Work Text:
For those who perceive themselves as monsters
You, my little Wicked, are fury incarnate. Never have I seen such seething rage housed within such a fragile frame. How is it that you wield terror with just a glance? That you bring suffering with words alone, as if your very breath were a storm? My Wicked, how is it that venom flows so freely from your tongue, when even you are not immune to its bite?
I often wonder, do you truly not see the chaos you sow when you speak as if the world itself were your enemy? Or perhaps you know all too well. Perhaps you crave the pain you inflict, thriving in the devastation you leave behind. It is why I call you Wicked, after all. If only you could glimpse yourself through my eyes. If, for just a moment, you looked into the mirror and did not see the face of the man who betrayed you... perhaps then you might find room for joy.
If those you loved, those you shielded with your very life, had not forsaken you when you needed them most—would your gaze soften? Would those eyes, sharper than any blade, shine as brilliantly as the open sky? Would your lips, so quick to cut, ever curve into a true smile? Or have you buried that beneath the mask you wear, the one you no longer seem to need?
Perhaps, in another world, you would no longer wake in the dead of night, tears tracing paths down your beautifully marred skin. Perhaps the poison within you would fade, and you could let go of the torment you cannot control. But I fear that may never come to pass. You are Quicksilver, after all, the very embodiment of speed and chaos—a toxin so deadly, none can match it.
And yet, my sweet little Wicked, I wonder—what would it be like to touch your skin without feeling you slip away the moment I reach for you?
You are often the only thing in my mind.
I know danger, I know evil; I have fought against it and tasted its bitterness. And while you try so hard to convince me you are a monster, I see something else entirely. Beneath your stormy facade, I see an earnest heart.
You are no villain. You are not evil. I cannot bring myself to imagine my little Wicked as cruel. Not when you mourn for your friends in secret. Not when you remain loyal to a family that has failed you. Not when you bear burdens no one else would carry. You are no monster, no matter how hard you try to be seen as one.
No, my little Wicked, you are the perfect blend of all this world has to offer, and I would gladly explore every inch of what makes you... you.
For there is nothing in this realm or the next that I adore more than you. My little Wicked. You are worth more than the endless sky.
You overwhelm me. Not with your strength or power—those, I expect. It's your kindness. I have never known anyone so unrelentingly good, so pure-hearted. It's almost reckless how you let people get close, even those who would poison you, who would tear you down. I would know—after all, you let your hands, full of warmth and sincerity, touch someone like me. Someone you should avoid. Someone toxic.
I think... maybe it's because you aren’t the brightest. You’ve always been a little too trusting, too open, allowing your enemies into the same arms that should be used to crush them. It infuriates me. The way you’re kind even to people like me—people who have caused nothing but pain. I can't understand it. I don't deserve it. And yet, I’ve never met anyone like you.
How is it possible to be called wicked with such tenderness?
I don’t understand it. You have a heart so boundlessly lovely, and yet you choose to stand beside me—a person who destroys everything he touches. I ruin relationships, I drive people away, and still, when you look at me, it’s like you see past all that. You see me. You even call me lovely. Even when my venom spills over, even when my sharp edges cut deep into anyone foolish enough to come close, you don’t flinch. You stay.
That’s why I run. You’re too gentle, too good, and I—I am not built for the kind of love you offer. I can feel it, lurking in the spaces between us, waiting to consume me whole. A love so overwhelming it occupies my every thought. It would break me, Thor. It would swallow me, and worse—I’d let it. So I run, because if I don’t, I fear I’ll stay. I’ll stay and let myself fall into your embrace, feel the warmth of your arms around me, know what it’s like to truly belong to you.
And once I know that, I’d never want to let go. I couldn’t. I’d cling to you like a drowning man, and that’s something I refuse to subject you to. You don’t deserve to be shackled to someone like me—someone whose love is as dangerous as his speed.
So, I run. I’m Quicksilver, after all. Fast enough to leave behind the wreckage I create. Fast enough that the only thing you’ll ever feel from me is the wind in my wake. Because no matter how invincible you seem, I know the truth. You’re not immune to me. No one is.
And I couldn’t bear to be the one who finally breaks you.
