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The throne room of Asgard stretched before them, golden and empty. Or it should have been empty.
Thor stopped mid-stride, Loki nearly colliding with his back. A woman sat on the throne. Not perched, not hiding. Sat, with the casual authority of someone who'd been doing it for centuries.
She was striking. Tall even seated, curves that strained against emerald fabric, a fur cloak draped across her shoulders like she'd skinned winter itself. Black hair fell loose past her shoulders, framing a face of sharp aristocratic beauty. Green eyes watched them approach with bright amusement, and her lips... her lips were painted the same vivid emerald as her gown.
One long leg crossed over the other. She smiled.
Thor's hand found Mjolnir's handle before conscious thought caught up. "Hela." The name came out like a curse. "What trick is this? How did you escape Surtur's flames?"
The smile vanished. Something cold flickered across those beautiful features.
"Do not," she said, voice rich and cutting, "insult me by comparing me to that death witch."
She rose from the throne in one fluid motion, all predatory grace, and began descending the steps. Her hips swayed with each movement, natural and devastating, the fur cloak parting to reveal the dramatic hourglass of her figure.
"I am Loki." She paused on the third step, chin lifted, letting the words land. "Lady Loki, if you require distinction. Goddess of Mischief, rightful Queen of a thousand realms, and currently... a visitor to your quaint little dimension."
Thor turned to look at the Loki beside him. His Loki. The God of Stories now, no longer tricks, wearing that insufferably knowing expression.
Loki raised both hands, palms out. "Don't look at me. I'm standing right here."
"You expect me to believe," Thor growled, turning back to the woman, "that you are simply another version of my brother? Wearing a different face?"
She rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation, sighing heavily. "A variant, yes. From another universe. Surely you understand the concept by now? I was under the impression this realm had dealt with such matters before." Her gaze flicked between them. "Multiple times, if the stories are accurate."
Thor groaned. Actually groaned, the sound dragging up from somewhere deep and exhausted. Because she was right. Multiverse visitors had become depressingly, irritatingly normal. Variants and timelines and dimensional refugees showing up with alarming regularity, each one bringing their own particular chaos.
"My universe destabilized," she continued, descending the final steps until she stood before them. This close, he could see how her eyes caught the light, how the emerald on her lips gleamed. "After I prevented Ragnarok. Successfully, I might add. The power required... well." A graceful shrug that did interesting things to her cleavage. "Reality disagreed with my methods. I needed a new home. I chose this one."
"Chose," Thor repeated flatly.
"Chose." She smiled again, sharper now. "My own brother Thor was much quicker to grasp these things. Then again..." Her gaze traveled down Thor's form with obvious assessment. "He was much smarter than this one seems to be."
Behind him, Loki made a sound that was definitely not a laugh. Definitely not.
Thor's jaw tightened. His grip on Mjolnir shifted.
"You wish to prove yourself not false, my lady Loki? I doubt this completely…."
Thor strode forward, Mjolnir forgotten at his hip. "This is obviously an illusion. Some enchantment designed to confuse and manipulate." His boots rang against the golden floor. "And the fastest way to break any illusion is disruption."
"Thor," Loki warned from behind him. "I would not..."
But Thor was already moving. Before anyone could stop him, both hands shot out and grabbed Lady Loki's breasts, squeezing firmly through the emerald fabric. Testing. Searching for the shimmer of magic that would prove her false.
Time froze.
One second. Exactly one second of absolute stillness.
Lady Loki's face cycled through emotions like storm clouds racing across a summer sky. Shock first, her green eyes going wide. Then fury, her brow snapping down. Then something beyond fury, something incandescent, something that made the air itself crackle with ozone.
Behind them, Loki winced and stepped back. "Oh no."
A staff materialized in her hand. Ornate, golden, intricate runes carved along its length, green energy crackling and spitting along the metal. She gripped it with both hands and swung with the full strength of an Asgardian goddess.
THWACK.
The sound echoed through the throne room like thunder rolling across mountains. Thor's head drove straight down into the stone floor, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the impact point, his body vertical and rigid with legs twitching in the air.
Lady Loki stood over him, chest heaving, a furious blush spreading across her pale cheeks. "Have you no manners?" Her voice shook with rage. "I am a LADY. What kind of barbarian grabs a woman's chest as GREETING?"
Thor's legs continued to twitch. A muffled groan emerged from somewhere beneath the floor.
Behind her, Loki burst out laughing. Not a polite chuckle, not a restrained snicker. Full, body-shaking, tear-inducing laughter that had him clutching his sides and nearly doubling over.
"Oh, brother," he wheezed between gasps. "You deserve every... every bit of that. Gods above, your FACE..."
Lady Loki whirled on him, staff still crackling, but he held up a placating hand while still laughing.
"Peace, peace. I am on your side in this." He straightened, wiping tears from his eyes, something nostalgic flickering across his features. "Actually... this brings back memories."
His form shimmered. Green light rippled across his body like water, features softening and shifting, curves emerging where angles had been. When the light faded, a woman stood in his place. Similar to Lady Loki but different. Leaner lines, sharper features, a more severe beauty.
The female Loki examined herself, turning her hands over, running fingers along the curve of her own waist. "Mmm. It has been some time since I wore this form."
Lady Loki's rage banked slightly, curiosity kindling in its place. She circled her counterpart slowly, staff lowering, taking in the similarities and differences with an appraising eye.
"Interesting." Lady Loki tilted her head. "The bone structure is nearly identical. Though you carry less weight in the hips."
"I prefer efficiency over... abundance." Female Loki circled back, matching the assessment. "Your coloring is richer. The hair has more wave."
"Natural, I assure you."
"As is mine."
They stopped, facing each other, two reflections from different mirrors. Female Loki's lips curved.
"Though I must say," she drawled, "I never made my ass quite that fat." Her eyes dropped deliberately. "Looks like a whore's backside."
The silence was absolute.
Lady Loki's smile went sharp as broken glass.
THWACK.
Loki, somehow back in male form mid-fall, found his head buried in the stone floor right next to Thor's. The cracks from his impact matched his brother's perfectly, a matching set of god-shaped holes in Asgardian architecture.
Lady Loki huffed, the sound full of aristocratic disdain. The staff vanished in a shimmer of green light. She smoothed her hands down her corset, adjusting her fur cloak, composing herself.
"The males of this universe are stupid," she announced to no one in particular. "Even my own counterpart." She stepped over Thor's still-twitching legs. "I expected better. I was clearly a fool."
From the floor, Thor laughed weakly. The sound was muffled and broken but unmistakably amused.
"At least," he wheezed, "you got the same treatment."
"Shut up," Loki groaned.
Lady Loki's heels clicked against stone as she exited, each sharp sound a judgment. The doors boomed shut behind her.
In the silence that followed, both gods remained exactly where they were, heads buried, legs occasionally twitching, neither making any immediate effort to extract themselves from the floor.
The elevator doors opened onto controlled chaos.
