he whispered, the words breaking as they left his lips, sounding like a wounded animal—a deer that had been shot multiple times and was taking it's last breaths.
“Will you leave me be, my Prince? I am trying to listen to the All-Father.”
You turned your head away, fixing your gaze forward on Odin as your eyes began ache. You felt the familiar, hot prickle of tears clouding your vision, you couldn't cry here—not in this hall, not in front of the court that saw you only as a decorated hero.
You bit your bottom lip, the sharp pressure anchoring you to the present until you could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood. You didn't care. You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down as you tried to calm the irregular rhythm of your poor, broken heart.
The feast was over half an hour later. Everyone, some thoroughly drunk and others merely exhausted, began to scramble away from the Great Hall, leaving a trail of empty chalices and hushed conversations behind them. You stood up from your seat, your fingers trembling slightly as you smoothed down the deep burgundy skirts of your gown.
Thor had sat there the entire time, unmoving, his eyes burning holes into the side of your head—the sole culprit behind his thoroughly soured mood. You hadn't spared him a single glance during those agonizing final minutes, keeping your chin held high and your eyes locked forward.
But when you took your first step to leave, you were stopped dead in your tracks. Odin’s right hand lifted, his index finger pointing directly toward you and Thor.
“You two are not leaving. I have to talk to you.”
Your mouth went instantly dry. Your poor heart, already battered from the confrontation, started to beat even faster as a heavy dread settled deep in your stomach.
Had the All-Father heard you and Thor? No, he couldn't have—you two had been whispering, your voices kept low beneath the din of the music. Were you whispering? Anxious and entirely off-balance, you settled back into your chair, the heavy wood practically biting into your tense muscles.
“Is something the matter, Father?” Thor asked from beside you, his voice tight but carrying a genuine spark of curiosity.
“No, no,” Odin replied, a small, uncharacteristic smile gracing his old features as he looked between the two of you. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I think I have news that will make you two rather joyful.”
Thor’s eyebrows furrowed in immediate suspicion, matching your own expression perfectly. “How so?” Thor pressed.
“You two will get married.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Thor’s hand, which had been resting on the table, immediately went up to plow through his thick hair as if trying to physically process the words. Did he hear his father correctly?
“What?” Thor asked, his voice cracking slightly and raising up an entire octave.
You sat frozen, the blood rushing in your ears. Did you hear that right? “Pardon me, All-Father,” you stammered, offering a tight, incredibly nervous smile, desperately hoping you had just misunderstood a royal decree. “I think I must have heard you wrong. Did you say Thor and I will get married?”
Odin chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “You heard correctly, child.”
What the fuck? The phrase screamed in your mind, but your lips wouldn't move.
“You two have been friends for years. You have fought beside each other, you laugh together, you protect one another—you have been through everything,” Odin continued, his one eye glowing with a terrifyingly calm certainty while you tried to grasp the sheer gravity of what was happening.
“The best foundation for love is friendship. And I am well aware that you two are great friends, though you have stubbornly refused to notice your love for each other for years.”
You couldn’t breathe nor could you think. The irony of the All-Father’s words was suffocating you. He thought he was playing matchmaker to a beautiful, budding romance born of a lifelong bond.
He had no idea that the son he was so proud of had shattered your soul by calling you nothing but a tool of the state. He didn't know you had spent a year bleeding in Jotunheim just to escape the memory of his words, he only thought you were there for the sake of Asgard.
Thor could see your face clearly from where he sat. As you leaned back against the harsh wood of your chair, you looked at Odin with wide, terrified eyes, the color completely drained from your cheeks.
A year ago, he would have been utterly delighted to hear this news. His best friend—the woman he was desperately, hopelessly in love with—was to be married to him.
Now, though? He couldn’t bear the thought of it. The sheer weight of you being shackled to him—to a man you clearly despised so much that you had fled the realm for a year without a second thought after he almost kissed you—tore at his insides. His father surely was a man of impeccable timing.
“Father, we cannot—” Thor started, his voice thick, though Odin immediately lifted a sharp hand to cut him off.
“You will. There will come a time when I won’t be here, Thor, and you are in desperate need of a wife to be king. I’d rather you get married to your best friend than leave you to a loveless marriage forged of necessity.”
Thor closed his eyes slowly, taking a desperate, heavy breath. The irony was a knife in his gut. His father didn’t know this would exactly be that loveless, forced marriage. How could his father know that his best friend was not even his friend anymore?
Your throat was burning. You brought your shaky hands down toward your stomach, tightly interlacing your fingers as you tried to ground yourself, trying to stop the room from spinning.
A year ago, this would have been the greatest gift you could ever receive. The man you had loved in secret for years, finally becoming your husband? Oh, what a beautiful dream it would have been.
But the thought of his newfound hatred, the memory of his degrading eyes dancing all over your skin, and the echo of his betrayal prodded violently at your mind. How were you to endure a lifetime of this?
“I—” you started, but the syllable was too thin, cracking before it could even leave your lips. You swallowed hard, clearing your throat before trying again. “I do not think I am fit for marriage—”
Odin’s expression turned sour instantly, the lines on his face hardening. “You are the only woman in Asgard fit to marry my son,” he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
You gulped, your throat aching as you gave a hollow, defeated nod. “I see,” was the only thing that managed to come out of your mouth.
“I will not hear any more of this nonsense,” Odin declared, rising from his throne. “Now go. Your wedding will be three days after your return from the mission. To give you time to rest.” He turned and strode out of the hall, his heavy footsteps signaling that the conversation was entirely over.
You remained frozen, your gaze still glued to the empty throne where Odin had just been sitting. You were utterly unable to move a single muscle, your dress suddenly feeling like a shroud.
How did it come to this? You had gone to the ends of the Nine Realms to escape him, and now, the universe was forcing you right back into his arms—as his damn wife.
—
You woke up, already dreading the day that was to come. After two days of trying to get used to the idea of marrying Thor—and desperately avoiding the rest of the palace by not getting out of your chambers unless it was to eat—it was finally time for the mission. Gods, you were mad at destiny for playing this cruel, twisted joke on you.
You got out of bed, taking a few deep, ragged breaths to calm yourself down as you got ready. You braided your hair tight against your head, buckled your armor over your chest, packed a few spare clothes, and you were done.
The moment you opened your heavy chamber door, you saw him. He was leaning his back against the stone wall across the corridor, clearly waiting for you.
“Finally,” he mumbled under his breath.
You narrowed your eyes at him, having heard him as clear as day. As he left the wall and started to walk down the hall, his eyes slid over you, assessing your gear.
“Did I keep you waiting for too long, Your Highness?” you asked, falling into step behind him.
His head immediately snapped toward you, his eyes darkening with immediate anger at the title. “I am to be your husband, Treasure. I suggest you keep that title out of your mouth,” he warned, his gaze tearing into yours. But as he kept looking at you, his anger morphed into something far more sinister, and a dark, mocking smirk found his lips. “Mm, actually, I think you should call me dear husband. Fits our situation much better.”
You huffed, violently turning your gaze away from him to look straight ahead. “I suggest you shut your mouth, then, my Prince,” you shot back.
Your heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to leap clean out of your chest. He was cruel. He was so incredibly cruel.
You walked over the rainbow bridge in absolute silence, the distance between you filled with a suffocating tension as you made your way to the observatory. But the moment you stepped inside and caught sight of Heimdall, a wide, genuine smile broke across your face. He hadn't been at his post for a while because he had other cosmic matters to handle, and seeing him back brought a wave of comfort over you, even if it was fleeting.
“Heimdall!” Thor’s booming voice echoed through the dome, and his deep, hearty chuckle scratched uncomfortably at your ears.
Heimdall smiled as Thor strode over to him with open arms, enveloping the gatekeeper in a massive bear hug. Gods, you missed those hugs. You missed being the one wrapped up in them.
Keep it together, you fiercely commanded yourself in your mind.
Heimdall then turned to you, opening his arms with a warm look. Your smile widened even further as you stepped into his space and hugged him back tightly.
“I'm so glad you're back,” you mumbled against his armor.
“I missed you two,” Heimdall said, chuckling softly as you parted from the embrace. Then, his smile grew even wider as he looked at the two of you standing side-by-side. “Congratulations. I heard the good news.”
“What?” you said, the smile instantly falling from your face. “I heard you are to be married,” Heimdall said, proudly patting both of your backs while you nearly choked on your own spit. “My two dear friends! I always knew you were made for each other.”
“How do you know of that?” Thor asked, his voice tightening with a sudden hesitancy.
“I know everything,” Heimdall replied with a knowing wink.
Of course he knows, you thought, rolling your eyes toward the ceiling.
“Though, I think practically everyone knows by now,” Heimdall added, still smiling warmly. “It is a royal wedding, after all.”
You and Thor shot a sudden, panicked look at each other. Realizing you were in public and a performance was required, Thor reached out and pulled you into an awkward, rigid side-hug for show. You both forced yourselves to look back at Heimdall, offering stiff, hesitant smiles.
“Thank you,” you both muttered in unison.
Your entire side felt like it was burning from Thor’s sudden closeness. For a split second, your resolve crumbled as you closed your eyes and deeply inhaled his scent—rain, sandalwood, and leather. Stop it, you thought to yourself desperately, snapping your eyes open. Stop it right now.
“We should get going,” Thor said abruptly, cutting off any further talk of the wedding as he faced Hofund. “Send us to the Whispering Marshes of Vanaheim.”
As he spoke, his grip tightened on you. He didn't let go. Instead, knowing the crushing pull of the cosmic wormhole was coming, Thor glued his hand firmly to your waist. He was desperate to feel you—to feel your skin against his, to have your breath fanning over his neck, to feel your hands gripping his chest for support just like you used to do every single time you travelled the stars together. While his expression remained perfectly stable, a violent war was raging inside him. Why the fuck did he still want to touch you like this? What the hell was wrong with him?
Heimdall nodded, his golden eyes reflecting the swirling colors of the Bifrost as his expression turned serious. “Very well.”
He raised his great sword, Hofund, and drove it deep into the center of the observatory. The mechanism groaned, the massive rings spinning at a blinding speed until a torrent of prismatic light erupted from the ceiling, swallowing you and Thor whole.
The heat of Thor’s side against yours deepened as the realm-travel claimed you. For a few agonizing seconds, the universe was nothing but deafening sound and blinding color, pulling at your atoms until the rainbow light shattered, and your boots slammed hard into thick, damp earth.
The moment you landed, your eyes instinctively went to Thor's chest, where your hand had subconsciously clamped onto his armor. Realizing what you were doing, you stumbled backward a step, tearing yourself completely away from his touch. You coughed as the heavy, humid air of Vanaheim filled your lungs, trying to erase the memory of his scent.
The forest around you was dense, suffocatingly green, and draped in a thick shroud of low-hanging fog. The faint scent of rotting moss and old magic hung heavily in the air, pressing down on you.
“Stay close,” Thor ordered. His voice dropped any trace of the lightheartedness it had held with Heimdall, returning instantly to the gruff, commanding tone of a general. He unclipped Mjolnir from his belt, the leather handle firm in his massive grip. “The marshes are treacherous. Keep your eyes on the treeline.”
“I am a warrior, Your Highness, not a child,” you shot back, pulling your own sword from its sheath. The cold weight of the handle was an instant comfort, a familiar anchor against the panic that had been threatening to surface since you woke up. “Might I remind you that I survived a year in the frozen wastes of Jotunheim. Surely, I can handle a few marshes.”
Thor stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head just enough for you to see the hard, rigid line of his jaw in the dim light. He didn't say a word, but the way his knuckles whitened around Mjolnir told you exactly how much your reminder of Jotunheim galled him. He hated that you had left. He hated that you had survived a whole year without him.
Without a word, he plunged ahead into the thick fog, his broad shoulders cutting through the heavy mist like the prow of a warship.
You followed a few paces behind, your sword held low, your gaze sharp as you watched his back out of pure habit.
It was impossible to tell if it was day or night. Vanaheim’s Whispering Marshes existed in a perpetual, eerie twilight. The canopy of ancient, weeping trees was so dense that it choked out the sky entirely, leaving only a sickly, bioluminescent green glow that pulsed faintly from the moss beneath your boots. Every step you took made a wet, sucking sound in the mud, a rhythmic reminder of how easily these bogs could swallow a warrior whole.
And then there were the whispers.
They started as a low hum, a trick of the wind rustling through the damp ferns, but as you marched deeper into the fog, the sounds began to shape themselves into syllables. Voices—fragmented memories.
“...a blade that guards the gate...” a voice sighed through the mist.
Your breath hitched. You squeezed the handle of your sword so tight your leather glove creaked. The marsh was already feeding on your mind, pulling the worst day of your life from the shadows of your memory.
Ahead of you, Thor stiffened as his pace slowed, his broad back rigid beneath his crimson cape. He had heard it too. The fog seemed to thicken around him, curling like smoke over his shoulders.
“...you are the only person forbidden from using it...” another whisper drifted by, sounding agonizingly like Thor’s younger, gentler voice from your childhood.
“Do not listen to them,” Thor growled, his voice a low rumble that cut through the supernatural haze. He didn't turn around, but his shoulders were hunched, his posture defensive. “The magic of this place uses your own thoughts to disorient you. Focus on the path.”
“I am perfectly focused, my Prince,” you said, your voice tight as you forced your eyes to scan the gnarled treeline.
You both kept walking for hours, the oppressive twilight of the marshes stretching on endlessly. The environment wasn't the only thing testing your patience; the silence between you quickly dissolved into a bitter, exhausting bickering. Every decision became a battlefield.
“We should veer left,” Thor muttered, his eyes tracking a faint, muddy ridge. “The ground looks more stable there.”
“If we go left, we plunge directly into the weeping roots,” you countered sharply, deliberately stepping right past him. “The moss to the right is thicker. It means there’s solid stone underneath. Or did your year of sitting on a comfortable Asgardian throne erase your basic tracking instincts?”
Thor stepped into your path, forcing you to a halt. His eyes flashed. “My tracking instincts are perfectly intact. And I was not sitting comfortably, I was—“ He bit off his words, shaking his head. “We are going left.”
“Go left alone, then,” you snapped, brushing past his broad shoulder. “I am not a soldier under your command on this trip, Thor. I am a partner. Act like it.”
“A partner usually listens when someone tries to keep them from sinking into a bog!” he roared softly, his heavy boots splashing in the mire as he caught up to you.
“I managed to avoid sinking into ice shelves for an entire year without your supreme guidance,” you shot back, your voice dripping with venom. “I think I can handle a little mud.”
“Jotunheim again,” Thor growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You speak of it as if you went on a grand adventure, rather than fleeing like a thief in the night.”
“I did not flee!” you said, stopping and turning to face him, your chest heaving against your armor. “I left to become exactly what you always thought I was. A tool—a blade. I simply went to sharpen myself.”
Thor opened his mouth to reply, his eyes wide and burning with a mixture of rage and a strange, desperate agony, but the words died in his throat. He looked around, suddenly realizing that the gnarled trees surrounding you looked identical to the ones you had passed two hours ago.
The thick, rolling fog had disoriented both of you. The bioluminescent moss was pulsing slower now, fading into a deeper, darker hue that signaled the onset of Vanaheim's true, freezing night.
You were utterly lost.
Thor let out a long, defeated breath, his broad shoulders sagging slightly as he unclipped Mjolnir and let out a frustrated sigh. He looked at you, his features softening just a fraction into the tired man beneath the warrior prince.
“We are walking in circles,” he admitted, his voice dropping the commanding tone. “The marsh-magic is thickening with the night. If we keep moving in this darkness, we will stumble into a sinkhole.”
You looked around, hating that he was right. Your muscles were aching from the damp cold, and the heavy atmosphere was pressing down on your skull like a vice.
“So what do you suggest, big guy?” you asked, the name you always called him slipping out from your tongue, though the bite in your voice was weakened by sheer exhaustion.
“We rest,” Thor said, his gaze locking onto a small, elevated clearing beneath the massive, twisted roots of a dead ironwood tree. The ground there looked relatively dry, shielded by the canopy above. “We pitch camp here for the night. We gather our strength, let the fog clear, and find the temple at first light.”
You wanted to protest, but you simply didn't have the energy left to do so. You were acutely aware of how thoroughly lost you were in the twisting fog, so you only sighed a long, heavy breath as you nodded.
“Okay,” you mumbled, looking up at him through the dim twilight.
He nodded back, a silent truce passing between you as you both made your way toward the massive, twisted roots of the dead ironwood tree to set up camp. You dropped your pack onto the dry patch of earth, the leather hitting the ground with a heavy thud, and looked around.
This forest was fucking eerie. If Thor were still your Thor, you wouldn't have hesitated for a second; you would have stuck right to his side, practically glued to his shoulder as he prepared a fire for you to keep the shadows at bay. But you were not in that position anymore. So instead, you bit your bottom lip, standing a few paces back as you watched him work.
His golden locks dropped over his perfect face as he leaned down, coaxing a flame from the dry wood he'd gathered. Even from where you stood, the heat of the growing fire began to push back the damp chill, bringing with it his faint, unmistakable scent of rain and sandalwood. He was a nightmare. A beautiful, fucking nightmare that you couldn't wake up from.
Thor suddenly looked up at you from his kneeling position, and his heart stopped beating entirely.
You were looking down at him, your angelic face twisted in pure, quiet focus, your gaze so burning that his lungs couldn't manage to take in another breath.
And you were biting your lips. Those sinful, fucking lips that he had been so painfully close to kissing in the dark of the armory. The memory hit him so hard he felt it pierce through him, forcing him to sharply turn his gaze away before he lost his mind completely.
With a tight jaw, he managed to light the fire, the orange flames casting long, dancing shadows against the ancient roots. He stood up to his full height, dusting off his hands as he looked back at you.
“What is it?” he asked. His voice came out so gentle, so entirely devoid of the anger from earlier, that your eyes burned with sudden, unwanted tears.
“Nothing,”’you said quickly, turning your gaze away from him and focusing on the flickering flames, desperately trying to lock your emotions back behind the wall you had built.
“Why do you do this?” he asked you.
You turned your gaze back to him, the crackling orange firelight cutting through the heavy fog. “Do what?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes already shining with the hot tears to come.
“You look at me with a despise so great it breaks me,” he breathed, the raw vulnerability in his tone catching you completely off guard. “And then, a second later, I see you looking at me like you used to. With that look so full of love it takes my breath away.”
Your throat burned as you opened your mouth, your heart threatening to leap clean out of your chest. His right hand hovered, lingering just over your cheek as if he were actively deciding if he even had the right to touch you anymore.
“You're the one to talk,” you scoffed, a bitter defense mechanism against the ache in your ribs. “If you saw how you fucking look at me all day—with so much disgust it makes me nauseous—you would hate yourself.”
Thor stepped closer, the heat radiating off him easily eclipsing the campfire. “Do you?”
“What?”
“You said you hate me,” he asked, his knuckles finally dropping to gently graze your cheek. You tried to gulp, but the air was stuck in your throat, thick and heavy. “But do you hate me?”
“I don't,” you confessed, the truth slipping out before you could stop it. You closed your eyes, unable to look at him as you asked the mirror question. “Do you?”
“I could never,” he replied instantly. His entire hand moved to cup the side of your face, warm and rough against your skin. Helpless against a year of longing, you instinctively leaned into his touch, your cheek resting in his palm.
“Then why?” he asked, his voice suddenly becoming tighter, the brief gentleness fracturing. “Why do you do this to me?” His tone dropped into a deeper, darker register, vibrating with a frustration that was right on the verge of yelling. “Why did you leave me?”
You shook your head violently against his palm, reality snapping back as you tried to pull away from him. You couldn't do this. You couldn't let him hold you while your soul was still bleeding from what he did.
“Why did you fucking flirt with him?!” he suddenly yelled, his hand snapping down to grip your arm tightly, preventing you from backing out into the dark forest.
Your eyes widened in sheer disbelief. Is this what this was all about? “Is this what's bothering you?! Are you serious?!” you yelled back, planting your hands against his armored chest and trying to push him off, but he was too strong, completely unyielding.
“Tell me,” he demanded, leaning his face down toward yours until you could feel the furious huff of his breath. “Tell me why you would fucking betray me like that.”
You let out a sharp, incredulous breath, entirely unable to believe the audacity of what you were hearing. “I can talk to men however I please. He just happened to be the one who was there,” you said, your gaze sharpening into steel.
“You can't,” he growled.
“Oh, I most definitely can. You don't decide that,” you shot back, defiantly glaring up into his stormy eyes.
“I am to be your husband. I can decide that,” he pushed back, his jaw clenching as he laid claim to the title neither of you had wanted an hour ago. “You will not talk to him again.”
He was playing the husband card. Great. Absolutely fantastic.
“Oh, you're eager to be my husband now?” you hissed, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your throat as you slammed your hands against his armored chest.
“I am stating a fact,” Thor growled, his grip on your arm tightening just enough to keep you pinned beneath his heavy, dark gaze.
“I can't fucking deal with you!” You shook your head violently, the raw frustration tearing through your chest. “I will talk to him. I will talk to all the men you don't like! What the fuck can you do about it?!” you yelled, daring him to push further.
“All-Fathers give me strength,” he muttered, looking away from you for a split second as if trying to summon every ounce of restraint left in his body. Then, his head snapped back, his eyes boring into yours with that dark, suffocating intensity. “I will bury them six feet under, myself, Treasure.”
His hand shot up, his large fingers tangling into the hair at the back of your neck, gripping you just firmly enough to anchor you to him.
You gulped, your eyes widening as you looked up at him. He had always been possessive over you—always lingering a little too close, always watching whoever stepped into your space—but he had never threatened to kill anyone. At least, he had never admitted it to your face with such terrifying, calm certainty.
Your breathing became heavy, your chest heaving in perfect tandem with his as you stood chest-to-chest in the freezing Vanaheim night. The contrast was maddening. He was furious, he was irrational, and he was so incredibly hot. The heat radiating off his skin was a direct contradiction to the cold fog surrounding you, and the sheer power humming beneath his armor made your pulse spike in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
His thumb slid against the nape of your neck, his gaze dropping down to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, waiting for you to defy him again.
“Fuck it,” he mumbled.
He decided then and there, no matter what the outcome was, no matter how much you might hate him for it tomorrow, he was going to taste those beautiful lips of yours in this lifetime.
Before you could even draw another breath, he crashed his lips down onto yours. He was desperate to taste you, desperate to feel you, pouring a year's worth of agony and unspent devotion into the collision.
What he didn’t expect, what completely broke his remaining restraint, was you kissing him back just as desperately. Your mouth opened against his, and you tasted sweet—so much sweeter than he had ever imagined in his darkest, most vivid dreams—and the sheer perfection of it killed him.
You couldn’t believe it. After a whole year of icy loneliness, you were finally kissing him. His left arm snaked around your waist, pulling you so tight against his armor that you thought you might pass out for a second, but you didn't care. He was eating you alive. His teeth bit down on your lower lip, sharp and demanding, only for him to immediately soothe the sting over with his tongue. You moaned, a low, obscene sound that rippled through the quiet fog, the heavy feel of him getting you completely high.
He began to walk you backward through the dark camp. Your heel caught onto a rogue twig, almost making you trip, but his grip instantly tightened around your chest, anchoring you. He grumbled something low and dark against your mouth about your clumsiness, never breaking the contact. He pressed you back into the heavy trunk of the ironwood tree, the solid wood knocking the remaining breath from your lungs as he continued to kiss you feverishly. Fuck, he was killing you.
Your hands tangled into his golden hair, sliding down to his neck and caressing his nape tenderly. The gentle touch made him groan deeply into your mouth, a vibration you felt all the way down to your chest. He pressed the full weight of his body into yours, forcing you to feel him—to feel how massive he was compared to you, to feel how completely he was consuming you, to feel how fucking desperate he was to crawl inside your skin.
You gasped as his mouth slid away from yours, his kisses marking a trail of fire along your jaw line. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin, before descending to your neck. Desperate for more, you arched your neck, moving your head back to give him space—but the movement was too sudden, and a faint, dull thud echoed from the back of your head making contact with the tree trunk.
Thor froze instantly. He ripped himself away from your neck, looking down at you with tightly knitted eyebrows, the raw passion in his eyes suddenly laced with sharp panic.
“Did that hurt?” he mumbled, his voice thick and rough.
“No,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.
Gods, you were a sight. Your lips were flushed and puffy from his kisses, your tight warrior braid was completely coming loose, almost entirely let down over your shoulders, and your eyes were so desperate, so entirely expectant, that it knifed right through his heart.
Even though you whispered that it didn't hurt, he didn't care. He gently brought his large hands up to your head, carefully checking the spot for damage before pressing a incredibly tender kiss to your crown, the sudden shift to gentleness stealing the air right out of your lungs. Did he have to be so caring? Did he have to remind you of the man you loved so much?
Then, keeping his gaze locked on yours, he placed his massive, calloused hand flat against the bark at the back of your head, making a protective barricade between your soft skin and the rough tree trunk.
“It’s okay,” he growled softly, leaning back down, his thumb sweeping across your damp lower lip. “I'm not letting you get hurt again.”
You nodded, dazed, like he knew the code to the universe. Even though the contact with the tree hadn't really hurt you, he knew what was best for you in your own eyes. That was how completely you were drowning in him.
He smiled down at your expression, a soft, rare expression that reached his eyes. Gods, he wanted to keep you like this—all for himself, high on his kisses, with not a single doubt left in your mind. You grabbed at the back of his neck, trying to pull him back down to you, and he happily obliged. He gave you a brief, lingering kiss, and then he went right back to his previous work. He caught a soft patch of skin on your neck, giving it a slow, deliberate bite before sucking on it until your head began to swim. Your grasp on his nape tightened as he tasted your skin, making your toes curl; you simply couldn't get enough of him.
You could feel your panties dampen as the friction of his heavy body pressed against yours. His hands began to work at the straps of your harsh armor, but before he unbuckled it completely, he paused. He looked into your eyes for confirmation. You gave it happily, biting your lower lip as a silent yes.
He could never get enough of you. As he discarded your heavy chest piece and shoulder guards, letting them drop to the damp moss below, you could feel his thick bulge pressing firmly against your front. He left you in just your tight, long-sleeved shirt and your trousers. He quickly took hold of the hem of your shirt—not taking it off entirely, but pulling it far enough up that he could see your bare breasts. Because your armor usually lent enough support and cover, you weren't wearing a bra, and your chest heaved under his dark, heated gaze.
Thor bit his own lip, immediately cupping your left breast in his massive right hand.
“You’re killing me, Treasure,” he mumbled against your skin as you gasped at the sudden contact. “You are so beautiful, sweetheart.”
You felt a sudden surge of impatience, your hands reaching up to clumsily tug at the fastenings of his top armor, trying to get rid of the metal between you. He chuckled lightly—a low, rumbling sound that made you look up at him through the dark.
“Get rid of it,” you said, pouting slightly as you pulled at his chest piece. “I want to touch you, too.”
Thor closed his eyes, taking a ragged breath. You were going to be the absolute end of him. He smiled down at your expression, leaning in to give you a sweet, little peck on your lips. “Whatever you want, baby,” he murmured.
With practiced ease, he unbuckled his own top armor and tossed it aside. And oh, it was so worth it. Your eyes skimmed over the hard, massive planes of his chest, his damn biceps that looked as big as your head, and his rock-hard abs. You felt lightheaded just from the sight of him standing bare-chested over you in the firelight.
You whined, desperately reaching out. “Come here.”
Your right hand wrapped around his left bicep while your other hand slid lower, mapping out the ridges of his abs. You were in absolute heaven. You pulled him down and kissed him again, your fingers tracing every inch of his bare skin, and Thor groaned deeply into your mouth, clearly drunk on your attention and completely happy to let you consume him.
The friction of his bare, heated skin against your tight shirt sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core. Thor groaned deep into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your tongue, clearly drunk on the attention as your fingers traced the hard, sculpted ridges of his abs. He was radiating a staggering amount of heat, practically melting the damp Vanaheim chill that hung in the air around the dead ironwood tree.
His right hand, still gripping your left breast, squeezed firmly, his thumb sweeping over the tight peak and making you arch off the rough bark. You whined into the kiss, your hips instinctively tilting upward, seeking the blunt, heavy pressure of the bulge straining against his trousers. You entire being was ablaze now, thrumming with raw, unfiltered lust.
“More,” you breathed against his lips when he finally tore his mouth away to catch his breath. “Thor, please...”
He didn't need to be told twice. His eyes were entirely blown out, the stormy grey replaced by a dark, feral hunger. He slid his hand from your breast down to the waistband of your trousers, his calloused fingers hooking into the fabric. He leaned his forehead against yours for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving as he looked down at your flushed, ruined expression.
“I've got you, Treasure,” he rasped, his voice incredibly deep and thick with promise. “I'm right here, honey.”
With a sudden, possessive tug, he began to work at the fastenings of your trousers, his large body pressing you flat against his protective hand, trapping you completely in his heat.
When he was finally done with the fastenings, he paused, his gaze dropping toward the damp ground. He was clearly calculating something, his brow furrowing slightly as he assessed the cold, muddy earth. Turning back to you, he gently lifted you by your waist, removing you from the tree trunk.
He knelt down on the moss, his large fingers working quickly to unfasten his heavy crimson cape from his discarded armor, and he laid the thick fabric carefully across the ground.
He took your hand in his, giving it a soft tug to pull you toward him. “Is this okay?” he asked, gesturing with his head toward the cape on the floor.
It was more than okay. He was trying to make you comfortable, wanting to get you laid down so you could actually relax despite the harsh environment. In that moment, he was your Thor again, even if it was just for tonight. You nodded, smiling up at him.
“Of course it is, big guy,” you said radiantly.
He couldn't take it. His gaze, which had been locked on your eyes, descended instantly toward your lips and that fucking smile that completely lit up the dark night. He missed you. He missed your scent, he missed touching you, and he missed your smile so much it physically hurt his very being.
Wasting no more time, he grabbed you again, manhandling you down to the ground so quickly that you squealed in surprise. He chuckled at the sound, the low rumble vibrating in his chest; gods, he had even missed your silly little noises.
Within seconds, he was hovering over you again, your legs instinctively spreading apart to accommodate his massive frame between them. He started pulling down your trousers, and you helped him by lifting your hips a bit higher, allowing him to slide them off until they were fully discarded.
He took hold of your bare legs, his warm hands gliding up your skin as he settled back into his former position between your thighs.
“I can’t handle this—” he breathed, closing his eyes in a wave of sheer agony. “You are beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing—I can’t even bear to look at you. You are burning me,” he whispered, opening his eyes to look down at you, completely consumed by the fire you had started.
“Thor,” you mumbled, your heart beating so hard it felt like it was right in your throat. You didn't know what to say or how to process the sheer adoration in his eyes, so you did the first thing you could think of: you yanked him down toward you by his neck.
You crashed your lips against his, kissing him with a wild, unbridled desperation, before trailing down to press open-mouthed, burning kisses along his jaw and into the hollow of his throat. Instinctively, you hitched your legs higher, wrapping them tightly around his thick waist and pulling him in until his heavy bulge pressed directly against your core. The friction made a ragged whine escape your lips, and Thor let out a deep, guttural groan that shook his entire chest.
“I want you,” you managed to choke out against his skin, your mind spinning. “I want you so bad, please.”
You were begging him now, completely delirious with want. The ache between your thighs was unbearable, your panties soaked through and clinging to your pussy. You needed his touch like you needed air.
“I know, honey, I know,” he mumbled, his voice thick and rough as he slid his large hand down between your bodies.
He didn't waste another second, pressing his broad thumb directly against your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear. Even with the barrier, the direct pressure made your hips jerk upward, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispered, his own breath catching as his thumb slid over the damp material, applying a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. He gulped, his eyes dark and blown out as he looked down at you. “I can feel it right through your panties. You're completely ready for me, aren't you, my Treasure?”
You whined, feeling yourself getting more and more soaked by the second, the friction of his heavy thumb against your clit driving you completely crazy.
“Yes, oh gods, yes,” you managed to pant out, your hips moving uncontrollably against his hand, chasing the friction.
“Look at you,” he mumbled, biting his lip as his eyes darkened to a shade of pure, possessive storm. “My woman. My wife.”
The words sent a thrill straight down your spine just as he hooked his fingers into the edge of your underwear and slid your panties to the side, finally touching your bare skin without any barriers left.
“Oh,” you whined, a high, broken sound escaping you the moment his warm, calloused palm made contact with your soaking slit.
“I have to taste you, little bird,” he mumbled against your lips, his voice dropping into a deep tone.
Without waiting another second, he began to completely roll your panties down your legs. You could feel the crisp, cold Vanaheim air hit your drenched pussy the moment he pulled the black lace over your feet and discarded them onto the moss.
“Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath. His gaze focused intently on your center, his large hands sliding back up to massage your thighs, his thumbs smoothing over your sensitive skin.
He took firm hold of your legs and carefully but unyieldingly planted them over his massive shoulders, completely opening you up and baring your most intimate parts to him. He looked up at you from his position between your thighs, the orange firelight making his golden hair glow as his thumbs gently separated your swollen lips. He leaned down and licked a slow, wet stripe from your aching entrance all the way up to your clit.
“Thor!” you gasped out, your fingers instantly flying to tangle themselves into his golden locks.
Even that single, devastating lick was enough to make you see stars behind your eyelids. You were completely his—you realized it with a terrifying clarity in that moment—body and soul, no matter how much you had tried to deny it over the past year.
He leaned in deeper, his mouth devouring you as he began sucking on your clit with a bruising, desperate hunger. At the same time, his thumb slipped down to circle your wet entrance, driving you to the absolute brink. You arched off his cape, your hands gripping his hair to push him closer, completely drunk on the sensation.
But then, he stopped suddenly. He lifted his head, his mouth wet and his lips flushed, leaving you completely stranded at the edge of a cliff.
“Why did you stop?” you cried out, your voice laced with a desperate, whining sob as your hips hitched upward, trying to find his mouth again.
Thor held your thighs firmly against his chest, pinning you in place. His blue eyes burned into yours, raw, vulnerable, and completely unyielding.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of his own desperation. “Tell me there is only me. Tell me no one else has touched you like this. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I—” you began, the word catching painfully in your dry throat.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You were his—you had always been his. Your heart still belonged to him entirely, and in a few short days, you were going to be bound to him by Asgardian law. You hadn't let any other man touch you like this, but a stubborn, defensive wall slammed down inside your mind. You couldn't let him know that. You couldn't give him that satisfaction and hand him even more power over your already shattered emotions. You knew he wanted your body right now, but you were still entirely convinced he didn't reciprocate your actual feelings. To him, you were still just a tool he was possessive over.
“I am not,” you defied him, your chin lifting as your eyes twinkled with a dangerous, reckless spark.
Thor’s expression shifted instantly, the passion freezing into a cold, terrifying rage. His eyes narrowed down on you until they looked like two cracks of lightning. “Who the fuck touched you?”
You gulped, a sudden spike of panic hitting you. Fuck. You had to find a lie, and you had to find it fast.
“Doesn’t matter anymore,” you mumbled, trying to deflect as you tightened your fingers in his golden hair, trying to pull him back down to distract him.
“Oh, it matters, baby,” Thor growled, his voice dropping so deep it made the earth beneath his cape vibrate. He didn't budge an inch, his massive hands tightening on your thighs like iron bands, pinning your legs over his shoulders.
“I think I have made it pretty damn obvious who I belonged to for years,” he continued, leaning over you until his chest practically crushed yours, his breath hot and furious against your face. “Spending all my time with you. Not letting you out of my sight even for a single second. Everyone in Asgard knew you were mine to guard. So tell me...”
He dipped his head lower, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped, his blue eyes burning directly into your soul.
“...which fucker defied his prince and laid his hands on you? Give me a name.”
Did he just say he belonged to you?
Your lungs burned, your chest heaving with the crushing weight of your damn feelings. He was pushing you down so hard emotionally that you weren’t sure if you could ever find a way out of this anymore. It was bad enough that you were letting him touch you like this—he had broken your heart once already, and now you were actively giving him the opportunity to do it all over again. He must be lying just to get you to tell him a name, your logic screamed at you, desperate to protect what was left of your sanity.
“What will you do to him if I tell you?” you whispered, your eyes tracing the sharp, perfectly chiseled planes of his face.
Thor was fucking furious. The air around you felt thick, charged with the dangerous, crackling energy of a storm about to break. He was laying his heart bare to you, and you were still protecting another man. You had broken his heart once by leaving, and now he felt like he was giving you the perfect chance to break it a second time.
“I will decide when I know who it is,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He snapped his right hand up to grab your chin, his massive palm covering most of your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.
“I don't remember his name,” you lied through your teeth, your mind spinning too fast to construct a more specific or believable story.
You were fucking lying, and he knew it. He could read you too well; he saw the subtle shift in your eyes, the slight tremor in your breathing. But instead of pushing for the name, his expression hardened, shifting into something far more determined, dark, and utterly possessive.
“Then I’m gonna make damn sure you won’t remember a single thing about any other man,” he vowed, his left thumb wiping aggressively against the inside of your right thigh. He slid right back into his former position, settling firmly between your knees as your legs remained draped over his massive shoulders. The orange firelight caught the sweat sheen on his bare back, casting long shadows across his protective crimson cape spread beneath you.
“You will be my wife,” he commanded, his voice thick with a raw, unyielding promise that left no room for argument, his blue eyes burning directly into yours as he stared you down. “There is only me now. You had better get used to it, Treasure.”
With that final declaration, keeping that piercing gaze locked onto yours, he dipped his head again— his wet, heated mouth crashing back down against your aching center with a bruising, desperate hunger that instantly made you see stars.
He was sucking your soul right out of you. Your high, desperate mewls of pleasure were only drawing him on, driving him deeper into his own possessive hunger. Your breaths came out ragged and shallow as you instinctively bucked your hips upward, trying to force more of him inside you.
He gripped your hips with iron hands, pinning you firmly against his crimson cape. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly command against your sensitive skin.
To punish your impatience, he gave your swollen clit a sharp little kiss, immediately resuming his relentless suckling. Wet, heavy sounds echoed in the quiet Vanaheim night as he worked over your drenched pussy. He was basically making out with your center, and oh gods, did you fucking like it. You were completely helpless beneath him.
“Thor, baby, please,” you begged, your fingers knotting tightly into his hair as your head thrashed against his cape.
In response, he slid his thick middle finger straight into your dripping hole. “Oh gods,” you breathed, your eyes snapping open to look down at him.
His blue eyes hadn't left your face for even a fraction of a second. He watched your undoing with a raw, predatory satisfaction, and the sheer sight of his intense gaze magnified the pressure in your lower stomach tenfold. You closed your eyes, your knuckles turning white in his golden locks. “I’m so close—Thor, oh!”
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, his voice vibrating against your inner thighs. “My pretty girl,” he mumbled through his suckling, the praise dripping with an intoxicating sweetness that made your heart ache just as much as your core.
He was deliberately trying to stretch you out, his single finger moving deep inside you, making your aching, wet walls burn with a delicious friction. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he hooked his ring finger alongside the first, pushing both deep into your heat and making you mewl in a high, broken sob.
“Please,” you pleaded, your internal muscles clenching tightly around his intrusion. His fingers were stretching you so much that you felt like you were already being filled to the absolute brim.
A sudden, devastating thought crossed your mind. If his mere fingers were making you feel this completely full, what the hell was going to happen when his massive cock was finally inside you?
The mental image of him burying his full size into you was the final, lethal blow. You couldn't hold it back for another second. The pressure in your lower stomach broke, and you went entirely rigid, your hips locking as a violent wave of pleasure crashed over you. You came hard right on his mouth, screaming his name into the dark forest as your walls squeezed his fingers in tight, rhythmic spasms.
He lapped up your juices eagerly, the action causing wet slurping sounds to come out in the quiet of the night. His tongue didn't stop its assault for even a second, and his two fingers were still buried deep inside you, pumping in a ruthless, perfect rhythm that made you squirm and writhe against his crimson cape.
When it became too much, when the pleasure turned into a sharp, electric overload, you tried prying him off of you, your fingers desperately pushing at his broad shoulders.
But it was absolutely no use; he was an immovable wall. Your hips backed away from him instinctively, your whines not stopping as his fingers stretched you from the inside while his mouth continued ruthlessly attacking your overstimulated clit.
“Please—it's too much,” you begged him, your voice cracking, on the very verge of crying from the sheer intensity of it.
“You can take it,” he said, his gravelly voice vibrating right against your thighs. He looked straight up into your eyes and took your swollen clit directly between his lips, giving it a firm, deliberate suck while his fingers curled deep inside your wet hole.
Your mouth fell agape as a second, completely unexpected wave of pleasure started brewing deep in your core. “Fuck,” you gasped, your logic completely melting away as your hips lifted up again, betraying your earlier words to chase the relief only he could give you.
“There you go, my good girl,” he mumbled through his relentless assaults on your clit, his fingers driving in deeper, stretching your aching walls to their absolute limit.
“Thor—!” you screamed into the foggy canopy as your second orgasm hit you, your tight muscles clamping down around his buried fingers.
You were absolutely delirious with pleasure. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your hands, still tightly tangled in his golden hair, pulled hard on his locks as your entire body trembled under the assault of his mouth and hand.
When he was finally done, he slid his fingers out of your soaking wetness with a soft, squelching sound and slid up your body, settling himself right back over you. His massive, bare chest pressed against yours, his face perfectly in line with yours.
Without a word, he captured your lips, kissing you deeply and making you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimacy of it sent a shiver through your spine. You cupped his jaw with your hands, kissing him back eagerly, losing yourself in the hot, wet rhythm.
When he finally separated his mouth from yours, the friction caused a thin string of saliva to appear between your lips.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his breathing still heavy as his blue eyes searched your face, looking over you with genuine concern for anything wrong.
You nodded your head, your chest heaving against his. “I’m amazing,” you breathed out.
He smiled, his features softening completely as he leaned down to give you another sweet, lingering peck. But then, he did something you never, ever expected from him.
Instead of reaching for the waistband of his own trousers, he shifted down your body. He reached into the darkness, grabbed your discarded black lace panties, and began pulling them back over your feet and up your legs, carefully covering your bare skin.
“What are you doing?” you asked, your gaze turning completely confused, your brow knitting together as you looked down at him through the firelight.
“I think it’s obvious what I’m doing, Treasure,” he said, locking his gaze with yours as he found your trousers and started pulling them over your legs, too.
“But don’t you want to— what about you?” you asked, pointing with your eyes toward the huge bulge straining against his trousers.
“It’s okay,” he mumbled, his hands sweeping across the moss as he looked for your armor and top.
What the hell is his problem? You thought to yourself, a piercing cold washing over your skin. He doesn't want me?
You pulled your knees to your chest, sitting up now as your arms crossed tightly over your bare breasts, a harsh chill going straight through your spine. Your gaze locked onto the dancing orange flames of the fire, your expression turning completely grim.
How could I have been such a fool? The thoughts echoed brutally in your mind, your throat tightening as the familiar ache of rejection from a year ago slammed back into your chest. You had bared your body and soul to him, and he was dressing you back up.
When Thor finally found the rest of your gear, he smiled in triumph and turned back over to you, ready to help you back into it. But the smile died on his face instantly.
He looked over to see you curled into yourself, your arms shielding your body from him, your face turned away.
Your angelic face looked so incredibly sad, so deeply regretful, that he felt the breath get taken clean out of his lungs.
A sharp pang of panic hit his chest. Did he do something he shouldn't have? But if that was true, why would you have kissed him back with that much desperate passion?
He crawled closer to you, the heavy weight of his bare body shifting the cape beneath you. He reached out, his large, warm fingers gently wrapping around your right wrist, tugging softly to make you look up at him. Your eyes were wide, shining brilliantly with brewing tears that threatened to spill over at any second.
“Treasure, what’s wrong?” he asked desperately, his voice cracking as he immediately cupped your face with both of his massive, warm hands, forcing you to feel his heat.
“I thought you wanted me,” you whispered, the words so impossibly low and broken that he had to lean in just a fraction more to be able to catch them over the crackle of the fire.
Thor froze, his thumbs halting against your cheekbones as your words registered. His jaw dropped slightly, his blue eyes widening in utter disbelief that you could even think such a thing.
“You think I don’t want you? After that?” he rasped, his voice vibrating with a sudden, fierce intensity. He slid his hands from your jaw down to your shoulders, gripping you firmly as if trying to shake the thought straight out of your head.
“Look at me. Look at what you do to me. I am burning alive for you, sweetheart. I have been since the moment I saw you grew up into this woman.” He let out a frustrated breath, his forehead dropping heavily against yours.
“Then why did you—”
“I'm trying to be a gentleman, you stubborn little bird. I’m trying so hard to keep my composure,” he admitted, his voice strained with the sheer effort of it. “I don't want to just take you in the dirt. I want to take you to a bed—I want to marry you properly. Gods, don't you ever think I don't want you. Because I do—so much it burns me.”
His words made your pulse skip a beat, echoing in the quiet night. They circled around you, hugging you so tight you were completely unable to take another breath. You kept looking up at him, your expression frozen in one of pure shock.
“Treasure,” he mumbled, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, his touch so incredibly full of love you could feel it burn right through your skin. “My treasure, my one and only.”
He leaned down, claiming your lips in a soft, grounding kiss that felt entirely different from the desperate heat from before. “I never stopped wanting you. Even when you left me—I didn’t have it in me to stop,” he mumbled against your lips, the confession raw and bleeding.
“I do not know what to say—” you started, the wall around your heart cracking wide open.
But he gently cut you off. “You don't have to say anything.”
Then, keeping his promise, he started dressing you again. He carefully pulled your top down, smoothing the fabric down over your skin with a tenderness that made your throat ache. Once you were covered, he wrapped his massive arms around you, pulling your back flat against his bare, heated chest as he laid down onto his heavy crimson cape.
He tucked your head under his chin, his strong embrace shielding you entirely from the chill. “Let's rest now, honey,” he murmured into your hair, his heartbeat a steady thud beneath your hand.
—
The steady, heavy thud of Thor’s heartbeat against your cheek was the first thing that anchored you back to reality. You blinked your eyes open, finding yourself completely cocooned in his heat.
Your head was still tucked securely under his chin, his massive arms wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against his bare front. The crisp morning air was biting, but you wouldn't have known it from the sheer warmth radiating off him.
For a second, you just stayed there, letting your cheek remain smushed against his chest, watching the faint blue veins beneath his skin. It was, without a doubt, the best way you had woken up in three hundred and sixty-five days. You had imagined this—waking up next to him, feeling his heat burn you so good, so right, you didn’t know if you ever wanted to leave. If you ever even could leave.
Then, the weight of last night settled back into your bones. You kissed. Kissed with so much passion—so desperate that you almost went there with him.
The desperate kisses, the dirt, the heavy promises muttered in the dark—they all weighed on you, all at once. And the glaring fact remained that despite the physical eruption, the massive chasm between you hadn't actually been fixed. You still hadn't told him why you left, and he still hadn't explained the disgust you were certain you'd seen in his eyes.
The wall was cracked, but it was still standing. Even after his confession to you, you were certain he still despised you; he was just physically attracted to you.
As if sensing your shift in breathing, Thor shifted. A low, gravelly rumble vibrated in his chest, and his grip around your waist tightened instinctively before his eyes even opened.
“Morning, Treasure,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his breath stirring the loose strands of your hair.
“Morning,” you whispered, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of how close you were. You gently pressed your palms against his chest, signaling for him to let you up.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, an unspoken reluctance lingering in the air. Though when he opened his eyes and saw your face, your expression was so full of regret, so fucking full of sadness, it made him nauseous. She regrets everything, he thought bitterly.
His arms loosened, letting you sit up reluctantly, his fingers curling into tight fists for a fleeting second before he completely dropped his hands. The cold air immediately hit your skin, making you shiver as you reached for your discarded top armor lying on the moss. The domestic softness of the night evaporated quickly as you both strapped your armor back on.
It was a silent coordination, the tension between you thick but different now. It wasn't the sharp, biting hostility from yesterday; it was a heavy, charged awareness. Every time his boots crunched on the frozen leaves, or your shoulder brushed his as you packed up the camp, your pulse gave a small, traitorous leap.
Thor hoisted his heavy chest piece over his broad shoulders, buckling it with practiced ease before picking up his cape. He shook the dirt and pine needles from the crimson fabric, then turned his stormy blue eyes toward you. The raw, desperate vulnerability from last night was tucked away, replaced by the stoic prince you were meant to accompany.
“The fog is lifting,” Thor said, his voice carrying its usual authoritative weight, though his eyes lingered on your flushed lips for a beat too long. Oh, how he longed to kiss them now that he had a taste. It took every ounce of his legendary restraint not to step across the small clearing and pull you back against him. “If we move quickly, we can reach the outpost before midday.”
“Good,” you replied, your voice trembling for a second as you saw his eyes lock in on your lips. You breathed out, quickly averting your eyes as you checked the daggers at your waist, deliberately keeping your gaze focused on your weapons. “The sooner we finish this patrol, the sooner we can get back to Asgard.”
Back to Asgard. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. Back to the looming wedding, back to the public eyes, and back to the suffocating armor of their official titles.
“Right.” He cleared his throat, turning to extinguish the remaining embers of the fire with the heel of his boot. “Let's move out.”
You fell into step just a pace behind him, the familiar rhythm of the mission taking over. The silence between you stretched across the rocky Vanaheim terrain, but the space felt smaller now. Every brush of his hand against yours as you navigated the steep, root-tangled path felt like a live wire, a constant reminder of what lay beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break.
The damp forest gradually gave way to jagged stone ridges, the heavy canopy thinning enough to let the pale morning sun filter through. Thor moved with a cautious deliberation, his hand occasionally dropping near the hilt of his weapon, his eyes scanning the dense treeline. He was entirely focused on the path ahead, yet his posture remained stiff, his shoulders tense. He was painfully aware of your every breath behind him.
She wants to get back to Asgard so badly because she can't stand being alone with me, he thought, his chest tightening as he gripped a stone ledge to pull himself up.
He hated the silence. He hated that the moment the sun rose, you had built that damn wall right back up, treating him like a prince instead of the man who had been worshiping you on his knees just hours before.
You watched the broad expanse of his back. Your fingers still tingled with the memory of his skin, and your core still throbbed with a faint, lingering ache.
He said he belonged to me, you reasoned with yourself, trying to steady your uneven breathing as you climbed the rocky slope. But he only said those things because he was consumed by lust. The moment we return, he will go back to being distant. He will go back to looking at me with that hidden judgment. You couldn't let your guard down. You had to protect whatever pieces of your heart remained intact.
Suddenly, Thor halted, raising a hand to signal you to stop. The sudden change in his demeanor instantly snapped you out of your thoughts. You instinctively gripped the hilt of your dagger, stepping up beside him, your eyes following his sharp gaze toward a narrow ravine just ahead.
The quiet of the forest had changed. The usual morning bird calls had completely died out, replaced by a low, unnatural scraping sound echoing from the shadows of the rocks below.
Thor didn’t speak, but his jaw tightened as he slid a glance down at you, checking your stance. Even with the emotional wall built solidly between you, your instincts as a warrior were completely in sync with his. You dropped low, minimizing your silhouette against the grey stone ridge, your fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of your dagger.
The scraping sound grew louder, accompanied by the distinct smell of wet ash and rotting wood—the telltale scent of a Marauder scouting party, or worse, beasts driven mad by the lingering dark magic in Vanaheim’s deeper wilds.
“Two,” Thor whispered, his voice so low it was barely heard against the wind as his eyes tracked a movement down in the ravine. “Maybe three. Hiding in the blind spot of the ridge.”
“I’ll take the high flank,” you breathed back, your tone strictly professional, burying the flutter in your chest under a layer of cold battlefield focus. “Keep their attention on the path. I’ll drop behind them.”
Thor’s eyes snapped to yours then, a fierce flash of protective anger flaring in his blue eyes. His fingers twitched over his weapon. He hated you taking the flank alone, especially today when his chest felt hollowed out by your silence. But he knew your skills—he knew you were more than capable.
“Don't take risks,” he commanded gruffly. “If it’s a trap, you pull back to me. Immediately.”
“I know my duty, my prince,” you replied quietly, the title slipping from your lips like a shield, intentionally reminding him of where you both stood.
A muscle jumped in his cheek at the formality, a dark shadow crossing his face. It was a slap to the face after the broken whimpers of his name you had cried into the dark forest hours ago. “I thought I told you not to address me that wa—”
Before he could say anything more, you slipped away, moving like a shadow across the upper crags of the ravine. Thor watched your retreating form for a split second, his heart hammering with a toxic mix of adrenaline and lingering possessiveness, before he stepped openly onto the rocky ledge, intentionally letting his heavy armor clank against the stone.
Below, three hulking, grey-skinned Marauders snapped their heads up, their crude iron blades instantly unsheathing as they spotted the Asgardian prince standing bare-faced in the sunlight. With a collective, guttural roar, they lunged up the steep incline toward him.
From your position above, you waited for the perfect moment. Watching Thor step into battle was always a terrifyingly beautiful sight. His raw strength was unmatched; he caught the first creature's blade with his hand, twisting the metal out of its grip and throwing a heavy, bone-crushing right hook that sent the beast crashing into the dirt, while the thunderous hum of his hammer rattled the stone beneath him.
But your focus snapped to the third creature, who was unhooking poisoned spear, aiming directly for the exposed seam in Thor’s side armor while he was occupied with the second enemy. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you took in a sharp breath, not again.
Not on my watch.
You leaped from the ridge, your blue cape flaring behind you as you drove your body weight down into the third Marauder. Your daggers found their marks with lethal precision, the beast collapsing beneath you onto the damp moss with a heavy thud.
Thor’s head whipped around at the sound, his breathing heavy as he pinned the remaining creature to the stone. His heart stopped beating for a moment as his eyes locked onto you, scanning your body instantly from head to toe for any signs of blood, any signs of injury.
His heart hung heavy in his chest until he found you were completely unharmed, and the sheer, panicked terror in his expression finally eased, replaced by a dark, simmering intensity.
You stood up, wiping your blade on the side of your trousers, your chest heaving from the exertion. The silence returned, heavier now, punctuated only by the crackle of dry leaves under your boots.
Thor dropped the last unconscious beast to the ground, stepping over its body until he was standing directly in your space. He was radiating that staggering, familiar heat again, his heavy breathing filling the gap between you. He grabbed your right wrist as he got closer to you, his grip ironclad.
“Are you crazy?!” he yelled at you, his eyes keeping up their frantic check over your armor, searching for a single drop of your blood. “Why the fuck did you do that?!”
You gulped, looking up into the absolute terror and fury warring in his face. “Because I couldn't let the same thing happen—“
“What if you got stabbed?” he cut you off completely, his furious gaze burning into yours, his chest heaving violently against his armor.
“Why is this even that big of a deal?” you asked, panic and frustration rising in your own throat as you tried prying your wrist out of his suffocating grasp. “I must serve the throne after all—“
“You do not put yourself in danger. Ever. Do you hear me?” he commanded, his desperate, raw voice filling your veins and shaking you to your very core.
“But—“
Before you could finish, he dropped his hold on your wrist and framed your face with both of his massive hands, his palms incredibly hot against your skin. “Do not. I beg you,” he breathed out, his voice dropping into a broken, vulnerable whisper. He looked down at your lips, breathing in heavy, staggering breaths, his body so close you could feel his heart hammering right through his chest piece.
Your pulse skipped a beat, your fingers tightening around your dagger with all your might. He shouldn't have this much power over my heart, you thought—screamed to yourself—as you stared back into the raging storm of his eyes.
“Okay,” you whispered, completely undone by the raw desperation in his face. You cleared your throat, sheathing your daggers and held his large hands where they rested on your cheeks, giving them a gentle, lingering graze with your fingers, trying to ground both of him and yourself.
Reluctantly loosening your grip, you lowered your hands and muttered out, “We should keep moving.” Your voice was remarkably steady despite the chaotic, deafening hammering of your heart. “The scuffle might have drawn more of them.”
“Let them come,” Thor rumbled, dropping his hands as he finally took a half-step back, giving you just even a fraction of room to draw a clean breath. He called Mjolnir back to his hand with a low, electric hum, the leather strap wrapping securely around his wrist. “But you are right. The outpost is still an hour's march through the valley.”
You turned and began navigating the rocky downward slope, deliberately setting a fast pace to keep a safe distance between you. But Thor remained right on your heel, his presence an undeniable pressure at your back. Every time you had to leap over a fallen ironwood trunk or navigate a patch of loose gravel, you could feel his eyes tracking your movements, his hand twitching as if waiting for you to stumble just so he could catch you.
Why was he doing this? Looking after you as if you mattered—like he used to. It fucking hurt you. It hurt you more than his gaze full of hate ever did, because now he was pretending. Pretending to care for you when you knew what he truly felt about you deep down. You had let him kiss you, let him completely dismantle you last night, even though you knew the truth. Even though he had made it clear before that he didn't see you as anything more than a tool. You were just a stupid, gullible girl who didn't know how to keep her goddamn composure near him.
I don't want to just take you in the dirt, his voice echoed brutally in your mind, the gravelly sincerity of it tearing at your defenses. I want to marry you properly.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief second as you walked, shaking the torturous memory right out of your head. Lust, you told yourself firmly, your boots sinking into the damp earth as you forced your feet to keep moving. It's just the adrenaline of the mission and the fact that we're bound by an arranged marriage in a few days. He doesn't mean it. He can't. If he truly loved you, if he truly wanted you the way he claimed in the dark, he wouldn't have looked at you with such cold, biting disdain. He wouldn't have let you walk away a year ago without a fight.
Behind you, Thor’s thoughts were just as turbulent. He watched the tight swing of your shoulders, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth. The formal mask you had put back on was driving him insane. He wanted to reach out, to wrap his hand around your wrist and force you to confront him, to make you admit that your heart was beating just as fast as his. But the memory of the profound sadness and regret on your face when you woke up held him back like iron chains.
She thinks she made a mistake, he thought bitterly, his fingers tightening around the handle of Mjolnir until his knuckles turned white. She will never feel the same way. He had promised to be a gentleman, to wait until they were in a bed, until they were bound properly before the gods—but watching you treat him like a mere commanding officer after what you had shared was a specialized kind of torture.
He could feel his lungs constrict in his chest, making it hard to draw a clean breath of the crisp morning air. Yeah, he was fucked. He tried pushing his feelings away, tried burying them so deep so that they could never try to make their way to the surface. He had tried masking them as hatred for a whole damn year, and he had desperately, miserably failed.
He was so in love with you it hurt him. It fucking hurt him so much he could physically feel a dull, aching pain in his chest with every step he took behind you. He was desperately in love with a woman who had left him without a shred of doubt, and the worst part was, he would still do anything to keep you safe. Anything to keep you happy—even if it took from his own happiness, he didn't care. If pretending to be your distant prince was what you needed to stay whole, he would play the part, even if it tore him apart from the inside out.
By the time the stone walls of the Asgardian vanguard outpost finally broke through the heavy morning mist, the silence between you had hardened into something impenetrable.
The guards at the iron gates immediately snapped to attention, their armor clanking as they saluted the approaching prince. "Prince Thor! My lady. We did not expect you until nightfall."
"The patrol was clear, save for a minor scouting party in the lower ravine," Thor reported. His voice instantly shifted, adopting the booming, authoritative tone of a commander, though his shoulder remained rigidly locked right next to yours as you entered the stone courtyard. “We will rest here for an hour, secure fresh rations, and prepare the horses for the journey back to the capital.”
“Right away, Your Highness.”
As the guards scattered to fulfill the orders, the domestic illusion of the forest was officially dead. You were back in the real world now, surrounded by soldiers, duties, and the looming reality of Asgard.
You turned on your heel, your blue cape sweeping against the stone ground as you looked for any excuse to get away from his suffocating warmth. "I'll go check on the stable arrangements and ensure the horses are fed for the ride back."
“The outpost guards can handle the beasts,” Thor said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its public commander edge and turning into that low, private rumble meant only for you.
“I prefer to see to my own mount, my prince,” you countered quietly, deliberately throwing the formal title in his face like a physical barrier. You needed him to remember his place. More importantly, you needed to remember yours.
A muscle jumped violently in his jaw, his blue eyes flashing with a dangerous, dark frustration. He took a single step closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you, blocking out the rest of the busy courtyard. "You are pushing your luck today," he growled, the warning vibrating in his chest.
“I am doing my job,” you whispered back, lifting your chin defensively, refusing to let him see how much your hands were shaking inside your gauntlets. “Nothing more.”
He stared down at you for a long, agonizing beat, his breathing heavy as his gaze dropped to your lips one final time—a silent, burning promise that made your knees feel traitorously weak—before he abruptly turned away. “Go then,” he muttered roughly. “We depart within the hour.”