My little Wicked, I have only ever known one other soul like yours. My dear brother, Loki. I love him as the sun loves the moon—always offering warmth, even when they are worlds apart, separated by oceans of space and time. And yet, even with all that love between us, I shudder to think that he, too, believes as you do. Does he think himself unworthy of love, cursed to run from my affection as though it were a sickness that might consume him? Does he flee from the touch of care, afraid it will burn him? I fear he does.
And you, my Little Wicked, how much of that same pain do you carry? You may see yourself as a monster, but I know—deep within my bones—that you are not evil. You are something else entirely. You are divine. Like my brother, your heart, though guarded, has the power to reach across galaxies, if only you’d allow it to soar. If only you’d permit your love to expand, it could touch every corner of existence.
How can you not see it, my radiant one? How can you remain so blind to the light you carry, the light that spills from you, unnoticed yet all-encompassing? How can you deny the truth of your own brilliance? You are ethereal in every way, my little Wicked. You are a force of nature, perfect and untouchable, yet you choose to shroud yourself in shadows, convinced you are something far less. How is it that you, with all your grace and power, still believe yourself to be a monster?
I wish, if only for a fleeting moment, that you’d allow me the honor of cherishing you as you deserve. To hold you, to be near you—though I doubt any being is worthy of such a gift. And yet, despite knowing this, I can’t help but hope. Hope that perhaps one day I might be enough. Enough to earn the privilege of touching the divine, of holding you close, of showing you that you are cherished beyond measure.
You are so far from the monster you believe yourself to be, my little Wicked. You are a star burning too brightly for your own eyes to see. If only you knew.
My sweet, little Wicked, if only you could grasp the depth of my admiration. Perhaps then, you’d understand that I am not alone in feeling this way. That others, too, stand in awe of your presence. That you are not some forsaken creature, but a gift—one of the finest this world has ever known.
You deserve to be cherished, adored in the way that only the rarest and most beautiful things are. And I would offer you that devotion, without hesitation, if you would only allow it.
Perhaps then, you might begin to see the beauty that you are—the beauty that has always been there, waiting for you to claim it.
Thor, your words are a thunderclap I didn't expect. You compare me to Loki, your brother, the one who spins between light and darkness like a restless star. But I am not Loki. I don’t carry his sly, hidden hope beneath my cynicism. I don’t crave the redemption he secretly yearns for. I’ve never pretended to be a god trying to unearth his purpose. I don’t seek greatness, or even your kind of love. All I know is speed. And maybe, maybe the safety of distance.
You speak of divinity, of stars, and of me as though I’m something glorious, but you don’t understand what it’s like to run with venom in your veins. To feel like the faster you go, the further you can escape your own destruction. You see radiance where there is only ruin. I burn too fast for anyone to hold me. If you were to reach out, you’d pull back nothing but ashes. I know that. You should know it, too.
You think Loki runs from your affection? No. He knows that love can warp, bend, break when it’s weighed down by expectation. He’s seen it, felt it, let it twist him into something sharp and jagged. Maybe he runs to preserve something of himself, the pieces he doesn’t want to break. And me? I run because I have nothing left that isn’t already broken.
I am not the radiant star you imagine. I don’t *shine*. I flicker, I burst, and I disappear before anyone can get close enough to feel the heat. I can’t stay still long enough to be “cherished.” To be seen in the way you want to see me. You talk about offering me devotion, but Thor—what happens when the thing you cherish turns out to be poison? Do you still cling to it? Do you let it infect you, even knowing it will spread?
You think I hide in the shadows, that I’m blind to my own worth. But what if I’m not blind, Thor? What if I see too clearly? What if I know exactly what I am? I’m a storm that never settles, a force that never slows down long enough to care if it’s loved or not. You offer me your warmth, your heart, but I can’t let you be consumed by this. You shouldn’t be.
And you call me your *Little Wicked*—like it’s some affectionate name that wraps around the edges of who I am. But here’s the truth, Thor: wickedness isn’t something you can love away. It’s not some broken piece of me that your devotion can fix. It’s there because I’ve lived it, I’ve earned it, and I’ve made my peace with it. You, with your endless optimism, want to think otherwise, but you can’t change my nature by loving me harder.
Maybe Loki will let you in, one day. Maybe he’ll let you see the softer parts of him that still want to be held. But me? I can’t stop running. Not for you, not for anyone.