Avengers Tower's common area sprawled before them, all glass and chrome and expensive furniture that had clearly survived multiple superhero-related incidents. The team had assembled with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Tony stood by the bar, drink already in hand. Steve sat on one of the couches, arms crossed, the picture of patient skepticism. Natasha leaned against a pillar, perfectly still in that way that meant she was ready to move very fast. Clint perched on the back of a different couch, fingers twitching near his quiver. Bruce hovered near the windows, keeping distance. Wanda occupied an armchair, scarlet energy flickering absently between her fingers.
Every eye turned to the elevator.
Thor stepped out first, one hand rubbing the back of his neck where a spectacular bruise was still fading. Loki followed, expression carefully neutral. And then Lady Loki swept into the room like she owned it, fur cloak trailing behind her, green-painted lips curved in a smile that promised nothing good.
"Jesus Christ," Tony said flatly. "Reindeer Games, what the hell are you wearing?"
"I am standing right here, Stark." Loki gestured to himself, then to Lady Loki. "Clearly not the same person."
"Could be an illusion." Clint's hand found an arrow. "Could be some new scheme. Wouldn't be the first time he pulled something like this."
"Agreed." Natasha's weight shifted subtly, her stance going combat-ready. "We've seen Loki's tricks before."
Lady Loki's smile didn't waver, but something cold entered her eyes. "How tedious. Do all the mortals in this realm share a single brain cell, or is it simply these particular ones?"
"She's a variant," Thor explained, still rubbing his neck. "From another universe. We've... verified this."
"Verified how?" Steve's voice was reasonable, measured, deeply unconvinced.
Thor's hand moved faster against his bruise. "Through... testing."
"She hit him," Loki supplied helpfully. "Drove his head straight through the throne room floor. Mine as well, for the record. The woman has a remarkable swing."
Tony's skepticism visibly shifted, interest kindling in his eyes. He set down his drink and started moving closer, circling around the furniture toward Lady Loki. His gaze dropped from her face to her cleavage with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
"So," he drawled, "another dimension, huh? Fascinating. Really fascinating. The physics alone must be..." His eyes stayed fixed well below her chin. "...incredible."
Lady Loki didn't look at him. Didn't turn her head. Didn't acknowledge his existence beyond a slight tightening at the corner of her mouth.
"If you touch my breast or my ass," she announced, voice carrying clearly through the room, "I will throw you into space. The vacuum kind. Without a suit."
Tony stopped mid-step. "I wasn't going to..."
"You were calculating the trajectory." Now she did look at him, one eyebrow arched. "I could see it in your eyes. The answer is no. The answer will always be no. Find a different goddess to grope."
Natasha's head turned slowly toward Thor. Wanda followed. Even Pepper, who had appeared from somewhere with a tablet in hand, fixed him with a knowing stare.
Thor shifted his weight. "I had to be certain. It could have been an illusion."
"You grabbed her chest," Natasha said. Not a question.
"To test..."
"Her chest."
"The illusion could have been..."
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Clint started laughing first, arrow forgotten, the sound sharp and delighted. Tony joined in, his earlier embarrassment forgotten in the joy of Thor's discomfort. Even Bruce cracked a smile.
"Oh man," Clint wheezed. "Oh man, that's... that's amazing. The God of Thunder, defeated by his own hands."
"I was not defeated," Thor protested. "I was merely... corrected."
"With her staff," Loki added. "Through the floor. The cracks are still there, if anyone wishes to see them."
The laughter redoubled. Lady Loki watched it all with something approaching satisfaction, her smile warming slightly at the edges.
Questions started flooding in as the amusement faded. Bruce wanted to know about the physics of dimensional travel, whether her universe operated on the same fundamental constants. Steve asked about her world's history, how it diverged from theirs. Tony, maintaining careful distance now, peppered her with queries about her powers, her magic, whether she'd be interested in some "completely professional" scans.
"I prevented Ragnarok," Lady Loki answered, settling into one of the armchairs with fluid grace. Her fur cloak pooled around her like dark water. "Successfully. The power required to stop Surtur's flames destabilized the dimensional barriers. My universe began... collapsing. Folding in on itself." She examined her nails, casually. "I had perhaps three minutes to choose a destination. This reality was stable. Accessible. And it contained versions of people I knew."
"So you're stuck here," Wanda said. Not unkind, but direct.
"I prefer to say I've relocated." Lady Loki's smile sharpened. "Permanently. With all my considerable talents intact."
"We could show you around," Tony offered, skepticism apparently forgotten in favor of enthusiasm. "The tower, the city, the best restaurants. I know a place that does this molecular gastronomy thing that would blow your Asgardian mind."
"I know the city better than you, Stark," Loki interjected. "I should be the one to..."
"You tried to conquer it. Different kind of tour."
"That was many years ago...i am quite sure it was a different timeline altogether….something about movies…."
More voices joined in. Offers, questions, suggestions. Lady Loki answered them with patience, clearly enjoying the attention, the way every eye in the room tracked her movements, hung on her words. She crossed her legs slowly, deliberately, watching several gazes follow the motion. Her smile grew.
Then her eyes caught movement at the edge of the room.
A young man sat apart from the chaos, tucked into a window seat that the afternoon light had turned golden. A book lay open in his lap. He turned a page. His attention remained fixed on the words in front of him, completely absorbed, utterly unaware of anything else happening in the room.
Everyone else stared at her. Studied her. Wanted something from her, whether information or entertainment or something more base.
He didn't even glance her way.
Lady Loki's smile froze. Her head tilted, a predator spotting unexpected movement. Interest kindled sharp and sudden in her green eyes, something beyond casual curiosity.
"And the defensive capabilities of the tower itself," Tony was saying, gesturing expansively. "We've got redundant systems on redundant systems. After the last few... incidents... we really upgraded the..."
Lady Loki vanished.
No warning. No shimmer of magic. One moment she sat in the armchair, fur cloak pooled around her, the next the chair was empty.
"...security," Tony finished to nothing. "Okay. Rude."
She materialized directly in front of the window seat, blocking the light, casting a shadow across the pages of the book.
"Hello," Lady Loki said, her voice dropping into something rich and curious. "You seem to be the only person in this room not staring at me. I find myself wondering why."
Peter nearly dropped his book.
One moment, empty air. The next, a goddess materialized inches from his face, close enough that he caught the scent of winter and something metallic beneath. His spider-sense hadn't even twitched. That fact alone sent his heart racing faster than her sudden appearance.
"I... uh..."
Cool hands cupped his face before he could finish the thought. Her fingers were gentle but firm, tilting his chin up, turning his head slightly left, then right. She examined him like a curator studying a newly discovered artifact, green eyes bright with genuine curiosity.
Heat flooded his cheeks immediately. He could feel the blush spreading down his neck, probably visible to everyone in the room, definitely visible to the woman currently holding his face like she owned it.
"Hi," he managed. The word came out small and awkward, barely a whisper.
Lady Loki smiled.
Not the sharp, performative curve she'd aimed at Tony. Not the cold amusement she'd worn while discussing her universe's destruction. Something softer touched her green-painted lips, something that reached her eyes and made them crinkle slightly at the corners.