You didn't wait for him to change his mind. You walked toward the back of the outpost, your heart hammering against your ribs so loudly you were certain the guards could hear it. The moment you stepped into the dim, shadow-filled stables, the scent of hay and leather enveloped you, providing a temporary sanctuary. You leaned your back against the wooden post of an empty stall, letting out a ragged breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
A tool. That’s all you were to the throne. An arranged bride to secure an alliance, a capable warrior to shield his back. If you let yourself believe his desperate whispers in the dirt, you would end up ruined all over again.
Outside, Thor stood in the center of the courtyard, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he watched the empty arched doorway of the stables. The pain in his chest was killing him. Every time you called him my prince, it felt like you were ripping out a piece of his soul. He wanted to storm into those stables, pin you against the wall, and kiss the cold, defensive titles right out of your mouth. He wanted to demand why you looked at him with so much hidden fear, why you thought he didn't want you.
But he couldn't. He had promised to protect your happiness, even if it meant letting you hide behind your duty.
“Prince Thor?” a lieutenant asked, approaching cautiously with a leather map case. “The scouts report a heavy Vanaheim downpour is rolling in from the peaks. The mountain trails will be pure mud within the hour.”
Thor looked up at the gathering dark clouds. A storm meant nothing to him—he could split the sky open and clear a path with a single thought if he wanted to. But as he glanced back toward the stables where you were hiding from him, his expression hardened into a mask of stoic royal duty. A delayed journey meant more hours trapped in this agonizing, silent proximity with you. If he cleared the weather, he was only rushing you both back to the suffocating public eye of Asgard.
“Let it rain,” Thor commanded flatly, his voice cutting through the wind. “We don't waste time. Have the men pack the rations. We ride through it.”
Exactly forty-five minutes later, you emerged from the stables, leading your armored mare by the reins. You kept your eyes fixed on the saddle, deliberately ignoring the giant of a man mounting his own towering stallion in the center of the yard. When you climbed into your saddle, you fell back into your proper position—exactly one horse-length behind the prince.
As the iron gates of the outpost groaned open, Thor guided his mount forward into the darkening Vanaheim wilderness. The natural wind picked up, whipping his crimson cape behind him as the first heavy drops of cold rain began to fall, matching the turbulent, unyielding tension that hung heavily between the two of you.
As Thor had commanded, you rode straight through the heavy Vanaheim downpour. The rain lashed at your faces and turned the steep mountain paths into treacherous rivers of mud, but neither of you uttered a word. You kept your mare exactly one horse-length behind his towering stallion, the heavy, unresolved tension from the night before still twisting painfully in your stomach.
Two hours later, you finally reached the coordinates of the retrieval mission: a long-abandoned, half-collapsed stone vault embedded deep within the mountain crags, rumored to hold a missing Asgardian relic from the old wars.
With Mjolnir’s lightning cutting through the pitch-black darkness of the cavern, you cleared out a nest of lingering cave-dwellers while Thor breached the ancient iron doors. Within minutes, the relic—a glowing, heavily inscribed silver urn—was securely fastened to Thor’s saddlebags.
The mission was officially a success. The artifact was secured.
But the moment you both stepped back out of the cavern and onto the narrow, slick mountain ridge to begin the journey home, the true danger struck. The relentless rain had compromised the very foundation of the peak.
High above the trail, a massive chunk of the fracturing rock shelf groaned, completely detaching directly over Thor’s head. He was focused on checking the secure straps of the relic on his saddle, his back completely turned to the collapsing cliffside. He didn't see the massive boulder cascading straight down toward him.
Your mind went entirely blank. The bitter logic that had screamed at you all morning to stay away from him, the walls you had built to protect your broken heart—it all evaporated in a single, terrifying heartbeat.
“Thor!” you screamed.
Without a second thought, you dug your spurs into your mare's sides. The horse lunged forward, bridging the distance between you in a desperate, muddy surge. Thor snapped his head around at your scream, his blue eyes widening in sudden shock as he saw you charging directly at him.
Before he could even register the danger above, you threw yourself sideways out of your saddle, your body colliding heavily into his armored torso. The sheer force of your momentum shoved him and his stallion forward, clearing the direct path of the collapse.
An instant later, the mountain fell.
The massive boulder slammed onto the trail exactly where Thor had been standing a millisecond prior. A stray, jagged piece of the fracturing rock whipped through the air with lethal velocity. You didn't have time to dodge. The sharp stone caught you squarely against your side, tearing through the seam of your armor with a sickening crunch.
The force of the blow ripped you completely from your horse, sending you crashing hard onto the slick, muddy stone of the trail.
“No!” Thor’s voice tore out of his throat, a raw, primal scream of pure agony that didn't sound human.
He didn't care about his footing; he threw himself off his stallion before the beast had even come to a halt, hitting the mud on his knees and scrambling desperately toward you through the falling debris. The sheer panic radiating off him was blinding.
You lay flat on your back in the mud, the breath completely knocked out of your lungs. A sharp, burning agony flared in your side, so intense it made your vision go entirely black around the edges. Your fingers twitched against the wet earth, your chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps as the rain poured over your face.
“Treasure! Treasure, look at me!” Thor roared, his large hands trembling violently as he reached for you. He didn't dare pull you into his lap yet, terrified of worsening the injury. His face was completely pale, the stoic prince entirely gone. “Gods, please—open your eyes!”
You forced your eyelids open, your breathing rattling in your chest. Through the haze of pain and rain, you saw his face hovering over yours. His blue eyes were wild, completely frantic, and filled with a raw, agonizing terror that went far deeper than mere concern for a comrade-in-arms.
“I told you...” Thor choked out, his voice cracking violently as his hands hovered over the deep, bloody gash in your side armor, blood mixing with the rainwater. “I told you never to put yourself in danger! Why don't you ever listen to me?!”
“You…” you whispered, a small, pained wheeze escaping your lips as you stared into the absolute devastation in his eyes. Even now, your stubborn heart tried to find a reason to doubt him. “You are the prince… I had to ensure we made it back…”
“Fuck the throne!” he yelled, his composure completely fracturing as a tear mixed with the rain on his cheek. He carefully slid his massive arms under your back and knees, lifting you against his chest with a desperate, crushing tightness, as if he could physically hold your life force inside you. “You think I give a damn about the throne if you are not there? Look at me! I am nothing without you! Do you hear me? Nothing!”
“I—“ You gulped, though your throat was impossibly dry, and you could feel the chaotic, frantic beat of his heart pressing right against your uninjured side. “I'm sorry,” you mumbled, the words catching in your throat as the cold rain hit your face. “You did save me—a lot of times—so it’s only fair that I—“
“I'd rather die than see you hurt!” he yelled, his voice cracking with an agonizing mixture of fury and terror. He didn't let you finish, couldn't bear to hear you rationalize your own blood. He looked up toward the heavy, dark clouds, his voice booming over the thunder. “Heimdall—!”
“Are we going back? But we can't yet—“ you managed to protest through the searing pain, but when you saw the sudden, terrifying look in his eyes, you stopped completely.
He looked absolutely petrified. His brilliant blue eyes were blown wide, the pupils dilated with a desperation so raw it made your own chest tighten. You had seen him face armies without flinching, but looking down at you, he looked entirely defeated.
“Is it that bad?” you asked suddenly, a cold pit forming in your stomach. You tried to shift, trying to look down at your side and midsection, but he instantly stopped you, his large hand pressing firmly but carefully against your uninjured shoulder, shaking his head frantically.
“It isn't, darling. Stop. Don't look,” he pleaded, his voice trembling.
But his panic only fed yours. You felt a dark, heavy dread settle over you as you fought against his grip, straining to see the state of your injury—though you really, really shouldn't have. You were already feeling dangerously lightheaded from the shock, but the moment your eyes caught the state of your stomach, the reality of it settled deep into your bones.
The silver alloy of your armor was torn completely open, jagged edges pushed inward, and the fabric beneath was soaked in a deep, terrifying crimson that the rain couldn't wash away fast enough. You could feel panic rise like a tidal wave in your chest, your hands trembling violently as your expression turned into one of absolute horror. Oh, no.
“Thor—“ you wheezed out, your voice dropping to a terrified whisper.
He saw the sudden change in your face, saw the realization dawn in your eyes, and he immediately knew what was coming. Shock was setting in, and if your heart rate spiked any further, he would lose you right here on the mountain trail.
Abandoning his call to the sky, he lowered himself with you in his arms immediately, sitting heavily in the freezing mud. He pulled you flush against his lap, one of his massive hands coming up to grab your face, his palm hot against your icy skin. He knew you couldn't travel like this—even the intense, pulling pressure of the Bifrost might tear the wound further. You needed to be stabilized now.
“Take in a deep breath for me, sweetheart. Come on,” he urged desperately, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he tried to keep your bleeding gaze locked entirely on his eyes. “Keep your eyes on me.”
He demanded it, his voice a gravelly anchor in the middle of the storm. He gripped your jaw with one hand to keep your head turned toward him, while his other hand moved blindly down, covering your injury with his large palm, shielding it completely from your sight.
His own face was entirely full of panic—you were absolutely sure of it, could see the way his jaw quivered and how the rain mixed with the moisture in his eyes—though he was trying with every ounce of his godlike strength to keep his composure for your sake.
“Look at me, Treasure. Just look at me,” he whispered over the lashing rain, his forehead leaning down to touch yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. “I've got you. I'm right here.”
You tried nodding, but your head felt incredibly heavy, the weight of the blood loss dragging you down into a dangerous lethargy. Your fingers twitched against the wet earth before you reached up, grabbing his wrist with all the strength you had left, trying to find your rhythm as you fought for air.
“Just like I taught you, darling,” he said, his voice a frantic, low rumble against your ear as the rain beat down around you. “I have to get you to Asgard. Breathe in for four seconds.”
You did exactly what he asked of you, pulling the crisp, damp Vanaheim air into your lungs as he counted.
“Hold it, baby. Hold it,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your jawline as his eyes tracked the frantic rise and fall of your chest, counting the seven seconds out loud with a desperate focus. “Exhale now, come on.” He started counting down to eight, his own chest heaving as he matched your pace. “Keep going, honey.”
He reassured you over and over, his voice a steady, grounding anchor in the chaos as he kept his stormy blue eyes locked entirely onto yours. You didn't know how long he kept doing it—how many cycles of numbers and pet names were whispered into the storm—but slowly, the suffocating panic eased off. Your heart settled into a more manageable, rhythmic beat against your ribs.
The moment he felt the frantic tension leave your frame, Thor didn't waste another second. He immediately got up from the freezing mud, lifting you securely against his chest with an effortless, protective strength.
“I don't know why you left me,” he mumbled into your hair, the raw, bleeding truth finally slipping past his guard as your heavy eyelids began to flutter closed. He squeezed you tighter, his large form shielding you from the lashing rain. “But you are not leaving me again. Not like this.”
His words sent a sudden, piercing wave of dread washing over you, cutting straight through the numbness of the shock. What if you died right here? What if you closed your eyes and never woke up, leaving him to live the rest of his immortal life believing a lie? Leaving him to believe you simply didn't care? You couldn't leave it like this.
He had to get you to the healers immediately, Thor looked up at the darkening sky, his voice booming with the full, terrifying authority of the God of Thunder as he roared, “Heimdall, get us back!”
The sky split open, and just as the roaring, blinding colors of the Bifrost began to engulf your bodies, pulling you up and away from the muddy mountain, you forced your cracked lips open. You whispered into the hollow of his neck, answering the question that had haunted him for a year.
“Because I heard you.”
The rainbow light pulled at you, but beneath the rushing sound of the cosmos, you felt Thor stiffen instantly. His entire body turned to stone beneath you, his grip tightening to a near-bruising fracture as the words echoed in his ears.
Summary: You have been best friends with Thor since your childhood, he was always there whenever you needed him. He’s always been a good friend, cared for you—did anything for you, really. Except you didn’t want him to merely be your friend. You were in love with him. But it wasn’t possible for you to be with him, because he didn’t love you. At least that’s what you thought.
Content: Slow burn, Mutual Pining, Best Friends to Lovers, Idiots In Love, Angst, Yearning, Tension, Miscommunication is so bad in this one, OBSESSED Thor, Jealous Thor, Possessive Thor, Jealous Reader, A lot of cursing, Explicit SMUT at the end. (Note: English isn’t my first language)
Word Count: 27k
Minors Do Not Interact
—
The sun was setting over Asgard, painting the training grounds in hues of deep amber and violet. It was the Golden Hour, a time when the city felt less like a fortress and more like a dream. You were sitting on the edge of a weathered stone fountain, the cool spray of the water a welcome relief against the heat of your skin after a day of drills.
Thor sat on the grass between your knees, his heavy back leaning against your legs as if they were his favorite throne. He had discarded his heavy cape and silver-plated armor, leaving him in a simple tunic that did little to hide the massive breadth of his shoulders.
It was a routine as old as time.
You were mindlessly running your fingers through his golden hair, detangling the knots left by wind. Thor let out a low, contented hum that vibrated through your shins and up into your very bones.
“You should have seen Sif today,” Thor murmured, his eyes closed. “She fought like she was possessed. There is a feast tonight in her honor, she asked if I would sit beside her on the dais.”
Your fingers faltered in the golden strands for a heartbeat.
A sharp, cold needle of jealousy pricked at your chest—not because you didn't like Sif, but because the thought of Thor sitting beside anyone else felt like a displacement of the natural order.
“You should,” you said, your voice sounding tighter than you intended. “You two always did make a striking pair on the dais.”
Thor stiffened. He opened his eyes, looking up at you from over his shoulder. Up close, the blue of his eyes was electric, searching yours with a sudden, uncharacteristic intensity. “And where would you be sitting, Little Spark?”
He had called you that since the first time you’d ever stood your ground against him during a childhood training session. He’d summoned a tiny, accidental bolt of static that had singed your hair, and instead of crying, you’d tackled him into the mud and demanded a rematch. He’d laughed, crowning you his Little Spark—the only person who didn't flicker out when his lightning got too close. Now, it was the only name he used to refer to you.
“Oh, probably at the lower tables with the other commanders. Or perhaps I’ll stay in. I have a lingering ache in my shoulder from sparring.”
Thor turned around fully now, his large hands coming up to rest on your knees. It was a touch that was far too intimate, yet he did it with the ease of breathing. “I will not go if you are not there,” he rumbled, his thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded circles on the fabric over your skin.
“What fun is a feast if I cannot lean over and whisper the gossip of the court into your ear? I would be bored to tears within the hour.”
“Thor, you are a Prince. You cannot skip every event because your best friend is tired,” you laughed weakly, trying to ignore the way your heart was currently trying to kick its way out of your ribs.
“I can and I will,” he countered, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, his expression darkening as a new thought crossed his mind. “Besides, I heard that young Captain Borison has been asking after you again. If you stay in, he might take it as a sign of availability.”
Thor’s grip on your knees tightened just a fraction.
He was right, he would think that. It’s because Thor was always with you that he tried staying away from you. But the second you decide to stay in for a festive night, be without Thor beside your side, he would come knocking on your door.
“And what if I am available?” you challenged softly, your breath hitching.
“You aren't,” he snapped, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous sound.
“And why is that?”
He opened his mouth to answer—to say that the thought of another man’s hand on your waist made him want to level the palace—but the word friendship stood like a sentry at his lips. He couldn't risk the one thing that kept you by his side.
“Because... because we are a team,” he managed, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Through thick and thin, remember? You are a Goddess of Asgard. You don't waste your time with Captains when you have a King-to-be to keep in line.”
As Thor turned back around, leaning his head against your knee again, you stared at the top of his head with an ache that felt like a searing wound.
He’s so close, you thought, your fingers trembling slightly as they returned to his hair. You can feel the heat of him, the way he leans on you like you are the only solid thing in his world.
But that’s all I am to him, you thought.
A pillar. The girl he grew up with.
You were in love with him—hopelessly, devastatingly in love with the way he laughed and the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.
You wanted to scream it, to tell the Prince of Asgard that his Little Spark wanted to be his Queen, to be the one he came home to every night, not just the one he sparred with in the mud.
But to confess it? It felt like a gamble where the only outcome was losing your home. Because Thor was Thor. He was affectionate with everyone. He flirted because it was his nature. He touched you because he was a creature of comfort, and you were his safest place. To him, the hand on your knee was just friendship. To him, the name Little Spark was just a relic of childhood.
Don't mistake his familiarity for favor, you warned yourself. He doesn't want you. He just doesn't want anyone else to have you because he’s a Prince who hates to share his toys.
And yet, as he grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips for a lingering kiss on your knuckles, the line between friendship and something much more divine felt thinner than a sword’s edge.
Loki stood at the edge of the fountain, his arms crossed over his chest and a look of profound boredom masking his sharp features. He had been tasked with finding Thor by Odin.
He hadn't needed to search for long, a simple inquiry into where you had gone was the most reliable way to find his brother.
“Of course,” Loki mumbled under his breath, watching the two of you with a roll of his eyes. “How predictable.”
The God of Mischief stepped into the quiet space, his shadow stretching over the stone. “Father is looking for you, brother,” he announced, his voice smooth and laced with a hint of mockery.
“Apparently, the future King of Asgard has more pressing matters than lounging in the grass.”
He then turned his gaze toward you, his lips curling into a feline smirk. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Loki,” you mumbled, still feeling the warmth of Thor’s weight against your legs.
You didn't notice the way Thor’s posture shifted instantly. His right hand, resting on the grass, curled into a tight fist at Loki’s casual endearment. The relaxed ease he had shown moments ago vanished, replaced by a rigid, stony silence.
“I’m coming, brother,” Thor’s voice boomed, the sound echoing across the grounds with a sudden, heavy weight.
Thor stood up, his massive frame towering over both of you, but his focus never wavered from your face. He moved back into your space, his large, warm hands coming up to cradle your cheeks. The callouses on his palms were rough against your skin, a grounding contrast to the whirlwind in your chest.
He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, a gesture so tender it made your eyes flutter shut, and leaned in to whisper against your skin.
“See you tonight, Little Spark.”
He pulled away, but his eyes stayed locked on yours for a heartbeat too long before he turned to follow Loki toward the palace.
As they walked away, you could hear Loki’s voice drifting back to you. “Honestly, brother, the dramatics. One would think you were going to war rather than a simple council meeting.”
“Silence, Loki,” Thor grumbled, his stride long and hurried.
You remained on the fountain, the spot where his lips had touched your forehead feeling like it was still burning. Your heart was thundering against your ribs, a beat of hope and terror.
You knew you shouldn't read into it. He had no idea what he was doing to you. He was just being Thor.
And that was the most painful part of all.
—
You were in the chambers that Thor had personally seen commissioned for you years ago, situated in the very heart of the royal wing. He had been adamant that his best friend be close enough that he could reach your door in a few short strides whenever he had a victory to boast of, a restless thought to share, or a wound that required your specific touch.
Tonight, the room was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of scented candles, their amber light dancing across the vaulted ceiling. You stood before the tall, silver-rimmed mirror, your fingers trembling as you adjusted the heavy drape of your gown.
You were the Goddess of Health and Beauty, a title that usually carried a weight of effortless confidence, yet as you looked at your reflection, a rare, gnawing doubt took hold.
What will he think? The question echoed in the quiet of the room. Will he think you are pretty? Or will he only watch her—Sif, in all her golden warrior glory—and never once glance your way?
You shook your head, trying to dislodge the thought. You were a commander of Asgard, not a pining girl in a storybook. You reached for a small crystal vial of shimmering oil, rubbing it into your skin.
As you moved, the faint scar on your collarbone—a souvenir from a particularly bloody skirmish in the Borderlands—caught the light.
It was a reminder of who you were when the silks were stripped away; a warrior who had bled beside him.
Your power hummed just beneath the surface, a soft, rose-colored energy that pulsed in time with your racing heart. You focused on your breathing, forcing the pink light to stay settled, invisible beneath the midnight-blue silk of your skirts.
The walk to the Great Hall felt longer than any march you’d ever taken across the Bifrost.
The heels of your golden boots clicked against the white marble as you stepped into the hallway. The royal wing was quiet, the walls lined with tapestries depicting the great battles you and Thor had fought side-by-side.
You passed a portrait of a younger Thor, long-haired and grinning, and you had to look away.
As you descended the grand staircase, the air began to change. The scent of roasted meat, heavy mead, and expensive incense drifted up from the Great Hall. You could hear the distant roar of laughter and the rhythmic thrum of Asgardian drums.
The two Einherjar guards at the entrance straightened as you approached. They knew you well; you had healed their wounds in the field. With a synchronized grunt of respect, they pulled the massive oak doors open.
You didn't look at the lower tables. You kept your gaze fixed forward, your chin tilted high, walking with the measured, predatory grace of a hunter. The blue silk of your skirts swished against the stone floor, flowing behind you like a river.
As you neared the high table, the space where the royal family sat, the noise around you seemed to dim. You felt the weight of a thousand eyes, but you only cared about one pair. Thor was leaning back in his chair, a silver goblet halfway to his lips as he listened to Fandral tell a joke.
Then, he saw you.
The goblet paused in mid-air. His pupils dilated, his gaze sweeping from the crown of your head down to the hem of the blue dress. The rowdy grin he’d been wearing faded, replaced by a hard—unreadable stare that made your breath catch in your throat.
He didn't say a word, his jaw tightening as he watched you approach.
You didn't stop, closing the distance until you stood directly before him.
Thor stumbled to his feet, the heavy gilded chair scraping harshly against the stone floor in his haste. Sif was indeed sitting to his right, her silver armor gleaming under the torchlight. He had listened to your advice.
Your blood ran cold, a sharp, hollow ache opening up in your chest. It’s okay, you told yourself, forcing your features into a mask of regal indifference. It’s no big deal.
You looked at the now occupied seat where you usually sat, then back to him. His blue eyes were wide, shadowed with guilt, his gaze pleading with you across the distance.
“I had to—“ he started, his voice hushed and desperate.
“It is none of my business, really,” you cut him off before he could start, your voice clipped and professional.
The seat to his left was vacant, and for a fleeting second, the impulse to take it nearly overcame your pride.
You wanted to sit there. You ached to sit there.
But that seat was traditionally reserved for his closest tactical advisor or a visiting dignitary. Since Sif was in your usual spot to his right, you either sat in a seat you weren't technically assigned to, or you didn't sit with him at all.
Protocol dictated that as a commander of your rank, you remained with the high-ranking officers at the secondary tables.
You turned your gaze to the woman beside him. “Lady Sif,” you said, inclined your head in a stiff, formal greeting.
Thor didn't sit back down. He stood like a statue, watching with a silent, mounting frustration as you moved past him.
You took your place at the head of the secondary table, the blue silk of your skirts rustling as you settled into the chair right next to a young, decorated General. He was handsome, with dark, sweeping hair and a smile that was far too bright as he leaned in.
“A Goddess of Beauty in a dress like that?” the General murmured, his hand lingering on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing your shoulder with a casual, practiced charm.
“I fear the mead will be the second most intoxicating thing at this table tonight.”
Across the small gap between the tables, you could feel Thor’s gaze. He was gripping his silver goblet like a madman, his knuckles trembling. He stayed standing, his gaze fixed on the General’s hand near your skin.
“Brother, sit down,” Loki hissed from further down the table, eyes darting between Thor’s rigid back and your interaction with the General. “You’re hovering like a gargoyle.”
Thor kept his eyes locked on you even as he finally sank back into his chair. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle was jumping in his cheek, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
The General kept talking to you, oblivious to the divine lightning brewing feet away. He began asking about your hobbies, his tone bright and inquisitive like a goddamn child.
You felt the pink light of your power prickling at your fingertips, fueled by the irritation humming in your veins. You rolled your eyes, staring down into the depths of your drink.
“Killing men for fun,” you mumbled to yourself, taking a long, sharp gulp of the liquor.
The General paused, his brows furrowed in genuine confusion as he tilted his head. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.”
You lowered the glass, tilting your head back to give him a fake, dazzling smile that felt like it was cracking your face. “Oh, I said killing my time reading. I’m quite the scholar when I'm not on duty.”
“Ah, a woman of letters as well as war. Truly intoxicating,” he chuckled, reaching out to place his hand on the table, terrifyingly close to yours.
You kept your gaze to your plate, feeling your social battery drain.
He’s an energy vampire, you thought.
The General took your silence as an invitation to dive into a self-aggrandizing monologue. He launched into a story about a skirmish in the Vanaheim foothills, his gestures wide and animated.
His stories were pale, hollow things compared to the battles you and Thor had weathered together—the fire of Muspelheim, the bone-chilling frost of Jotunheim.
You stared at your plate, picking at a piece of roasted fowl, trying to keep the mounting boredom from showing on your face. “Mhm,” you mumbled, offering a hollow, melodic laugh when he paused for effect.
You didn't have the energy to argue or to walk away. You were too busy watching the high table out of the corner of your eye.
To you, the scene was agonizingly clear: Thor was sitting with Sif, their heads close together as she spoke to him. He looked every bit the future King, settled and right in the spot his father had chosen for him. Every time he shifted in his seat, you felt a fresh wave of bitterness.
He’s having the best time, you thought, the blue silk of your dress feeling like a heavy, mocking weight. He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, and I am just a simple soul in his golden life.
But across the gap, Thor was simmering in a hell of his own making.
He wasn't listening to Sif. He couldn't hear a word she said over the sound of your laughter—that fake, practiced sound that he, in his blind jealousy, mistook for genuine delight.
To Thor, you looked radiant, glowing in the soft pink light of your own power as you smiled at a man who wasn't him.
He knew your real laughs—the deep, belly-shaking ones you shared by the fountain—but the green-eyed monster clawing at his insides told him that perhaps you had found a new reason to shine.
The General reached out, his hand hovering close to your arm as he made a point.
Thor’s knuckles became so white they looked like bone. He felt the phantom itch of Mjolnir in his palm, the urge to level the table between you becoming almost physical.
He was a Prince of Asgard, bound by a royal decree to sit beside a woman he hadn't chosen, watching a stranger try to claim his safest harbor.
He watched you look up at the General, that fake smile still plastered on your face, and he felt a snap deep within his chest. He couldn't take it anymore.
He strode toward the secondary table, his cape snapping behind him like a war banner. The General didn't even have time to stand before Thor was there, looming over both of you, his shadow swallowing the table.
“Get up,” Thor commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that brooked no argument.
You looked up, startled, the fake smile finally dropping. “Thor? What are you—“
“Get up,” he repeated, his eyes burning into yours with a raw, possessive gaze that made the pink light at your fingertips flare into a bright, hot rose. He didn't spare a glance at the General. He reached down, his large hand wrapping firmly around your wrist, his thumb pressing against your pulse point.
“You are sitting with me. To my left.”
“Thor, the advisor’s seat—“ you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“I do not care for advisors tonight,” he snapped, his grip tightening just enough to pull you toward him. “I care for my commander. Walk.”
You could feel the heat of a thousand eyes burning into your back, but Thor seemed utterly oblivious to the scandal he was courting.
He did not let go of your wrist until you were standing directly before the advisor’s chair. With a sharp, fluid motion, he slid the heavy gilded seat out for you. His expression had shifted with terrifying speed; the stormy look was gone, replaced by a dashing, triumphant smile. He looked down at you with a spark of pure contentment in his eyes, his chest puffing out slightly now that he had successfully reclaimed his territory from the General.
“Sit,” he murmured, gesturing toward the seat with a flourish of his hand that felt more like a royal decree than a suggestion.
You sank into the chair, the blue silk of your skirts rustling loudly in the quiet. Your mind was racing, your heart hammering against your chest.
What has gotten into him? you thought, your skin still tingling where his palm had pressed against your pulse. To break protocol so publicly, to shove aside the tactical seat just to pull you from a conversation—it was madness.
To your right, Sif was a statue of simmering fury. Her expression had soured into one of deep, sharp irritation, her jaw set so tight you could see the tension in her neck. She didn't look at you; she stared straight ahead, her fingers curled around the stem of her goblet as if she meant to snap it in two. She was the one chosen by the King for this night, yet the Prince had just made it very clear who he actually intended to spend it with.
Thor settled back into his own throne, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in. He didn't look at his father, who was watching from the center of the dais with a furrowed brow, and he certainly didn't look at Sif. He picked up his mangled goblet, the bent silver a testament to his earlier rage, and looked at you with a terrifyingly bright expression.
“That General was a bore,” Thor said, his voice loud enough to carry just far enough to be heard by those closest to them. He leaned closer, the scent of his skin enveloping you. “I could see the light draining from your eyes with every word he spoke. I simply couldn't allow my best warrior to be bored to death before the first course was even finished.”
You looked at him, searching his face for a hint of the playfulness he usually wore, but his gaze was too heavy, too anchored on your lips.
You swallowed, the pink light of your magic was pulsing erratically beneath your skin, threatening to spill over and illuminate the entire high table in a guilty, rose-colored glow.
“You broke protocol, Thor,” you whispered, leaning your head toward his so the court wouldn't catch your words. “Everyone is staring. Sif is—”
“Let them stare,” he interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, possessive rumble that seemed to vibrate against your very skin. He reached out, his fingers tracing a slow, absent-minded line over the midnight-blue silk on your arm, a touch that was entirely too lingering for the public eye. “I am the Prince of Asgard. If I wish for my best friend to sit at my side, then that is where she shall sit.”
His hand stilled on your arm, his fingers tightening just a fraction as he leaned closer, his scent of leather and mountain air clouding your senses. “Now, tell me,” he demanded, his gaze boring into yours making your pulse jump. “What was that nonsense he was saying that made you laugh like that?”
You looked into his eyes, seeing a flash of something dark and restless behind the blue. “His stories about his heroic maneuvers in Vanaheim,” you responded, the words feeling thin in your throat.
“Nonsense,” he mumbled, his jaw setting. “I believe we were both there, Little Spark. And I remember him spending most of the battle behind a rock.”
As he spoke, he threw his arm over the back of your chair, his hand dangling just inches from your shoulder, effectively caging you into his space. You snorted, your head hanging low as a genuine smile finally broke through your mask. “He definitely was. I even heard him scream a bit when the brush caught fire.”
That made Thor laugh—a loud, boisterous sound that drew even more eyes to the high table—though his expression straightened back into something sharp and inquisitive almost instantly. He leaned down, his voice dropping so only you could hear. “Has he made any advances on you?”
You lifted your gaze to him, your voice light and dripping with irony. “He has. And I was quite enjoying it,” you said, wanting to see if you could prick that royal arrogance of his.
His gaze sharpened, the playful glint vanishing as his pupils dilated. The hand on the back of your chair curled into a fist, and he leaned in until your foreheads were nearly touching, the heat radiating off him in waves. You didn’t expect his reaction to be this.
“Your affections are set on him?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, searching every inch of your face for a tell. He looked like he was trying to read your very soul, his breath hitching as he waited for an answer he clearly didn't want to hear. “You would truly find interest in a man who hides behind stones over—over the company you already have?”
You gripped his hand, your thumb tracing the familiar terrain of his knuckles. It was an old habit, a grounding gesture the two of you had shared since you were children, something that felt as natural as breathing.
But in the heavy, candlelit atmosphere of the high table, with a thousand eyes tracking the Prince’s every move, the touch felt loaded. To anyone else, it looked like the quiet, intimate reassurance of a lover.
“Calm down, Thor. I was only joking,” you whispered, your brow furrowed in genuine confusion at the storm still raging in his eyes. “You do not have to be this protective over me.”
He let out a long, ragged breath of relief, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to bleed away. “His hands were all over you, that is all,” he grumbled, though his voice had lost its edge. He looked down at you, his gaze softening into something deep and dangerously focused. “I cannot let my best girl be left in the hands of a low-ranking man.”
Before you could process the weight of those words, he caught the hand that had been grazing his knuckles. He brought it to his face, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your skin.
You watched, your throat suddenly going dry as you focused on his lips. You saw the way they moved against your hand, and when he finally pulled away, a small patch of dampness remained where his mouth had been. As the air hit the moisture, the spot turned cold, the chill contrasting sharply with the heat rising in your cheeks.
You cleared your throat, quickly looking away to break the spell. Your eyes scanned the hall, searching for any distraction, only to land directly on Loki.
The God of Mischief was leaning back, a silver cup poised at his lips, watching the two of you with a sharp, knowing smirk. His eyes were alive with amusement, tracking the way your hand still lingered near Thor’s chest.
Loki knew. Of course he did. He had always been able to read the tremors in your heart better than you could yourself. He knew of your love for Thor, even though you had denied it with every breath during those long nights in the library or the training grounds.
You averted your eyes from his mocking gaze, turning back to find that Thor had already shifted.
His posture had relaxed as he engaged with Sif, his body angling toward her in a way that made your chest tighten. The tension that had gripped him while you sat with the General seemingly vanished now that he had you within arm's reach. Your left eye twitched, a hot, bitter surge of jealousy burning deep inside you.
They looked so effortless together—the golden Prince and the perfect warrior woman. They made a good pair, a matched set of Asgardian perfection, and the sight of him giving her that easy, familiar attention felt like a blade sliding between your ribs.
“The border skirmishes in the East were handled well, Sif,” Thor said, his voice regaining its usual booming resonance. “Father mentioned your leadership was vital in holding the pass.”
Sif tilted her head, a rare, genuine smile softening her warrior's features. “The men fought bravely, Thor. But I suspect they were merely eager to return for the feast. Though,” she added, her eyes flicking toward you for a brief, sharp second, “some seem more interested in the spoils of peace than the glories of war.”
Thor laughed, his hand brushing the table near hers as he reached for a piece of fruit from a silver platter, a sight that made you want to get up and walk right back to the General. “Peace has its own charms, does it not? We have bled enough for one season.” He then shifted in his seat, physically drawing you into the space between them.
“Don't you agree? I was just telling Sif how the eastern front could have used your healing touch, though I am glad I did not have to see you in that mud.”
Sif’s smile didn't reach her eyes as she looked at you, her gaze sweeping over your midnight-blue gown. “Indeed. Though it seems our Goddess is finding plenty of attention here in the gilded halls.”
She leaned back, swirling the wine in her glass.
“I heard Captain Borison was asking after you earlier. He’s been quite vocal about his admiration. You two make quite the striking pair, actually. He is a man of high standing and even higher ambition.”
You felt Thor stiffen beside you, the relaxed drape of his arm over your chair turning rigid.
Thor cleared his throat, the sound sharp and grating. The contentment he had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a sudden, brooding darkness.
“Do not talk of nonsense, Sif,” he countered, his voice low and dangerously flat. “Borison is a man of loud words and little substance. He is not a fit topic for this table.”
Thor looked at Sif, his eyes vacant for a moment before he dropped his gaze to the dark depths of his drink, his thumb tracing the rim of his goblet with a brooding rhythm.
Why not? you thought, the bitterness in your chest blooming into a sharp, defiant heat.
Sif was right; Borison was a man of high standing, a warrior who had proven himself. More importantly, he was a man who didn't have a throne or a royal bloodline dictating his every move.
Thor clearly was not going to miraculously confess his love for you. It was an impossibility—a beautiful, crushing lie you had lived in for too long.
You cleared your throat, the sound brittle in the sudden silence of the high table.
“I do not see how that is relevant to this conversation, Lady Sif,” you said, your voice remarkably cool even as your heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. “But yes, I am aware of his advances. I was indeed thinking of accepting them.”
Thor’s head snapped toward you with such force it was a wonder his neck didn't crack. The silver goblet in his hand hit the table with a dull thud, mead splashing over his fingers, but he didn't blink.
“What?” he asked, the word sounding choked, as if the air had been kicked from his lungs. “I thought we talked about this? You are not available.”
He was panicking. You could see it in the way his pupils blew wide, the way his chest hitched as he struggled to process the words you’d just thrown like a spear.
The raw, messy desperation bled into his features, a stark contrast to the regal Prince who had been comfortably chatting with Sif just seconds ago. He looked at you as if you were a ghost, his hand twitching on the table as if he wanted to reach out and pull the words back into your mouth.
You looked at him, meeting that frantic blue gaze with a cool, measured stare. “You talked about it, not me, Thor. I haven't decided anything yet.”
The words cut through him visibly. He flinched as if you’d struck him across the face, his jaw dropping slightly before he clamped it shut, a pained, desperate look crossing his features.
“You haven't...” he trailed off, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper that was far too intimate for a table shared with Sif and the High Council.
He leaned in, his shoulder pressing hard against yours, his hand finding your arm again—not with a trace, but with a firm, grounding grip. “You cannot be serious. Borison? He is—he is nothing. You cannot give him your time.”
“And why not?” you challenged, your voice dropping to match his. “I am a commander of Asgard, perhaps it is time I look toward my own future, rather than just waiting at the heels of yours.”
Thor looked like he wanted to scream, his face flushing a deep, angry red as he struggled to find an argument that didn't involve him dragging you out of the hall and locking the doors.
To his right, Sif watched the exchange with a cold, piercing silence, but Thor didn't even remember she was there. He only saw you, and the terrifying possibility that his best friend might finally belong to someone else.
He didn't have it in him. He didn't have it in him to tell you that you were his, that you couldn't go near a man who was not him, let alone be acquainted with him. He didn't have it in him to reach across the table, take your hands, and pull you toward him until he could kiss you so deeply you couldn't remember your own name.
Because he was sure you would never reciprocate his feelings. He saw your laughs with the General and your defense of Borison as a sign that you were finally outgrowing him—that the best friend title was a cage you were trying to escape.
The silence between you stretched, agonizing and heavy, as the internal war behind his eyes reached a stalemate. He was sure you would never reciprocate his feelings; to him, you were the light of Asgard, a warrior of pure intent, and he was just a man bound by duty who hadn't earned the right to claim you.
All he could do was swallow the lump in his throat and look down at his gold-rimmed plate. “I see,” he mumbled, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the roar of the feast.
He pulled his hand back from your arm as if it had suddenly turned to ice. The sudden absence of his touch felt like a blow to your stomach, leaving your skin cold.
You stared at his retreating hand, your heart sinking into a hollow, aching pit. That's it? you thought, the bitterness rising like bile. His silence was the loudest thing in the room. You had practically handed him your heart on a silver platter, daring him to claim it, and he had simply looked away.
To you, his coldness was indifference. It was a confirmation of your worst fears: that you were a convenience, a companion, but never a choice. If he cared, he would have roared. If he loved you, he would have fought.
Instead, he sat there, seemingly content to let you walk into the arms of another man as long as his own seat next to Sif remained undisturbed.
Thor’s gaze went distant, his eyes darkening into a shade of blue that looked like a stormy sea at midnight. While he sat there, seemingly defeated, his mind was already shifting away from the laws of the court and toward the laws of the blade.
He began calculating.
He thought of the training grounds, the dark corners of the armory, or perhaps a hunting accident in the deep woods of the palace outskirts.
He mapped out exactly how to dispose of the man in question’s cold, unmoving body. Borison wouldn't even see the lightning coming.
If Thor couldn't have you, he would at least ensure that no one else ever dared to try.
“Thor?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of hurt and confusion at his sudden, chilling stillness.
He didn't look at you. He picked up a knife from the table, his grip white-knuckled as he began to methodically slice through a piece of meat, his movements precise and terrifyingly calm. “Enjoy the rest of the wine, Little Spark.” he said, his tone devoid of its usual warmth.
You turned back to your own plate then, your face determined. Determined to talk to Borison the first thing in the morning, oblivious to the plans of the man sitting on your right.
The feast had finally wound down into a hum of drunken laughter and flickering torches. You walked through the vaulted corridors toward your chambers, your skirts whispering against the stone floors. You were lost in your own thoughts, your face set in a mask of quiet determination.
If Thor could be so detached—if he could simply mutter an ‘I see’ and return to his meat while your heart was breaking—then you would follow through. You’d find Borison at dawn. You’d accept the flowers, the walks, the hollow flattery. Anything to fill the void Thor had left behind.
You were utterly oblivious to the fact that Thor was trailing hot behind you, his footsteps heavy but synchronized with yours. He couldn't let you walk these halls alone, not while his mind was a storm of protective rage and fractured pride.
To you, his sudden coldness at the table was a sign that he didn't care for you as a prized possession anymore. To you, he had finally let go.
Meanwhile, Thor’s predatory pace faltered as a slender, dark figure stepped out from the shadows of a marble pillar, blocking his path.
“I see you’re stalking her like a madman as usual, brother,” Loki drawled, leaning back against the cold stone with a look of pure, agonizing mischief.
“Get out of my way, Loki,” Thor snapped, his eyes fixed on the turn in the corridor where your blue dress had just vanished. He tried to brush past, his pulse drumming a thundering beat in his ears.
He couldn't let you out of his sight. Not for a second.
“You are obsessed with her, are you aware of it?” Loki’s voice was like silk over a blade.
“I do not know what you mean,” Thor said, his steps becoming uneven, his breath hitching.
“She is quite taken with you too, really,” Loki continued, pushing off the wall to walk in a slow circle around his brother. “If both of you just opened your eyes, you would see it. But since you're content to sit with Sif and let our little commander wither... oh, maybe I should ask for her hand? See if she forgets about you in my shadows. Maybe then you will see what you’re missing?”
In a blur of movement too fast for the human eye to follow, Thor had Loki pinned against the palace wall. His forearm was crushed against Loki’s throat, and he was breathing into his brother’s face like a dragon protecting its hoard.
“You stay away from her, Loki,” Thor vibrated, his voice a low, terrifying snarl that shook the tapestries on the walls. “If you so much as breathe the same air as her with those intentions, I will forget our bond. I will tear the tongue from your mouth before you can speak a single charm to her. She is not a game. She is not a piece on your board. She is mine.”
Only Thor’s ragged breathing could be heard in the silence. Loki merely smiled, a thin, pained quirk of his lips, satisfied that he had finally forced the truth out into the open, even if it was through a throat-clutch.
Thor suddenly blinked, the red haze receding just enough for him to realize what he was doing, seeing through his brother’s game at the last second.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his cape as if nothing had happened, and let go of his brother with a sharp shove.
“I must go now,” he muttered, his voice thick. He turned and started back on his walk, his heart roaring in his chest.
Meanwhile, you reached your heavy doors, still entirely oblivious to the wreckage and the admission Thor had just left in his wake.
You pushed the door open, the silence of your room feeling like a sentence, unaware that the detached man you were mourning was currently burning down the world behind you.
—
The morning sun was an intrusive, biting thing as it filtered through the heavy curtains, hurting your eyes the moment you slung your legs over the side of the bed. Your head felt heavy, a dull ache lingering from the wine and the emotional exhaustion of the night before.
You moved with a cold, sharp purpose, pulling on your prettiest dress.
It was a garment of intricate silk that clung to your frame in all the right places, a deliberate choice meant to broadcast your availability to the world.
You were going to find Captain Borison. He was a handsome man—brown hair, a dashing smile, and green eyes that were kind.
He was stable. He was safe.
But as you looked in the mirror, your heart ached with a familiar, agonizing hollow.
He could never be him.
No matter how many green-eyed captains smiled at you, they weren't the man with the golden locks and the rugged, beautiful face that was currently seared into the back of your mind.
“Shit,” you whispered, closing your eyes tightly against the image of Thor’s smirk.
You needed to get going before you lost your mind and crawled back under the covers.
You pulled your doors open, stepping out into the hall just as the door across from yours swung wide.
Your gazes collided instantly.
Thor was there, looking as if he hadn't slept a wink, his golden hair slightly mussed.
His eyebrows descended toward his eyelids the moment his eyes swept over your attire.
The sight of you, polished and breathtakingly beautiful, seemed to hit him like an explosion.
“Good morning, Little Spark.” he rasped, his voice thick. He stepped into the corridor, his eyes fixed on the curve of your neck.
“Is there an important event that I do not know of? Some ceremony of sorts?”
You felt a prick of irritation.
You took his tone for displeasure—as if he were questioning why you’d bother to put in the effort when there was no official reason to.
You couldn’t see the way his eyes had actually darkened with a raw, suffocating hunger.
You couldn’t hear the way his heart was thundering against his ribs, making his pulse echo in his ears.
She looks so beautiful it hurts, he thought, his throat tightening so much he could barely swallow. He wanted to tell you to go back inside, to hide you away from every other pair of eyes in the palace.
His thoughts were cut off by your voice, sharp and laced with a defensive tone. “There has to be an occasion for me to be dressed this way?”
The thought jabbed at you: was the idea of you looking like this so foreign to him?
Did he think you were so unworthy of beauty that you only donned it for a scheduled event?
“I was not aware I needed a royal decree to wear my own clothes, Thor,” you added, your voice tight as you moved to brush past him.
Thor reached out, his hand hovering near your waist before he pulled it back, his fingers curling into a fist.
He felt the phantom weight of his conversation with Loki, the threat he’d made, and the boiling jealousy he had toward the man you were likely going to see.
“That is not what I meant,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, possessive sound that always made your resolve waver.
He stepped into your path, forcing you to look up at him. “You look... you look more than the occasion requires. I am merely wondering whose eyes you are trying to catch so early in the day.”
Yours, you wanted to say.
Your eyes are the only ones I want on me, you wanted to scream until your lungs burned.
You wanted to grab him by the collar and force him to see that this entire display—the dress, the hair, the defiance— was a pathetic attempt to make him look at you for one second longer than a friend should.
A desperate plea for him to finally see you.
But you couldn't.
You saw the way his eyebrows drew together, the way he seemed almost annoyed by your appearance.
His reaction was clear: he was bored of you. He had Sif, a woman who belonged at his side by blood and status, and your presence was becoming an inconvenience.
If he wanted you, he would have said something by now. Since he hadn't, you had to find a way to move on before the sight of him with someone else truly destroyed you.
He had clearly made his choice, and it wasn't you.
It would never be you.
“Whoever’s eye I happen to catch, I suppose,” you said, your voice airy and detached, though the words felt like lead on your tongue.
Thor stood frozen, the casual cruelty of your words sinking into his skin like shards of ice. He looked at you, stunning in a way that made his breath catch in his throat, and he felt a sickening wave of certainty
He was sure now. You truly did not want him. You were done with the intimate jokes and the lingering touches; you were ready for a man like Borison, someone who could offer you a future without the complications of a throne.
He was watching you bloom for someone else, and the thought was a slow-acting poison in his veins.
He was convinced that if he told you he loved you now, you would only look at him with pity—or worse, laughter.
“You speak as if you are a prize to be won at a village fair,” he growled, the possessiveness surging to the surface to mask the ache in his chest.
He stepped closer, his body a wall of heat, his eyes dark with a misery you mistook for judgment. “Is your company truly so easily bargained for? Are you so eager to leave my side that you would seek the validation of a common captain the moment my back is turned?”
“Your side?” you echoed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “You were quite comfortable at Sif's side last night, Thor. I am merely following your lead. I wouldn't want to hold you back from your important conversations.”
Thor’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap.
He saw your defiance as a sign that you were already halfway out the door, and you saw his silence as the final nail in the coffin of your hopes.
Two idiots, standing inches apart in a silent hallway, both convinced they were the only ones who cared.
Thor’s expression softened, the edges of his anger crumbling under the sheer weight of his affection for you.
He couldn't help it; he never could stay cold when you were within reach.
His right hand drifted upward, his palm settling against your cheek with a familiar, grounding warmth that made your heart sing a traitorous melody.
He stepped closer, his thumb grazing your skin as if he were trying to memorize the texture of you.
“I would never trade our conversations for anyone else’s. Don’t you know that?” he murmured, his voice dropping into a tone so intimate it felt like a confession. “Don’t you know you’re the only one I care for? My best friend, my prized treasure. The only one who stood by my side through thick and thin.”
Your breath hitched.
He wouldn't trade you?
The word treasure rattled around your brain, mocking the dress you had put on for a man who wasn't him.
Thor’s hand was still on your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with a tenderness that felt like a plea. But the weight of his words—the only one who stood by my side—had pulled you back to the darkness of that night.
It drifted back to the night that had forged the unbreakable bond he was now invoking.
Yes you always have been best friends, but that night was something else entirely.
That mournful night.
The night you lost Frigga, Thor’s mother.
5 Years Ago
You were jolted from a deep sleep in the middle of the night by a sound that felt like the palace itself was cracking open.
It was the heart-wrenching sound of Thor’s screams echoing through the stone corridors—a raw, primal agony that tore through the silence.
You scrambled up from your bed, panic surging through your veins. You didn't even have the time to find your slippers; you threw open your doors and started running toward the sound, your bare feet slapping against the cold floor.
Your heart was beating in your mouth, his agony ringing in your ears like a death knell.
Did something happen to him? Is he hurt?
Is he dying?
You couldn't even bear the last thought; the mere idea of an Asgard without Thor’s light made your lungs seize, your speed becoming more brutal as you sprinted through the dark.
When you finally reached the main chambers of the Queen and King, you found the source of the sound. The room felt heavy, stagnant with grief.
Thor was kneeling beside Frigga’s unmoving body on the bed. He was clutching her hand, his forehead pressed hard against her cold skin as if he could force his own life back into her through sheer will.
Odin stood nearby, frozen like a statue of salt, his face a mask of shock. Loki, on the other hand, had resigned himself to the far corner of the room, his back turned, not having the heart to look at the wreckage of his family.
Your heart stopped. The world felt like it had tilted on its axis.
“Thor?” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the ringing in your ears.
His head lifted toward you, the force of the movement so sudden and violent it looked as though his neck might break.
His eyes were bloodshot, swimming in a sea of red from crying, and his face was distorted by a pain so deep it looked like a physical wound.
Your own tears started to well in your eyes, blurring the sight of the broken Prince before you. You didn't see a God then; you only saw the man you loved, shattered into a thousand pieces.
He kept looking at you then, his tears still tracking wet, shimmering lines down his cheeks. He looked lost, a man drowning in a storm he couldn't fight his way out of.
You fled to him.
You collapsed toward him, attempting to drop down next to him with such desperation that your bare knees almost hit the stone with bone-breaking force.
But even in the depths of his soul-crushing grief, Thor was aware of you.
Before your skin could strike the floor, he reached out, circling his massive arms around your waist. He caught you, shielding you even then, his grip steadying your descent as he slowly let you settle your knees onto the ground.
The moment you were level with him, the last of his strength seemed to vanish. He leaned forward, burying his face against your chest, his forehead pressing into the soft fabric of your nightgown.
He began to sob.
It was a heavy, racking sound that shook his entire frame. Your hands found his golden hair immediately, your fingers weaving through the tangled locks as you pulled him closer, instinctively trying to shield him from the cold reality of the room.
“Shh, I am here,” you whispered, your voice a fragile caress as you shushed him.
In that moment, he felt so small. It was a heart-wrenching contrast—this powerful deity, the Prince of Asgard who could destroy planets, was broken down and trembling in your arms.
He clung to you like a man lost at sea, his hands bunching the fabric at your back as he wept for the mother he had lost, and for the world that would never be the same.
You held him, your own tears falling into his hair, oblivious to the King or the God of Mischief. There was only the weight of him against you, the sound of his heartbreak, and the silent vow you made as you rocked him back and forth: that as long as you drew breath, he would never have to face the darkness alone.
You didn't know for how long you stayed there, anchored to the cold floor, serving as the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark. The world outside that room had ceased to exist; there was only the rhythm of his fading sobs and the weight of his grief against your heart.
But eventually, the healers and the guards moved in. When the time came for Frigga to be removed from the bed, the reality of the vigil shifted. You knew he couldn't stay here any longer.
“Thor, sweetheart…” you whispered, your hand cupping the back of his neck.
He lifted his head from your chest, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He gulped, the sound thick in his throat as he tried to find his footing in a world that had suddenly lost its axis.
“Yes,” he murmured, his voice a ghost of its usual self.
“We have to go. We have to rest, and then,” you gulped, “we have to be ready for the funeral preparations,” you said softly. You didn't want to say the words, but you knew he needed the structure of duty to keep from shattering again.
He nodded slowly, his movements robotic. “You’re right.”
As he pulled away from you, the sudden loss of his heat made the midnight air of the palace feel like ice. You both stood up, and Thor instinctively extended his hand to help you find your balance. But as his fingers brushed yours, his gaze drifted downward.
He noticed it then—the way you were barely dressed in your short, thin nightgown, and how your feet were not covered, pressed against the freezing marble.
His expression changed instantly, a flicker of protective instinct piercing through his mourning.
“Darling, you must be freezing,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, concerned rumble.
You were.
Now that the adrenaline was fading, you were shivering so hard your teeth were nearly chattering, but you shook your head. To you, your comfort was an afterthought. The only thing that mattered was him.
”It’s okay, I’m okay—”
Thor didn't listen. He couldn't let you freeze, and he certainly couldn't let the passing servants see his best friend in such a vulnerable state of attire.
“No, you are not. Come here,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You protested weakly as he stepped closer. “Really, there's no need—”
Before you could finish, he reached down and swept you up into his arms, lifting you in a smooth, effortless bridal style. Your hands instinctively circled his neck to steady yourself, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Thor, what are you doing?” you asked, your eyes wide as you looked up at his rugged, tear-stained face.
“I’m carrying you,” he answered simply, his grip tightening around you as if you were the only solid thing left in the Nine Realms.
“I can see that. Why are you carrying me?”
“So you do not walk barefoot,” he murmured, his gaze softening for a fleeting second before he turned and began to walk, shielding your body with his own as he carried you through the silent, grieving halls.
He carried you all the way back, his stride steady despite the weight of the grief pressing down on both of you. When you reached your chambers, he set you down on the edge of the bed with lingering care, ensuring your feet never touched that freezing marble again.
Before he could pull away, you reached out and softly caught his hand. You drew slow, rhythmic circles over his knuckles, your own grief finally leaking through the cracks of your composure.
“Thank you,” you mumbled, your voice thick. “For caring for me. For carrying me.”
Thor gave you a broken smile, one that didn't reach his bloodshot eyes. “When do I not care for you?”
He turned to leave, but he didn't make it past the threshold. He stopped right in front of your doors, his forehead thudding against the dark wood. His left hand curled into a white-knuckled fist against the frame as he let out a long, shuddering sigh.
“Can I—” His voice cracked, sounding small and stripped bare. “Can I sleep with you tonight? Just... tonight?”
You froze, your heart skipping a beat in the heavy silence.
Here?
With you?
The request was so raw, so devoid of his usual princely bravado, that for a second, you couldn't find your breath.
But Thor mistook your silence for the cold wall of rejection.
“Never mind, it was stu—“
“Yes,” you cut him off, your voice urgent. “Yes, you can.”
You slid back toward the head of the bed, disappearing under the heavy covers and pulling them back to open the other side for him. Thor turned, his movements slow and hesitant, as if he were afraid he might wake up from a dream. He lay down beside you, his massive frame taking up most of the bed, and turned on his side to face you.
”You’re my everything, Little Spark,” he whispered into the space between you.
The ringing in your ears started then—a high, hopeful frequency that made your chest ache.
You wanted to believe there was more behind those words, but the best friend label felt like a shield he was holding between you.
You forced a smile, moving closer until you could lay your head against his broad chest, listening to the steady thrum of his life.
“I love you, Thor,” you told him, the truth slipping out under the cover of the dark.
Underneath your ear, Thor’s heart suddenly spiked, racing with a violent, thundering speed that made your brows knit in confusion. You felt the vibration of it through his ribs.
Why is it beating so fast?
Thor squeezed his eyes shut, his arms tightening around you. Hope flared like a dying star in his chest, but he quickly smothered it.
He was certain you meant it the way you always did—as a friend, as the person who had just watched him fall apart. He was convinced you could never love a man as broken as he felt in that moment.
But as he tucked his chin over the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair, he knew one thing with absolute, terrifying certainty: he would never let you go. No matter what the future held, no matter who tried to claim you, you were the only anchor he had left in the universe.
He had told you he would stay just that one night. But the shadows of grief were long, and they refused to retreat.
The nightmares became a relentless tide, driving him to your door in the middle of the night, his eyes haunted and his voice thick with apologies.
Each time, you would pull back the covers and tell him the same thing: that it was okay, that you would always be there.
But eventually, the routine of him coming to your room shifted.
One night, it wasn't a knock on your door that woke you, but his voice—a broken, desperate scream of your name that tore through the silence of the royal wing.
You didn't think, you ran.
You burst into his chambers to find him thrashing against his sheets, his skin slick with sweat.
“Thor? What’s going on? Are you okay?” you cried out, rushing to his bedside.
But he was still trapped in the dark. “No, don't touch her—leave her alone! She’s all I have—please!”
Your blood ran cold. He wasn't dreaming of his mother or the war; he was dreaming of you.
He was dreaming of losing the only thing he had left. You were at his side in seconds, your hands trembling as you cradled his face.
“Thor, wake up, please!” you called out desperately.
He didn't hear you at first, his head tossing as he continued to mumble broken pleas to an unseen enemy. You had to shake him, your voice rising in panic. “Thor, please! You’re having a nightmare!”
He jolted awake with a violent gasp, his lungs heaving as if he had just been pulled from the depths of the sea. His eyes darted around the shadows of the room until they landed on you, standing there in the moonlight.
In an instant, he lunged for you.
He collided with you, his massive arms circling your frame and pinning you to his chest with a grip so tight you could barely draw breath.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” he rasped into your hair, his voice vibrating with a terrifying raw sound.
He pulled back just enough to cradle your face in his large hands, his thumbs frantically searching your skin, checking your shoulders, your arms, looking for any sign of a wound that wasn't there. Then, he looked into your eyes with a gaze so intense it felt like he was baring his very soul.
“Do not leave me,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. “You are my sun, my stars—my whole universe.”
The weight of his words made your heart hammer against your ribs.
He’s only talking like this because of the adrenaline, your thoughts intercepted.
“I will not, sweetheart. Calm down,” you whispered, trying to soothe the tremors in his hands. “I'm right here.”
He gulped, the sound heavy in the quiet room.
He didn't let you go back to your chambers that night. He held you through the remaining hours of darkness, his limbs tangled with yours as if he were physically anchoring you to the world of the living.
And that was when the whispers in the palace curdled into something undeniable.
The servants, the guards, even the High Council—they all watched the way he hovered over you, the way you stayed in his rooms until dawn, and the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching.
“They are lovers,” the voices hissed behind gilded fans and stone pillars. “They definitely are. How can they not be? Look at them. He doesn't even see the rest of us.”
Neither of you addressed the rumors.
To you, it was a friendship forged in fire and grief.
To him, it was a desperate, silent claim.
Present
As you stood in the hallway five years later, wearing a dress meant for another man, those whispers felt like a prophecy you were both too terrified to fulfill.
Thor was still holding your face, his gaze anchored to yours with a depth that made the air feel thin.
You closed your eyes for a heartbeat, unable to stop yourself from leaning into his palm. It was a reflex, a muscle memory born from those long, dark nights years ago when you were the only thing keeping him whole.
“My pretty girl…” he murmured.
The words were a low vibration against your skin, his thumb grazing your cheekbone with devastating tenderness.
To anyone watching, it was the look of a man hopelessly in love.
But to you, it felt like a beautiful cruelty. He did this because you were his—his anchor, his best friend, his treasure.
He didn't realize that every soft word and intimate touch was searing itself into your soul, feeding a hope that was slowly starving you.
You kept thinking you had a chance, that the whispers in the palace were right, but the lack of a confession was your only reality.
He would never be yours. He was the Crown Prince, and you were just the girl who had caught him when he fell.
You opened your eyes, pulling back with a sharp, forced inhalation. The loss of his warmth was immediate and jarring. “We should get going,” you told him, separating yourself from his touch with a finality that made your own chest ache.
Thor’s expression turned grim. The softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dark, brooding stillness.
He looked as if you had slapped him.
In his mind, your withdrawal was a rejection of him, a sign that you didn't even want his hand on your skin anymore because you were already thinking of someone else.
“Alright,” he whispered, the word sounding hollow.
Without another word, you both started walking. You set a brisk pace toward the training grounds, walking through the palace gardens, your jaw set.
You were going to meet Captain Borison, to finally see if a life of simple love was possible.
But as the silence between you and Thor stretched, you realized something that made your eyebrows furrow.
He wasn't turning off toward the throne room or the armory. He was matching you stride for stride, his cape snapping behind him, his hand holding Mjolnir in a relaxed grip.
“Thor,” you said, glancing at him sideways as the clatter of training blades grew louder in the distance. “Why are you following me?”
“I am not following you,” he replied, his voice flat and deceptively calm, though his eyes were fixed straight ahead with a predatory focus.
“I simply realized that the training of the captains has been lax lately. I intend to oversee the morning drills personally.”
You bit your lip to keep from pointing out that he hadn't overseen a morning drill in months.
He wasn't there to lead anything, he was there to hunt.
You looked ahead and saw Borison standing near the weapon racks, his green eyes lighting up the moment he spotted you in your dress.
Beside you, Thor’s entire body went rigid, a low, dangerous rumble beginning to stir in his chest that had nothing to do with friendship.
