I think Dex would eat you out well past over stimulation, and not even just because he’s being controlling etc etc. No, I think it’d be because he’s so lost in it. I think he’d be straight up whimpering into your pussy, hips flexing while he grinds into the bed, all pathetic and needy and just about ready to cum in his pants because he’s so drunk on the taste of you.
I think you could be crying out above him, over stimulated and near tears, hands in his hair, calling out his name and trying to squirm away and he’d had his arms hooked under your legs, meaty palms pressing down on your hips, brows furrowed while he’s groaning with each lick of your clit. Fuck he loves this, and he loves you, and he needs more.
And when he eventually comes up for air, pupils dilated, lids half closed, and you realize he has cum in pants, chin painted in your release, you’ll only soften.
“Oh baby,” You’d coo, and he’d just let his face fall against your thigh, looking dazed and utterly fucked out. You’d urge him up your torso, kiss him all sweet and messy, the taste of your cum still bitter on his tongue while you urge his sensitive cock into your soaking pussy and oh-
Dex is whining into your neck, grip tight on you while he ruts into you.
Warnings: smutty smut smutttttt at the end, oral (m + f receiving), use of pet names like princess and babygirl (no daddy kink involved), cursing, johnny is a needy lil lover boy
Summary: Now that you've found your soulmate, it's time to meet the family. I'm shit at summaries
A/N: I rly just sat here for 5 hours straight writing this bro lmao jesus anyways it's been years since I wrote smut so pls excuse any rustiness, hope it's good sexy timeessssss. feedback gives me life!
x
The Etta James record had ended a while ago, but neither you nor Johnny had paid it any mind. You certainly couldn’t focus on anything else, not while Johnny’s lips were currently attached to your neck.
“God, I could kiss you forever,” he mumbled against your skin.
The two of you had been making out for god knows how long, and your head and heart were spinning. All you could focus on was how good his lips felt against your skin, the way your body seemed to innately know that this man was made for you, the only thought rattling around in your brain was “he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine.”
His lips finally started trailing lower at the same time your hands did, and that’s when a knock sounded at his door, startling you both out of your stupor.
“Johnny?”
The two of you barely had any time to react before Sue Storm was opening the door, a surprised expression on her face when she walked into the room. Your hands were on Johnny’s chest, his on your waist, and Sue gave Johnny a knowing look.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Johnny had a guest,” she remarked, a small smirk on her face.
Johnny placed his hands on your shoulders, walking you forward with an excited look on his face. “Why, dear sister of mine, this is not just any guest. This…is my soulmate.”
Sue blinked in shock, her eyes suddenly taking you in fully, before she laughed in delight. “Oh—oh my god! I don’t know what to say, I mean…wow, it is so great to finally meet you!” She immediately rushed over to give you a crushing hug, granting a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’m Sue Storm,” she said, grinning.
“I’m Y/n,” you said, breathless and blushing. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Sue gave you one last look and smile, squeezing your arm affectionately before turning to her brother. “Well I really hate to interrupt this, but the gala’s about to end and the firm wants us to say our goodbyes to the guests.”
Johnny nodded, and Sue began to head out of the room before turning around briefly. “It’s truly so wonderful to meet you, Y/n.”
You smiled. “You too.”
Sue left the door open a crack after she left, and Johnny turned to you then, holding your hands in his. “Would it be okay if you hung back in the crowd? I honestly don’t think I want to share you with the world just yet.” He smiled nervously, thumb brushing the back of your hand.
Reality truly set in at his admittance. The world. The whole world would soon find out who you are, what your life is like, who you are to Johnny. Your life may never be truly private again…and the fact that Johnny had even considered that was something you genuinely appreciated. You weren’t quite ready to be shared with the world either.
“That’s completely fine. I don’t think I want you to share me quite yet either.”
Johnny smiled. “I’ll find you after?” You nodded, and he placed a quick kiss to your hand before jogging after Sue.
Whew. You couldn’t stop smiling, your mind still reeling from your brand new reality. Never in your wildest dreams was your soulmate ever actually Johnny Storm. You briefly considered pinching yourself, but not even your dreams could feel as real as Johnny’s lips against yours.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before walking out of Johnny’s room and back to the gala. You realized, walking towards the middle of the crowd, that you felt completely at ease now. Because now, it felt like you belonged here.
“Attention,” Reed Richards appeared from above on the balcony overlooking the crowd as he tapped the glass he was holding, and Ben, Sue and Johnny appeared beside him. You could see Johnny scanning the crowd in search of you. Once he found you, he gave you a grin and a wink, making your heart skip a beat.
“Thank you all so, so much for being here with us tonight. I truly feel like we’re going to change lives with the amount of money we have raised. I want to give a special thank you to our incredible PR firm for putting this all together for us; You all are amazing, and we truly appreciate every one of you. Now unfortunately for Sue and I, baby duty awaits, so we’ll have to call it a night.” A chuckle rang through the crowd. “Goodnight everyone, get home safe!”
The crowd finally began to disperse, and you walked over to lean against the wall as you waited for Johnny.
“Y/n?”
You looked up, and finally someone from your PR firm had found you. Your boss.
“Hey, how was your evening?” You asked.
“It was lovely. How was yours? Everything you ever dreamed of?” She smirked. She was the person you begged for a ticket, so you were certain she figured you were a superhero fangirl.
“Uh,” you began, when you spotted Johnny jogging down the steps, making a beeline for you. You tried to hide your smile, because she truly had no idea just how loaded that question really was. “Yep, totally,” you said, trying to sound sarcastic. “I really do appreciate you getting me this ticket. You have no idea what it means for me.”
“No problem. Just remember it comes out of your paycheck for the next 6 months!” She said as she walked away.
Johnny finally made his way to you as the last of the crowd finally made their way out of the building.
“Hi,” he said, beaming at you and taking your hands in his.
Your grin could probably split your face in two. “Hi.”
Johnny opened his mouth to speak, when another voice rang out.
“Who’s this?”
Reed Richards made his way down the stairs with an intrigued look on his face, Ben and Sue following close behind with knowing smiles.
“That’s Johnny’s soulmate,” Ben and Sue said simultaneously. They both turned to each other in confusion.
“How’d you know that?” All three of them asked each other at the same time.
You giggled. “Does that happen a lot?” You leaned in to ask Johnny quietly.
“More than you would expect,” he murmured.
Reed finally approached you, holding his hand out for you to shake. “Reed Richards. It’s…a pleasure to meet you.” He looked between you and Johnny, the gears turning in his head as if he was trying to figure you and your dynamic out.
You shook his hand, nervous butterflies twirling in your stomach at being in a room alone with the most famous superheroes on the planet. “The pleasure is all mine, truly.”
“So, when did you two meet?” He asked.
“Tonight,” Johnny replied. “I spotted her wearing my ring.”
“And he had on the bracelet I made him this year,” you added.
Reed gave you a small smile. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations to you both!”
“Alright, it’s my turn,” Ben suddenly interjected, walking over towards you before giving you a sweet, crushing hug and lifting you in the air, a surprised laugh escaping you. “It’s so great to meet you, Y/n.”
“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Johnny asked, staring at you with pride. “I can’t stop staring at her.”
Ben, Sue and Reed all exchanged surprised but happy looks. Johnny had always been forward with women in the past, but never so much so in front of his family. “That she is, Johnny,” Ben agreed. “That she is.”
Sue walked over to you and placed a hand on your back, ushering you towards the kitchen. “I know it’s late, but could I make you something to drink?”
“I would love that.”
You and Sue made your way over to the kitchen while the guys hung back, watching the two of you talk.
“So, how do you feel, Johnny?” Ben asked.
Johnny was still staring at you in wonder. “I’m in love,” he sighed. Ben chuckled, and Reed raised his eyebrows in surprise. Johnny pointed a finger at Reed defensively. “Don't say it. I know you're about to say something like 'Johnny, you only met met her a few hours ago' but—“
“It’s okay,” Reed interjected. “I wasn't going to say anything because that’s how it’s supposed to feel with your soulmate. It’s just..strange to hear you talk like that is all.”
“I know,” he agreed. “But man, it’s…wow.”
“You certainly have a way with words, Johnny,” Ben teased, earning him a glare.
“Boys?” Sue called out from the kitchen table next to you, earning the men’s attention. “You three gonna stand there and stare or would you like to join us?”
All of you sat around their kitchen table, and you were surprised to realize that this all felt…normal. Comfortable, even. Like this is the way it was always supposed to be, despite the fact that you were sitting with people who saved the world on a daily basis while you had sat back and watched on your television screen.
Reed was the first to speak, his eyes on the shining ring sitting perfectly on your left hand. “So you two are already engaged?”
You and Johnny looked at each other and smiled bashfully. “We are,” he answered, his hand finding yours under the table.
Reed was quiet, clearly having a million thoughts running through his head by the second.
“What are you thinking?” Sue asked, her eyes narrowed at her husband. “I know that look.”
“Nothing!” Reed exclaimed, holding his hands up in the air innocently. “It’s just…a bit quick is all.”
Johnny’s hand tightened around yours, almost protectively.
“Reed, I don’t remember us even really talking much right after we first met. We were too busy…” Sue trailed off, giving him a look.
Johnny grimaced. “Okay, did not need to know that.”
Sue laughed, shrugging.
“Look at em’, Reed,” Ben said, gesturing to the two of you. “They look like they’ve been in love for years. Johnny’s practically got hearts comin’ out of his eyes.”
Johnny wiggled his eyebrows at you, making you laugh. “It’s true. I already feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”
“And I, personally, have never heard Johnny talk like this with anyone else,” Sue pointed out with a smile.
Reed looked at the two of you again before finally giving a small nod and a smile. “I do have to agree on that.”
Johnny raised your interlocked hands to kiss your knuckles.
“So Y/n, tell us about yourself?” Sue asked.
An hour later, the five of you were laughing hysterically, sharing life stories and memories. Mostly embarrassing ones of Johnny, to your amusement. It was the most at ease around a group of virtual strangers you’d ever felt. But they weren’t strangers, not really. This…this was now your family.
“His fly was down the whole time,” Ben managed through laughter. “Didn’t tell him until after the camera’s stopped rolling.”
Johnny was smiling despite his blush. “Yeah, thank you again for that, by the way.”
All of you were still laughing when a knock sounded at the front door. “Ah, that’d be the babysitter,” Sue said as she got up to answer the door.
Johnny leaned towards you then, muttering to you, “How are you? You okay?” You were suddenly very aware of the warm hand now on your upper thigh.
You nodded, giving him a smile. “I’m perfect.”
He winked at you. “That you are.”
Sue wandered back into the kitchen, her babbling 8 month old son on her hip. “Babysitter said he just woke up from a nap, so he’ll be up for a while. He’s basically nocturnal at this point.”
Reed, Johnny and Ben stood up to greet their little guy, and you tentatively followed.
“How’s my favorite little magic baby, huh?” Johnny exclaimed, grabbing Franklin’s foot and tickling it, making him giggle.
Sue turned towards you. “Franklin, this is Y/n,” she started, trying to get Franklin to look at you. “She’s gonna be your auntie someday.”
You slowly approached him, giving him a warm smile and a wave. “Hey, little guy. You are so adorable.”
Franklin babbled happily and held his arms out towards you, surprising you.
“I think he wants you,” Sue grinned. “Do you want to hold him? Are you comfortable?”
“Yeah, I’d love that.”
You took little Franklin in your arms, laughing as he placed his little hands on your cheeks and giggled. You bounced him on your hip, talking nonsense to him as you slowly began walking around the room with him.
“Johnny,” Sue said quietly as she stood next to her brother. “She’s perfect. Seriously.”
Johnny swallowed, watching you play with his nephew in your arms. “I know. It’s a little scary, honestly. But I’m…I’m really excited. I wanna do this.”
Sue smiled. “I felt the same with Reed. Once you meet your person, everything starts happening all at once. But just…enjoy it. Take in every moment for what it is, and let yourself feel the way you feel. You’re supposed to feel totally in love and terrified at the same time.”
Johnny looked down at his sister, giving her a small smile that she returned. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Promise.” She squeezed her brother’s shoulder before making her way over to you, gently taking Franklin from your arms. “You two have had a very big night, and it’s getting pretty late, so we’ll leave you two alone.”
“It was so amazing to meet you all,” you said. “Thank you so much for being so welcoming.”
“Don’t mention it,” Ben said. “You’re part of the family now.”
Sue came over and gave you one last hug, Reed giving you a nod and a smile, and the four of them all went to their respective quarters.
“So…” you began, biting your lip as you looked up at Johnny.
He placed his hands on your hips, squeezing them gently. “So…”
Tension suddenly grew in the air, butterflies swarming your stomach as your mind wandered back to the way he’d been kissing you a few hours prior. “Um, I know it’s late, so I can head out…”
Johnny shook his head. “Stay. Please? I mean you could stay forever, if you wanted, but at least the night—”
You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I’ll stay.”
“YES.” He dramatically pumped his fist in the air before sweeping you off your feet and into his arms, bridal style, and walked you to his bedroom.
“Oh shit, wait,” you exclaimed as he put you down. “I gotta call Violet so she doesn’t think I’m dead.”
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Johnny went over and closed his bedroom door, and you didn’t miss the fact that he actually locked it this time. He plopped down onto his bed and laid on his side, head propped up on his elbow, watching you as you placed your phone to your ear.
“Violet? Hey, yeah I’m fine,” you began, mindlessly wandering around his room.
Johnny flopped backwards, his head hitting his pillow as he stared up at his ceiling while you spoke with your friend. This was, hands down, the best night of his life. You, the person he prayed to the universe for, dreamed about his whole life, were finally here. You were beautiful, and not just that, but you fit in with his family perfectly. It was abundantly clear that you were made for him, and Johnny had never been happier. Not even being in space could compare to the joy he was feeling now.
“Ow,” you exclaimed, capturing his attention. He sat up and saw you holding your phone away from your ear, the sound of high-pitched screaming coming through the phone making you laugh and shake your head. “Vi. Violet! Yes, I know you told me so….Put you on speaker? Fine, hold on.” You pulled the phone away from your ear again and pressed the speaker button. “Alright, you’re on speaker.”
“Johnny Storm?”
Johnny looked at you, quirking a brow as he spoke. “This is the one.”
“Holy shit!” Your friend exclaimed from the other line. “Listen, I just wanted you to know that I totally knew it was you the whole time! I tried to tell her but she refused to listen to me!”
Johnny laughed as you ran a hand down your face in exasperation. “I appreciate that, Violet. I only wish you could’ve brought her to me sooner.”
Violet squealed, and you bit your lip at the hungry stare he was suddenly giving you.
“Um, Violet? Listen, I gotta go now,” you said, your voice a little higher pitched than normal, your eyes still trained on your soulmate’s.
“Ohhh I get it, you two are gonna bone now,” Violet laughed through the speaker.
“Violet!” You smacked your forehead, white hot embarrassment creeping up your neck while Johnny laughed out loud. “I’m hanging up now.”
“BYE, HAVE FUN BANGING A SUPERHE—“ You immediately hit the “End Call” button.
“I’m, uh. Sorry about her.”
Johnny chuckled, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. “Don’t be.” The silence that followed was charged with something else now, his eyes wandering freely over your form. “We could, y’know. If…you wanted.”
You decided to play coy. “Could what?”
Johnny looked around the room as if it were obvious. “Bone.”
You busted out laughing as you walked over and stood between his legs. Your hands found either side of his face, your thumbs affectionately brushing his cheeks. “How romantic.”
“Sorry,” Johnny muttered sheepishly, his hands coming up to rest on your waist. “New to the whole ‘soulmate’ thing.”
You smiled. “I am too. But we can go at our own pace. However slow or fast we want.”
Johnny swallowed thickly, his hands squeezing your waist. “And…how slow or fast would you like to go?”
Your heart was pounding in anticipation, desire beginning to swirl in your lower belly. You couldn’t deny that all of this felt right, and timing be damned, you wanted him. So you said nothing, instead answering by leaning down and capturing his lips in a deep kiss.
Johnny immediately let out a groan against your lips that sent heat directly to your core. He pulled you towards him by your hips until you were straddling him, your dress now hiked up around your waist and his hard length hitting your core perfectly. Your fingers carded through his hair when he kissed you harder, his tongue sliding against yours as he bucked his hips up into you.
“Johnny,” you whimpered, grinding down against him.
“God, yeah, say my name like that again,” he panted, his hands roaming over every inch of your skin that they could reach.
You bit your lip, forehead resting against his as you continued to grind against him. His cock was rubbing against your clit with exact precision, desire growing hotter in your lower belly. “Johnny,” you panted into his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders tighter.
He grunted, his hands roughly squeezing your breasts in response. “Please let me see you,” he breathed out, staring up at you with wide, needy eyes.
You got off his lap and stood up, removing the straps from your dress and letting it slowly fall down to your ankles with a quiet thud, leaving you in a strapless bra and lace panties as you kicked off your heels.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He got down onto his knees on the floor then, his hands slowly moving up your thighs as he stared up at you reverently. “Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
You swore your heart fluttered inside your chest. There was Johnny Storm, on his knees for you, staring up at you like you were the answer to every prayer he’s ever had. And truly, you were. You were about to respond when he suddenly began pressing sweet, sloppy kisses to your inner thighs, and your brain immediately went fuzzy. His fingers went to the edge of your panties, yanking them down to your ankles before you stepped out of them.