"This one," she announced, loud enough for the room to hear, "is interesting." Her thumbs traced his cheekbones, the touch feather-light. "Which hero are you, little mortal? I know most of the faces here from my own universe, but yours..." She tilted her head, black hair falling over one shoulder. "Yours I do not recognize."
Peter swallowed. "Spider-Man. I'm, uh, I'm Spider-Man."
Recognition flickered across her features. Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed with intrigue. She released his face but didn't step back, looming over him in the window seat, close enough that he could count her eyelashes if he tried.
"Spider-Man," she repeated, tasting the name. "I've heard stories. The wall-crawler of New York. The friendly neighborhood menace, depending on who you ask." Her smile sharpened with interest. "I never met you in my universe. You didn't exist there, or perhaps you simply never crossed my path. Last i heard you were a blonde lady." She leaned closer, her breath cool against his burning cheek. "Either way... how fortunate for me."
Across the room, the Avengers watched in various states of frozen attention. Tony had his drink halfway to his lips, suspended in disbelief. Steve's arms had uncrossed, his whole body leaning forward. Clint had pulled out his phone and appeared to be recording.
"You," Lady Loki declared, straightening to her full height, "will show me around New York."
"I... what? No, I mean, I have... there's things I need to..." Peter looked desperately toward Thor and Loki, eyes pleading. Help. Rescue. Literally anything.
Lady Loki followed his gaze.
Her expression went murderous. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. A staff flickered into existence in her hand, green energy crackling along its length, runes glowing with barely contained violence.
Thor remembered his head buried in stone.
Loki remembered his head buried in stone right next to it.
They both raised their hands and gave Peter weak, apologetic thumbs up.
"Traitors," Peter whispered.
"Excellent." Lady Loki's staff vanished. Her smile returned, satisfied and victorious. "Then it's settled."
She hooked her arm through his before he could protest further, her grip deceptively gentle and absolutely unbreakable. Peter found himself hauled to his feet, his book tumbling forgotten to the floor, his body moving toward the elevator whether he wanted it to or not.
"We're leaving now," Lady Loki informed him. Not a question. Not a request. A statement of fact, delivered with the casual authority of someone who had ruled kingdoms.
"But I... my book... I haven't even..."
"Now."
The Avengers watched him go. Tony's expression settled somewhere between amusement and envy. Steve looked like he wanted to intervene but couldn't quite justify it. Natasha's lips twitched. Clint was definitely still recording. Bruce had retreated another few feet toward the windows.
"You know," Tony muttered, finally taking his drink, "it's always the spider who catches the flies."
Natasha's head turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. "In this case? The fly definitely caught the spider."
The elevator doors slid open. Lady Loki guided Peter inside with inexorable grace, positioning him against the back wall, standing far too close. Her fur cloak brushed against his arm. Her perfume surrounded him.
Peter looked out at the common area one last time, expression helpless, silently begging for intervention that wasn't coming.
Lady Loki smiled at the assembled heroes, green lips curved with pure satisfaction.
The doors closed.
The first hot dog was a disaster.
Peter bought two from a cart in Central Park, classic New York style, loaded with mustard and sauerkraut. He handed one to Lady Loki and watched her examine it like a scientist studying a particularly dubious specimen.
She was wearing civilian clothes for the first time. A dark green dress that probably cost more than his monthly rent, hugging every curve. Heels that added another three inches to her already considerable height. An emerald pendant nestled in her cleavage, catching the afternoon light. She looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine and wandered into the wrong part of Manhattan.
"This is food?" She turned the hot dog over, watching mustard drip onto the napkin. "You eat this willingly?"
"Best hot dogs in the city. Trust me."
"Your city has remarkably low standards."
But she took a bite. Chewed slowly. Her expression cycled through suspicion, confusion, and something that might have been pleasant surprise.
"Acceptable," she declared. "The meat is questionable, but the overall effect is..." She took another bite. "Surprisingly edible."
Peter grinned. "High praise from a goddess."
"Do not let it go to your head."
They walked through the park, past joggers and dog walkers and tourists with cameras. Lady Loki drew stares wherever she went, her height and beauty and sheer presence impossible to ignore. She seemed to absorb the attention like sunlight, growing more radiant under observation.
"Tell me about this city," she said. "Not the facts. The feelings. Why do you love it?"
Peter considered the question as they passed a group of kids playing frisbee. "It's alive. That sounds stupid, but... every street has a story. Every building has seen something. And the people..." He gestured vaguely at the crowds around them. "Everyone's from somewhere else, running from something or toward something. Nobody belongs here, which means everyone does."
Lady Loki was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice had lost some of its theatrical edge.
"My Asgard was beautiful. Perfect. And completely suffocating." She finished her hot dog, delicately wiping her fingers on the napkin. "Every story had already been told. Every path had been walked a thousand times. The weight of tradition pressed down on everything like a tomb."
"That why you left?"
"I told you. My universe collapsed."
"Yeah." Peter met her eyes. "But you chose to come here. Out of infinite realities. Why this one?"
She didn't answer. But she also didn't look away.
Broadway was a mistake.
Not the show itself. The show was fine. Some revival of a classic musical, all spectacle and emotion and voices that shook the rafters. Peter had gotten the tickets through Tony, which meant they were front row center, which meant every performer could see Lady Loki's face as she critiqued their life's work in real time.
"His pitch is flat," she murmured during the opening number.
"Shh."
"And her projection is adequate but her emotional connection to the material is nonexistent."
"People can hear you."
"Good. Perhaps it will motivate improvement."
By intermission, Peter had apologized to three separate ushers. Lady Loki had accepted a glass of champagne from the bar and was holding court in the lobby, explaining to a small crowd of terrified theater enthusiasts exactly what was wrong with the choreography in the second act.
"The footwork is sloppy," she declared. "I've seen better precision from drunken Einherjar during feast days."
A woman in a sequined dress clutched her program like a shield. "Are you... a dance critic?"
"I am a goddess." Lady Loki sipped her champagne. "Which means my opinions are objectively correct."
Peter grabbed her elbow and steered her back toward their seats. "You can't just tell people you're a goddess."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because they'll think you're crazy."
"Their perception of reality is not my responsibility." But she allowed herself to be guided, her arm warm against his. "Though I will admit... the spectacle has merit. The lighting design in particular shows genuine artistry."
"See? There's good stuff."
"Some good stuff. Surrounded by mediocrity." She settled back into her seat as the lights dimmed. "But perhaps that is the nature of mortal art. Brilliance struggling against limitation."
The second act was better. Or maybe Lady Loki had simply run out of criticism. She watched in silence, her profile outlined by stage light, and Peter found himself watching her more than the performers.
When the final number swelled to its crescendo, he could have sworn her eyes were bright.
The Empire State Building at sunset was supposed to be cheesy.
Peter had almost talked himself out of it three times on the way over. Too touristy. Too romantic. Too obvious. But something made him bring her anyway, cramming into the elevator with a dozen other visitors, enduring the slow climb while Lady Loki examined the other tourists with thinly veiled disdain.