Thor’s massive frame eclipsed the sun, casting a long, heavy shadow over you that effectively erased Borison from your sight. He stood like a mountain of gold and red, his shoulders squared, his presence suddenly suffocatingly close.
What the hell?
The irritation flared in your chest, hot and sharp. “Thor, get out of my way. What are you doing?”
He didn't move. He stood as still as a statue in the palace gardens, though the muscle in his jaw was ticking rhythmically. “Ah, apologies. I didn’t notice I was in your way, darling,” he said, his voice dripping with a mock-politeness that made your teeth grit.
Yet, he continued standing there, a wall of muscle and stubbornness. When you tried to step to the left to wave at the Captain, Thor shifted his weight with a deceptive grace, blocking your path again. You moved to the right; he mirrored you instantly.
“Are you playing a game?” you snapped, looking up at him with a glare that would have withered any other warrior. “We are not children anymore, I hope you are aware, my Prince.”
The title felt like a slap, a cold reminder of the distance between you, and for a second, a flicker of genuine hurt crossed his features.
But it was quickly swallowed by those dark, irrational thoughts.
“No, we are not,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. He looked over his shoulder at Borison, who was now looking confused, then back at you. A desperate, wild light danced in his eyes. “But that is a good idea. I miss our childhood. Let us play a game.”
He knew he was being irrational, but he couldn’t help himself.
Before you could protest that you had a life, that you were a grown woman, his hand shot out and gripped your wrist—not painfully, but with an unyielding strength.
“Thor! What—Let go!”
He didn't. He began pulling you away, his stride long and purposeful, dragging you toward the secluded stone archways that led to the private gardens, effectively hauling you out of the Captain's eyesight.
“Thor, stop this! This is ridiculous!” you cried, stumbling slightly to keep up with his pace.
He didn't look back at you until you were well behind the thick ivy walls, hidden from the training grounds.
When he finally stopped, he spun you around, his hands landing on the stone wall on either side of your head, pinning you into the small space between his body and the cold rock.
“The game is called Silence,” he rasped, his breath hot against your forehead, his eyes searching yours with a frantic, messy hunger. “And the first one to speak of another man loses.”
“You are being ridiculous,” you whispered, looking up at him, your eyes wide and searching.
“I am simply nostalgic, is all. Just go along with it, will you?” he replied. His voice was a slow, rough vibration.
His gaze traced the bridge of your nose before getting hopelessly stuck on your lips.
You noticed. The world felt like it was tilting. Your own gaze traced the same path, settling on his mouth.
You were both heaving, your chests nearly brushing with every breath.
The proximity of him was erasing every logical thought, every bit of hurt from the night before, leaving only a raw, magnetic pull.
“What happens if I speak of another man?” you whispered, the challenge dancing on your tongue.
His gaze snapped back to yours, darkening until it was the color of a midnight storm. “Try it.”
Your gaze sharpened. You were tired of the games, tired of the silence. ”Boris—”
He couldn’t help himself.
He could not fucking help himself.
Before the second syllable could even leave your mouth, his hand shot out, his fingers tangling in the hair at the back of your neck. He pulled you forward with a desperate force, his lips slanting over yours.
He kissed you.
He fucking kissed you.
You pulled away abruptly, your heart hammering against your ribs, your eyes wide as saucers as you stared at him.
Thor froze.
The reality of what he had done crashed down on him. The friendship he had protected so fiercely felt like it was crumbling.
“I am very sorry—I—”
You didn't let him finish. This time, you were the one to lunge. You grabbed the back of his neck, your fingers digging into his flesh as you pulled him back down to you.
A low, guttural groan escaped his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender.
His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him. His right hand began to trail upwards, tracing the curve of your spine until he reached the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him.
You were kissing him hard, his lips bruising yours, his movements hungry and starving. He pushed you back against the stone wall, his body a heavy, glorious weight against yours.
He was grabbing at you, trying to feel every inch of you, trying to become one with you.
When his tongue grazed the seam of your lips, you opened for him instantly, giving him everything you had. He pulled you even closer, pressing you to his front as if you were his only lifeline in a world that had gone dark.
Then—the sharp snap of a twig nearby.
You pulled away, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a fraction of a second before it broke.
Your heart dropped into your stomach like a stone. The silence that followed was deafening. You looked at Thor, your chest heaving, and panic began to set in.
How did this happen?
He was your best friend. He had spent all these years treating you like a sister-in-arms.
He probably only kissed you because he was jealous and territorial, not because he actually wanted a life with you.
Surely, he was already regretting it.
Thor watched your expression shift from passion to horror. He saw the way you looked at him—with what he thought was pure regret.
His heart felt like it had been sliced through with a dull blade. You didn't want him. You were horrified that your friend had crossed the line.
He was a fool.
A massive, arrogant fool.
“I’m sorry,” he started, his voice cracking, his hands dropping from your body as if he’d been burned. “I didn’t mean to—I lost my head—”
“You didn’t mean to?” Your voice was a broken whisper.
The agony in your chest was unlike anything you had ever felt. He had just kissed you like you were his entire world, and now he was calling it a mistake? A lapse in judgment?
You shook your head, the tears of frustration stinging your eyes. “I cannot believe you.”
Before he could reach out, before he could explain the mess of love and fear in his head, you shoved him away.
You pushed against his chest with all your might, pushing him away from your body and away from your heart.
You turned on your heel and bolted out of the ivy-covered archway, your face set in a mask of cold, hurt determination.
You didn't look back. You were even more set on finding the Captain now—not because you wanted him.
Because you needed to prove to yourself that you didn't need a man who only saw you as an accident. You needed to get over him.
Thor stood alone in the shadows of the garden, his lips still tasting of you, watching the woman he loved march toward another man.
He couldn't move a muscle; it felt as though the very lightning in his veins had turned to lead.
I fucked it all up. The thought hammered against his skull.
She hates me now. My universe hates me.
He had seen that look in your eyes—that flash of what he was sure was regret—and it had leveled him more than any blow from a Frost Giant ever could. He stayed there, rooted to the spot, until the silence of the garden became unbearable. Finally, his feet moved, acting on a desperate, masochistic impulse to see where you had gone.
He stepped out from the shadows just enough to see the training grounds.
He watched you. He watched the way your frame was still shaking, even from a distance, as you neared the weapon racks. Then, he saw him.
Captain Borison’s face lit up with a blinding, triumphant smile the moment he saw you in that dress. The Captain didn't even wait for you to reach him; he started making his way toward you, his stride confident and eager.
And then, Thor felt his soul fracture.
He watched you smile back at the Captain—a sweet, practiced smile that looked, from a distance, like nothing had happened. Like his lips hadn't just been bruising yours seconds ago. Like your worlds hadn't just collided and shattered.
Thor’s hand moved to the leather-wrapped hilt of Mjolnir hanging at his side, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the hammer. He didn't realize that the sky above Asgard was beginning to darken, the clouds swirling in response to the static leaping off his skin.
He knew what he was supposed to do. He was a Prince; he was supposed to have dignity. He was supposed to let you go, to let you find a man who wouldn't drag you into his nightmares or drown you in his grief. He had to forget you. He had to turn around and accept a life of duty and cold, empty rooms.
But as he watched Borison reach out to touch your arm, Thor realized with a terrifying, bone-deep clarity that he couldn't do it. He couldn't find it in him to let go of the one person he truly cared about. The only one he would ever care about.
He wasn't going back to the palace.
He stood there, a silent predator at the edge of the field, his eyes burning as he watched another man step into the space that belonged to him. The weight of Mjolnir felt heavy in his hand, a silent witness to his mounting desperation. He had told Loki he would never let you go, and as he watched you talk to the Captain, the despair in his heart began to twist into something much more dangerous: a final, stubborn resolve.
He wouldn't let this be the end. Even if you hated him, he would rather be the villain in your story than a ghost in someone else's.
The captain had to be removed.
The thought was a cold, hard stone in the center of Thor’s chest. But before the removal, before the thunder, there was a more agonizing task: he had to make sure you forgave him.
He had to crawl back into your good graces, even if it was under the guise of the best friend title that was now a burning brand against his soul. He would accept being just a friend again if it meant he didn't have to exist in a world where you looked at him with that expression on your face.
Meanwhile, Borison had led you away from the training grounds, guiding you toward a more secluded stroll along the palace terrace. His gaze was lingering, far too bold, over the curves of the dress—the dress you had chosen to prove a point, but now felt like a shroud.
Your heart was aching in a pulsing way that made your vision blur.
Your lips were still burning, sensitized by the memory of the way Thor had tasted of honey and lightning. You were certain you had lost him. By kissing him back with that much hunger, you had broken the unspoken rule of all these years.
You had shown him your heart, and he had called it a mistake. You had lost the only person who truly bound you to this life.
Even though he was cruel for kissing you like that and saying it was a mistake, your feelings didn't just vanish in a second.
Your eyes started to burn with the threat of tears.
Not now, you pleaded with yourself. Don't cry in front of him.
“My lady?”
Captain Borison’s voice tore you away from the edge of the abyss. You blinked rapidly, forcing your attention back to the man at your side.
“Yes?” you managed, your voice sounding thin and distant to your own ears.
“Are you being courted by anyone else at the moment?” Borison asked, his tone light but his green eyes sharp with calculation. “Like our Prince, perhaps? The rumors in the palace are quite persistent.”
You gulped, a bitter, hysterical bubble of laughter rising in your throat. You let it out—a short, sharp sound that felt like a sick joke.
“No,” you said, the word tasting like ash. “He’s just my friend.”
Was my friend, your mind echoed, the words a silent scream. He was my everything, and I threw it away for a moment of skin on skin.
“I am glad to hear it,” Borison murmured, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your shoulder. “A man like that, he is a storm. One cannot build a home in a storm. You deserve something much more stable.”
From behind a marble balustrade twenty yards away, Thor’s fingers tightened around the handle of Mjolnir until the leather creaked.
He could see Borison’s hand on you. He could see your downcast eyes. The stable life Borison was offering looked to Thor like a cage, and the lightning under his skin began to hum with a deadly warning.
He waited. He would let the Captain have his moment of perceived safety.
He would let the man think he was winning. But the moment you were alone, Thor would be there. He would do whatever it takes to make you look at him without that devastating sorrow again.
—
You were getting ready to go out with Captain Borison, your fingers trembling slightly as you adjusted the delicate, sheer layers of your chiffon dress.
The fabric was light as a whisper, fluttering with every movement, but it offered no comfort against the chill in your heart.
He had invited you to have some fun at the tavern with him, mentioning that he would be there with some of his friends. You had agreed almost instantly—not that you were eager for his company, but you couldn't stay in the palace a second longer.
The golden walls felt like they were caving in on you, every corner of the halls whispering Thor’s name and echoing the memory of that kiss.
You had to get away from him.
The tavern was a riot of noise,the atmosphere was thick with heat, spilled ale, and the raucous laughter of soldiers. It was supposed to be a place where you could lose yourself.
But the moment you stepped through the heavy oak doors, your soul felt a familiar, magnetic pull. Your heart stopped when you saw him.
There, at a large central table cluttered with empty tankards, sat Thor. He wasn't the regal Prince you’d seen earlier; he looked disheveled, his collar loosened, his hair a golden mess.
And he wasn't alone. A woman—stunning, with hair the color of spun wheat and eyes like the Asgardian summer sky—was leaning into his space, her hand resting boldly on his bicep as she whispered something into his ear.
Thor threw his head back and laughed, a loud, booming sound that didn't reach his eyes. He was performing, a desperate display of joy designed to drown the agonizing memory of your lips on his.
You froze. A hot, toxic wave of hatred surged through you—hatred for the woman whose name you didn't know.
How could he? How could he hold you until dawn for years, kiss you until the world stopped spinning, and then sit here flirting with a stranger like you were nothing but an inconvenience?
Then, his gaze shifted. He saw you.
Thor’s heart dropped to his stomach. He watched as the Captain walked beside you, his hand a constant, irritating presence at your side.
Of all the places in Asgard, Borison had brought you here.
This was the tavern where you usually came with him—your sanctuary, your escape. Seeing the soft, translucent fabric of your dress—a look so intimate, so ethereal—beside another man in this space hurt so much he couldn't take a single breath for a few seconds.
Your gazes touched, and for a moment, the noise of the tavern drowned out. The world fell away until there was only the two of you, locked in a silent, agonizing stare.
Your heart skipped a beat, a painful thud against your ribs.
He’s cruel, you thought, your eyes stinging. A cruel, beautiful God.
He was using this woman to show you he didn't care, to prove that the kiss meant nothing to him.
You didn't have it in you to watch him whisper in her ear or touch her hand. You couldn't bear to see the deity who had once held you through your darkest nights give that same warmth to a stranger.
You turned your head sharply, breaking the connection before the tears could fall.
You didn't look back at him as you proceeded to sit with Borison and his friends, forcing a smile that felt like it was cutting through your face.
Across the room, Thor watched you disappear into the crowd of common soldiers. His hand tightened around his tankard until the metal began to groan and warp.
The blonde woman said something else to him, her fingers brushing his neck, but he didn't hear her. He could only see the back of your head, and the way Borison was leaning in to catch your scent.
His mind drifted then, caught in the gravity of a specific evening two years ago.
A night seared into the very fabric of his soul.
2 Years Ago
The adrenaline of the battlefield was still humming in his veins as you both strode through the palace gates. You and Thor had just returned from another victory, the dust of conflict still clinging to your cloaks, but your spirits were alight.
“We should go to the tavern right away, Little Spark,” he boomed, his voice resonant with that infectious, golden energy. He turned to you, his eyes bright with the thrill of the win. “This is a victory to be celebrated immediately.”
It was your tradition; you always sought the warmth of the tavern after a triumph, or simply whenever you wanted to get away from the stifling air of the court. But this victory was different; it needed an immediate celebration.
You giggled, the sound a light, musical chime that cut through his bravado. “Calm down,” you said, smiling at him with a radiance that made his entire world tilt. “Let me take a bath first.”
His breath got stuck in his throat.
He had seen the goddesses of the Nine Realms, had been surrounded by beauty his entire life.
But you? You were different.
He knew you were the Goddess of Beauty and Health, so it was normal for him to be attracted to you—it was your very essence.
But it was more than divine nature; His heart soared, a wild, untamed thing, just at the sight of you—in a way that had nothing to do with titles. In his eyes, you were the only woman in the entire universe who had ever made him feel this way—a singular force of nature that had managed to lay claim to his spirit. You were the only woman who could ever truly hold his heart.
His smile faded, placed by a sudden, heavy longing that made his pulse race. The weight of his unspoken devotion making him gulp as he looked at you.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping as he anchored his gaze to yours. “I will be waiting for you.”
“Perfect.” You kept smiling as you turned toward your chambers, the light of your expression lingering in the air long after you had disappeared behind the heavy oak.
Thor stood there for a moment, his heart beating at his throat as he watched your door close. Even as he retreated to his own rooms to wash away the grime of battle, he could not find peace. The sight of your smile was nailed to the back of his mind; every time he closed his eyes, the image of your radiance burned against his eyelids.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his hands trembling slightly as he dressed. The victory in the field felt hollow compared to the war currently raging in his chest.
He opened his doors, leaning against the frame as he waited for you, his anticipation coiled tight. Then, you opened yours.
His lungs seized. His heart stopped for a fraction of a second, the rhythm of his life stuttering at the sight of you.
You were dressed in a dress so sinfully beautiful it hurt his very soul just to look at it.
You were a sight to behold—and the realization hit him taking his breath away from his lungs: he did not want any other man witnessing your beauty. He did not want to share the light of you with the world.
He cleared his throat, his voice sounding gravelly and forced as he tried to mask his sudden, sharp possessiveness.
“Darling, maybe we should stay in the palace,” he said, his eyes darting away from the curve of your neck. “Have our drinks here. I am rather tired.”
It was a clumsy excuse, a desperate attempt to keep you shielded away from the hungry eyes of the city.
But your expression shifted instantly into one of confusion, a shadow falling over your features.
He doesn't want to be seen with me like this, you thought, a cold ache spreading through your chest. He’s ashamed of me.
His words cut deep through you, wounding you in a way no blade ever could.
“But you said we should go right away? I don’t understand?” you asked, your voice wavering for a fleeting second before you found your composure.
If he doesn't like the way I look, you told yourself bitterly, then another man will.
You would not be hidden away like a secret he was embarrassed to keep. You rolled your eyes, a mask of defiance settling over your hurt.
“We will go, Thor. I got ready to go out. I am not wasting this dress to stay in here.”
Thor closed his eyes, a silent sigh escaping him as he felt his resolve crumble. He was the Prince of Asgard, a commander of armies, but he was utterly powerless against your will.
He just couldn't say no to you, could he?
“Alright, Little Spark,” he murmured, reopening his eyes to look at you with a gaze full of tragic, hidden adoration. “Whatever you say.”
You walked toward the tavern then, your pace brisk and determined. You had told him you wanted to bleed off the excess energy left behind by the adrenaline of the fight, your spirit still buzzing even as the sun dipped below the horizon.
She’s impossible, he thought, watching the determined sway of your hips from just a step behind. I could never keep up with her energy; I do not deserve her.
Yet, despite the growing weight of his own exhaustion and the mounting protective dread in his gut, he agreed. He would follow you to the ends of the Nine Realms if you asked.
Your legs were beginning to ache with every step, the muscles tight and protesting, but that was exactly what you wanted. You craved the physical burn, a tangible pain to help drown out the sharp, stinging hurt caused by the belief that he was ashamed to be seen with you.
You leaned into the discomfort, using it as an anchor.
You reached the heavy oak doors of the tavern, and Thor moved ahead, pulling them open for you with the effortless grace of a gentleman.
He’s perfect, you thought, your breath hitching as you looked up at him. I could never be worthy of a man like him.
You offered him a small, genuine smile, and your heart soared at the way he looked down at you, his blue eyes softening as he held the door, the golden light from inside casting a halo around his shoulders.
The rich, savory aroma of roasted boar and the sweet, cloying fragrance of spilled honey-mead filled your nostrils the moment you stepped inside. The tavern was a sprawling labyrinth of dark, weathered timber and rough-hewn stone, illuminated by the flickering orange glow of a massive central hearth. Iron chandeliers hung precariously from the rafters, dripping wax onto the sawdust-covered floor, while the shadows danced wildly against the walls.
Suddenly, the noise of the tavern faltered. Every single pair of eyes in the establishment turned toward you, the collective silence falling like a heavy curtain.
You were taken aback, your hand instinctively fluttering to your throat. Are they looking because of the Prince? you wondered, feeling the heat of their stares.
Thor’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He didn't miss the way the men's gazes lingered on the curve of your waist or the way the chiffon of your dress caught the firelight.
Without a word, he placed his heavy, warm arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his side.
Your heart started thundering against your ribs.
In that moment, the realization hit you like a thunderclap: This was why he hadn't wanted to come here. This was why he had suggested staying at the palace.
He hadn't been ashamed of you—he had been terrified of this exact scene. He had wanted to hoard your beauty, to keep the world from devouring you with its eyes.
He began to lead you away from the exposed entrance, his body acting as a shield between you and the crowd. He navigated the room with a grim focus until he found a more secluded booth tucked away in a shadowed corner. He sat you down, his large frame looming over the table as he leaned in close.
“Do not leave my sight,” he told you, his voice stern and vibrating with a low, dangerous warning.
You nodded slowly, your mind racing, still not fully understanding the sheer depth of the possessive storm brewing behind his eyes.
He then slid onto the bench right next to you, his thigh glued to yours in a line of solid, radiating heat. Your side felt as though it were burning from his proximity; he was a living wall of muscle and gold, shielding you from the lingering, hungry eyes that still drifted toward your corner.
A moment later, a pretty waitress arrived at your booth.
She leaned in far further than necessary, her voice dropping into a honeyed lilt as she asked what the Prince would like to drink, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw in open flirtation.
Your blood ran hot instantly, jealousy burning through your veins. You gripped the edge of the table, expecting him to offer her even a fraction of that charming, royal smile he gave so easily.
But he didn't even spare her a glance. He didn't acknowledge her presence as anything more than a shadow.
“What would you like to drink, Little Spark?”
He kept his eyes locked on yours, his gaze heavy and unwavering.
The waitress froze, visibly taken aback and offended by the total lack of interest from the God of Thunder.
You were caught in the pull of his stare, gazing into the blue depths of his eyes as if you were drowning.
“Asgardian ale,” you mumbled, your voice barely a breath.
He finally spoke to the woman, but even then, he did not remove his gaze from you. “Two Asgardian ales.”
The waitress stiffened and spun on her heel, leaving as quickly as she had arrived. The silence that settled between you was thick, charged with the lingering static of the battle and the newer, more dangerous tension of the night.
“So,” he mumbled, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling vibration that you felt in your very bones. “Anyone in here catch your eye?”
He couldn't help but ask. The question was a poison in his mind; if someone indeed had caught your eye, he needed to know. He needed to identify the threat so he could systematically remove it from existence.
He wouldn't let another man dream of the Goddess who sat within his reach.
You, you wanted to say.
The word was right there, trembling on the tip of your tongue, but you held it back, terrified of breaking the fragile peace between you.
“Not anyone in particular,” you mumbled just as the drinks arrived at the table.
You watched the golden liquid being served, your heart still racing from the way he had just chosen you over the world, even if only for a drink order.
“Hm, I was hoping you would say me,” he said, the words slipping out with a low, dangerous smoothness before he took a slow sip of his drink.
Your whole body locked in an instant. The air in your lungs seemed to vanish, leaving you breathless and lightheaded. What? You couldn't breathe. Was he... was he actually flirting with you?
A cold panic seized Thor’s chest.
I cannot believe I just said that, his mind screamed. He had been flirting with you, openly and without the shield of a joke to hide behind. His heart dropped to his stomach, a leaden weight of regret and terror.
He couldn't even blame the alcohol; the condensation was still fresh on the mug, and he had only just taken his first sip. He had exposed himself, his true desire leaking out through a crack in his armor.
You smiled, though it felt shaky.
He must be joking, you thought, your mind frantically reaching for a way to rationalize his words. You refused to give yourself the hope that he was actually pursuing you.
“Oh, you always catch my eye, handsome,” you said, forcing your voice to stay light and airy, as if you were merely tossing back a casual compliment.
But you were flirting back. The moment the word left your lips, you felt the heat of it.
Handsome?
Fuck.
The way you said it—with that soft, unintentional lilt—was a sound that would undoubtedly be seared into his mind for a long, long time. Until the day he died, probably.
Thor's heart started thundering against his ribs like a war drum. He smiled nervously, his bravado wavering because he couldn't let himself believe you were being serious. Yet, the challenge of it was too intoxicating to drop.
“Handsome? I am flattered,” he drawled, the vibration of his voice reaching deep into your chest. “It has real meaning coming from the Goddess of Beauty herself.”
The tension was becoming unbearable. In a fit of sheer nervousness, you gripped your mug and downed the entire drink in one long, desperate draught, the cold ale burning a path down your throat. You set the tankard down with a sharp thud, your face flushed.
Thor leaned in then, his shadow falling over you, his blue eyes turning dark and predatory in the flickering candlelight.
“I would kill any other man who caught your attention anyways, darling.”
The air left you entirely. You couldn't breathe. The raw, violent possessiveness in his tone wasn't a joke—it was a promise, whispered by a God who looked ready to tear the world apart just to keep your gaze fixed on him.
He was sitting so close that your thighs were still fused together, a single line of radiating heat that seemed to be the only thing keeping you upright.
You couldn't find the words to reply; the Asgardian ale, notoriously potent even for a goddess, was already beginning to take its toll. Your head started spinning in a slow, dizzying whirl, and your muscles went soft and heavy. You were drunk—utterly, foolishly drunk—from just that one tankard downed in a fit of pure embarrassment.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked then.
The words didn't just fall on your ears; they etched themselves deep into your heart. Your pulse spiked so violently you could practically feel the thrum of it in your mouth.
“Am I?” you whispered, a small, airy giggle escaping your lips as you leaned slightly into his strength.
He nodded, his blue eyes dark and fixed on your face with an intensity that was burning you. “So beautiful it hurts me, really. Breathtakingly gorgeous.”
He was admitting everything. The walls he had spent years building were crumbling in the dim light of a tavern corner.
I am going to ruin everything, he thought, even as the words continued to pour out of him. He couldn't stop. He was drowning in the sight of you.
You bit your lip, the sensation sending a jolt through your hazy mind. “Thank you, sweetheart,” you mumbled, the endearment slipping out before you could catch it.
You couldn't think straight anymore. The room was a blur of shadows and noise, but Thor was sharp, vibrant, and agonizingly close. Your gaze locked onto his lips, tracing the curve of them with a hunger you could no longer hide.
He saw it. His breath hitched as he searched your gaze, looking for any fault, any sign that he was misinterpreting the invitation.
Am I seeing this right?, his mind echoed.
He leaned in, his own eyes dropping to find your mouth, his scent overwhelming your senses.
Your hand found his shoulder, your fingers digging into the hard muscle as you pulled him down to your level. You pressed your forehead against his, the world narrowing down to the space between your breaths.
“I really want to kiss you now, handsome,” you mumbled against his skin.
He gulped, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a trembling reverence. “I’ve been dreaming of kissing you for years, darling,” he whispered back.
Your ears were ringing.
Years?
Was he telling the truth, or was the ale playing tricks on your mind? You didn't care.
With the reckless courage born of your drunken state, you lunged for him, closing the final inch and slanting your lips over his in a desperate crash.
The world outside the booth—the clatter of tankards, the shouting, the crackle of the hearth—vanished into a dull, distant hum. There was only the heat of him and the electric shock of his skin against yours.
Thor returned—no, he claimed the kiss. His hands slid from your jaw to your waist, his large fingers digging into the soft chiffon, anchoring you to him as if he feared you might evaporate if he let go.
Your waist burned where he touched you, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin fabric and igniting every nerve ending in its path.
In a move that made your head spin faster than the ale ever could, he hooked his arms beneath you and hoisted you upward. You felt the dizzying sensation of being lifted before you were settled firmly onto his lap.
Your legs instinctively parted to place your legs over the sides of his. He pulled you flush against the hard, unforgiving planes of his chest.
As you shifted, your clothed center grazed directly over the heavy, pulsing heat of his bulge. A broken moan escaped your throat, and Thor responded with a low, guttural groan that vibrated through your entire body.
You were killing him. Years of restraint were snapping like dry twigs in a forest fire. You kissed him with a primal, possessed insanity, your lips bruising his as you fought for dominance.
He wasn't gentle. He bit your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp, and the moment your mouth parted, he invaded. His tongue swept into your mouth with a desperate, searching hunger, searing the taste of him deep into your senses.
You mewled into the kiss, your left hand sliding down the broad expanse of his back, your fingernails tracing the line of his spine through the fine linen of his asgardian tunic.
Thor sighed against your lips—a sound of pure, agonizing surrender—before he tore his mouth away.
He couldn't stay on your lips and keep his sanity.
He dragged his kisses across the heated skin of your cheek, his beard light and scratchy against you, before trailing down the line of your jaw.
“You have no idea,” he rasped against your skin, his voice a raw, broken whisper. “No idea what you're doing to me.”
His lips found the sensitive cord of your neck, and he pressed a hot, lingering kiss there, his breath hitching as he felt your pulse hammering wildly against his mouth.
He was marking you, claiming the Goddess of Beauty as his own in the shadows of a crowded room, oblivious to the fact that he was breaking every rule he had ever set for himself.
Your eyes were squeezed shut in pure ecstasy, the world around you dissolving into a haze of gold and shadow. You began to grind your hips against him, your mouth falling agape as you sought more of the friction that was making you delirious.
You were just kissing him—just touching him—and yet you felt like you were coming apart at the seams.
The moment you moved your hips against him, Thor’s judgment shattered. The sight of your open mouth, the way you were biting your lip and grabbing at him as if trying to merge your very souls, sent a surge of heat through him that rivaled the sun.
Keep going, his inner voice roared, a dark, primal command. Make her yours. Brand her. Own her.
He wanted you so badly his soul felt raw with it.
But then, through the fog of his own lust, he felt the slight, uneven rhythm of your breath. He felt the way your movements faltered, your coordination slipping.
The realization hit him like ice water. You were drunk. You had downed that potent ale in one desperate go, and he could feel the intoxication claiming you.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't take what he had wanted for years while you weren't fully yourself.
He stopped, his hands moving to your shoulders to gently steady you.
“Why did—“ You hiccuped, your dazed, heavy-lidded gaze searching his. “Why did you stop?”
Thor gulped, his knuckles white as he held you at a distance. “You are drunk, darling. We cannot do this right now.”
You rolled your eyes, a defiant pout on your lips as you tried to pull his face back down to yours. “You are no fun,” you mumbled, the words slurring slightly.
Those four words turned him to stone.
Fun?
Is that all this was to you? A drunken game?
A way to pass the time in a tavern?
He felt the air leave his lungs in a sharp, painful rush. You didn't want him—not the way he wanted you. You were merely playing with him because the alcohol had lowered your guard.
“Stop, Little Spark,” he mumbled, his voice sounding hollowed out.
You frowned, your expression that of a spoiled child being denied a toy. “Fine.” you snapped, but as the word left your lips, your strength finally gave out. Your head lolled forward, coming to rest heavily on his shoulder.
Your movements ceased, your breathing evening out into the rhythmic, deep sighs of sleep.
Did she just fall asleep on me? he thought, a bitter, tragic laugh bubbling in his chest.
He sighed, the sound heavy with a thousand unspoken words. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered into your hair.
He didn't wake you. He reached out, tossed a handful of coins onto the table to settle the tab, and adjusted you in his arms. He stood up, carrying you out of the tavern and back toward the palace through the cool Asgardian night.
His heart felt like it had been systematically broken into a thousand pieces; he was convinced now that your passion had been a byproduct of the ale, not a reflection of your heart.
He had no idea how much you truly wanted him.
When the sun rose the next morning, casting long golden fingers across your bed, you woke with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like copper and old mead.
You sat up, clutching your head, staring at the familiar walls of your chamber.
You remembered the tavern. You remembered the blonde woman. You remembered the burning jealousy.
But after that, nothing.
The night was a blank, dark void. You had no memory of the kiss, no memory of his lap, and no memory of the confession that had nearly changed everything.
And he knew you wouldn't remember any of it, so he acted like nothing ever happened.
Present
The memory of that night—the night he had carried your sleeping form through the moonlit gardens with a heart made of lead—burned through Thor like scorching iron. Standing here now, in the very same tavern, the ghost of your lips on his felt more real than the cold ale in his hand. He searched your face from across the room, his throat tight with a dry, aching heat, but you didn't spare him so much as a glance.
You could feel his stare like a physical weight on your skin, but your mind was a storm of static. All you could see was the way he had been laughing with that woman. You couldn't help yourself; you turned your head just enough to see her fingers still draped possessively over his bicep, her blue eyes fluttering as she preened under his supposed attention.
In that instant, your restraint snapped.
Your magic, usually as fluid and graceful as your namesake, recoiled and lashed out.
It crept across the floor like a silent, invisible frost, finding the woman and unraveling her.
You didn't mean to—not really—but the sheer force of your jealousy acted as a sculptor.
You turned her ugly. You fucking turned her into the antithesis of everything she was.
You gasped, snapping your gaze away as the realization of what you'd done hit you. Not my best moment, really, you thought, your heart hammering against your ribs. But the guilt was quickly swallowed by a sharp, defensive spike of anger.
If he wasn’t everywhere you went—if he wasn’t haunting your every step and flirting with strangers in your sanctuary—then this wouldn't have happened. It was his own fault, really.
Thor watched in absolute, paralyzed horror as the woman in front of him began to rot. Her radiant, youthful skin puckered and scarred; her shimmering blonde hair turned a dry, brittle grey. Her nose hooked and slumped, and deep wrinkles carved themselves into her once-plump face until she looked like the hunched, terrifying witch from the Midgardian tale of Hansel and Gretel.
The woman screamed, her voice cracking into a high-pitched rasp when she looked at her hands, she watched as she felt her own vitality wither.
Thor’s eyes became as wide as saucers.
He didn't need to see the magic to know its source.
There was only one person in the Nine Realms whose power could manifest with such raw, beautiful, and terrifying precision.
He didn't look at the crone sobbing at his table.
Slowly, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line, he turned his head toward your table.
He looked at you but something was biting at him. Thor’s gaze dropped from your face to your shoulder, and the tavern’s rowdy chorus fell into a suffocating silence.
The Captain’s arm was slung over you—careless, possessive, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress.
The sight of Borison’s hand on you was the final spark in a room full of gunpowder.
Thor had intended to find the man alone this morning to deal with him, but you were alongside Thor going to him. Now though, you had brought the bastard right to his feet. He didn't care about decorum anymore, or the fact that half of the city’s warriors were watching.
You were his light, his goddess, and the idea of you under another man's touch was a blasphemy he would no longer tolerate.
He began to move. His massive form cut through the sea of warriors like a predator, his presence so overpowering that men instinctively scrambled out of his path.
You watched him approach, your heart hammering against your teeth as he seized a vacant wooden chair. He dragged it across the floor with a screech that cut through the murmurs and slammed it down directly to your left, effectively boxing you in.
He knows, your mind screamed. He knows what you did to that woman.
But when you looked at him, he wasn't wearing the face of a punisher. Instead, he leaned back, a dashing, terrifyingly handsome smile spreading across his lips—the kind of smile a hunter gives a cornered prize.
“Hello, darling,” he rumbled, his voice a honeyed tone. “Care to explain our little situation here?”
For a second, you thought he was talking about the mangled, aged woman sobbing across the room. But Thor didn't even glance back at her. His eyes were fixed on Borison’s arm, his stare so sharp it felt like it could sever the Captain's limb at the shoulder.
You gulped, your pulse performing a frantic dance in your chest, but you forced your expression into one of innocent confusion.
You leaned back slightly, offering him your sweetest, most porcelain smile. “What situation, Thor?” you asked, your voice light and deceptively calm.
Thor’s smile didn't falter, but his hand reached out, his thick fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic beat on the table. A countdown.
Borison spoke beside you, his voice oily with a confidence that was about to cost him everything. “Is something the matter, sweetheart? You told me he was just your friend.”
Sweetheart? This fucker just called you sweetheart?
Thor’s blood reached a boiling point in a heartbeat. “Sweetheart?” his voice boomed, a low, guttural roar that made the heavy ale mugs on the table rattle.
Oh, no. Oh, fuck no. You knew he was going to make a scene. You had always been aware that he was overprotective—possessive, really—but you had convinced yourself it was merely because you were his best friend, his favorite companion, and he was a spoiled Prince who liked to keep his treasures to himself.
Thor moved in a blur of gold and fury. Within seconds, his hand clamped onto Borison’s arm like a vice. He yanked it from your shoulder and wrenched it behind the man’s back, angling it with a sickening, wet crack as the bone snapped. Borison’s howl of agony filled the tavern, the sound raw and jagged, but he didn't even have the time to process the pain.
With a snarl, Thor slammed Borison’s face into the heavy timber of the table, pinning him there by the back of his neck. The wood groaned under the impact. Borison’s friends all scrambled to their feet, their chairs clattering back against the floor, but they stood frozen. They didn't have the courage to face the God of Thunder—not here, not anywhere.
You scrambled up from your seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You grabbed onto Thor’s massive bicep, your fingers digging into the hard muscle as you yelled at him, “What are you doing? Let him go!”
Thor didn't move. He didn't even flinch at your touch. He kept his weight pressed down on the Captain, his eyes fixed on your face with a terrifying, unblinking intensity. The Prince was gone; there was only a man who had seen someone touch his goddess, and he looked ready to burn the tavern down around you both.
He looked at Borison, then back to you, his blue eyes burning with an unyielding possessiveness that made the tavern's hearth fire look like a flickering candle.
“He touched you, Little Spark,” Thor rasped, his voice a jagged tremor. He didn't look at the man sobbing beneath his hand; instead, his gaze bore into yours, watching the fear flicker in your eyes. “He cannot touch what's mine. You are my treasure. Mine.”
Borison was breathing in heavy, ragged gasps, his body thrashing in a desperate, futile attempt to escape the God’s crushing strength. But he was pinned like an insect. “I thought you said he was just a friend!” the Captain yelled, his face turning a bruised, angry red as he struggled against the agony in his arm.
You turned to Borison, your voice shrill with panic. “Yes, he's just a friend! That's all!” you yelled back, desperate to de-escalate the violence before someone truly died.
That was the breaking point.
Thor's anger doubled, surging through him like a tide. He didn't care if your history was about to crumble into dust. He didn't care about the onlookers or the royal scandal brewing in the sawdust. He cared only about the lie falling from your lips.
“Just a fucking friend?” he roared, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. “Why the fuck did you kiss me back, then? Care to explain that?”
The tavern went deathly silent. Every eye was on you, the secret of the garden now laid bare in the most brutal way possible.
You straightened, your spine turning into a rigid line of ice. The world seemed to tilt. He was mocking you. He had realized your true feelings and he was using them as a weapon in a tavern brawl. He was parading your heart around just to win an argument.
“Are you mocking me?” you whispered, the words barely finding the air. You couldn't breathe. Your vision began to blur, the edges of the room fraying as tears welled in your eyes.
Thor’s expression shifted in an instant. The fury drained from his face, replaced by a look of sudden, sharp agony. He saw the way you were looking at him—the look of someone who had been betrayed to their core. Why is she so hurt? What have I done? his mind echoed in a frantic loop.
“I never thought you of all people could be so cruel,” you said, your voice trembling. Your fingers let go of his bicep as if the contact had burned your skin to the bone. “Do not speak to me ever again.” Then you started for the door.
Thor’s whole world turned upside down at the finality in your voice. Not speak to you? The very thought was a physical impossibility, a sentence of slow death he refused to accept.
“Do not go near her again,” he snarled at the broken man beneath him. In a final, blind surge of fury, he slammed Borison’s head into the timber one last time. The Captain’s body went limp, his eyes rolling back as he slipped into unconsciousness. Thor let go of the unmoving form as if it were nothing more than refuse and bolted for the exit.
He burst through the heavy doors, trailing hot behind you into the cool night air. The distance between you was growing, and the sight of your retreating figure sent a spike of panic through his chest.
“Where do you think you are going?!” he yelled after you, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. “You cannot go!”
He saw your steps fasten, your silhouette shimmering under the moonlight as you hurried away. The desperation in his gut tightened; he was a god who could catch lightning, yet he felt as though you were slipping through his fingers like smoke.
“Go away, Thor!” you screamed back at him, your voice cracking. You didn't turn around, but he could hear the ragged edge of your breath, the sound of your heart breaking in every word. Tears trailed down your cheeks, hot and stinging, blurring the cobblestones beneath your feet.
You were still so far from the palace gates, trapped in the shadows of the lower city with him.
“I will not!” he roared, closing the gap with his heavy, ground-eating strides. “I will not let you walk away thinking I am the monster you just described!”
You felt him closing the distance, the heavy vibration of his boots against the cobblestones growing louder. You couldn't let him see the ruin of your face, the way your pride had crumbled into salt and tears, so you pushed off into a sprint. You were a warrior, possessing the lethal precision of a wild cat, and you darted through the shadows of the lower city with a speed that would have left any other man breathless.
“Wait—“ Thor shouted, the sound of his own heavy footsteps accelerating behind you. “Will you wait? It is not safe for a woman to wander through these streets alone!” he pleaded, his voice thick with worry.
“I am a warrior, Thor! I can take care of myself, are you kidding me?!” you screamed over your shoulder, your breath hitching as you navigated a sharp turn. The palace gates loomed in the distance, a beacon of golden light against the dark sky, but they still felt miles away.
He was gaining on you, his sheer physical power allowing him to bridge the gap despite your agility. “I know, darling, but I just have to make sure you're safe!”
Your steps staggered at the endearment. The word, once a comfort, now felt like a twist of a blade in an open wound. “Do not call me that!” you shrieked, your voice raw.
He saw your rhythm break, the way your foot caught on an uneven stone. “Please stop, you’re going to fall!” he yelled from behind you, his shadow stretching out to reach yours.
You saw the palace gates now, mere hundreds of yards away. You pushed yourself harder, your lungs burning, determined to reach the serenity of your chambers where you could lock the world—lock him out.
But suddenly, the ground vanished beneath your feet.
You felt massive, calloused hands wrap firmly around your middle, halting your momentum with the strength of an iron vice. Before you could even gasp, he spun you around in one fluid, powerful motion and slung you over his broad shoulder like a trophy of war.
The air was knocked out of you as your stomach hit his hard muscle. You were breathless, dangling against his back as he stood his ground in the middle of the empty street.
“What the fuck, Thor?!” you yelled, finding your voice and slamming your fists against his cape-clad back. “Put me down!”
“I am not going to put you down. I know you will flee the second I let you go. We are going to talk,” he said, his voice dropping into a stubborn, immovable tone. He didn't even break his stride, turning his path toward the palace gates while carrying you as if you weighed no more than a bundle of chiffon.
“Like this?!” you yelled, your voice muffled against his back. You couldn't believe the sheer audacity of it—the Prince of Asgard parading you through the streets like a conquered prize.
“Exactly, like this,” he replied, giving a firm nod that you could feel through his shoulder.
“Thor, I cannot believe you!” you screamed. The shock had burned away the last of your tears, leaving your cheeks stiff and hardened with the salt of your grief, replaced now by a white-hot fury.
He didn't budge. As he reached the palace gates, he didn't even slow down. The guards stationed at the entrance stood like statues, their expressions a mix of bewilderment and sheer terror as they watched the God of Thunder march past.
Thor merely offered them a relaxed, charming smile—the kind he wore at banquets—as if everything were perfectly ordinary. As if carrying the Goddess of Beauty over his shoulder in the middle of the night was simply part of the evening's schedule.
“You're acting like a caveman!” you shrieked, your fists thumping against his armor, though it was like hitting a mountain.
“Shh, my treasure. Calm down,” he murmured, his tone maddeningly affectionate. “It is not as if I am kidnapping you.”
“You are kidnapping me! This is exactly how kidnappings go!”
A low, rumbling vibration started in his chest, and you felt his broad shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“You wound me,” he chuckled, his grip on your legs tightening just enough to ensure the delicate chiffon of your skirts didn't snag as he ensured you stayed exactly where he wanted you.
“I am merely escorting my favorite person to a place where she cannot run away from me.”
You were deep in the palace now, the rhythmic thud of his boots echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the corridors. Maids and servants froze in their tracks, laundry baskets nearly slipping from their hands as they gawked at the sight of the Crown Prince carrying a high-ranking warrior and goddess over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He was paving the way for a scandal that would be the talk of the court for weeks, but he seemed entirely unbothered.
“Yeah, right. Your favorite person,”’you mumbled, your voice thick with bitter sarcasm.
He stopped right in his tracks, his body tensing beneath you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
You scoffed, the movement awkward while upside down. “You claim I am your favorite person, but you sat with her at the feast. You chose her.” Your head was beginning to ache from the blood rushing to your skull, the throbbing behind your eyes matching the rhythm of your racing heart.
“You told me to sit with her—“
“Oh, like you do everything I say to you!” you cut him off sharply.
He growled, a sound of pure frustration, and started back on his path toward your chambers. He hit the grand staircase, his strides powerful as he began the ascent. “Except I do exactly what you say every single time! You know what? Not our topic. I was not going to sit with her—“
“Doesn't matter anymore—“
“Will you stop cutting me off and listen?!” he yelled, his voice booming through the stairwell.
He stopped his ascent abruptly in the middle of the grand stairs. In one swift motion, he lowered you from his shoulder, but he didn't let you go. He pressed you back against the cold marble banister, caging you in with his massive arms on either side of your head. He leaned in until his chest was inches from yours, his heat radiating through your chiffon dress.
He was close again. So close you could see the flecks of gold in his stormy eyes. You gulped, your eyes wide as you felt the sudden shift from his playful arrogance to raw, desperate sincerity.
“Okay...” you whispered, your voice small and breathless.
Thor’s expression softened instantly at the sight of your wide eyes and the way you looked so small within his reach. He took a sharp breath, clearly struggling to keep his composure from fraying under your gaze.
“I was going to sit with you, as usual,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft, urgent rumble. “Then her father talked to my father to arrange that seating plan. It was a matter of diplomacy, a move made without my knowledge while I was already looking for you in the crowd. You just did not let me explain.”
“Why are you mad, anyway? I got up from my seat and made you sit to my left. It's a clear sign that I did not choose her over you,” Thor continued, his voice thick with a desperate kind of urgency. “I would never—I could never choose anyone over you.”
You remained pinned against the marble, looking up at him with a defiant tilt of your chin despite the way your heart was hammering. “You only did that because you didn't want your favorite toy sitting next to another man,” you mumbled, the words tasting like poison on your tongue.
The air around him seemed to crackle. His eyes flashed with a sudden, searing anger that made you flinch. “Do you hear yourself? You think I see you as a toy?” he yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a maid hovering near a pillar, her head ducked as she tried to eavesdrop on the royal meltdown. His patience snapped.
“You know what? We will not talk of this here.”
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He grabbed your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and began dragging you toward the heavy oak doors of his own chambers.
“Go back to your duties!” he roared over his shoulder at the nosy maid, who vanished in a blur of fabric.
He reached his room, shoved the doors open, and practically hauled you inside before slamming them shut with a thud that vibrated through the floorboards.
“The hell, Thor?!” you yelled, stumbling slightly as he finally let go of your wrist. You smoothed out the wrinkled chiffon of your skirts, your face flushed with a mix of fury and exhaustion. “Stop dragging me around like a doll!”
Thor turned to face you, his chest heaving as he paced the length of the rug like a caged lion. He looked at you, his blue eyes searching yours with an agonizing intensity that made the room feel far too small.
“A toy? A doll?” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl. “Is that truly what you think of me? That I would spend years of my life yearning for a toy?”
“Yearning? Is that what you call this? You have the nerve to talk like you're my fucking lover, Thor!”
“I do lo—“ he started, his voice cracking with a sudden, raw vulnerability, but you weren't hearing him. The rush of blood in your ears and the pounding of your heart drowned out the fact that he was seconds away from a confession.
“I will not listen to you!” you yelled, spinning on your heel and lunging for the heavy oak doors.
He blocked your path instantly, his massive frame a wall you couldn't hope to move. “You will not leave this room until you hear what I have to say! If you keep being this stubborn, I will lock us both in here and not let you out until you listen!”
You took a sharp step back, your chest heaving under the delicate chiffon of your dress. “You just yelled at me for calling myself a toy, but you're threatening to lock me up?! Do you hear yourself?! Try it then—try locking me up!”
A dark, decisive flicker ignited in his eyes. He didn't say another word. He turned to the door, grabbed the heavy iron key, and twisted it. The thunk of the bolt sliding into place echoed through the silent chamber.
Just as you thought he was simply being dramatic, he pulled the key from the lock and started walking toward the balcony with a grim, purposeful stride.
Your blood turned to ice.
He wouldn't.
He couldn't.
“Do not dare try what you're thinking—“ you warned, trailing hot behind him, your heart hammering against your ribs.
But you were too late. He reached the marble railing, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent the key soaring into the darkness of the palace gardens below. You watched, horrified, as the small glint of metal vanished into the dense thicket of trees and fountains hundreds of feet down.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU PSYCHOPATH?!” you screamed, rushing to the edge and looking down at the impossible drop.
Thor turned back to you, leaning his weight against the railing. He looked entirely too calm for a man who had just trapped himself with a furious goddess.
“I have ensured that we have the time we need,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into that low, possessive tone that always made your knees weak.
“Now, sit. Or don't. But you are going to listen to every word I have been dying to tell you since that night in the tavern.”
“The night in the tavern? Which night in the tavern?” you echoed, your brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
“The night when you kissed me, Little Spark.”
You froze.
The world seemed to stop spinning for a heartbeat.
The night you kissed him?
“What? I kissed you? When?”
Your heart was drumming against your ribs so hard it was almost painful, and Thor was looking at you as if the weight of a thousand dying stars were pressing down on his soul.
“You kissed me that night of our victory over the Frost Giants,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, mournful cadence. “You called me handsome. You made me believe you wanted me. Then you proceeded to call it fun and fell asleep in my arms.”
Suddenly, the fog in your mind began to thin. The memories started flooding back like a tidal wave—the heavy, metallic taste of Asgardian ale, the way he had shielded you from the gaze of other men, the way he had whispered how beautiful you were. And the kiss. The desperate, searing kiss that had felt like lightning and rain.
You took a sharp breath, your hand flying to your mouth. “I—“ You tried to swallow, but your throat was too dry. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—“
“You're sorry you kissed me?” he echoed, the words coming out as a whisper. He looked at you with an unshielded, naked hurt that made your stomach twist.
But then, the memory of the garden—of the way he had pulled away and left you standing in the cold moonlight—surfaced. The sting of it brought the anger back, hot and defensive. “Yes! Just like you're sorry you kissed me in the gardens! Remember? The way you looked at me like I was a fucking mistake?!”
He started toward you, his massive frame closing the distance until he was towering over you. “I did no such thing!” he yelled, his eyes flashing with a storm of his own.
“You did though!” you shrieked, spinning around to head back inside the chamber, desperate to put a wall between you.
He followed you, his patience finally snapping. You let out a small squeal as he caught your arm, his strength undeniable as he spun you around and pinned you against the stone wall.
He didn't face you, instead, he pressed your chest against the cold masonry—his own body flush against your back, trapping you in a cage of heat and muscle. The delicate chiffon of your dress offered no protection against the solid weight of him.
“You truly are a cavema—“
He clamped his hand over your mouth, silencing the insult before it could leave your lips. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your neck.
“Stop talking, I beg of you,” he groaned, his voice a ragged plea. “You do not let me speak. Ever. For once in your life, darling, just listen.”
His body was pressed firmly into yours, the heat of him making your back burn through the delicate chiffon. He kept his hand over your mouth, his touch firm but trembling with a restraint you’d never seen from him.
“I kept beating every single one of your suitors not because I was being possessive as your friend or because I saw you as a toy,” he rasped, his voice vibrating against your spine. “I did it because I was jealous. Consumed by it.”
Your breathing quickened, your chest heaving against the stone wall.
Is this really happening?
“For years, I kept you by my side—as my friend, as my confidant. But I never saw you as just a friend. Not really.” He took a deep, jagged breath. You turned your face sideways, looking back at him over your shoulder. His blue eyes were the most genuine they had ever looked, stripped of the prince’s bravado and the warrior’s steel.
”I burn for you. I yearn for you. I seek you wherever I go,” he confessed, his gaze searching yours.
“I want to kill every single man who dares to look at you. I find peace in the sound of your voice. I kissed you because I wanted to and I do not regret a single moment of it.”
He gulped, “I have been yearning for you for years. I love you. My soul sings for you. You are my everything; my sun, my stars, my universe.”
He took another shaky breath as your heart seemed to drop straight to your stomach.
He loves me, you thought, the realization echoing through the hollow ache in your chest.
“I know you only see me as your friend,” he whispered, his thumb grazing your cheek as his expression crumbled. “But I cannot keep living like this. I need to know, is there a chance—why are you crying? Did I say something wrong?”
You shook your head frantically. He hadn't said anything wrong; he was saying every word you had been starving to hear from him. Only him.
Slowly, he removed his hand from your mouth and turned you fully toward him, caging you between his body and the wall.
“Why do you think I just turned that woman into that wretched thing?” you started, your voice thick with a sob. “I yearn for you—I love you. You’re the only one I want, the only one I will ever want.”
The air left his lungs in a sharp huff. The God of Thunder looked as though he'd been struck by his own lightning.
You loved him?
In that silent, charged moment, the sheer absurdity of the years you spent with each other hit you both at once. All the missed signals, the misplaced jealousy, the just friends lies—you had both been absolute idiots.
A small, watery giggle escaped you, and Thor began to laugh too, a deep, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated relief.
“I cannot believe you did that, my love,” he murmured, his laughter fading into something much more intimate. He took your face between his massive, calloused hands, and you covered them with your own, leaning into his touch.
“I know, I didn't mean to—it just happened,” you whispered, “I really do have to turn her back though.” a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.
“You do, my love, you really do.” he said, his smile still on his face.
His smile faltered then, at the sight of your smile, replaced by a look of such raw devotion it made your breath hitch.
“My soul burns when I see you, darling. You are the most beautiful woman my eyes have ever beheld.”
He whispered the words as his forehead dropped to rest against yours. Your heart sang, a wild, joyous melody that drowned out the rest of Asgard. You smiled, closing your eyes and finally letting the warmth of him anchor you.
The clink of metal against stone echoed from the gardens below, followed by a voice that was far too smooth and far too amused.
“I have your key, don't worry, brother! You guys have the best time!” Loki’s voice drifted up, dripping with mischief.
Your eyes snapped open, widening as they met Thor’s. The romantic atmosphere shattered into a shard of panic.
You both scrambled toward the balcony railing, leaning over the marble to see Loki standing on the path below, twirling Thor’s chamber key around his finger with a predatory grin.
“Brother!” Thor roared, his voice booming across the palace grounds. “Throw it back to me, now!”
“Don’t you dare, Loki!” you shrieked at the same time, your face heating up with the realization that the God of Mischief had likely witnessed most of the dramatic display.
“No! I think I shall keep it,” Loki laughed, a sharp, sinister sound that faded as he turned back toward the palace interior. “I intend to let you out only when I feel like it. Enjoy the solitude!”
The silence that followed was heavy.
“I hate him,” you mumbled, leaning your forehead against the cool stone of the railing.
“Me too,” Thor grumbled, his jaw set in a hard line.
You whipped around to face him, the adrenaline finally curdled into fresh annoyance. “This is your fault, I hope you know that! This entire mess!”
Thor’s eyebrows shot upward, his blue eyes sparking. “How is it my fault that you kept trying to run away from me, you crazy woman? I was forced into drastic measures!”
“Well, I certainly didn't tell you to lock us in and throw the fucki—“
“Fucking brat,” he cut you off, the insult coming out as a low, gravelly growl.
Before you could snap back, he moved.
His hands clamped onto your waist and he pulled you flush against him, silencing you with a kiss so fierce your breath caught in your throat.
He wasn't asking this time. He was claiming. He kissed you like you were the last source of oxygen on a planet devoid of it, his lips biting yours with a desperate hunger.
He was eating you alive.
“You got a mouth on you, you know that?” He mumbled against your lips.
He grazed his tongue over the seam of your lips, biting down again until you let out a soft, broken moan against his mouth.
He parted from you just an inch, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a heat that made the summer night feel like ice.
“Do not worry, I'll teach you some manners, baby,” he whispered softly against your swollen lips, the endearment sending a lightning strike down your spine.
You felt a rush of excitement run through you, down to your core.
Then, he kissed you again, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Your chiffon skirts fluttered around his legs as he turned back toward the bed, leaving the locked door and the missing key—and Loki—to the shadows of the night.
Thor carried you toward the massive bed, his stride heavy and purposeful. When he reached the edge, he didn't gently lay you down; he tossed you onto the covers with a suddenness that made you squeal, caught entirely off guard by his newfound aggression.
He stood at the foot of the bed, looking you dead in the eye as he began to tally your crimes.
“Let's see what you did so we can decide your punishment,” he rumbled, holding up his hand and ticking off a finger. “First, you talked back to me.”
“Thor—”
“Second, you did not listen to me,” he continued, ignoring your protest and raising another finger. “Third, you strolled around with that bastard—”
“How does that deserve a punishment?!” you yelled, pushing yourself up on your elbows.
“Ah, how could I forget?” He tilted his head, a dark, playful glint in his eyes. “You keep cutting me off. Let's add it to the list. You cut me off... how many times now?”
He paused, tapped his chin, and looked at you as if he were truly trying to calculate the total. Your eyes went wide. He has gone insane, you thought, a hysterical bubble of laughter trapped in your chest. I finally made him lose his mind.
“You know what? Your punishment will take too long if we count how many times you cut me off. Let's just say five for now, shall we?”
He didn't wait for an answer. With a fluid, practiced motion, he unfastened his heavy red cape and let it pool on the floor like spilled wine. Then came the armor plates, clattering softly as he stripped them away until he was standing before you completely bare from the waist up.
“I have decided,” he declared.
He extended his hand toward you, but you couldn't move. You were too busy staring. He was unreal—a mountain of golden skin and functional muscle. His shoulders were so wide they seemed to block out the rest of the room, and his biceps were thick enough to crush your skull if he so much as flexed. You felt a different kind of insanity creeping into your own mind just looking at him.
Slowly, you reached out and took his hand. He gripped your fingers firmly, pulling you up from the bed until you were standing flush against his heated chest.
“You like what you see, my heart?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, smug vibration. He looked down at you, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed the way you were practically devouring him with your gaze.
You gulped, the air in the room suddenly feeling very thin.
“I like it so much,” you murmured, looking up at him with wide, honest eyes.
Thor’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his expression softening into something hungrier, more primal. He didn't say another word; he simply pulled you closer, his hands sliding down to the small of your back, pinning you against his bare skin.
“That could erase one of your disrespects,” he purred, the sound vibrating against your chest. His large, calloused hands slid to your back, his fingers finding the hidden zipper of your chiffon dress and beginning the slow, deliberate descent.
But you just couldn't help yourself. It was an instinct, a survival mechanism honed over years of friendship: you lived to annoy him.
“Why did you throw me if you were going to tell me to get up?” you asked suddenly, your voice tilting with a challenge.
The zipper stopped. Thor froze, his jaw tightening as the last of his romantic resolve vanished. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his soft demeanor replaced by a look of sheer, incredulous annoyance. Is she serious? he thought, his eyes darkening with a different kind of fire.
“You couldn't stop talking for a second, could you? You just had to add another one.”
He didn't wait for an answer. He gripped the bodice of your dress and tugged it down—hard. The fabric gave way instantly, and the air in the room hit your bare skin as the dress pooled around your waist.
You weren't wearing a bra, and your breasts were bared to him in an instant, your nipples hardening as much from the sudden exposure as from the intensity in his gaze. You stood there in nothing but your simple white lace panties, your heart hammering against your ribs.
I really shouldn’t have said that, you thought, your bravado finally faltering.
Thor didn't move for a long moment, his eyes sweeping over you with an appreciative, predatory hunger that made your skin tingle. Then, he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, reaching out to grab your hips. He hauled you forward, throwing you over his thick, muscular thighs before you could even think to scramble away.
Then, something you never expected happened.
His massive hand came down, striking your right cheek with a sharp, stinging force. The slap made a loud, echoing sound in the quiet chamber. You flinched, your breath hitching as a shockwave of heat blossomed where he’d hit you.
Did he just spank you?
“You will count every time I spank you. Until we get to nine. You got it?” he rumbled, his voice thick and commanding.
You couldn't give him an answer; the sheer shock of the sensation had sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and you could feel your panties already soaking through the delicate lace.
Thor didn't like the silence. He reached down, his fingers hooking under your chin to force your head up, bringing your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes were burning, darker than a midnight storm.
“You got it?” he repeated, his thumb pressing firmly against your lower lip.
Oh gods, he was so hot.
The power, the possessiveness, the raw authority in his voice—it was more than you could handle. You nodded quickly, your pulse racing.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “Start counting.”
Then his hand came down again, harder this time, and the heat intensified, leaving you breathless.
“One,” you breathed, your forehead falling against the hard muscle of his thigh as the sting began to hum under your skin.
He struck again, the impact echoing through the room. “Two—this is ridiculous,” you managed to get out, your voice breathless and tight.
Thor stopped instantly. The room went silent, save for the sound of your combined, heavy breathing.
“What was that?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble.
“Nothing,” you whispered into his skin.
He struck again, the force of it making you jump. “Three.” Your voice was much smaller now, the defiance finally bleeding out of you.
Suddenly, the sting was replaced by an agonizingly soft sensation. Thor’s large hand began to soothe the skin he’d just punished, his palm grazing over the heat in a slow, loving circle. “You okay, darling?” he asked, the genuine concern in his voice nearly undoing you.
You nodded against his leg, unable to find your words. Taking that as your consent to continue, he struck again. “Four,” you gasped out, the sound hitching in your throat.
But he didn't pull his hand away this time. Instead, he slid his palm lower, his thumb pressing firmly against your center through the thin, damp fabric of your lace panties. Your hips moved instinctively, following the direction of his hand as a broken mewl escaped your lips.
“You're soaked, my heart,” he rumbled, his voice thick with a dark, triumphant discovery. He moved his hand, hooking his fingers into the edge of the lace and tugging it to the side. His thumb found your slick, heated skin, running through the moisture you'd produced just for him. You moaned again, your head spinning as you buried your face deeper into his thigh.
“You're a dirty, dirty girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against the small of your back. “Acting like you think this is crazy, but you are soaking wet just from me spanking you.”
The shame and the pleasure swirled together, making you feel lightheaded.
“We should get rid of this, baby,” he whispered against your skin. Before you could even process the words, you heard the violent rip of delicate lace. With the effortless strength of a god, he tore the white panties clean off your body.