So, keep your warmth, Thor. I know you’d give it freely, but it would only scorch me. I’d rather you save it for those who can stand in the light. People like you. I’ll stay in the wind, where I belong. You won’t ever catch me.
Because, deep down, I know what you can’t admit: you’re not immune to me.
And I won’t let you be destroyed by my touch.
Ah, my Little Wicked, your words carry the weight of a tempest, sharp and unrelenting, much like the winds you claim to belong to. You say you are not Loki, and perhaps you are right. You do not seek redemption, nor do you twist in the shadow of what you could become. No, your path is different, cut from rawer cloth, woven in speed and distance. But tell me, is it truly safety you find in that distance? Or is it simply escape?
You say all you know is speed, that your veins run with venom. And perhaps they do, but even venom has purpose. It flows with intent, just as you do. Do not think I have never felt the pull of ruin, the weight of destruction. I have watched realms fall, watched friends and kin crumble to dust in my hands. I know the fury of running from yourself, from your past, from the weight of everything that’s been torn apart inside you. But in all that ruin, I have never seen anything burn so brightly as you, Pietro.
You speak of ashes, of nothingness left in the wake of your speed. But I know better than most that from ashes, life can rise. You flicker, you burn, yes—but even stars that burst apart leave their mark on the universe. You may believe yourself to be ruin, but I see potential. I see fire that has yet to find its true form.
You misunderstand my brother, though. Loki runs because he fears what he might become if he stops long enough to face his own reflection. He fears that the love offered to him comes with chains, with expectations that will bind him in ways he cannot accept. I believe he runs to protect what is left of his fractured soul. But you—you run not because you fear being bound, but because you have convinced yourself there is nothing left to bind. And that, my Little Wicked, is where you are wrong.
You are not ashes. You are not some fleeting flicker in the dark. You are a force, a storm, yes—but storms are not without purpose. They bring change, they cleanse, they reshape the world around them. You think that by running, you protect me from your destruction, but in truth, you only hide from the truth of your own power. You may say that I see radiance where there is ruin, but I have walked in the heart of storms before, Pietro. I do not fear them. I stand in them, let them rage, and come out the other side all the stronger.
You speak of poison, of wickedness, as though they are things that cannot be loved. But let me tell you something: I have fought battles that seemed unwinnable. I have faced monsters beyond count, and I have seen what wickedness truly is. And you—you are not wicked, no matter how much you wish to wear that mantle. Wickedness is deliberate, calculated cruelty. You are not cruel. You are hurt. You are angry. And you are fast—so fast that you’ve outrun your own heart.
You say you see clearly, that you know exactly what you are. But do you? Or is that just the story you’ve chosen because it’s easier to be the storm than to face the quiet that comes after? It’s easier to be the thing that flickers and vanishes before anyone can touch you than to stand still and let yourself be seen. You fear being caught, but what you truly fear is what will happen if you are.
And yet, you think I am the one who doesn’t understand. Perhaps I do not. Perhaps I can never truly grasp the weight you carry. But I do know this—whatever poison you think you carry, it cannot harm me. I have been forged in lightning and war, tempered by realms lost and friends fallen. Your storm, fierce as it may be, does not scare me.
You tell me to keep my warmth, that it would scorch you. But what you do not realize, my little Wicked, is that fire does not always destroy. It can forge. It can illuminate. And it can warm even those who run from it. You say I cannot love the wickedness out of you, and perhaps you are right. But you mistake my love. I do not seek to change you, nor to fix what you think is broken. I only seek to see you as you are, and to stand with you, even in the heart of the storm.
You say I will never catch you, that you will stay in the wind. And perhaps you are right—perhaps no one will ever truly catch you. But understand this: I do not need to catch you to love you. I can love you from here, from where I stand, and that will not change, no matter how far or how fast you run.
You may burn too fast for anyone to hold you, but that doesn’t mean you burn alone. And though you believe I am not immune to your touch—perhaps I am not—but I would rather face that risk than stand by and watch you disappear into the distance.
So run, if you must. But know this: you will never outrun the love that chases you. Not mine, not Loki’s, nor anyone else’s who has seen the truth of who you are. You are not poison, Pietro. You are a force of nature.
And I, Thor Odinson, have never been afraid of storms.