"These mortals paid money for this experience," she observed. "To stand in a metal box and wait."
"The view's worth it."
"Doubtful."
But when they stepped onto the observation deck, she went quiet.
The sun hung low over New Jersey, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold and deep purple. Manhattan spread out below them like a circuit board, windows catching the dying light, throwing it back in a million tiny mirrors. The Hudson glowed. The East River glowed. Everything glowed, the whole city transformed into something precious and fleeting.
Lady Loki walked to the railing and stood there, unmoving, for a long time.
Peter joined her but didn't speak. Didn't need to. The city spoke for itself, all that noise and chaos reduced to silent beauty from this height.
"I saved my Asgard," she said finally. Her voice was soft, stripped of performance. "I stopped Ragnarok. I thought... I thought that would be enough. That everything would go back to normal. That I would finally be..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
"What?"
"It doesn't matter." She turned to face him, her eyes reflecting the sunset, the emerald somehow warmer in this light. "The universe disagreed with my methods. Reality itself rejected what I had done. And I found myself alone in a dying dimension, watching everything I had saved crumble around me."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Her smile returned, but gentler than usual. "I found something better."
She was looking at him when she said it. Just at him. And Peter felt something shift in his chest, something warm and terrifying and completely out of his control.
"We should come back," he said, because he didn't know what else to say. "At night. When all the lights are on."
"Yes." She didn't look away. "We should."
The dive bar in Brooklyn was definitely a mistake.
Peter had chosen it specifically because it was the opposite of everywhere else he'd taken her. No glamour, no spectacle, no beauty. Just sticky floors and cheap beer and a dartboard that had seen better decades.
Lady Loki walked in wearing another designer dress, emerald silk this time, and every head in the place turned. The bartender dropped a glass. A guy playing pool scratched so badly he tore the felt.
"This establishment is charming," she announced. "In a derelict sort of way."
"It's a dive bar. It's supposed to be divey."
"Is that a word?"
"It is now."
She ordered something expensive and was told they didn't have it. She ordered something slightly less expensive and received the same response. Eventually she accepted a beer, holding the bottle between two fingers like it might be contaminated.
"The alcohol content is negligible," she observed after a sip. "I would need to drink several dozen of these to feel any effect."
"Then it's a good thing you're not here to get drunk."
"Then why am I here?"
Peter pointed at the dartboard. "To show these guys what Asgardian aim looks like."
Her eyes lit up.
Three hours later, Lady Loki had beaten every challenger in the bar. Twice. Without magic, she assured them, laughing as they accused her of cheating. Just eyes. Just practice. Just centuries of skill honed on targets far smaller than this.
"You're hustling us," a burly man named Frank complained. "Nobody's that good."
"I am." She threw another dart without looking, hitting the bullseye dead center. "Though I appreciate your disbelief. It makes victory sweeter."
Peter watched from the bar, nursing his third beer, grinning like an idiot. She was radiant like this. Not the cold, performative radiance she wore like armor, but something warmer. Something real. Her hair had come loose from its careful arrangement. Her cheeks were flushed. She was laughing, actually laughing, the sound bright and unguarded.
She caught him watching and smiled.
Not the sharp smile. Not the dangerous one.
Just... smiled.
The pizza place was sacred.
Peter had been going to Sal's since he was twelve years old. The same cracked vinyl booths. The same faded photos on the walls. The same slightly uneven tables and the same perfect, beautiful, transcendent pizza.
"This is it," he said, sliding into his usual booth. "Best pizza in the city. Maybe the world. Definitely the universe."
Lady Loki examined the establishment with the same critical eye she'd applied to Broadway. "The décor is... vintage."
"The décor is irrelevant. The pizza is everything."
"You say that with remarkable conviction."
"Because I'm right."
The pizza arrived. Classic New York style, thin crust, perfect cheese pull, the kind of slice you had to fold in half to eat properly. Peter demonstrated the technique. Lady Loki watched, then mimicked it with surprising grace.
She took a bite.
Her eyes closed.
"Oh," she said quietly.
"Told you."
"Be silent. I'm having a moment."
She ate three slices in rapid succession, making small sounds of appreciation that did things to Peter's concentration. When she finally stopped, it was only because the plate was empty.
"We're coming back," she announced. Not a question. Not a request. A decree from the Goddess of Mischief, delivered with absolute authority.
"Whenever you want."
"Tomorrow."
"Sure."
"And the day after."
"Okay."
"And possibly every day until I tire of it, which may be never."
Peter laughed. "Sal's going to love you."
"Everyone loves me." She wiped her fingers delicately on a napkin. "Eventually. Whether they intend to or not."
The web-swinging was an accident.
They were walking back from dinner, some fancy place Tony had recommended, when the call came through. Bank robbery in progress. Three blocks away. Armed suspects, hostages, the usual chaos.
"I have to go," Peter said, already looking for an alley to change in. "I'm sorry, I know we were..."
"Take me with you."
He stopped. "What?"
"Take me with you." Her eyes were bright, eager, something almost childlike in her expression. "I want to see how you do this. How you move through this city."
"It's dangerous."
"I'm a goddess."
"The bad guys have guns."
"I've survived worse than mortal weapons."
"I can't just..."
She stepped closer, her hand finding his arm, her touch cool through his sleeve. "Please."
Peter had never been good at saying no. Especially not to that face. Especially not when she was looking at him like that, all hunger and hope and something vulnerable underneath.
"Hold on tight," he said.
Three minutes later, they were swinging between skyscrapers, the city rushing past in a blur of light and shadow. Peter's arm was locked around her waist, her body pressed against his, her hair whipping behind them like a dark flag.
Lady Loki shrieked.
Not a dignified sound. Not a composed goddess vocalization. An actual shriek, high and wild and absolutely delighted, torn from her throat by speed and wind and pure exhilaration.
"Faster!" she demanded, her arms tight around his neck. "Go faster!"
He went faster. Shot a web at a distant building and let them fall, stomach-dropping freefall for three seconds before the swing caught and they were soaring again. She shrieked again, laughing now, her face pressed against his shoulder.
"This is incredible!" Her voice was barely audible over the wind. "Why didn't you tell me you could do this?"
"I thought you knew!"
"Knowing and experiencing are entirely different things!"
They swung past the bank. Peter took out the robbers in under two minutes, Lady Loki watching from a nearby rooftop with unconcealed admiration. Then they were moving again, no destination in mind, just flying through the city because they could.
Eventually they stopped on top of a water tower in Queens, both breathing hard, the city spread out around them like a secret.
"That," Lady Loki said, "was the most fun I've had in centuries."
Her hand was still in his. He wasn't sure when that had happened.
"We could do it again," he offered. "Whenever you want."
"Tomorrow?"
"Sure."
"And the day after?"
"Yeah."
She squeezed his hand. Just once. Just briefly.
But it was enough.
She started texting him first.