The sudden exposure to the cool air of the chamber, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze, made your breath hitch and stall in your chest. You were completely bare for him now, pinned across his lap, trembling as the weight of his attention settled over you.
“Fuck,” he murmured, “widen your legs for me pretty girl.” he nudged the insides of your thighs further apart, exposing every inch of your flushed skin to the light of the chamber.
He leaned over you, his thumb finding the sensitive, swollen peak of your clit and beginning to grind in slow, agonizing circles. The friction was perfect, a white-hot contrast to the cool air hitting your wet skin.
Then, his hand came down again—not on your cheek this time, but directly against your pussy. The impact was sharp and heavy, sending a jolt of pure lightning through your nervous system that made you see stars behind your eyelids.
“Five!” you gasped, your voice hitting a high-pitched, desperate note as you arched your back, your hips bucking instinctively against his lap.
He chuckled, the sound dark and triumphant. “You like that, don't you?”
You couldn't even find the air to answer him. He slapped you again, the sting hitting your clit directly, sending a wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You felt the muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, your internal walls clenching around nothing.
“Six—please—“ you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscle of his thigh as you pleaded for relief.
This time he slapped again, two times in a row. You didn't have it in you to talk. All you could do was moan, it was too much. You were consumed by him.
“Seven and eight,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, possessive growl. He was relentless, his heat radiating against you as he prepared for the final strike of your punishment. “You're doing so well, my heart. Just one more.”
He struck your pussy one last time, the impact so sharp and perfect it sent a final, blinding bolt of pleasure through your spine. “Nine!” you moaned, the sound breaking into a sob of pure release as your head fell back.
He didn't leave you draped over his thighs for long. “You did so good for me, my love,” he murmured, his voice thick with pride and desire. “You want your reward?”
Before you could even find the breath to answer, he shifted. He pulled you up, hauling your body around until you were sitting on his lap, facing away from him. Your back was pressed flush against his broad, bare chest, and your legs were spread wide open over his heavy thighs, leaving you completely exposed to his touch. You leaned your head back, resting it against the hollow of his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.
“That's it, Little Spark,” he rumbled, his arms winding around you.
His hand slid down between your thighs, his thumb finding your clit again to resume those torturous, heavy circles. Then, he pushed his middle finger deep into your hole. You let out a broken cry, the sensation of him finally being inside you making your hips buck instinctively.
“Gods you're tight.” he mumbled into your hair. He began finger-fucking you, his pace steady and relentless. Every thrust made your juices squelch loudly in the quiet of the chamber, the sound of your own arousal making your face flush. You were a moaning mess, your head lolling against his chest as he bottomed out inside you.
“Please, baby... please,” you begged, your hands reaching back to grip his bicep, feeling the hard, flexed muscle under your fingers.
“I have you,” he grunted, his own composure finally cracking. He added his ring finger, the sudden stretch wider than you had ever been, making you gasp at the delicious fullness.
He didn't slow down. With two fingers driving deep and his thumb rhythmically punishing your clit, the world narrowed down to the heat of his touch. All it took was a few more powerful thrusts and one heavy press of his thumb before your vision went white.
Your orgasm washed over you in violent, pulsing waves, your internal muscles clamping down on his fingers as you shook in his arms, gasping for air.
You could feel his bulge straining beneath you, a hard, insistent weight that made your pulse jump.
Thor reached down, taking his glistening fingers—slick with your own essence—and slowly put them in his mouth. You looked up at him from the hollow of his neck, mesmerized, as he sucked them clean while holding your gaze. His bulge twitched against you.
“Fuck,”he whispered, his voice a gravelly ruin once he got a taste of you. “You taste divine—just like I imagined.”
The admission sent another surge of heat straight to your core. He moved with a sudden, desperate grace, placing you back on the bed until your head hit the pillows.
“I cannot wait—I have to have you, my love,” he said, his breathing ragged. He stood for a moment to discard his trousers, and your gaze shamelessly tracked the movement. His cock sprung up against his stomach, the tip already leaking with precum.
Your eyes widened. He was huge. Unreal. You felt a flash of genuine fear—you weren't sure something that size could actually fit inside you. You hadn't done this before; you had never let a man touch you like this. You couldn't have, not when your heart had always belonged to him.
Thor began to climb back over you, but he stopped when he caught the look of concern on your face.
“What's wrong? Have I hurt you?” he asked, his voice shifting instantly from lust to urgent worry. He looked at you intently. “Tell me.”
He looked as though he couldn't live with himself if he had actually caused you pain. You shook your head quickly.
“No, you didn't—I'm okay. It's just that,” You took a deep breath, your voice small. “I haven't done this before.” Thor froze. The air in the room seemed to go still as the weight of your words settled over him.
Thor froze, his weight braced on his forearms as he hovered over you. The raw, primal hunger in his eyes shifted instantly into something profound—a mixture of awe, reverence, and an almost painful tenderness.
“You...” he started, his voice cracking. “In all these years, with all those who sought your hand...”
He looked down at you, seeing the vulnerability in your wide eyes and the flush on your cheeks. The realization hit him like a physical blow: you had saved yourself for a love you weren't even sure was returned. You had waited for him.
“My heart,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His massive frame was trembling, not from lust now, but from the sheer weight of the gift you were giving him. “I will be so gentle with you. I promise.”
He shifted, trailing a row of soft, worshipful kisses along your jawline and down to the hollow of your throat. His hand, once so demanding and firm, now stroked your hair back with a touch as light as a summer breeze.
“We will go as slow as you need,” he murmured against your skin, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. “You are more precious to me than the throne, more than the Nine Realms themselves. I want this to be perfect for you.”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again, his own shimmering with a depth of emotion that made your chest ache. The intimidating size of him seemed to soften as he focused entirely on your comfort.
“If it becomes too much, if you wish to stop, you need only whisper it,” he promised, his voice a low, solemn vow. “I am yours, in this and in all things. Do you trust me?” You nodded, your voice a faint, trembling thread. “I do. I trust you, my love,” you whispered against his skin.
A slow, radiant smile spread across Thor’s face, one that reached his eyes and stayed there. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was achingly tender, even as his hand moved back down between your thighs. When his thumb found your clit again, the familiar spark of pleasure flared up, helping to soothe the tension in your body. You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled and needy.
He kept circling you with a steady, grounding rhythm as he centered the head of his length at your entrance. He paused there for a heartbeat, his muscles rippling under your touch, waiting for you to breathe. Then, with an agonizingly slow deliberation, he began to ease in.
You gasped, your eyes flying open as he started to slide inside. The sensation of fullness was overwhelming, and for a moment, a sharp sting of pain took over. Your hands flew to his broad back, your nails digging deep into his skin as your body instinctively tensed against the intrusion.
He stopped instantly, his arms shaking from the effort of holding his weight back. He was only partway in, his face strained with the effort of self-control. “You okay, my heart?” He whispered, his voice thick and strained. He stayed perfectly still, giving you time to stretch, time to get used to the feel of him.
You took a ragged breath, the initial sting beginning to fade into a heavy, pulsing heat. You looked up at him, seeing the devotion in his eyes, and felt the last of your fear melt away. You nodded, your lips reaching up to find his again in a soft, reassuring kiss.
The ache was turning into a desperate, hollow craving that only he could fill. You shifted your hips slightly, seeking more of him. “Move,” you told him, your voice gaining strength as the pleasure began to outrun the pain. “Move, please.”
He started moving then, a slow, rhythmic pull and push that felt like the tide coming in. He groaned into your ear, a deep, guttural sound as he found a pace that allowed you to adjust to every inch of him. As the initial ache dissolved into a heavy, radiating warmth, you realized he wasn’t just taking you; he was making love to you.
He pulled back, bracing himself on his elbows so he could look at you. His gaze was intense, searching your eyes and your very soul as he continued his steady rhythm. He looked at you with such adoring reverence that it made your breath hitch.
“Gods,” he rasped, his voice trembling. “I have fantasized about this moment for so long, but I never thought it would be like this. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He leaned down to kiss you tenderly, his lips soft and lingering even as his lower body remained relentless. You were high on the feel of him, your eyes glazing over as the pleasure began to build into something sharp and undeniable.
“Be my wife,” he said suddenly, the words puncturing the quiet of the room.
You clenched around him at the words, a small moan escaping your lips as the friction intensified.
“Be my wife, my queen, the mother of my children,” he continued, his voice thick with a solemn, desperate vow. “Marry me.”
You nodded frantically, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “I will marry you. I will be your wife,” you gasped, your heart overflowing. “I love you so much.”
He bit his lip, his eyes darkening as he reached his limit. “I love you too, my treasure.” He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more urgent. “I’m gonna come, my love—let me cum in you. Let me mark you.”
You looked up at him through a heavy-lidded gaze, completely lost in him. “Yes—do it, please!” you pleaded, arching your hips to meet him.He reached down, his thumb finding your clit one last time and circling it with a frantic, heavy pressure. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the world splintered into a thousand points of light.
“Oh—!” you cried out, your body tightening in a violent, beautiful release at the exact same moment he bucked against you, his own roar of triumph muffled against your neck as he filled you with his warmth, finally making you his in every way possible.
The heavy silence of the chamber was now filled with the soft, synchronized sound of your breathing.
Thor shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling you flush against his heated skin. He tucked your head into the crook of his shoulder, his large hand resting protectively over your hip.
“I never thought this could happen,” he murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating with a quiet, stunned wonder. The fiery warrior who had stormed through the palace hours ago was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he had finally found his home.
You smiled, the exhaustion and the lingering hum of pleasure making your limbs feel heavy and warm. You tilted your head back to look at him, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. “Me neither,” you whispered. “But I’m glad it happened. I’m glad it was you.”
He smiled back, a genuine, soft expression that reached his eyes, making the blue of them look like a clear summer sky. “Me too, my heart. A thousand times over.”
He leaned down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips—a silent promise of the lifetime you had just agreed to share. Outside, the palace was still, the scandal of the evening already fading into the shadow of the deep Asgardian night, leaving the two of you alone in your own locked universe.
—
This is so fricking long I couldn't stop lmaooo, Let me know what you think please 💕
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 💕
Summary: He was your grumpy trainer, a handler to help you keep your newly discovered powers at bay. You were hopelessly in love with him yet you knew he couldn't look at you that way. Oh, how wrong you turned out to be.
Content: Grumpy and Sunshine Dynamic, Angst, King Thor, Infinity War-Endgame Thor, Yearning, Tension, Possessive Thor, Jealous Thor, OBSESSED Thor, Jealous Reader, Age Gap (Thor is a god hello), A Lot Of Bad Jokes, Reader Is Annoying Him, Reader In Her Early To Late 20's (you could interpret it as older, I do not specify her age but she definitely has so much energy), Explicit SMUT At The End. (Note: My first language is not English.)
Word Count: 32k (Basically a novella guys)
Minors Do Not Interact
—
You sat on a rolling stool, slowly swinging your legs, while a robotic arm scanned your vitals. Every time you got excited, purple sparks jumped from your ponytail, making the nearby monitors glitch.
“So, let me get this straight,” you said, leaning forward to peek at Tony Stark’s holographic displays. “I’m not dying? I’m just spicy now?”
Tony didn't look up from his tablet, but his brow was furrowed in that way that meant he was doing math that would make your head explode. “You’re not spicy, kid. You’re a biological anomaly. And the opposite. You can’t die. When the Stones did their thing, you caught a stray wave of gamma and astral radiation. Most people turned to dust, you turned into an immortal high-voltage capacitor.”
“So I'm an Avenger? Do I get a suit? I was thinking something with pockets. Real pockets, not those fake ones they put on women's jeans.”
Tony finally looked at you, giving you a dry, pitying stare. “You get a handler. You’ve had these powers for forty-eight hours, and you’ve already accidentally melted your neighbor's refrigerator. You need a tutor.”
“Is it Captain America? I’d be okay with that. He seems like he gives great ‘I'm disappointed in you’ speeches.”
“No,” Tony muttered, heading for the door. “Steve is too nice. You’d eat him alive. You need someone who can actually withstand a direct hit from you. Follow me.”
The elevator opened, and you practically bounced out. You were terrified, sure, but the adrenaline of being in the actual Avengers Compound was winning.
Then, you saw him.
Thor was standing by the window. He wasn't wearing the regal armor or the flowing cape. He was in a dark, tactical shirt that strained against his shoulders, his short hair making him look like a rugged, battle-worn mercenary. He looked like he carried the weight of the entire universe on his back. Oh, he was so hot.
Your heart started thudding against your ribs.
He turned around, his gaze landing on you. For a split second, the air left his lungs.
He saw the way the violet light swirled in your eyes—it looked like the nebulas he used to fly through with his brother. He thought you were stunning, a rare flash of vibrant life in a world that had gone dark.
Then, you opened your mouth.
You just had to open your mouth didn’t you?
“Hold on,” you said, eyes narrowed. “You’re the God of Thunder? I thought you’d be— I don't know, older now? Like, beard-to-the-floor, wizard-hat older. But you’re actually still kind of a babe. A very grumpy, scarred babe.”
Thor blinked. The celestial beauty image in his mind cracked and fell apart instantly. “A... babe?”
“Yeah! And the eye! Is it glass? Can I see it? Does it pop out?” You walked right into his personal space, peering up at him like he was a science project. “Tony says I’m assigned to you. I do the purple sparks. You do the blue ones. We’re like a matching set! Though, I heard you missed the head on the big bad. Don't worry, I’m great at aiming. I once won a giant teddy bear at a carnival by hitting a moving target. I can totally teach you.”
Thor’s jaw tightened. He looked over your head at Tony, his face a mask of pure, mounting horror. “Stark. What is this? Why is this mortal child speaking to me about carnivals and my aim?”
“Hey! I am not a mortal anymore, nor am I a child. I'm a whole ass adult!” you said looking at both of them. First Tony calls you kid, and now Thor calls you a child.
You have noticed a pattern here. Good for you.
“She’s your problem now, Point Break,” Tony called out, retreating back into the elevator. “She’s a human energy-well. You're the only one who won't turn into a charcoal briquette during her training. Enjoy the youth!”
The doors closed. You beamed up at Thor, your fingers sparking with a happy violet light. “So! Training! Do we start with the sparks, or do we start with the workout? Because I have to tell you, I haven't done a sit-up since 2019 and I don't plan on starting now.”
Thor looked at your bright, grinning face, then up at the ceiling, his hand tightening on the handle of Stormbreaker. He was 1,500 years old. He had fought dragons. He had faced Thanos. And yet, he had never felt more defeated.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, the word a low rumble of thunder.
“Was that a yes to no sit-ups?!” you cheered. “You're already the best teacher ever!”
Thor didn't answer. He just turned and began marching toward the gym, his cape—which he had summoned just to feel more like a King—billowing behind him in an angry, red cloud.
“Wait for me, Thunder Bolt!” you yelled, running after him.
“Seven AM tomorrow,” he barked over his shoulder. “If you speak before the sun is fully up, I will throw you into the Hudson.”
“Is that a promise? Because I can't drown now, so that sounds like a fun Saturday!” you yelled back, stopping in your tracks.
Thor’s pace doubled. He didn't look back.
You stood in the hallway, watching his broad shoulders disappear around the corner. You were grinning, but deep down, a little knot of anxiety twisted in your stomach.
He hated you, didn't he? Or at least, he found you as pleasant as a persistent toothache.
You were just a job to him—a loud, sparkly, annoying Midgardian job.
—
The next morning, the panic hit before the memories did. You bolted upright, your hair a tangled static-charged mess that looked like you’d stuck your finger in a socket. Your chest heaved as you looked at the sterile, high-tech walls of the room.
Where the fuck am I?, you thought as you scrambled out of bed, heart hammering against your ribs, and lunged for the door.
Then, you stopped. The cool touch of the metal handle grounded you. The Compound. The Avengers. The Sparks.
“Oh,” you breathed, a deep, shaky sigh of relief escaping your lungs. You weren't in your tiny, blown-up apartment anymore. This was your life now. You weren't just a girl who got lucky, your DNA had been rewritten into something immortal and unbreakable.
You spent the next twenty minutes trying to look like you could handle the power of a star.
How does one look like that anyway?
You pulled on your black leggings and a skin-tight t-shirt that hugged your frame, the fabric stretching over the faint, violet veins of energy that pulsed near your collarbone.
When you walked into the common area, the scent of expensive coffee and cedarwood hit you.
And then, you caught sight of him. Thor was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a simple grey hoodie that made him look human and dangerously approachable. He was staring at a tablet, his rugged, handsome face illuminated by the screen's glow.
He looked so beautiful it actually hurt.
You stood there for a second, your breath catching in your throat, feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room.
Get it together, you scolded yourself. He thinks you're a nuisance. Don't let him see you melt, act normal.
“Good morning, Thunder-Thighs!” you called out, your voice a little too loud, a little too bright, masking the fact that your heart was doing backflips.
Yeah, so much for acting normal. Idiot.
You couldn’t help it okay? You rambled when you were nervous and he made you really nervous.
He just looked sideways at you, his gaze lingering on your messy hair for a fraction of a second before he turned back to his cup. “Good morning, Little One,” he mumbled into his coffee.
Your brows furrowed. “Little One?” you repeated, stepping closer. “Is that the new nickname? Because like I told you before, I am an adult, thank you very much.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips—just a tiny, fleeting flicker—as he looked up at you. It was the first time he’d looked at you without immediate exasperation. “You are so much younger and smaller than me, aren't you?”
Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath hitched. You were standing close enough to see the stubble on his jaw and the way the grey fabric of his hoodie stretched over his chest.
“I'm compact,” you squeaked, your face heating up. “Highly concentrated energy. Like a—like a shot of espresso. Smaller than you but lethal.” Thor let out a low, huffing sound that might have been a laugh.
Then you added, “And I’ll outlive most things.”
Thor’s expression shifted, a shadow of something heavy crossing his eyes. He knew you were like him now—someone who would watch the years pass while others faded.
How could this be?, he wondered. How were you going to handle losing everyone around when the time came? He didn’t want you losing your spark, he couldn’t bear the thought of it, but you would eventually. And that was something he didn’t want to witness. Ever.
He stood up, towering over you, the sheer scale of him reminding you that he was a celestial being and you were just a girl with a sudden power-up.
“The espresso is twenty minutes late for training,” he rumbled, his tone shifting back to that cold distance. The smile was gone. The wall was back up. “Eat your breakfast. The mat does not wait.”
You finished your breakfast in record time, shoving the last bite of toast down as you sprinted toward the training wing. Your pulse was already racing, a frantic staccato that had nothing to do with the cardio and everything to do with the man waiting for you behind those reinforced doors.
When you entered, Thor was already there, shedding his grey hoodie to reveal a black compression shirt that clung to the topographical map of his muscles like a second skin. He didn't need to look at you, he could likely feel the chaotic hum of your energy the moment you crossed the threshold.
“You're late,” he rumbled, his back to you. “Later than twenty minutes.”
“I was savoring the jam. It’s a delicate process, Thor. You can't rush art,” you chirped, though your voice felt thin. You stepped onto the mat, the silence of the room suddenly feeling very small, very intimate. “So, what’s the plan? Are we doing the floaty-sparky thing you do or are you gonna show me how to throw a punch without breaking my own thumb?”
Thor turned slowly. His expression was a fortress of indifference, but his eyes—those stormy, ancient eyes—lingered on the pulse point of your neck. “Stance first,” he commanded. “If the foundation is weak, the house falls. Feet shoulder-width apart. Arms up.”
You obeyed, trying to look like a warrior and failing miserably as you wobbled. “Like this? I feel like a very aggressive penguin.”
He stepped toward you. The distance between you vanished in three heavy, deliberate strides.
He reached out then, moving behind you, his massive frame looming like a shadow that promised both protection and ruin. You felt the heat of him before you felt his touch—a wall of radiation that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. His hands settled on your waist to square your hips.
Your breath hitched, a sharp sound in the quiet gym.
He’s burning me, you thought, your mind spinning into a haze. His touch was a brand, a searing imprint that seemed to sink through your leggings and into your very bones.
Thor’s fingers lingered, his grip firm yet strangely careful, as if he were trying to steady a fluttering bird. He leaned down, his chest brushing against your back, his voice a low, gravelly vibration right against your ear. “Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Do not lean back.”
How am I supposed to lean anywhere but toward you? you screamed internally.
“Right. Balls of feet. No leaning. Got it,” you squeaked. Your skin was flaming wherever he touched you. To distract yourself from the way your heart was trying to escape your chest, you leaned into the annoyance. “You know, you're really getting into the personal space zone. Is this part of the Asgardian curriculum? ‘Introduction to Close-Contact Brooding’?”
Thor stiffened. From your position, you couldn't see his face, but you could hear the shift in his breathing. He moved his hands from your waist to your arms, sliding them up to your elbows to lift them higher.
He was so fucked.
As he stood there, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, the scent of you filled his senses. He closed his eyes for a treacherous second, inhaling deeply.
You were the most annoying woman he had ever encountered—a chattering, bright, chaotic light in his gray world—wrapped in the body of a goddess carved from his darkest, most secret fantasies.
She’s a torture device, he decided. A weapon specifically forged by the Norns to ensure his downfall. And you were so young. A blink of an eye in his long life. It had to be a sick, cosmic joke.
“Silence,” he rasped, but the command lacked its usual bite. His hands slid down your forearms, his calloused palms grazing yours, and the friction sent a jolt of violet sparks dancing between your fingers.
“Whoops,” you whispered, looking down at where your hands were joined. “I think I just gave you a high-five from the universe. Or maybe that was just my heart stopping, really hard to tell.”
He let his hands linger over yours, his thumbs tracing the line of your knuckles in an agonizingly slow stroke. Your heart skipped a beat.
Has it always been this hard to breathe?
“Your heart has nothing wrong with it, Little One,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, “Though, your mind lacks discipline.”
“My mind is busy,” you replied, turning your head just enough to catch the glint of his eye. “It’s currently occupied by the fact that you smell really, really nice—“
He couldn’t hear the rest, his gaze fell towards your lips, his breathing heavy. What would she do if I kissed her?, he wondered, Would she stop talking or would she keep pushing my buttons?
Not even a whole day had passed and he was thinking of kissing you.
He couldn’t kiss you. It was wrong. He really had to stay away from you, he was being a total creep.
Thor’s jaw tightened. He pulled back, the sudden loss of his heat making you feel like you’d been plunged into ice water. He walked to the center of the mat, his back rigid, his hands fisted at his sides as if he were trying to crush the sensation of your skin.
“Again,” he barked, the wall slamming back into place with a resounding thud. “And if you speak again, I will add twenty laps to your session. Begin.”
Day 10
The morning of your tenth day at the Compound arrived not with a sunrise, but with a dull thrumming behind your temples—the cosmic price of having a heart that beat in violet lightning. You rubbed your eyes, trying to quiet the static in your soul, and pulled on your gear.
When you entered the common room, the heavyweights were all there—a pantheon of heroes nursing mugs of coffee like they were holy relics. Steve, Nat, Tony, Bruce, Scott and then there was Rocket, hunched over the counter like a disgruntled mechanic.
And Thor. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, the grey fabric of his hoodie straining against shoulders that seemed wide enough to carry the sky. He looked beautiful in that exhausted, jagged way of his—a masterpiece of scars and sorrow.
Your blood pressure was rising. You could feel it.
Calm your tits, babe, you whispered to yourself in your mind, He was a god of antiquity, a king of a fallen world, and you—not even a quarter of his lifetime—human who still forgot to take the tags off her new clothes. He didn't like you, he was just a very handsome, very hot celestial babysitter.
“Good morning, legends, icons, and sentient trash pandas!” you chirped, sliding into the stool next to Rocket.
“Watch it, Sparky,” Rocket growled, not looking up from a piece of twisted metal. “One more crack about my species and I’m gonna rewire your hair dryer to deliver a tactical nuke to your scalp.”
“You love me, Rocket. I’m the only one who appreciates your craft,” you teased, sticking your tongue out at him.
Thor looked up then, his gaze heavy and slow, like a deep ocean current. “Good morning, Little One,” he mumbled. His voice was a low, resonant vibration that made the marrow in your bones ache.
“Morning, Thunder-Thighs,” you beamed, trying to ignore the way your heart did a clumsy somersault. He stood up, heading for the sleek, high-tech espresso machine with the weary grace of a man who hadn't slept since the dawn of time.
This is it, you thought. Show him you’re useful. Show him you’re more than just a loud mouth.
“You look like you're struggling, big guy,” you said, hopping off your stool and skipping over. You stood beside him, the heat radiating off his body feeling like a physical pull, a gravity you couldn't escape. “Let me give that a little jumpstart. An artisanal, hand-crafted spark to get the water boiling.”
Thor paused, his hand hovering over the button. He looked down at you, his eyes narrowed in a silent plea for peace. “The internal workings are delicate, Sparky. Do not meddle.”
“I'm not meddling, I'm enhancing! Think of it as a gift from the cosmos.”
You focused, channeling a sliver of your energy into your fingertip. You wanted a whisper, a tiny flicker, a gentle kiss of energy to the machine's heart. You touched the chrome casing, your eyes locked on his, hoping to see a flash of impressed wonder.
Instead, the energy lunged. Literally.
A violet arc of static tore from your finger, bypassing every safety fuse in the building. The machine shrieked, a violent, metallic clack-hiss erupted as the motherboard turned into a puddle of molten plastic.
BOOM.
The explosion was small but spectacular. A cloud of scalding white steam and soggy coffee grounds erupted into the air, coating everything in a three-foot radius.
Silence fell over the room. Tony hid his face in his hands. Rocket broke into a wheezing cackle.
Thor stood perfectly still. He was covered in a fine mist of dark roast, a single, wet coffee bean clinging to the bridge of his nose. He didn't move. He just stared at the smoking, twisted corpse of the only thing that brought him joy in the mornings.
“Oops?” you whispered, your face burning a deeper red than a beet. You waved a hand through the steam, your stomach sinking through the floor. “On the bright side, the room smells like a toasted marshmallow now? It’s very autumnal.”
Thor slowly turned his head to look at you. The look in his eye was a tragedy in three acts. He didn't say a word; he simply lifted a single, trembling finger and pointed it toward the training room door.
“Right. Moving. Training. I'll just go be an idiot over there,” you mumbled, scurrying away with your tail between your legs.
As you fled, you could feel his gaze burning into the small of your back. But he wasn't merely annoyed. He was obsessed with the chaos you brought into his quiet, grieving world, and the fact that you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was a torture he wasn't sure he could survive.
Day 20
The twentieth day arrived with a rhythm you were beginning to recognize—the hum of the Compound’s lights, the scent of morning mist over the Hudson, and the inevitable, bone-deep anticipation of seeing him. You were slowly finding your footing, your body learning the language of combat that Thor spoke so fluently.
You were sparring, a dance of violet sparks and redirected thunder.
“Again,” Thor rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in your chest.
He moved with the grace of a predatory cat, stepping into your guard. He reached out, his massive hands catching your waist to pivot you into a defensive stance. You bit your lip so hard you tasted iron, your breath hitching as his palms grazed the skin above your leggings. The touch was a brand; it was a searing imprint that made your blood sing a desperate song.
You were breathless, but it wasn't from the tempo.
It was him.
It was the way his thumbs lingered on your hips for a fraction of a second too long, the way his stormy gaze tracked the pulse jumping in your throat. You were so caught up in the heat of his proximity that your brain simply disconnected from your feet.
You tripped over nothing but your own dizzying heart, stumbling forward and landing face-first on his heavy, leather-bound boots.
The silence that followed was deafening. You stayed there for a beat, eyes squeezed shut, wishing the floor would simply swallow you whole and deposit you in another dimension. Mortified didn't even begin to cover it.
Slowly, you looked up.
Thor was staring down at you, his head tilted, his expression a masterpiece of genuine confusion. He looked like a mountain from this angle—vast, rugged, and impossibly handsome.
“How is it,” he asked, his voice low and bewildered, “that you have the power to level a forest but cannot navigate a flat floor?”
You gulped, your throat tight as you stayed on your knees at his feet. It felt dangerously improper, sitting there in the shadow of a god, looking up at the sharp line of his jaw and the beautiful scar over his eye.
Then, his gaze changed. The confusion died a sudden, violent death, replaced by a dark, hooded gaze that made your heart stop.
Thor looked down at you—flushed, breathless, and looking like a dream fallen to his mercy—and for a heartbeat, he was truly, utterly undone. Fuck, he thought, the word a silent plea in his mind. You were most definitely a torture device specifically designed for his ruin. He was sure of it now.
He averted his eyes quickly, his jaw tightening as he cleared his throat to regain his composure. He had treated you like a child learning to walk, a nuisance to be tolerated, but the man behind the king was aware that you were a fire he couldn't put out.
He did something then that he hadn't done before. Instead of barking a command or turning his back, he slowly held out his hand, his fingers calloused and steady. “Come on,” he murmured.
You reached out, your smaller hand disappearing into his. As he pulled you up, his other hand found your waist, holding you loosely to steady you. The touch was light, almost ghostly, but it burned through you like a wildfire. You were so deep in the depths of this burning ache that you didn't think you’d ever find the surface.
“I’m just testing the floor's structural integrity,” you squeaked, trying to find your voice. “It passed. Very sturdy. Good job, Stark.”
Thor didn't let go immediately. His hand stayed on your waist, his thumb grazing the fabric of your shirt in a slow, subconscious rhythm that felt like a secret.
“The floor is fine,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, soft tone. “It is your focus that wavers.”
“Hard not to waver when the room is so—“ you gulped, “tall,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.
Thor’s grip tightened for a fleeting second before he finally pulled back, the loss of his heat leaving you shivering. “Again,” he commanded, though his eyes lingered on your lips for a beat too long. “And try to stay on your feet, Little One.”
12 Weeks Later
Twelve weeks. Ninety-one days of waking up in a room that still felt too big, in a body that still felt too loud, and in a heart that had become a casualty of war.
You were humming a soft, wandering tune as you waited for the elevator, your fingers tracing the seam of your running leggings. You looked down at your hands; they were steady now, the energy humming just beneath the surface like a loyal pet rather than a feral beast. Living here, under the watchful, stormy eye of a God, had changed you. You weren't merely a girl anymore; you were a weapon being honed by the finest blacksmith in the Nine Realms.
But the cost was high.
Every time Thor touched you—adjusting the curve of your spine, his calloused palms lingering just a second too long on your ribs—you felt like you were being rewritten. You lived for those fragments of him. A ghost of a smile, a muttered “Well done, Little One,” a lingering gaze when he thought you weren't looking.
It was pathetic, really.
You were starving for a man who saw you as a chaotic nuisance, a cosmic accident he was tasked to fix.
The elevator doors hissed open, and there was Steve.
He was leaning against the back wall, looking every bit the Captain in a simple navy henley that made his blue eyes pop. He smiled when he saw you, that genuine, steady-as-a-heartbeat smile that usually made people feel like the world wasn't actually falling apart.
“Heading out?” he asked, pushing off the wall of the elevator with an easy grace.
“Thought I’d give the pavement some trouble,” you chirped, stepping in beside him. The hum of the descent began, a low vibration beneath your sneakers. “The sun is actually out. I figured I should go appreciate it before Tony decides to build a dome over the Compound or something.”
Steve chuckled, a warm, grounded sound.
Over the last two months, he’d become your anchor. He understood the silence of the Compound. He understood what it was like to look around and see the empty spaces where friends used to be. When he’d told you about Bucky, you’d felt a sharp, empathetic pang. He’s all alone, just like me, you’d thought. Different worlds, different eras, but the same hollow ache.
“Mind if I join you for a few miles?” Steve asked as the floor numbers flickered by. “I could use the air. And I promise not to say ‘on your left’ more than a strictly necessary amount of times.”
“Make it only three times and you’ve got a deal, Rogers,” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours. “But I have to warn you, I’ve been training with a literal God. My pace is, well, let's just say it's almost godly.”
Steve grinned. “I think I can keep up.”
As the doors opened into the lobby, you were laughing at something he said about Scott’s latest mishap in the lab. You were comfortable, light—a rare version of yourself. Then, you caught sight of him. Thor was standing by the glass entrance, his arms crossed over the broad expanse of his chest. He looked like a statue of ancient, silent judgment.
His gaze fell on you first, then flicked to Steve, and finally settled on the way you were standing just a little too close to the Captain’s side.
It felt like the atmospheric pressure had suddenly dropped, the way it does right before a devastating strike of lightning.
“Thor!” you called out, trying to keep your voice airy despite the way your heart immediately started its frantic, traitorous thumping. “You're back. Did you run out of things to scowl at in the city?”
Thor didn't smile. Not even a flicker. His gaze was dark, fixed on Steve’s hand, which was currently resting platonically near your elbow.
“I was finished,” Thor rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to make the very glass of the windows shiver. He looked at Steve, his jaw tightening until you heard the faint, sharp click of his teeth. “Captain. I did not realize you were scheduled for training this morning.”
“We're just going for a run, Thor,” Steve said, his tone even, though he clearly felt the shift in the air.
Thor’s gaze snapped back to you. He looked at you with an intensity so sharp it felt like the weight of a thousand planets, a mix of silent agony and a possessiveness he was desperately trying to mask as disappointment.
To him, you were a vibrant, shimmering sun, and he was a man who had walked through the dark for too long. He felt ancient, broken and utterly out of place in your presence—but seeing you smile at Steve felt like a spear to his ribs.
“A run,” Thor repeated, the word sounding like a curse. He stepped forward, his shadow falling over you, smelling of rain and cedar. “Ensure you do not overexert yourself, Little One. You still have three hours of sparring this afternoon. I would hate for you to be distracted.”
The way he said distracted made your skin flame. You looked up at him, your joyful mask slipping for just a second. “I'm never distracted when I'm with you, Thor. You make sure of that.”
Thor froze. For an agonizing heartbeat, his gaze dropped to your lips, his pupils blowing wide.
He wanted to snatch you away, to pull you into a corner of the world where no one else could see how bright you were. He felt like a fool, a man haunted by his own student, but he couldn't stop the cold jealousy from clawing at his throat.
“See that you aren't,” he rasped, then turned on his heel and marched toward the elevators without another word.
“Well,” Steve muttered, looking at the retreating back of the God of Thunder. “That was intense.”
“That's just Thor,” you said, your voice shaking as you tried to laugh it off. “He’s just really protective of his training schedule. Or maybe he just hates my running shoes.”
But as you walked out into the sun with Steve, you couldn't stop thinking about the way Thor’s hand had twitched, as if he were gripping a weapon he didn't have.
He wasn't just grumpy like his usual self. He was fuming.
You and Steve were about three miles in, and the so called godly pace you’d promised was rapidly turning into a desperate struggle for oxygen. You were keeping up, mostly out of pure, stubborn pride, but your lungs were starting to feel like they were being scrubbed with sandpaper.
Steve was barely even glowing with sweat. He was listening to you ramble about a movie you’d seen, laughing in that easy, golden-boy way of his that made the grueling run feel almost like a normal morning.
“I’m telling you, Steve, the ending made zero sense. If she had just—“
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy, rhythmic footfalls approached from behind, fast and deliberate. You didn't even have time to glance over your shoulder before a massive shadow fell over you, cutting through the morning sun.
You turned your head, and your heart stalled out completely.
Thor was right there. He was matching your stride with an effortless, predatory grace. He had swapped his sweatpants for charcoal running shorts and a grey t-shirt that looked like a sin on him—the fabric was tight, clinging to the ridges of his chest and the sharp lines of his torso in a way that made your throat go dry.
Your steps faltered, your sneakers scuffing the pavement as you nearly tripped over your own surprise.
“Thor?” you managed to mutter, your voice sounding a lot less grounded and a lot more breathless.
“Yes, Little One,” he said, his voice as steady as if he were sitting on a couch rather than sprinting. He didn't look at Steve. He didn't look at the scenery. He just gave you a brief, sideways glance that felt like a touch.
“What are you doing? Our training session isn't until later this afternoon,” you said, blinking the sweat out of your eyes, your mind racing to find a reason why he'd suddenly joined you.
“I am training you,” he replied simply.
“Like—like this? We're just running?”
“We run too,” he rumbled.
“But you don't like only running,” you challenged, your eyebrows shooting up in genuine confusion. “Every time we do cardio, you make me do a lot of side quests while we run. You make me carry heavy stuff or jump over moving obstacles. You said running in a straight line was a ‘waste of a warrior's time.’ Why the sudden change of heart?”
“I do like running,” he cut you off, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. He increased his pace by just a fraction—just enough to force himself between you and Steve, effectively carving out a space where he was the only thing in your peripheral vision.
You stared at him, bewildered. Was he just having a mood? Maybe the coffee machine incident was still haunting him and he needed to burn off the grumpiness.
Steve, who had been suspiciously quiet, let out a soft, stifled sound. You glanced past Thor’s massive shoulder to see the Captain biting his lip, his eyes crinkling as he stared straight ahead, clearly trying to swallow a laugh.
“Is there something funny, Steve?” you asked, looking between the two of them. “Because I'm over here dying and Thor is acting like he’s practicing for the Olympics out of nowhere.”
“Nothing,” Steve managed to say, though his voice was strained. “Just enjoying the fresh air.”
Thor’s gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, but the muscle in his cheek jumped. “Focus on your breathing, Little One. You are wasting your oxygen on useless questions. If you have the energy to interrogate me, you are not running fast enough.”
“I was running plenty fast before you showed up like a localized thunderstorm!” you huffed, a violet spark dancing at your fingertip as you tried to keep up with his suddenly brutal pace.
He didn't answer, but his presence was absolute, a wall of heat and muscle that refused to let you look anywhere else. He looked rugged, untouchable, and so far out of your league it was a joke—yet here he was, breathing the same air, his shoulder almost brushing yours with every stride. It made no sense, but you just pushed harder, trying to ignore how much your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the run.
Steve adjusted his pace, seemingly oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature radiating from the man between you. “Anyways, doll, let’s continue our conversation,” he said, his voice easy and warm. “You were saying? About the movie?”
Thor’s head whipped toward him so fast it was a wonder he didn't give himself whiplash. The rhythmic thud of his boots on the pavement suddenly sounded like a war drum.
“Doll?” Thor’s voice dropped into a low, dangerous sound that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Is that how you talk to a lady, Rogers? Like she is a trinket on a shelf?”
You blinked, your steps stuttering. What the hell was up with him today? He was acting like someone had replaced his morning coffee with pure vinegar.
“Yes, Thor, he usually calls me that,” you said, looking at him with genuine confusion. “It’s fine. It’s just a nickname.”
What is wrong with him calling me that? you wondered. It wasn't like Thor had ever offered a sweet nickname. To him, you were just ‘Little One’ or ‘Sparky’—labels that felt more like he was describing a pet or a project than a woman.
Thor turned his gaze toward you then, his blue eye wide with a flash of something that looked like disbelief. “Usually calls you that? What—” He stopped himself, his chest heaving under that grey t-shirt as he took a long, deep breath that looked like it took every ounce of his godly restraint.
He gripped his hands into fists as he ran, his knuckles white. “Continue your conversation, please,” he rasped, though he looked like he wanted to do anything but listen.
Your eyebrows furrowed. He was being weird. Really, really weird.
“Right... anyway,” you said, turning back toward Steve, or at least trying to. Every time Steve tried to catch your eye, Thor was there—a massive, muscular wall of grey cotton and brooding energy. He shifted his stride, his broad shoulders perfectly eclipsing Steve’s face so that you were effectively trapped in Thor’s orbit.
“So, Steve,” you started, raising your voice to be heard over the sound of Thor’s heavy breathing. “I was thinking about that vintage record shop you mentioned. The one in Brooklyn? Do you think they’d have any old soul records? I’ve been wanting to start a collection.”
Steve leaned forward, trying to see around the mountain that was Thor. “I’m sure they would, doll. In fact, I could take you there this weekend if you—”
As the word doll left Steve’s lips, the sun, which had been bright and golden only moments ago, was suddenly swallowed by a thick, heavy cloud. The light turned grey and muted, matching the stormy mood radiating from the man beside you.
Thor drifted even closer to you, his arm nearly brushing yours. He was so tall, so imposing. Every time Steve tried to glance at you, Thor seemed to grow an inch, his presence blinding the two of you from each other.
“A record shop?” Thor interjected, his voice tight. “Midgardian music is—it is loud. You should be focused on your studies, not on ancient plastic discs.”
“It’s a hobby, Thor!” you huffed, frustrated by his sudden interference. “And Steve is being nice. Why are you being so—un-Thor-like?”
“I am being a mentor,” he grumbled, and as he spoke, the clouds overhead turned a darker, bruised shade of purple. The wind picked up, whipping your hair across your face. “A mentor who realizes that dolls do not need record collections. They need discipline.”
Steve let out a soft, knowing huff behind Thor’s shoulder. “It’s just a shop, Thor. No need for the heavy weather.”
Thor didn't answer. He just dug his heels in, his pace becoming a brutal, punishing sprint that forced you to stop talking just to keep your lungs from collapsing.
You looked at the back of his neck, at the handsome set of his jaw, and felt that familiar, hopeless ache. He was acting like a jerk, but even a jerk version of Thor was the most captivating thing you’d ever seen. You just wished you knew why he was so determined to ruin your morning with Steve.
“Okay, weird…” you muttered, the word nearly lost to the wind as you struggled to match the sudden, punishing rhythm of his stride.
You tried to focus on your breathing, but your gaze kept betrayed you, sliding sideways to the rhythmic flex of his arms. His biceps were massive, the grey fabric of his shirt straining against the sheer volume of his strength. A traitorous thought flickered through your mind—the image of those arms locking you in, your head tucked securely between his forearm and that iron-hard bicep. God, I’m such a pervert, you scolded yourself, a flush that had nothing to do with cardio creeping up your neck. Thirsting after a man who had seen empires rise and fall was probably some kind of cosmic crime, yet here you were, losing your mind over his biceps.
“Your form is improving, Little One,” Thor said.
Suddenly, the grey heavy clouds parted. A bright, defiant beam of golden sunlight broke through, warming the top of your head and illuminating the path.
His voice had lost that sharp edge of disappointment, replaced by a low, melodic resonance that felt like a caress. “Your stride is more purposeful than it was weeks ago. You are learning to carry your power rather than being dragged by it.”
You beamed at him, your heart doing a little skip that had zero to do with your now purposeful pace. “Really? You're not just saying that so I don't blow up any more appliances?”
“I never speak untruths regarding the warrior’s path,” he murmured, and for a fleeting second, his gaze softened as it landed on your face, lingering with a heavy warmth.
“Well, thanks, Thor.” you said, your voice softening. “That actually means a lot.”
As you spoke to him, the sun burned brighter, turning the Hudson into a sheet of sparkling diamonds. But then, Steve’s voice drifted over from the other side of the mountain.
“She’s a fast learner, Thor. I was telling her earlier, she’s got the heart of a—“
Flash.
A thick, bruised cloud lunged across the sun, plunging the sidewalk back into a chilly, muted grey. The temperature dropped five degrees instantly.
“The Captain’s observations are noted,” Thor bit out, his voice returning to a jagged frost. “But he does not see the nuances of your energy as I do.”
You blinked, looking up at the sky and then back at Thor. What are the chances? Every time you shared a moment with Thor, the world turned golden; every time Steve so much as complimented you, the weather acted like it was preparing for a funeral.
“Okay, is the weather following our conversation or am I actually losing my mind?” you asked, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead.
“The sky is as restless as your focus,” Thor grumbled, though he drifted an inch closer to you, his heat radiating through your clothes. “We are finished with this jog. The energy you are wasting on Steve’s chatter would be better spent on sustenance.”
He slowed his pace to a walk, and because he stopped, the whole group stopped. He stood between you and Steve like a literal barricade of muscle.
“Breakfast,” Thor commanded, the word final and absolute. “Now. Before you faint from a lack of discipline.”
“I'm not gonna faint, I'm just hungry!” you huffed, though you didn't protest as he began leading the way back toward the Compound.
As the three of you walked toward the common room, you stayed tucked in the shadow of the God of Thunder.
Steve gave you a small, sympathetic shrug behind Thor’s back, but you were too busy watching the way the sunlight flickered intermittently over Thor’s broad shoulders. You were confused and starving—but as long as he kept looking at you with that heavy, wordless gaze, you figured you could handle a little bit of weird weather.
The common room was a chaotic sanctuary of clinking silverware and the smell of sizzling eggs. Tony was squinting at a holographic screen over his coffee, Natasha was elegantly dissecting an omelet, and Rocket was perched on a chair, currently mid-argument with a very calm-looking Groot.
“I'm tellin' ya, twigs, if you put the engine coolant in the blender, it’s not science, it's an insurance claim!”Rocket barked, before his yellow eyes flicked to you as you slid into the seat next to him. “Well, look who survived the morning marathon. You look like a beet with legs, kid.”
“And you look like you haven't slept since the Great Depression, Rocket,” you fired back, reaching for the orange juice. “Be nice, or I’ll tell Groot you actually like his singing.”
“You wouldn't dare,” the raccoon narrowed his eyes, though he shoved a plate of hash browns toward you. “Eat up. You’re vibrating. It’s making my fur stand on end.”
You laughed, the sound bright and easy, but your heart was still doing that frantic, uneven dance. Thor sat directly across from you. He had shed the damp grey shirt for a fresh black tank top, his skin still radiating a lingering heat that seemed to hum across the table. The conversation around the table was a comfortable hum of “pass the salt” and ”did you see the news?”
Thor was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on his plate, though his presence was as heavy as a mountain. He reached out for the bowl of fruit in the center of the table, his fingers brushing against the rim.
“Pass the honey, would you, honey?” he murmured to you, his voice a low, distracted rumble.
The table went dead silent.
The clatter of Tony’s fork hitting his plate was the only sound. Natasha’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Rocket’s jaw actually dropped, a piece of bacon falling forgotten from his paw.
Thor froze. The realization of what had just slipped past his lips seemed to hit him in slow motion. His hand stayed outstretched, his knuckles turning a faint, dusty pink that crawled up his neck to the tips of his ears. He didn't look up, his blue eye fixed on the table as if he were trying to command the wood to swallow him whole.
Your heart felt like it had been jump-started by a star. The word hung in the air, sweet and heavy, a slip of the tongue that felt like a secret he hadn't meant to tell.
“Sure thing, big guy,” you said, your voice breathless, nearly a whisper.
You pushed the small glass jar toward him, your fingers trembling. You felt like you were floating, your skin humming with a warmth that had nothing to do with your powers.
Honey. The word coming from him, in that deep, gravelly baritone, was enough to make your knees weak even while sitting down.
Thor finally looked up, his gaze meeting yours for an electrifying second. He was only a man who was terrified by the weight of his own heart.
“Thank you,” he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
Tony cleared his throat loudly, breaking the spell. “Right. So... honey. Great for the throat. Very medicinal,” he muttered, though he shot a knowing, amused look at Natasha.
The table slowly returned to life, the clinking of plates resuming, but the air had changed. It was thicker, sweeter, and dangerously charged. You kept your head down, focusing on your breakfast, but you could feel Thor’s presence across from you—a silent, brooding storm that had accidentally let a ray of sunshine slip through the clouds.
You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, and you definitely wanted him to say it again. Instead, you just bit your lip, trying to hide the smile that felt like it was going to light up the entire room.
You watched Thor leave when he was done with his breakfast, the sheer scale of him making the doorway look like a toy frame. He moved with a heavy, unhurried power that always made the air feel thinner when he left a room. You hated to see him go, but you certainly loved watching him walk away—the way the muscles in his back shifted under that tank top was a masterpiece you weren’t quite finished studying.
“What?” you asked, suddenly aware of Natasha leaning against the counter next to you, her head tilted with a knowing, lethal sort of curiosity.
“What is going on between you two?” she asked, her voice low and smooth.
“What could there be going on?” You tried for confused, but your voice pitched a little too high. “He’s teaching me not to explode. It’s a very professional, very electric student-teacher dynamic.”
“He’s obviously into you,” Nat countered, a small, amused smirk playing on her lips.
Your eyes widened, your chest heaving as the oxygen seemed to vanish from the kitchen. “What?” you stammered. “He most definitely isn't. Don’t be ridiculous, Nat. I was a mortal just three months ago. He’s... he’s a monument. He doesn't look at me like that.”
You pushed away from the table, needing to escape the heat of her gaze. “Everyone has gone insane,” you muttered, heading for the exit.
“He is, Sparky! He definitely is!” she called out after you, her laughter trailing behind you like a taunt.
You walked down the hallway, your mind a whirlwind of the sound of Thor’s voice saying honey. It was impossible. Natasha was a master spy, but she was clearly misreading the data. Thor was ancient, a king of a dead world; he was just protective because you were a walking hazard.
You were so lost in your head that you didn't see the figure turning the corner until you nearly bowled him over.
“Whoa, steady there,” a smooth voice caught you.
You looked up, blinking. It was an agent—one you’d seen around the Compound, but never this close. He was ridiculously good-looking, with a sharp jawline, messy brown hair, and striking green eyes that seemed to crinkle at the corners as he smiled down at you.
“Oh, hello there,” he said, his voice warm.
“Hello,” you replied, trying to regain your composure.
“You're the girl Thor’s training, right?” he asked, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
“Yes. Is something the matter? Am I leaning on a restricted wall again?”
“Oh—no,” he chuckled, the sound rich and easy. “It’s just that the other agents were talking about you and your stunning looks. I see now they were actually underselling you.”
You felt the heat climb up your neck, a genuine blush staining your cheeks. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
“No need for thanks,” he said, stepping a fraction closer. He wasn't a god, he didn't smell like a storm, but he was handsome and human and attainable. “Just let me take you out sometime. Dinner, maybe?”
The idea of anyone who wasn't Thor asking you out felt like a strange kind of blasphemy. It felt like trying to read a paperback after being immersed in an epic poem. But then you remembered Natasha’s words, and you remembered the way Thor called you Little One like you weren’t of importance.
Your feelings for him were a slow-motion car crash. You needed an exit ramp. You needed to remember what it felt like to be looked at by someone who didn't think you were a distraction or a project.
And you needed someone more appropriate. Closer to your age.
You nodded sheepishly, your fingers trembling slightly as you pulled out your phone. “Sure,” you murmured, giving him your number. “I think I'd like that.”
As you walked away toward your room, your heart felt heavy, a dull ache of guilt that made no sense. You hadn't done anything wrong, but the violet light beneath your skin felt restless, flickering as if the stars themselves were displeased with the arrangement.
Thor had heard it all.
He had been standing just around the corridor’s edge, his hand braced against the cold industrial wall, intending to find you and apologize for the ‘honey’ slip. Instead, he had listened to the smooth cadence of a man who hadn't seen the end of the world—a man who looked at you and saw a pretty girl, not a celestial event.
His heart felt as though it had been carved out of his chest with a dull blade.
Competition. The word felt foreign and foul in his mind. In the twelve weeks you had been his, he had never considered it. You were his trainee. You were his nuisance. You were his Little One. You were the girl who blew up his coffee machine and looked at him like he was the sun. You were his.
The logic of a king tried to surface—that this mortal was appropriate, that he was your age, that he wouldn't bring the weight of a thousand years of grief into your bed. But that logic was drowned out by a primal roar of possessiveness. He didn't want you to have appropriate. He wanted you to stay in his shadow, where it was safe and where he could watch the light of your sparks dance against the dark.
How could he stop it?
He was the God of Thunder, but he was also a man who felt like a ghost in your presence. He couldn't forbid you. But as he marched toward the gym, his footsteps echoing like rolling thunder, the only thing he knew was that he would make that date a physical impossibility.
In your quarters, you were a whirlwind of reckless hope.
He’s into you, Natasha’s voice echoed in your head. It was a dangerous, intoxicating thought. You pulled on your usual gear—the black leggings and the skin-tight shirt that left nothing to the imagination—but today, you didn't stop there.
You leaned into the mirror, your hands trembling as you applied a layer of clear, high-shine lip gloss. It made your lips look soft, plush, and utterly sinful. Then, you dabbed a scented body oil onto your wrists and the hollow of your throat—a fragrance of vanilla and white musk that bloomed in the heat of your skin.
You were playing with fire, you knew it. You made your way to the gym, the energy in your veins humming with a sharp frequency. When the doors hissed open, you saw him. Thor was already on the mat, his back to you, his muscles so tense they looked like they were made of corded steel.
“Hello, big guy,” you said, your voice a little lower, a little steadier than usual.
Thor turned, and he froze. He didn't greet you back, he didn't even blink. His gaze landed on your mouth—on the shimmering, wet glow of your lips—and his pupils blew wide until the blue of his eye was a thin, jagged ring. The scent of the vanilla hit him, mixing with the scent of the gym until it was all he could breathe.
He felt a muscle in his jaw snap. He knew that scent wasn't for the gym. He knew those lips were for the man in the hallway.
You had a crush and you were dressing up.
You walked onto the mat, your skin humming with the vanilla-scented oil you’d applied, feeling the weight of Thor’s stare. “You're staring, big guy,” you chirped, “Is there something on my face, or did you finally realize my eyelashes are a masterpiece of structural engineering? I was really spent time on wasn't I?”
Thor cleared his throat, a broken, rough sound. He tore his eyes away from your mouth, looking instead at the wall behind you as if it held the secrets to the universe. “Your appearance is certainly noted,” he managed to rumble, his voice lower than usual. “Let us begin, Little One. Focus on the mat, not your masterpieces.”
“Focus is my middle name,” you teased, sliding into a stance that was still a little too shaky to be professional. “Well, technically it’s Disaster, but I’m rebranding. Come on, Thunder-Thighs. Try to hit me. I promise I won't cry.”
Thor’s jaw tightened. He stepped toward you, the heat radiating off him feeling like a literal wall. Just as he raised his hands to catch your wrists, the heavy doors of the gym hissed open.
Steve walked in, his shield slung over his back, looking every bit the weary commander. He stopped at the edge of the mat, his eyes darting between your flushed face and Thor’s rigid, towering frame.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Steve said, his voice level and serious. “But Tony just got a ping on the signature we've been tracking. We’re heading out tomorrow morning. All of us.” He looked at you, a small, encouraging nod following. “It’ll be your first mission. Congrats, Sparky.”
The world seemed to stop. Your first mission. A chance to prove you weren't just a project.
“No,” Thor barked instantly, the word cracking like a whip. He turned to Steve, his brow furrowed in a deep, ancient scowl. “She is not prepared. Her control is still—“
Oh here we go, you thought rolling your eyes.
He stopped. The air in his lungs seemed to hitch as a memory flashed through his mind—the agent in the hallway, the phone number, the date that was supposed to happen while the rest of the world moved on.
If you stayed behind, you’d be with him. The mortal with the green eyes. You’d be laughing at a dinner table while Thor was light-years away, or miles away, or anywhere that wasn't beside you.
Thor’s fingers twitched at his sides. His face went through a rapid-fire sequence of emotions—protectiveness, hesitation, and then a cold, dark resolve.
“—still developing,” he continued, his sentence shifting mid-breath, “but she will never learn the true nature of her power within these walls. She comes with us.”
Are you hearing this right?
You blinked, stunned by the sudden pivot. “Wait, really? I thought I was still a liability in leggings?”
Thor turned back to you, his gaze dropping once more to your lips, his expression unreadable and heavy. “The liability is leaving you here,” he muttered, the words sounding more like a confession to himself than an answer to you. He looked at Steve. “Tell Stark we will be ready. Her training continues through the night if necessary.”
Steve looked between the two of you, a glimmer of realization dawning in his blue eyes, but he simply nodded. “Suit up at 06.00.”
As Steve left, you looked at Thor, your eyebrows furrowed. “That was a quick U-turn, big guy. One second I'm a hothouse flower, the next I'm an Avenger? What changed?”
“The mission parameters,” Thor said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he stepped back into your space, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Now, again. If you cannot defend yourself against me, you have no business facing the world. Stance.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, your mind racing to keep up with his sudden shift. Thor was usually as stubborn as the mountains he came from, but you weren't about to argue with a field promotion.
“Mhm... sure thing,” you said, shifting your weight. You knew you should leave it at that, but with the scent of vanilla still clinging to you and his eyes fixed on your mouth, you couldn't help yourself. You leaned in just a fraction, a mischievous grin playing on your shimmering lips. “Honey.”
The effect was a total explosion.
Thor’s entire body went rigid, his breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp. For a second, the God of Thunder looked completely rattled, his composure shattered by a single syllable aimed back at him. He averted his eyes, his jaw working as he stared at the floor, looking for all the world like a man trying to remember how to speak his own language.
What was he going to do with you? You were a walking riot, a chaotic spark that seemed determined to set his very soul on fire.
Then, he looked back. The stormy darkness in his eyes was still there, but it was swimming with a sudden, dangerous amusement. He stepped closer, invading your personal space until you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze.
“I said let us start,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a register so low it made your bones ache. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Darling.”
The air left your lungs in a silent rush. You definitely stopped breathing. You knew he was just playing the game, tossing your own weapon back at you with interest, but it didn't matter. The word—spoken in that ancient, gravelly baritone—hit you like a weight.
You cleared your throat, trying to find your voice. “Fine,” you managed, your voice a little higher than you intended. “Train me as hard as you can, then. Don't hold back just because you think I'm delicate.”
Thor didn't laugh, but his gaze didn't waver for a second. “I have no intention of holding back,” he said, and the way he said it made your skin flame.
The sparring match began in earnest.
All the grueling drills he’d put you through over the last months—the endless repetitions, the stance corrections, the lessons on weight distribution—were finally clicking. He was moving with the speed of a storm, forcing you to react, and you gave him back the same energy, your violet sparks snapping at your fingertips as you parried his strikes.
Thor watched you, his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the exertion. I cannot go hard on her, he thought, his jaw tightening as he watched the fierce concentration on your face. You looked so innocent and pretty while you were trying to focus, your brow slightly furrowed and your hair beginning to escape your ponytail. He knew it was wrong to be this distracted, to let his guard drop because he was mesmerized by the way you moved, but he couldn't help it. Not when you looked like that.
As he lunged forward for a mock strike, his hand moved a fraction too close. His knuckles unintentionally grazed the sensitive skin of your throat.
Your breath stuttered. The contact was electric, sending a jolt through your system that made your footing falter. The world tilted as you lost your balance, but your instincts kicked in.
You reached out, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and you yanked him toward you with every ounce of your strength.
Usually, Thor was an immovable force, a mountain that couldn't be unfooted by such a maneuver—especially from a student. But he was so lost in the scent of you and the sight of your shimmering lips that his center of gravity vanished. He fell.
The air was knocked out of you as he landed on top of you, his sheer weight pressing you deep into the padded mat. He braced his forearms on either side of your head, but his chest was flush against yours, rising and falling in heavy, ragged bursts.
Your faces were so close that your lips were only inches apart. You could feel the heat of his breath, smell the cedar and the storm, and see every fleck of gold in his turbulent blue eyes.
I could just die like this and I'd be happy, you thought to yourself, your fingers still clutching his shirt, your heart beating so hard you were sure he could feel it against his own ribs.
Thor couldn't move, he just stared down at you, his gaze fixated on your mouth with a look of pure hunger that made your blood turn to liquid fire.
You couldn't breathe. Your own gaze was fixed on his lips, and before your brain could tell your body to stop, your hands ascended, your fingers curling around his thick, corded neck.
His breathing hitched, turning into a series of fast, shallow rasps. You were touching him. You were actually touching him, and he looked like he was losing the ability to function just from the friction of your skin against his. His torso was pressed tight to yours, his heavy heat burning through your clothes, making your mind go to dangerous places. You could feel every muscle in his chest and thighs, solid as stone, pinning you down.
Breathe, girl, breathe, you told yourself, but your lungs weren't cooperating.
Thor’s massive left hand moved, his fingers grazing through your hair as he cupped the side of your head. “How do you manage to fall every single time we spar, sweet girl?” he mumbled.
Sweet girl? He was trying to kill you. He had to be. The way he said it was so tender and yet so heavy with wanting that it felt like it was actually pressing on your chest.
You bit your lip, watching his eyes drop to the movement instantly. “I think I might have balance issues,” you whispered.
You didn't have balance issues. Your only issue was the six-foot-four God of Thunder currently crushing you into the floor.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The voice was dry, loud, and unmistakably Tony Stark.
You both averted your eyes, you took a sharp intake of breath at the sudden interference. Thor scrambled back, his movements uncharacteristically frantic as he shoved himself off you and stood up in one fluid, jerky motion. He offered you a hand, but he wouldn't look at you, his face flushed a deep, tell-tale red that reached all the way to his collar.
You took his hand and sat up, smoothing your hair and trying to ignore the fact that your heart was trying to kick its way out of your ribs. You looked toward the door where Tony was standing, leaning against the frame with a smirk that said he’d seen enough to fuel a year's worth of teasing.