Your lower half now bare before him, your instinct was to hide yourself. But Johnny was having none of that, his hands gently swatting yours away. “No no no, please don’t hide from me, princess,” he muttered, eyes locked onto your core. His thumb pressed against your clit, the flash of sensitivity jolting you forward, your hands on his shoulders steadying you. “So fucking pretty, every part of you. Can’t believe this pussy is mine.”
Swoon.
Johnny replaced his thumb with his lips, his mouth wrapping around your sensitive bud and sucking hard. Your knees damn near buckled from the sensation, his wet, hot mouth wasting no time in tasting you completely. He licked a broad stripe through your soaked folds, a guttural groan escaping him at your taste. Your fingers tightened in his hair, instinctively pulling him closer to you, and his hands went around to squeeze your ass.
“Fuck,” he panted, pulling away just slightly. “You wanna ride my face, princess?
Jesus H. Christ. You nodded vigorously, and Johnny lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He stood up, practically ripping his shirt and pants off and kicking his shoes off before laying back down on the bed, staring up at you expectantly.
You bit your lip and grinned as you made your way over and climbed on top of him. You shut your eyes as his hot breath hit your core, the desire coursing through your veins making your heart race in anticipation.
Johnny placed his hands against your ass and practically shoved you against his mouth, wasting no time in eating you like a man starved. At any other time, the sounds escaping your lips would’ve made you embarrassed. But you couldn’t care less, not when they seemed to spur Johnny on even more. Every whine, every moan that you let out had him bucking his hips up in the air, desperate for some kind of friction. You leaned backwards instinctively, hand reaching out and gripping his hard cock through his boxer briefs.
“Fucking shit,” Johnny grunted against you, bucking up into your hand. His lips were relentless against your clit now, the wet sounds of his tongue against your soaking wet core unbearably hot.
“‘M close,” you whimpered, your hips bucking forward and grinding you against his mouth. The coil low inside your belly was winding tighter and tighter, you just needed…
Johnny hummed against you, and the vibrations from his mouth were exactly what you needed to fall over the edge. Stars exploded behind your eyes as the pleasure coursed through you, his tongue working you through it with one hand still on your ass and the other grabbing at your breast.
Both of you panted as you came down, tired yet energized smiles on your faces. You climbed off of him and moved lower on the bed to straddle his legs, your face now inches from the tent in his underwear. You smirked at him.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his head falling back onto the pillow. “You—you don’t have to…”
“I know,” you interrupted. Your hands gripped the bottom of his boxer briefs, pulling them down until his cock sprang free. You swallowed, staring greedily at him. He was genuine perfection, and you wanted to taste him now.
Johnny felt like he had just died and went to heaven. You were staring so prettily up at him, almost innocent-looking, like you weren’t about to suck him off. He briefly thought that he probably looked stupid, his mouth hanging open in anticipation for what you were about to do, but then he found that he didn’t care. He was too focused on your pretty little mouth and the dirty things you were about to do with it.
You leaned down and licked the entire length of his cock, one hand gently cradling his balls, the other gripping his thigh. The desperate, choked groan that came out of him had your pussy clenching, the sound spurring you on. You opened your mouth wide and took him all the way, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking hard. Johnny gasped, his hands finding their way to your hair as his hips bucked forward of their own accord. He was desperately moving the hair out of your face so he could see you, watch you move perfectly over his length. You set up an easy rhythm, relaxing your throat as much as you could as tears hit the corners of your eyes. He was trying so hard not to lose control, his hips jerking as you took him all the way, your hand still playing with his balls.
“Wait wait wait,” he panted out suddenly, trying to gently pull you off of him. “I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that. ’s too good.”
You swallowed and nodded, wiping your mouth with a smile that made his cock twitch.
“C’mere,” he muttered, holding his arms out for you. You climbed over his body and into his arms, kissing him once more.
“Johnny,” you whispered against his lips. “Want you so bad.”
He nodded, biting his lip. “I got you, baby girl.”
He rolled over so you were underneath him now, his fingers interlocking with yours as he kissed you. You spread your legs wider for him, your free hand roaming the expanse of his back. He pulled away then, stopping just to look at you. You moved to place your hand on his chest as he breathed heavily, and you could feel his heart racing.
“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he admitted, his eyes roaming across your face. “Imagined what it would be like. What you would be like.”
You reached up and placed your hand on his cheek, your heart warming at the way he nuzzled into it, his eyes briefly fluttering shut. “Me too. But it’s so much better than I could’ve thought.”
He smiled, his eyes twinkling as he looked at you. “Yeah, you are.” He kissed you again then, his hand gliding down to hike your thigh over his hip. “Are you okay?”
You nodded, unable to wait anymore, your hips bucking up desperately against him. “Please.”
The tip of his cock nudged against your entrance, and the breath you were holding escaped you while you relaxed into the sensation. He leaned down to rest his forehead against yours as he pushed deeper, your walls stretching deliciously to accommodate him.
“God, you feel fucking incredible,” he grunted, eyes shut tight as he worked himself in.
You cried out in relief as he bottomed out, the pleasure unbelievably intense, more than you’d ever experienced. This is what it’s always supposed to be like, you briefly thought. He set up an easy pace, pumping into you leisurely to allow you more time to adjust to him. His hands and mouth were everywhere, unable to get enough of you. All of your senses were on fire, and you needed more.
“Faster,” you pleaded, lifting your hips upward to drive him deeper.
He lifted his head to look up at you, a flash of a grin on his face. “Yeah? You want it harder too, princess?”
You nodded, and he wasted no time in giving you exactly what you asked for. He was fucking into you now at a punishing pace, so deep, so hard, that his headboard began slamming into the wall with his every thrust.
The sounds in his bedroom alone were almost enough to make you come. The headboard hitting the wall, Johnny’s desperate panting and needy groans, the wet sound of skin slapping against skin. The pressure inside your lower belly began to build once more, your hips meeting his with every thrust.
“I’m so close,” you whimpered, desperately clawing at his back.
He nodded against your forehead. “Yeah, yeah—fuck—me too.” He reached down to rub your clit, and that was all you needed for the dam inside you to break. The pressure built and built until it exploded, your hands gripping him tight as you shouted his name. He followed you over the edge moments later with a cry of your name, spilling into you until there was nothing left.
The two of you caught your breath for several minutes, your head resting on his chest as his breathing finally evened out. He brought your hand up to his face, kissing your knuckles.
“I know this is crazy,” he said quietly. “But I think I love you.”
You beamed. If it were any other person but your soulmate, it would be crazy.
But it wasn’t. It was the only thing in the world that actually made sense.
You looked up at him and saw the vulnerability and nervousness in his eyes. Your thumb brushed his cheek, your heart squeezing with affection as he leaned into it once more. “I think I love you too.”
Johnny’s smile threatened to split his face in two before pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.
The two of you laid together in comfortable silence for several minutes until your eyelids started to feel heavy, the weight of the day finally getting to you. “Sleepy.”
Johnny nuzzled into your hair. “Me too. Sweet dreams, princess.”
The next morning, Johnny woke up before you did. Your back was to his chest, his arms wrapped around your middle, your hands tangled with his. His heart fluttered. It wasn’t a dream, he thought, smiling.
Carefully and slowly, he untangled himself from you and left the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. He tiptoed to the kitchen where Ben was having a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. “Morning,” Johnny greeted cheerfully, opening all of the cabinets and drawers.
Ben furrowed his brow, turning around to look at Johnny. “Uh, morning, what are you doing?”
Johnny didn’t even turn to look at his friend as he searched for all the ingredients, pots and pans he needed. “Gonna make breakfast in bed for Y/n.”
“You’ve never cooked a day in your life.”
Johnny glanced over at his friend, a sly grin on his face. “I know. That’s why you’re gonna help me.”
Ben sighed, shaking his head but standing up anyway. “Alright. But only on one condition.”
“What?”
Ben looked at Johnny with a knowing, unamused expression. “You let Reed install the 100% soundproof walls in your room that he’s currently in the lab working on.”
Johnny furrowed his brow. “What? Soundproof walls, why?”
Ben stared blankly.
Oh.
Johnny grinned sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning red.
Warnings: Injured reader, fluff, angst, kissing, and mentions of blood, broken bones, surgery, and the Blip
Summary: Y/N is an analyst at the compound, but there’s something about her that Bucky can’t quite place. After an attack, he finds out that her secret involves more than just herself.
A/N: This takes place after Endgame, but everybody lives! This fic is probably a little more niche, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway. As always, thank you for reading and supporting me in all the ways you do. Dividers by @firefly-graphics
His new therapist has instilled it in him to look for constants to ground himself, things in his life that he can always count on, though Bucky is fairly certain that that instinct has been there long before the doctor put words to it. He’s always thrived on consistency, even before the war.
By far, his favorite constant is the playlist that Y/N plays every night as she readies for bed. Their bedrooms share a wall. He can vaguely place the instrument as a violin, or maybe a cello, but he’s never had the nerve to ask her which. He hadn’t been allowed to listen to music during his imprisonment, and before he fell off the train, he was always more focused on the company than the background music. He didn’t—and still doesn’t—go to a lot of concerts, either, which leaves him in the lurch when it comes to identifying instruments.
The faint strains wind their way from the speaker in her room to Bucky’s apartment. Every night he listens for it. When the music finally arrives, he closes his eyes and lets it carry him to sleep. On the nights when the nightmares plague him and keep him from fully drifting off, Bucky listens all the way through her playlist. Though he doesn’t know any of their names, he can recognize most of the songs by now, even when she stops them partway through or listens to the same few sections over and over again. The constant rewinding is an odd habit, that much he could admit, but her music has become a source of comfort for him. She rarely adds new songs, too, which he appreciates.
Bucky never mentions to anyone how much he enjoys listening to Y/N’s music. His interactions with her are few and far between, and he knows the team would give him hell if he admitted any kind of link with her. She’d joined the team as an analyst during the last year of the Blip, and she’d moved into the compound when it became clear that she could do her job more efficiently if she was nearby. Originally, she’d had the whole hallway to herself, but once Bucky and the rest of the population returned and the compound had been rebuilt, Bucky took an apartment next door to hers. He hadn’t initially wanted to have a direct neighbor, but Fury had insisted that the units be given out sequentially, and Bucky hadn’t wanted to start a fight. Either way, that part of the residential wing now holds two occupants, both of which keep to themselves. He’s perfectly happy with the arrangement.
“You were up late last night,” Sam says, and Bucky grunts as he pours himself a cup of coffee. It’s thick and dark, which means that he’ll have to add more sugar than usual. Whoever made the pot clearly doesn’t know the value of good coffee in the morning, or maybe they just don’t care.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I know that?” Sam presses after a few moments.
Bucky can feel him staring and he sighs, reaching for the glass sugar container pushed up against the wall. Sam takes a sip of his own coffee.
“Did you get your little bird to follow me around?”
Sam scowls, almost a perfect mirror of Bucky’s own expression. “His name is Redwing, and no. I was in Y/N’s room last night. It was pretty late when I left and I could hear you moving around in your room.”
“Oh, that’s not creepy at all,” Bucky remarks. Sam narrows his eyes, which Bucky ignores as he spoons sugar into his mug and then pushes the container back into place. “I didn’t know you and Y/N were friends.”
Shrugging, Sam shifts his mug to the other hand and grabs one of the muffins Wanda had left out for the team. She’s been on a baking kick lately, not that Bucky’s complaining.
“We’re friendly enough. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Friends with Y/N,” Sam replies.
Bucky glances over at him, suspicious. “No. We only talk when she’s helping on missions. Why?”
Sam only hums in response and takes a bite of the muffin. He’s being obnoxious on purpose, but Bucky doesn’t have the energy to take the bait and fight back. He had been up late the night before. Y/N’s music hadn’t helped like it normally did, so Bucky had worked out on the floor, forced himself to journal for his therapy appointment, and paced the perimeter of his room. By the time he finally wore himself out, the sun was about to rise. He’d only slept maybe an hour before his alarm had gone off.
“She plays louder for you, you know,” Sam says, shouting after Bucky as he leaves the kitchen.
The hallways of the compound are blissfully empty, which allows Bucky to relax a little as he walks back to his room. His temple throbs and he ignores it, taking a sip from his mug. The coffee scalds his throat on the way down. It doesn’t matter—the serum never lets his tongue or fingers be burned any longer than an hour unless it’s major.
Turning down the hallway of his apartment, Bucky pauses for a split-second at the sight of Y/N backing out of her room.
“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” she says, shooting him a quick smile.
He returns it, though from the worried look she gives him in response, he can only assume that his expression held more of a grimace than anything.
Y/N turns her attention back to her doorway as Bucky passes by, and he catches a glimpse of a black wheeled case. It just barely fits through the door. She pulls it out of her room and steadies it with one hand when it rocks as it rolls over the vinyl divider separating her apartment carpet from the concrete hallway.
“I’ll see you around!” she calls after him.
Bucky glances back over his shoulder, surprised that she even thought to say goodbye after his initial response, and he lifts his mug in farewell. Y/N smiles again—a warm, devastatingly genuine smile that makes Bucky’s stomach flip and his throat tighten—then turns forward and keeps walking.
Her black case trails steadily behind her. Bucky stares after her for a moment, watching as she turns the corner towards the elevators. He feels like he should know what’s inside of it, but he can’t quite put his finger on whatever it is. The case definitely doesn’t hold weapons, at least not any that he’s seen before, though it’s very possible Stark created new tech without telling him. Then again, Y/N isn't the person to be testing new tech anyway. She has minimal field training; all employees in the compound have to master a list of basic defense skills and she’s no exception. Bucky’s seen her in action. She can hold her own, but she isn’t one to go out of the way to try a new tactic or do something fancy. That means it probably isn't new tech, and that irritates him more. His temple throbs again.
Why can’t I figure this out? What the hell is it?
Shaking his head, Bucky keeps walking and heads into his apartment. The door slams behind him, muffling FRIDAY’s automatic greeting.
“Dim the lights,” Bucky grumbles, and the room immediately gets darker. “Mission status report?”
“Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff are scheduled to return at 0800 hours. The mission was successful and there were no injuries. Would you like me to contact them?”
Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. “No, thank you.” He pauses, sipping his coffee and staring out at the forest that lines the property. Sam is headed across the lawn towards the tree line, no doubt to test the new Redwing tech he’s been working on with Torres. The soldier had been here earlier in the week. Bucky had hid in his apartment.
“Do I have anything I have to go to today?”
“Your schedule is clear, Sergeant Barnes. Would you like me to add something?” FRIDAY asks.
“No,” he answers, maybe a little too quickly. Then again, FRIDAY won’t judge him, at least not to his face.
The carved wooden coaster Y/N had bought him on the only vacation she’d taken since before the Blip has gotten lost somewhere under the bed. He’d probably knocked it down during a nightmare. Silently, he takes another sip from his mug and then sets it down in the bare spot on the nightstand where the coaster should be before dropping himself onto the edge of the bed. He can feel bad about the water rings on the wood later.
“Is Y/N scheduled to work on any missions this afternoon?” The question escapes before Bucky can even process what he’s thinking, let alone saying.
“Today is Miss Y/L/N’s day off,” FRIDAY reports.
Is it Tuesday already?
Rubbing his eyes with his right hand, Bucky tries to focus. He’s gotten by on less sleep than this before. What’s gotten into him? Why did seeing her in the hallway leave him so rattled?
His phone chimes with a text alert and he drops his hand back down, sighing, then reaches for the device. It’s Steve—they’re on their way back and he’s sent a special report back to Y/N. Though it’s her day off, it’s urgent. Steve asks if Bucky can check in with her to make sure she’s gotten it.
“Why’re you always asking me to ask her this stuff, punk?” Bucky grumbles. He texts that to Steve, then sends another message affirming that he’ll check in with Y/N, regardless of whose job it should be. Steve doesn’t answer.
"FRIDAY, has Y/N left yet?”
“Miss Y/L/N just got off the elevator on the second floor.”
With a groan, Bucky pushes himself up from the mattress and downs the rest of his coffee. He leaves the mug on the nightstand to be cleaned up later, then heads out of his room toward the elevator.
The analysts’ room is only one floor down, but it’s secure and requires a retinal scan or an intense series of passwords. It takes up most of the level, with the exception of a meeting room, the break room, and a small lab where Tony tests his non-lethal designs. There are no windows, mostly due to the confidential nature of the missions, but there is a small one in the break room that Y/N had outfitted with a Roman shade shortly after the new compound had opened. She’d added plants too, claiming that looking at greenery when you’re stressed will help to calm you down. Bucky isn’t sure if he believes her, but when he stays back to help with longer missions, he takes advantage of the window in the break room if the analysts’ room starts to feel claustrophobic.