The messages came at odd hours, no pattern Peter could discern. Three AM questions about Midgardian customs. Noon observations about the weather. Evening complaints about Tony's latest attempt at conversation.
LL: The Man of Iron has asked me to participate in "lab tests" for the seventh time this week. I am considering turning him into a frog.
PP: Please don't turn Tony into a frog.
LL: A small frog. A pathetic one. Green, to match his envy.
PP: Still no.
LL: You're no fun.
PP: I'm VERY fun. I took you web-swinging.
LL: ...acceptable point. He remains human. For now.
She started showing up at his apartment unannounced.
The first time, he nearly had a heart attack. He came home from patrol to find her sitting on his couch, examining his bookshelf with critical interest.
"Your taste in literature is eclectic," she observed, not looking up. "Philosophy beside pulp fiction. Science texts beside fantasy novels. You're either a genius or completely undisciplined."
"How did you get in here?"
"I'm a goddess. Locks are suggestions."
"That's breaking and entering."
"That's visiting a friend." Now she did look up, something uncertain flickering across her features. "We are... friends, yes?"
Peter's heart did something complicated. "Yeah. Yeah, we're friends."
"Good." She returned to the bookshelf, but her shoulders had relaxed. "Then make me tea. I've decided I enjoy your tea."
She started finding excuses to touch him.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. A brush of fingers when she handed him something. A hand on his arm when she laughed at one of his jokes. Adjusting his collar before they went somewhere, her cool fingers lingering against his throat.
But it kept happening. More often. More deliberately.
At a party, she stood close enough that her hip pressed against his. In his apartment, she sat on his couch with her legs tucked up, her knee touching his thigh. Walking through the city, her hand found his arm and stayed there.
Peter wasn't stupid. He knew what was happening.
He just didn't know what to do about it.
The rooftop party was Tony's idea.
Some charity event, lots of rich people in expensive clothes, the usual Avengers crowd mixed with socialites and celebrities. Peter hated these things, but Pepper had asked nicely and he was physically incapable of saying no to Pepper.
Lady Loki loved them.
She swept through the crowd like a queen holding court, drawing every eye, commanding every conversation. Her dress tonight was darker than usual, almost black, with green embroidery that caught the light. Her hair was up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Her lips, as always, were painted emerald.
Peter watched her from the edge of the party, nursing a drink he didn't want, feeling out of place in a suit that didn't quite fit.
Eventually she found him.
"You're hiding," she accused, appearing at his elbow with two glasses of champagne. "The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, hiding from a party."
"I'm not hiding. I'm... strategically observing."
"From the darkest corner of the roof?"
"The view is good here."
She handed him a glass and claimed the space beside him, her shoulder brushing his. For a while they just stood there, watching the party, the city lights stretching out below them.
"I never had this," she said quietly.
Peter turned. "Had what?"
"Fun." The word came out strange, almost wondering. "In my universe, everything was... obligation. Performance. Politics. Even pleasure was calculated. Strategic." She sipped her champagne, her eyes distant. "I was always playing a game. Always watching for threats. Always waiting for the knife in my back."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It was." She met his eyes, and something in her expression made his breath catch. "This... these past weeks... you've shown me things I never... I never knew what it felt like. To simply enjoy something. To laugh without agenda. To spend time with someone who wanted nothing from me."
"I want things from you," Peter said, and immediately wished he could take it back.
But Lady Loki smiled. Not the sharp smile. Not the dangerous one.
The real one.
"I know." Her voice was soft. "That's what makes it different."
The pier was empty.
Late enough that the tourists had gone home, early enough that the night crowd hadn't arrived. Just water and wood and the city lights painting everything in shades of gold and shadow.
They walked to the end without speaking, their footsteps hollow on the boards. Lady Loki's heels clicked a rhythm that matched Peter's heartbeat. Her hand found his arm, then slid down to take his hand.
She stopped at the railing, facing the water, the lights reflecting in her eyes.
"Peter."
His name in her voice did something to him. She rarely used it. Usually it was "Spider" or "little mortal" or some elaborate nickname that changed by the day. But this... this was different.
She turned to face him, and her expression was uncharacteristically serious.
"Peter," she said again, and the way she shaped his name made it sound like something precious. "I have a question."
"Okay."
"Why haven't you asked to sleep with me yet?"
Peter choked on nothing. Air. His own spit. The entire concept of oxygen betrayed him as he sputtered and coughed, face flushing crimson in an instant.
"I... what... you can't just..."
"An Asgardian man would be thinking of marriage by now." She continued as if he hadn't spoken, as if his cardiovascular system wasn't staging a revolt. "After a courtship like this. Two months of your undivided attention. Outings. Adventures. Learning each other's minds and habits and preferences." Her head tilted, black hair catching the city lights. "Yet you haven't so much as kissed me."
"We haven't..." Peter's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "We haven't been on a date."
Lady Loki stared at him.
The silence stretched. Her expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to track, settling finally on something between disbelief and genuine confusion.
"What," she said slowly, "do you call the last two months?"
"Hanging out? Being friends? I was showing you around the city, you said you wanted..."
"Every outing." She stepped closer, her voice sharpening. "Every meal. Every late night in your apartment talking until dawn. Every time I found excuses to touch you, to be near you, to learn the shape of your laugh and the weight of your silences." Her eyes narrowed. "Those were dates, Peter. All of them. Every single one."
"I didn't..."
"The hot dogs in the park. The Broadway show. The Empire State Building at sunset." She was counting on her fingers now, each word a pointed accusation. "The dive bar where I beat every mortal at darts. Your sacred pizza establishment. Web-swinging through the city while I screamed with joy against your shoulder." Her hand dropped. "And still. Still you haven't dragged me to bed."
Peter went quiet.
The flush faded from his cheeks, replaced by something heavier. Something tired. He turned away from her, facing the water, his hands finding the railing and gripping it tight enough that the wood creaked.
"I'm not in the right space for a relationship," he said. The words came out flat. Rehearsed. Like he'd said them before, maybe to himself in the mirror, maybe to friends who worried. "Or for pleasing anyone. You're kind to offer, but..." He exhaled slowly. "You'd be better finding someone else."
"Why?"
The question hung in the air between them. Simple. Direct. Demanding an answer he didn't want to give.
Peter's jaw tightened. His grip on the railing shifted.
"Mary Jane," he said finally.
Lady Loki waited.
"We were fighting something. The Emissary. This... cosmic threat. And she got trapped in another dimension." He stared at the water, not seeing it. "For me, it was months. Months of searching, of trying to find a way to reach her. But for her..." His voice caught. "Time moves differently between dimensions. Years. She was there for four years."
"And?"
"And she came back with….she was with someone else. A man named Paul. They had..." He swallowed. "They had children together. Two kids. A whole life. Four years of building something while I was still looking for her."
The words kept coming now, spilling out like water through a cracked dam.
"I thought... when I finally got her back, I thought everything would go back to normal. That we'd pick up where we left off. But she chose him. She chose Paul, and the family they'd made, and she avoided me for months. Wouldn't see me, wouldn't talk to me. And I understood, I tried to understand, but..."