“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “What is it with people barging in today?”
“Just checking on the progress of our newest recruit,” Tony said, his eyes dancing between your ruffled appearance and Thor’s rigid, silent back. “But it looks like you two are—well, you're definitely working on your close-quarters combat. Keep it up—on second thought, don't. Actually, for the sake of the plumbing in this building, maybe take a lap.”
You felt like your face was actually radiating heat. You squeezed your eyes shut for a fleeting second, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
“Nothing to say now, Sparky? No comeback?” Tony’s voice was dripping with a delight that made you want to hurl a violet energy bolt at his head. “Congrats on the first mission, kiddo. Good luck tomorrow. You’re clearly in capable hands.”
He left with a devilish chuckle that echoed down the hallway, leaving a silence behind that was ten times more suffocating than the noise.
“Damn you, Stark,” Thor mumbled, the words barely a breath.
He finally turned his body toward you, but the bravado from moments ago was gone. Both of you were suddenly fascinated by different patches of the ceiling, your gazes refusing to collide. The air felt heavy, charged with everything that had almost happened and the crushing embarrassment of being caught.
“Should we—“ Thor started. “We should—“ you blurted out at the exact same time.
You were a stuttering mess, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The memory of him looking at your lips and his weight pressing you into the mat was a screaming siren in your brain.
“I will just go,” you said, the words tripping over each other. You couldn't look up at him; you were terrified of what you’d see in his eyes—or worse, what he’d see in yours. You turned and started for the door, your legs feeling like they belonged to a newborn giraffe.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a rough scrape as he cleared his throat again. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
You didn't look back. You bolted out of the gym and didn't stop until you were deep in the labyrinth of the hallway leading to your quarters. Your heart was thumping against the back of your teeth, making it hard to swallow.
Your fingers went to your neck, tracing the spot where his knuckles had grazed you. You could still feel the phantom pressure of him. What was that? What the fuck had just happened? One minute he was treating you like a nuisance, and the next he was calling you sweet girl and looking at you like you were the only thing in the universe worth breathing for.
Did you even see it right?
You must’ve imagined it.
You reached your door and leaned your forehead against the cool metal, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Tomorrow was your first mission. Tomorrow everything would change. But as you stood there in the quiet corridor, all you could think about was the heat of his skin and the way the world had narrowed down to just the inches between your lips and his.
—
The sharp rap on your door felt like it was echoing inside your skull. “Sparky? We're leaving in an hour. Wake up,” Natasha’s voice called out, crisp and far too alert for 5:00 AM.
“Uhhh,” you groaned into your pillow, the sound muffled by the fabric. Living at the Compound had its perks, but these ungodly hours were definitely not one of them. “I am awake!” you yelled back, though you remained horizontal for another thirty seconds, questioning every life choice that had led you to this moment. Right. The powers. The sparks that tended to blow up blenders when you got frustrated. You didn't really have a choice.
You dragged yourself out of bed and pulled on the tactical gear they’d designed for you. It was sleek, black, and functional, hugging your curves in a way that made you feel a bit more like a soldier and a bit less like a walking hazard.
When you stumbled into the common room, the smell of brewing coffee was the only thing keeping you upright. You headed straight for the machine, only to find a massive, familiar silhouette already there.
“Morning, sweet girl,” he mumbled.
The words hit you like a low-frequency hum, vibrating right in your chest. Your heart gave a violent thud. So you were doing this now? He was actually going to call you that?
You forced yourself to look up, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips. “Good morning, good looking,” you said back.
The compliment caught him off guard. Thor paused, his hand hovering over a mug as he turned to look at you. A small, slow smirk started to spread across his face—the kind that reached his eyes and made the stormy blue soften.
“Good looking?” he questioned, his voice amused.
“Yes,” you said, feeling a sudden surge of caffeine-free adrenaline. You tilted your head to the right, looking up at him through your lashes, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be dangerous. “You don't like it?”
The weight of your words hit you then. Were you flirting with him? At five in the morning? In front of the industrial-sized coffee maker? Apparently, you were.
You knew you were hoping for something that would never happen, he would never see you more than a rookie, but you couldn't help yourself.
Thor actually smiled then—a real, breathtaking smile that made your stomach do a somersault. His heart soared at the compliment. He knew you didn’t mean it in the way he wanted you to. Though he kept hoping. “I do, darling,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone. He let his gaze sweep over you, lingering on the new suit. “Your gear suits you. I like it.”
And that was it. Before you could even think of a witty comeback, he turned and made his way to the couch, leaving you standing by the counter with your heart in your mouth.
You turned back to the coffee machine, your face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson. “Thank you,” you said, your voice coming out thin and a little breathless. You stared at the dripping coffee, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for a spoon. If this was how the mission was starting, you weren't sure your heart would survive until the afternoon.
Thor sat on the edge of the sofa, ostensibly focused on his mug, but his eyes were doing a slow, treacherous lap of the room—specifically the space you occupied. He watched the way the tactical suit moved as you reached for the milk, his gaze tracing your curves with a heavy, unblinking focus. Stop it, he scolded himself, his grip tightening on the ceramic. You are being a creep. She is a comrade. Focus on the coffee.
He let out a low, frustrated grunt and forced his eyes down into the dark depths of his drink.
“You massive pervert!”
The voice cracked through the quiet morning like a gunshot. Thor flinched so hard coffee slopped over the rim of his mug, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. He looked down to see Rocket perched on the coffee table directly in front of him, arms crossed and a look of pure, judgmental glee on his face.
“Shut up, rat. You scared me,” Thor mumbled, his face flushing a furious shade of red. He tried to reclaim his dignity by narrowing his eyes and giving Rocket a look that would have withered a lesser creature.
Rocket’s smirk didn't even waver. “I’m not a rat, pervert. And I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. You were just too busy studying the scenery to notice.”
You finished fixing your coffee and turned around, catching the tail end of Thor’s jump-scare. You couldn't help it; a bright, melodic giggle escaped you, the sound cutting through the morning tension.
Thor’s head whipped around, his attention snapping back to you instantly. The embarrassment in his eyes was warring with the way they softened just at the sight of you.
“Morning, rat,” you chirped as you walked over and sank into the chair next to the couch. You blew on your coffee, looking between the two of them curiously. “Wait, why are you calling him a perver—“
Before the word could even leave your mouth, Thor was on his feet.
“Time for the rat to go! Come on!” Thor boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
In one fluid, desperate motion, he reached out and snatched Rocket up by the back of his tactical vest with his left hand. As Rocket opened his mouth to likely spill every secret he’d just witnessed, Thor’s massive palm clamped over the raccoon’s snout, effectively muffling a string of very colorful curses.
“We have... preparations!” Thor announced to the room at large, hauling a kicking, muffled Rocket toward the exit.
You sat there, leaning back in your chair and giggling into your mug as you watched the God of Thunder practically flee the room to keep his dignity intact. He didn't look back, but the tips of his ears were still glowing red. Your gaze turned into one of confusion then.
What could Rocket possibly tell you? Was Thor embarrassed?
You shook your head, it was 5 AM, you had no energy to think about anything.
—
The interior of the Quinjet was bathed in the clinical glow of tactical lights as it cut through the heavy, humid air above the Amazon. Steve stood by the holotable, his expression grim as he pointed to a digital map of a fortified research outpost hidden deep within the dense green canopy below.
“Alright, listen up,” Steve’s voice was steady, cutting through the low thrum of the engines. “We’re tracking a rogue splinter cell that’s weaponized a cache of Chitauri tech. They’ve built a localized gravity well in the heart of the basin. If they turn it on, they’ll pull every aircraft within a five-hundred-mile radius out of the sky. Tony and Bruce, you’re on tech suppression. Nat, Clint—flank the cooling vents. Thor, you’re the heavy hitter. You lead the charge through the main gate.”
Steve looked at you, giving you a sharp, professional nod. “Sparky, you’re paired with Thor. Your job is to disrupt their shielding so he can get through. Stay on his six. We move as a unit, but in that jungle, visibility is zero. Don’t lose sight of him.”
Through the reinforced windows, you could see the endless stretch of passing trees blurring into a dark, emerald sea as the jet banked sharply. You felt a sharp prickle of adrenaline. This was it. You looked over at Thor, who was leaning against the bulkhead, the massive, jagged silhouette of Stormbreaker resting against his shoulder. He looked restless, his jaw set so tight the muscles were bulging. You caught his gaze just as he jerked his head away, staring intensely at the floor.
Without thinking, you reached out and gripped his bicep. The sheer firmness of the muscle underneath his gear made your pulse skip. Get it together, you scolded yourself. You felt a familiar, dull ache in your chest. A god like him—a king who carried a weapon forged in the heart of a dying star—could never truly want someone as fleeting as you. You were just a trainee, a girl with a power she couldn't control. You were a project to him, a momentary distraction in a life that spanned centuries.
Thor looked down at you, his blue eye wide and startled by your touch.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” you asked, tilting your head. “About me? On the field?”
“I am not, sweet girl. Don’t worry,” he rumbled, his voice a low, forced calm.
He was a liar. He was terrified. He was so fucking scared that something was going to happen to you that he could barely feel the weight of the handle in his hand. He looked at you—beautiful and so full of light—and felt like a ghost. He was a man of war, a survivor of loss after loss. How could you ever want someone so full of agony and broken? You deserved someone who didn't carry the scent of war and ancient grief. You deserved a life in the sun, not a life in the middle of his storm.
“Just stay close to me, will you?” he continued, his hand briefly covering yours on his arm, his grip almost bruising in its sudden intensity.
Your eyebrows furrowed. You couldn’t quite dissect the raw, dark vulnerability in his expression. It didn't match his casual words. You slowly nodded, your fingers tightening on the warm marble of his arm.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Always.”
“Good,” he muttered, his fingers lingering on yours for a second too long before he reached back to steady Stormbreaker.
The jet gave a final, heavy jolt as it hovered just above the clearing. The ramp of the Quinjet hissed as it lowered, the humid jungle air rushing in to replace the sterile chill of the cabin. Thor turned to face the open forest, his cape fluttering violently in the downdraft. He wouldn't let you see the fear, and he certainly wouldn't let you see the longing. He would just be the lightning that cleared your path.
The humidity hit your face as you followed Thor out of the jet, your boots squelching into the thick, dark mud of the Amazon floor. The jungle was a symphony of screeching birds and humming machinery, but all you could focus on was the broad, armored back of the man in front of you.
It felt like a heavy, wet blanket was cradling you as you pushed deeper toward the facility's main gate. Every time you tripped over a stray vine or the mud threatened to claim one of your boots, a massive, gauntlet-clad hand was there to steady you—a brief, searing contact that lingered just a second too long before he’d jerk his hand back as if he’d touched an open flame.
“Keep your eyes up,” Thor commanded, his voice dropping into a combat-ready growl. Stormbreaker hummed in his hand, the air around the axe beginning to crackle with premature static.
“Eyes are up, good looking,” you whispered, ducking under a massive, waxy leaf. “Mostly focused on that cape, though. Does it have a high thread count? It looks expensive to get mud out of.”
Thor’s shoulder hitched—a suppressed laugh or a suppressed groan, you couldn't tell. “Focus on the perimeter, not my tailoring.”
A sudden hiss of steam erupted from a hidden vent in the facility’s exterior wall, followed by a barrage of pulse-fire. Three Hydra sentries in tactical exoskeletons burst through.You didn't even have time to flinch before Thor was over you. He stepped in front of you then he swept you back with one massive arm, his body taking the brunt of the heat as he swung Stormbreaker to deflect a second volley.
“I had it, you know!” you yelled over the din, firing a bolt of violet energy that shattered a sentry's visor. “I’m not just here for the scenery!”
With a roar, he unleashed a bolt of lightning that turned the nearest sentry into a heap of molten scrap. You didn't stay idle, though. You lunged out from behind him, your hands glowing a fierce violet. You slammed your palms together, sending a shockwave of energy that shattered the remaining pulse-rifles and sent the Hydra guards sprawling.
Thor turned to you, his chest heaving, his cape singed at the edges. He stepped into your space, his presence overwhelming, and before you could make another retort, his hand came up. He cradled your face.
His palm was massive, his skin calloused and burning with a heat that made your breath hitch in your throat. His thumb grazed your cheekbone, trembling just a fraction. The touch was so intimate, so wildly out of place in the middle of a war zone, that the world seemed to tilt on its axis. He looked at you as if you were the only thing in the jungle that wasn't made of shadows and violence.
“You did well,” he rasped, his voice pained and thick. He stared down at you, his blue eye searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping you bare. Then, his jaw tightened, the mentor mask struggling to stay in place. “But do not make me tell you again—stay behind me.”
“So demanding,” you muttered, though your heart was doing backflips against your ribs. “Is this how you treat all your damsels, or am I special?”
“You are a nuisance,” he countered. He pulled his hand away, his fingers brushing against your hair in a slow, reluctant trail that left your skin tingling.
He turned back toward the gate, but the set of his shoulders was tense. He couldn't understand why his heart was racing faster from your gaze than from the battle. He was a god of war; he shouldn't be undone by the way you looked at him through your lashes. He was terrified of the way you made him feel—like he had something to lose again.
You watched his back, biting your lip. He probably just saw you as a responsibility he had to keep alive, a duty he had to fulfill. A king didn't fall for the woman who made jokes about his cape. You forced yourself to focus on the violet sparks at your fingertips, trying to drown out the burning sensation on your cheek where his hand had just been.
“The gate is dead ahead,” he rumbled, not looking back. “Stay close.”
“Right behind you,” you whispered, moving back into his shadow.
Thor made sure the gate ceased to exist. With a single, thunderous overhead swing of Stormbreaker, the reinforced titanium buckled like parchment, shrieking as it was torn from its hinges.
“Disrupt the internal shielding!” Thor roared over the alarms. “Now, Little One!”
You didn't need to be told twice. You sprinted past him into the main foyer, your hands glowing a deep, violent amethyst. The facility's defense grid was humming, a translucent blue shimmer of Chitauri energy blocking the path to the core. You slammed your hands against the floor, let out a jagged breath, and funneled everything you had into the ground.
The violet energy raced forward like lightning, clashing with the blue shield in a spray of white-hot sparks. The friction of the two powers meeting sent a shockwave back toward you, nearly knocking you off your feet.
Suddenly, a heavy, solid weight pressed against your back. Thor had moved up behind you, his chest flush against your shoulder blades, his massive hand coming down over your shoulder to steady your aim. The heat of him was staggering, a living furnace in the middle of the cold, sterile lab.
“Hold the line,” he growled into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I am here. Do not let it break you.”
With his strength anchoring you, you let out a scream of effort and pushed. The blue shield shattered like glass.
“Shield's down!” you panted, your knees buckling for a second.
Thor’s arm hooked around your waist instantly, hoisting you back up before you could hit the floor. For a split second, he held you tight against his side, his fingers digging into the fabric of your tactical suit. He looked down at you, his face splattered with soot, his eyes searching yours with a raw, desperate relief that he quickly tried to smother.
“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice a rough, private rasp.
“I can run,” you joked weakly, trying to ignore how his thumb was tracing the curve of your hip through the gear. “Just... maybe don't make me do the exploding walls thing for another five minutes.”
He didn't let go immediately. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then snapped back to the hallway ahead where more sentries were closing in. “Stay behind me,” he repeated, but this time it didn't sound like a command. It sounded like a plea.
As you moved toward the gravity core, the narrow corridors forced you together. Every time a blast shook the facility, you were thrown against him. Your hand would find the small of his back; his arm would find your shoulders. Every touch was a jolt, a burning friction that made the actual combat feel like a secondary concern.
You ducked behind a console as a hail of pulse-fire swept the room. Thor stood over you, Stormbreaker spinning in a blur of silver and blue, a literal wall of lightning protecting you.
“You know,” you yelled over the deafening crack of his axe hitting a sentry, “if you wanted to be this close to me, you could have just asked for my number like a normal person!”
Thor slammed the butt of Stormbreaker into the floor, a wave of electricity clearing the room. He turned to you, a stray spark of blue dancing in his hair.
“I have no need for numbers, nuisance,” he muttered, reaching down to haul you up. But as he pulled you close, his hand lingered on your forearm, his skin searing against yours. He leaned in, his face inches from yours. “And you are far from a normal person.”
He let go abruptly, turning back to the heavy blast doors of the core, but you stayed there for a second, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. He was terrified of how much he wanted to protect you, and you were terrified that he only saw a girl who needed saving.
The gravity core pulsed with an unstable light, the air vibrating so violently it made your teeth ache. Steve’s voice crackled over the comms, strained: “Thor, Sparky—the containment field is failing. If that core blows, the entire basin goes with it. You have to stabilize it now.”
Thor looked at the swirling vortex, then at you. His eyes were dark with a conflict you couldn't read. “Can you do it?”
"I—“ you gulped, “I think so,” you whispered. You stepped forward, thrusting your hands toward the core. The violet energy erupted, it tore out of you like a scream, linking your nervous system directly to the Chitauri tech. For a moment, you held it. The shield stabilized. But then, the feedback hit.
A massive surge of raw, unfiltered power slammed back into your chest. You were thrown through the air like a ragdoll, hitting the reinforced bulkhead with a sickening thud. A sharp, white-hot agony flared in your ribs, and the world splintered into a thousand jagged pieces. You tried to breathe, but your lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass.
“No!” Thor’s roar was louder than the sirens.
He was at your side in a heartbeat, Stormbreaker clattering to the floor as he slid into the grime. He gathered you into his lap, his massive hands trembling as he framed your face. You let out a broken whimper, your head lolling against his bicep.
“Sweet girl? No, no, look at me. Open your eyes,” he pleaded.
Blood trickled from a cut on your forehead, blurring your vision. Every breath was a fresh wave of torture, a barbed lump in your throat that made you want to scream, but you couldn't find the air.
“Thor...” you wheezed, your fingers feebly clutching at the cold metal of his chest plate. “It hurts—“ you gasped, “it hurts so much.”
“I am here. I have you,” he mumbled, his voice breaking as he pressed his forehead against yours. His thumb frantically wiped at the blood on your skin, his touch a desperate, burning friction against your cold skin. “Stay with me, darling. Please. Stay with me.”
The sound of heavy boots echoed—Hydra reinforcements, dozens of them, closing in on the wounded God and the girl dying in his arms.
Thor’s head snapped up. The grief in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, white-hot vacuum of rage. He gently lowered your head to the floor, his fingers lingering on your cheek for one last second.
“Do not close your eyes,” he commanded softly. Then he stood.
He became a cataclysm. Stormbreaker glowed with a blinding, celestial light as he leapt into the center of the room. Every swing was a thunderclap that shook the very foundations of the earth. He leveled the reinforcements in seconds, then turned his fury on the facility itself. Lightning channeled through the floor, shattering the gravity core and vaporizing the walls. By the time the rest of the Avengers burst into the room, there was nothing left but a smoking crater and Thor, standing in the center of the ruins, cradling you against his chest again.
“Thor! What happened?” Steve shouted, running toward the wreckage. Tony landed nearby, his faceplate disappearing. “Kid? Is she okay? Bruce, get the med-vac ready, we'll get her to the Compound—“
“No.” The word was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through your aching body. Thor didn't look up at any of his friends. He held you so tight it was as if he were trying to merge your bodies, his heart hammering against your ear.
“She needs the cradle, Thor, she's internal—“ Tony started, stepping forward.
“I said no!” Thor snapped, his blue eyes flashing with lethal lightning. He looked down at your pale face, his heart twisting with a guilt that felt like a blade.
This was his fault. He had let his blind jealousy, the petty fear of losing you to someone else, cloud his judgment. He had allowed you into a war zone when you weren't ready, just to keep you under his wing where he could watch you.
“I will not leave her life to your Midgardian trinkets,” Thor rasped, his voice thick with self-loathing. “I am the reason she bleeds. I will take her to my people in New Asgard. They have remedies older than your civilization. They will fix what I have broken.”
“Thor, wait—“ Steve began, but it was useless.
Thor didn't wait for permission. He called to the heavens, the Bifrost light beginning to hum around you both. He looked down at you, his fingers grazing your throat one last time, feeling the stutter of your pulse.
“I have you, sweet girl,” he whispered into your hair, his voice a broken promise. “I will never let you go again.”
In a flash of rainbow light, the Amazon jungle vanished, replaced by the salt-spray air and the rugged, comforting cliffs of New Asgard.
Thor didn’t stop to greet his subjects; he moved through the streets of New Asgard like a force of nature, his boots cracking the stone beneath him.
”Quickly, send healers to my estate!” he roared, his voice booming across the harbor. His people didn't even have time to celebrate the return of their King; the raw, bleeding desperation in his tone sent them into a frantic scramble.
Brunnhilde ran over to him, her brows furrowed as she struggled to match his relentless pace. “What’s going on? Who is she? What happened?” she asked, her eyes darting to your limp, broken form in his arms.
“Me happened,” Thor responded, his voice a desperate edge of self-loathing. He didn't look at her, his eyes fixed solely on your pale face. “I break every single person I get near.”
Inside your head, the world was a cacophony of white noise. Your ears were ringing so loud that the King’s shouts and the sounds of the bustling village were muffled, distant. The only thing that felt real was the heat radiating from him. With an effort that felt like lifting a mountain, you managed to bring your hand up. Your fingers, stained with dirt, found the scruff of his jaw.
“Thor,” you whispered, your eyes glazed over, struggling to find his amidst the blur of gold and blue.
He turned his attention back to you immediately, the storm in his expression breaking for a fraction of a second. “Yes, my sweet, sweet girl,” he said, his voice dropping into a tender, broken rasp as he instinctively leaned his face into your palm. The contact was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He would not lose you. He refused to let the universe take one more thing from him.
When your eyes began to flutter shut and your head lolled against his chest, a fresh wave of panic surged through him. He turned his face into your hand, his lips pressing a lingering, desperate kiss against the inside of your wrist. It was the last thing you felt—the ghost of his warmth and the scratch of his beard—and a small, faint smile touched your lips just as the world finally faded into total darkness.
—
Your eyes fluttered open, the world blurry at the edges as the last remnants of sleep fell away. “She is stable, though she needs to be careful. Her injuries were severe; we managed to fix a few but not all. Our magic will linger in her, fixing her. Try not to have her do too much, Your Majesty.” The voice was unfamiliar—calm and clinical. As your senses returned, you felt a firm, heavy hold on your hand.
“Thank you,” came Thor’s voice, deep and sandpaper-rough. You heard the soft thud of footsteps slowly fading away as the healer left the room.
You tried to shift, but the movement sent a dull, throbbing ache radiating through your body. It wasn't the splintering agony of the jungle, but every single bone in your body seemed to hum with a quiet, persistent pain. You blinked, trying to take in your surroundings. The ceiling was made of heavy timber, and the air was cool.
“Where are we?” your voice cracked, sounding like dry leaves skipping across stone.
Thor’s hand, which had been a steady, grounding weight over yours, tightened instantly. His other hand moved to the top of your head, his fingers grazing through your hair with a tenderness that made your heart stutter more than any injury ever could.
“We are at New Asgard, honey,” he whispered, the endearment slipping out as naturally as a breath. “How are you feeling?”
You took a slow, cautious breath. Every inch of your skin felt sensitive, a lingering hum of Asgardian magic working beneath the surface to knit your muscle and bone back together. “I am better, thank you,” you said, forcing a small smile as you turned your hand within his, gripping him back. The warmth of his palm was the only thing that felt truly solid in the room.
“How long have we been here?” you asked, your eyes searching his.
“A day,” he mumbled.
His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles beneath them telling a story of a man who hadn't closed his eyes once since the Bifrost had landed. He looked disheveled.
“You stood by my side all that time?” you asked, your voice softening in disbelief.
“No need for silly questions, of course I did, darling,” he said, his thumb beginning a slow, rhythmic stroke across your knuckles. He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping into a low, fiercely protective register. "I was not going to leave you. Not after what I allowed to happen."
The guilt in his voice was a barbed lump, thick and heavy. He looked at your bandaged frame and then back to your eyes, a silent war raging behind his blue gaze. He wanted to tell you he was sorry—that he was a fool for letting his own selfish desire to keep you close put you in the line of fire—but the words seemed trapped behind the sheer relief of seeing you awake.
“You look so pale,” he whispered, his hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, his touch burning like a brand. “I thought… for a moment in that forest, I thought the light had gone out of the world.”
Your thumb grazed his knuckles, your body moving on autopilot. Even through the haze of pain and the dull throb in your ribs, your first instinct was to soothe the tremor in his hands.
“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, your voice still a bit airy. “I would have wanted to come to the mission anyway. Even if you didn’t approve of it.” You managed a broken, tired smirk, your eyes searching his. “You know, I’ve noticed I can make almost anyone say yes to me.”
Thor gulped, his thumb pausing its rhythm on your cheek as he looked at you with a gaze so heavy it felt like a scorching iron. “You do have that effect on people, yes,” he admitted, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face.
The moment was intimate, the air between you thick with everything that hadn't been said, until the heavy wooden door creaked open.
“Still moping, Your Majesty?”
Brunnhilde walked in, her gait confident and effortless. She looked like she belonged in this world in a way you weren't sure you ever could. She walked straight over to the bed, her eyes scanning your form with a professional, yet slightly amused, curiosity.
“The healers say she’s made of tougher stuff than she looks,” she said, before turning her attention to Thor. She reached out, casually wrapping her arm around his broad shoulders and leaning some of her weight against him.
Your mind went completely blank. The warmth you’d felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp pang in your chest that had nothing to do with your injuries. You watched the way she stood so close to him, the ease with which she touched him—a familiarity that only came from years of... what?
Who was she?
You looked at Thor, but he didn't pull away. He just stood there, letting her hang off him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A sickening thought spiraled through your head: Has he had a lover all this time? Did the petnames mean nothing more than a king being kind to a stray he’d picked up?
You felt your hand twitch in his, suddenly wanting to pull away, to hide yourself under the covers and disappear. The pain in your body was nothing compared to the sudden realization that you might have completely misread the storm in his eyes. A small, desperate part of you had hoped those pet names and the way he’d cradled your face in the mud meant something more than duty. But seeing her arm draped so comfortably over him, you felt the cold reality sink in. You were a trainee, a mortal flicker; she was a woman of his own kind. You already knew he’d never look at you like that, but seeing the ease of their connection made the ache in your chest sharper than the break in your ribs.
“Oh, good! You’re not dead. That’s a real plus for the team morale!”
The new voice was deep, gravelly, and strangely cheerful. You turned your head—wincing as the movement pulled at your neck—and saw a towering mass of blue rocks lumbering toward the bed. Every step he took resulted in a series of rhythmic clacks and thuds that echoed off the timber walls.
Your eyebrows furrowed in genuine bewilderment, your mind momentarily jolting away from the agonizing sight of beside you.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” you blurted out, a weak, bewildered laugh bubbling up. “Did a mountain range decide to grow legs and start talking?”
The rock creature didn't seem offended at all. He waved a massive stony hand. “Common mistake! I’m Korg. I’m made of rocks, as you can see, but don’t let that intimidate you. Unless you’re made of scissors. Then we might have a bit of a rock-paper-scissors situation on our hands, which is never fun for the scissors.”
Despite the dull throb in your side and the heavy weight in your heart, you couldn't help it. A genuine, wide grin broke across your face at the sheer absurdity of his voice and his gentle demeanor. “Oh my god, I love you,” you said, leaning back into the pillows, trying to ignore the way Thor’s hand was still holding yours while his other shoulder supported her. “You're so precious.”
You kept your eyes fixed on Korg, pouring all your energy into the conversation, terrified that if you looked back at Thor, he’d see the cracks in your expression. You were determined to tear your attention away from the man whose touch still burned your skin, even if it meant falling in love with a talking pile of rocks just to survive the afternoon.
“Oh, you are a fast lady,” Korg said, his rocky face shifting into what passed for a bashful expression. “Though I can certainly see myself falling in love with yo—“
Thor’s hand tightened on yours with a sudden, bone-crushing intensity. His head snapped toward Korg, his eyes flashing with a sudden, stormy blue light. “Let’s not get over our heads here,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerously deep rumble that made the loose items on the bedside table rattle.
You turned your head toward him, finding the sheer suddenness of his irritation hilarious despite the lump in your throat. “Why are you standing between me and my great love right now?” you asked, amusement dancing in your eyes.
Thor’s attention snapped back to you, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. He didn't look amused. He looked feral. “Do not piss me off,” he rumbled, the room suddenly smelling of rain. “You just woke up.”
Your smile faltered. The playful light in your eyes died down as you realized he wasn't just being dramatic—he was actually pissed. But the logic didn't track. He had her practically draped over him, yet he was growling at a pile of rocks for making a joke?
He’s just being a King, you reminded yourself, the cold weight returning to your stomach. He was possessive of his subjects, and right now, you were a broken project he felt responsible for. He didn't want you; he just didn't want his things touched.
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the sting of that thought. “You are no fun, Thunder-Thighs.”
She let out a sudden, sharp cackle that broke the tension, her arm still hooked over Thor's shoulder as she looked at you with newfound respect. “I actually like her. Can we keep her?”
She shifted, finally releasing Thor and stepping closer to the bed. She extended a hand toward you, her grip looking like it could snap a sword in half. “I am Brunnhilde.”
Can we keep her? The phrase echoed in your mind. As if you were a new pet for the royal court. You reached out, your fingers feeling small and fragile against her warrior-calloused palm, and gave it a weak shake.
“It's nice meeting you, you can call me Sparky.” you mumbled, your voice losing its edge. You looked from her to Thor, the two of them standing together like pillars of Asgardian history, and you felt smaller than ever. You were just a girl in a room full of legends, and no amount of sweet pet names from Thor was going to change the fact that you didn't belong in their world.
You needed to get away from this view—the ease of Brunnhilde’s touch, the way they stood together, the crushing reminder of where you stood in his hierarchy.
“I want a tour of New Asgard,” you said, your voice gaining a bit of false bravado. You looked at Thor, the smirk returning to your face as a shield. “Wanna see if there’s more of you where you come from.”
Thor’s eyes slid shut, his jaw working as if he were trying to grind his teeth into dust.
Absolutely not.
The sight of you flirting with a literal pile of rocks was already enough to make him lose his composure; he could feel the lightning buzzing under his skin, a restless, jealous hum. The thought of you wandering the village, throwing that same devastating smile at his subjects—his men subjects—was intolerable.
“No,” he said, his voice flat and absolute.
You gasped, playing up the indignation. “Why not? I do wanna see some Asgardian men—”
Thor’s grip on your hand tightened instantly, his fingers nearly bruising. He leaned in, his shadow falling over you, his blue eye burning with a dark, possessive heat. “You will not be leaving this room for eternity if you keep talking like that.”
Oh.
The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out. He was so incredibly hot when he was like this—possessive, looming, and clearly fighting a losing battle with his own restraint. You tilted your head down, looking up at him through your lashes, letting that innocent gaze of yours do the work for you.
“Why not, big guy?” you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, teasing hum. “But I really want to see.”
Thor’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked at your lips, then back to your eyes, his resolve crumbling like the facility back in the jungle. He was the King of Asgard, a God of Thunder, yet he was completely defenseless against a single look from you.
“Fine,” he grumbled, his shoulders dropping in defeat. He couldn't say no to that face, even if it meant he’d have to spend the entire afternoon glaring at every man who dared to look in your direction.
Brunnhilde let out another cackle, leaning back against the wall with an amused smirk. “Good luck, Majesty. You're going to need a bigger axe to keep the suitors away. If there is one bigger than the one you already have.”
Thor didn't respond to her. He just reached down, his hand sliding from your knuckles to your forearm, his touch still burning like a brand. “But I am the one taking you,” he added, his voice possessive. “And you stay within my reach. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I promise I won’t leave your side,” you said, a grin of victory overtaking your face.
You knew your puppy-dog gaze was your secret weapon, but as Thor began to help you up, a flicker of confusion crossed your mind. Why did Brunnhilde say good luck like that? If they were a couple, why was she just standing there cackling while her man acted like a possessive dragon over another girl? You shook the thought away—Asgardian couples were clearly built different.
“Come on then, let’s go,” Thor said. His movements were agonizingly careful. One hand gripped your elbow, steadying your frame, while his other hand slid firmly around your waist to hoist you from the bed. The heat from his palm through your attire made your heart beat so fast you were worried the healers would hear it from the other room.
The torture began the second you stepped outside. The salt air hit your face, and your eyes wandered over the rugged beauty of New Asgard. It was a picturesque, bustling village, but your attention was quickly snatched by a man walking toward the docks. He was tall, with long, golden hair caught in the wind and a thick, groomed beard. He looked remarkably like the old version of Thor—the one you’ve seen from the screens.
You didn't hide it. You looked him up and down appreciatively, a slow smirk spreading across your lips. It was official: you definitely had a type. Nobody could truly be Thor—no man on Earth or Asgard could come close to the God of Thunder beside you—but this guy was a very, very solid runner-up.
Beside you, the air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Thor’s gaze locked onto the man with the ferocity of a predator. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you an inch closer to his hip, marking his territory in front of half the village.
“All-Fathers, give me strength,” Thor mumbled under his breath, his knuckles turning white as he prayed for the patience not to smite his own subject where he stood.
You turned your head back to him, your eyes dancing with mischief. “I couldn’t quite catch that,” you said innocently. “Did you say something, or were you just admiring the scenery too? Because the view out here is excellent.”
He looked down at you, his blue eye burning with a mixture of raw jealousy and a protective instinct so strong it was almost vibrating. “The view is treacherous,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he steered you firmly in the opposite direction of the blond Asgardian. “And you are supposed to be resting your eyes. Perhaps I should carry you back inside if they are going to wander so much.”
“Do not dare!” You rolled your eyes, a light giggle escaping you as you leaned slightly into the support of his arm. “I am merely admiring the view, big guy. Don't be ridiculous.”
He was being ridiculous. He knew it. He had no claim on you, no right to feel this possessive surge that made his blood boil every time your eyes lingered on another man. In his mind, he told himself it was absurd to pursue anything—you were a mortal, a flicker of light in his long, shadowed history. But as he looked down at the top of your head, a darker, more primitive part of him—the side of him that had conquered realms and held thrones—was whispering. Hide her. Do not let her look at another. Own her until she forgets any other man even draws breath.
He felt the roar of that possessive instinct in his chest, and before he could think, the words tumbled out.
“I am a view to be admired too,” he rumbled, his voice low and thick. “Why won't you admire me?”
The moment the question left his lips, Thor closed his eyes, a wave of internal swearing following it. He was going to ruin everything. He was a King, a warrior, and here he was, practically begging for your attention like a petulant boy.
You turned your head toward him so fast the world did a little spin, forcing you to grip his arm tighter to stay upright. Your heart was thundering against your ribs. What is wrong with him? you thought, a flash of irritation warring with the sudden, sharp heat in your cheeks. How could he ask that? He was a god, he had Brunnhilde, and he definitely didn't have feelings for you. He had to be playing—mocking you, even.
You gulped, trying to keep your voice steady as you forced a meek smile. “Who says I don’t?” you joked back.
But the words felt heavy, lacking the punch of a real joke. It wasn't a joke—not to you. You admired him every single second you were in his presence, from the way his muscles shifted to the way he looked when he thought no one was watching.
Thor opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you so close that you could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart—a heavy, steady hammer against your side.
She cannot mean that. The thought raced through his mind, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Did she mean that? For a moment, he couldn't breathe, the sheer weight of your words taking the air out of his lungs. He searched your expression for the punchline, for the quick-witted retort that usually followed your barbs. Surely you were joking, just as you usually did to keep him on his toes. He smiled nervously, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing his features as he finally averted his gaze, looking out toward the horizon.
“I am honored, honey,” he murmured, his voice slightly strained. “I too... admire you.”
Before the silence could get too heavy, he started hauling you over toward a row of shops, his grip on your waist firm as he guided your unsteady steps. Your heart stuttered. You knew he wasn't being serious, he couldn't be, but the mere possibility of him admiring you made your chest ache with a bittersweet longing. You were just a woman from Midgard; he was a legend carved from lightning.
As you walked, your attention was caught by a group of Asgardian women sitting on a low stone wall. They were giggling, their fingers moving with practiced grace as they braided each other's hair, weaving small silver charms into the strands. They were applying iridescent pigments to their eyelids, their laughter ringing out like bells in the crisp air. They looked so effortless, so full of life and sisterhood. Your heart soared at the sight. It was so far removed from the cold steel of the facility or the mud of the jungle.
Thor noticed the way your pace slowed, his gaze following yours to the circle of women. “You want to join them?” he asked, his voice softening.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. You wanted to, more than anything, but the sudden surge of self-consciousness held you back. You were covered in the faint remnants of grime, your hair was a mess from the battle, and you felt like an intruder in their perfect world.
“I don’t know... would it be weird?” you asked, your voice small.
Thor looked down at you, his expression melting into something so incredibly tender it made your knees weak. He reached up, his thumb grazing your temple to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all, darling,” he said, a proud smile tugging at his lips. Without another word, he turned his steps toward the women, his hand remaining possessively at your waist as he led you into their circle, determined to give you even a moment of the peace you had bled for.
The women rose instantly, their laughter quieting into a gesture of deep respect as they bowed the moment they saw their King.
“Would you be so kind as to let my friend here join you ladies for a while?” Thor asked, his voice booming with a warmth that made the women beam.
They welcomed you immediately, pulling you into their circle with eager hands. For the next hour, the war and the pain felt a lifetime away. You leaned back, closing your eyes as one of the women began to weave a complex, delicate braid through your hair, her fingers light and nimble. Another sat beside you, carefully applying a shimmering, iridescent lip gloss that tasted like wild berries. You swapped stories, learning their names and laughing as they told you about the quirks of living in New Asgard. You were finally at peace.
Thor didn't move far. He stood a few paces away, leaning against a weathered wooden post, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He was watching you. His heart soared at the sight of you in sync with his people, your laughter blending perfectly with theirs. A wholehearted, genuine smile broke across his face, one that reached his eyes and stayed there. Seeing you like this, safe and glowing, felt like the greatest victory he’d ever won.
When it was finally time to go, you found yourself hugging the girls, tapping your phone number into their devices and promising to show them Midgardian glam next time. You thanked them for the girly experience, your face flushed with a genuine happiness that hadn't been there since before the mission.
Then, you turned and walked over to him.
Thor’s breath caught in his throat, a hitch that made his chest tighten. You looked so breathtakingly beautiful that it felt like a blow to his solar plexus. The intricate braids framed your face perfectly, making your features pop, and the way you smiled—wide and triumphant—made his head spin.
But it was your lips that did him in. The gloss shimmered in the sun, making them look soft, wet, and utterly inviting. He stared at you, his pulse thundering in his ears, feeling like he was about to die from the sheer, overwhelming force of wanting to close the distance between you.
“How do I look, big guy?” you asked, spinning in a small circle, your eyes bright.
Thor couldn't speak for a second. He just stood there, his blue eye fixed on the shimmer of your lips, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and touch the braids he’d just watched being made. He felt like he was drowning in the sight of you.
“You look—” he started, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that he couldn't quite control. “You look like a Queen of the Stars.”
He cradled your face, “Thank you,” you managed to breathe. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and searching, oblivious to the way the light in your veins was beginning to pulse in sync with the heavy thud of his heart.
Thor stared down at you, his thumb hooked under your chin, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your throat.
She cannot be real, he thought, his chest tight with a hunger that felt both holy and devastating. She was made to undo me.
Then, the world seemed to tilt. He moved his thumb, dragging the pad of it slowly across the plush curve of your lower lip. He caught the shimmering, wet gloss, his touch searing, and then—with a deliberation that made your knees buckle—he brought his thumb to his own mouth.
He tasted it. He fucking tasted it.
He closed his eyes, humming a low, resonant sound as he sucked the tip of his thumb, his jaw working as he savored the sweetness of the gloss and the essence of you.
Your mouth fell open, your breath hitching in a broken sob of shock.
The God of Thunder, the King of Asgard, was standing in the middle of New Asgard, tasting your lip gloss like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
It was the most intimate, most improper, most exhilarating thing you had ever witnessed.
“You like it?” you whispered, your voice trembling and soft, barely audible over the hum of the people chattering in the streets. Thor opened his eyes, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like a sea before a hurricane. He let his hand drop from your chin, but he didn't move back.
He stayed in your space, his heat a physical wall. “I do,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave until it was a rough, velvet growl. “It tastes exactly as I imagined.”
The world spun. He had imagined it. He had looked at your mouth and wondered what you tasted like.
Thor’s world narrowed until it was nothing but the heat radiating off your skin and the salt-tinged breeze of the harbor. When you took his forearms in your hands, your fingers curling around the thick, corded muscle of his limbs, his entire body went rigid. The pulse in your veins felt like it was humming directly against his palms, a rhythmic, electric tether binding your souls together in the middle of the crowded street.
“Would you like another taste?” you whispered. The question was a spark in a room full of gunpowder. Thor’s pupils dilated until the blue of his eyes was almost entirely swallowed by a predatory, desperate black. His heart slammed against his ribs—a frantic, heavy thunder that you could feel vibrating through his arms.
He didn't answer with words. He couldn't.
His hands moved from your face to your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a possessive strength that pulled you flush against him. There was no space left between you, no air, no logic. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a fraction of a second, his ragged breath ghosting over your dampened lips.
“You have no idea,” he rasped, the vibration of his voice rattling in your chest, “what you are asking of me.” He tilted his head, his gaze dropping back to your mouth, watching the way the shimmering gloss caught the golden sun. There was a raw, starving hunger in his gaze that had been building since the moment he first saw you. He leaned in until his lips were a mere hair's breadth from yours, pausing there in the agonizing friction of the almost. He let out a low, shaky exhale, his nose brushing against yours.
“If I start,” he groaned, his voice a rough, velvet warning against your mouth, “I will not be able to stop. I will consume you, sweet girl.”
Your grip on his forearms tightened, your nails biting into his skin as you pulled him that final, impossible inch.
When his lips finally crashed against yours, it wasn't the gentle kiss of a king; it was the crash of two storms. He tasted like rain and desperation, his mouth moving over yours with a frantic, soul-searing intensity. His tongue swept across your lower lip, reclaiming the sweetness of the gloss and replacing it with the heat of his own fire.
The world around you—the shops, the shouting children, the presence of Brunnhilde somewhere in the distance—completely vanished. He was consuming you, his left hand anchoring your waist while his right firmly gripped the back of your neck, fingers tangling into the fresh braids to pull you impossibly flush against him. Your own hands found his firm shoulders, gripping onto the rough fabric of his tunic for dear life as you stood on your tiptoes to meet him.
You forgot where you were. You forgot to breathe. You forgot your own name.
There was only the taste of him and the way his massive body felt pressed against yours like a shield and a cage all at once. Your heart sang at the contact, a wild, soaring melody that reached a crescendo in your chest.
You were hopelessly in love with him.
Love. The word struck you with the force of a thunderclap, clearing the fog of passion just long enough for a single image to flash in your mind: Brunnhilde.
Her arm wrapped around his shoulder. Her cackle. The ease between them.
You parted away from him so fast it was like a train had hit you. Your boots stumbled back on the uneven stones, and your breath came in ragged, panicked hitches. The reality of the street rushed back—the whispers of the townspeople who had stopped to stare at their King, the judgment in the air.
“What’s wrong?” Thor asked, his voice thick and dazed. He reached out for you, his gaze clouded with a raw, lingering hunger, looking completely unmoored.
Your heart sank into your stomach, heavy as lead. “How could we?” you asked, your voice trembling.
You looked at him—at the King of Asgard—and the weight of what you'd just done felt like it was crushing your lungs. How could you let this happen? You were helping him betray the life he had built here, the woman who stood by his side.
Thor froze. He saw the horror in your eyes, the way you were looking at him as if he were a stranger. His mind raced, misinterpreting every second of your silence. He saw the way you recoiled, the way you looked at him with what he could only perceive as regret—or worse, fear.
He thought he had failed you. He thought he had taken advantage of your recovery, using his power and your vulnerability to force a moment you didn't actually want. He thought he had creeped you out, becoming the very monster he feared he was.
He cleared his throat then, the sound sharp and sudden, as if he were trying to shake off a spell. He stepped back just an inch—enough for you to breathe, but not enough for you to feel safe. He had fucked it up. He had fucked it all up.
“Forgive me,” his voice was pained, strained through a throat that looked like it was choking on his own heartbeat. “I do not know what came over me. It was… unseemly. I have misread the situation entirely.”
He took his hands off of you as if your very skin had turned into white-hot iron, burning him. You stumbled backwards, your skin still flaming where his hands—his lips—had been.
“Unseemly,” you repeated, the word tasting like ash. You thought he was regretting the betrayal; he thought he was apologizing for being a predator.
“I have taken advantage of your state,” he rasped, refusing to meet your eyes now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder at the churning grey sea. “I am your mentor. I am responsible for your safety. Please... forget my conduct. It will not happen again.”He looked at his hands and clenched them into white-knuckled fists, the silence between you opening up like a vast, yawning chasm.
“I—“ You gulped, the word sticking in your throat as you looked at his boots, unable to meet that turbulent blue gaze. “I would like to go back to the Compound now.”
Thor nodded, the movement stiff and formal. “Okay.”
He extended his hand toward you, his palm open but his eyes fixed firmly on the horizon behind you. With his other hand, he reached out and summoned Stormbreaker; the weapon flew into his grip with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed through the quiet street. You took his hand, your own fingers trembling so violently you were sure he could feel the vibration of your bones.
Thor felt that tremble. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, his jaw tightening as if he were bracing for a blow. He didn't say a word, but he pulled you closer—careful to keep a professional distance this time—and held Stormbreaker aloft.
The rainbow light of the Bifrost engulfed you, and for a heartbeat, you were suspended in a roar of color and sound. Then, the familiar concrete of the Avengers Compound floor was beneath your feet.
The moment the light faded, you scrambled away from him, your hand dropping his as if his touch had become toxic. Steve and Natasha were there in an instant, having been waiting on the landing pad. They looked at each other, their expressions shifting from relief to concern the moment they saw the wreckage of your expression.
“Are you okay, doll?” Steve asked, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to steady you. You nodded mindlessly, not trusting your voice, not looking back at the God of Thunder standing like a statue behind you.
You reached the safety of your room, slamming the door shut and locking it with a trembling hand. You didn't make it to the bed; you slid down against the wood, pulling your knees to your chest. The silence of the quarters pressed in on you, heavy and suffocating.
You looked at your phone lying on the bed. The agent’s number was still there in your messages. A human. Someone who wouldn't look at you like a regret. Someone who was available, who didn't have a warrior-queen waiting for him or a thousand years of baggage.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, your chest aching with a crushing weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. You were going on that date. You didn’t want to—not really—but the storm of what had happened in New Asgard was too much to bear alone. You needed to feel seen by someone who wasn't apologizing for wanting you.
—
The next morning, your head was thudding with a dull, rhythmic ache that had nothing to do with your injuries and everything to do with the heavy silence of your quarters. You didn’t want to go to the common room. You didn’t want to see him, to look into that single blue eye and see the regret reflecting back at you. You wanted nothing to do with him.
You reached for your phone, your thumb hovering over the agent’s name. You sent the text. He replied almost instantly—he wanted to take you out tonight. You agreed, the hollow victory of the date feeling like a bitter pill to swallow.
You got up and got ready for breakfast nonetheless, masking your exhaustion with a sharp look that felt more like armor than an outfit. You made your way toward the common room, and the air immediately felt thick, charged with the same tension that had nearly snapped yesterday.
Your gaze found him instantly. Thor was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his massive hands wrapped around a coffee mug that looked fragile in his grip. He was gazing mindlessly at the far wall, his expression vacant and haunted. He felt you enter; you saw his shoulders tighten, his posture becoming even more rigid, but he didn’t turn around.
You didn’t say a word. You walked straight to the coffee machine, the silence in the room deafening.
Tony, Natasha, Steve, Bruce, and Rocket were all gathered at the table, exchanging looks that practically screamed, What the hell? The men all pointed subtly toward you and then toward Thor, gesturing wildly to Natasha as if to say Fix it.
Natasha shook her head exasperatedly, pushing off from the table and making her way toward you. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” she asked, her voice low but sharp.
You gave her a dry side-eye as you waited for your cup to fill. “Good morning, Nat.”
She didn’t back off. She stepped into your personal space, narrowing her eyes. “Thor has been staring at nothing for an hour now, and you are being awfully quiet.”
Your body locked, your shoulders tightening to match his. “What makes you say something happened?”
“It’s obvious. Spill it.”
You looked down at the counter, the steam from the coffee hitting your face. “We kissed,” you muttered, the admission feeling like a confession. She kept looking at you, waiting for more. When you didn't continue, you felt a surge of indignation. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she looking at you like you were the problem?
“And he already has a partner?” you said, your voice dripping with disbelief. “He’s a King, Nat. He has responsibilities. He has her.” Only then did Natasha’s expression change. Her eyebrows knitted together in genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? He’s not in a relationship. He hasn’t been for years.”
Your own eyebrows furrowed. The world seemed to stall. “What? What about Brunnhilde?”
Natasha actually let out a dry, huffed laugh. “She’s just his friend. Trust me, she’d be more interested in you anyway. She’s got a liking for women.”
Your whole world tilted upside down. The floor felt like it was falling away, leaving you suspended in a vacuum of your own making. He wasn't a cheater. He wasn't taken.
And the apology, the way he had pulled away like he was a monster... it wasn't about her.
It was only about you.
“But he apologized—”
Natasha shrugged, leaning her hip against the counter with a cool, analytical stare. “He probably thinks you regret the kiss. He's a bit of a dramatic idiot like that.”
“But I don’t— He does,” you said, your heart performing a painful somersault in your chest. You were so confused, the adrenaline from the realization mixing with the lingering sting of his rejection. “And… I have a date tonight.” You turned your gaze toward your hands, unable to look at her anymore.
“What? With who?” Natasha asked, her voice sharpening.
“Just an agent,” you said, keeping the name to yourself as you turned to leave. You didn’t wait for her to respond; you left the room as fast as your legs would carry you. But just as you were stepping into the hallway, you heard her mutter a low, ominous, “Oh, no.”
Back at the table, the boys were still hovering, trying to get Thor to spill the beans. He remained a statue of grief until Natasha marched back over and dropped the bombshell without any preamble. “She thought you were in a relationship with Brunnhilde,” she stated the moment she reached him.
For the first time in an hour, Thor’s gaze snapped away from the wall. The movement was so sudden it almost looked painful. “What?” he boomed, the word vibrating the coffee mugs on the table.
“And now she knows you’re not. You’re welcome,” Natasha said, sliding into her chair with cat-like ease. “Though she now thinks you regret the kiss because of her. Sorry about that one.”
Tony’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “The kiss? You kissed? Since when are we kissing the trainees? Was I not invited to this memo?”
But Thor wasn't hearing a word Tony said. His brain was stuck on the fact that the horror he saw in your eyes wasn't because of him—it was because you thought he was a betrayer.
Then Natasha added the finishing blow. “Oh, and she has a date tonight. With some agent she's been talking to.” Steve’s head snapped toward her, his expression darkening instantly. “A date? She's still recovering. And some of those tactical guys—they aren't exactly looking for a long-term commitment. They can be bad news.”
Thor was plunged into a new kind of trance. This one wasn't silent; it was electric. His jaw tightened so hard his beard bristled. You were going on that date? With a mortal stranger? While you still had the taste of Asgard on your lips?
The air in the common room began to hum with the faint, unmistakable smell of a coming storm. Thor didn't look like a grieving king anymore. He was a god who had just realized he'd almost surrendered his most precious treasure over a misunderstanding.
He was going to explain himself to you, even if you didn’t want him.
—
You locked yourself in your room, the heavy click of the deadbolt echoing the finality of your decision. You needed to drown out the noise—the confusion, the embarrassment, and the lingering heat of Thor’s touch.
You took an everything shower, the steam filling the room as you scrubbed every inch of your skin as if you could wash away the sensation of his hands on your waist.
Afterward, you spent an eternity applying body lotions, the floral scent masking the faint smell of rain that seemed to follow you from New Asgard. You were putting in an incredible amount of effort, but it wasn't for the man waiting for you. It was a distraction, a way to make the hours pass until you didn't have to think anymore.
With your earphones blasting music to drown out the world, you hadn't heard a single thing outside your door. You had no idea that Steve had been hovering in the hallway, his face pinched with worry, or that Natasha had practically tried to pick the lock before giving up in exasperation. To them, you were being stubborn. To you, you were just trying to survive.
You pulled on a black bandeau midi dress that hugged your curves, the dark fabric perfectly complementing your features. It was sleek, sophisticated, and left your shoulders bare. Then, you stepped into your four-inch heels. They were a nightmare to walk in, the thin straps biting into your skin, but they made you feel sharp, and untouchable. You applied the finishing touches of your makeup and a heavy mist of your favorite perfume. You were done.
You picked up your clutch, checking your reflection one last time. You looked good—really good. The shimmering lip gloss was back—a different brand, a different scent, but the memory of Thor’s thumb dragging across your lip flashed in your mind like a lightning strike.
You closed your eyes as you shoved it down.
You took a deep breath opening your eyes back, adjusted the hem of your dress, and finally pulled your earphones out. You looked at your your phone, saw the “I'm outside” text from the agent, and headed for the door. You tried to avoid everyone as you made your way outside to where Agent Vance was waiting.
You didn't see Thor, but he saw you. He had spent the last hour pacing, finally deciding that even if you didn't feel the same, he had to tell you the truth. He wanted to tell you how he’d wanted to kiss you from the very first moment he caught sight of you. He wanted to confess how he had to restrain himself every single time your skin made contact with his during training, how his heart thudded every time he heard your voice, and how he had felt like a predator for harboring such intense feelings for his student. He was in love with you. He had fallen for you hard.
He had been working up the courage to reach your room, to catch you before you could leave, but the sight of you in those heels and that sinful black dress caught him completely off guard. You looked beautiful—like you had stepped right out of his most forbidden fantasies. His heart thudded once against his ribs, and then it sank into his stomach.
You were dressed like this for another man.
Before he could make a move, you were out the door. He watched from the shadows of the corridor as you reached the agent, who gave you a slow, approving look-over that made Thor’s left eye twitch.
He wasn't going to let you be courted by another. He couldn't bear the thought of it. He knew it wasn’t ethical, knew he was being unreasonable, but he had to follow you.
Steve came up right next to him then, his face etched with concern. “What happened? You couldn't make it to her room in time?”
Thor turned toward him, his expression grim. "No," he said simply. With a sharp shake of Stormbreaker, the casual clothes vanished, replaced by the heavy, shimmering plates of his Asgardian armor.
“Who was she with?” Steve asked, peering toward the exit.
“That agent with the brown hair, green eyes. The ugly one,” Thor rumbled, his voice low and dangerous.
“The handsome one?” Steve cut him off, his eyes wide.
Thor gave him a sharp side-eye that could have curdled milk. Steve ignored it, his worry deepening. “Oh, fudge. That guy's the worst. It hasn't been proved yet but he’s got a reputation for—“
Thor didn't let him finish. He didn't need to hear about Vance's reputation; he could already feel the protective, possessive rage bubbling in his blood. He had to find you. Without another word, he lifted Stormbreaker high, the scent of storm exploding in the hallway, and ascended into the sky in a flash of blue light.
The ride in the car was suffocating. Vance kept glancing at your chest as he drove, his eyes lingering far longer than they should have, making you squirm uncomfortably in the leather seat. You adjusted the neckline of your black dress, a cold knot of dread tightening in your stomach.
Had you made a massive mistake?
“Where are we going?” you asked, forcing a small, fragile smile.
“It's a surprise. You'll see,” Vance said, glancing at you with a devilish smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Okay, weird. The creepy vibes were hitting you in waves now, but you tried to bury them deep. You told yourself it was just because you didn't want to be here—because your heart was still back at the Compound with a man who thought he’d offended you.
But then, Vance turned onto a desolate, abandoned street, the streetlights flickering over cracked pavement and empty warehouses.
Your heart started thudding against your chest, a frantic rhythm that made your breath short.
“Wow, if you wanted to murder me, you could have just invited me to a Nickelback concert. It’s cheaper and achieves the same result,” you rambled, the joke slipping out before you could stop it. Like you always did when you were terrified, you were using humor as a shield.
Vance’s brows furrowed, his expression darkening as if your voice was an annoyance. He didn't even crack a smile. He just slowed the car to a halt in front of an ominous, windowless building that looked like it hadn't seen life in decades.
“Get out,” he told you, his voice flat and cold.
Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. This couldn't be happening. You sat frozen, your fingers gripping your clutch so hard your knuckles turned white. When you made no move to leave the safety of the car, Vance’s patience snapped.
He rounded the car and ripped the door open. Before you could even protest, his fingers clamped around your upper arm, his grip so tight it felt like his fingers were sinking into the bone.
“Ow! What the fuck?” you yelled, wincing as he hauled you out of the seat. The four-inch heels made you stumble on the gravel, your ankles nearly snapping as he started dragging you toward the heavy steel doors of the building. “Let go of me! This isn't funny, Vance!”
Your vision glazed over for a second. You knew how to fight back; you had the power humming in your veins, and you’d spent months training for this. But your body betrayed you. You were still weak from your injuries, the Asgardian magic still busy knitting your insides back together. You stumbled, the heels catching on a crack in the pavement.
“What are you doing? Let me go!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the cold concrete.
Vance spun around, his face contorted. “Shut up!” he yelled, and with a sickening force, he slammed you against the brick wall of the building.
The air left your lungs, and your eyebrows furrowed in a flash of pure, unadulterated fury. But as he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you, he leaned in until you could smell the stale scent of his breath. “Maybe I should just have you right here? In your slutty, tight dress?”
Your blood ran cold. The sheer audacity of his words, the way he looked at you like you were an object to be broken, made your skin crawl.
High above, Thor was a silhouette against the rising darkness. He had been looking for you everywhere, his gaze frantically tracing the city streets like a hawk. Every second you were with that mortal was a second of agony for him.
His blood boiled when he finally caught sight of the car parked in that desolate alley. When he saw the fucker corner you, slamming you against the wall, Thor saw red. He knew you were vulnerable; he knew your body was still fragile from the battle, still healing under the very magic he had gifted you.
The clouds over the city curdled. A violent, deep purple vortex began to spin directly over the warehouse, the rumble of thunder echoing through the buildings like the growl of a dying god.
You looked up, the terror in your chest suddenly replaced by a strange, soaring calm. Above the silhouette of the man threatening you, the sky was glazing over with a familiar, electric wrath. Your heart gave a relieved thud; the primal rumble of the sky was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard. He was here.
In a blinding flash of blue light, the air exploded. The pressure change was so sudden it knocked the breath out of Vance. You watched as Thor descended, not like a savior, but like an executioner. He landed ten feet away, the concrete shattering beneath his boots, Stormbreaker humming with a low, lethal vibration in his hand.
His cape billowed in the wind of his own making, and his eyes were glowing, overflowing with the lightning of a thousand storms. He didn't look at Vance. He looked at you, his gaze tracing the bruise already forming on your arm and the way your dress was hitched up from the struggle. The growl that came out of his chest wasn't human. “Get your hands,” Thor rasped, the sky cracking above him in punctuation, “off of her.”
Vance let go of you immediately, stumbling back as the sheer presence of the God of Thunder seemed to suck the oxygen out of the alley. You let out a shaky, relieved breath, standing your ground despite the thudding in your chest and the sting on your arm. You weren't going to let this piece of trash see you crumble.
Thor was a blur of silver and shadow as he strode toward Vance, his hand lashing out to snatch the man by his collar. He lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing, slamming him back against the same brick wall where you had just been pinned.
“How dare you touch her?!” Thor’s voice rumbled, a low-frequency growl that made the glass in the nearby warehouse windows rattle.
Vance’s eyes widened, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. “She—she was asking for it—I swear—“
Thor’s left hand came up, white-hot static dancing over his knuckles, the air smelling sharply of scorched earth. “You will pay for that,” he rasped, his grip tightening until Vance’s feet dangled uselessly above the gravel.
Then, you turned your head. Through the haze of the storm, you saw a flash of light—a phone lens. A man stood at the end of the alley, recording the entire thing. Your blood ran cold. Without context, this looked like the King of New Asgard assaulting a human civilian. If Thor did something—anything—to Vance right now, the world would call him a murderer.
“Thor!” you yelled, stepping toward him and grabbing his massive bicep. You looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Someone's recording us, stop,” you mumbled, your voice urgent.
He glanced at you, the glowing white in his eyes flickering but staying bright as he looked back at the man in his grip. “No,” he said, the thunder above echoing his refusal.
You leaned in closer, your thumb soothing the corded muscle of his bicep in a desperate, rhythmic motion. “Please, handsome,” you whispered.