Y/N’s desk sits against the largest wall of the room so she can have plenty of room for screens, and there’s a glass wall separating her set up from the others. It turns opaque and soundproof at the touch of the button, providing even more confidentiality for important missions. Since joining the team, she’s quickly proven herself to be a vital asset and a good friend to the group. Bucky can easily admit that his job would be a lot harder without her, as would his life. Every mission that she works goes smoother, leaving him with less stress before and after. Between that and the music, life is infinitely better with Y/N as part of the team. Not that he’ll admit it aloud to anyone.
Y/N is now the main analyst at the compound, hence Steve pulling her in on her day off. She won’t complain. She never does. It’s part of what sets her apart from the rest; she, like Steve, never takes a break.
When the elevator doors open, Bucky’s first thought is that the lights shouldn’t be off. Even the emergency panels are dark. His stomach twists in warning, he wishes he’d brought a gun. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something is definitely wrong. His second thought is that Y/N can’t be here like FRIDAY had told him. If she had come down to the analysts’ room, she would’ve told someone about the lights being off right away.
“Hello? Is somebody there? I need help!”
Y/N’s voice echoes through the dark hallways and spurs him to action. Bucky draws back his left fist and smashes the glass protecting the fire emergency kit built into the wall. He grabs the ax and stalks down the hall on high alert. There are no signs of an intruder, but he grips the handle in his right hand and clenches his other into a fist.
“Y/N?” he calls. “Where are you?”
The relief in her voice makes Bucky’s heart clench. “Bucky! I’m at my desk! I’m— I’m stuck, I can’t get out!”
He practically runs to her desk. The serum sharpens his vision enough that he’s able to see the damaged desks strewn in his path despite the blackout, and he climbs over them or pushes them out of the way with ease.
When he gets to her, Bucky sets the ax within arm’s reach and crouches beside Y/N. His brain quickly catalogues the scene, creating a mental list of all the hazards and threats. With no imminent danger from an assailant, the only threat is to Y/N’s health.
The desk has been flipped and she’s pinned underneath it. Most of the weight is on her limbs, but she’s laying on her back and a spike of panic goes through him when he realizes that she could have spinal damage or internal bleeding.
Several of the screens have fallen from the wall onto one of her legs, and shattered glass litters the floor. The glass wall between her desk and the others has been completely destroyed as well. A loose wire lays nearby and the sharp smell of gasoline burns his nostrils the longer he stays beside her.
“FRIDAY?” Bucky called. When there’s no response, he pulls out his phone and orders it to call Tony. He puts the phone on speaker, sets it in a relatively clear spot on the floor, and turns on the flashlight while the call connects.
“Tony, the second floor’s been compromised. Y/N’s trapped and I’m getting her out now. Have Cho prep the medbay for her.”
Tony’s response is just as urgent as he predicted it would be, and almost immediately, Bucky hears the alarms going off on the other floors. No doubt Sam is running in from the forest now, and Steve and Natasha will be alerted that the compound's been compromised. The call ends and he turns his attention back to Y/N.
She shifts slightly, then lets out a sharp cry of pain and a sob. It rips his heart in two.
Focus, he reminds himself. The longer she’s stuck, the greater the damage could be.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Bucky soothes. “Stay still for me, okay?"
She inhales sharply and nods. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Barnes.”
“It’s not your fault. I need you to stay still so I can get this off of you, alright?”
She nods again, and Bucky gets to work inspecting the desk and screens. Once he’s sure that moving them won’t endanger her any further, he carefully lifts them up, then away. He moves everything closer to where it belongs and then comes back to where she’s still laying on the floor. She hasn’t attempt to move, though he’s not sure if that’s due to her training or if she’s simply unable to.
“Okay, Y/N. You think you can move?” he asks. “Start small.”
“I think so,” she says, though her voice sounds less than confident. She starts to roll over onto her side, but she jerks back in pain and lets out a shout as soon as she puts weight on her arm. The sound of her crying will echo forever in Bucky’s head, he’s sure of it.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Hold still.”
He looks her over, searching for blood or exposed bones. There’s nothing that seems extremely dangerous for her, though she’s clearly broken at least one bone in her arm and her pants are dotted with splotches of blood from where the glass has cut through the fabric.
Bucky sits up and looks back toward the elevator, listening for any sign that Stark or the others are on their way. All he can hear is the wail of the sirens reverberating down the elevator shaft. He clenches his teeth.
If they don’t get here soon…
Her voices breaks when she pleads, “Stay.”
Y/N shivers as shock sets in, and he can tell after only a few seconds that she’s clinging to consciousness. Her eyes are unfocused, though her gaze is directed toward him. After a moment more, he resolves himself to get her to the medbay on his own.
“I’m stayin',” he promises. With great care, and slower than he’d like given that he isn’t sure where the intruders went, Bucky shifts her legs so that he can slip his arm underneath the backs of her knees. He wants to adjust her hands so that her wrists are crossed over her chest, but his hands hover over her long enough that she realizes his intentions.
“My wrists…. Bucky…”
She’s never called him solely by his first name. His heart squeezes inside his chest, and for a second he thinks he’s having a heart attack. “I know, sweetheart, I know. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m gonna carry you up to medbay.”
“What?” Panic fills her expression. His breath catches in his throat. “What? No, Bucky, it hurts! Please don’t—”
She lets out a shout when Bucky lifts her up, cradling her against his chest with his right arm behind her knees and the vibranium one supporting her back. Her wrists rest loosely over her abdomen. Y/N continues to shake, both from the shock and the pain, but also from her continued sobs. Her throat sounds raw and Bucky grits his teeth, his own eyes filling with tears.
As he climbs back over the rubble of the analysts’ room, Bucky tries to keep from jostling her as much as possible, but by the time they reach the elevator, she’s passed out with her head slumped against his chest.
He bends at the knees, squatting down just enough to press the button to call the elevator with one finger. When it doesn't light up, he mutters a curse and turns towards the stairwell door behind him. There’s a noise from the other side of the door, and then it flies off the hinges and he finds himself staring into Tony’s palm. It’s already alight with bright white energy and Bucky instinctively backs away.
“Well, don’t stand in front of doors if you don’t want ‘em shoved open! What do we got?” Tony replies. He drops his hand back down to his side, his head turning as he scans the dark analysts’ room behind Bucky for signs of danger or an intruder.
“Power’s out, including FRIDAY and the elevator. I haven’t seen or heard anything since I got down here, but everything’s destroyed and it smells like gas. Not sure if it’s a leak or if they tried to light the place before I got here, but she seems to be breathing fine.”
Tony steps closer. His mask lifts, revealing his face. Bucky doesn’t need any light to see the concern and fear in Stark’s eyes. He’s clearly not the only one affected by Y/N’s state.
“What happened?” Tony asks, glancing down at Y/N.
“I don’t know if they attacked her or if she was trying to keep the information on the computer safe, but I found her pinned underneath her desk. The screens fell, too, but mostly on her legs.”
Tony nods. “Sam’s checking the other floors, but we haven’t found anything. We’ll take it from here. You get her up to see Cho.”
Nodding, Bucky climbs the three flights of stairs to the fifth floor, leaving Tony to search the analysts’ floor for any information on the intruders and their motives.
The medbay is tucked in between the two main labs, where the different researchers have easy access to doctors. They need them more often than they’d like to admit, but thankfully, any researchers in the vicinity evacuated when the alarms went off, leaving the medley clear and the staff free to take care of Y/N.
As soon as the stairwell door opens, Helen is waiting for him. Tony must have relayed that he was on his way up with Y/N, because even when the medical team is ready to stitch people up after missions, they only come running if they knew there’s an emergency. Two medical assistants rush over with a gurney.
“What happened?” Helen asks.
Bucky follows their lead and carefully lays Y/N on the bed as he replies, “She was trapped underneath two smashed screens and a desk. I don’t know what else happened, but she’s definitely injured her arms, wrists, or hands. The cuts on her legs are from the shattered glass. She passed out about two minutes ago, most likely from the pain.”
Helen nods and starts walking behind the gurney as they wheel her away. “We’ll take it from here, Sergeant. We’ll let the team know if there are any significant updates.”
Though he should be relieved that Y/N is in good hands, Bucky’s stomach still twists as he watches the medical team disappear through the double doors and into the medbay. He’s frozen in place as he watches the access light beside the doors turn red, locking out any unwelcome visitors.
A hand on his arm makes him flinch, and he turns, already pushing the person away. Steve immediately backs up to give him space, both hands in the air.
“Whoa, hey. It’s just me, man,” he soothes. “Is Y/N in there?” He nods at the medbay doors, still keeping his distance. He slowly lowers his hands. “Tony told me what happened.”
“The whole floor was destroyed, Steve.”
“Did they hurt her?” Steve asks, a hint of iron in his voice. He clearly doesn’t like the thought of Y/N facing danger alone, either. The entire team loves her. If someone hurt her, they’d pay.
I’d make them pay, Bucky thinks.
“I don’t know.” He clenches his jaw and his fists follow suit. “She was trapped under her desk and two screens, but I swear, if we find out they did something—”
Steve places a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find them, Buck. Don’t worry.”
Bucky shrugs him off and goes to stare out the windows. As much as he hates to admit it, the sight of all the greenery surrounding the compound helps calm his racing heart, just like Y/N always says it will. For a second, his mind wanders, wondering if he should get a plant for his apartment.
Does she have plants? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he frowns at himself. Don’t be a creep.
The elevator down the hall chimes, and Bucky doesn’t have to look away from the windows to know that Tony has arrived, along with Sam and Natasha.
“How is she?” Nat asks. Steve answers, and Bucky tunes them out, focusing instead on the tree line and the tangled thread of thoughts going through his head over and over again.
If I’d only gotten there sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.
If I hadn’t gone back to my room to avoid Sam, maybe I would’ve been able to stop whoever it was.
If I’d stopped to ask what was in her case—
Bucky straightens. It’s as if someone has poured ice water over his head. Y/N’s case, he remembers. The strangely shaped black case hadn’t been anywhere near her desk, at least not that he’d seen, but he hadn’t been looking for it at the time. He’d been so focused on helping her that he’d forgotten all about it. If the case holds weapons or Stark tech of some kind, he needs to find it.
“I’ll be back,” Bucky says, already marching past the rest of the group towards the stairwell. “Is the power back on the second floor?”
“Yes, but—”
He ignores the rest of Steve’s response, already flinging open the door and taking the stairs in twos. It only takes him forty-five seconds to get back to the analysts’ room.
With the power back on, Bucky can truly see the damage, and he has to stop in the doorway to catch his breath. There isn’t a single desk, chair, or computer setup in the room that hasn’t been destroyed. From the doorway, he can even see that the lab has been raided, and several people have already begun the clean-up process on that end of the floor. His train of thought sticks for a second, providing him image after image of the horrible things that could have happened to Y/N if he hadn’t gotten there in time or if the assailants hadn’t fled. He pushes them away, focusing on the task at hand.
It takes almost a half hour of searching, but Bucky finally find Y/N’s discarded case wedged upright against a wall by a desk strewn lengthwise on its side. He tips the desk off the case, then lowers it back to the floor with his left hand while he holds the case against the wall with the other.
Unsure of what he’ll find, Bucky lowers the case to the floor and exhales sharply. He kneels down beside it. His hands hover over the strange, curved top for a second while his heart pounds in his chest. If this is a weapon, there’s no telling what might happen when he opens it up. He still has the strange feeling that he should know what’s inside of it, but it’s like his brain won’t focus. He’s used to missing pieces of his memory, especially things he would’ve known before HYDRA. His therapist would be telling him to talk it out and try to make connections between what he knows now and his memories from back then, but there’s no time for that. The only logical thing a case like this could be in the Avengers compound is a weapon, and if it’s been damaged or armed, he can’t risk it.
He pulls out his phone and dials on autopilot. The line connects almost immediately.
“Where did you go?” Steve asks.
“Second floor. Listen, Y/N had some kind of case with her when she was attacked. I’m not sure what’s in it, and if whoever trashed the place tampered with it—”
There’s no cordiality in Steve’s voice when he answers, “I’m on my way.” The call ends a second later.
Steve appears within a minute, walking with purpose across the room. He’s still in his gear from the mission. Behind him, Sam enters in full gear as well, his shoulders tense and his vision focused forward.
“What do we know about the case?” Steve asks as he approaches.
“Nothing, but I feel like I should. Maybe it’s one of those weapons that Stark was talking about last week in the conference room?” Bucky never pays attention during the bi-weekly and post-mission debriefs, and everyone knows. Nobody dares correct him.
Once the two men are close enough to see the case laid out on the floor, Sam lets out a relieved chuckle. “Oh, man,” he says, and he stops a dozen feet away.
Steve stops too, his hands on his hips as he sighs and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He turns to the side after a second, just enough that Bucky can’t tell his expression, but his posture is infinitely more relaxed.
“What?” Bucky asks, sitting up a little straighter. He hates feeling like everyone knows something that he doesn’t, especially when he already feels like he should. “What is it?”
Sam grins down at him. Bucky has the sudden urge to deck him.
“That’s her cello,” Sam explains, continuing when he narrows his eyes at him, “She must’ve been on the way to her lesson.”
Bucky blinks, and suddenly, everything makes sense. It’s like he’s walked into a brick wall that knocked something into place, and now all the pieces of the story are connecting, one by one. The instrumental music, the way it repeats over and over again, the way the case looks oddly familiar… Everything makes sense.
“She plays the cello,” Bucky murmurs. He stares at the rubble around them, his mind spinning as he uses that information to make sense of so many other interactions he’s had with Y/N, including the one from this morning.
Steve drops his hands back down to his sides. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I—” Bucky clears his throat and glances up at him, then looks away. He turns back to the case on the floor and hastily unzips it. Inside, laying carefully cushioned by black velvet, is a cello. The overhead light reflects off the red wood, showing off the grain, and though a small part of Bucky desperately wants to run his fingers over it—his real fingers, so he can feel the smoothness of the wood and the tension in the strings—he restrains himself. He knows better than that.
“I knew,” he says, quieter than before.
The room falls silent for a few moments before Steve rests his fingertips on Bucky’s shoulder, just for a second, then walks away. Sam follows him, but Bucky doesn’t turn to watch them leave. He sits on the floor beside the cello, just looking at it. He listens to the chatter and the noise coming from the lab clean-up, but mostly, he looks at Y/N’s cello. It’s beautiful, and well taken care of. It’s a miracle that the case protected it from the attack. The case itself doesn’t even look scuffed.
Sam had said she was on her way to a lesson. Bucky hadn’t even known that she played the cello, let alone that she took lessons, though in retrospect, he should’ve figured it out. She’s been playing for him every night for months now. How had he been so blind?
Finally, after the stairwell door slams again and several more moments have passed, he zips up the case. Then, carefully, he lifts it up by the handle at the top, tilting it so the wheels stay solidly on the floor. It takes some maneuvering to get it through the analysts’ room to the now-working elevator. He has to keep stopping to move desks, screens, and toppled chairs out of the way, and each time, Bucky stands the cello case upright, gently supporting it with both hands until he’s sure it’s stable.
After what Y/N’s been through, he tells himself, she doesn’t deserve to have something so important to her destroyed.
He makes it to the elevator and heaves a sigh, but he keeps the cello close until he’s back outside his apartment. He only lets go of it just long enough to get the door open. Bucky stores it on the floor of his empty closet, where he can lay it down with nothing around it. His clothes are all in the dresser anyway, and he promises himself it will only be there until Y/N is safely back in her room, rather than in the medbay.
“Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY says, and Bucky flinches. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.
“What?”
“Captain Rogers is requesting your presence in the medbay. He says to tell you that it’s urgent, but that Y/N is fine.”
It feels as if all the tension in Bucky’s body has drained been out through his feet. He hangs his head, his hand on the wall beside the closet door, and nods.
“Okay.” Sighing, he runs a hand over his face and inhales deeply, then closes the door the rest of the way. “Okay. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
FRIDAY doesn’t answer, as usual, so Bucky heads up one floor to the medbay. The rest of the team has dispersed, but Steve remains standing outside the double doors. The light beside them is green. He looks up when the elevator chimes. He still hasn’t changed out of his gear.
“She’s okay,” Steve reassures.
Bucky nods. “I got your message.” He doesn’t have to say it, but they both know that he’s grateful Steve repeated it anyway.
“The doctor says she’ll make a full recovery.”
“Why does it sound like there’s something more?” Bucky asks. Sighing, Steve glances back at the doors.
“Her right wrist is broken and she’s got three broken fingers on her left hand.”
“So she’s out of commission for a while.”
“At least twelve weeks, maybe more, depending on how the recovery goes. She had to have surgery.”
“We’ll have to find someone to help out on missions when she can’t,” Bucky says. “I’m sure that Fury has some kind of hierarchy we can use.”
Steve shakes his head. “Buck, she won’t be able to play cello that whole time. That’s— That’s gonna feel like a death sentence to her. To you.”
Bucky turns and stares out the windows again. A crow flies by, cawing loud enough that he can hear it through the glass.
After a moment, he asks, “Did everyone know that she played cello except me?”
“It was never a secret. It’s in her personnel file,” Steve tells him.