"But it destroyed you."
Peter didn't answer. Didn't need to.
"She's trying to come back now," he continued, his voice hollow. "Paul fell apart. The children... they're gone, erased somehow, fake i think and the relationship collapsed, and suddenly she wants me again. Wants to fix things. Wants to try." He laughed, and there was no humor in it. "But I can't trust it. Can't trust her. Can't trust myself to be enough for anyone, because I wasn't enough before. Four years, and she built a whole life without me. What does that say about what we had?"
Lady Loki's eyes began to glow.
Faint at first, just a shimmer of green around the edges of her irises. Then brighter, emerald light spilling out like contained fire.
"May I?" she asked softly.
Peter turned, saw the magic gathering in her gaze, understood what she was asking. He should say no. Should protect the memories, the pain, the private grief he'd carried alone for so long.
"Yeah," he said instead. "Yeah, okay."
The magic reached for him gently. Not invasive, not demanding. More like a door opening, an invitation to share what he couldn't put into words. He felt her presence brush against his mind, and he let her in.
She saw everything.
The hope. The desperate months of searching. The joy when he finally found her, finally brought her home. And then... the slow, crushing realization. The averted eyes. The distance that grew wider every day. The moment he understood she wasn't coming back to him, that she'd already made her choice.
The hollow grief that followed. The sleepless nights. The patrols that went too long because going home meant facing the emptiness. The way he smiled at his friends and said he was fine, fine, everything's fine, while something inside him quietly collapsed.
The green light faded.
Lady Loki's expression had gone cold. Not at him. At something else entirely. Something distant and deserving of her fury.
"Mary Jane Watson," she said flatly, "is a fool."
Then she kissed him.
Not gentle. Not tentative. Her hands fisted in his shirt and hauled him against her, her mouth claiming his with a ferocity that left no room for doubt or hesitation. She tasted like champagne and winter and something electric, her tongue demanding entry, her body pressing flush against his until he could feel every curve, every soft yielding surface, the heat of her bleeding through both their clothes.
Peter's hands found her waist without conscious thought. Pulled her closer. His fingers dug into the fabric of her dress as the kiss deepened, as she made a sound against his mouth that was half satisfaction and half hunger.
When she finally broke away, they were both breathing hard.
"You," she said, her voice rough, her green-painted lips swollen and smeared, "are going to fuck me like a warrior tonight."
Green light swallowed them both.
Green light faded, and Peter's feet found solid ground that wasn't a pier.
The suite sprawled around them like something from a fever dream. Penthouse level, floor to ceiling windows wrapping the corner of the building, Manhattan's skyline blazing against the night. The bed dominated the room, massive and white, sheets that probably cost more than his rent. Crystal decanters on a sidebar. Art on the walls that looked real, not printed.
Lady Loki surveyed the space with casual approval, like she'd conjured it from memory rather than magic.
"You'll be moving out of that dump you live in," she said. Completely deadpan. Not a suggestion.
"I... what? No, that's my... I've lived there for..."
But she wasn't listening anymore.
Her hands rose to the clasp at her throat, and the fur cloak slipped from her shoulders. It pooled on the floor behind her, dark and heavy, forgotten the moment it left her skin. Her fingers found the laces of her dress next, working them slowly, loosening the emerald fabric that had clung to her all evening.
The dress gaped. Fell away from her shoulders.
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Her breasts spilled free first, heavy and full, pale skin catching the city lights through the windows. Her nipples were already peaked, flushed dark against all that cream. The dress slid lower, catching briefly at her waist before surrendering entirely, revealing the dramatic nip of her figure, the flare of her hips, thighs that pressed together with soft weight.
The dark thatch between her legs glistened.
She stepped out of the pooled fabric and stood before him. Naked. Unashamed. A goddess in truth, all curves and power and absolute certainty, watching him take her in with eyes that glowed faintly green.
"Well?" she asked.
Peter's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
She stalked forward.
Her hands found his shirt with considerably less patience than she'd shown her own clothes. Fabric yanked over his head, buttons be damned. His pants followed, shoved down his hips, her cool fingers hooking into his waistband and pulling until everything fell away.
He stood bare before her.
Her eyes dropped.
She went still.
In Asgardian mythology, Loki had taken many forms. Fucked many things. Beasts and monsters and beings of legend, creatures that defied mortal comprehension. Not that any of it was true….well not all of it. She had seen and experienced much in her long centuries of existence.
But by the Norns.
This mortal was hung.
Ten inches at least, thick enough to match, already hardening under her gaze. The shaft curved slightly upward, veined and flushed, twitching visibly as blood rushed south. Heavy. Substantial. The kind of cock that made a goddess reconsider her standards.
Lady Loki swallowed visibly.
Her tongue traced her green-painted lips, slow and deliberate.
Then she fell to her knees.
Not gracefully. Not with the calculated elegance she usually brought to every movement. She dropped like worship was the only appropriate response, like standing had become physically impossible in the face of what hung before her.
Her mouth found him.
"Ohhhh..... fuuuck....."
Peter's groan dragged up from somewhere deep as her tongue traced his length. Base to tip, slow, reverent, mapping every ridge and vein. She licked him like he was sacred, like she was learning him by taste, and when she finally took him into her mouth, the wet heat made his knees threaten to buckle.
She worked him deeper.
Inch by inch, her lips stretched around his girth, green lipstick smearing along his shaft as she took more of him. Her cheeks hollowed. Her throat opened. She swallowed around him and the pressure made stars burst behind his eyes.
"Gods....." His hands found her hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark silk. "That's..... fuck, that's....."
She hummed around his cock. The vibration shot straight up his spine.
Lady Loki worshipped him. There was no other word for it. Her head bobbed with devoted attention, lips sliding wet and tight, tongue working the underside with each stroke. Green lipstick marked her progress, rings of emerald climbing higher as she took him deeper, until her nose brushed his pelvis and he felt the flutter of her throat around his tip.
She held there. Swallowed. Pulled back slowly, letting him feel every inch of withdrawal.
Then did it again.
And again.
And again.
Until he was iron-hard and throbbing, until his grip in her hair had tightened past politeness, until every muscle in his body was coiled tight with the need to thrust.
She pulled off with a wet pop.
Her lips were ruined. Green smeared across her chin, her cheeks, mixed with spit and precum into something obscene. She looked up at him with bright eyes and pushed.
Peter fell backward onto the bed.
She climbed over him before he could recover, but reversed, her knees bracketing his head as she bent forward to reclaim his cock. Her cunt hovered inches from his face, pink and swollen and dripping, the scent of her arousal hitting him like a wave.
Her mouth engulfed him again.
Peter grabbed her hips and pulled her down.
"Mmmmmphh....."
Her moan vibrated through his cock as his tongue found her folds. She tasted like salt and honey and something electric, her arousal coating his lips the moment he licked into her. He found her clit and sealed his mouth around it, sucking hard, and felt her whole body shudder above him.
She ground down against his face.