He relaxed then. The static on his knuckles died down, and he dropped Vance to the floor with a heavy, unceremonious thud. Vance huddled on the gravel, gasping for air, but Thor didn't spare him another glance. He turned to you, his arms immediately hauling you into the crushing safety of his embrace, pulling your back against his chest.
“Are you okay, my sweet girl?” he asked, his voice dropping into that tender, gravelly tone. He rested his chin atop your head, one hand soothing over your hair, smoothing the strands that had been ruffled in the scuffle. You nodded, leaning back into the solid heat of his armor. He turned his head toward the man recording in the shadows, his expression shifting back into that of a cold, protective King.
“Go away, mortal,” he rumbled. The command was so absolute, so heavy with divine authority, that the man didn't even hesitate. He tucked his phone away and scrambled into the darkness as fast as his legs would carry him.
Thor turned you around in his arms then, his hands moving to your shoulders, his gaze scanning your face. “I should have never let you leave,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
The moment of peace was shattered by a sharp scoff from the gravel. Vance was clutching his throat, his face twisted in a sneer. “The slut calls you handsome and you immediately melt,” he spat.
Both of your heads snapped toward him at the same time. Thor let out a low, guttural growl, his grip on Stormbreaker tightening, but before he could move, your own rage boiled over. Your eyes flared with a sudden, violent violet glow. A jagged arc of purple electricity tore through the air, striking Vance square in the chest. He didn't even have time to scream before he slumped over, his body going completely still.
You froze, the static still dancing over your fingertips.
“Why haven't you done that before?” Thor grumbled, looking at the man's unmoving body with an entirely unfazed expression.
You turned toward him, your chest heaving. “Because I was paralyzed with shock!” you yelled, the adrenaline finally making your voice crack.
Thor’s expression shifted, the tenderness from a moment ago hardening into something cold and distant. “Let's go,” he said. He turned on his heel, not looking back at you as he began walking toward the exit of the narrow street.
He was moving with purpose, his gaze darkened as he searched for an open space proper enough to summon the Bifrost. His mind was a storm of its own, swirling with the sting of your earlier assumption. How could she think so little of me? To believe I would lead her into such a moment while another woman held my heart? The perceived betrayal of your thoughts felt like a blade between his ribs.
“What's wrong?” you asked, trying to keep up with his long, effortless strides.
He didn't answer. His pace only fastened. “We'll talk later,” he said, his back a wall of shimmering cape and muscle. You hurried after him, the uneven pavement a minefield. “Slow down, Thor!” you gasped. Your heels were a death trap on this terrain, offering zero stability as you tried to match his god-like gait. He still wasn't turning around.
“Will you slow dow—“ Your ankle snapped to the side. You let out a sharp cry as you hit the ground hard, the force of the fall knocking the breath right out of your lungs.
Thor stopped. He closed his eyes for a brief, pained second, a flicker of exasperation crossing his features—how could someone be so clumsy? But the irritation was gone as quickly as it arrived, replaced by a surge of pure panic. He turned toward you instantly, dropping Stormbreaker to the side as he rushed back. His gaze was overflowing with raw concern as he reached for you.
“How do you always manage to fall down?” he asked, his voice a mix of exasperation and genuine worry as he knelt to inspect your ankle.
Your eyes narrowed, the pain in your leg sharpening your tongue. “This one is your fault! Why wouldn't you just slow down?” you yelled at him, gesturing wildly at the desolate street.
“I'm sorry, darling,” he murmured, the sudden softness of the endearment catching you off guard. “You're right.”
Before you could argue further, he locked his left arm under your legs and his right one firmly behind your back, lifting you up bridal style. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his neck to steady yourself. Your heart started beating out of your chest; being this close to him, feeling the cold metal of his armor against your skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat, was overwhelming.
“Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he began walking, eyes scanning for a clearing.
“What?” you asked, breathless.
He looked directly into your eyes, his gaze heavy and knowing. “You fall an awful lot, and I always end up either helping you up or carrying you.”
Your eyes widened, and you immediately averted your gaze, feeling the heat creep up your neck. "No," you mumbled shyly, though you couldn't help the way your fingers curled slightly into the nape of his hair.
He chuckled—a deep, vibrating sound that you felt in your own chest. He finally found a clear spot and lifted Stormbreaker high, summoning the Bifrost. In a blur of light and sound, the world smeared into colors until the familiar, sterile scent of the Avengers Compound replaced the city grime.
But Thor didn't set you down, he strode through the hallways with a silent, regal determination—his boots echoing against the floor until he came to a stop right in front of his doors. Wait. His doors?
You gazed up at him, your brow furrowed in confusion. “Why are we in front of your quarters?”
He looked at you as he opened the door with one hand while holding you, kicking it open with a heavy thud. “We are going to have a little chat,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin tingle.
Your throat went bone-dry. This was it. This was where he told you he couldn't train you anymore—that the boundaries had been overstepped and there was no going back. You didn't want to hear his rejection; you didn't want to hear him say it was a mistake.
“No need—“
“Yes, need,” he cut you off, sitting you down firmly on the edge of his bed.
He immediately started pacing the length of the room in front of you, his cape swirling like a storm cloud with every sharp turn. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror facing the bed—your expression was broken, your makeup slightly smudged, looking like a girl who had just survived a wreck.
“You are so irresponsible!” he started yelling, his voice booming in the confined space.
Your eyebrows furrowed, your own temper flickering to life. “How am I irresponsible? I am not a child—“
He held up a finger, a silent command that stopped the words in your throat. “You keep trying me. Let me speak,” he rumbled. You nodded, gulping hard as he turned back to his scolding.
“You go on a date with a bastard like him? You do no background check on the men who you let take you out?!” He ran a hand through his hair, gripping his head as if it were about to explode. “And him? After we kissed?”
He stopped pacing then, looking you dead in the eye. Your breath caught in your throat, the air in the room suddenly feeling very thin. You gulped, “I thought you—“
“I know what you thought, and I am even more mad because of that! No, actually, I’m not mad,” he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I’m furious.” Your gaze fell to the floor, unable to hold that intense, electric stare.
“How could you think I could kiss you while I have another’s hands holding mine?” he asked, his voice shaking with the weight of his words. “How could you think me so low of a man that I would betray anyone’s—your trust like that?”
He took a deep breath, stepping into your personal space until his boots were touching your heels. He reached down, his large hand cupping your face and grabbing your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The glow was back in his eyes, but it wasn't the wrath of the storm—it was something far more consuming.
“How could you think I could even look at another woman,” he whispered, his thumb grazing your lower lip, “while there is you?”
Your chest started heaving, the rhythm of your breath erratic as the weight of his words settled over you. His thumb continued its slow, hypnotic soothing over your chin, and he gulped, his gaze anchored to your face. He looked at you with a hunger that was almost painful—taking in your beautiful eyes, your consuming expression, and those lips he had branded just a day before.
“I know you do not want me,” he said, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “I know you think I'm a creep—“
“What do you mean? I do not think such a thing,” you interrupted, your eyebrows furrowing in genuine shock. You reached up, your hand covering his as you cradled his palm against your cheek, needing the contact to stay grounded.
“Don't deny it—I know you do,” he mumbled, a flicker of insecurity crossing his rugged features. “But I am consumed by you. Your jokes annoyed me at first, but now they are the only things I want to hear. Your voice soothes my soul; the sight of you makes my heart sing.”
You stopped breathing entirely. The room seemed to shrink until there was nothing but the heat radiating from his body.
“I kissed you and apologized because I thought I had taken advantage of you,” he took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for a rejection that wasn't coming. “I wanted to kiss you since the first time I caught sight of you. I fell for you the first time you talked to me with that vibrant voice of yours.”
The world seemed to tilt. What?
“I love you, Little One.”
You couldn't take one more breath. Your eyes welled up with hot, thick tears that blurred your vision. Through all this time—all the training sessions where you’d felt like a nuisance, all the moments you thought you were just a responsibility—he had loved you?
“Shut up,” you breathed. Before he could respond, you reached up and caught his neck, pulling him down toward you with a strength that surprised you both. His breath hitched in his chest as he was forced into your space. “I love you too, handsome,” you mumbled against his lips.
He froze. All the months he had spent trying to distance himself, trying to play the stoic mentor because he was terrified of his own heart—and you had wanted him all along? You loved him?
Then, Thor smiled, It was a wide, radiant expression of pure, unadulterated joy that seared its way into your heart, brighter than any lightning he had ever summoned.
You smiled back, a soft, shaky thing that finally reached your eyes, but just as he was leaning in to close the distance, you let out a small, troubled mumble. “I never thought you could love me,” you whispered, your brow furrowing.
His expression shifted instantly, his eyes filled with confusion. “How? I thought I had made it very clear that I want you.”
You rolled your eyes, a dry, sarcastic huff escaping you as you pulled him back toward your lips. “Yeah, you have a very strange way of showing it, grumpy.” you murmured, your voice dripping with irony.
Your lips collided then, and the world outside the room ceased to exist. You kissed him with everything you had—all those times of yearning and frustration pouring into the contact. But the height difference from your position on the bed was nagging at him. Thor reached down, his massive hands catching your waist as he hauled you up to your feet. You gasped, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you stabilized. He didn't let go; instead, his large hand slid down, his palm tracing the length of your left thigh as you stood before him.
“I love those heels,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly sound. His fingers hooked firmly behind the back of your knee, and with a sudden, possessive tug, he brought your leg up, pinning it against his hip.
Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs at the sheer boldness of the move. Your midi dress had ridden up until it was sitting just below your ass, revealing your legs to him. “And I love those legs.” He mumbled again looking down at the sight of your legs hungrily. He didn't wait for you to recover; he was kissing you again, pressing you firmly against his solid frame. You opened your mouth in a long, shaky moan, and Thor took the permission instantly. He grabbed your jaw, his massive hand tipping your head back further, deepening the kiss with a primal hunger.
His tongue brushed over your teeth, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat between you spiked. His chest was pressed right against yours—solid, secure, and terrifyingly hot. You had never felt a burn like this just from a few kisses.
It was passionate and messy. It was Thor.
His broad, calloused fingers dug into your soft skin, grounding you as his solid body anchored yours. You combed your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly, and he let out a low, guttural groan. The noise vibrated through his chest and directly into yours, making you shudder with a sudden, burning, needy heat that made the rest of the world fall away into ash.
He sucks on your lower lip, a slow and deliberate pressure before releasing it with a wet pop. He licks over the sensitized skin, his tongue soothing the sting before his mouth begins to travel. He moves over your cheeks, then down the sharp line of your jaw, repeating the same rhythmic, grounding motion. Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, pulling him closer as your hips buck mindlessy against his, seeking the solid heat of him.
“My love,” he mumbles against your skin. The sound of him calling you that—so easily, so naturally—makes your heart hammer against your ribs. “Hm?” you murmur, completely breathless from the weight of his kisses.
“Say it again,” he commands softly, his forehead resting against yours as his eyes search yours. “Say you love me.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, a soft, genuine thing. “I love you, baby,” you mumble directly over his lips.
Thor smiles back, a look of pure, unshielded adoration that makes him look younger, softer. “I’m never going to get over that,” he whispers. He begins to move, slowly descending you toward the bed, laying you down against the soft sheets with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the storm outside.
He stands over you then, his breathing heavy as he begins discarding his armor. The metallic clatter of the plates hitting the floor is the only sound in the room, and the sight of him makes a rush of heat flare through your core.
He is truly a god. As the layers come off, he reveals the rugged landscape of his body—the short, messy hair, the massive breadth of his shoulders, and those biceps that had been driving you toward the edge of sanity for months. You gulp, your eyes roaming over the sheer power of him, and you instinctively bite your lower lip, your pulse thrumming in your throat. He notices the look, a dark, confident smirk playing on his lips as he steps closer to the edge of the bed.
You were up on your elbows now, looking up at him while still biting your lip. The sight of him without the armor was almost too much to take in—all corded muscle and golden skin. He climbed onto the bed, bracing one knee down beside you, his right hand reaching out to catch your chin. His thumb moved with a gentle, calloused pressure, unhooking your lip from your teeth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he smiled down at you, his voice like rolling thunder.
“Like what?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, playing oblivious even as your heart tried to leap out of your chest.
“Like you want to devour me whole,” he rumbled. You gulped, the honesty of the moment stripping away your filters. “But I do,” you said.
His chest staggered, his breath hitching as he looked at you with a new level of intensity. “Don’t say things like that, sweet girl. It only makes me want to keep you here until the end of the universe.”
Your breathing got heavier, the room thick with the scent of him and his skin. “Maybe I want you to keep me here forever,” you mumbled. You were down bad, and at this point, you didn't care if he knew it.
His gaze darkened instantly, the blue of his eye turning into the deep, turbulent indigo of a storm. “Oh, now you’re being a bad girl, darling. You’re playing with fire,” he said. He took hold of your left hand, his grip firm and possessive. The momentum almost made your back hit the bed, but he kept you upright, his strength anchoring you in place.
Once he was sure you were steady, he leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. “Wanna feel me, baby?”
You nodded immediately, licking your lower lip expectantly, your gaze fixed on him.
He took your hand and placed it right over his stomach. The moment your palm met his skin, he gasped out a sharp, guttural groan, his abdominal muscles rippling and tightening under your touch. It was like a circuit had been completed; your touch burned through him, sending a physical jolt through his frame that made him shudder against you.
Your gaze was fixed on his eyes, looking up at him through your lashes as you slowly glided your hand upwards, tracing the ridge of his ribs until your palm rested over the heavy thud of his heart. Then, you began lowering it, your fingers exploring the hard, defined planes of his abdominal muscles. It felt incredible to be touching him like this—to finally be feeling him up without the barrier of training gear or armor.
Your hands moved lower, your gaze now fixed on his torso as you watched his skin ripple under your touch. When your hand reached the waistband of his trousers, you smiled wickedly. You shifted your grip, fisting the hard length of him through the fabric.
Thor let out a choked, guttural groan, his eyes snapping shut as his head fell back. You kept palming him, your eyes fixed on his face to watch every flicker of pleasure, every sharp intake of breath. You were going to be the end of him, and you knew it. He was breathing heavily, his entire body straining as he fought for control, trying not to lose himself right then and there.
Just as your fingers found the tab of his zipper, he reached down and caught your hand, his grip firm but trembling with restraint.
“Stop, baby,” he mumbled, his voice a low, ragged rasp.
“Why?” you breathed, looking up at him with a pout.
“Because there’s only one place I’m intending on coming in tonight,” he rumbled, his eyes opening to reveal a gaze so hungry it made your toes curl, “and it isn’t my pants.”
You giggled breathlessly, the sound a mix of nerves and pure excitement. His hands moved then, reaching around to the back of your dress. You felt the cool air hit your skin as he began to pull the zipper down, the smooth slide of the metal the only sound in the room besides your shared, frantic breathing.
When the zipper was down, he didn't waste a second, his large hands tugging the top of the dress down. The cool air hit your skin, revealing your breasts and your hardened nipples to the dim light of the room.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, the word caught in a ragged exhale as he looked down at them.
He pushed you back onto the bed then, the mattress dipping under your weight as he kept tugging the fabric lower. The dress caught momentarily at your hips, the tight fabric clinging to your curves before he worked it free. His hungry gaze traced every inch of skin he uncovered, his eyes dark with a possessive intensity as he stripped the dress completely from your body and tossed it aside.
He looked at your heels then, the silver hardware glinting. When you made a move to reach down and remove them, his hand flashed out, catching your wrist to stop you.
“Keep the heels on,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a command that made your blood sing.
Oh, fuck.
You nodded frantically, the friction and the sight of him making your black lace panties dampen even more. He looked you over, his gaze traveling slowly back up your legs until it snagged on the lace. His eyes darted from the delicate fabric to your face, his jaw tightening as a flash of that protective, jealous God returned.
“You wore those for him?” he grumbled, his voice low and dangerous as he loomed over you.
You shook your head, your heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “No—“
He was over you in an instant, the heat from his skin radiating against yours as he hovered over your right breast. “Don't lie to me,” he rumbled against your skin before biting down on your nipple. The sharp, stinging pleasure made you squeal, your breath leaving you in a sharp puff. His left hand gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your hip, while his right hand rested flat against your stomach, anchoring you to the bed.
“I'm not lyin',” you gasped, your fingers knotting into the sheets.
“Are you not?” he asked, his voice a low vibration. He licked over the mark he’d just made, his tongue hot and soothing, while his right thumb found your clit over the black lace. He didn't waste time; he pressed down firmly, right on the center of your pleasure.
You let out a broken moan, your head tossing back against the sheets. You gulped, trying to find your voice through the haze. “I'm not—please—“
“Mm, what do you want, my love?” he asked, his tone deceptively sweet as his thumb began to circle your clit over the fabric, the friction building a frantic, tight heat. “Who did you wear them for then?”
He shifted his focus back to your nipple, slowly kissing, then sucking, then biting again, a relentless rhythm of praise and punishment. You were losing your mind. Your hips tried to buck up, desperate to meet the pressure of his hand, but his left hand stayed heavy on your waist, effortlessly pushing you down.
God, he was so strong. The sheer power in his touch made another rush of wetness pool at your core, soaking into the lace.
“I want you—I wore them for you! I swear!” you moaned, the truth tearing out of you as you arched your back, desperate for him to believe you, desperate for him to not stop.
Thor chuckled deeply, a vibration that felt like it was coming from the very earth beneath the bed. “Should I believe you, darling?” he asked. His thumb didn't stop, the rhythmic circling against the wet lace driving him into a frenzy. He could feel the heat radiating from you, the slick friction of the fabric becoming a testament to your hunger.
“You’re soaking through the lace, sweet girl,” he whispered against your skin, his voice a gravelly secret.
You nodded, your mouth agape as you fought for air, your brows knit together in a pained, perfect pleasure. “Yes... because of you,” you managed to breathe out. “It’s because of you. Only you.”
Thor paused, looking up at you with a gaze full of raw, unadulterated adoration. “You are so beautiful it burns me,” he said, his voice thick with a reverence that made your heart swell.
He didn't wait for an answer. He started a trail of fiery kisses down your stomach, moving past your navel until his hands found the edges of your panties. With one decisive, powerful motion, he ripped the lace apart, the sound of the fabric tearing lost in your sharp gasp.
He parted your legs wide, his large hands anchoring your knees as he caught sight of you, glistening and open for him. His tongue darted out to dampen his lower lip as his right hand made contact, his fingers gently parting your folds to take in every inch of you. The sound of your own slickness squelched under his touch, a wet, heavy sound that filled the quiet room as you instinctively clenched down on nothing but air.
“Looks delicious,” he mumbled, his voice a dark hunger.
He lowered himself between your parted thighs, his beard grazing your sensitive inner skin before his lips found your clit. He gave it one soft, lingering kiss that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your spine. Your eyes snapped shut, and you let out a long, broken moan that echoed against the walls of his quarters.
Your legs instinctively tried to snap shut around his head, your heels clicking sharply as your feet collided against his broad, muscled back. But he didn't budge. He caught your thighs, forcing them wide and pinning them against the mattress with a strength that made you feel delightfully small.
“Behave, little one,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you moaned helplessly, your head tossing back. “Or I will not let you come until you’re crying for me to let you.”
Then, in a blur, his right hand came down and slapped your pussy. It was a sharp, stinging contact that landed right on your clit, making your breath hitch so violently you couldn't even get a moan out. Your vision swam for a second, the shock of the impact sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.
He didn't give you a moment to recover. He placed his hand back on your thigh, his grip bruisingly tight, and lowered his mouth again. This time, there was no gentle kissing. He started suctioning on your clit, his tongue swirling in a frantic, expert rhythm while his fingers began to work their way inside you, seeking to stretch you out for the god currently devouring you.
Your mind was a complete haze of heat and pleasure. The weight of his hand on your thigh felt like it was branding your skin, and every swirl of his tongue against your clit sent waves of pleasure straight to your core. When his thick fingers began to push deep inside you, stretching you and moving in a rhythmic, relentless pace, you felt yourself hurtling toward the edge of that sweet release.
Your hands found the short, rugged hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers knotting in the strands as you pulled him closer. “Please—I’m so close—Please baby,” you begged, your voice breaking.
Thor didn't slow down. He kept the pressure constant, his fingers curling inside you as he felt your internal walls begin to quiver and tighten. He knew exactly where you were. Just as your vision started to go black and the first sparks of an orgasm began to explode behind your eyelids, you cried out, “I’m going to come!”
In an instant, he vanished.
His mouth left your clit and his fingers slid out of you. Before you could even register the loss, his hand—glistening with your own slickness—came down on your pussy in a hard, stinging slap.
The contact sent a jolt through your nervous system that forced a choked moan from your throat. “Why did you do that?” you whined, the sudden frustration of being cut off making your breath hitch. Your lower lip wobbled as the peak you were chasing evaporated into a dull, throbbing ache. “I was about to come...”
Thor smirked up at you, his eyes dark and overflowing with a playful, possessive malice. “That was for wearing those panties,” he rumbled.
“But I wore them for you—”
Crack. Another slap landed, sharp and rhythmic. You whined again, your back arching off the bed in a desperate, failed attempt to find his touch. “Please—”
“Beg me, my love,” he mumbled, his voice a low, commanding vibration as he leaned back over you, his chest hovering just inches from your aching breasts. “Beg me to let you come.”
His tongue traced your lower lip, tasting the salt of your desperation as your hands flew to his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you from drowning.
“Please baby, please,” you begged, your eyebrows knitting together in a pained, beautiful expression of need. “Please let me come.”
“Mm,” he hummed, leaning back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark with the power he held over you. “Let me think on it.”
The wait was agonizing, but it didn't last long. He was back between your legs in a heartbeat, his tongue tracing your clit with an agonizingly slow, light pressure that made you want to scream. Your breath hitched, a broken sound escaping your lips. “Oh my god—“
You didn't know where to put your hands; you were clawing at the sheets, then reaching for him, your body a live wire of unspent tension. He was torturing you, and he knew it. “Please, I’m begging you,” you whispered, hot tears beginning to cloud your gaze and spill over. At this moment, the world outside this room didn't exist. You couldn't feel anything but the heat of his skin and the hunger in his touch.
His fingers stopped at your entrance, hovering there, teasing the sensitive skin. He looked up at you, that devilish smile returning to his rugged face. “Should I let you come, sweet girl?” he asked again, watching the tears run down your cheeks with a gaze that was both possessive and adoring.
“Please—I’ll do anything,” you sobbed out, the words a frantic surrender.
Thor made a deep, approving sound from his chest—a rumble that felt like distant thunder. “Okay then, if you insist.”
He didn't hold back this time. He started devouring you, his tongue moving with a fierce, rhythmic intensity that shattered whatever was left of your composure.
“You taste so good,” he growled in between his attacks on your clit. The vibration of his voice against your most sensitive spot was so delicious you literally saw stars. You gasped for air, your back arching. “You taste just like I imagined,” he said, his voice thick with praise as he worked you toward the edge. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just for me.”
“Mhm,” you mumbled, your body shuddering as his fingers curled deep inside you, hooking against your G-spot with a strength that made your vision swim. “Just for you,” you managed to choke out, though your voice was thinning, reduced to a desperate, airy thread.
He didn't let up. The assault on your clit was relentless, a perfect, punishing rhythm that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. The world was nothing but the scent of him and the white-hot friction between your legs.
“I—” you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your knuckles white. “Can I come now?” you mumbled, the words barely audible over the sound of your own frantic breathing.
Thor paused for a fraction of a second, his head lifting just enough to flash a possessive, triumphant smile. “Good girl, asking for permission,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that made your skin prickle. “Look how much of a good girl I’ve turned you into, baby. My good girl.”
He went back to work, his tongue swirling and his fingers driving into you with a new, frantic energy. You were past the point of no return. You were soaring, your internal muscles clenching violently around his fingers, milking them before the release even hit. “Please, please, please—” you begged, your voice rising in pitch.
“Come for me then, my heart,” he commanded, his voice thick with authority.
The moment the words left his lips, the dam broke. You came hard, your entire body stiffening as a violent, rhythmic pulsing took over. You whined out his name, over and over, the sound muffled against the crook of your arm as your world shattered into a thousand shards of violet light.
Thor didn’t pull away. He stayed right there, buried in you, holding you through the aftershocks. He kept mumbling praises against your sensitive skin, his voice a soothing balm to the intensity of the climax.
“You did so good, baby,” he whispered, his fingers still twitching inside you to draw out every last spark of pleasure. “Just like that. Give it all to me. C’mon, that’s it.”
He kept going, his tongue and fingers relentless until you were twitching away from his touch, your nerves fried in the best way possible. He surged back up over you then, his hand gripping your chin to hold you still as he kissed you deeply, making you taste yourself on his tongue. You let out a broken whine against his mouth, your hands frantically finding his shoulders for purchase.
As he moved, his painful bulge pressed firmly against your swollen clit through the rough fabric of his trousers. You gasped, flinching instinctively; you were so overstimulated from the orgasm he’d just gifted you that the contact felt like lightning. But he wasn't letting you move. He kept your hips locked in place, grinding himself over you with a heavy, guttural groan that forced another moan from your throat. “Thor—it’s too much, please,” you whined, your head tossing on the bed.
It was like he didn't even hear you. He slanted his lips over yours again, effectively shutting you up, and every time the fabric of his pants grazed your sensitive skin, you cried into his mouth. Your breathing was hard and ragged, and despite the overstimulation, the relentless pace of his grinding started to build that familiar, heavy pressure inside you again. Your legs instinctively widened for him, your body betraying your words as you silently begged him to keep going.
Then, he stopped. He pulled his lips from yours, hovering just inches away. You felt like you were going mad. “What are you trying to do?” you whined, your hands reaching down to grab his ass, trying to force him to move again, to give you that friction you were suddenly desperate for.
But he was a wall of muscle. He easily removed your hands from his frame, pinning your wrists to the bed for a brief second as he smiled down at you—a dark, promise-filled expression.
“I’m getting you ready to be fucked, baby,” he rumbled.
He moved then, parting from you just enough to stand on his knees on the bed. Your eyes widened as he began to remove his trousers and boxers in one fluid motion. The sight of him—completely unshielded and massive—made the breath die in your throat. You were finally seeing all of him, and the reality of what was about to happen made your core pulse with a renewed, frantic ache.
Your empty hole clenched with the sharp, agonizing anticipation of finally having him inside you. Thor began descending on you again, his weight a heavy, welcome shadow. His angry pink tip was already leaking with precum, a glistening drop trailing down the side. You couldn't help yourself; your thumb found his tip, smearing a bit of his cum onto your skin before you brought it to your lips.
Keeping your gaze locked on his, you slid your thumb into your mouth and started sucking the moisture off. You closed your eyes, letting out a low, vibrating hum—mimicking exactly what he had done with your lip gloss.
Thor couldn't breathe. The sight of you—so hungry for him, so unraveled that you would do something so bold—made him let out a groan of desperate, primal hunger. He looked like he was going to consume you whole. But a sudden, dark idea popped into his mind.
His massive hands grabbed your waist, and with a sudden surge of strength, he pivoted your entire body. You squealed as he turned you around so your head was toward the footing of the bed and your feet were near the headboard.
“What are you doing?” you asked, looking up at him, startled and breathless as he laid you back down.
He didn't answer. He simply loomed over you, his hands groping at your thighs and forcing them wide once more, your heels still on, catching the light. He leaned down, placing the head of his cock right between your lips—not your mouth, but the swollen, aching folds of your pussy. He started gliding it over you, the friction of his skin against yours making him bite his lower lip and groan in a way that sounded like a physical ache.
You mewled, your hips bucking up to try and force the entry. “Just fuck me already!” you cried out, your voice cracking with the need to be filled.
He chuckled, the sound low and dark as he used your own slickness to coat the length of him. He finally obliged, positioning himself at your entrance. Your hips bucked instinctively, reaching for the relief of him, but he held you firm.
“Stop squirming,” he commanded, his large hands anchoring your hips to the mattress. Then, he started easing inside. He let out a long, pained groan at the way your tight walls immediately clamped around him, welcoming him with a desperate heat. You moaned, your hands flying to his back, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as your legs dangled over his waist, your heels hovering in the air.
He was so deep, stretching you in a way that made you feel completely delirious.
“Shit,” he cursed, his voice cracking. He looked down, and the sight of your stomach slightly bulging with the sheer length of him made him twitch violently inside you.
You moaned again, your voice a broken plea. “Move... I’m begging you.”
Then, he started to move. He was relentless, each thrust a deliberate, heavy weight that filled you to the brink. His left hand reached down, grabbing your right hand and forcing it flat against your own stomach, pressing down right where he was hitting you from the inside.
Your eyes widened, your pupils dilating until there was hardly any color left. “Oh my god—” you mewled, the sensation of feeling him from both the inside and out making your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
“You feel me? Deep in you, marking you, my sweet girl?” he mumbled, his pace fastening.
The rhythm became primal. Your heel-clad feet made rhythmic, thudding noises against his back with every thrust, the silver hardware clicking. His right hand stayed clamped onto your left thigh, keeping you open and vulnerable. You were a total mess—your hair was tangled against the sheets, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps, your eyes fluttering as you lost the ability to process anything but the friction and the fullness.
Suddenly, he shifted. His left hand left yours on your stomach and moved upward, his large palm cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.
“Open your eyes, baby,” he rumbled, his own gaze burning with a divine, terrifying hunger. “Look at me while I take you.”
You opened your eyes, your gaze clouded over and unfocused, but Thor wasn't finished with you yet. He tilted your head back, his hand firm against your jaw, until your line of sight hit the large mirror facing the wall.
The reflection was a shock to your system. You saw everything: the frantic, flushed look of your own face, your mouth agape, and your legs—still adorned in those sharp, elegant heels—dangling over his massive waist. You saw the rhythmic, powerful motion of him driving in and out of you, the sight of his bronzed, muscled skin against yours.
“Oh,” you whined, the visual of your bodies joined together sending a fresh jolt of electricity through your nerves.
“Watch us, baby,” he rumbled, his movements getting faster and more punishing. “Watch yourself take every inch of me.”
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling praise and possessive commands as he bit down on the sensitive cord of your throat. His left hand never wavered, keeping your head tilted at that exact angle so you couldn't look away from the mirror.
He lifted his head then, catching your gaze in the reflection. Sweat was running down his temples, dripping onto your chest, and his eyebrows were knitted in deep, concentrated pleasure. He looked like a man possessed, a god losing himself in a mortal. Well, an immortal now.
The friction, the sight of him in the mirror, and the relentless depth of his thrusts pushed you over the cliff. You couldn't take it anymore; the pressure in your core was a physical weight, a sparking fuse that had finally reached its end.
“I’m—I’m gonna come,” you managed to gasp out, your body beginning to tremble violently beneath him.
His left hand loosened its grip on your jaw, sliding up to cup your cheek as he pulled your gaze away from the mirror and directly toward him.
“Look in my eyes when you come, my heart,” he commanded, his voice a low, ragged rasp. His own pleasure was building behind his eyes, a storm of blue and gold. “Come with me, baby. Come on.”
His adoring gaze burned through you, anchoring you even as the world began to dissolve. Your pulse raced, your internal walls spasming around him in a tight, desperate rhythm until the pleasure finally clouded over your vision and you came, your back arching off the bed as you cried out his name.
“Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice strained and thick as he fought to keep his composure, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“In me, please,” you gasped out, the words hitting him like an explosion.
He didn't need to be told twice. Thor let out a primal, guttural groan and surged into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. He came right after you, his entire frame shuddering as your walls milked him, driving him into a state of pure, unadulterated bliss. He filled you up completely, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he breathed through the intensity of the release.
The room fell quiet, save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his large hand gently petting your hair, smoothing the tangled strands away from your face.
“You okay, sweet girl?” he asked, his eyes soft and overflowing with love.
You nodded, a wide, breathless grin breaking across your face as the aftershocks continued to hum through your skin. “More than okay,” you said. You reached up, pulling his head back down to yours, and slanted your lips over his in a slow, sweet kiss.
Thor hummed, a low, contented sound that vibrated through his chest as he shifted your position on the bed. He pulled you back against him, spooning you so your back was pressed against the furnace of his skin. He reached around, his large, calloused hands cradling your face with a tenderness that felt almost sacred.
“I lost everything, honey. Lost my home, my mother, my father, my brother. Even my hammer at one point. I was a hollow shell of a man before I met you.” he mumbled against the shell of your ear, his voice thick with a vulnerability he rarely showed. “But I found my universe now. I found you.”
He went quiet for a heartbeat, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. “I know this is going to be a lot, and we have the weight of worlds on our shoulders, but—” He cleared his throat, the sound slightly nervous. “Would you be mine? And perhaps, in the future... my wife?”
Your heart soared, a wild, ecstatic heat blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the physical exhaustion of moments ago. You turned in his arms, smiling wildly as you hugged him with everything you had.
“Of course I would, Thunder-Thighs,” you chirped, burying your face in the crook of his neck.
Thor let out a heavy, mock-suffering groan at the nickname, though he couldn't hide the way his lips quirked upward. “You have to stop calling me that,” he rumbled, though he squeezed you tighter, his smile widening against your hair.
“No way,” you mumbled, pressing a final, cheeky kiss to his collarbone.
—
LONG.AS.FUCK. I know, I just can’t help it 😭 Let me know what you think please💞💕
Summary: He was your grumpy trainer, a handler to help you keep your newly discovered powers at bay. You were hopelessly in love with him yet you knew he couldn't look at you that way. Oh, how wrong you turned out to be.
Content: Grumpy and Sunshine Dynamic, Angst, King Thor, Infinity War-Endgame Thor, Yearning, Tension, Possessive Thor, Jealous Thor, OBSESSED Thor, Jealous Reader, Age Gap (Thor is a god hello), A Lot Of Bad Jokes, Reader Is Annoying Him, Reader In Her Early To Late 20's (you could interpret it as older, I do not specify her age but she definitely has so much energy), Explicit SMUT At The End. (Note: My first language is not English.)
Word Count: 32k (Basically a novella guys)
Minors Do Not Interact
—
You sat on a rolling stool, slowly swinging your legs, while a robotic arm scanned your vitals. Every time you got excited, purple sparks jumped from your ponytail, making the nearby monitors glitch.
“So, let me get this straight,” you said, leaning forward to peek at Tony Stark’s holographic displays. “I’m not dying? I’m just spicy now?”
Tony didn't look up from his tablet, but his brow was furrowed in that way that meant he was doing math that would make your head explode. “You’re not spicy, kid. You’re a biological anomaly. And the opposite. You can’t die. When the Stones did their thing, you caught a stray wave of gamma and astral radiation. Most people turned to dust, you turned into an immortal high-voltage capacitor.”
“So I'm an Avenger? Do I get a suit? I was thinking something with pockets. Real pockets, not those fake ones they put on women's jeans.”
Tony finally looked at you, giving you a dry, pitying stare. “You get a handler. You’ve had these powers for forty-eight hours, and you’ve already accidentally melted your neighbor's refrigerator. You need a tutor.”
“Is it Captain America? I’d be okay with that. He seems like he gives great ‘I'm disappointed in you’ speeches.”
“No,” Tony muttered, heading for the door. “Steve is too nice. You’d eat him alive. You need someone who can actually withstand a direct hit from you. Follow me.”
The elevator opened, and you practically bounced out. You were terrified, sure, but the adrenaline of being in the actual Avengers Compound was winning.
Then, you saw him.
Thor was standing by the window. He wasn't wearing the regal armor or the flowing cape. He was in a dark, tactical shirt that strained against his shoulders, his short hair making him look like a rugged, battle-worn mercenary. He looked like he carried the weight of the entire universe on his back. Oh, he was so hot.
Your heart started thudding against your ribs.
He turned around, his gaze landing on you. For a split second, the air left his lungs.
He saw the way the violet light swirled in your eyes—it looked like the nebulas he used to fly through with his brother. He thought you were stunning, a rare flash of vibrant life in a world that had gone dark.
Then, you opened your mouth.
You just had to open your mouth didn’t you?
“Hold on,” you said, eyes narrowed. “You’re the God of Thunder? I thought you’d be— I don't know, older now? Like, beard-to-the-floor, wizard-hat older. But you’re actually still kind of a babe. A very grumpy, scarred babe.”
Thor blinked. The celestial beauty image in his mind cracked and fell apart instantly. “A... babe?”
“Yeah! And the eye! Is it glass? Can I see it? Does it pop out?” You walked right into his personal space, peering up at him like he was a science project. “Tony says I’m assigned to you. I do the purple sparks. You do the blue ones. We’re like a matching set! Though, I heard you missed the head on the big bad. Don't worry, I’m great at aiming. I once won a giant teddy bear at a carnival by hitting a moving target. I can totally teach you.”
Thor’s jaw tightened. He looked over your head at Tony, his face a mask of pure, mounting horror. “Stark. What is this? Why is this mortal child speaking to me about carnivals and my aim?”
“Hey! I am not a mortal anymore, nor am I a child. I'm a whole ass adult!” you said looking at both of them. First Tony calls you kid, and now Thor calls you a child.
You have noticed a pattern here. Good for you.
“She’s your problem now, Point Break,” Tony called out, retreating back into the elevator. “She’s a human energy-well. You're the only one who won't turn into a charcoal briquette during her training. Enjoy the youth!”
The doors closed. You beamed up at Thor, your fingers sparking with a happy violet light. “So! Training! Do we start with the sparks, or do we start with the workout? Because I have to tell you, I haven't done a sit-up since 2019 and I don't plan on starting now.”
Thor looked at your bright, grinning face, then up at the ceiling, his hand tightening on the handle of Stormbreaker. He was 1,500 years old. He had fought dragons. He had faced Thanos. And yet, he had never felt more defeated.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, the word a low rumble of thunder.
“Was that a yes to no sit-ups?!” you cheered. “You're already the best teacher ever!”
Thor didn't answer. He just turned and began marching toward the gym, his cape—which he had summoned just to feel more like a King—billowing behind him in an angry, red cloud.
“Wait for me, Thunder Bolt!” you yelled, running after him.
“Seven AM tomorrow,” he barked over his shoulder. “If you speak before the sun is fully up, I will throw you into the Hudson.”
“Is that a promise? Because I can't drown now, so that sounds like a fun Saturday!” you yelled back, stopping in your tracks.
Thor’s pace doubled. He didn't look back.
You stood in the hallway, watching his broad shoulders disappear around the corner. You were grinning, but deep down, a little knot of anxiety twisted in your stomach.
He hated you, didn't he? Or at least, he found you as pleasant as a persistent toothache.
You were just a job to him—a loud, sparkly, annoying Midgardian job.
—
The next morning, the panic hit before the memories did. You bolted upright, your hair a tangled static-charged mess that looked like you’d stuck your finger in a socket. Your chest heaved as you looked at the sterile, high-tech walls of the room.
Where the fuck am I?, you thought as you scrambled out of bed, heart hammering against your ribs, and lunged for the door.
Then, you stopped. The cool touch of the metal handle grounded you. The Compound. The Avengers. The Sparks.
“Oh,” you breathed, a deep, shaky sigh of relief escaping your lungs. You weren't in your tiny, blown-up apartment anymore. This was your life now. You weren't just a girl who got lucky, your DNA had been rewritten into something immortal and unbreakable.
You spent the next twenty minutes trying to look like you could handle the power of a star.
How does one look like that anyway?
You pulled on your black leggings and a skin-tight t-shirt that hugged your frame, the fabric stretching over the faint, violet veins of energy that pulsed near your collarbone.
When you walked into the common area, the scent of expensive coffee and cedarwood hit you.
And then, you caught sight of him. Thor was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a simple grey hoodie that made him look human and dangerously approachable. He was staring at a tablet, his rugged, handsome face illuminated by the screen's glow.
He looked so beautiful it actually hurt.
You stood there for a second, your breath catching in your throat, feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room.
Get it together, you scolded yourself. He thinks you're a nuisance. Don't let him see you melt, act normal.
“Good morning, Thunder-Thighs!” you called out, your voice a little too loud, a little too bright, masking the fact that your heart was doing backflips.
Yeah, so much for acting normal. Idiot.
You couldn’t help it okay? You rambled when you were nervous and he made you really nervous.
He just looked sideways at you, his gaze lingering on your messy hair for a fraction of a second before he turned back to his cup. “Good morning, Little One,” he mumbled into his coffee.
Your brows furrowed. “Little One?” you repeated, stepping closer. “Is that the new nickname? Because like I told you before, I am an adult, thank you very much.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips—just a tiny, fleeting flicker—as he looked up at you. It was the first time he’d looked at you without immediate exasperation. “You are so much younger and smaller than me, aren't you?”
Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath hitched. You were standing close enough to see the stubble on his jaw and the way the grey fabric of his hoodie stretched over his chest.
“I'm compact,” you squeaked, your face heating up. “Highly concentrated energy. Like a—like a shot of espresso. Smaller than you but lethal.” Thor let out a low, huffing sound that might have been a laugh.
Then you added, “And I’ll outlive most things.”
Thor’s expression shifted, a shadow of something heavy crossing his eyes. He knew you were like him now—someone who would watch the years pass while others faded.
How could this be?, he wondered. How were you going to handle losing everyone around when the time came? He didn’t want you losing your spark, he couldn’t bear the thought of it, but you would eventually. And that was something he didn’t want to witness. Ever.
He stood up, towering over you, the sheer scale of him reminding you that he was a celestial being and you were just a girl with a sudden power-up.
“The espresso is twenty minutes late for training,” he rumbled, his tone shifting back to that cold distance. The smile was gone. The wall was back up. “Eat your breakfast. The mat does not wait.”
You finished your breakfast in record time, shoving the last bite of toast down as you sprinted toward the training wing. Your pulse was already racing, a frantic staccato that had nothing to do with the cardio and everything to do with the man waiting for you behind those reinforced doors.
When you entered, Thor was already there, shedding his grey hoodie to reveal a black compression shirt that clung to the topographical map of his muscles like a second skin. He didn't need to look at you, he could likely feel the chaotic hum of your energy the moment you crossed the threshold.
“You're late,” he rumbled, his back to you. “Later than twenty minutes.”
“I was savoring the jam. It’s a delicate process, Thor. You can't rush art,” you chirped, though your voice felt thin. You stepped onto the mat, the silence of the room suddenly feeling very small, very intimate. “So, what’s the plan? Are we doing the floaty-sparky thing you do or are you gonna show me how to throw a punch without breaking my own thumb?”
Thor turned slowly. His expression was a fortress of indifference, but his eyes—those stormy, ancient eyes—lingered on the pulse point of your neck. “Stance first,” he commanded. “If the foundation is weak, the house falls. Feet shoulder-width apart. Arms up.”
You obeyed, trying to look like a warrior and failing miserably as you wobbled. “Like this? I feel like a very aggressive penguin.”
He stepped toward you. The distance between you vanished in three heavy, deliberate strides.
He reached out then, moving behind you, his massive frame looming like a shadow that promised both protection and ruin. You felt the heat of him before you felt his touch—a wall of radiation that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. His hands settled on your waist to square your hips.
Your breath hitched, a sharp sound in the quiet gym.
He’s burning me, you thought, your mind spinning into a haze. His touch was a brand, a searing imprint that seemed to sink through your leggings and into your very bones.
Thor’s fingers lingered, his grip firm yet strangely careful, as if he were trying to steady a fluttering bird. He leaned down, his chest brushing against your back, his voice a low, gravelly vibration right against your ear. “Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Do not lean back.”
How am I supposed to lean anywhere but toward you? you screamed internally.
“Right. Balls of feet. No leaning. Got it,” you squeaked. Your skin was flaming wherever he touched you. To distract yourself from the way your heart was trying to escape your chest, you leaned into the annoyance. “You know, you're really getting into the personal space zone. Is this part of the Asgardian curriculum? ‘Introduction to Close-Contact Brooding’?”
Thor stiffened. From your position, you couldn't see his face, but you could hear the shift in his breathing. He moved his hands from your waist to your arms, sliding them up to your elbows to lift them higher.
He was so fucked.
As he stood there, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, the scent of you filled his senses. He closed his eyes for a treacherous second, inhaling deeply.
You were the most annoying woman he had ever encountered—a chattering, bright, chaotic light in his gray world—wrapped in the body of a goddess carved from his darkest, most secret fantasies.
She’s a torture device, he decided. A weapon specifically forged by the Norns to ensure his downfall. And you were so young. A blink of an eye in his long life. It had to be a sick, cosmic joke.
“Silence,” he rasped, but the command lacked its usual bite. His hands slid down your forearms, his calloused palms grazing yours, and the friction sent a jolt of violet sparks dancing between your fingers.
“Whoops,” you whispered, looking down at where your hands were joined. “I think I just gave you a high-five from the universe. Or maybe that was just my heart stopping, really hard to tell.”
He let his hands linger over yours, his thumbs tracing the line of your knuckles in an agonizingly slow stroke. Your heart skipped a beat.
Has it always been this hard to breathe?
“Your heart has nothing wrong with it, Little One,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, “Though, your mind lacks discipline.”
“My mind is busy,” you replied, turning your head just enough to catch the glint of his eye. “It’s currently occupied by the fact that you smell really, really nice—“
He couldn’t hear the rest, his gaze fell towards your lips, his breathing heavy. What would she do if I kissed her?, he wondered, Would she stop talking or would she keep pushing my buttons?
Not even a whole day had passed and he was thinking of kissing you.
He couldn’t kiss you. It was wrong. He really had to stay away from you, he was being a total creep.
Thor’s jaw tightened. He pulled back, the sudden loss of his heat making you feel like you’d been plunged into ice water. He walked to the center of the mat, his back rigid, his hands fisted at his sides as if he were trying to crush the sensation of your skin.
“Again,” he barked, the wall slamming back into place with a resounding thud. “And if you speak again, I will add twenty laps to your session. Begin.”
Day 10
The morning of your tenth day at the Compound arrived not with a sunrise, but with a dull thrumming behind your temples—the cosmic price of having a heart that beat in violet lightning. You rubbed your eyes, trying to quiet the static in your soul, and pulled on your gear.
When you entered the common room, the heavyweights were all there—a pantheon of heroes nursing mugs of coffee like they were holy relics. Steve, Nat, Tony, Bruce, Scott and then there was Rocket, hunched over the counter like a disgruntled mechanic.
And Thor. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, the grey fabric of his hoodie straining against shoulders that seemed wide enough to carry the sky. He looked beautiful in that exhausted, jagged way of his—a masterpiece of scars and sorrow.
Your blood pressure was rising. You could feel it.
Calm your tits, babe, you whispered to yourself in your mind, He was a god of antiquity, a king of a fallen world, and you—not even a quarter of his lifetime—human who still forgot to take the tags off her new clothes. He didn't like you, he was just a very handsome, very hot celestial babysitter.
“Good morning, legends, icons, and sentient trash pandas!” you chirped, sliding into the stool next to Rocket.
“Watch it, Sparky,” Rocket growled, not looking up from a piece of twisted metal. “One more crack about my species and I’m gonna rewire your hair dryer to deliver a tactical nuke to your scalp.”
“You love me, Rocket. I’m the only one who appreciates your craft,” you teased, sticking your tongue out at him.
Thor looked up then, his gaze heavy and slow, like a deep ocean current. “Good morning, Little One,” he mumbled. His voice was a low, resonant vibration that made the marrow in your bones ache.
“Morning, Thunder-Thighs,” you beamed, trying to ignore the way your heart did a clumsy somersault. He stood up, heading for the sleek, high-tech espresso machine with the weary grace of a man who hadn't slept since the dawn of time.
This is it, you thought. Show him you’re useful. Show him you’re more than just a loud mouth.
“You look like you're struggling, big guy,” you said, hopping off your stool and skipping over. You stood beside him, the heat radiating off his body feeling like a physical pull, a gravity you couldn't escape. “Let me give that a little jumpstart. An artisanal, hand-crafted spark to get the water boiling.”
Thor paused, his hand hovering over the button. He looked down at you, his eyes narrowed in a silent plea for peace. “The internal workings are delicate, Sparky. Do not meddle.”
“I'm not meddling, I'm enhancing! Think of it as a gift from the cosmos.”
You focused, channeling a sliver of your energy into your fingertip. You wanted a whisper, a tiny flicker, a gentle kiss of energy to the machine's heart. You touched the chrome casing, your eyes locked on his, hoping to see a flash of impressed wonder.
Instead, the energy lunged. Literally.
A violet arc of static tore from your finger, bypassing every safety fuse in the building. The machine shrieked, a violent, metallic clack-hiss erupted as the motherboard turned into a puddle of molten plastic.
BOOM.
The explosion was small but spectacular. A cloud of scalding white steam and soggy coffee grounds erupted into the air, coating everything in a three-foot radius.
Silence fell over the room. Tony hid his face in his hands. Rocket broke into a wheezing cackle.
Thor stood perfectly still. He was covered in a fine mist of dark roast, a single, wet coffee bean clinging to the bridge of his nose. He didn't move. He just stared at the smoking, twisted corpse of the only thing that brought him joy in the mornings.
“Oops?” you whispered, your face burning a deeper red than a beet. You waved a hand through the steam, your stomach sinking through the floor. “On the bright side, the room smells like a toasted marshmallow now? It’s very autumnal.”
Thor slowly turned his head to look at you. The look in his eye was a tragedy in three acts. He didn't say a word; he simply lifted a single, trembling finger and pointed it toward the training room door.
“Right. Moving. Training. I'll just go be an idiot over there,” you mumbled, scurrying away with your tail between your legs.
As you fled, you could feel his gaze burning into the small of your back. But he wasn't merely annoyed. He was obsessed with the chaos you brought into his quiet, grieving world, and the fact that you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was a torture he wasn't sure he could survive.
Day 20
The twentieth day arrived with a rhythm you were beginning to recognize—the hum of the Compound’s lights, the scent of morning mist over the Hudson, and the inevitable, bone-deep anticipation of seeing him. You were slowly finding your footing, your body learning the language of combat that Thor spoke so fluently.
You were sparring, a dance of violet sparks and redirected thunder.
“Again,” Thor rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in your chest.
He moved with the grace of a predatory cat, stepping into your guard. He reached out, his massive hands catching your waist to pivot you into a defensive stance. You bit your lip so hard you tasted iron, your breath hitching as his palms grazed the skin above your leggings. The touch was a brand; it was a searing imprint that made your blood sing a desperate song.
You were breathless, but it wasn't from the tempo.
It was him.
It was the way his thumbs lingered on your hips for a fraction of a second too long, the way his stormy gaze tracked the pulse jumping in your throat. You were so caught up in the heat of his proximity that your brain simply disconnected from your feet.
You tripped over nothing but your own dizzying heart, stumbling forward and landing face-first on his heavy, leather-bound boots.
The silence that followed was deafening. You stayed there for a beat, eyes squeezed shut, wishing the floor would simply swallow you whole and deposit you in another dimension. Mortified didn't even begin to cover it.
Slowly, you looked up.
Thor was staring down at you, his head tilted, his expression a masterpiece of genuine confusion. He looked like a mountain from this angle—vast, rugged, and impossibly handsome.
“How is it,” he asked, his voice low and bewildered, “that you have the power to level a forest but cannot navigate a flat floor?”
You gulped, your throat tight as you stayed on your knees at his feet. It felt dangerously improper, sitting there in the shadow of a god, looking up at the sharp line of his jaw and the beautiful scar over his eye.
Then, his gaze changed. The confusion died a sudden, violent death, replaced by a dark, hooded gaze that made your heart stop.
Thor looked down at you—flushed, breathless, and looking like a dream fallen to his mercy—and for a heartbeat, he was truly, utterly undone. Fuck, he thought, the word a silent plea in his mind. You were most definitely a torture device specifically designed for his ruin. He was sure of it now.
He averted his eyes quickly, his jaw tightening as he cleared his throat to regain his composure. He had treated you like a child learning to walk, a nuisance to be tolerated, but the man behind the king was aware that you were a fire he couldn't put out.
He did something then that he hadn't done before. Instead of barking a command or turning his back, he slowly held out his hand, his fingers calloused and steady. “Come on,” he murmured.
You reached out, your smaller hand disappearing into his. As he pulled you up, his other hand found your waist, holding you loosely to steady you. The touch was light, almost ghostly, but it burned through you like a wildfire. You were so deep in the depths of this burning ache that you didn't think you’d ever find the surface.
“I’m just testing the floor's structural integrity,” you squeaked, trying to find your voice. “It passed. Very sturdy. Good job, Stark.”
Thor didn't let go immediately. His hand stayed on your waist, his thumb grazing the fabric of your shirt in a slow, subconscious rhythm that felt like a secret.
“The floor is fine,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, soft tone. “It is your focus that wavers.”
“Hard not to waver when the room is so—“ you gulped, “tall,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes.
Thor’s grip tightened for a fleeting second before he finally pulled back, the loss of his heat leaving you shivering. “Again,” he commanded, though his eyes lingered on your lips for a beat too long. “And try to stay on your feet, Little One.”
12 Weeks Later
Twelve weeks. Ninety-one days of waking up in a room that still felt too big, in a body that still felt too loud, and in a heart that had become a casualty of war.
You were humming a soft, wandering tune as you waited for the elevator, your fingers tracing the seam of your running leggings. You looked down at your hands; they were steady now, the energy humming just beneath the surface like a loyal pet rather than a feral beast. Living here, under the watchful, stormy eye of a God, had changed you. You weren't merely a girl anymore; you were a weapon being honed by the finest blacksmith in the Nine Realms.
But the cost was high.
Every time Thor touched you—adjusting the curve of your spine, his calloused palms lingering just a second too long on your ribs—you felt like you were being rewritten. You lived for those fragments of him. A ghost of a smile, a muttered “Well done, Little One,” a lingering gaze when he thought you weren't looking.
It was pathetic, really.
You were starving for a man who saw you as a chaotic nuisance, a cosmic accident he was tasked to fix.
The elevator doors hissed open, and there was Steve.
He was leaning against the back wall, looking every bit the Captain in a simple navy henley that made his blue eyes pop. He smiled when he saw you, that genuine, steady-as-a-heartbeat smile that usually made people feel like the world wasn't actually falling apart.
“Heading out?” he asked, pushing off the wall of the elevator with an easy grace.
“Thought I’d give the pavement some trouble,” you chirped, stepping in beside him. The hum of the descent began, a low vibration beneath your sneakers. “The sun is actually out. I figured I should go appreciate it before Tony decides to build a dome over the Compound or something.”
Steve chuckled, a warm, grounded sound.
Over the last two months, he’d become your anchor. He understood the silence of the Compound. He understood what it was like to look around and see the empty spaces where friends used to be. When he’d told you about Bucky, you’d felt a sharp, empathetic pang. He’s all alone, just like me, you’d thought. Different worlds, different eras, but the same hollow ache.
“Mind if I join you for a few miles?” Steve asked as the floor numbers flickered by. “I could use the air. And I promise not to say ‘on your left’ more than a strictly necessary amount of times.”
“Make it only three times and you’ve got a deal, Rogers,” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours. “But I have to warn you, I’ve been training with a literal God. My pace is, well, let's just say it's almost godly.”
Steve grinned. “I think I can keep up.”
As the doors opened into the lobby, you were laughing at something he said about Scott’s latest mishap in the lab. You were comfortable, light—a rare version of yourself. Then, you caught sight of him. Thor was standing by the glass entrance, his arms crossed over the broad expanse of his chest. He looked like a statue of ancient, silent judgment.
His gaze fell on you first, then flicked to Steve, and finally settled on the way you were standing just a little too close to the Captain’s side.
It felt like the atmospheric pressure had suddenly dropped, the way it does right before a devastating strike of lightning.
“Thor!” you called out, trying to keep your voice airy despite the way your heart immediately started its frantic, traitorous thumping. “You're back. Did you run out of things to scowl at in the city?”
Thor didn't smile. Not even a flicker. His gaze was dark, fixed on Steve’s hand, which was currently resting platonically near your elbow.
“I was finished,” Thor rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to make the very glass of the windows shiver. He looked at Steve, his jaw tightening until you heard the faint, sharp click of his teeth. “Captain. I did not realize you were scheduled for training this morning.”
“We're just going for a run, Thor,” Steve said, his tone even, though he clearly felt the shift in the air.
Thor’s gaze snapped back to you. He looked at you with an intensity so sharp it felt like the weight of a thousand planets, a mix of silent agony and a possessiveness he was desperately trying to mask as disappointment.
To him, you were a vibrant, shimmering sun, and he was a man who had walked through the dark for too long. He felt ancient, broken and utterly out of place in your presence—but seeing you smile at Steve felt like a spear to his ribs.
“A run,” Thor repeated, the word sounding like a curse. He stepped forward, his shadow falling over you, smelling of rain and cedar. “Ensure you do not overexert yourself, Little One. You still have three hours of sparring this afternoon. I would hate for you to be distracted.”
The way he said distracted made your skin flame. You looked up at him, your joyful mask slipping for just a second. “I'm never distracted when I'm with you, Thor. You make sure of that.”
Thor froze. For an agonizing heartbeat, his gaze dropped to your lips, his pupils blowing wide.
He wanted to snatch you away, to pull you into a corner of the world where no one else could see how bright you were. He felt like a fool, a man haunted by his own student, but he couldn't stop the cold jealousy from clawing at his throat.
“See that you aren't,” he rasped, then turned on his heel and marched toward the elevators without another word.
“Well,” Steve muttered, looking at the retreating back of the God of Thunder. “That was intense.”
“That's just Thor,” you said, your voice shaking as you tried to laugh it off. “He’s just really protective of his training schedule. Or maybe he just hates my running shoes.”
But as you walked out into the sun with Steve, you couldn't stop thinking about the way Thor’s hand had twitched, as if he were gripping a weapon he didn't have.
He wasn't just grumpy like his usual self. He was fuming.
You and Steve were about three miles in, and the so called godly pace you’d promised was rapidly turning into a desperate struggle for oxygen. You were keeping up, mostly out of pure, stubborn pride, but your lungs were starting to feel like they were being scrubbed with sandpaper.
Steve was barely even glowing with sweat. He was listening to you ramble about a movie you’d seen, laughing in that easy, golden-boy way of his that made the grueling run feel almost like a normal morning.
“I’m telling you, Steve, the ending made zero sense. If she had just—“
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy, rhythmic footfalls approached from behind, fast and deliberate. You didn't even have time to glance over your shoulder before a massive shadow fell over you, cutting through the morning sun.
You turned your head, and your heart stalled out completely.
Thor was right there. He was matching your stride with an effortless, predatory grace. He had swapped his sweatpants for charcoal running shorts and a grey t-shirt that looked like a sin on him—the fabric was tight, clinging to the ridges of his chest and the sharp lines of his torso in a way that made your throat go dry.
Your steps faltered, your sneakers scuffing the pavement as you nearly tripped over your own surprise.
“Thor?” you managed to mutter, your voice sounding a lot less grounded and a lot more breathless.
“Yes, Little One,” he said, his voice as steady as if he were sitting on a couch rather than sprinting. He didn't look at Steve. He didn't look at the scenery. He just gave you a brief, sideways glance that felt like a touch.
“What are you doing? Our training session isn't until later this afternoon,” you said, blinking the sweat out of your eyes, your mind racing to find a reason why he'd suddenly joined you.
“I am training you,” he replied simply.
“Like—like this? We're just running?”
“We run too,” he rumbled.
“But you don't like only running,” you challenged, your eyebrows shooting up in genuine confusion. “Every time we do cardio, you make me do a lot of side quests while we run. You make me carry heavy stuff or jump over moving obstacles. You said running in a straight line was a ‘waste of a warrior's time.’ Why the sudden change of heart?”
“I do like running,” he cut you off, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. He increased his pace by just a fraction—just enough to force himself between you and Steve, effectively carving out a space where he was the only thing in your peripheral vision.
You stared at him, bewildered. Was he just having a mood? Maybe the coffee machine incident was still haunting him and he needed to burn off the grumpiness.
Steve, who had been suspiciously quiet, let out a soft, stifled sound. You glanced past Thor’s massive shoulder to see the Captain biting his lip, his eyes crinkling as he stared straight ahead, clearly trying to swallow a laugh.
“Is there something funny, Steve?” you asked, looking between the two of them. “Because I'm over here dying and Thor is acting like he’s practicing for the Olympics out of nowhere.”
“Nothing,” Steve managed to say, though his voice was strained. “Just enjoying the fresh air.”
Thor’s gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, but the muscle in his cheek jumped. “Focus on your breathing, Little One. You are wasting your oxygen on useless questions. If you have the energy to interrogate me, you are not running fast enough.”
“I was running plenty fast before you showed up like a localized thunderstorm!” you huffed, a violet spark dancing at your fingertip as you tried to keep up with his suddenly brutal pace.
He didn't answer, but his presence was absolute, a wall of heat and muscle that refused to let you look anywhere else. He looked rugged, untouchable, and so far out of your league it was a joke—yet here he was, breathing the same air, his shoulder almost brushing yours with every stride. It made no sense, but you just pushed harder, trying to ignore how much your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the run.