Bucky sighs again. He’s never read anyone’s files. It feels like an invasion of privacy. He’s gone most of his life without privacy, and he hates the fact that anyone can know whatever they want about people in the compound. He refuses to betray anyone else that way if he can help it.
“Listen,” Steve begins, and Bucky turns to face him. “She asked for you.”
“Me?”
He smiles a little, clearly amused, though there are bags under his eyes. He still hasn’t slept since returning from his two-week mission somewhere in the Arctic. “You rescued her.”
As much as Bucky wants to scoff at his friend’s expression, he can’t argue when it comes to Y/N. He just can’t. “Right.”
“Just… Get in there. Tell her to let us know if she needs anything.”
“Will do, pal.” Bucky stays put until the elevator doors close behind Steve and the numbers above them start to descend. He goes into the medbay then, quietly, just in case Y/N is asleep.
“Sergeant Barnes.”
Helen steps into view with a tablet in hand and Bucky straightens. Her presence always sets him on edge, though he knows she’s part of the team.
“Doctor. How’s she doing?”
She gives him a tight, polite smile. “She’s recovering. She’s already awake, and she’s asking for you. I assume that’s why you’re here?”
Bucky nods, then hesitates. “With her injuries… She plays the cello.”
The polite smile turns into a pitying grimace. “It’ll be quite the recovery for her, but Tony has already told us he’s on the lookout for the best physical therapist he can find.”
Already nodding again, Bucky turns towards the doors to the surgical recovery room. He’s been here before, once for himself and once for Steve, and he knows the layout like the back of his hand. He doesn’t need to, however, because Y/N is blinking at him from her bed, her expression soft and sleep-addled.
“Bucky,” she murmurs, and she squints a little. Her speech isn’t quite slurred, but she’s less clear than normal. It makes his heart clench to see her like this. “The light’s are bright.”
“I’ve got it.” He dims them with the switch on the wall before taking the chair beside her bed.
She’s laying on her back with her right wrist on the bed beside her. It’s heavily bandaged. Her left hand is on top of her stomach, also wrapped in clean bandages.
“Thank you.” She closes her eyes and he wonders after a minute if she’s gone to sleep, but then opens them and looks at him intensely.
“You should rest,” Bucky says, and she hums in response.
“Probably. Thank you for saving me. If you hadn’t shown up…” He shakes his head and scoots forward in his seat, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“Someone would have found you if I hadn’t.”
Y/N shakes her head back at him, frowning. He can see the panic forming, an after-thought clouded by the pain medication. “My cello…”
“I’ve got it. It’s in my room.”
“Your room?” She scrunches up her nose at him. “Why?”
He can’t help but chuckle at her. Bucky knows it’s the anesthesia and the drugs, but her expression is far from the ordinary.
“I can’t access your room, Y/N.”
“Oh.”
The recovery room lapses into silence, except for the monitors beside him, but then Y/N says, “I’m sorry I won’t be able to play for a while.”
“You don’t need to apologize. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know. I’m still sorry.”
He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make her feel better, so he stays silent. She watches him from the bed, her eyes closing further and further between each blink until finally, she just keeps them closed.
Bucky sighs and sits back in the chair. He pulls his hand away when he realizes it’s still touching her shoulder. The sliding doors open behind him.
“She needs to rest,” Helen says. It’s not a statement; it’s an order, and Bucky’s heard enough of those to know which ones are worth following. He stands and nods politely at her, then leaves without another word.
Two weeks later, FRIDAY alerts Bucky to Y/N’s presence at his door. He opens it to find her standing there, her tablet held against her chest with her good wrist.
“Bucky,” she greets, though she’s not smiling.
The fact that she’s still calling him by his first name still makes his breath catch in his throat. “Everything okay?”
“Can you help me with something?”
He nods and steps aside, making space for her in the doorway. She steps inside his apartment, silently taking it in before she takes a seat on one end of his couch. She pulls her arm away from her chest and allows the tablet to clumsily fall to her lap.
“I’m making a playlist,” she explains, “of all the music I normally play.”
“I’m not sure how I can help with that,” Bucky replies, closing the door. He stands near the wall until she glances at the empty end of the couch and gestures with her bandaged hand.
“FRIDAY is great, but sometimes things need a human touch, you know?”
He can’t argue with that, so he nods and sits opposite her. He’s very aware that they’re alone in his apartment for the first time.
How is she so casual about this?
She’s talking to her tablet and he realizes that he’s zoned out on her. Embarrassed, he gets up from the couch and takes the few steps to his bedside, where he’d set down his morning cup of coffee. It’s room temperature now, but the bitter taste is sharp in his mouth and makes him focus on the present.
“See? I really just need help putting them in order,” she’s saying. “FRIDAY put them all on the playlist, but no matter how I phrase it, I can’t get her to put them in the order I want.”
“You’ll have to show me how to do it.”
Y/N looks up at him, as if she’s surprised he’s responded to her. “Really? You’ll help?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I’d do anything for you.
Seemingly at a loss for words, she shrugs and glances back down at the tablet, then at him again. Then, she says, “It’s easy. Come sit with me and I’ll show you.”
The invitation is simple, and he’s helpless. He sits beside her, closer this time, and takes the tablet from her lap. She explains how to move the tracks around on the playlist—he understands after only a few seconds that she needs help because she physically can’t move them around without the use of her fingers—and he obediently moves them around. Sometimes she stops to ask his opinion on where to place something on the playlist. She hums the main melody when she can, or she’ll have him play part of the track until he recognizes the tune. Much to his surprise, Bucky recognizes all of them.
“I think that’s good,” Y/N finally says, and he locks the screen. It goes dark in his lap. “Thank you. I feel like anyone else would’ve thought this was stupid and tedious, but I like them in a certain order, you know?”
Bucky nods. “I do.” He hesitates, then asks, “Did Helen tell you when you’ll be able to play again?”
She shakes her head and the light in her eyes dims. “No. It’ll be a couple months at least, I’m sure.”
“Oh.”
What am I supposed to say to that?
“I’m sorry,” he tries again.
Y/N forces a closed-lipped smile. It’s half-hearted and she looks down at her lap, where her bandaged hands are resting.
“It’s strange, you know?” she asks after a moment, still not looking at him. He doesn’t respond, hoping she’ll clarify. “Not playing, I mean.”
“You usually play every day.”
“I have for years. The only time I didn’t was right after the—” She falls silent again, and he knows what she means.
The Blip.
“You didn’t disappear.”
“No. But I wished I had.”
“Where were you?”
She inhales deeply, sitting up taller. Nobody likes reliving painful memories, Bucky knows this from experience, but he couldn’t help but ask.
“Playing. I was the principal cellist at the New York Philharmonic. We were in the middle of a concerto, and I was playing the solo when my stand partner just… dissolved. Sometimes I can still feel her ashes on my hands.” Y/N’s voice trembles, but she continues, “There was screaming. My friends and co-workers were disappearing all around me, and even our conductor… He was there one moment and gone the next. I could hear the audience screaming, instruments hitting the floor…”
Bucky wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close as she begins to cry. He hates himself for dredging up such a painful memory for her.
Idiot, he thinks, as he soothes her with soft noises and murmurs of reassurance. Why didn’t you stop her?
After several minutes, she sits up and he pulls his arm back. Y/N reaches for a box of tissues on the small table beside the couch, but when she’s unable to pull one out without the box sliding out of reach, Bucky stands to get it for her. He holds onto the box and stands off to the side in case she needs another.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N finally says, pinching the tissue with the fingers on her right hand. “I’m a mess.”
“I’m the one that brought it up, I should be the one apologizing to you.”
She shakes her head and looks up at him, her eyes puffy and red from crying. “You have nothing to apologize for, Bucky.”
He nods and sits back down beside her. They sit in silence for several moments before he asks, “Why did you become an analyst? A lot of orchestras kept going.”
Y/N sighs and leans back against the couch. He turns so he can see her better. Her fingers fidget with a hole in her jeans. The tissue she’d used has fallen onto the floor beside her feet.
“It was too hard to be on the stage after what happened, and I didn’t feel… useful.” She lets out a rueful laugh. “It feels awful to say that aloud. I’m a big proponent that music is one of the few things in life that doesn’t need a “use”. It does so much for people, even stuff that we don’t realize.”
“So you went back to school?”
She looks over at him, curious. “I have two degrees. You didn’t know that?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I’ve never read your file.”
“Oh.” Y/N pauses. “I haven’t read yours either, for what it’s worth.”
He’s filled with a sudden gratitude for that and his shoulders drop a little. He hadn’t even realized they’d been tense.
“Anyway, I found any entry level position and then got promoted a few times. I didn’t play for over a year, and then when I finally decided I could handle it, it became more of an escape than anything. I tried to audition for a few things on the side, but every time I felt any kind of pressure to perform, I’d totally break down. It was awful. There was one time that I had a flashback as I was playing. When I finally calmed down, one of the panelists told me that I’d only played two notes before I started hyperventilating. She said I played the whole piece in its entirety before I passed out.”
“I’m sorry.”
Y/N shrugs and glances at him. “It is what it is. I stopped auditioning after that, and it honestly didn’t feel like my life was lacking anything. I was still playing, just in a different capacity. And when Fury hired me and I got to move here, I had more time to play. I wasn’t commuting an hour to my job every day, which was nice. Fury made sure I had access to whatever sheet music I want, and Tony’s continued that.” She smiles a little.
Bucky hesitates for a moment before asking, “Why did you stop calling me Sergeant Barnes?” He’s been wondering for so long that it feels like he might never figure it out if he doesn’t ask.
Why did you say it like that? Idiot, she’s going to think that you don’t want her to call you that!
Her smile falters at the sudden change in conversation. “What?”
“You started calling me Bucky after the attack. You didn’t before.”
“Do you not want me to call you that?” She stands, frowning at him.
Frantically, Bucky stands and scrambles to fix things. It feels like his stomach is eating itself from the inside out. “No, it’s fine.” It’s more than fine. “You just used to be so formal.” I hated it. “And now you’re more…”
“Informal,” she concludes. He nods and she glances at his half-made bed. He’d been in the middle of making it when she came to the door. “Well… you called me sweetheart.”
“I did?” Bucky frowns, his eyebrows furrowing as he wracks his brain for a memory of the phrase. “When?”
“When you were digging me out of my office.”
“I don’t… remember that. I’m sorry,” he offers. He’s always been so careful not to cross any boundaries. Her formality had always been a boundary he’s assumed was purposeful on her part. He’d respected it at every turn, but if he was the one to cross it first, without her permission…
She shakes her head with a small, surprisingly shy smile. “Don’t be. I don’t mind.”
Bucky’s heart skips a beat. His stomach pauses mid-twist. “You don’t?”
“No.” She pauses. “I’ve wanted to call you Bucky for a long time. It felt strange calling you Sergeant Barnes when everyone else just called you by your nickname. Especially since…” Y/N trails off, then reaches down to gather up her tablet. “I should get going. Thanks for your help with the playlist.”
“Since what?”
“Never mind.” She goes to step around him and Bucky panics. He reaches out and grabs her arm, just above her elbow. Y/N pauses and looks up at him. Her jerks his hand away as if it’s been scalded, despite the fact that it’s his vibranium one.
“I’m sorry.”
“I play for you,” says Y/N, plainly. She pauses, then corrects, “I used to play for you.”
“What?” The floor might as well have dropped out from beneath his feet. He can’t quite catches breath. “When?”
“Every night, when you weren’t out on missions. I have since the compound was rebuilt, for months now.”
Y/N steps back over to the couch and bends down so she can gently drop the tablet onto the cushion. She straightens up and looks at him. In the hallway, Bucky hears two of the maintenance personnel walk past, talking to each other softly. He doesn’t place the language, which is a first for him. He’s so used to listening in on other’s conversations, scrambling for every piece of intel he can get about his surroundings, but suddenly, all he can think about is her. It’s the same feeling he’d had when he found her pinned to the floor by the desk, but with less terror involved. His mind is singularly focused on her.
She plays louder for you, you know. Sam’s words from the morning of the attack ring in Bucky’s ears.
“Why?” His voice feels stuck in his throat and he swallows. “Why would you do that?”
Moving closer to him, Y/N reaches up with her right hand. The neon cast has been signed by the rest of the team. Someone’s even drawn a cello near the top, albeit a poor attempt at one. She hovers near his arm before gently placing her hand there. He doesn’t pull away, though he knows she’s moving slow enough so that he has plenty of time to.
She’s smiling. “Because you appreciate it, Bucky. From what I can tell, you love it, for some of the same reasons that I do. When I play…” Y/N inhales deeply and then shakes her head. “It’s peaceful. It helps me calm down when I’m stressed. It reminds me that there’s beautiful things in the world. After some of the missions we’ve done—”
“—it’s hard to remember that not everything’s bad,” Bucky finishes.
“Exactly.” She shifts her hand, moving it up his arm and onto his shoulder. Her cast is bulky and the hardened fiberglass is rough even through his shirt.
“I like you a lot,” she murmurs. “I’ve been scared to tell you until now. Hell, I’m still scared. I think… I think that every time I played for you, I was trying to tell you, but I just didn’t know how to put it into words.”
“I like you too,” he says. The tightness in his chest loosens at the confession. “Will you still play for me when you’re able? Now that I know it’s you and not just a recording?”
She nods, her face breaking into a full, bright smile. “I’ll play for you especially now that you know."
Months later, Bucky finds himself outside Y/N’s door. He fidgets for a second with the flowers in his hands, wondering if he should’ve even brought them in the first place. He takes a step back with the intent to head back to his apartment and leave them there before coming back, but he freezes when the door opens and Y/N meets his eyes.
She’s changed since dinner. Instead of her normal work clothes—black pants and an Avengers-branded shirt—she’s wearing sweatpants and a shirt with the letters “NEC” emblazoned on the front.
Y/N smiles at him, and then her eyes fall to the flowers in his hands and she smiles wider. “Are those for me?” she asks.
“Yeah. I don’t”—Bucky clears his throat—“I don’t know if it’s still the tradition to bring flowers to someone’s performance…”
She reaches out and takes them. She brushes her fingers over the petals and Bucky watches in silence. The scars from the pins in her fingers have healed, though he knows that her hands and her wrist ache when the weather changes, just like his shoulder.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you. But this isn’t a performance, not really. It’s just for you.”
His heart thumps in his chest when she steps out of the way to allow him into her apartment. He’s been here a few times, but not at night. His nightly routine has never included her, not until now.
Her apartment didn’t look much different in the evening than it did during the day. The sun hasn’t set yet, but her blinds are closed, letting in only a little bit of light. The overhead lighting is dimmer as well, and Bucky notices that in the corner where her cello normally sits on its stand, a light has been clipped onto the music stand and the cello is laying on its side beside the chair.
Though he also has a studio, hers is larger, presumably because she’d moved into the compound first. Her bed takes up most of one side, and plants mark every foot or so across the long windowsill. A large one with dinner plate-sized leaves stands guard in the far corner of the room, opposite her cello. The TV on the wall facing the bed is playing something on mute and she grabs the remote from the dresser as she passes by. Y/N turns off the show and tosses the remote onto the bed.
“These really are beautiful,” she says as she grabs a water glass from her bedside table. It’s only half full of water, but she carefully fits the ends of the bouquet into the glass and leans it precariously against the wall. “Where did you even get them? You’ve been here all day.”
“Do you want me to get you a vase? Pepper probably has one somewhere…”
She shakes her head, smiling as she walks back to him. “No. I want you to sit so I can play for you.”
Y/N holds out a hand and Bucky meets her halfway. She grabs his vibranium hand and then leads him to the end of the bed, where he obediently sits. Still smiling, she sits in the chair behind her music stand and picks up the cello.
His breath catches in his throat as he watches her adjust her posture. The bow hovers above the strings for just a moment before she moves it smoothly from one side of her body to the other. The sound is much louder than when he’s listened to her play through the walls and tears well up his eyes immediately.
“What do you want to hear?” she asks, looking up at him.
Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from her cello. He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “Whatever— Whatever you want to play. I want to hear it all, darling.”
Her smile softens before she closes her eyes and touches the bow to the string. She plays piece after piece, song after song, until Bucky has tears running down his cheeks. He wipes them away so he can watch her clearly.
Y/N sways as she plays, moving with the music in a way that makes him never want to look away from her. She smiles too, and when it turns sad, she frowns a little, her eyebrows furrowing as she attunes her whole body to the music.
The room is barely lit by the time she finishes. He knows it’s late. The rest of the team will have gone to bed already, making him and Y/N the only two still awake. The sky outside Y/N’s windows are dark.
“Bucky?” She sets her bow down and meets his eyes. Her expression flickers when she sees the dried tear tracks on his face. “Are you alright?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
She carefully shifts the cello back onto its side beside the chair, then comes over to sit beside him on the bed. She slips her hand into his. “Whatcha thinking about?”
He looks down at where their joined hands sit between them on the mattress. “I don’t know what to say. It’s even more beautiful now that I know it’s you. Now that I can see you playing. You’re amazing, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” she says, and he can tell even without looking up right away that she’s a little flustered by the compliment.
“I mean it.” Bucky looks up at her, then takes his free hand and reaches over to curl a finger underneath her chin. He holds her gaze for a moment. “You played beautifully, baby.”