"Yes..... there..... fffuck....."
He ate her like he was starving. Tongue and lips working her clit while his hands gripped the plush weight of her ass, kneading the soft flesh, spreading her wider for his mouth. She was so wet, dripping onto his chin, his neck, soaking into the sheets beneath them.
Her mouth never stopped moving. Bobbing on his cock with increasing desperation, taking him deep, the rhythm faltering as he built her higher. Her moans came muffled now, sounds forced out around his length.
"Mmmm..... nnnnghh..... hahhhh....."
Peter slid two fingers into her.
Her hips bucked. A strangled sound escaped around his cock, high and desperate, as he curled his fingers forward and found the spot that made her shake. He worked it ruthlessly, tongue still circling her clit, his free hand gripping her ass hard enough to bruise.
"Can't..... I'm..... hhhhnnn....."
Her thighs clamped around his head.
Her whole body went rigid above him, suspended on the edge for one breathless moment, and then she shattered. The scream came muffled by his cock, her throat convulsing around him as she came, squirting against his face in wet pulses that he drank down greedily.
Her hips ground against his mouth through the aftershocks. Rolling, desperate, chasing every last tremor while her moans dissolved into broken whimpers.
"Ohhhh..... gods..... gods....."
Finally, she pulled off his cock. Gasping. Trembling. She turned around to face him, her eyes blown wide and dark, her green lips utterly destroyed.
She positioned herself over his length.
Looked down at him with hungry determination.
She sank down onto him.
The breath punched out of her lungs.
By the Norns. By the fucking Norns.
She had to stop halfway, eyes flying wide, her whole body going rigid as she adjusted to the stretch. He was splitting her open and she wasn't even fully seated. The girth of him pressed against her inner walls, demanding space she wasn't sure she had, and her thighs trembled with the effort of holding herself still.
Peter watched her face. The shock there. The pleasure warring beneath it. Something shifted in his expression, less uncertain, more present. His hands found her hips, steadying without pushing.
"You okay?"
"Silence." The word came out breathless, strained. "I'm... adjusting."
She breathed through it. In through her nose, out through her mouth, willing her body to relax around the intrusion. Then she forced herself down the rest of the way.
The last five inches sank into her in one slow, inexorable slide.
"Ohhhh..... fuuuuck....."
She bottomed out against his pelvis. Seated flush. Stuffed completely. Ten inches of thick mortal cock buried inside her, pressing against places she'd forgotten existed, filling her so thoroughly she could feel him in her throat.
She stayed still.
Adjusting.
Feeling him throb inside her, his heartbeat pulsing through his length, each throb making her clench involuntarily around him. Her cunt gripped him like a fist, like it was trying to pull him deeper despite there being nowhere left to go.
Then she started to move.
Rolling her hips experimentally, searching for the angle that would make this overwhelming fullness into something she could use. Forward. Back. A slow circular grind that dragged him against every nerve ending she possessed.
There.
A gasp tore from her throat as she found it. The spot that made lightning fork up her spine. She rolled her hips again, hitting it deliberately this time, and her head fell back.
"Yesss..... there..... right there....."
She began to ride.
Slow at first, lifting herself a few inches and sinking back down, getting used to the drag of him inside her. Then faster. Harder. Her thighs flexing as she bounced on his cock, taking her pleasure with single-minded focus.
A grin spread across her ruined green lips.
"Enjoying the view, little spider?"
Her heavy breasts swayed with every movement. Hypnotic. The full weight of them bouncing in counterpoint to her rhythm, nipples peaked and flushed, catching the city lights through the windows. She arched her back to show them off, knew exactly what she was doing, preened under the way his eyes tracked every jiggle and sway.
"Gods....." His voice came out hoarse. "You're... fuck....."
"I know." She leaned down, changing the angle, pressing her breasts against his chest. "I know exactly what I am."
She kissed him deeply.
Her green-painted lips claimed his mouth, tongue sliding against his, swallowing his groan. When she pulled back, emerald marks remained behind. His lips. His chin. She traced a path down his jaw, leaving prints with every press of her mouth.
Marking him.
Claiming him.
She sat back up and rode harder.
"Ah..... ah..... ah....." The sounds punched out of her with each bounce, synced to the impact of her hips against his. "Yes..... yes..... fuck....."
The angle had her clit grinding against his pelvis on every downstroke. Pressure building. Heat coiling tight in her belly. She chased it with ruthless efficiency, using him exactly as she wanted, taking exactly what she needed.
The first orgasm crashed through her.
"NNNNGHH..... NORNS..... FUCK....."
Her cunt clamped down around him, walls rippling, squeezing his cock in rhythmic pulses. Her whole body went rigid, back arching, breasts thrust toward the ceiling, and the cry that tore from her throat was raw and ugly and beautiful.
She didn't stop moving.
Through the aftershocks, through the overstimulated trembling, she kept riding. Slower now, grinding rather than bouncing, working herself through the plateau toward the next peak.
"Can't..... stop..... hahhhh....."
Peter's hands tightened on her hips. "You don't have to..."
"Want to." She rolled her hips, gasped at the drag of him against her sensitized walls. "Want... more..... need....."
She built herself up again. Faster this time, her body already primed, already desperate. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, punctuated by her increasingly broken moans.
The second orgasm hit harder than the first.
"YES..... YES..... FUCK..... NNNNGHH....."
Her thighs shook violently, barely holding her up. She collapsed forward against his chest, panting, trembling, her cunt still fluttering around him in aftershocks.
But she wasn't done.
She pushed herself up. Turned around.
Reverse cowgirl now, her back to him, that fat gorgeous ass on full display. She looked over her shoulder with a wrecked smile and sank back down onto his cock.
"Ohhhh..... gods....."
The new angle was different. Deeper somehow, hitting places the previous position hadn't reached. She planted her hands on his thighs and began to move, rolling her hips in slow circles, showing off exactly what she was working with.
Her ass bounced with every motion. Full and round, the plush flesh rippling with each impact, impossible to ignore.
Peter's hands found her.
He grabbed handfuls of that softness, squeezing hard, fingers sinking into the generous curves. His grip was firmer now, less hesitant, and the possessiveness of it made her moan.
"Yes..... touch me..... claim what's yours....."
She leaned back, twisting to kiss him over her shoulder. Awkward angle but worth it for the way she could leave more marks. His chest now, emerald prints scattered across his pectorals. His shoulders, green smears where she'd pressed her lips. His neck, his collarbone, anywhere she could reach.
Evidence everywhere.
Anyone who saw him would know. Would see the marks of her mouth, the ruins of her lipstick, the unmistakable signs of being thoroughly, completely claimed.
She sat back up and rode faster.
"Ah..... ah..... ah..... fuck..... fuck....."
Her ass slapped against his thighs with each bounce, the sound joining the wet rhythm of their fucking. She could feel a third orgasm building, her oversensitized body responding to every sensation with amplified intensity.
"More..... by valhalla..... more....."
Peter's hands tightened on her hips.