Steve adjusted his pace, seemingly oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature radiating from the man between you. “Anyways, doll, let’s continue our conversation,” he said, his voice easy and warm. “You were saying? About the movie?”
Thor’s head whipped toward him so fast it was a wonder he didn't give himself whiplash. The rhythmic thud of his boots on the pavement suddenly sounded like a war drum.
“Doll?” Thor’s voice dropped into a low, dangerous sound that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Is that how you talk to a lady, Rogers? Like she is a trinket on a shelf?”
You blinked, your steps stuttering. What the hell was up with him today? He was acting like someone had replaced his morning coffee with pure vinegar.
“Yes, Thor, he usually calls me that,” you said, looking at him with genuine confusion. “It’s fine. It’s just a nickname.”
What is wrong with him calling me that? you wondered. It wasn't like Thor had ever offered a sweet nickname. To him, you were just ‘Little One’ or ‘Sparky’—labels that felt more like he was describing a pet or a project than a woman.
Thor turned his gaze toward you then, his blue eye wide with a flash of something that looked like disbelief. “Usually calls you that? What—” He stopped himself, his chest heaving under that grey t-shirt as he took a long, deep breath that looked like it took every ounce of his godly restraint.
He gripped his hands into fists as he ran, his knuckles white. “Continue your conversation, please,” he rasped, though he looked like he wanted to do anything but listen.
Your eyebrows furrowed. He was being weird. Really, really weird.
“Right... anyway,” you said, turning back toward Steve, or at least trying to. Every time Steve tried to catch your eye, Thor was there—a massive, muscular wall of grey cotton and brooding energy. He shifted his stride, his broad shoulders perfectly eclipsing Steve’s face so that you were effectively trapped in Thor’s orbit.
“So, Steve,” you started, raising your voice to be heard over the sound of Thor’s heavy breathing. “I was thinking about that vintage record shop you mentioned. The one in Brooklyn? Do you think they’d have any old soul records? I’ve been wanting to start a collection.”
Steve leaned forward, trying to see around the mountain that was Thor. “I’m sure they would, doll. In fact, I could take you there this weekend if you—”
As the word doll left Steve’s lips, the sun, which had been bright and golden only moments ago, was suddenly swallowed by a thick, heavy cloud. The light turned grey and muted, matching the stormy mood radiating from the man beside you.
Thor drifted even closer to you, his arm nearly brushing yours. He was so tall, so imposing. Every time Steve tried to glance at you, Thor seemed to grow an inch, his presence blinding the two of you from each other.
“A record shop?” Thor interjected, his voice tight. “Midgardian music is—it is loud. You should be focused on your studies, not on ancient plastic discs.”
“It’s a hobby, Thor!” you huffed, frustrated by his sudden interference. “And Steve is being nice. Why are you being so—un-Thor-like?”
“I am being a mentor,” he grumbled, and as he spoke, the clouds overhead turned a darker, bruised shade of purple. The wind picked up, whipping your hair across your face. “A mentor who realizes that dolls do not need record collections. They need discipline.”
Steve let out a soft, knowing huff behind Thor’s shoulder. “It’s just a shop, Thor. No need for the heavy weather.”
Thor didn't answer. He just dug his heels in, his pace becoming a brutal, punishing sprint that forced you to stop talking just to keep your lungs from collapsing.
You looked at the back of his neck, at the handsome set of his jaw, and felt that familiar, hopeless ache. He was acting like a jerk, but even a jerk version of Thor was the most captivating thing you’d ever seen. You just wished you knew why he was so determined to ruin your morning with Steve.
“Okay, weird…” you muttered, the word nearly lost to the wind as you struggled to match the sudden, punishing rhythm of his stride.
You tried to focus on your breathing, but your gaze kept betrayed you, sliding sideways to the rhythmic flex of his arms. His biceps were massive, the grey fabric of his shirt straining against the sheer volume of his strength. A traitorous thought flickered through your mind—the image of those arms locking you in, your head tucked securely between his forearm and that iron-hard bicep. God, I’m such a pervert, you scolded yourself, a flush that had nothing to do with cardio creeping up your neck. Thirsting after a man who had seen empires rise and fall was probably some kind of cosmic crime, yet here you were, losing your mind over his biceps.
“Your form is improving, Little One,” Thor said.
Suddenly, the grey heavy clouds parted. A bright, defiant beam of golden sunlight broke through, warming the top of your head and illuminating the path.
His voice had lost that sharp edge of disappointment, replaced by a low, melodic resonance that felt like a caress. “Your stride is more purposeful than it was weeks ago. You are learning to carry your power rather than being dragged by it.”
You beamed at him, your heart doing a little skip that had zero to do with your now purposeful pace. “Really? You're not just saying that so I don't blow up any more appliances?”
“I never speak untruths regarding the warrior’s path,” he murmured, and for a fleeting second, his gaze softened as it landed on your face, lingering with a heavy warmth.
“Well, thanks, Thor.” you said, your voice softening. “That actually means a lot.”
As you spoke to him, the sun burned brighter, turning the Hudson into a sheet of sparkling diamonds. But then, Steve’s voice drifted over from the other side of the mountain.
“She’s a fast learner, Thor. I was telling her earlier, she’s got the heart of a—“
Flash.
A thick, bruised cloud lunged across the sun, plunging the sidewalk back into a chilly, muted grey. The temperature dropped five degrees instantly.
“The Captain’s observations are noted,” Thor bit out, his voice returning to a jagged frost. “But he does not see the nuances of your energy as I do.”
You blinked, looking up at the sky and then back at Thor. What are the chances? Every time you shared a moment with Thor, the world turned golden; every time Steve so much as complimented you, the weather acted like it was preparing for a funeral.
“Okay, is the weather following our conversation or am I actually losing my mind?” you asked, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead.
“The sky is as restless as your focus,” Thor grumbled, though he drifted an inch closer to you, his heat radiating through your clothes. “We are finished with this jog. The energy you are wasting on Steve’s chatter would be better spent on sustenance.”
He slowed his pace to a walk, and because he stopped, the whole group stopped. He stood between you and Steve like a literal barricade of muscle.
“Breakfast,” Thor commanded, the word final and absolute. “Now. Before you faint from a lack of discipline.”
“I'm not gonna faint, I'm just hungry!” you huffed, though you didn't protest as he began leading the way back toward the Compound.
As the three of you walked toward the common room, you stayed tucked in the shadow of the God of Thunder.
Steve gave you a small, sympathetic shrug behind Thor’s back, but you were too busy watching the way the sunlight flickered intermittently over Thor’s broad shoulders. You were confused and starving—but as long as he kept looking at you with that heavy, wordless gaze, you figured you could handle a little bit of weird weather.
The common room was a chaotic sanctuary of clinking silverware and the smell of sizzling eggs. Tony was squinting at a holographic screen over his coffee, Natasha was elegantly dissecting an omelet, and Rocket was perched on a chair, currently mid-argument with a very calm-looking Groot.
“I'm tellin' ya, twigs, if you put the engine coolant in the blender, it’s not science, it's an insurance claim!”Rocket barked, before his yellow eyes flicked to you as you slid into the seat next to him. “Well, look who survived the morning marathon. You look like a beet with legs, kid.”
“And you look like you haven't slept since the Great Depression, Rocket,” you fired back, reaching for the orange juice. “Be nice, or I’ll tell Groot you actually like his singing.”
“You wouldn't dare,” the raccoon narrowed his eyes, though he shoved a plate of hash browns toward you. “Eat up. You’re vibrating. It’s making my fur stand on end.”
You laughed, the sound bright and easy, but your heart was still doing that frantic, uneven dance. Thor sat directly across from you. He had shed the damp grey shirt for a fresh black tank top, his skin still radiating a lingering heat that seemed to hum across the table. The conversation around the table was a comfortable hum of “pass the salt” and ”did you see the news?”
Thor was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on his plate, though his presence was as heavy as a mountain. He reached out for the bowl of fruit in the center of the table, his fingers brushing against the rim.
“Pass the honey, would you, honey?” he murmured to you, his voice a low, distracted rumble.
The table went dead silent.
The clatter of Tony’s fork hitting his plate was the only sound. Natasha’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Rocket’s jaw actually dropped, a piece of bacon falling forgotten from his paw.
Thor froze. The realization of what had just slipped past his lips seemed to hit him in slow motion. His hand stayed outstretched, his knuckles turning a faint, dusty pink that crawled up his neck to the tips of his ears. He didn't look up, his blue eye fixed on the table as if he were trying to command the wood to swallow him whole.
Your heart felt like it had been jump-started by a star. The word hung in the air, sweet and heavy, a slip of the tongue that felt like a secret he hadn't meant to tell.
“Sure thing, big guy,” you said, your voice breathless, nearly a whisper.
You pushed the small glass jar toward him, your fingers trembling. You felt like you were floating, your skin humming with a warmth that had nothing to do with your powers.
Honey. The word coming from him, in that deep, gravelly baritone, was enough to make your knees weak even while sitting down.
Thor finally looked up, his gaze meeting yours for an electrifying second. He was only a man who was terrified by the weight of his own heart.
“Thank you,” he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
Tony cleared his throat loudly, breaking the spell. “Right. So... honey. Great for the throat. Very medicinal,” he muttered, though he shot a knowing, amused look at Natasha.
The table slowly returned to life, the clinking of plates resuming, but the air had changed. It was thicker, sweeter, and dangerously charged. You kept your head down, focusing on your breakfast, but you could feel Thor’s presence across from you—a silent, brooding storm that had accidentally let a ray of sunshine slip through the clouds.
You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, and you definitely wanted him to say it again. Instead, you just bit your lip, trying to hide the smile that felt like it was going to light up the entire room.
You watched Thor leave when he was done with his breakfast, the sheer scale of him making the doorway look like a toy frame. He moved with a heavy, unhurried power that always made the air feel thinner when he left a room. You hated to see him go, but you certainly loved watching him walk away—the way the muscles in his back shifted under that tank top was a masterpiece you weren’t quite finished studying.
“What?” you asked, suddenly aware of Natasha leaning against the counter next to you, her head tilted with a knowing, lethal sort of curiosity.
“What is going on between you two?” she asked, her voice low and smooth.
“What could there be going on?” You tried for confused, but your voice pitched a little too high. “He’s teaching me not to explode. It’s a very professional, very electric student-teacher dynamic.”
“He’s obviously into you,” Nat countered, a small, amused smirk playing on her lips.
Your eyes widened, your chest heaving as the oxygen seemed to vanish from the kitchen. “What?” you stammered. “He most definitely isn't. Don’t be ridiculous, Nat. I was a mortal just three months ago. He’s... he’s a monument. He doesn't look at me like that.”
You pushed away from the table, needing to escape the heat of her gaze. “Everyone has gone insane,” you muttered, heading for the exit.
“He is, Sparky! He definitely is!” she called out after you, her laughter trailing behind you like a taunt.
You walked down the hallway, your mind a whirlwind of the sound of Thor’s voice saying honey. It was impossible. Natasha was a master spy, but she was clearly misreading the data. Thor was ancient, a king of a dead world; he was just protective because you were a walking hazard.
You were so lost in your head that you didn't see the figure turning the corner until you nearly bowled him over.
“Whoa, steady there,” a smooth voice caught you.
You looked up, blinking. It was an agent—one you’d seen around the Compound, but never this close. He was ridiculously good-looking, with a sharp jawline, messy brown hair, and striking green eyes that seemed to crinkle at the corners as he smiled down at you.
“Oh, hello there,” he said, his voice warm.
“Hello,” you replied, trying to regain your composure.
“You're the girl Thor’s training, right?” he asked, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
“Yes. Is something the matter? Am I leaning on a restricted wall again?”
“Oh—no,” he chuckled, the sound rich and easy. “It’s just that the other agents were talking about you and your stunning looks. I see now they were actually underselling you.”
You felt the heat climb up your neck, a genuine blush staining your cheeks. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
“No need for thanks,” he said, stepping a fraction closer. He wasn't a god, he didn't smell like a storm, but he was handsome and human and attainable. “Just let me take you out sometime. Dinner, maybe?”
The idea of anyone who wasn't Thor asking you out felt like a strange kind of blasphemy. It felt like trying to read a paperback after being immersed in an epic poem. But then you remembered Natasha’s words, and you remembered the way Thor called you Little One like you weren’t of importance.
Your feelings for him were a slow-motion car crash. You needed an exit ramp. You needed to remember what it felt like to be looked at by someone who didn't think you were a distraction or a project.
And you needed someone more appropriate. Closer to your age.
You nodded sheepishly, your fingers trembling slightly as you pulled out your phone. “Sure,” you murmured, giving him your number. “I think I'd like that.”
As you walked away toward your room, your heart felt heavy, a dull ache of guilt that made no sense. You hadn't done anything wrong, but the violet light beneath your skin felt restless, flickering as if the stars themselves were displeased with the arrangement.
Thor had heard it all.
He had been standing just around the corridor’s edge, his hand braced against the cold industrial wall, intending to find you and apologize for the ‘honey’ slip. Instead, he had listened to the smooth cadence of a man who hadn't seen the end of the world—a man who looked at you and saw a pretty girl, not a celestial event.
His heart felt as though it had been carved out of his chest with a dull blade.
Competition. The word felt foreign and foul in his mind. In the twelve weeks you had been his, he had never considered it. You were his trainee. You were his nuisance. You were his Little One. You were the girl who blew up his coffee machine and looked at him like he was the sun. You were his.
The logic of a king tried to surface—that this mortal was appropriate, that he was your age, that he wouldn't bring the weight of a thousand years of grief into your bed. But that logic was drowned out by a primal roar of possessiveness. He didn't want you to have appropriate. He wanted you to stay in his shadow, where it was safe and where he could watch the light of your sparks dance against the dark.
How could he stop it?
He was the God of Thunder, but he was also a man who felt like a ghost in your presence. He couldn't forbid you. But as he marched toward the gym, his footsteps echoing like rolling thunder, the only thing he knew was that he would make that date a physical impossibility.
In your quarters, you were a whirlwind of reckless hope.
He’s into you, Natasha’s voice echoed in your head. It was a dangerous, intoxicating thought. You pulled on your usual gear—the black leggings and the skin-tight shirt that left nothing to the imagination—but today, you didn't stop there.
You leaned into the mirror, your hands trembling as you applied a layer of clear, high-shine lip gloss. It made your lips look soft, plush, and utterly sinful. Then, you dabbed a scented body oil onto your wrists and the hollow of your throat—a fragrance of vanilla and white musk that bloomed in the heat of your skin.
You were playing with fire, you knew it. You made your way to the gym, the energy in your veins humming with a sharp frequency. When the doors hissed open, you saw him. Thor was already on the mat, his back to you, his muscles so tense they looked like they were made of corded steel.
“Hello, big guy,” you said, your voice a little lower, a little steadier than usual.
Thor turned, and he froze. He didn't greet you back, he didn't even blink. His gaze landed on your mouth—on the shimmering, wet glow of your lips—and his pupils blew wide until the blue of his eye was a thin, jagged ring. The scent of the vanilla hit him, mixing with the scent of the gym until it was all he could breathe.
He felt a muscle in his jaw snap. He knew that scent wasn't for the gym. He knew those lips were for the man in the hallway.
You had a crush and you were dressing up.
You walked onto the mat, your skin humming with the vanilla-scented oil you’d applied, feeling the weight of Thor’s stare. “You're staring, big guy,” you chirped, “Is there something on my face, or did you finally realize my eyelashes are a masterpiece of structural engineering? I was really spent time on wasn't I?”
Thor cleared his throat, a broken, rough sound. He tore his eyes away from your mouth, looking instead at the wall behind you as if it held the secrets to the universe. “Your appearance is certainly noted,” he managed to rumble, his voice lower than usual. “Let us begin, Little One. Focus on the mat, not your masterpieces.”
“Focus is my middle name,” you teased, sliding into a stance that was still a little too shaky to be professional. “Well, technically it’s Disaster, but I’m rebranding. Come on, Thunder-Thighs. Try to hit me. I promise I won't cry.”
Thor’s jaw tightened. He stepped toward you, the heat radiating off him feeling like a literal wall. Just as he raised his hands to catch your wrists, the heavy doors of the gym hissed open.
Steve walked in, his shield slung over his back, looking every bit the weary commander. He stopped at the edge of the mat, his eyes darting between your flushed face and Thor’s rigid, towering frame.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Steve said, his voice level and serious. “But Tony just got a ping on the signature we've been tracking. We’re heading out tomorrow morning. All of us.” He looked at you, a small, encouraging nod following. “It’ll be your first mission. Congrats, Sparky.”
The world seemed to stop. Your first mission. A chance to prove you weren't just a project.
“No,” Thor barked instantly, the word cracking like a whip. He turned to Steve, his brow furrowed in a deep, ancient scowl. “She is not prepared. Her control is still—“
Oh here we go, you thought rolling your eyes.
He stopped. The air in his lungs seemed to hitch as a memory flashed through his mind—the agent in the hallway, the phone number, the date that was supposed to happen while the rest of the world moved on.
If you stayed behind, you’d be with him. The mortal with the green eyes. You’d be laughing at a dinner table while Thor was light-years away, or miles away, or anywhere that wasn't beside you.
Thor’s fingers twitched at his sides. His face went through a rapid-fire sequence of emotions—protectiveness, hesitation, and then a cold, dark resolve.
“—still developing,” he continued, his sentence shifting mid-breath, “but she will never learn the true nature of her power within these walls. She comes with us.”
Are you hearing this right?
You blinked, stunned by the sudden pivot. “Wait, really? I thought I was still a liability in leggings?”
Thor turned back to you, his gaze dropping once more to your lips, his expression unreadable and heavy. “The liability is leaving you here,” he muttered, the words sounding more like a confession to himself than an answer to you. He looked at Steve. “Tell Stark we will be ready. Her training continues through the night if necessary.”
Steve looked between the two of you, a glimmer of realization dawning in his blue eyes, but he simply nodded. “Suit up at 06.00.”
As Steve left, you looked at Thor, your eyebrows furrowed. “That was a quick U-turn, big guy. One second I'm a hothouse flower, the next I'm an Avenger? What changed?”
“The mission parameters,” Thor said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he stepped back into your space, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Now, again. If you cannot defend yourself against me, you have no business facing the world. Stance.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, your mind racing to keep up with his sudden shift. Thor was usually as stubborn as the mountains he came from, but you weren't about to argue with a field promotion.
“Mhm... sure thing,” you said, shifting your weight. You knew you should leave it at that, but with the scent of vanilla still clinging to you and his eyes fixed on your mouth, you couldn't help yourself. You leaned in just a fraction, a mischievous grin playing on your shimmering lips. “Honey.”
The effect was a total explosion.
Thor’s entire body went rigid, his breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp. For a second, the God of Thunder looked completely rattled, his composure shattered by a single syllable aimed back at him. He averted his eyes, his jaw working as he stared at the floor, looking for all the world like a man trying to remember how to speak his own language.
What was he going to do with you? You were a walking riot, a chaotic spark that seemed determined to set his very soul on fire.
Then, he looked back. The stormy darkness in his eyes was still there, but it was swimming with a sudden, dangerous amusement. He stepped closer, invading your personal space until you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze.
“I said let us start,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a register so low it made your bones ache. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Darling.”
The air left your lungs in a silent rush. You definitely stopped breathing. You knew he was just playing the game, tossing your own weapon back at you with interest, but it didn't matter. The word—spoken in that ancient, gravelly baritone—hit you like a weight.
You cleared your throat, trying to find your voice. “Fine,” you managed, your voice a little higher than you intended. “Train me as hard as you can, then. Don't hold back just because you think I'm delicate.”
Thor didn't laugh, but his gaze didn't waver for a second. “I have no intention of holding back,” he said, and the way he said it made your skin flame.
The sparring match began in earnest.
All the grueling drills he’d put you through over the last months—the endless repetitions, the stance corrections, the lessons on weight distribution—were finally clicking. He was moving with the speed of a storm, forcing you to react, and you gave him back the same energy, your violet sparks snapping at your fingertips as you parried his strikes.
Thor watched you, his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the exertion. I cannot go hard on her, he thought, his jaw tightening as he watched the fierce concentration on your face. You looked so innocent and pretty while you were trying to focus, your brow slightly furrowed and your hair beginning to escape your ponytail. He knew it was wrong to be this distracted, to let his guard drop because he was mesmerized by the way you moved, but he couldn't help it. Not when you looked like that.
As he lunged forward for a mock strike, his hand moved a fraction too close. His knuckles unintentionally grazed the sensitive skin of your throat.
Your breath stuttered. The contact was electric, sending a jolt through your system that made your footing falter. The world tilted as you lost your balance, but your instincts kicked in.
You reached out, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and you yanked him toward you with every ounce of your strength.
Usually, Thor was an immovable force, a mountain that couldn't be unfooted by such a maneuver—especially from a student. But he was so lost in the scent of you and the sight of your shimmering lips that his center of gravity vanished. He fell.
The air was knocked out of you as he landed on top of you, his sheer weight pressing you deep into the padded mat. He braced his forearms on either side of your head, but his chest was flush against yours, rising and falling in heavy, ragged bursts.
Your faces were so close that your lips were only inches apart. You could feel the heat of his breath, smell the cedar and the storm, and see every fleck of gold in his turbulent blue eyes.
I could just die like this and I'd be happy, you thought to yourself, your fingers still clutching his shirt, your heart beating so hard you were sure he could feel it against his own ribs.
Thor couldn't move, he just stared down at you, his gaze fixated on your mouth with a look of pure hunger that made your blood turn to liquid fire.
You couldn't breathe. Your own gaze was fixed on his lips, and before your brain could tell your body to stop, your hands ascended, your fingers curling around his thick, corded neck.
His breathing hitched, turning into a series of fast, shallow rasps. You were touching him. You were actually touching him, and he looked like he was losing the ability to function just from the friction of your skin against his. His torso was pressed tight to yours, his heavy heat burning through your clothes, making your mind go to dangerous places. You could feel every muscle in his chest and thighs, solid as stone, pinning you down.
Breathe, girl, breathe, you told yourself, but your lungs weren't cooperating.
Thor’s massive left hand moved, his fingers grazing through your hair as he cupped the side of your head. “How do you manage to fall every single time we spar, sweet girl?” he mumbled.
Sweet girl? He was trying to kill you. He had to be. The way he said it was so tender and yet so heavy with wanting that it felt like it was actually pressing on your chest.
You bit your lip, watching his eyes drop to the movement instantly. “I think I might have balance issues,” you whispered.
You didn't have balance issues. Your only issue was the six-foot-four God of Thunder currently crushing you into the floor.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The voice was dry, loud, and unmistakably Tony Stark.
You both averted your eyes, you took a sharp intake of breath at the sudden interference. Thor scrambled back, his movements uncharacteristically frantic as he shoved himself off you and stood up in one fluid, jerky motion. He offered you a hand, but he wouldn't look at you, his face flushed a deep, tell-tale red that reached all the way to his collar.
You took his hand and sat up, smoothing your hair and trying to ignore the fact that your heart was trying to kick its way out of your ribs. You looked toward the door where Tony was standing, leaning against the frame with a smirk that said he’d seen enough to fuel a year's worth of teasing.
“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “What is it with people barging in today?”
“Just checking on the progress of our newest recruit,” Tony said, his eyes dancing between your ruffled appearance and Thor’s rigid, silent back. “But it looks like you two are—well, you're definitely working on your close-quarters combat. Keep it up—on second thought, don't. Actually, for the sake of the plumbing in this building, maybe take a lap.”
You felt like your face was actually radiating heat. You squeezed your eyes shut for a fleeting second, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
“Nothing to say now, Sparky? No comeback?” Tony’s voice was dripping with a delight that made you want to hurl a violet energy bolt at his head. “Congrats on the first mission, kiddo. Good luck tomorrow. You’re clearly in capable hands.”
He left with a devilish chuckle that echoed down the hallway, leaving a silence behind that was ten times more suffocating than the noise.
“Damn you, Stark,” Thor mumbled, the words barely a breath.
He finally turned his body toward you, but the bravado from moments ago was gone. Both of you were suddenly fascinated by different patches of the ceiling, your gazes refusing to collide. The air felt heavy, charged with everything that had almost happened and the crushing embarrassment of being caught.
“Should we—“ Thor started. “We should—“ you blurted out at the exact same time.
You were a stuttering mess, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The memory of him looking at your lips and his weight pressing you into the mat was a screaming siren in your brain.
“I will just go,” you said, the words tripping over each other. You couldn't look up at him; you were terrified of what you’d see in his eyes—or worse, what he’d see in yours. You turned and started for the door, your legs feeling like they belonged to a newborn giraffe.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a rough scrape as he cleared his throat again. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
You didn't look back. You bolted out of the gym and didn't stop until you were deep in the labyrinth of the hallway leading to your quarters. Your heart was thumping against the back of your teeth, making it hard to swallow.
Your fingers went to your neck, tracing the spot where his knuckles had grazed you. You could still feel the phantom pressure of him. What was that? What the fuck had just happened? One minute he was treating you like a nuisance, and the next he was calling you sweet girl and looking at you like you were the only thing in the universe worth breathing for.
Did you even see it right?
You must’ve imagined it.
You reached your door and leaned your forehead against the cool metal, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Tomorrow was your first mission. Tomorrow everything would change. But as you stood there in the quiet corridor, all you could think about was the heat of his skin and the way the world had narrowed down to just the inches between your lips and his.
—
The sharp rap on your door felt like it was echoing inside your skull. “Sparky? We're leaving in an hour. Wake up,” Natasha’s voice called out, crisp and far too alert for 5:00 AM.
“Uhhh,” you groaned into your pillow, the sound muffled by the fabric. Living at the Compound had its perks, but these ungodly hours were definitely not one of them. “I am awake!” you yelled back, though you remained horizontal for another thirty seconds, questioning every life choice that had led you to this moment. Right. The powers. The sparks that tended to blow up blenders when you got frustrated. You didn't really have a choice.
You dragged yourself out of bed and pulled on the tactical gear they’d designed for you. It was sleek, black, and functional, hugging your curves in a way that made you feel a bit more like a soldier and a bit less like a walking hazard.
When you stumbled into the common room, the smell of brewing coffee was the only thing keeping you upright. You headed straight for the machine, only to find a massive, familiar silhouette already there.
“Morning, sweet girl,” he mumbled.
The words hit you like a low-frequency hum, vibrating right in your chest. Your heart gave a violent thud. So you were doing this now? He was actually going to call you that?
You forced yourself to look up, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips. “Good morning, good looking,” you said back.
The compliment caught him off guard. Thor paused, his hand hovering over a mug as he turned to look at you. A small, slow smirk started to spread across his face—the kind that reached his eyes and made the stormy blue soften.
“Good looking?” he questioned, his voice amused.
“Yes,” you said, feeling a sudden surge of caffeine-free adrenaline. You tilted your head to the right, looking up at him through your lashes, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be dangerous. “You don't like it?”
The weight of your words hit you then. Were you flirting with him? At five in the morning? In front of the industrial-sized coffee maker? Apparently, you were.
You knew you were hoping for something that would never happen, he would never see you more than a rookie, but you couldn't help yourself.
Thor actually smiled then—a real, breathtaking smile that made your stomach do a somersault. His heart soared at the compliment. He knew you didn’t mean it in the way he wanted you to. Though he kept hoping. “I do, darling,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone. He let his gaze sweep over you, lingering on the new suit. “Your gear suits you. I like it.”
And that was it. Before you could even think of a witty comeback, he turned and made his way to the couch, leaving you standing by the counter with your heart in your mouth.
You turned back to the coffee machine, your face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson. “Thank you,” you said, your voice coming out thin and a little breathless. You stared at the dripping coffee, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for a spoon. If this was how the mission was starting, you weren't sure your heart would survive until the afternoon.
Thor sat on the edge of the sofa, ostensibly focused on his mug, but his eyes were doing a slow, treacherous lap of the room—specifically the space you occupied. He watched the way the tactical suit moved as you reached for the milk, his gaze tracing your curves with a heavy, unblinking focus. Stop it, he scolded himself, his grip tightening on the ceramic. You are being a creep. She is a comrade. Focus on the coffee.
He let out a low, frustrated grunt and forced his eyes down into the dark depths of his drink.
“You massive pervert!”
The voice cracked through the quiet morning like a gunshot. Thor flinched so hard coffee slopped over the rim of his mug, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. He looked down to see Rocket perched on the coffee table directly in front of him, arms crossed and a look of pure, judgmental glee on his face.
“Shut up, rat. You scared me,” Thor mumbled, his face flushing a furious shade of red. He tried to reclaim his dignity by narrowing his eyes and giving Rocket a look that would have withered a lesser creature.
Rocket’s smirk didn't even waver. “I’m not a rat, pervert. And I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. You were just too busy studying the scenery to notice.”
You finished fixing your coffee and turned around, catching the tail end of Thor’s jump-scare. You couldn't help it; a bright, melodic giggle escaped you, the sound cutting through the morning tension.
Thor’s head whipped around, his attention snapping back to you instantly. The embarrassment in his eyes was warring with the way they softened just at the sight of you.
“Morning, rat,” you chirped as you walked over and sank into the chair next to the couch. You blew on your coffee, looking between the two of them curiously. “Wait, why are you calling him a perver—“
Before the word could even leave your mouth, Thor was on his feet.
“Time for the rat to go! Come on!” Thor boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
In one fluid, desperate motion, he reached out and snatched Rocket up by the back of his tactical vest with his left hand. As Rocket opened his mouth to likely spill every secret he’d just witnessed, Thor’s massive palm clamped over the raccoon’s snout, effectively muffling a string of very colorful curses.
“We have... preparations!” Thor announced to the room at large, hauling a kicking, muffled Rocket toward the exit.
You sat there, leaning back in your chair and giggling into your mug as you watched the God of Thunder practically flee the room to keep his dignity intact. He didn't look back, but the tips of his ears were still glowing red. Your gaze turned into one of confusion then.
What could Rocket possibly tell you? Was Thor embarrassed?
You shook your head, it was 5 AM, you had no energy to think about anything.
—
The interior of the Quinjet was bathed in the clinical glow of tactical lights as it cut through the heavy, humid air above the Amazon. Steve stood by the holotable, his expression grim as he pointed to a digital map of a fortified research outpost hidden deep within the dense green canopy below.
“Alright, listen up,” Steve’s voice was steady, cutting through the low thrum of the engines. “We’re tracking a rogue splinter cell that’s weaponized a cache of Chitauri tech. They’ve built a localized gravity well in the heart of the basin. If they turn it on, they’ll pull every aircraft within a five-hundred-mile radius out of the sky. Tony and Bruce, you’re on tech suppression. Nat, Clint—flank the cooling vents. Thor, you’re the heavy hitter. You lead the charge through the main gate.”
Steve looked at you, giving you a sharp, professional nod. “Sparky, you’re paired with Thor. Your job is to disrupt their shielding so he can get through. Stay on his six. We move as a unit, but in that jungle, visibility is zero. Don’t lose sight of him.”
Through the reinforced windows, you could see the endless stretch of passing trees blurring into a dark, emerald sea as the jet banked sharply. You felt a sharp prickle of adrenaline. This was it. You looked over at Thor, who was leaning against the bulkhead, the massive, jagged silhouette of Stormbreaker resting against his shoulder. He looked restless, his jaw set so tight the muscles were bulging. You caught his gaze just as he jerked his head away, staring intensely at the floor.
Without thinking, you reached out and gripped his bicep. The sheer firmness of the muscle underneath his gear made your pulse skip. Get it together, you scolded yourself. You felt a familiar, dull ache in your chest. A god like him—a king who carried a weapon forged in the heart of a dying star—could never truly want someone as fleeting as you. You were just a trainee, a girl with a power she couldn't control. You were a project to him, a momentary distraction in a life that spanned centuries.
Thor looked down at you, his blue eye wide and startled by your touch.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” you asked, tilting your head. “About me? On the field?”
“I am not, sweet girl. Don’t worry,” he rumbled, his voice a low, forced calm.
He was a liar. He was terrified. He was so fucking scared that something was going to happen to you that he could barely feel the weight of the handle in his hand. He looked at you—beautiful and so full of light—and felt like a ghost. He was a man of war, a survivor of loss after loss. How could you ever want someone so full of agony and broken? You deserved someone who didn't carry the scent of war and ancient grief. You deserved a life in the sun, not a life in the middle of his storm.
“Just stay close to me, will you?” he continued, his hand briefly covering yours on his arm, his grip almost bruising in its sudden intensity.
Your eyebrows furrowed. You couldn’t quite dissect the raw, dark vulnerability in his expression. It didn't match his casual words. You slowly nodded, your fingers tightening on the warm marble of his arm.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Always.”
“Good,” he muttered, his fingers lingering on yours for a second too long before he reached back to steady Stormbreaker.
The jet gave a final, heavy jolt as it hovered just above the clearing. The ramp of the Quinjet hissed as it lowered, the humid jungle air rushing in to replace the sterile chill of the cabin. Thor turned to face the open forest, his cape fluttering violently in the downdraft. He wouldn't let you see the fear, and he certainly wouldn't let you see the longing. He would just be the lightning that cleared your path.
The humidity hit your face as you followed Thor out of the jet, your boots squelching into the thick, dark mud of the Amazon floor. The jungle was a symphony of screeching birds and humming machinery, but all you could focus on was the broad, armored back of the man in front of you.
It felt like a heavy, wet blanket was cradling you as you pushed deeper toward the facility's main gate. Every time you tripped over a stray vine or the mud threatened to claim one of your boots, a massive, gauntlet-clad hand was there to steady you—a brief, searing contact that lingered just a second too long before he’d jerk his hand back as if he’d touched an open flame.
“Keep your eyes up,” Thor commanded, his voice dropping into a combat-ready growl. Stormbreaker hummed in his hand, the air around the axe beginning to crackle with premature static.
“Eyes are up, good looking,” you whispered, ducking under a massive, waxy leaf. “Mostly focused on that cape, though. Does it have a high thread count? It looks expensive to get mud out of.”
Thor’s shoulder hitched—a suppressed laugh or a suppressed groan, you couldn't tell. “Focus on the perimeter, not my tailoring.”
A sudden hiss of steam erupted from a hidden vent in the facility’s exterior wall, followed by a barrage of pulse-fire. Three Hydra sentries in tactical exoskeletons burst through.You didn't even have time to flinch before Thor was over you. He stepped in front of you then he swept you back with one massive arm, his body taking the brunt of the heat as he swung Stormbreaker to deflect a second volley.
“I had it, you know!” you yelled over the din, firing a bolt of violet energy that shattered a sentry's visor. “I’m not just here for the scenery!”
With a roar, he unleashed a bolt of lightning that turned the nearest sentry into a heap of molten scrap. You didn't stay idle, though. You lunged out from behind him, your hands glowing a fierce violet. You slammed your palms together, sending a shockwave of energy that shattered the remaining pulse-rifles and sent the Hydra guards sprawling.
Thor turned to you, his chest heaving, his cape singed at the edges. He stepped into your space, his presence overwhelming, and before you could make another retort, his hand came up. He cradled your face.
His palm was massive, his skin calloused and burning with a heat that made your breath hitch in your throat. His thumb grazed your cheekbone, trembling just a fraction. The touch was so intimate, so wildly out of place in the middle of a war zone, that the world seemed to tilt on its axis. He looked at you as if you were the only thing in the jungle that wasn't made of shadows and violence.
“You did well,” he rasped, his voice pained and thick. He stared down at you, his blue eye searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping you bare. Then, his jaw tightened, the mentor mask struggling to stay in place. “But do not make me tell you again—stay behind me.”
“So demanding,” you muttered, though your heart was doing backflips against your ribs. “Is this how you treat all your damsels, or am I special?”
“You are a nuisance,” he countered. He pulled his hand away, his fingers brushing against your hair in a slow, reluctant trail that left your skin tingling.
He turned back toward the gate, but the set of his shoulders was tense. He couldn't understand why his heart was racing faster from your gaze than from the battle. He was a god of war; he shouldn't be undone by the way you looked at him through your lashes. He was terrified of the way you made him feel—like he had something to lose again.
You watched his back, biting your lip. He probably just saw you as a responsibility he had to keep alive, a duty he had to fulfill. A king didn't fall for the woman who made jokes about his cape. You forced yourself to focus on the violet sparks at your fingertips, trying to drown out the burning sensation on your cheek where his hand had just been.
“The gate is dead ahead,” he rumbled, not looking back. “Stay close.”
“Right behind you,” you whispered, moving back into his shadow.
Thor made sure the gate ceased to exist. With a single, thunderous overhead swing of Stormbreaker, the reinforced titanium buckled like parchment, shrieking as it was torn from its hinges.
“Disrupt the internal shielding!” Thor roared over the alarms. “Now, Little One!”
You didn't need to be told twice. You sprinted past him into the main foyer, your hands glowing a deep, violent amethyst. The facility's defense grid was humming, a translucent blue shimmer of Chitauri energy blocking the path to the core. You slammed your hands against the floor, let out a jagged breath, and funneled everything you had into the ground.
The violet energy raced forward like lightning, clashing with the blue shield in a spray of white-hot sparks. The friction of the two powers meeting sent a shockwave back toward you, nearly knocking you off your feet.
Suddenly, a heavy, solid weight pressed against your back. Thor had moved up behind you, his chest flush against your shoulder blades, his massive hand coming down over your shoulder to steady your aim. The heat of him was staggering, a living furnace in the middle of the cold, sterile lab.
“Hold the line,” he growled into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I am here. Do not let it break you.”
With his strength anchoring you, you let out a scream of effort and pushed. The blue shield shattered like glass.
“Shield's down!” you panted, your knees buckling for a second.
Thor’s arm hooked around your waist instantly, hoisting you back up before you could hit the floor. For a split second, he held you tight against his side, his fingers digging into the fabric of your tactical suit. He looked down at you, his face splattered with soot, his eyes searching yours with a raw, desperate relief that he quickly tried to smother.
“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice a rough, private rasp.
“I can run,” you joked weakly, trying to ignore how his thumb was tracing the curve of your hip through the gear. “Just... maybe don't make me do the exploding walls thing for another five minutes.”
He didn't let go immediately. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then snapped back to the hallway ahead where more sentries were closing in. “Stay behind me,” he repeated, but this time it didn't sound like a command. It sounded like a plea.
As you moved toward the gravity core, the narrow corridors forced you together. Every time a blast shook the facility, you were thrown against him. Your hand would find the small of his back; his arm would find your shoulders. Every touch was a jolt, a burning friction that made the actual combat feel like a secondary concern.
You ducked behind a console as a hail of pulse-fire swept the room. Thor stood over you, Stormbreaker spinning in a blur of silver and blue, a literal wall of lightning protecting you.
“You know,” you yelled over the deafening crack of his axe hitting a sentry, “if you wanted to be this close to me, you could have just asked for my number like a normal person!”
Thor slammed the butt of Stormbreaker into the floor, a wave of electricity clearing the room. He turned to you, a stray spark of blue dancing in his hair.
“I have no need for numbers, nuisance,” he muttered, reaching down to haul you up. But as he pulled you close, his hand lingered on your forearm, his skin searing against yours. He leaned in, his face inches from yours. “And you are far from a normal person.”
He let go abruptly, turning back to the heavy blast doors of the core, but you stayed there for a second, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. He was terrified of how much he wanted to protect you, and you were terrified that he only saw a girl who needed saving.
The gravity core pulsed with an unstable light, the air vibrating so violently it made your teeth ache. Steve’s voice crackled over the comms, strained: “Thor, Sparky—the containment field is failing. If that core blows, the entire basin goes with it. You have to stabilize it now.”
Thor looked at the swirling vortex, then at you. His eyes were dark with a conflict you couldn't read. “Can you do it?”
"I—“ you gulped, “I think so,” you whispered. You stepped forward, thrusting your hands toward the core. The violet energy erupted, it tore out of you like a scream, linking your nervous system directly to the Chitauri tech. For a moment, you held it. The shield stabilized. But then, the feedback hit.
A massive surge of raw, unfiltered power slammed back into your chest. You were thrown through the air like a ragdoll, hitting the reinforced bulkhead with a sickening thud. A sharp, white-hot agony flared in your ribs, and the world splintered into a thousand jagged pieces. You tried to breathe, but your lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass.
“No!” Thor’s roar was louder than the sirens.
He was at your side in a heartbeat, Stormbreaker clattering to the floor as he slid into the grime. He gathered you into his lap, his massive hands trembling as he framed your face. You let out a broken whimper, your head lolling against his bicep.
“Sweet girl? No, no, look at me. Open your eyes,” he pleaded.
Blood trickled from a cut on your forehead, blurring your vision. Every breath was a fresh wave of torture, a barbed lump in your throat that made you want to scream, but you couldn't find the air.
“Thor...” you wheezed, your fingers feebly clutching at the cold metal of his chest plate. “It hurts—“ you gasped, “it hurts so much.”
“I am here. I have you,” he mumbled, his voice breaking as he pressed his forehead against yours. His thumb frantically wiped at the blood on your skin, his touch a desperate, burning friction against your cold skin. “Stay with me, darling. Please. Stay with me.”
The sound of heavy boots echoed—Hydra reinforcements, dozens of them, closing in on the wounded God and the girl dying in his arms.
Thor’s head snapped up. The grief in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, white-hot vacuum of rage. He gently lowered your head to the floor, his fingers lingering on your cheek for one last second.
“Do not close your eyes,” he commanded softly. Then he stood.
He became a cataclysm. Stormbreaker glowed with a blinding, celestial light as he leapt into the center of the room. Every swing was a thunderclap that shook the very foundations of the earth. He leveled the reinforcements in seconds, then turned his fury on the facility itself. Lightning channeled through the floor, shattering the gravity core and vaporizing the walls. By the time the rest of the Avengers burst into the room, there was nothing left but a smoking crater and Thor, standing in the center of the ruins, cradling you against his chest again.
“Thor! What happened?” Steve shouted, running toward the wreckage. Tony landed nearby, his faceplate disappearing. “Kid? Is she okay? Bruce, get the med-vac ready, we'll get her to the Compound—“
“No.” The word was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through your aching body. Thor didn't look up at any of his friends. He held you so tight it was as if he were trying to merge your bodies, his heart hammering against your ear.
“She needs the cradle, Thor, she's internal—“ Tony started, stepping forward.
“I said no!” Thor snapped, his blue eyes flashing with lethal lightning. He looked down at your pale face, his heart twisting with a guilt that felt like a blade.
This was his fault. He had let his blind jealousy, the petty fear of losing you to someone else, cloud his judgment. He had allowed you into a war zone when you weren't ready, just to keep you under his wing where he could watch you.
“I will not leave her life to your Midgardian trinkets,” Thor rasped, his voice thick with self-loathing. “I am the reason she bleeds. I will take her to my people in New Asgard. They have remedies older than your civilization. They will fix what I have broken.”
“Thor, wait—“ Steve began, but it was useless.
Thor didn't wait for permission. He called to the heavens, the Bifrost light beginning to hum around you both. He looked down at you, his fingers grazing your throat one last time, feeling the stutter of your pulse.
“I have you, sweet girl,” he whispered into your hair, his voice a broken promise. “I will never let you go again.”
In a flash of rainbow light, the Amazon jungle vanished, replaced by the salt-spray air and the rugged, comforting cliffs of New Asgard.
Thor didn’t stop to greet his subjects; he moved through the streets of New Asgard like a force of nature, his boots cracking the stone beneath him.
”Quickly, send healers to my estate!” he roared, his voice booming across the harbor. His people didn't even have time to celebrate the return of their King; the raw, bleeding desperation in his tone sent them into a frantic scramble.
Brunnhilde ran over to him, her brows furrowed as she struggled to match his relentless pace. “What’s going on? Who is she? What happened?” she asked, her eyes darting to your limp, broken form in his arms.
“Me happened,” Thor responded, his voice a desperate edge of self-loathing. He didn't look at her, his eyes fixed solely on your pale face. “I break every single person I get near.”
Inside your head, the world was a cacophony of white noise. Your ears were ringing so loud that the King’s shouts and the sounds of the bustling village were muffled, distant. The only thing that felt real was the heat radiating from him. With an effort that felt like lifting a mountain, you managed to bring your hand up. Your fingers, stained with dirt, found the scruff of his jaw.
“Thor,” you whispered, your eyes glazed over, struggling to find his amidst the blur of gold and blue.
He turned his attention back to you immediately, the storm in his expression breaking for a fraction of a second. “Yes, my sweet, sweet girl,” he said, his voice dropping into a tender, broken rasp as he instinctively leaned his face into your palm. The contact was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He would not lose you. He refused to let the universe take one more thing from him.
When your eyes began to flutter shut and your head lolled against his chest, a fresh wave of panic surged through him. He turned his face into your hand, his lips pressing a lingering, desperate kiss against the inside of your wrist. It was the last thing you felt—the ghost of his warmth and the scratch of his beard—and a small, faint smile touched your lips just as the world finally faded into total darkness.
—
Your eyes fluttered open, the world blurry at the edges as the last remnants of sleep fell away. “She is stable, though she needs to be careful. Her injuries were severe; we managed to fix a few but not all. Our magic will linger in her, fixing her. Try not to have her do too much, Your Majesty.” The voice was unfamiliar—calm and clinical. As your senses returned, you felt a firm, heavy hold on your hand.
“Thank you,” came Thor’s voice, deep and sandpaper-rough. You heard the soft thud of footsteps slowly fading away as the healer left the room.
You tried to shift, but the movement sent a dull, throbbing ache radiating through your body. It wasn't the splintering agony of the jungle, but every single bone in your body seemed to hum with a quiet, persistent pain. You blinked, trying to take in your surroundings. The ceiling was made of heavy timber, and the air was cool.
“Where are we?” your voice cracked, sounding like dry leaves skipping across stone.
Thor’s hand, which had been a steady, grounding weight over yours, tightened instantly. His other hand moved to the top of your head, his fingers grazing through your hair with a tenderness that made your heart stutter more than any injury ever could.
“We are at New Asgard, honey,” he whispered, the endearment slipping out as naturally as a breath. “How are you feeling?”
You took a slow, cautious breath. Every inch of your skin felt sensitive, a lingering hum of Asgardian magic working beneath the surface to knit your muscle and bone back together. “I am better, thank you,” you said, forcing a small smile as you turned your hand within his, gripping him back. The warmth of his palm was the only thing that felt truly solid in the room.
“How long have we been here?” you asked, your eyes searching his.
“A day,” he mumbled.
His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles beneath them telling a story of a man who hadn't closed his eyes once since the Bifrost had landed. He looked disheveled.
“You stood by my side all that time?” you asked, your voice softening in disbelief.
“No need for silly questions, of course I did, darling,” he said, his thumb beginning a slow, rhythmic stroke across your knuckles. He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping into a low, fiercely protective register. "I was not going to leave you. Not after what I allowed to happen."
The guilt in his voice was a barbed lump, thick and heavy. He looked at your bandaged frame and then back to your eyes, a silent war raging behind his blue gaze. He wanted to tell you he was sorry—that he was a fool for letting his own selfish desire to keep you close put you in the line of fire—but the words seemed trapped behind the sheer relief of seeing you awake.
“You look so pale,” he whispered, his hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, his touch burning like a brand. “I thought… for a moment in that forest, I thought the light had gone out of the world.”
Your thumb grazed his knuckles, your body moving on autopilot. Even through the haze of pain and the dull throb in your ribs, your first instinct was to soothe the tremor in his hands.
“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, your voice still a bit airy. “I would have wanted to come to the mission anyway. Even if you didn’t approve of it.” You managed a broken, tired smirk, your eyes searching his. “You know, I’ve noticed I can make almost anyone say yes to me.”
Thor gulped, his thumb pausing its rhythm on your cheek as he looked at you with a gaze so heavy it felt like a scorching iron. “You do have that effect on people, yes,” he admitted, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face.
The moment was intimate, the air between you thick with everything that hadn't been said, until the heavy wooden door creaked open.
“Still moping, Your Majesty?”
Brunnhilde walked in, her gait confident and effortless. She looked like she belonged in this world in a way you weren't sure you ever could. She walked straight over to the bed, her eyes scanning your form with a professional, yet slightly amused, curiosity.
“The healers say she’s made of tougher stuff than she looks,” she said, before turning her attention to Thor. She reached out, casually wrapping her arm around his broad shoulders and leaning some of her weight against him.
Your mind went completely blank. The warmth you’d felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp pang in your chest that had nothing to do with your injuries. You watched the way she stood so close to him, the ease with which she touched him—a familiarity that only came from years of... what?
Who was she?
You looked at Thor, but he didn't pull away. He just stood there, letting her hang off him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A sickening thought spiraled through your head: Has he had a lover all this time? Did the petnames mean nothing more than a king being kind to a stray he’d picked up?
You felt your hand twitch in his, suddenly wanting to pull away, to hide yourself under the covers and disappear. The pain in your body was nothing compared to the sudden realization that you might have completely misread the storm in his eyes. A small, desperate part of you had hoped those pet names and the way he’d cradled your face in the mud meant something more than duty. But seeing her arm draped so comfortably over him, you felt the cold reality sink in. You were a trainee, a mortal flicker; she was a woman of his own kind. You already knew he’d never look at you like that, but seeing the ease of their connection made the ache in your chest sharper than the break in your ribs.
“Oh, good! You’re not dead. That’s a real plus for the team morale!”
The new voice was deep, gravelly, and strangely cheerful. You turned your head—wincing as the movement pulled at your neck—and saw a towering mass of blue rocks lumbering toward the bed. Every step he took resulted in a series of rhythmic clacks and thuds that echoed off the timber walls.
Your eyebrows furrowed in genuine bewilderment, your mind momentarily jolting away from the agonizing sight of beside you.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” you blurted out, a weak, bewildered laugh bubbling up. “Did a mountain range decide to grow legs and start talking?”
The rock creature didn't seem offended at all. He waved a massive stony hand. “Common mistake! I’m Korg. I’m made of rocks, as you can see, but don’t let that intimidate you. Unless you’re made of scissors. Then we might have a bit of a rock-paper-scissors situation on our hands, which is never fun for the scissors.”
Despite the dull throb in your side and the heavy weight in your heart, you couldn't help it. A genuine, wide grin broke across your face at the sheer absurdity of his voice and his gentle demeanor. “Oh my god, I love you,” you said, leaning back into the pillows, trying to ignore the way Thor’s hand was still holding yours while his other shoulder supported her. “You're so precious.”
You kept your eyes fixed on Korg, pouring all your energy into the conversation, terrified that if you looked back at Thor, he’d see the cracks in your expression. You were determined to tear your attention away from the man whose touch still burned your skin, even if it meant falling in love with a talking pile of rocks just to survive the afternoon.
“Oh, you are a fast lady,” Korg said, his rocky face shifting into what passed for a bashful expression. “Though I can certainly see myself falling in love with yo—“
Thor’s hand tightened on yours with a sudden, bone-crushing intensity. His head snapped toward Korg, his eyes flashing with a sudden, stormy blue light. “Let’s not get over our heads here,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerously deep rumble that made the loose items on the bedside table rattle.
You turned your head toward him, finding the sheer suddenness of his irritation hilarious despite the lump in your throat. “Why are you standing between me and my great love right now?” you asked, amusement dancing in your eyes.
Thor’s attention snapped back to you, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. He didn't look amused. He looked feral. “Do not piss me off,” he rumbled, the room suddenly smelling of rain. “You just woke up.”
Your smile faltered. The playful light in your eyes died down as you realized he wasn't just being dramatic—he was actually pissed. But the logic didn't track. He had her practically draped over him, yet he was growling at a pile of rocks for making a joke?
He’s just being a King, you reminded yourself, the cold weight returning to your stomach. He was possessive of his subjects, and right now, you were a broken project he felt responsible for. He didn't want you; he just didn't want his things touched.
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the sting of that thought. “You are no fun, Thunder-Thighs.”
She let out a sudden, sharp cackle that broke the tension, her arm still hooked over Thor's shoulder as she looked at you with newfound respect. “I actually like her. Can we keep her?”
She shifted, finally releasing Thor and stepping closer to the bed. She extended a hand toward you, her grip looking like it could snap a sword in half. “I am Brunnhilde.”
Can we keep her? The phrase echoed in your mind. As if you were a new pet for the royal court. You reached out, your fingers feeling small and fragile against her warrior-calloused palm, and gave it a weak shake.
“It's nice meeting you, you can call me Sparky.” you mumbled, your voice losing its edge. You looked from her to Thor, the two of them standing together like pillars of Asgardian history, and you felt smaller than ever. You were just a girl in a room full of legends, and no amount of sweet pet names from Thor was going to change the fact that you didn't belong in their world.
You needed to get away from this view—the ease of Brunnhilde’s touch, the way they stood together, the crushing reminder of where you stood in his hierarchy.
“I want a tour of New Asgard,” you said, your voice gaining a bit of false bravado. You looked at Thor, the smirk returning to your face as a shield. “Wanna see if there’s more of you where you come from.”
Thor’s eyes slid shut, his jaw working as if he were trying to grind his teeth into dust.
Absolutely not.
The sight of you flirting with a literal pile of rocks was already enough to make him lose his composure; he could feel the lightning buzzing under his skin, a restless, jealous hum. The thought of you wandering the village, throwing that same devastating smile at his subjects—his men subjects—was intolerable.
“No,” he said, his voice flat and absolute.
You gasped, playing up the indignation. “Why not? I do wanna see some Asgardian men—”
Thor’s grip on your hand tightened instantly, his fingers nearly bruising. He leaned in, his shadow falling over you, his blue eye burning with a dark, possessive heat. “You will not be leaving this room for eternity if you keep talking like that.”
Oh.
The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out. He was so incredibly hot when he was like this—possessive, looming, and clearly fighting a losing battle with his own restraint. You tilted your head down, looking up at him through your lashes, letting that innocent gaze of yours do the work for you.
“Why not, big guy?” you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, teasing hum. “But I really want to see.”
Thor’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked at your lips, then back to your eyes, his resolve crumbling like the facility back in the jungle. He was the King of Asgard, a God of Thunder, yet he was completely defenseless against a single look from you.
“Fine,” he grumbled, his shoulders dropping in defeat. He couldn't say no to that face, even if it meant he’d have to spend the entire afternoon glaring at every man who dared to look in your direction.
Brunnhilde let out another cackle, leaning back against the wall with an amused smirk. “Good luck, Majesty. You're going to need a bigger axe to keep the suitors away. If there is one bigger than the one you already have.”
Thor didn't respond to her. He just reached down, his hand sliding from your knuckles to your forearm, his touch still burning like a brand. “But I am the one taking you,” he added, his voice possessive. “And you stay within my reach. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I promise I won’t leave your side,” you said, a grin of victory overtaking your face.
You knew your puppy-dog gaze was your secret weapon, but as Thor began to help you up, a flicker of confusion crossed your mind. Why did Brunnhilde say good luck like that? If they were a couple, why was she just standing there cackling while her man acted like a possessive dragon over another girl? You shook the thought away—Asgardian couples were clearly built different.
“Come on then, let’s go,” Thor said. His movements were agonizingly careful. One hand gripped your elbow, steadying your frame, while his other hand slid firmly around your waist to hoist you from the bed. The heat from his palm through your attire made your heart beat so fast you were worried the healers would hear it from the other room.
The torture began the second you stepped outside. The salt air hit your face, and your eyes wandered over the rugged beauty of New Asgard. It was a picturesque, bustling village, but your attention was quickly snatched by a man walking toward the docks. He was tall, with long, golden hair caught in the wind and a thick, groomed beard. He looked remarkably like the old version of Thor—the one you’ve seen from the screens.
You didn't hide it. You looked him up and down appreciatively, a slow smirk spreading across your lips. It was official: you definitely had a type. Nobody could truly be Thor—no man on Earth or Asgard could come close to the God of Thunder beside you—but this guy was a very, very solid runner-up.
Beside you, the air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Thor’s gaze locked onto the man with the ferocity of a predator. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you an inch closer to his hip, marking his territory in front of half the village.
“All-Fathers, give me strength,” Thor mumbled under his breath, his knuckles turning white as he prayed for the patience not to smite his own subject where he stood.
You turned your head back to him, your eyes dancing with mischief. “I couldn’t quite catch that,” you said innocently. “Did you say something, or were you just admiring the scenery too? Because the view out here is excellent.”
He looked down at you, his blue eye burning with a mixture of raw jealousy and a protective instinct so strong it was almost vibrating. “The view is treacherous,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he steered you firmly in the opposite direction of the blond Asgardian. “And you are supposed to be resting your eyes. Perhaps I should carry you back inside if they are going to wander so much.”
“Do not dare!” You rolled your eyes, a light giggle escaping you as you leaned slightly into the support of his arm. “I am merely admiring the view, big guy. Don't be ridiculous.”
He was being ridiculous. He knew it. He had no claim on you, no right to feel this possessive surge that made his blood boil every time your eyes lingered on another man. In his mind, he told himself it was absurd to pursue anything—you were a mortal, a flicker of light in his long, shadowed history. But as he looked down at the top of your head, a darker, more primitive part of him—the side of him that had conquered realms and held thrones—was whispering. Hide her. Do not let her look at another. Own her until she forgets any other man even draws breath.
He felt the roar of that possessive instinct in his chest, and before he could think, the words tumbled out.
“I am a view to be admired too,” he rumbled, his voice low and thick. “Why won't you admire me?”
The moment the question left his lips, Thor closed his eyes, a wave of internal swearing following it. He was going to ruin everything. He was a King, a warrior, and here he was, practically begging for your attention like a petulant boy.
You turned your head toward him so fast the world did a little spin, forcing you to grip his arm tighter to stay upright. Your heart was thundering against your ribs. What is wrong with him? you thought, a flash of irritation warring with the sudden, sharp heat in your cheeks. How could he ask that? He was a god, he had Brunnhilde, and he definitely didn't have feelings for you. He had to be playing—mocking you, even.
You gulped, trying to keep your voice steady as you forced a meek smile. “Who says I don’t?” you joked back.
But the words felt heavy, lacking the punch of a real joke. It wasn't a joke—not to you. You admired him every single second you were in his presence, from the way his muscles shifted to the way he looked when he thought no one was watching.
Thor opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you so close that you could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart—a heavy, steady hammer against your side.
She cannot mean that. The thought raced through his mind, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Did she mean that? For a moment, he couldn't breathe, the sheer weight of your words taking the air out of his lungs. He searched your expression for the punchline, for the quick-witted retort that usually followed your barbs. Surely you were joking, just as you usually did to keep him on his toes. He smiled nervously, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing his features as he finally averted his gaze, looking out toward the horizon.
“I am honored, honey,” he murmured, his voice slightly strained. “I too... admire you.”
Before the silence could get too heavy, he started hauling you over toward a row of shops, his grip on your waist firm as he guided your unsteady steps. Your heart stuttered. You knew he wasn't being serious, he couldn't be, but the mere possibility of him admiring you made your chest ache with a bittersweet longing. You were just a woman from Midgard; he was a legend carved from lightning.
As you walked, your attention was caught by a group of Asgardian women sitting on a low stone wall. They were giggling, their fingers moving with practiced grace as they braided each other's hair, weaving small silver charms into the strands. They were applying iridescent pigments to their eyelids, their laughter ringing out like bells in the crisp air. They looked so effortless, so full of life and sisterhood. Your heart soared at the sight. It was so far removed from the cold steel of the facility or the mud of the jungle.
Thor noticed the way your pace slowed, his gaze following yours to the circle of women. “You want to join them?” he asked, his voice softening.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. You wanted to, more than anything, but the sudden surge of self-consciousness held you back. You were covered in the faint remnants of grime, your hair was a mess from the battle, and you felt like an intruder in their perfect world.
“I don’t know... would it be weird?” you asked, your voice small.
Thor looked down at you, his expression melting into something so incredibly tender it made your knees weak. He reached up, his thumb grazing your temple to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all, darling,” he said, a proud smile tugging at his lips. Without another word, he turned his steps toward the women, his hand remaining possessively at your waist as he led you into their circle, determined to give you even a moment of the peace you had bled for.
The women rose instantly, their laughter quieting into a gesture of deep respect as they bowed the moment they saw their King.
“Would you be so kind as to let my friend here join you ladies for a while?” Thor asked, his voice booming with a warmth that made the women beam.
They welcomed you immediately, pulling you into their circle with eager hands. For the next hour, the war and the pain felt a lifetime away. You leaned back, closing your eyes as one of the women began to weave a complex, delicate braid through your hair, her fingers light and nimble. Another sat beside you, carefully applying a shimmering, iridescent lip gloss that tasted like wild berries. You swapped stories, learning their names and laughing as they told you about the quirks of living in New Asgard. You were finally at peace.