She ducks her head, smiling wide. It’s pure joy, radiating out of her, and it makes Bucky’s chest feel tight.
No longer able to stop himself, he guides her face back to his. When he leans in and kisses her, and she practically melts into him. The mattress dips when she moves toward him, making her slide even further until their hips touch and he’s forced to let go of her hand.
“Stay the night,” she murmurs. She brushes her fingers over his face, trailing them from his temple to his jaw, and he shivers. Her breath is warm and he closes his eyes, just breathing her in.
“I shouldn’t.”
What if I have a nightmare?
The words are unspoken, he’s sure of it, but then she says, “I’ll play for you again if you wake up, if you can’t fall asleep. I’ll play all night for you if I have to, James Buchanan Barnes, I just want you to stay.”
He shudders under the weight of her words. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his lap and holding her close, and he buries his face against her shoulder.
“Y/N…”
"Stay.”
“Okay.” He kisses the place where her shirt ends and her skin begins. She brings a hand up to caress his spine in long, smooth motions.
“I’ll stay,” he tells her, and he says it like a promise, one that he intends to keep.
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Warnings: mild violence references (Frank being Frank), loud noises/startle response, reader is described as shy/soft, intense protectiveness, emotional softness that might make you feel things.
Masterlist
Frank Castle notices you the way hunters notice movement in the woods.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
Just… gradually.
At first, it’s small things. Easy things to miss if you aren’t trained to watch.
The way you hesitate before stepping into a room, eyes flicking around like you’re mapping exits.
The way sudden sounds make your shoulders jump—sharp laughter, a door slamming, a car backfiring down the street.
The way you speak like you don’t want to interrupt the air.
You don’t announce yourself. You arrive.
Frank clocks it immediately.
He doesn’t say anything. He rarely does. He just starts adjusting.
Lowering his voice without realizing it.
Moving slower when he’s near you.
Keeping his hands open instead of curled into fists.
You meet through mutuals—people who exist on the edges of Frank’s life, the few he hasn’t cut himself off from entirely. You don’t look like you belong there. Too soft around the edges. Too quiet. Like you wandered into the wrong movie.
Frank watches you from across the room that first night, beer untouched in his hand.
You sit on the arm of a couch, knees tucked in close, fingers laced together in your lap. You listen more than you talk. When you do speak, people lean in without realizing it. Like the room adjusts to you instead.
Someone laughs too loudly beside you and you flinch.
It’s subtle. Barely there.
Frank sees it anyway.
Something in his chest tightens. A familiar feeling—protective, sharp, dangerous. The same instinct that used to flare when he heard his kids cry out. The same one that never really shut off after that.
You catch him looking.
Your eyes widen for half a second before you look away, cheeks warm, like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.
Frank looks away too.
He doesn’t want to scare you.
That’s new.
—
He starts positioning himself near you without meaning to.
If you’re standing, he stands a little closer than necessary.
If you’re sitting, he takes the seat that blocks the most foot traffic.
If someone gets too loud, too close, too careless—Frank shifts. Just enough to be in the way.
You don’t comment on it.
You just… relax.
He notices that too.
Your shoulders drop when he’s near. Your breathing evens out. You lean slightly toward him like gravity does the work for you.
Once, someone bumps into you hard enough to jolt you forward.
Frank’s hand is at your back before you even realize you’re stumbling.
Not gripping.
Not grabbing.
Just there.
Warm. Solid. Steady.
“You good?” he asks, voice low. Careful.
You nod quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
You don’t pull away from his hand.
Neither does he.
—
He starts walking you home.
Not because you ask. You never do.
He just… falls into step beside you one night and doesn’t leave.
The city is loud after dark. Sirens. Shouting. The hum of traffic that never sleeps. You flinch at a motorcycle revving nearby, instinctively moving closer to Frank without thinking.
He notices.
He always notices.
He adjusts his pace to yours. Slower. Measured. He keeps himself on the street side of the sidewalk, body angled just enough to shield you without boxing you in.
When you talk, it’s soft things.
What books you like.
The stray cat you feed behind your building.
The way you hate thunderstorms but love the smell afterward.
Frank listens like it matters.
Because it does.
When you reach your door, you hesitate before going inside. Fingers fidgeting with your keys.
“Thanks for walking me,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Anytime.”
You smile at him.
It’s small. A little shy. Like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to give it away.
Frank stands there long after your door closes.
—
You start spending time together without ever calling it that.
Coffee turns into quiet breakfasts.
Shared silences turn into comfortable ones.
You learn Frank takes his coffee black. He learns you take yours with too much sugar and a splash of cream.
He starts warning you before loud noises. A soft “heads up” before turning on a blender. A gentle touch at your elbow before a door slams shut.
You notice.
One afternoon, you laugh—soft, surprised—and say, “You don’t have to do that.”
Frank shrugs. “I know.”
He does it anyway.
—
The nickname slips out one night by accident.
You’re both sitting on the floor of his apartment, backs against the couch. It’s late. The city outside is quieter than usual, rain tapping gently against the windows.
You’ve curled up close to him, knees tucked in, head resting lightly against his shoulder. He’s tense at first—always is when someone gets this close—but you don’t push. You never do.
Eventually, he relaxes.
You startle when thunder rumbles overhead, body going stiff for half a second before you realize what it is.
Frank’s arm comes around you instinctively.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “It’s okay, Bambi.”
The word hangs in the air.
He freezes.
His arm tightens for a fraction of a second before he pulls back slightly, panic flashing across his face.
“—Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean— I shouldn’t have—”
You turn your head to look at him.
He’s braced for rejection. For offense. For you to pull away and remind him of all the ways he doesn’t know how to do this.
Instead, you smile.
It’s soft. Warm. Almost fond.
“My Bambi?” you repeat gently.
Frank swallows.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “You don’t have to like it.”
You shift closer.
Rest your head back against his shoulder.
“I do,” you say. “I really do.”
Frank lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
—
After that, everything feels… settled.
He calls you Bambi more often. Softly. Only when it’s just the two of you. Like the name is something fragile too.
You start leaning into his touch openly now. Sitting closer. Letting his hand stay at your back. Threading your fingers through his when the world feels too loud.
Frank doesn’t question it.
He just protects it.
One night, walking home together, a group of men get too close. Too loud. Too interested.
Frank steps forward instantly, body a wall between you and them.
“Keep walking,” he says, voice calm but deadly.
They do.
You barely see them. Barely register the threat.
All you notice is Frank’s hand finding yours afterward. Solid. Reassuring.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. I knew you had me.”
That hits him harder than any punch ever has.
—
Later, inside your apartment, you stand close to him in the quiet. The storm outside has passed. The air smells clean. New.
Frank reaches up slowly—always slowly—and brushes his thumb over your cheek.
synopsis: stranded in a one-room safe house overnight with Loki, you learn the consequences of teasing him.
pairing: Loki x female reader (sexual / romantic)
word count: ~6700
cw: swearing, tickling, making out, closed-door sex, innuendo and other sexually-charged exchanges, light bondage (with magic), less romance more fwb vibe? you be the judge
minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but does contain steamy moments and closed-door sex between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.
note: horniest I'll ever be on main. future smut will be posted on nevermath.tumblr.com
The escape craft was some older thing. Ancient and rickety, by SHIELD standards. Definitely not built for an ice-storm.
You can't remember the last time you felt so unsafe in the air - and that included a handful of situations involving heat-seeking missiles, plummeting free-falls, and one especially memorable brush with a Chitauri cannon.
The turbulence knocks the controls hard to the left, you wrestle them back with a grunt, jaw tight, adrenaline burning under your skin. A flick of your eyes towards your passenger seat makes your blood pressure spike for an entirely different reason.
Loki looks bored.
Actually... worse; he looks vaguely amused.
He's lounging, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap. Not a single hair out of place, nor muscle braced. Whether that means he trusts you to fly safely out of this storm, or simply doesn't care whether the damn thing goes down in flames, you're not sure. You don't ask.
You don't want the answer.
So when the radar pings a safe-house just a hundred clicks off-course, you make a hard turn toward it with zero apology.
The landing is rough. Metal groans as the craft slams down on a barely-visible patch of ice-washed earth. But she holds. Barely.
You unbuckle fast, tossing Loki a look over your shoulder. "Hope your highness can handle a night in a little mountain shack."
His brow raises. His smirk is slow, knowing.
You don't give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. You just shove the hatch open and duck out into the freezing sleet with a scoff.
You'd never usually leave a craft in the open like this, but the visibility is shit and the airspace is fucked; no one will be flying overhead - not even the combatants that'd been pursuing you fifty-odd clicks back.
The safe-house cabin appears like a ghost out of the storm, flickering through thick sheets of sideways rain. You reach the door, slap your hand on the bio scanner, and hear the click of the lock just as Loki falls into step and you both slip out of the weather.
The door shuts with a solid thud - and for the first time in hours, silence rings.
Peace. Safety.
Both of you stand still, breathing hard. You're not sure if it's the cold or the tension. Maybe both.
But it’s tranquil in here. Nice, even. Far from a little mountain shack.
You step further in, the dim lights automatically fading on, and you glance at the windows, which seem to be holding tight against the icy rain lashing against them. Wind howls through the trees and scratches at the glass like a leopard's claws, but the place seems solid.
No sooner had you stepped in further did thunder crack so close it felt like the gods were arguing just over the mountain-
Wait...
"That's not your brother, is it?" You look at Loki over your shoulder, half-joking.
You're almost soaked-through from the dash, a chill threatening to settle into your bones, but you notice that, though isolated, the safe-house isn't freezing. The lights are low and warm, casting the room in comforting haze. It feels luxurious; hardwood floors, thick rugs, a fireplace in the centre of the wall, opposite to the kingsized bed draped in earth-coloured linens and furs and- wait. Fuck.
Bed. Singular.
You look around and quickly confirm the sheepish feeling sinking into you. This is a studio. Designed for one. Or for a couple.
Who... the fuck decided that only one bed was appropriate for safe house?
Instead of making it a big deal, you declare, "I'm going to shower to warm up."
Loki looks to the stone mantle and says "I'll make a fire."
But as soon as the word fire leaves his lips, the empty cavity hisses to life, flames beginning to spark and build. You bite your lip as Loki scowls.
"Spooky," you tease, twirling your finger to the ceiling. "The cabin must be haunted by helpful ghosts."
Loki swings that scowl on you, but softens it. "We do also have technology on Asgard, you smug little goblin."
You smirk and turn on your heel. "You keep calling me things like that and I'm gonna think you’re flirting."
"I am," he calls after you.
You don't dignify it with a reply. You also don't stop smiling as you close the bathroom door.
The bathroom, and the shower itself, match the quiet wealth of the rest of the place. Such a shame, you think as you let your shoulders ease under the spray, that this place must be empty most of the time. It's exactly the kind of place you can imagine yourself... being. Just relaxing, letting go. Preferably alone, considering the one-bed situation.
Your stomach pings in a cluster of nerves as you lather the fig and sandalwood suds over your skin, trying to scrub the tension from your shoulders - tension that, annoyingly, has less to do with the mission and more to do with the god in the other room.
Loki is… a menace. Not just in the field. Not just in battle. But here. In the quiet. In the glances. In the way he looks at you like he’s already peeled your thoughts apart and likes what he sees.
The bed is big, and it's not like you'd mind sharing it with Loki - you'd known since the first time you worked with the God of Mischief that you'd likely fall into bed together at some point or another - but this... it feels forced. Like two dolls some child is guiding into a kiss.
Soon you're standing in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth, wiping a path through the fog on the glass to look yourself in the eye and coach yourself mentally, as if you were a child: just because you're under the same covers does not mean you will have sex with him.
You feel your cheeks warm as you realise that Loki probably isn't thinking about any of this. At all. Even though he makes no efforts to hide his physical attraction to you, that doesn't mean he's... wanting, in the same way you are.
Besides, he's your mission partner. Your headache. Your shadow in the field. The beautiful thorn in your side when you're not under fire. Taking it further could make it messy.
You throw on some standard-issue lounge clothes; socks, underwear, sweat shorts, tank top, and a cloud-soft sweatshirt, all found in the bathroom's linen cupboard that must contain at least two dozen different size options.
When you walk back into the main area, the warmth instantly seeps into your skin like a gentle summer evening. One deep breath, and you've eased further.
Loki looks up from the couch where he's lounged with his head against the headrest, hands folded over his stomach. He's still in his tac gear.
"There's a change of clothes in there," you nod to the bathroom.
Loki's eyebrow lifts. In a slow pulse of green, his clothes change into a softer, yet seemingly still tailored, all-black set that covers his limbs entirely. It looks too good for something summoned out of spite. "Over my dead body," his eyes rake over you, critical on the surface, heated underneath.
With a roll of your eyes you make your way to the bed. "I'm tired," you say, seeing it in his eyelids. "Ready to sleep?"
"I'll tend to my needs and then take my rest here." He stands and heads towards the bathroom.
"Loki," you put a little casual laugh in your voice. He stops and turns his head. "The bed's huge. We can share it."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're worried you've fucked it. That you've been presumptuous. That he's going to say something about how he'd rather die than share sheets with the likes of-
"Very well," he tilts his head in agreement, barely looking at you before he closes the bathroom door.
Internally, you're screaming. Outwardly, you're pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes, wondering if there was any possible way you could've made it more awkward.
You hear the shower spray and try to think about anything other than him in here.
Whatever. Whatever. You take a breath through your nose and slip under the sheets. The lights are still dim. You narrow your eyes, and test the cabin, saying "it's time to sleep."
The lights dim to nothing, the fire pulls back from roaring to gently crackling, creating a cozy atmosphere that's calling you to sleep. But the second you settle in, you get that sinking gut feeling that sleep isn't going to come easy. Your limbs are tired, your eyelids heavy, but your mind is still buzzing with adrenaline.
You're staring at the ceiling when Loki reenters, crosses the room, and slides into the sheets on the other side of the bed. And sure, the bed is big, but he's still less than an arm's length away. You didn't realise how close you'd feel until he was there.
"Sweet dreams," you say with a subtle teasing lilt to try and disguise your nerves, eyes still on the ceiling, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.
You hear his head turn to look at you. Hear a small, faintly amused puff of air through his nose. "Try not to dream about me too vividly. I don’t want to wake to you whimpering." He turns, back to you, and settles in.
You bite your lip, the heat returning tenfold, but you chuckle. “Who's the smug little goblin now."
In an effort to get the adrenaline out, to help your mind complete whatever it feels it needs to, you start replaying the mission in your head. Every bullet, every chase, every snarky little jab Loki threw at you in that seductive voice, every- ... oh shit.
You almost forgot.
You press your smiling lips together, suppressing the giggle threatening to betray you. But it slips out anyway - a little puff of laughter in the dark.
That moment. The one that sent you over the edge.
Loki shifts beside you. "Don’t start," he warns. His words are a blade being drawn from its sheath.
“I didn’t say anything," you retort, now openly grinning at the ceiling.
"You thought it," he snips. He knows exactly what you're thinking about and hates it already.
You roll onto your side to face him, arm tucked under your head. "I'm just remembering a moment from today. A glorious one."
He exhales through his nose. "You truly have a death wish."
You grin wider. "You ate shit so hard on that slippery boulder."
The silence between you stretches like wire. Taut. Dangerous.
You keep going anyway.
"One second you’re monologuing, all broody Asgardian menace - 'You dare challenge me?' - and the next? Boom. Legs in the air. Splashdown."
You can feel the heat rising from his side of the bed. His magic pulses just faintly through the room. Static before a lightning strike.
"If you were wise you'd shut your mouth," he says darkly, "before I'm forced to shut it for you."
You laugh again - quieter this time, taunting. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan - another lecture about respect?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, searching the air for more sass. "Or... just another bout of empty threats and semi-inappropriate workplace banter?"
Loki turns. Slowly. He shifts to mirror you - rising on one elbow, lifting his face so you can see him in the flicker of firelight.
And fuck... he looks dangerous like this. Hot and dangerous. Hair damp and curling at the ends, shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, pale blue eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s actively backing into a corner.
He tilts his head, and, with a devastating sweetness, he says, slowly, "Tease me again, and I’ll put you on your back and tickle you until you sob."
You blink. "Huh-what?"
Loki leans in just slightly - close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth. "You heard me. One more snide little comment and I'll have you writhing. I will take my time. And you will not know mercy."
Your brain flatlines. Your mouth parts. You should say something sharp - should snap back, keep the banter going - but your body betrays you with a single thud of heat low in your stomach.
He sees it.
Of course he fucking sees it.
Loki's eyes narrow and you know - you know he’s cataloging every flinch, every breath. "It's the perfect punishment, wouldn't you agree?" he continues softly, dangerously. "Intimate, humiliating… leaves no mark. You won’t run to your beloved Captain Rogers with bruises. Just memories you can’t scrub off."
Your throat’s dry. You manage a single nervous chuckle. "You wouldn’t."
He smirks like the mischief he is. "We both know I would."
You go quiet.
Dead quiet.
Because the worst part is, you don't know whether you want him to or not.