Thor didn't move far. He stood a few paces away, leaning against a weathered wooden post, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He was watching you. His heart soared at the sight of you in sync with his people, your laughter blending perfectly with theirs. A wholehearted, genuine smile broke across his face, one that reached his eyes and stayed there. Seeing you like this, safe and glowing, felt like the greatest victory he’d ever won.
When it was finally time to go, you found yourself hugging the girls, tapping your phone number into their devices and promising to show them Midgardian glam next time. You thanked them for the girly experience, your face flushed with a genuine happiness that hadn't been there since before the mission.
Then, you turned and walked over to him.
Thor’s breath caught in his throat, a hitch that made his chest tighten. You looked so breathtakingly beautiful that it felt like a blow to his solar plexus. The intricate braids framed your face perfectly, making your features pop, and the way you smiled—wide and triumphant—made his head spin.
But it was your lips that did him in. The gloss shimmered in the sun, making them look soft, wet, and utterly inviting. He stared at you, his pulse thundering in his ears, feeling like he was about to die from the sheer, overwhelming force of wanting to close the distance between you.
“How do I look, big guy?” you asked, spinning in a small circle, your eyes bright.
Thor couldn't speak for a second. He just stood there, his blue eye fixed on the shimmer of your lips, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and touch the braids he’d just watched being made. He felt like he was drowning in the sight of you.
“You look—” he started, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that he couldn't quite control. “You look like a Queen of the Stars.”
He cradled your face, “Thank you,” you managed to breathe. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and searching, oblivious to the way the light in your veins was beginning to pulse in sync with the heavy thud of his heart.
Thor stared down at you, his thumb hooked under your chin, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your throat.
She cannot be real, he thought, his chest tight with a hunger that felt both holy and devastating. She was made to undo me.
Then, the world seemed to tilt. He moved his thumb, dragging the pad of it slowly across the plush curve of your lower lip. He caught the shimmering, wet gloss, his touch searing, and then—with a deliberation that made your knees buckle—he brought his thumb to his own mouth.
He tasted it. He fucking tasted it.
He closed his eyes, humming a low, resonant sound as he sucked the tip of his thumb, his jaw working as he savored the sweetness of the gloss and the essence of you.
Your mouth fell open, your breath hitching in a broken sob of shock.
The God of Thunder, the King of Asgard, was standing in the middle of New Asgard, tasting your lip gloss like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
It was the most intimate, most improper, most exhilarating thing you had ever witnessed.
“You like it?” you whispered, your voice trembling and soft, barely audible over the hum of the people chattering in the streets. Thor opened his eyes, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like a sea before a hurricane. He let his hand drop from your chin, but he didn't move back.
He stayed in your space, his heat a physical wall. “I do,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave until it was a rough, velvet growl. “It tastes exactly as I imagined.”
The world spun. He had imagined it. He had looked at your mouth and wondered what you tasted like.
Thor’s world narrowed until it was nothing but the heat radiating off your skin and the salt-tinged breeze of the harbor. When you took his forearms in your hands, your fingers curling around the thick, corded muscle of his limbs, his entire body went rigid. The pulse in your veins felt like it was humming directly against his palms, a rhythmic, electric tether binding your souls together in the middle of the crowded street.
“Would you like another taste?” you whispered. The question was a spark in a room full of gunpowder. Thor’s pupils dilated until the blue of his eyes was almost entirely swallowed by a predatory, desperate black. His heart slammed against his ribs—a frantic, heavy thunder that you could feel vibrating through his arms.
He didn't answer with words. He couldn't.
His hands moved from your face to your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a possessive strength that pulled you flush against him. There was no space left between you, no air, no logic. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a fraction of a second, his ragged breath ghosting over your dampened lips.
“You have no idea,” he rasped, the vibration of his voice rattling in your chest, “what you are asking of me.” He tilted his head, his gaze dropping back to your mouth, watching the way the shimmering gloss caught the golden sun. There was a raw, starving hunger in his gaze that had been building since the moment he first saw you. He leaned in until his lips were a mere hair's breadth from yours, pausing there in the agonizing friction of the almost. He let out a low, shaky exhale, his nose brushing against yours.
“If I start,” he groaned, his voice a rough, velvet warning against your mouth, “I will not be able to stop. I will consume you, sweet girl.”
Your grip on his forearms tightened, your nails biting into his skin as you pulled him that final, impossible inch.
When his lips finally crashed against yours, it wasn't the gentle kiss of a king; it was the crash of two storms. He tasted like rain and desperation, his mouth moving over yours with a frantic, soul-searing intensity. His tongue swept across your lower lip, reclaiming the sweetness of the gloss and replacing it with the heat of his own fire.
The world around you—the shops, the shouting children, the presence of Brunnhilde somewhere in the distance—completely vanished. He was consuming you, his left hand anchoring your waist while his right firmly gripped the back of your neck, fingers tangling into the fresh braids to pull you impossibly flush against him. Your own hands found his firm shoulders, gripping onto the rough fabric of his tunic for dear life as you stood on your tiptoes to meet him.
You forgot where you were. You forgot to breathe. You forgot your own name.
There was only the taste of him and the way his massive body felt pressed against yours like a shield and a cage all at once. Your heart sang at the contact, a wild, soaring melody that reached a crescendo in your chest.
You were hopelessly in love with him.
Love. The word struck you with the force of a thunderclap, clearing the fog of passion just long enough for a single image to flash in your mind: Brunnhilde.
Her arm wrapped around his shoulder. Her cackle. The ease between them.
You parted away from him so fast it was like a train had hit you. Your boots stumbled back on the uneven stones, and your breath came in ragged, panicked hitches. The reality of the street rushed back—the whispers of the townspeople who had stopped to stare at their King, the judgment in the air.
“What’s wrong?” Thor asked, his voice thick and dazed. He reached out for you, his gaze clouded with a raw, lingering hunger, looking completely unmoored.
Your heart sank into your stomach, heavy as lead. “How could we?” you asked, your voice trembling.
You looked at him—at the King of Asgard—and the weight of what you'd just done felt like it was crushing your lungs. How could you let this happen? You were helping him betray the life he had built here, the woman who stood by his side.
Thor froze. He saw the horror in your eyes, the way you were looking at him as if he were a stranger. His mind raced, misinterpreting every second of your silence. He saw the way you recoiled, the way you looked at him with what he could only perceive as regret—or worse, fear.
He thought he had failed you. He thought he had taken advantage of your recovery, using his power and your vulnerability to force a moment you didn't actually want. He thought he had creeped you out, becoming the very monster he feared he was.
He cleared his throat then, the sound sharp and sudden, as if he were trying to shake off a spell. He stepped back just an inch—enough for you to breathe, but not enough for you to feel safe. He had fucked it up. He had fucked it all up.
“Forgive me,” his voice was pained, strained through a throat that looked like it was choking on his own heartbeat. “I do not know what came over me. It was… unseemly. I have misread the situation entirely.”
He took his hands off of you as if your very skin had turned into white-hot iron, burning him. You stumbled backwards, your skin still flaming where his hands—his lips—had been.
“Unseemly,” you repeated, the word tasting like ash. You thought he was regretting the betrayal; he thought he was apologizing for being a predator.
“I have taken advantage of your state,” he rasped, refusing to meet your eyes now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder at the churning grey sea. “I am your mentor. I am responsible for your safety. Please... forget my conduct. It will not happen again.”He looked at his hands and clenched them into white-knuckled fists, the silence between you opening up like a vast, yawning chasm.
“I—“ You gulped, the word sticking in your throat as you looked at his boots, unable to meet that turbulent blue gaze. “I would like to go back to the Compound now.”
Thor nodded, the movement stiff and formal. “Okay.”
He extended his hand toward you, his palm open but his eyes fixed firmly on the horizon behind you. With his other hand, he reached out and summoned Stormbreaker; the weapon flew into his grip with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed through the quiet street. You took his hand, your own fingers trembling so violently you were sure he could feel the vibration of your bones.
Thor felt that tremble. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, his jaw tightening as if he were bracing for a blow. He didn't say a word, but he pulled you closer—careful to keep a professional distance this time—and held Stormbreaker aloft.
The rainbow light of the Bifrost engulfed you, and for a heartbeat, you were suspended in a roar of color and sound. Then, the familiar concrete of the Avengers Compound floor was beneath your feet.
The moment the light faded, you scrambled away from him, your hand dropping his as if his touch had become toxic. Steve and Natasha were there in an instant, having been waiting on the landing pad. They looked at each other, their expressions shifting from relief to concern the moment they saw the wreckage of your expression.
“Are you okay, doll?” Steve asked, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to steady you. You nodded mindlessly, not trusting your voice, not looking back at the God of Thunder standing like a statue behind you.
You reached the safety of your room, slamming the door shut and locking it with a trembling hand. You didn't make it to the bed; you slid down against the wood, pulling your knees to your chest. The silence of the quarters pressed in on you, heavy and suffocating.
You looked at your phone lying on the bed. The agent’s number was still there in your messages. A human. Someone who wouldn't look at you like a regret. Someone who was available, who didn't have a warrior-queen waiting for him or a thousand years of baggage.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, your chest aching with a crushing weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. You were going on that date. You didn’t want to—not really—but the storm of what had happened in New Asgard was too much to bear alone. You needed to feel seen by someone who wasn't apologizing for wanting you.
—
The next morning, your head was thudding with a dull, rhythmic ache that had nothing to do with your injuries and everything to do with the heavy silence of your quarters. You didn’t want to go to the common room. You didn’t want to see him, to look into that single blue eye and see the regret reflecting back at you. You wanted nothing to do with him.
You reached for your phone, your thumb hovering over the agent’s name. You sent the text. He replied almost instantly—he wanted to take you out tonight. You agreed, the hollow victory of the date feeling like a bitter pill to swallow.
You got up and got ready for breakfast nonetheless, masking your exhaustion with a sharp look that felt more like armor than an outfit. You made your way toward the common room, and the air immediately felt thick, charged with the same tension that had nearly snapped yesterday.
Your gaze found him instantly. Thor was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his massive hands wrapped around a coffee mug that looked fragile in his grip. He was gazing mindlessly at the far wall, his expression vacant and haunted. He felt you enter; you saw his shoulders tighten, his posture becoming even more rigid, but he didn’t turn around.
You didn’t say a word. You walked straight to the coffee machine, the silence in the room deafening.
Tony, Natasha, Steve, Bruce, and Rocket were all gathered at the table, exchanging looks that practically screamed, What the hell? The men all pointed subtly toward you and then toward Thor, gesturing wildly to Natasha as if to say Fix it.
Natasha shook her head exasperatedly, pushing off from the table and making her way toward you. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” she asked, her voice low but sharp.
You gave her a dry side-eye as you waited for your cup to fill. “Good morning, Nat.”
She didn’t back off. She stepped into your personal space, narrowing her eyes. “Thor has been staring at nothing for an hour now, and you are being awfully quiet.”
Your body locked, your shoulders tightening to match his. “What makes you say something happened?”
“It’s obvious. Spill it.”
You looked down at the counter, the steam from the coffee hitting your face. “We kissed,” you muttered, the admission feeling like a confession. She kept looking at you, waiting for more. When you didn't continue, you felt a surge of indignation. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she looking at you like you were the problem?
“And he already has a partner?” you said, your voice dripping with disbelief. “He’s a King, Nat. He has responsibilities. He has her.” Only then did Natasha’s expression change. Her eyebrows knitted together in genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? He’s not in a relationship. He hasn’t been for years.”
Your own eyebrows furrowed. The world seemed to stall. “What? What about Brunnhilde?”
Natasha actually let out a dry, huffed laugh. “She’s just his friend. Trust me, she’d be more interested in you anyway. She’s got a liking for women.”
Your whole world tilted upside down. The floor felt like it was falling away, leaving you suspended in a vacuum of your own making. He wasn't a cheater. He wasn't taken.
And the apology, the way he had pulled away like he was a monster... it wasn't about her.
It was only about you.
“But he apologized—”
Natasha shrugged, leaning her hip against the counter with a cool, analytical stare. “He probably thinks you regret the kiss. He's a bit of a dramatic idiot like that.”
“But I don’t— He does,” you said, your heart performing a painful somersault in your chest. You were so confused, the adrenaline from the realization mixing with the lingering sting of his rejection. “And… I have a date tonight.” You turned your gaze toward your hands, unable to look at her anymore.
“What? With who?” Natasha asked, her voice sharpening.
“Just an agent,” you said, keeping the name to yourself as you turned to leave. You didn’t wait for her to respond; you left the room as fast as your legs would carry you. But just as you were stepping into the hallway, you heard her mutter a low, ominous, “Oh, no.”
Back at the table, the boys were still hovering, trying to get Thor to spill the beans. He remained a statue of grief until Natasha marched back over and dropped the bombshell without any preamble. “She thought you were in a relationship with Brunnhilde,” she stated the moment she reached him.
For the first time in an hour, Thor’s gaze snapped away from the wall. The movement was so sudden it almost looked painful. “What?” he boomed, the word vibrating the coffee mugs on the table.
“And now she knows you’re not. You’re welcome,” Natasha said, sliding into her chair with cat-like ease. “Though she now thinks you regret the kiss because of her. Sorry about that one.”
Tony’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “The kiss? You kissed? Since when are we kissing the trainees? Was I not invited to this memo?”
But Thor wasn't hearing a word Tony said. His brain was stuck on the fact that the horror he saw in your eyes wasn't because of him—it was because you thought he was a betrayer.
Then Natasha added the finishing blow. “Oh, and she has a date tonight. With some agent she's been talking to.” Steve’s head snapped toward her, his expression darkening instantly. “A date? She's still recovering. And some of those tactical guys—they aren't exactly looking for a long-term commitment. They can be bad news.”
Thor was plunged into a new kind of trance. This one wasn't silent; it was electric. His jaw tightened so hard his beard bristled. You were going on that date? With a mortal stranger? While you still had the taste of Asgard on your lips?
The air in the common room began to hum with the faint, unmistakable smell of a coming storm. Thor didn't look like a grieving king anymore. He was a god who had just realized he'd almost surrendered his most precious treasure over a misunderstanding.
He was going to explain himself to you, even if you didn’t want him.
—
You locked yourself in your room, the heavy click of the deadbolt echoing the finality of your decision. You needed to drown out the noise—the confusion, the embarrassment, and the lingering heat of Thor’s touch.
You took an everything shower, the steam filling the room as you scrubbed every inch of your skin as if you could wash away the sensation of his hands on your waist.
Afterward, you spent an eternity applying body lotions, the floral scent masking the faint smell of rain that seemed to follow you from New Asgard. You were putting in an incredible amount of effort, but it wasn't for the man waiting for you. It was a distraction, a way to make the hours pass until you didn't have to think anymore.
With your earphones blasting music to drown out the world, you hadn't heard a single thing outside your door. You had no idea that Steve had been hovering in the hallway, his face pinched with worry, or that Natasha had practically tried to pick the lock before giving up in exasperation. To them, you were being stubborn. To you, you were just trying to survive.
You pulled on a black bandeau midi dress that hugged your curves, the dark fabric perfectly complementing your features. It was sleek, sophisticated, and left your shoulders bare. Then, you stepped into your four-inch heels. They were a nightmare to walk in, the thin straps biting into your skin, but they made you feel sharp, and untouchable. You applied the finishing touches of your makeup and a heavy mist of your favorite perfume. You were done.
You picked up your clutch, checking your reflection one last time. You looked good—really good. The shimmering lip gloss was back—a different brand, a different scent, but the memory of Thor’s thumb dragging across your lip flashed in your mind like a lightning strike.
You closed your eyes as you shoved it down.
You took a deep breath opening your eyes back, adjusted the hem of your dress, and finally pulled your earphones out. You looked at your your phone, saw the “I'm outside” text from the agent, and headed for the door. You tried to avoid everyone as you made your way outside to where Agent Vance was waiting.
You didn't see Thor, but he saw you. He had spent the last hour pacing, finally deciding that even if you didn't feel the same, he had to tell you the truth. He wanted to tell you how he’d wanted to kiss you from the very first moment he caught sight of you. He wanted to confess how he had to restrain himself every single time your skin made contact with his during training, how his heart thudded every time he heard your voice, and how he had felt like a predator for harboring such intense feelings for his student. He was in love with you. He had fallen for you hard.
He had been working up the courage to reach your room, to catch you before you could leave, but the sight of you in those heels and that sinful black dress caught him completely off guard. You looked beautiful—like you had stepped right out of his most forbidden fantasies. His heart thudded once against his ribs, and then it sank into his stomach.
You were dressed like this for another man.
Before he could make a move, you were out the door. He watched from the shadows of the corridor as you reached the agent, who gave you a slow, approving look-over that made Thor’s left eye twitch.
He wasn't going to let you be courted by another. He couldn't bear the thought of it. He knew it wasn’t ethical, knew he was being unreasonable, but he had to follow you.
Steve came up right next to him then, his face etched with concern. “What happened? You couldn't make it to her room in time?”
Thor turned toward him, his expression grim. "No," he said simply. With a sharp shake of Stormbreaker, the casual clothes vanished, replaced by the heavy, shimmering plates of his Asgardian armor.
“Who was she with?” Steve asked, peering toward the exit.
“That agent with the brown hair, green eyes. The ugly one,” Thor rumbled, his voice low and dangerous.
“The handsome one?” Steve cut him off, his eyes wide.
Thor gave him a sharp side-eye that could have curdled milk. Steve ignored it, his worry deepening. “Oh, fudge. That guy's the worst. It hasn't been proved yet but he’s got a reputation for—“
Thor didn't let him finish. He didn't need to hear about Vance's reputation; he could already feel the protective, possessive rage bubbling in his blood. He had to find you. Without another word, he lifted Stormbreaker high, the scent of storm exploding in the hallway, and ascended into the sky in a flash of blue light.
The ride in the car was suffocating. Vance kept glancing at your chest as he drove, his eyes lingering far longer than they should have, making you squirm uncomfortably in the leather seat. You adjusted the neckline of your black dress, a cold knot of dread tightening in your stomach.
Had you made a massive mistake?
“Where are we going?” you asked, forcing a small, fragile smile.
“It's a surprise. You'll see,” Vance said, glancing at you with a devilish smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Okay, weird. The creepy vibes were hitting you in waves now, but you tried to bury them deep. You told yourself it was just because you didn't want to be here—because your heart was still back at the Compound with a man who thought he’d offended you.
But then, Vance turned onto a desolate, abandoned street, the streetlights flickering over cracked pavement and empty warehouses.
Your heart started thudding against your chest, a frantic rhythm that made your breath short.
“Wow, if you wanted to murder me, you could have just invited me to a Nickelback concert. It’s cheaper and achieves the same result,” you rambled, the joke slipping out before you could stop it. Like you always did when you were terrified, you were using humor as a shield.
Vance’s brows furrowed, his expression darkening as if your voice was an annoyance. He didn't even crack a smile. He just slowed the car to a halt in front of an ominous, windowless building that looked like it hadn't seen life in decades.
“Get out,” he told you, his voice flat and cold.
Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. This couldn't be happening. You sat frozen, your fingers gripping your clutch so hard your knuckles turned white. When you made no move to leave the safety of the car, Vance’s patience snapped.
He rounded the car and ripped the door open. Before you could even protest, his fingers clamped around your upper arm, his grip so tight it felt like his fingers were sinking into the bone.
“Ow! What the fuck?” you yelled, wincing as he hauled you out of the seat. The four-inch heels made you stumble on the gravel, your ankles nearly snapping as he started dragging you toward the heavy steel doors of the building. “Let go of me! This isn't funny, Vance!”
Your vision glazed over for a second. You knew how to fight back; you had the power humming in your veins, and you’d spent months training for this. But your body betrayed you. You were still weak from your injuries, the Asgardian magic still busy knitting your insides back together. You stumbled, the heels catching on a crack in the pavement.
“What are you doing? Let me go!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the cold concrete.
Vance spun around, his face contorted. “Shut up!” he yelled, and with a sickening force, he slammed you against the brick wall of the building.
The air left your lungs, and your eyebrows furrowed in a flash of pure, unadulterated fury. But as he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you, he leaned in until you could smell the stale scent of his breath. “Maybe I should just have you right here? In your slutty, tight dress?”
Your blood ran cold. The sheer audacity of his words, the way he looked at you like you were an object to be broken, made your skin crawl.
High above, Thor was a silhouette against the rising darkness. He had been looking for you everywhere, his gaze frantically tracing the city streets like a hawk. Every second you were with that mortal was a second of agony for him.
His blood boiled when he finally caught sight of the car parked in that desolate alley. When he saw the fucker corner you, slamming you against the wall, Thor saw red. He knew you were vulnerable; he knew your body was still fragile from the battle, still healing under the very magic he had gifted you.
The clouds over the city curdled. A violent, deep purple vortex began to spin directly over the warehouse, the rumble of thunder echoing through the buildings like the growl of a dying god.
You looked up, the terror in your chest suddenly replaced by a strange, soaring calm. Above the silhouette of the man threatening you, the sky was glazing over with a familiar, electric wrath. Your heart gave a relieved thud; the primal rumble of the sky was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard. He was here.
In a blinding flash of blue light, the air exploded. The pressure change was so sudden it knocked the breath out of Vance. You watched as Thor descended, not like a savior, but like an executioner. He landed ten feet away, the concrete shattering beneath his boots, Stormbreaker humming with a low, lethal vibration in his hand.
His cape billowed in the wind of his own making, and his eyes were glowing, overflowing with the lightning of a thousand storms. He didn't look at Vance. He looked at you, his gaze tracing the bruise already forming on your arm and the way your dress was hitched up from the struggle. The growl that came out of his chest wasn't human. “Get your hands,” Thor rasped, the sky cracking above him in punctuation, “off of her.”
Vance let go of you immediately, stumbling back as the sheer presence of the God of Thunder seemed to suck the oxygen out of the alley. You let out a shaky, relieved breath, standing your ground despite the thudding in your chest and the sting on your arm. You weren't going to let this piece of trash see you crumble.
Thor was a blur of silver and shadow as he strode toward Vance, his hand lashing out to snatch the man by his collar. He lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing, slamming him back against the same brick wall where you had just been pinned.
“How dare you touch her?!” Thor’s voice rumbled, a low-frequency growl that made the glass in the nearby warehouse windows rattle.
Vance’s eyes widened, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. “She—she was asking for it—I swear—“
Thor’s left hand came up, white-hot static dancing over his knuckles, the air smelling sharply of scorched earth. “You will pay for that,” he rasped, his grip tightening until Vance’s feet dangled uselessly above the gravel.
Then, you turned your head. Through the haze of the storm, you saw a flash of light—a phone lens. A man stood at the end of the alley, recording the entire thing. Your blood ran cold. Without context, this looked like the King of New Asgard assaulting a human civilian. If Thor did something—anything—to Vance right now, the world would call him a murderer.
“Thor!” you yelled, stepping toward him and grabbing his massive bicep. You looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Someone's recording us, stop,” you mumbled, your voice urgent.
He glanced at you, the glowing white in his eyes flickering but staying bright as he looked back at the man in his grip. “No,” he said, the thunder above echoing his refusal.
You leaned in closer, your thumb soothing the corded muscle of his bicep in a desperate, rhythmic motion. “Please, handsome,” you whispered.
He relaxed then. The static on his knuckles died down, and he dropped Vance to the floor with a heavy, unceremonious thud. Vance huddled on the gravel, gasping for air, but Thor didn't spare him another glance. He turned to you, his arms immediately hauling you into the crushing safety of his embrace, pulling your back against his chest.
“Are you okay, my sweet girl?” he asked, his voice dropping into that tender, gravelly tone. He rested his chin atop your head, one hand soothing over your hair, smoothing the strands that had been ruffled in the scuffle. You nodded, leaning back into the solid heat of his armor. He turned his head toward the man recording in the shadows, his expression shifting back into that of a cold, protective King.
“Go away, mortal,” he rumbled. The command was so absolute, so heavy with divine authority, that the man didn't even hesitate. He tucked his phone away and scrambled into the darkness as fast as his legs would carry him.
Thor turned you around in his arms then, his hands moving to your shoulders, his gaze scanning your face. “I should have never let you leave,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
The moment of peace was shattered by a sharp scoff from the gravel. Vance was clutching his throat, his face twisted in a sneer. “The slut calls you handsome and you immediately melt,” he spat.
Both of your heads snapped toward him at the same time. Thor let out a low, guttural growl, his grip on Stormbreaker tightening, but before he could move, your own rage boiled over. Your eyes flared with a sudden, violent violet glow. A jagged arc of purple electricity tore through the air, striking Vance square in the chest. He didn't even have time to scream before he slumped over, his body going completely still.
You froze, the static still dancing over your fingertips.
“Why haven't you done that before?” Thor grumbled, looking at the man's unmoving body with an entirely unfazed expression.
You turned toward him, your chest heaving. “Because I was paralyzed with shock!” you yelled, the adrenaline finally making your voice crack.
Thor’s expression shifted, the tenderness from a moment ago hardening into something cold and distant. “Let's go,” he said. He turned on his heel, not looking back at you as he began walking toward the exit of the narrow street.
He was moving with purpose, his gaze darkened as he searched for an open space proper enough to summon the Bifrost. His mind was a storm of its own, swirling with the sting of your earlier assumption. How could she think so little of me? To believe I would lead her into such a moment while another woman held my heart? The perceived betrayal of your thoughts felt like a blade between his ribs.
“What's wrong?” you asked, trying to keep up with his long, effortless strides.
He didn't answer. His pace only fastened. “We'll talk later,” he said, his back a wall of shimmering cape and muscle. You hurried after him, the uneven pavement a minefield. “Slow down, Thor!” you gasped. Your heels were a death trap on this terrain, offering zero stability as you tried to match his god-like gait. He still wasn't turning around.
“Will you slow dow—“ Your ankle snapped to the side. You let out a sharp cry as you hit the ground hard, the force of the fall knocking the breath right out of your lungs.
Thor stopped. He closed his eyes for a brief, pained second, a flicker of exasperation crossing his features—how could someone be so clumsy? But the irritation was gone as quickly as it arrived, replaced by a surge of pure panic. He turned toward you instantly, dropping Stormbreaker to the side as he rushed back. His gaze was overflowing with raw concern as he reached for you.
“How do you always manage to fall down?” he asked, his voice a mix of exasperation and genuine worry as he knelt to inspect your ankle.
Your eyes narrowed, the pain in your leg sharpening your tongue. “This one is your fault! Why wouldn't you just slow down?” you yelled at him, gesturing wildly at the desolate street.
“I'm sorry, darling,” he murmured, the sudden softness of the endearment catching you off guard. “You're right.”
Before you could argue further, he locked his left arm under your legs and his right one firmly behind your back, lifting you up bridal style. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his neck to steady yourself. Your heart started beating out of your chest; being this close to him, feeling the cold metal of his armor against your skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat, was overwhelming.
“Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he began walking, eyes scanning for a clearing.
“What?” you asked, breathless.
He looked directly into your eyes, his gaze heavy and knowing. “You fall an awful lot, and I always end up either helping you up or carrying you.”
Your eyes widened, and you immediately averted your gaze, feeling the heat creep up your neck. "No," you mumbled shyly, though you couldn't help the way your fingers curled slightly into the nape of his hair.
He chuckled—a deep, vibrating sound that you felt in your own chest. He finally found a clear spot and lifted Stormbreaker high, summoning the Bifrost. In a blur of light and sound, the world smeared into colors until the familiar, sterile scent of the Avengers Compound replaced the city grime.
But Thor didn't set you down, he strode through the hallways with a silent, regal determination—his boots echoing against the floor until he came to a stop right in front of his doors. Wait. His doors?
You gazed up at him, your brow furrowed in confusion. “Why are we in front of your quarters?”
He looked at you as he opened the door with one hand while holding you, kicking it open with a heavy thud. “We are going to have a little chat,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin tingle.
Your throat went bone-dry. This was it. This was where he told you he couldn't train you anymore—that the boundaries had been overstepped and there was no going back. You didn't want to hear his rejection; you didn't want to hear him say it was a mistake.
“No need—“
“Yes, need,” he cut you off, sitting you down firmly on the edge of his bed.
He immediately started pacing the length of the room in front of you, his cape swirling like a storm cloud with every sharp turn. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror facing the bed—your expression was broken, your makeup slightly smudged, looking like a girl who had just survived a wreck.
“You are so irresponsible!” he started yelling, his voice booming in the confined space.
Your eyebrows furrowed, your own temper flickering to life. “How am I irresponsible? I am not a child—“
He held up a finger, a silent command that stopped the words in your throat. “You keep trying me. Let me speak,” he rumbled. You nodded, gulping hard as he turned back to his scolding.
“You go on a date with a bastard like him? You do no background check on the men who you let take you out?!” He ran a hand through his hair, gripping his head as if it were about to explode. “And him? After we kissed?”
He stopped pacing then, looking you dead in the eye. Your breath caught in your throat, the air in the room suddenly feeling very thin. You gulped, “I thought you—“
“I know what you thought, and I am even more mad because of that! No, actually, I’m not mad,” he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I’m furious.” Your gaze fell to the floor, unable to hold that intense, electric stare.
“How could you think I could kiss you while I have another’s hands holding mine?” he asked, his voice shaking with the weight of his words. “How could you think me so low of a man that I would betray anyone’s—your trust like that?”
He took a deep breath, stepping into your personal space until his boots were touching your heels. He reached down, his large hand cupping your face and grabbing your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The glow was back in his eyes, but it wasn't the wrath of the storm—it was something far more consuming.
“How could you think I could even look at another woman,” he whispered, his thumb grazing your lower lip, “while there is you?”
Your chest started heaving, the rhythm of your breath erratic as the weight of his words settled over you. His thumb continued its slow, hypnotic soothing over your chin, and he gulped, his gaze anchored to your face. He looked at you with a hunger that was almost painful—taking in your beautiful eyes, your consuming expression, and those lips he had branded just a day before.
“I know you do not want me,” he said, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “I know you think I'm a creep—“
“What do you mean? I do not think such a thing,” you interrupted, your eyebrows furrowing in genuine shock. You reached up, your hand covering his as you cradled his palm against your cheek, needing the contact to stay grounded.
“Don't deny it—I know you do,” he mumbled, a flicker of insecurity crossing his rugged features. “But I am consumed by you. Your jokes annoyed me at first, but now they are the only things I want to hear. Your voice soothes my soul; the sight of you makes my heart sing.”
You stopped breathing entirely. The room seemed to shrink until there was nothing but the heat radiating from his body.
“I kissed you and apologized because I thought I had taken advantage of you,” he took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for a rejection that wasn't coming. “I wanted to kiss you since the first time I caught sight of you. I fell for you the first time you talked to me with that vibrant voice of yours.”
The world seemed to tilt. What?
“I love you, Little One.”
You couldn't take one more breath. Your eyes welled up with hot, thick tears that blurred your vision. Through all this time—all the training sessions where you’d felt like a nuisance, all the moments you thought you were just a responsibility—he had loved you?
“Shut up,” you breathed. Before he could respond, you reached up and caught his neck, pulling him down toward you with a strength that surprised you both. His breath hitched in his chest as he was forced into your space. “I love you too, handsome,” you mumbled against his lips.
He froze. All the months he had spent trying to distance himself, trying to play the stoic mentor because he was terrified of his own heart—and you had wanted him all along? You loved him?
Then, Thor smiled, It was a wide, radiant expression of pure, unadulterated joy that seared its way into your heart, brighter than any lightning he had ever summoned.
You smiled back, a soft, shaky thing that finally reached your eyes, but just as he was leaning in to close the distance, you let out a small, troubled mumble. “I never thought you could love me,” you whispered, your brow furrowing.
His expression shifted instantly, his eyes filled with confusion. “How? I thought I had made it very clear that I want you.”
You rolled your eyes, a dry, sarcastic huff escaping you as you pulled him back toward your lips. “Yeah, you have a very strange way of showing it, grumpy.” you murmured, your voice dripping with irony.
Your lips collided then, and the world outside the room ceased to exist. You kissed him with everything you had—all those times of yearning and frustration pouring into the contact. But the height difference from your position on the bed was nagging at him. Thor reached down, his massive hands catching your waist as he hauled you up to your feet. You gasped, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you stabilized. He didn't let go; instead, his large hand slid down, his palm tracing the length of your left thigh as you stood before him.
“I love those heels,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly sound. His fingers hooked firmly behind the back of your knee, and with a sudden, possessive tug, he brought your leg up, pinning it against his hip.
Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs at the sheer boldness of the move. Your midi dress had ridden up until it was sitting just below your ass, revealing your legs to him. “And I love those legs.” He mumbled again looking down at the sight of your legs hungrily. He didn't wait for you to recover; he was kissing you again, pressing you firmly against his solid frame. You opened your mouth in a long, shaky moan, and Thor took the permission instantly. He grabbed your jaw, his massive hand tipping your head back further, deepening the kiss with a primal hunger.
His tongue brushed over your teeth, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat between you spiked. His chest was pressed right against yours—solid, secure, and terrifyingly hot. You had never felt a burn like this just from a few kisses.
It was passionate and messy. It was Thor.
His broad, calloused fingers dug into your soft skin, grounding you as his solid body anchored yours. You combed your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly, and he let out a low, guttural groan. The noise vibrated through his chest and directly into yours, making you shudder with a sudden, burning, needy heat that made the rest of the world fall away into ash.
He sucks on your lower lip, a slow and deliberate pressure before releasing it with a wet pop. He licks over the sensitized skin, his tongue soothing the sting before his mouth begins to travel. He moves over your cheeks, then down the sharp line of your jaw, repeating the same rhythmic, grounding motion. Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, pulling him closer as your hips buck mindlessy against his, seeking the solid heat of him.
“My love,” he mumbles against your skin. The sound of him calling you that—so easily, so naturally—makes your heart hammer against your ribs. “Hm?” you murmur, completely breathless from the weight of his kisses.
“Say it again,” he commands softly, his forehead resting against yours as his eyes search yours. “Say you love me.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, a soft, genuine thing. “I love you, baby,” you mumble directly over his lips.
Thor smiles back, a look of pure, unshielded adoration that makes him look younger, softer. “I’m never going to get over that,” he whispers. He begins to move, slowly descending you toward the bed, laying you down against the soft sheets with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the storm outside.
He stands over you then, his breathing heavy as he begins discarding his armor. The metallic clatter of the plates hitting the floor is the only sound in the room, and the sight of him makes a rush of heat flare through your core.
He is truly a god. As the layers come off, he reveals the rugged landscape of his body—the short, messy hair, the massive breadth of his shoulders, and those biceps that had been driving you toward the edge of sanity for months. You gulp, your eyes roaming over the sheer power of him, and you instinctively bite your lower lip, your pulse thrumming in your throat. He notices the look, a dark, confident smirk playing on his lips as he steps closer to the edge of the bed.
You were up on your elbows now, looking up at him while still biting your lip. The sight of him without the armor was almost too much to take in—all corded muscle and golden skin. He climbed onto the bed, bracing one knee down beside you, his right hand reaching out to catch your chin. His thumb moved with a gentle, calloused pressure, unhooking your lip from your teeth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he smiled down at you, his voice like rolling thunder.
“Like what?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, playing oblivious even as your heart tried to leap out of your chest.
“Like you want to devour me whole,” he rumbled. You gulped, the honesty of the moment stripping away your filters. “But I do,” you said.
His chest staggered, his breath hitching as he looked at you with a new level of intensity. “Don’t say things like that, sweet girl. It only makes me want to keep you here until the end of the universe.”
Your breathing got heavier, the room thick with the scent of him and his skin. “Maybe I want you to keep me here forever,” you mumbled. You were down bad, and at this point, you didn't care if he knew it.
His gaze darkened instantly, the blue of his eye turning into the deep, turbulent indigo of a storm. “Oh, now you’re being a bad girl, darling. You’re playing with fire,” he said. He took hold of your left hand, his grip firm and possessive. The momentum almost made your back hit the bed, but he kept you upright, his strength anchoring you in place.
Once he was sure you were steady, he leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. “Wanna feel me, baby?”
You nodded immediately, licking your lower lip expectantly, your gaze fixed on him.
He took your hand and placed it right over his stomach. The moment your palm met his skin, he gasped out a sharp, guttural groan, his abdominal muscles rippling and tightening under your touch. It was like a circuit had been completed; your touch burned through him, sending a physical jolt through his frame that made him shudder against you.
Your gaze was fixed on his eyes, looking up at him through your lashes as you slowly glided your hand upwards, tracing the ridge of his ribs until your palm rested over the heavy thud of his heart. Then, you began lowering it, your fingers exploring the hard, defined planes of his abdominal muscles. It felt incredible to be touching him like this—to finally be feeling him up without the barrier of training gear or armor.
Your hands moved lower, your gaze now fixed on his torso as you watched his skin ripple under your touch. When your hand reached the waistband of his trousers, you smiled wickedly. You shifted your grip, fisting the hard length of him through the fabric.
Thor let out a choked, guttural groan, his eyes snapping shut as his head fell back. You kept palming him, your eyes fixed on his face to watch every flicker of pleasure, every sharp intake of breath. You were going to be the end of him, and you knew it. He was breathing heavily, his entire body straining as he fought for control, trying not to lose himself right then and there.
Just as your fingers found the tab of his zipper, he reached down and caught your hand, his grip firm but trembling with restraint.
“Stop, baby,” he mumbled, his voice a low, ragged rasp.
“Why?” you breathed, looking up at him with a pout.
“Because there’s only one place I’m intending on coming in tonight,” he rumbled, his eyes opening to reveal a gaze so hungry it made your toes curl, “and it isn’t my pants.”
You giggled breathlessly, the sound a mix of nerves and pure excitement. His hands moved then, reaching around to the back of your dress. You felt the cool air hit your skin as he began to pull the zipper down, the smooth slide of the metal the only sound in the room besides your shared, frantic breathing.
When the zipper was down, he didn't waste a second, his large hands tugging the top of the dress down. The cool air hit your skin, revealing your breasts and your hardened nipples to the dim light of the room.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, the word caught in a ragged exhale as he looked down at them.
He pushed you back onto the bed then, the mattress dipping under your weight as he kept tugging the fabric lower. The dress caught momentarily at your hips, the tight fabric clinging to your curves before he worked it free. His hungry gaze traced every inch of skin he uncovered, his eyes dark with a possessive intensity as he stripped the dress completely from your body and tossed it aside.
He looked at your heels then, the silver hardware glinting. When you made a move to reach down and remove them, his hand flashed out, catching your wrist to stop you.
“Keep the heels on,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a command that made your blood sing.
Oh, fuck.
You nodded frantically, the friction and the sight of him making your black lace panties dampen even more. He looked you over, his gaze traveling slowly back up your legs until it snagged on the lace. His eyes darted from the delicate fabric to your face, his jaw tightening as a flash of that protective, jealous God returned.
“You wore those for him?” he grumbled, his voice low and dangerous as he loomed over you.
You shook your head, your heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “No—“
He was over you in an instant, the heat from his skin radiating against yours as he hovered over your right breast. “Don't lie to me,” he rumbled against your skin before biting down on your nipple. The sharp, stinging pleasure made you squeal, your breath leaving you in a sharp puff. His left hand gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your hip, while his right hand rested flat against your stomach, anchoring you to the bed.
“I'm not lyin',” you gasped, your fingers knotting into the sheets.
“Are you not?” he asked, his voice a low vibration. He licked over the mark he’d just made, his tongue hot and soothing, while his right thumb found your clit over the black lace. He didn't waste time; he pressed down firmly, right on the center of your pleasure.
You let out a broken moan, your head tossing back against the sheets. You gulped, trying to find your voice through the haze. “I'm not—please—“
“Mm, what do you want, my love?” he asked, his tone deceptively sweet as his thumb began to circle your clit over the fabric, the friction building a frantic, tight heat. “Who did you wear them for then?”
He shifted his focus back to your nipple, slowly kissing, then sucking, then biting again, a relentless rhythm of praise and punishment. You were losing your mind. Your hips tried to buck up, desperate to meet the pressure of his hand, but his left hand stayed heavy on your waist, effortlessly pushing you down.
God, he was so strong. The sheer power in his touch made another rush of wetness pool at your core, soaking into the lace.
“I want you—I wore them for you! I swear!” you moaned, the truth tearing out of you as you arched your back, desperate for him to believe you, desperate for him to not stop.
Thor chuckled deeply, a vibration that felt like it was coming from the very earth beneath the bed. “Should I believe you, darling?” he asked. His thumb didn't stop, the rhythmic circling against the wet lace driving him into a frenzy. He could feel the heat radiating from you, the slick friction of the fabric becoming a testament to your hunger.
“You’re soaking through the lace, sweet girl,” he whispered against your skin, his voice a gravelly secret.
You nodded, your mouth agape as you fought for air, your brows knit together in a pained, perfect pleasure. “Yes... because of you,” you managed to breathe out. “It’s because of you. Only you.”
Thor paused, looking up at you with a gaze full of raw, unadulterated adoration. “You are so beautiful it burns me,” he said, his voice thick with a reverence that made your heart swell.
He didn't wait for an answer. He started a trail of fiery kisses down your stomach, moving past your navel until his hands found the edges of your panties. With one decisive, powerful motion, he ripped the lace apart, the sound of the fabric tearing lost in your sharp gasp.
He parted your legs wide, his large hands anchoring your knees as he caught sight of you, glistening and open for him. His tongue darted out to dampen his lower lip as his right hand made contact, his fingers gently parting your folds to take in every inch of you. The sound of your own slickness squelched under his touch, a wet, heavy sound that filled the quiet room as you instinctively clenched down on nothing but air.
“Looks delicious,” he mumbled, his voice a dark hunger.
He lowered himself between your parted thighs, his beard grazing your sensitive inner skin before his lips found your clit. He gave it one soft, lingering kiss that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your spine. Your eyes snapped shut, and you let out a long, broken moan that echoed against the walls of his quarters.
Your legs instinctively tried to snap shut around his head, your heels clicking sharply as your feet collided against his broad, muscled back. But he didn't budge. He caught your thighs, forcing them wide and pinning them against the mattress with a strength that made you feel delightfully small.
“Behave, little one,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you moaned helplessly, your head tossing back. “Or I will not let you come until you’re crying for me to let you.”
Then, in a blur, his right hand came down and slapped your pussy. It was a sharp, stinging contact that landed right on your clit, making your breath hitch so violently you couldn't even get a moan out. Your vision swam for a second, the shock of the impact sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.
He didn't give you a moment to recover. He placed his hand back on your thigh, his grip bruisingly tight, and lowered his mouth again. This time, there was no gentle kissing. He started suctioning on your clit, his tongue swirling in a frantic, expert rhythm while his fingers began to work their way inside you, seeking to stretch you out for the god currently devouring you.
Your mind was a complete haze of heat and pleasure. The weight of his hand on your thigh felt like it was branding your skin, and every swirl of his tongue against your clit sent waves of pleasure straight to your core. When his thick fingers began to push deep inside you, stretching you and moving in a rhythmic, relentless pace, you felt yourself hurtling toward the edge of that sweet release.
Your hands found the short, rugged hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers knotting in the strands as you pulled him closer. “Please—I’m so close—Please baby,” you begged, your voice breaking.
Thor didn't slow down. He kept the pressure constant, his fingers curling inside you as he felt your internal walls begin to quiver and tighten. He knew exactly where you were. Just as your vision started to go black and the first sparks of an orgasm began to explode behind your eyelids, you cried out, “I’m going to come!”
In an instant, he vanished.
His mouth left your clit and his fingers slid out of you. Before you could even register the loss, his hand—glistening with your own slickness—came down on your pussy in a hard, stinging slap.
The contact sent a jolt through your nervous system that forced a choked moan from your throat. “Why did you do that?” you whined, the sudden frustration of being cut off making your breath hitch. Your lower lip wobbled as the peak you were chasing evaporated into a dull, throbbing ache. “I was about to come...”
Thor smirked up at you, his eyes dark and overflowing with a playful, possessive malice. “That was for wearing those panties,” he rumbled.
“But I wore them for you—”
Crack. Another slap landed, sharp and rhythmic. You whined again, your back arching off the bed in a desperate, failed attempt to find his touch. “Please—”
“Beg me, my love,” he mumbled, his voice a low, commanding vibration as he leaned back over you, his chest hovering just inches from your aching breasts. “Beg me to let you come.”
His tongue traced your lower lip, tasting the salt of your desperation as your hands flew to his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you from drowning.
“Please baby, please,” you begged, your eyebrows knitting together in a pained, beautiful expression of need. “Please let me come.”
“Mm,” he hummed, leaning back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark with the power he held over you. “Let me think on it.”
The wait was agonizing, but it didn't last long. He was back between your legs in a heartbeat, his tongue tracing your clit with an agonizingly slow, light pressure that made you want to scream. Your breath hitched, a broken sound escaping your lips. “Oh my god—“
You didn't know where to put your hands; you were clawing at the sheets, then reaching for him, your body a live wire of unspent tension. He was torturing you, and he knew it. “Please, I’m begging you,” you whispered, hot tears beginning to cloud your gaze and spill over. At this moment, the world outside this room didn't exist. You couldn't feel anything but the heat of his skin and the hunger in his touch.
His fingers stopped at your entrance, hovering there, teasing the sensitive skin. He looked up at you, that devilish smile returning to his rugged face. “Should I let you come, sweet girl?” he asked again, watching the tears run down your cheeks with a gaze that was both possessive and adoring.
“Please—I’ll do anything,” you sobbed out, the words a frantic surrender.
Thor made a deep, approving sound from his chest—a rumble that felt like distant thunder. “Okay then, if you insist.”
He didn't hold back this time. He started devouring you, his tongue moving with a fierce, rhythmic intensity that shattered whatever was left of your composure.
“You taste so good,” he growled in between his attacks on your clit. The vibration of his voice against your most sensitive spot was so delicious you literally saw stars. You gasped for air, your back arching. “You taste just like I imagined,” he said, his voice thick with praise as he worked you toward the edge. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just for me.”
“Mhm,” you mumbled, your body shuddering as his fingers curled deep inside you, hooking against your G-spot with a strength that made your vision swim. “Just for you,” you managed to choke out, though your voice was thinning, reduced to a desperate, airy thread.
He didn't let up. The assault on your clit was relentless, a perfect, punishing rhythm that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. The world was nothing but the scent of him and the white-hot friction between your legs.
“I—” you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your knuckles white. “Can I come now?” you mumbled, the words barely audible over the sound of your own frantic breathing.
Thor paused for a fraction of a second, his head lifting just enough to flash a possessive, triumphant smile. “Good girl, asking for permission,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that made your skin prickle. “Look how much of a good girl I’ve turned you into, baby. My good girl.”
He went back to work, his tongue swirling and his fingers driving into you with a new, frantic energy. You were past the point of no return. You were soaring, your internal muscles clenching violently around his fingers, milking them before the release even hit. “Please, please, please—” you begged, your voice rising in pitch.
“Come for me then, my heart,” he commanded, his voice thick with authority.
The moment the words left his lips, the dam broke. You came hard, your entire body stiffening as a violent, rhythmic pulsing took over. You whined out his name, over and over, the sound muffled against the crook of your arm as your world shattered into a thousand shards of violet light.
Thor didn’t pull away. He stayed right there, buried in you, holding you through the aftershocks. He kept mumbling praises against your sensitive skin, his voice a soothing balm to the intensity of the climax.
“You did so good, baby,” he whispered, his fingers still twitching inside you to draw out every last spark of pleasure. “Just like that. Give it all to me. C’mon, that’s it.”
He kept going, his tongue and fingers relentless until you were twitching away from his touch, your nerves fried in the best way possible. He surged back up over you then, his hand gripping your chin to hold you still as he kissed you deeply, making you taste yourself on his tongue. You let out a broken whine against his mouth, your hands frantically finding his shoulders for purchase.
As he moved, his painful bulge pressed firmly against your swollen clit through the rough fabric of his trousers. You gasped, flinching instinctively; you were so overstimulated from the orgasm he’d just gifted you that the contact felt like lightning. But he wasn't letting you move. He kept your hips locked in place, grinding himself over you with a heavy, guttural groan that forced another moan from your throat. “Thor—it’s too much, please,” you whined, your head tossing on the bed.
It was like he didn't even hear you. He slanted his lips over yours again, effectively shutting you up, and every time the fabric of his pants grazed your sensitive skin, you cried into his mouth. Your breathing was hard and ragged, and despite the overstimulation, the relentless pace of his grinding started to build that familiar, heavy pressure inside you again. Your legs instinctively widened for him, your body betraying your words as you silently begged him to keep going.
Then, he stopped. He pulled his lips from yours, hovering just inches away. You felt like you were going mad. “What are you trying to do?” you whined, your hands reaching down to grab his ass, trying to force him to move again, to give you that friction you were suddenly desperate for.
But he was a wall of muscle. He easily removed your hands from his frame, pinning your wrists to the bed for a brief second as he smiled down at you—a dark, promise-filled expression.
“I’m getting you ready to be fucked, baby,” he rumbled.
He moved then, parting from you just enough to stand on his knees on the bed. Your eyes widened as he began to remove his trousers and boxers in one fluid motion. The sight of him—completely unshielded and massive—made the breath die in your throat. You were finally seeing all of him, and the reality of what was about to happen made your core pulse with a renewed, frantic ache.
Your empty hole clenched with the sharp, agonizing anticipation of finally having him inside you. Thor began descending on you again, his weight a heavy, welcome shadow. His angry pink tip was already leaking with precum, a glistening drop trailing down the side. You couldn't help yourself; your thumb found his tip, smearing a bit of his cum onto your skin before you brought it to your lips.
Keeping your gaze locked on his, you slid your thumb into your mouth and started sucking the moisture off. You closed your eyes, letting out a low, vibrating hum—mimicking exactly what he had done with your lip gloss.
Thor couldn't breathe. The sight of you—so hungry for him, so unraveled that you would do something so bold—made him let out a groan of desperate, primal hunger. He looked like he was going to consume you whole. But a sudden, dark idea popped into his mind.
His massive hands grabbed your waist, and with a sudden surge of strength, he pivoted your entire body. You squealed as he turned you around so your head was toward the footing of the bed and your feet were near the headboard.
“What are you doing?” you asked, looking up at him, startled and breathless as he laid you back down.
He didn't answer. He simply loomed over you, his hands groping at your thighs and forcing them wide once more, your heels still on, catching the light. He leaned down, placing the head of his cock right between your lips—not your mouth, but the swollen, aching folds of your pussy. He started gliding it over you, the friction of his skin against yours making him bite his lower lip and groan in a way that sounded like a physical ache.
You mewled, your hips bucking up to try and force the entry. “Just fuck me already!” you cried out, your voice cracking with the need to be filled.
He chuckled, the sound low and dark as he used your own slickness to coat the length of him. He finally obliged, positioning himself at your entrance. Your hips bucked instinctively, reaching for the relief of him, but he held you firm.
“Stop squirming,” he commanded, his large hands anchoring your hips to the mattress. Then, he started easing inside. He let out a long, pained groan at the way your tight walls immediately clamped around him, welcoming him with a desperate heat. You moaned, your hands flying to his back, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as your legs dangled over his waist, your heels hovering in the air.
He was so deep, stretching you in a way that made you feel completely delirious.
“Shit,” he cursed, his voice cracking. He looked down, and the sight of your stomach slightly bulging with the sheer length of him made him twitch violently inside you.
You moaned again, your voice a broken plea. “Move... I’m begging you.”
Then, he started to move. He was relentless, each thrust a deliberate, heavy weight that filled you to the brink. His left hand reached down, grabbing your right hand and forcing it flat against your own stomach, pressing down right where he was hitting you from the inside.
Your eyes widened, your pupils dilating until there was hardly any color left. “Oh my god—” you mewled, the sensation of feeling him from both the inside and out making your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
“You feel me? Deep in you, marking you, my sweet girl?” he mumbled, his pace fastening.
The rhythm became primal. Your heel-clad feet made rhythmic, thudding noises against his back with every thrust, the silver hardware clicking. His right hand stayed clamped onto your left thigh, keeping you open and vulnerable. You were a total mess—your hair was tangled against the sheets, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps, your eyes fluttering as you lost the ability to process anything but the friction and the fullness.
Suddenly, he shifted. His left hand left yours on your stomach and moved upward, his large palm cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.
“Open your eyes, baby,” he rumbled, his own gaze burning with a divine, terrifying hunger. “Look at me while I take you.”
You opened your eyes, your gaze clouded over and unfocused, but Thor wasn't finished with you yet. He tilted your head back, his hand firm against your jaw, until your line of sight hit the large mirror facing the wall.
The reflection was a shock to your system. You saw everything: the frantic, flushed look of your own face, your mouth agape, and your legs—still adorned in those sharp, elegant heels—dangling over his massive waist. You saw the rhythmic, powerful motion of him driving in and out of you, the sight of his bronzed, muscled skin against yours.
“Oh,” you whined, the visual of your bodies joined together sending a fresh jolt of electricity through your nerves.
“Watch us, baby,” he rumbled, his movements getting faster and more punishing. “Watch yourself take every inch of me.”
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling praise and possessive commands as he bit down on the sensitive cord of your throat. His left hand never wavered, keeping your head tilted at that exact angle so you couldn't look away from the mirror.
He lifted his head then, catching your gaze in the reflection. Sweat was running down his temples, dripping onto your chest, and his eyebrows were knitted in deep, concentrated pleasure. He looked like a man possessed, a god losing himself in a mortal. Well, an immortal now.
The friction, the sight of him in the mirror, and the relentless depth of his thrusts pushed you over the cliff. You couldn't take it anymore; the pressure in your core was a physical weight, a sparking fuse that had finally reached its end.
“I’m—I’m gonna come,” you managed to gasp out, your body beginning to tremble violently beneath him.
His left hand loosened its grip on your jaw, sliding up to cup your cheek as he pulled your gaze away from the mirror and directly toward him.
“Look in my eyes when you come, my heart,” he commanded, his voice a low, ragged rasp. His own pleasure was building behind his eyes, a storm of blue and gold. “Come with me, baby. Come on.”
His adoring gaze burned through you, anchoring you even as the world began to dissolve. Your pulse raced, your internal walls spasming around him in a tight, desperate rhythm until the pleasure finally clouded over your vision and you came, your back arching off the bed as you cried out his name.
“Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice strained and thick as he fought to keep his composure, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“In me, please,” you gasped out, the words hitting him like an explosion.
He didn't need to be told twice. Thor let out a primal, guttural groan and surged into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. He came right after you, his entire frame shuddering as your walls milked him, driving him into a state of pure, unadulterated bliss. He filled you up completely, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he breathed through the intensity of the release.
The room fell quiet, save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his large hand gently petting your hair, smoothing the tangled strands away from your face.
“You okay, sweet girl?” he asked, his eyes soft and overflowing with love.
You nodded, a wide, breathless grin breaking across your face as the aftershocks continued to hum through your skin. “More than okay,” you said. You reached up, pulling his head back down to yours, and slanted your lips over his in a slow, sweet kiss.
Thor hummed, a low, contented sound that vibrated through his chest as he shifted your position on the bed. He pulled you back against him, spooning you so your back was pressed against the furnace of his skin. He reached around, his large, calloused hands cradling your face with a tenderness that felt almost sacred.
“I lost everything, honey. Lost my home, my mother, my father, my brother. Even my hammer at one point. I was a hollow shell of a man before I met you.” he mumbled against the shell of your ear, his voice thick with a vulnerability he rarely showed. “But I found my universe now. I found you.”
He went quiet for a heartbeat, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. “I know this is going to be a lot, and we have the weight of worlds on our shoulders, but—” He cleared his throat, the sound slightly nervous. “Would you be mine? And perhaps, in the future... my wife?”
Your heart soared, a wild, ecstatic heat blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the physical exhaustion of moments ago. You turned in his arms, smiling wildly as you hugged him with everything you had.
“Of course I would, Thunder-Thighs,” you chirped, burying your face in the crook of his neck.
Thor let out a heavy, mock-suffering groan at the nickname, though he couldn't hide the way his lips quirked upward. “You have to stop calling me that,” he rumbled, though he squeezed you tighter, his smile widening against your hair.
“No way,” you mumbled, pressing a final, cheeky kiss to his collarbone.
—
LONG.AS.FUCK. I know, I just can’t help it 😭 Let me know what you think please💞💕
- [ ] “So, let me get this straight,” you said, leaning forward to peek at Tony Stark’s holographic displays. “I’m not dying? I’m just spicy now?”—🤣🤣🤣 with my health soooo relatable. I deserve to be spicy!
- [ ] He saw the way the violet light swirled in your eyes—it looked like the nebulas he used to fly through with his brother. He thought you were stunning, a rare flash of vibrant life in a world that had gone dark.— ☺️🥰 awwwww, he just needs a giant hug!
- [ ] “I'm compact,” you squeaked, your face heating up. “Highly concentrated energy. Like a—like a shot of espresso. Smaller than you but lethal.” Thor let out a low, huffing sound that might have been a laugh. — 🤣🤣🤣🤣 I barked laughing. I need this on a tshirt as I fuel up on unhealthy amounts of caffeine!
- [ ] How could this be?, he wondered. How were you going to handle losing everyone around when the time came? He didn’t want you losing your spark, he couldn’t bear the thought of it, but you would eventually. And that was something he didn’t want to witness. Ever. — 🥺🥺🥺 not him being worried she’ll end up a shell of herself like he feels. This man needs a break and a hug!
- [ ] You were the most annoying woman he had ever encountered—a chattering, bright, chaotic light in his gray world—wrapped in the body of a goddess carved from his darkest, most secret fantasies. She’s a torture device, he decided. A weapon specifically forged by the Norns to ensure his downfall. And you were so young. A blink of an eye in his long life. It had to be a sick, cosmic joke.—🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 relax bro, it’s not that serious Thor though it does make me question how long it’s been since you’ve actually wanted to get laid!
- [ ] Thor stood perfectly still. He was covered in a fine mist of dark roast, a single, wet coffee bean clinging to the bridge of his nose. He didn't move. He just stared at the smoking, twisted corpse of the only thing that brought him joy in the mornings.— 😱😱😱😱😱 the noise I made, made a total stranger ask if I was okay 😅 The way in which my soul buried to leave my body at this travesty 😳
- [ ] Every time Thor touched you—adjusting the curve of your spine, his calloused palms lingering just a second too long on your ribs—you felt like you were being rewritten. You lived for those fragments of him. A ghost of a smile, a muttered “Well done, Little One,” a lingering gaze when he thought you weren't looking. — I would be the most bounciest, chaotic, happy puppy vibes around this man 🥰🫠😵💫
- [ ] “Okay, is the weather following our conversation or am I actually losing my mind?” you asked, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead.— 🤣🤣🤣 bless her sweet simple soul and Steve having the patience of a saint while Thor virtually throws a jealousy tantrum 🤭
- [ ] I could just die like this and I'd be happy, you thought to yourself, your fingers still clutching his shirt, your heart beating so hard you were sure he could feel it against his own ribs.— 🫠🫠🫠 me to Sparky, me too.
- [ ] “Morning, sweet girl,” he mumbled. The words hit you like a low-frequency hum, vibrating right in your chest. Your heart gave a violent thud. So you were doing this now? He was actually going to call you that? — 😳😵💫🤭🥰 *squee* omg he’s trying to break our brain before we’re even online 😆
- [ ] “I will not leave her life to your Midgardian trinkets,” Thor rasped, his voice thick with self-loathing. “I am the reason she bleeds. I will take her to my people in New Asgard. They have remedies older than your civilization. They will fix what I have broken.”—😳😳😳😳 omg bruh
- [ ] “Me happened,” Thor responded, his voice a desperate edge of self-loathing. He didn't look at her, his eyes fixed solely on your pale face. “I break every single person I get near.”— 🥺🥺🥺awww big guy
- [ ] “All-Fathers, give me strength,” Thor mumbled under his breath, his knuckles turning white as he prayed for the patience not to smite his own subject where he stood.— 🤣🤣🤣🤣 this just gave me petty delight
- [ ] “If I start,” he groaned, his voice a rough, velvet warning against your mouth, “I will not be able to stop. I will consume you, sweet girl.” — 😁🤭😌 bruh we are an open buffet! You are the only one allowed to dine!
- [ ] Vance’s brows furrowed, his expression darkening as if your voice was an annoyance. He didn't even crack a smile. He just slowed the car to a halt in front of an ominous, windowless building that looked like it hadn't seen life in decades. —🤨🤨🤨 he got nerve! She’s an avenger! Unless he’s got special tech he should be worried about being murdered for what he’s about to try 😳 he neva would’ve with Natasha!
- [ ] Thor let out a heavy, mock-suffering groan at the nickname, though he couldn't hide the way his lips quirked upward. “You have to stop calling me that,” he rumbled, though he squeezed you tighter, his smile widening against your hair.— 🤭🤭🤭 The way I giggled! surely he had to know she would still vex and pester him in all the best ways 😁🥰
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