And Loki - bastard that he is - sees that, too. He leans back slowly, satisfaction dripping from every hard line of his body as he settles into the pillow again.
You lie there, heart pounding, every nerve on fire. The storm still rages outside, but now it's got competition.
Loki chuckles deep and low, and it feels like thunder cracking beneath your skin.
"Wise choice," he murmurs.
And fuck, you hate him.
You hate him.
Well... no.
You don't hate him.
And you hate that you don't hate him.
You shift under the covers, giving an exaggerated sigh as you turn away from him. "Jeez. You're so fucking dramatic," you mutter under your breath.
A mistake.
"Oh, you poor little fool."
A catastrophic mistake.
Before you can even suck in another breath, his magic crackles through the air. It's an electric, humming snap that raises the fine hairs on your arms a second before you feel it.
The pillowcase under your head moves. It slides off the cushion with a treacherous slither, wrapping itself around your wrists with a speed and precision that makes your stomach drop. You jerk instinctively, but it's too late - your hands are caught, ensnared, pinned above your head, wrists bound together tight enough to be secure but loose enough to tell you this is a game.
His game.
You barely manage a grunt of protest before Loki’s hands are on you - turning you onto your back in a fluid, almost lazy motion, like he’s not even trying. His fingers are wickedly strong around your waist, holding you down just long enough for him to shift, knee pressing between your legs, swinging himself up until he straddles your hips.
You struggle, wild and panicked, kicking your legs and jerking your torso, but you’re half-covered in blankets and utterly unprepared for a fight - in soft sleepwear, no armour - and he’s bigger, heavier, faster, magical.
You buck hard, trying to dislodge him, but all it earns you is a low, infuriating chuckle from above.
"Is this truly the best you can fight?" he purrs, tightening his grip just enough to remind you who’s in charge.
"Fuck you," you scowl, jerking your hands against the bonds.
"Rude." He tsks, smirking down at you, his hips pinning yours to the bed with effortless control. "And after I warned you so nicely."
You twist again, but it's useless. You’re stuck. Fully at his mercy.
And the worst part?
You can feel the slow, deliberate shift of his body against yours - his thigh pressing against your bare skin, the long line of him caging you in - and it sparks heat low in your gut that has nothing to do with rage.
"You can’t seriously - Loki, come on," you start, trying to wriggle your wrists free, but the enchanted fabric tightens at his will, dragging a frustrated, helpless sound from your throat. "This is stupid and dramatic. You proved your point, now let me go."
He just tilts his head, studying you like a cat might study a bird fluttering with a broken wing.
"Tell me," he murmurs, voice dangerously low as he settles further, "did you really think that would go unpunished?"
His hands start inching forward.
You glare. "I really think you’re a dickhead."
His eyes gleam, a spark of delight dancing at the edges. "Mm. Defiant. I expected nothing less."
His fingers descend like vipers, darting straight for your sides, and the second they make contact... fuck.
You jerk so violently the bed frame gives a protesting creak.
You arch instinctively, breath hitching, but you refuse to laugh. Refused to give him the satisfaction.
"Nothing?" he muses, leaning closer, eyes flaring in delight. "Oh, you’re going to be so fun."
You twist under him, trying to wriggle free. The pillowcase tightens slightly in response. You grit your teeth as he drags his fingers up and down your ribs with merciless precision.
You hold on, digging your heels into the mattress, biting your bottom lip hard. His touch is devastating. Too practiced. Light one moment, firm the next, zeroing in on your most sensitive spots with surgical precision.
And still, you don't laugh.
Until-
"Ah," Loki says softly. His fingers found it - a spot just beneath your left rib, sensitive as hell, one you hadn’t even known would betray you.
Your body jolts. A tiny gasp escapes your throat. Then, like a damn cracking, a laugh punches from your lungs.
Triumphant, Loki’s smirk deepens - not cruel, not quite - something darker, warmer. Endeared, even. And utterly smug.
"There it is," he whispers, tilting his head. "I knew you’d be a screamer."
You flush, full-body and furious. "I hate you," you huff through gritted teeth, breath coming fast.
He clicks his tongue. "Then you’ll loathe what comes next."
And then he really begins.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst with laughter, loud and sharp, your body trembling wildly beneath his tickling hands.
And gods, he’s good at it - depravedly good. His fingers dance, spider-light one moment, then digging mercilessly the next, zeroing in on every little vulnerable spot like he’s been studying you for months.
Which he probably has, the bastard.
You shriek again, trying to twist away, but his weight on your hips keeps you absolutely pinned.
"You should’ve held your tongue," Loki drawls, his voice maddeningly calm over your frantic squirming. His voice drops. "Gods, you’re responsive."
"I swear I'm gonna get you for this- SHIT!" you gasp out between bursts of helpless, writhing laughter, but the threats fall flat - your voice breaking with each choked, humiliating giggle he wrings from you.
"You’re welcome to try," he murmurs, dragging one hand from your side up under your sweatshirt to your underarm, circling lightly where the skin’s thinnest, most sensitive.
You convulse so hard under him you nearly tip him sideways, but Loki handles it easily, smirking like this is all beneath him - like your thrashing and desperate yelps are just entertainment.
He skims the pads of his fingers lightly over your stomach, watching with lazy amusement as you shudder uncontrollably.
You kick your legs, trying to knee him, but he just rides out the bucking like he’s enjoying it, settling heavier against you with a rough grind of his hips that makes your brain white out for a second - makes you way too aware of how warm he is. How solid.
"You are such a dick," you gasp, breathless.
"No," he grins. "I’m your reckoning."
You whimper - actually whimper - as he attacks your sides again, fast and brutal, forcing desperate laughter out of you until you’re gasping between giggles, your whole body arching and twisting under him.
Loki only hums thoughtfully, shifting his weight slightly so his hips press more firmly against yours - deliberately - and the new friction is a whole fresh hell you’re not prepared for.
Heat spikes through you, brutal and wanted, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of his hands tormenting your skin.
He sees it.
Of course he fucking sees everything.
And the bastard has the audacity to smile wider. Slow, wolfish, knowing. His fingers skitter up your sides again, sending you into another fit of helpless, humiliating giggles.
"Fuck! This is so messed up-"
"You could have avoided this," he drawls, utterly unbothered. "All you had to do was keep that clever little mouth shut."
You grit your teeth, trying to focus. "This- this is petty. This is some villain-ass shit. No wonder Thor used to kick your ass when you were younger."
"Oh?" he says, digging his fingers against the fabric covering the soft space under your arms, dragging a laugh straight from your lungs. "You want to talk about childhood trauma now? In the middle of this? How very Avenger of you."
You throw your head back and laugh through gritted teeth, managing a whiny: "I really hate you."
He laughs. "You wish." His hands dive back to your sides.
"I wait- Loki- okay please!" you gasp, twisting hard, but the pillowcase tightens again, holding your wrists captive.
"Oh, now you beg?" Loki teases, fingers squeezing at your waist until your whole body bucks. "Where was this charming submission before?"
You shake your head wildly, laughing so hard your ribs hurt, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Every time you think he’s about to let up, he switches tactics - light teasing along your stomach, a wicked squeeze at your hips, brutal tickling up your ribs again until you’re choking on helpless giggles.
He finds the hollow just above your hip bone and presses - firm and slow.
You squeal. Actually squeal.
He grins wider.
"Oh, you sweet thing," he purrs. "I could do this all night."
You swear at him in every language you know.
He just chuckles darkly, slow and satisfied, like he’s feasting on your misery.
"Say you’re sorry."
You growl through clenched teeth, body trembling from the effort to wrench free.
"Never."
He pauses. Cocks a brow.
Then he leans down. Slowly. Until his nose brushes yours.
You take a shuddering breath in, still panting, now caught in a frantic freeze state. Like your base animal instincts are twisted into some weird belief that if you don't move he won't see you.
"Never?"
Your heart flutters at his low, commanding voice. The pure heat in it, so obviously intentional.
The pads of his fingertips and the faint graze of his blunt nails tease along the bare skin where your tank has ridden up. Your fingers tighten around the pillow case.
"Then I suppose..." he starts, sliding his hands higher. Palms smoothing against your sides, fingers trailing, taunting.
"You and I..." You feel the curve of his grin in his voice. "...will be here a very… very long time.”
You gasp when you feel his fingers press against the bare skin of your lowest ribs. "N-n-no-nnn-!"
But your protests are swallowed in laughter. Drowned in gasps and cackles. You're out of breath, out of threats, out of any form of resistance.
Loki's dark chuckle sings against your ear. Sends tiny sparks of pleasure down the skin of your neck.
And he keeps going - meticulous and devastating - drawing it out until you’re breathless, boneless, wrists still trapped high above your head, body burning with exertion and heat and something darker, something hotter, curling low in your belly and spreading like wildfire.
"Okay- okay okay!" You squeak, some high and helpless whine in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please stop it!"
Loki finally slows, dragging one last, maddening trail up your side that makes you jerk involuntarily.
He sits back, straddling your hips lazily, surveying you. Admiring his work. His hair is wild around his face, his eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, incandescent with smug delight. His gaze stays locked on you, drinking in every breathless tremor.
You glare up at him, chest heaving, cheeks burning, completely at his mercy - and the way he looks at you, the way you feel under his hands... you can't show it.
"That..." you pant, "was an egregious HR violation."
"Oh dear," Loki rolls his eyes. "The paperwork."
"Oh, I'll show you fuckin' paperwork-"
"What shall it say, darling? How will you explain this? I'm so terribly fascinated by the prospect of our little tryst becoming immortalised in public record."
"That was not a tryst that was an attack and - hey, fuck you, untie me - it was uncalled for."
Perfectly in time with the raising of his brow, the pillowcase around your wrists loosen. But Loki makes no effort to get off you.
And you make no effort to push him off, even as you prop yourself up by the elbows, chin tilted back to look him in the eye.
"Poor thing," he soothes. And with that teasing edge, there's a softness. A devastatingly gentle thread of temptation laced through his voice. His smirk. His sheer fucking audacity.
He cocks his head to one side, pushing the damp curls back from his face, regarding you with a lazy challenge. "Was the big bad God of Mischief too hard on you?"
You lower your brow and pout, "Yes."
His head turns the other way. His smirk is devastating. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"
Every bit of heat in your over-exerted body goes to one of two places, and your lips part with a puff of air, almost like you'd been winded.
That small, insecure part of you whispers that this is a cruel trick. That he's having you on. He doesn't mean it, he-
Fuck.
Your breath hitches when the back of his hand finds your lower stomach. Your fists tighten as he trails his knuckles along the soft, exposed skin, his eyes not leaving yours. You swallow. He lifts a brow. A quiet question.
Your tongue slips out to wet your drying lips. "Maybe."
It's pitiful, but it's the only word you think you can say without it wobbling and-
Loki's shaking his head, shifting backward, lower. "I need a yes."
"Yes, then."
"And a please."
"Go fuck yourself."
He chuckles. "So sulky. What am I going to do with you?"
But before you can answer, his lips meet bare skin. Your back arches when his mouth brushes low across your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts. He’s barely kissing - it's more breath than lips - but every exhale is warm and deliberate, as if he's savouring the feel of your skin against his mouth.
"You’re far too brazen for someone so soft," he murmurs. His fingers press just beside your hipbone, not quite pinching, not quite tickling, just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath catch. "So easily undone, and still mouthing off."
His lips trail a slow line across your abdomen, kissing deliberately, as if each inch deserves reverence. Then- a single puff of air against your navel, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes your hips jerk.
You yelp. "Hey!"
He grins against your skin. "Thought you'd lost your voice for a moment."
The muscles of his shoulders dance under his shirt as he slowly pulls himself higher, chest brushing yours, hands planted by your head as he mouths a trail down your neck, grazing his teeth along the slope of your collar. Just enough to make your skin sing.
He lowers himself onto you carefully, hands dragging down your sides again, this time with full intention. His palms cup your waist, pulling you up into him.
The friction is electric.
Your chest heaves, thighs trembling under the weight of him - and he takes his sweet, unhurried time, moving over you like a storm in slow motion. He kisses the erratic pulse beneath your ear, nips, soothes, nudges his nose against your neck as your fists curl in his hair.
Your breath stutters when he finally pulls back enough to look at you.
Hair wild, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours like he wants to memorise every flicker of thought passing behind them.
He dips lower.
This time, his lips ghost over yours.
Once.
Twice.
Not kissing you. Not yet. Just tasting the shape of your mouth with his breath, taunting the final inches that separate you.
"Ask me," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.
Your jaw flexes.
"No."
He gives a dark chuckle. The sound brushes your lips. "Still so proud. Even now."
You glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.
He leans in again, mouth brushing yours. "You want me."
Your breath catches.
"You want me," you retort.
He smirks. Hums. Kisses the corner of your mouth.
Just once.
Then the other.
Teasing. Gentle. Laying claim with infuriating grace.
You feel your eyes flutter.
He lingers. Breath to breath. Lips agonising close to yours.
"Say it," he breathes.
And you can’t anymore.
You’re done pretending.
"Just-... kiss me," you rasp.
And Loki does.
Not rough. Not possessive.
Deep. Measured. Devastatingly thorough.
His mouth moves over yours with patience, with precision, like he wants to map every gasp you give him and drag them out for his own pleasure.
You groan into it before you even know it’s happening.
Your hands twist in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue teasing your bottom lip before claiming more, drawing it out, savouring the moment like a rare vintage.
You kiss him back harder.
Because gods help you, you’ve wanted this. For too long. Through too many missions and almost-maybes and can’t-haves and don’t-even-think-about-its.
And now he’s everywhere.
His hands are under your tank top, resting against your waist as he keeps you under him. His body presses down, moulding into yours, every inch of him demanding and anchoring and terrifying in the way it feels so right.
You gasp into his mouth when his hand skims higher, palm dragging heat up your side, sliding beneath the edge of your top without hurry. Not groping. Just... feeling. Claiming space.
Your hips lift without your permission, chasing friction, chasing him.
He groans softly into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.
Loki pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, both of you straining against the gravity of the moment.
Still not enough.
His hands tense with the last dregs of his self-control, his body pressing down as if to imprint the shape of you onto his bones.
"You want this?" He pants. “You want me?”
"Yes," you gutter out. "Gods, yes."
He smirks against your lips. "Swearing to gods now, are we?" One hand slides back down your waist, hooking under your thigh, hitching it up over his hip. "How flattering."
When the radio on your tac vest wakes you with an alert of incoming comms, the first thing you register is the cold.
Then the ache - deep, lazy, sated - a bruised exhaustion thrumming through every muscle. Your brain struggles up from a black ocean of sleep just as the radio, somewhere across the room, starts crackling to life.
Loki groans low beside you. You feel the movement - sheets slipping off marble skin, the faint stretch of long limbs - and you grunt, rolling onto your stomach, grinding your forehead into the pillow. Everything hurts in a way that makes your mouth curl into a smug little smile against the linen.
The night comes back in flashes. Sharp. Shattering.
Claws-in, teeth-bared, breathless destruction of all the tension that had simmered between you for months. You hadn't so much fallen into bed with him as wrecked each other - over and over again - until your bodies finally gave out, tangled in the wreckage.
Maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe two. Not enough to be functional.
You groan as you push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off your bare back.
Loki sits at the other edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his wild, tangled black hair. The dim morning light coming through the frosted windows slices across his bare shoulders, illuminating the faint, red half-moon marks you left raked into his skin.
You'd be smug about it if your legs would fucking work.
The radio then crackles with the pilot's message:
"Seven minutes out. Chopper can't land. Buckle in for hover extraction."
You swear under your breath, shivering as the cold air hits you. You stagger toward the pile of tactical gear you’d dumped near the fireplace, yanking on your thermals, combat pants, boots, shirt, jacket, ignoring the way Loki watches you, one arm braced casually on his knee, the other draped over his thigh.
Comfortable. Loose. Dangerous.
You grab your tactical vest and the climbing harness slung over it, trying to move quickly, but your hands are clumsy, your joints stiff and sleep-starved. The straps tangle. You hiss in frustration, tugging at them.
Then, you hear the bed creak.
You feel him stand.
You don't turn.
Loki approaches with slow, measured, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. Each one a promise.
The air crackles between you, sharp and bright.
By the time he stops behind you, you’re holding the harness out in front of you like an fool, still wrestling it into some recognisable shape. You can practically hear the smirk in his silence.
He reaches out and, without a word, takes the harness from your fingers.
You lift your chin, refusing to look at him.
His knuckles brush yours. Not an accident.
You glare at the wall in front of you as he circles, slow and lazy.
Then he kneels. Right in front of you.
Looking up, lazy and wicked, his hair falling forward like a curtain of night sky. His body is bruised, unbothered, utterly relaxed. It should be illegal for anyone to look that composed after what the two of you did.
His hands move to your thigh, looping the first strap around it with maddening care. He doesn't rush. Just smooths it in place and gives it a slow, tightening pull. You feel it bite into your skin, feel his fingers curl with precision.
"You seem... compromised," Loki says lightly, his fingers brushing against your bare skin where your pants gap slightly at the hip.
You narrow your eyes.
Another strap glides between your thighs. His hands are firm, his thumbs brushing near places he has no business touching right now, not unless he wants round two on the cold floor. Maybe he does.
"Compromised?" you repeat, voice scratchy with lack of sleep and and too many hours of sinning.
He flashes a slow grin, wicked and pleased with himself, fingers tightening the strap until it bites your hip.
"Fatigued. Shaky. Thoroughly plundered," he drawls. "Tell me, darling - whoever could be responsible for that?"
You snort, pressing your lips together hard to bite back the traitorous smile twitching there.
"Self-satisfied bastard."
He smirks. "I do take pride in my work."
He pulls another strap between your legs, adjusting the belt with slow, taunting movements that are absolutely unnecessary and make you grind your teeth.
You narrow your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
"Doing what?" His voice is all innocence, but his hands are anything but. "Making sure you don’t fall out of your harness mid-air? You're welcome."
His fingers ghost under the hem of your top, smoothing the waistband flat against your belly. Every touch is too much. Too slow. You hold perfectly still, trying not to tremble.
"You’re not subtle," you mutter, raising a brow as you feel your lips flush.
"Ironic," he muses in satisfied purr, "coming from someone who, not four hours ago, was screaming herself hoarse begging for-"
You kick him lightly in the shin. He catches your ankle with lightning speed, holding it aloft for a second, grinning up at you like the absolute bastard he is.
"Temper," he tuts, releasing you.
He finishes the rest methodically, hands sliding around you with the same precision he uses when breaking into a vault - like he already knows where you’re most vulnerable.
"You know," he says lightly, eyes fixed on the buckles, "I should do this more often. Watching you squirm while I dress you. It’s…" He clicks the buckle shut with a soft snap. "Endearing."
You refuse to shiver. Refuse to give him the satisfaction. But you're admittedly speechless.
When he finally sits back on his heels, looking up at you, his eyes are molten as he whispers:
“Perfect.”
You roll your eyes and lean down to grab the carabiner clips, but Loki beats you to it.
He stands.
One slow movement - shoulders rising, body unfolding to full height - and you suddenly feel too small in his shadow, the air sucked clean from your lungs.
He steps in close, smooths a hand over the centre strap down your chest, fingers dragging slowly. Then he reaches for the buckle at your waist and snaps it into place with a decisive click.
You feel the strength of it reverberate through you, far more intimate than it has any right to be.
And he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he curls his fingers around the central loop, just above your navel, and lifts.
Effortlessly.
You don’t even have time to react before your boots leave the floor. Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble for balance, but he just stands there - arm slightly bent, muscles slack, holding you aloft with casual strength, like you weigh nothing at all.
Your eyes snap to his.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.
He just watches you - dark and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. His grip is unbreakable, his expression unreadable.
The air between you goes molten.
He holds you there for a full, punishing heartbeat. Then another. And another.
Then, finally - finally - he lowers you, so slow you swear he’s savouring every inch of contact as your body slides back into place.
Your boots touch the floor. Barely.
"Perfect," he murmurs again. "Safe and sound."
Your breath stutters. You feel warm all over. Unmoored.
"You done?" you rasp, not trusting your voice.
He chuckles, quiet and pleased. "Oh, not even close."
You exhale through your nose, clenching your fists at your sides to keep from grabbing him.
The radio crackles again: "On approach. Be ready. Thirty seconds."
You tighten your shoulder straps brutally, trying to focus. Trying not to think about how he still smells like smoke and sweat and you.
Loki finally magics on his gear, lazy and unconcerned, buckling himself in with casual grace. You want to slap him. Or straddle him again. It's really fucking hard to tell.
The storm had eased a little - less hectic wind but still smatterings of icy rain. The helicopter blades whir louder, slicing the air like a knife through satin, as you reluctantly leave the cabin behind and run, side-by-side with Loki, the short distance to the pickup point.
You clip yourself and him to the main retrieval cable, double-checking the lines with stiff, professional efficiency.
Your hands brush at the connection point. He catches your fingers in his and holds them just long enough to make your pulse stutter.
"You're trembling," he says barely over the wind, eyes glinting.
"Shut up," you mutter, clicking the radio twice to signal all is good. Pushing his hands away from the line so his skin doesn’t catch.
He chuckles, deep and low.
Above you, the cable jerks taut, the winch starting to pull.
You and Loki are yanked upward together, slammed chest-to-chest, bodies colliding with force as you're hauled into the storm-torn sky.
Your breath catches. Loki grins down at you, devilish.
"Another round when we get back?" he calls into your ear over the wind.
You narrow your eyes, baring your teeth in a wicked smile.
"Only if you leave your harness on."
He throws his head back and laughs - a wild, delighted sound ripped away by the screaming wind - as the two of you disappear into the storm.
˗ˋˏ 18+ MDNI - please read all tags before continuing to a fic ˎˊ-
✪ solitary love → fluff, smut & angst
bucky x single mom!reader
⤷ when bucky finds himself falling for his waitress at the diner he learns that there's more to her than shining smiles and sunny side up eggs.
✪ learning curve DDDNE → fluff & smut
little brother!bucky x older sister!reader
⤷ coming home from college was never the same once you realized how much your little brother has grown up since you've been gone.
✪ love versus loyalty → fluff, smut & angst
knight!bucky x princess!reader
⤷ james will always be there to protect you, even if it has to be from himself.
✪ hero for hire → fluff & smut
bucky x female reader
⤷ you move to brooklyn with nothing but an overpriced lease, a camera you can’t let go of, and dreams too stubborn to stay asleep.
✪ dive into you → fluff & smut
beefy!bucky x gf!reader
⤷ bucky doesn’t like to be social, but tell him there’s a party with his angel and he’s there.
✪ all dolled up with nowhere to go → fluff & smut
bucky x gf!reader
⤷ bucky loves to see his pretty girl all done up.
✪ fading away → fluff & angst
bucky x female reader
⤷ youve always gone unnoticed, faded into the background. until bucky sees you.
✪ want to ki__ you (answers may vary) → fluff, smut & angst
avenger!bucky x female reader
⤷ bucky goes looking for a rogue operative but finds something else entirely.
✪ smoking kills → smut
bucky x female reader
⤷ meeting bucky at a bar sparks a fire in you.
✪ happy harvesting → fluff
grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader
⤷ taking bucky to cut down your own tree doesn't go as planned.
✪ almost yours → angst
avenger!bucky x avenger!reader
⤷ bucky isnt yours and thats fine, you can learn to walk with a shattered heart.
✪ oops? → angst & fluff
bucky x female reader
⤷ what slips out in the dark cant be taken back.
✪ a rose a day → fluff
thunderbolts!bucky x assisstant!reader
⤷ what starts as a mystery rose turns into a bouquet of love.
✪ with it or on it → angst
gladiator!bucky x princess!reader
⤷ in a world ruled by blood, crowns, and spectacle, a gladiator and a princess choose each other anyway.
✪ cant break whats broken → angst
bucky x avenger!reader
⤷ when the sunshine finally fades, bucky sees the truth.
✪ you all along → fluff & smut
bfb!bucky x female reader
⤷ a summer of anonymous letters shapes into something much more.
✪ inferno love → fluff & angst
fwb!bucky x female reader
⤷ your love for bucky burns, but fire can consume everything in its wake.
✪ sticky confessions → fluff
roommate!bucky x female reader
⤷ bucky moves into your spare room expecting four walls and a place to sleep, instead he finds something that feels a lot like home.
✪ the winter huntsman → fluff, smut & angst
alpha!hunter!bucky x omega!princess!reader
⤷ a hunted omega princess and the queen’s enslaved huntsman are forced across a brutal kingdom—only to discover their bond is powerful enough to break magic, topple a throne, and remake the world.
✪ sweet as can be → fluff & smut
40s!bucky x female reader
⤷ you, a sweet and innocent girl catches the eye of cocky, flirty bucky, who’s used to getting any girl he wants.
✪ mowin → smut
⤷ doing buckys chores for him leads you to helping out in a different kind of way.
✪ modern day convienences → smut
⤷ bucky gets to adjust to the wonders of the new world.
✪ ass or tits → smut
⤷ we pose the age old question to bucky.
✪ anklet → smut
⤷ you don't wear a lot of jewelry, but bucky gets to see the most important one.
✪ wet dream wake up → smut
⤷ bucky wakes you up just the way you want him to.
✪ eye contact → smut
⤷ bucky doesnt like when you look away.
✪ gone too long → fluff
⤷ you miss bucky when hes gone.
✪ handlebars not required → fluff & smut
⤷ bucky wants to shave his mustache and you remind why you love it.
✪ birthday boy → fluff & smut
⤷ you make buckys birthday extra special.
✪ jackass → fluff
⤷ bucky makes your heart begrudginly flutter.
Summary: After receiving notice of a dangerous gang causing havoc in Hell’s Kitchen, Frank had no choice but to take care of that himself, only to return home to his apartment in multiple bloody bruises. Thankfully you’re there to take care of him, however, you wonder if he’ll let you help him in the future.
Word Count: 5k!
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, proofread, pwp, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, age gap (reader is in their mid 20s), reader is an enhanced telekinetic, use of Y/N, violence, blood, gore, death, cursing, arguing, reader’s backstory, softdom!frank, pet names, sloppy kisses, bratty reader, biting, praise kink, bathroom sex, rubbing, fingering, cunnilingus, squirting, cum eating, unprotected piv (wrap it so you tap it), creampie, aftercare, fluff.
a/n: I fell so in love with this character the minute I watched his series. This is my first time writing about the punisher so my portrayal for his character and dialogue may be off, so forgive me. Originally this was gonna be a horny drabble but my imagination got the better of me, which is a good thing! Hope you like it either way, as my way to end 2025! Part 2 for this may or may not be written, we’ll see. (๑•ᴗ•๑)♡
Concept
Full Masterlist
Link to AO3
divider by @strangergraphics
gifs by @darlingshane
At around 11 pm, you were in your boyfriend's kitchen, searching through the fridge for ingredients to make yourself a sandwich for a late night snack. Your ears suddenly picked up the sound of heavy footsteps that approached the front door, followed by the turning of its knob. Your body stilled as you caught a glimpse of Frank, limping through the unlocked door, and his form hunched over in what hinted him being in excruciating pain. Parts of his black tactical clothing were tattered, along with him carrying his iconic, skull brandished bulletproof vest, that was splattered with blood which you hoped wasn't his, in one gloved hand whilst holding his stomach with the other. You immediately shut the fridge and anxiously ran over to him as he leaned his back on the wall behind him to keep his body upright.
“Jesus Christ! Frank, what the fuck happened out there?!” You, in a panic, cupped his bearded face in your palms, examining the bruises on his cheeks, nose and the small split in his bloodied top lip. “Ain't nuthin' I couldn't handle,” he rasped. “They look worse than I do if you saw 'em.” You freed his face from your hands and he dropped his dirty vest to the floor, attempting to make his way to towards the bathroom ahead, when an external force held his frame completely solid. Being able to turn his head, Frank's confused eyes locked on yours, being witness to their blue hue, implying that you activated your telekinesis on him. “Wanna tell me why I feel like a brick wall, sweetheart?” He scoffed with a squint. You crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one foot and tapping the floor with the other.
“You know we're gonna have to talk, right?” You exhaled.
“Talk huh?”
“Yeah,” you answered simply.
“Let me go from your little uh.. voodoo shit, then we can talk,” he then ended.
You gritted your teeth and released him from your fierce invisible grip, glow leaving your eyes as you purposely let him stagger back to the wall in his tremendous ache. Hisses and mumbled curses escaped his mouth and his hand clutched his stomach tighter as his wet blood blotched his dark shirt. You stood and stared at him for a good moment with a light grimace on your face until he returned his gaze back to you. “Well, you know where the bathroom is. I'll meet you in there and maybe… I'll think about patching you up,” you sneered before walking away, turning the corner and disappearing into the hallway.
Frank struggled with a pained groan before getting his feet firmly on the floor, following in your direction with a hobble. You on the other hand, waited patiently in the now widely opened bathroom for him to show up, first aid kit at the ready on the sink’s counter. You heard his boots nearing close until his tall form revealed himself in the doorway. He lifted his head and his eyes instantly darted between you and the kit, chortling a bit to himself and walked inside, almost like he knew wouldn’t simply avoid taking care of him. You nodded your head over to the toilet, gesturing for him to have a seat. He went up to it and closed bowl with its lid, promptly sitting down on it and exhaling deeply in relief.
You opened the first aid kid and took out the bandage wrap, cotton balls and antibiotics. Your feet took you to stand between his open legs and you began to clean up the visible cuts and bruises on his face. Frank tilted his hairy chin upward so you’d get a better angle, and lightly dabbed the now sterile cotton ball onto his tender skin. He sucked air through his teeth as he endured the burn of the chemical. While you cleaned him up, your mind went all over the place. You couldn’t help but feel like the next time Frank came back home, he’d look worse than ever. Hell, he even might end up in the hospital if he kept this shit up by himself.
You could help him out there. You literally had the power to do so. You had brought the idea to him before, about fighting alongside him and cleaning up the streets of awful people who inhabit them, only to be shut down in the end. With his main reason being that anything could happen to you and the guilt of that would weigh on him, like chained cinderblocks at his feet. You’re no damsel in distress. That he knew all too well. In fact, the night you both met proved that you could handle yourself pretty well.
2 years ago….
The moment you woke up, you noticed you were left unattended in a small shady, ventilated room, lying flat on a not so comfortable bed, and wearing just a hospital gown. You slowly sat up and whimpered when you got a tug from the piercing tubes in the veins of your arms. You then registered the gag in your mouth, coming to the conclusion that whoever put you here wanted you quiet. Your eyes glanced at the tubes and followed their trail, stopping at a hung up plastic container, filled with some sort of unknown blue fluid. Whatever it was, you felt it unsettlingly flowing through your bloodstream. The burning sensation beneath your skin was brutal and inescapable, so much so that you started panting uncontrollably.
To rid yourself of the throbbing agony, your hands reached over to yank the needled tubes out of your arms. Luckily you weren’t restrained to your bed so you were able to move around freely. You then unbuckled the gag that was strapped to your mouth and threw it across the room in utter disgust. You took a deep breath through your nose and exhaled as the sizzling in your blood simmered. You then dragged yourself off the bed and tried to stand on your quaking feet while bracing yourself on the mattress. Once you were stable enough, you looked around the room and found a metal door, seemingly shut but not locked. Your shaken legs carried you over to it, and palms pressed against the cold thick silver steel. Your body used all of its weight to shove it ajar, just enough for you to pass through and leave.
You quietly walked down the dimly lit hallway whilst maintaining a steady pace. So far, no other soul roamed around which was fortunate for your escape, however, you still kept your guard up. Memories in your head felt scrambled, trying to remember how you ended up in this place, how long you’ve been here and who put you here. All that you could recollect was that you were on your way back to your apartment after a nice dinner with a close friend. Then everything got blurry after that. Perhaps you were drugged or knocked out by someone, and brought here. But for what? Why you?
You turned a corner and let out an audible gasp that was mistakenly heard by two men dressed in stained white scrubs, whose conversation was cut short by your abrupt presence. Their eyes widened at your trembling form before they both pulled out odd looking guns from their belt holsters. “A-alright, how did you… ho-how did you get out?!” One of them asked in a panic. You were speechless, shaking your head with hands in the air in hopes they wouldn’t hurt you. “Hey, I asked you a question! Fucking answer it!” Any words you had were stuck in your throat as you attempted to back away. The men kept their guns pointed at you as they mumbled anxiously to each other. You didn’t catch what they were saying, only focusing on getting away from them. As their eyes weren’t drawn to you anymore, you made a break for it in the opposite direction. They immediately heard your speeding footsteps and ran right after you, shouting for you to stop.
Tears ran down your cheeks due to the instant fear in your heart. Just who were these people? As you kept on running for your life and turning into many different hallways to lose sight of the men, you saw doubled sided doors up ahead and pelted yourself straight through them, being grateful they weren’t locked. A long flight of stairs leading down was introduced to you and with no hesitation, you let your feet take you down them. On your way, your ears caught on to the sound of bullets being shot relentlessly, followed by an obnoxious blaring alarm and a voice coming through some intercom. “ATTENTION ALL LAB DOCTORS AND ASSISTANTS! THERE HAS BEEN A BREACH! READY YOUR WEAPONS! ORDERS ARE SHOOT TO KILL! I REPEAT: SHOOT. TO. KILL!”
Did they mean you? You seriously hoped not. After making the last step, you were met with another set of doors that were also unlocked. Your hands pressed against them to push them open, when more gunshots echoed along with cries of pain from the other side. The second the bullets seemingly ceased, you opened the door and went inside to peek. The copper whiff of fresh blood instantly hit your nostrils, to the point you almost gagged. You brought your hands to your nose, blocking the smell away. The new room you entered was well lit, yet trashed with broken lab equipment and littered with dead bodies that wore the same white scrubs you saw earlier. The only difference was the red seeping through the thin fabric. “What… the actual fuck?” Your hands muffled your words as you tiptoed up to one of the corpses.
It was lying facing down with three gunshot wounds in its back. You put the weight of your barefoot on the body, pushing it to turn the dead person over on their front. Once successful, you crouched down and caught sight of an identification card around the neck reading, “Nathanial Jacobs, Doctor No. 4 of the Series 2 Project.” Where have you seen that before? It felt so familiar but you didn’t know why. Feeling a little brave, you slowly stuck your hand in the pants’ pocket and pulled out the owner’s cellphone. Your thumb pushed on its power button and the screen flashed brightly in your face, making you squint from the glare. Luckily, it didn’t need a passcode and you frantically surfed through the gallery of apps and opened the phone app.
As your finger hovered over the first number to dial for help, the cocks of handguns resonated behind your head. Then another gun cock in front of you, but just a few feet away. You were so concentrated on calling 9-1-1, you hadn’t realized the two men from your previous encounter finally finding you, upon another man who was dressed in black tactical clothing and wearing a big painted white skull on his bulletproof vest, standing right in your view.
He wasn’t pointing his gun at you though. It was aimed directly at the lab assistants. “Listen here, you fucker! You better leave this place right now! You will not stop what we’ve started!” One of the gun’s cold barrels pressed onto the back of your skull as the agent yelled his demand at the skull brandished intruder.
“Like hell I’ll let you motherfuckers go alive,” he finally spoke. “All those kidnappings for your little culty science bullshit ends once a bullet hits right between your goddamn eyes!” Then without hurry, you got on your feet, phone still in your possession while you stared daggers at the doctor’s lifeless form on the ground. The fear and exhaustion gradually transitioned into something else. Something… raging. “Come on, let’s go,” urged the armed agent who lowered his weapon and aggressively grabbed your bicep, while his companion kept his drawn on the stranger. “No,” you mumbled, attempting to pull out of his grip. He squeezed tighter, the phone you held falling to the ground. “I said.. NO!” Your voice reverberated throughout the large room, with walls and scattered broken equipment around quaking with visceral force.
Your eyes flickered with a blue glow and an immense pressure made both lab assistants drop to the ground, similar of a heavy gravitational pull. The sounds of bones crushing and screams of agony filled your ears as you looked down at them with a viscous scowl. The horror in their eyes reflected back to you, yet you showed no care in the world. The man in his tactical wear slowly dropped his shotgun, watching with widened eyes in utter amazement of what was transpiring. You weren’t fully aware of what you were doing yet, but once the cries and crunches stopped to a completely silence, the light left your eyes and you took a massive inhale to calm yourself down.
“Jesus Christ…” the intruder steadily walked up to your figure, seeing the pools of blood from the new deceased bodies start to form. You were motionless for a moment, the grotesque image of the mushed, fleshy bodies burning into your brain. The blood neared your bare toes when you felt a gloved hand rest on your shoulder. “Hey, uh.. you doin’ alright?” He asked sincerely in his deep, rasped voice. You exhaled the breath you didn’t know you held onto and gave him a nod. The tall stranger raised his hand off your shoulder and held it out for you to take. Your eyes gravitated to it, then up to his face, seeing what he really looked like from up close. “Let’s get you out this shithole, yeah?”
“Hey, you there? Where’d my sweetheart go, hm?” You blinked and snapped out of your momentarily zoned state, realizing that you were done tending to his facial bruises. Frank’s chocolate brown eyes gazed into yours, gently caressing your forearms with his gloved hands while yours cupped his cheeks. “You went somewhere for a minute there. Where’d you go huh?” He inquired softly, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your skin. “I’m right here,” you responded with a small grin.
“Mind getting up now? Just so I can check your stomach.”
“Yeah well, whatever you say, nurse.”
You rolled your eyes and moved from between his thighs so he could stand. You pulled up his slightly torn shirt just a bit and peeped the small laceration across his chiseled abdomen. It wasn’t a deep cut thankfully so he required no stitches, however, it still needed to be treated. You then promptly got straight to it, getting new a gauze and dowsing it in the antibiotic liquid. You placed it over the injured skin, earning a mumbled fuck from Frank. After you finished, you grabbed a new bandage and covered the cut with care.
“You know I can help you when you go out there,” you break the silence. “You don’t have to do it all on your own anymore.” Frank dropped his head in exhaustion and leaned his hip against the sink counter. “Not this again.” He scoffed with a tiny head shake. “Uh.. yeah. This again. I swear, one night you’re gonna come back here and look even worse than right now. God forbid, you’ll end up going through intensive care or… dead.” You fixed your stance and crossed your arms over your chest in front of him, holding a concerned expression.
“Now, you know damn well that it ain’t me who ends up gettin’ killed.”
“Yes, I know that,” you said through gritted teeth. “But I just want to… I just want to help you. You know exactly what I can do. I can make it easier.”
“Y/N, those bastards are for me to deal with. No one else ain’t willin’ to do this hard shit in makin’ the fuckin’ city actually safe to live in but me.”
“And all I’m saying is that is that you let me do that with you.”
“So what hm? You prance around in some fuckin’ costume like an idiot? Is that it?” Frank looked down at you and sneered.
“Better an idiot than being worried almost every week, Frank! I get it, okay? You’re risking your life taking out those shitheads who don’t know better. But you don’t have to keep me cooped up in the apartment like I’m a liability.”
“You’re not a liability. I’m just keepin’ ya safe.”
“If this is about that organization trying to find me again, I promise you, I can handle that. Hell, I’m quite literally their karma since they made me into their personal weapon.”
That earned you a condescending chuckle from his lips. “Were you always this cocky or did the power give you an ego boost? Look, jus’ ‘cause you managed to get your first kill in that lab, don’t mean you’re ready for whoever is out there, Y/N.”
“Because you won’t let me BE ready!” Your tone raised at him. “I could be using myself for some actual good instead of wasting it on common bullshit!” Before you could get more shouts out, Frank backed you up against the bathroom wall, closing the gap between your bodies while giving you his signature nose snarl and low, intimidating demeanor. “Now lemme ask you somethin’,” he started. “If I take you out this apartment, you really think you’d be prepared for the fucking worst? ‘Cause I’ll tell ya, even with this.. ability of yours, it won’t shake the weight you’ll feel once the job gets done. You know that all too well too. Th’m two fuckers still in your nightmares, huh?”
Frank neared his face to yours, letting you feel his warm breath. You kept your eyes down until he grabbed your chin firmly, lifting it up so you could stare right into his eyes. Your brows furrowed and fists clenched. “I’m right, aren’t I? You haven’t gotten over it. All this time and you still have empathy for those sick fucks,” he taunted, waiting on what you’ll say next. However, you both just stood in the tense quiet for a brief moment before you opened your trembling mouth.
“Move, Castle.”
“Or what? You’ll do your voodoo shit on me again?”
And with that, you predictably let your eyes shine their blue light. Frank smirked in his little victory before he could feel the impact of your unexpected fist into his stomach, directly hitting the cut you had just cleaned and bandaged. He cursed in pain as the hand from your chin was released and now clutching the injury in pain. The end of your lip curled as you watched him slightly hunch over in his discomfort. “Wow, would you look at that. I faked you out. I thought you used to be a trained marine, old man~” You were able to throw teases until out of nowhere, getting bombarded with both your hands being pinned above your head on the hard wall, your wrists bound by one of Frank’s large hands. You glanced upwards and was greeted with a heavy breathing Frank in your face, pissed and jaw clenched.
“Bet it hurt, didn’t it? Serves you ri-“ your speech got cut off by Frank’s lips colliding into yours. He forced your lips to part and slid his tongue straight through. You squirmed and whined, trying to fight him off but was unsuccessful and eventually, you melted into the kiss. Your head tilted to have the kiss deepen further, with the hair of his neatened beard brushing against your chin. He swallowed your needy whimpers until pulling his lips away, with a light string of saliva connecting them with yours. It quickly broke as Frank leaned into the crook of your neck, wasting no time suckling on your skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut once you felt his teeth dig into you. “F-fuck,” you let out weakly. You could barely free your hands, his own’s strong grip around your wrists refusing to let go. His biting was sure to leave marks but you couldn’t find it in you to care. As he attacked your nape, his knee slipped between your legs, grinding it against your clothed sex.
Of course he pulls this shit the one night I decide to have no undies on underneath tonight.
The friction against your crotch was addicting, you just had to have more. Your moist arousal seeped through the seams of your pajama shorts, also dampening Frank’s combat pants.
He smirked on your neck, moving away from it and stared at you dead in the eyes. “Any more smart words from that mouth, sweetheart?” He interrogated, letting his free hand roam your waist to hook his fingers at your waistband. “You’re such a fucking asshole, Frank,” you eventually answered. He chortled and shook his head. “Yeah, I know.” He ultimately freed your wrists and sunk himself down to his knees. He then pulled your shorts to your ankles, brows raised at the sight of your exposed dripping pussy in his face before glancing up at you.
“No panties, huh? You hidin’ a future telling power or somethin’?”
“Shut up.”
“Heh, will do~”
He braced himself by squeezing your thighs and buried his face right between them. He stuck out his tongue, instinctively flicking and sucking at your clit between your wet folds, while humming to himself in pure satisfaction. Your back arched off the wall and you grab hold of his cut dark hair. His beard grazed you in the best way possible, prickling at your tender mound with each lap he made. Frank felt a harsh tug at his roots, forcing his head closer as his tongue prodded at your entrance. “You can be such a prick, but god, your mouth… too fucking good,” you leaned your head back against the wall with a gapped mouth, clutching the back of his head while you made desperate grinds on his squirming wet muscle.
What did come as a small surprise to you was his thick finger, inserting itself into your tight hole in one go. You hadn’t even noticed when he took his gloves off and tossed them on the tiled floor. Another finger soon entered and Frank plunged them until he reached his knuckles.
His digits curled inside you, stroking your clenching walls while your nub got tortured by his lips. The embarrassing moist noises out of your pussy, combined with Frank’s slobbering echoed the room. Your legs shuddered and you gasped while the knot inside you was tempted to break lose. The huffs and puffs of your chest quickened, followed by the uh uh uh’s that spilled out your mouth. This obviously wasn’t the first time you had been eaten out and fingered by him, but the way he did it this time, almost like he had been starving for weeks. Like the craving just had to be taken care of or else he’d die.
The pads of his fingers repeatedly nudged and scissored at your good spot, pushing you closer and closer to the end of the ropes. “Yeah, that’s right. Close aren’t you, baby? Yeah? You’re squeezin’ my fingers good down here. Go on, cum for me, mama,” Frank purred, pulling his mouth off your sensitive clit. You just nodded frantically and let your head hang back further. “Ha-haah! Fuck, Frank… Frankie!” You bellowed, ultimately letting yourself go for him and squirting your viscous juices onto his hand, and some splattering down his obsidian beard, staining and soaking its strands.
You panted profusely as you loosened the hold of his hair. Frank didn’t say a word but instead, peered up at you with a tilted head and a smug expression. You stared right back and watched your cum drip from his facial hair, and run down his neck. Your lips curled at the ends combined with an adorable giggle, making his pleased look disappear. “What’s that laugh for, hm? Something funny, sweetheart?” He pried. You dragged your hand from his hair and pointed your finger at his face. “Looks like you’re finally showing some age, old man. Beard got the perfect salt to your pepper now,” you remarked with a wink. He scoffed with a head shake as he swiftly got up from his knees and forcefully grabbed your waist with his large hands.
You yelped after being yanked off the wall and aggressively pushed towards the bathroom sink’s counter. Frank shifted positions, moving to the back of your body whilst grabbing both your arms and pinning them behind your back with one hand. Your torso hovered above the plain porcelain as Frank’s heavy combat boot kicked your feet apart from each other. You heard the jingling metal of his belt as he unbuckled them with his free hand in a rush, then pulling down his pants and boxers just enough to free his throbbing girth out of their confines. With your shorts already off, Frank stepped forward and lined himself up with your sopping opening.
The tip of his cock drew along your slit in a tantalizing manner, making sure to circle it on your hard nub for added attention.
“Frankieeee,” you whined childishly, wiggling your hips and turning your head back to him with immense neediness. “Ahh, I dunno. Think you deserve it? From an old geezer like me, huh?” He mocked, grinding his full length between your folds. You squirmed as your whimpers got louder. “Fuck! Ok, I take it back! You’re not old. You’re young and hip and so damn fuckin’ hot! Just please, please… give it to— HAAH!” Your desperate babbling was quickly cut short by Frank’s cock ramming its way through your cunt in one rough go. “Christ, don’t call me that either. That’s worse. Just shut up and take it.”
His free hand pressed against your spine and pushed your front all the way down on the counter top, having you bent over completely as his pelvis sprightly slammed itself against the flesh of your ass. With your hands still bound behind your back, you simply laid there and took all of him, feeling his thickness thrust in and out against your spongy walls. He wasted no time hitting your good spot, causing your high cries of pleasure to spill out into the bathroom. Hell, possibly the entire apartment. Your nails dug into your palms as you made tightened fists, and your knees slightly bent from the weighted force of Frank’s hips.
His deep grunts and curses between his panting near your ear sent a blistering heat through you. That combined with the slaps of sticky skin was enough to turn you on even more.
“You squeezin’ around me again, mama. Feel good, hm? This old man enough for ya?”
“Fuck yes! M-more than enough!”
“Heh, yeah, I know, baby~”
Frank chuckled and gave you one hard smack to your ass cheek, enough for the skin to get a tingling, sharp sting. His fingers then dug into your plump flesh, kneading it aggressively and landing another heavy swat. You let out a naughty giggle and bit down hard on your lip before the pace of his thrusts ramped up again. He released his clutch on your hands behind you, planting both his own on your hips for more leverage. You rested your forearms on the sink counter and hung your head low, panting profusely as the knot inside came close to unraveling again for your second orgasm. Frank wasn’t that far from you, resting his on your shoulder and clenched his jaw through a gritted groan.
Unbeknownst to him, your eyes widened and emitted their blue glow, your telekinesis triggering without meaning to, and causing most of the toiletries around you both to vibrate and levitate in the open air. The objects then circled around you two, movement similar to a whirlwind. Some of them clashed into each other and the walls, causing Frank to lift his head and witness them hovering about, chuckling lowly at the little show you unknowingly gave. It didn’t stop him from pounding into you though, but rather, motivated him. “Yeah, that’s it. Cum with me, sweetheart. You’re right there. Just let it all go,” he urged, awaiting his own climax. And in a matter of a few more hard thrusts to your cervix, warm ropes of his seed emptied from his balls and into your battered cunt. Your ecstasy followed suit as you came around his twitching cock, leaving a white creamy ring around the base of it.
You exhaled the deep breath you hadn’t realized you held on to, resulting in the floating toiletries to come to a halt in mid air and dramatically fall to the floor with a chorus of thuds. You squeaked from the clatter and looked around the bathroom in a slight panic, whilst Frank’s palms moved from your hips and rubbed your shoulders to ease your nerves. “D-did… did I do all that?” You asked with your finger pointing towards the mess on the floor, and the light in your eyes dimming. “Yeah, baby,” he replied, leaving soft comforting kisses into the back of your head. “Don’t worry ‘bout the mess. Deal with that later.”
Once he was sure he let you have every last drop, he slowly pulled himself out of you, watching his cum leak out your hole and dribble down your thigh. Your entire form trembled as you tried to recuperate, bracing yourself on the counter to stand up straight. Frank pressed one last kiss to your temple before reaching to his side for the hand towel on its rack. He then turned on the sink faucet, letting the hot water run on the towel to dampen it. A shaken sigh left your lips as you felt the warmth of the cloth being wiped between your legs as he cleaned you up with tenderness.
“Alright, I’ll tell you what. If somethin’ comes up again, I’ll let you… tag along,” Frank suggested, breaking the comfortable silence. You scoffed and turned around to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Tag along, huh? Is that your way of apologizing for being an overprotective dickhead?” You questioned condescendingly with narrowed eyes and a curl to your lips. “Yeah well, either ya take it or leave it,” he answered as he pulled his pants back up, avoiding eye contact to hide his flushed face. He didn’t want to admit it outright, but he did need you. Not just for fighting by his side, but for simply being his little light in his bleak, gloomy world.
You walked past him and picked up your pajama shorts from the floor, putting them back on and facing him again. “Oh, I’ll take it. As long as I get to protect you. Which you will have me do, right?” You queried with raised brows. Frank glanced at you, pouting his lips until he nodded. “Oh no, you gotta say it. Say it and mean it,” you added cheekily and poked his puffed out chest. “A’right, a’right,” he finally caved. “You can protect me, sweetheart. Just… try not to be a fuckin’ meat shield when we get out there. That’s my job, you clock that?” You nodded your head enthusiastically and wrapped your arms around his waist for a deep hug, rubbing up against the bandaged gash under his shirt.
He hissed in pain and you instantly jumped back. “Fuck! Sorry!” You hesitantly lifted his shirt up to inspect the wound. He sighed and pressed his hand over yours, circling his thumb on your soft skin. “Do you ever stop worryin’?” He kissed your forehead and let his lips stay against your skin. “No, so you better get used to it,” you answered confidently.
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💞💕