Something in his expression hardened. The uncertainty she'd seen on the pier, the hesitation, the grief that had dulled his eyes for weeks. Gone now. Replaced by something focused. Something hungry.
He was done letting her drive.
Peter moved.
One moment she was in control, riding him with smug satisfaction, the next her world inverted. Hands gripped her waist with strength that shouldn't exist in a mortal frame and lifted her clean off his cock. She yelped. Actually yelped, the sound torn from her throat before dignity could intervene, as he repositioned her like she weighed nothing at all.
His arms hooked under her knees.
Pulled them up.
Back.
Her own arms trapped behind her head as he locked her into a full nelson, spreading her wide open, her cunt exposed and dripping, her body suspended entirely by his grip. She couldn't move. Couldn't close her legs. Couldn't do anything but hang there, held aloft by superhuman strength, completely and utterly helpless.
He stood.
Held her weight effortlessly.
And started fucking up into her.
"NNNNGHH..... NORNS....."
The first thrust drove the breath from her lungs. The angle was devastating. He was hitting depths she didn't know she had, his cock driving up into her with brutal efficiency, and she couldn't do anything but take it. Take him. Bouncing on his length with every thrust, her heavy breasts swaying wildly, her whole body jerking in his grip.
"Fuck..... fuck..... FUCK....."
Her cocky composure shattered like glass.
Asgardian curses spilled from her green lips, desperate and broken. "Norns..... Odin's blood..... holy fuck....." She borrowed from Midgard when her own language failed her, anything and everything, words dissolving into raw sound as he pounded up into her suspended body.
"AH..... AH..... AH....."
Each thrust punched a cry from her throat. High and sharp and utterly undignified, the sounds of a goddess being fucked past coherence. Her cunt clenched around him with every stroke, trying to grip him, trying to hold him, but she had no leverage, no control, nothing but the relentless drive of his cock splitting her open.
"Can't..... please..... hahhhh....."
He dropped her onto the bed.
Face down. Ass up.
She barely had time to process the position change before his weight pressed down on her, flattening her into the mattress. His cock found her again immediately, sinking back into her with one smooth thrust, and he started fucking her deep and relentless.
Prone bone.
She was pinned. His chest against her back, his hips driving down, his cock reaching angles the previous position hadn't touched. Every thrust ground her clit against the sheets beneath her. Every thrust pushed her deeper into the expensive fabric. Every thrust reminded her exactly how helpless she was.
CRACK.
His hand connected with her ass.
The flesh jiggled from the impact, a ripple spreading across the generous curve. Heat bloomed where he'd struck, sharp and sudden, and the sound that escaped her wasn't a protest.
"Ohhhh..... gods....."
CRACK.
He did it again.
Harder this time. Watching the way her ass bounced, the way red began to bloom against the pale skin, the way her whole body shuddered beneath him. She moaned louder, pushing back against him despite her position, wordlessly begging for more.
The orgasm crashed through her without warning.
"YES..... NNNNGHH..... FUCK....."
Her cunt clamped down around him, walls rippling, and she squirted into the sheets. Wet heat spreading beneath her hips, soaking the fabric, her body clenching and releasing in waves she couldn't control.
He didn't slow down.
He flipped her into doggy.
Grabbed her hips with both hands.
And railed her properly.
The wet slap of flesh on flesh filled the room. Obscene. Rhythmic. His pelvis crashing against her ass with every thrust, the sound joining her broken moans and his harsh breathing into a symphony of fucking.
"Better..... Norns..... better than....."
She was cock drunk now. That arrogant goddess reduced to a moaning mess, her face pressed into the pillow, her back arched to take him deeper, her words spilling out without filter or thought.
"Better than any Asgardian..... better than anyone..... by the Norns don't stop..... don't stop..... don't....."
CRACK.
His hand cracked against her ass again.
She sobbed with pleasure.
His hands groped and squeezed possessively, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, kneading the curves he'd been watching bounce for the last hour. He leaned down, his chest pressing against her back, and bit her shoulder.
Not gentle. Not a nibble.
Teeth sinking into the muscle, marking her, claiming her the way she'd claimed him with her lipstick.
The orgasm hit so hard her arms gave out.
"FUCK..... NNNNGHH..... CAN'T..... HAHHHH....."
She collapsed face-first into the pillow, her whole body shaking, her cunt squeezing him in desperate pulses. Her thighs trembled violently, barely holding her hips up, and the sounds she made weren't words anymore. Just broken keening, high and raw, the noise of someone fucked completely past coherence.
He pulled out.
Flipped her onto her back.
Crawled over her with intent blazing in his eyes.
Peter folded her in half.
His hands found the backs of her thighs and pushed, pressing her knees toward her shoulders, his weight settling over her, pinning her down into the ruined sheets. Nothing between them but sweat and heat and the desperate need pounding through both their veins.
He lined himself up.
Slid back into her in one long, devastating stroke.
"Nnnnghh..... ohhhh....."
The keen that escaped her throat was raw, wrecked, the sound of someone pushed past every limit and still hungry for more. Oversensitive and overstimulated, her cunt clenching around him on pure instinct, but she didn't push him away. Couldn't. Didn't want to.
Her legs wrapped around him immediately.
Ankles locking at the small of his back, calves flexing, pulling him deeper. Her arms circled his neck, fingers threading through his hair, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a spinning universe.
He started to move.
"Hahhhh..... gods..... gods....."
The angle was impossibly deep. Every thrust pressed him against her cervix, that bright spark of too-much-almost-pain that somehow transmuted into pleasure so intense it blanked her mind. She couldn't form words anymore. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but feel.
Gasps and moans and broken cries to gods who weren't listening.
"Ah..... ah..... ah....."
He fucked her deep and thorough. Not rushing. Savoring every stroke, every clench of her walls around him, watching her face as pleasure wrecked her completely. His hips rolled with devastating skill, drawing out each thrust, grinding against her at the deepest point before pulling back and doing it again.
"Yesss..... there..... don't..... hahhhh....."
Her head thrashed against the pillow. Her nails raked down his back, leaving red lines she'd admire later. Her thighs trembled where they gripped him, muscles quivering with exhaustion and overstimulation and the desperate need for more, always more.
The orgasm built slowly this time.
Not the sharp crash of the others but something deeper, rolling toward her like a wave gathering force. She felt it in her bones. In the curl of her toes. In the way her breath caught and held, held, held.
"Close..... I'm..... nnnnghh....."
He didn't change his rhythm. Kept that steady, relentless pace, hitting that spot inside her with every stroke, watching her climb higher with an intensity that made her feel seen in ways she hadn't expected.
She broke.
"FUCK..... YES..... NNNNGHH....."
Her cunt clamped down around him like a vice, walls rippling, squeezing him with rhythmic pulses she couldn't control. Her whole body arched beneath him, back bowing off the bed despite his weight pinning her down, and the cry that tore from her throat was something beyond sound.
Through the waves of it, she felt him falter.
His rhythm stuttered. His breath came harsh against her neck. His cock throbbed inside her, swelling harder.
"Gonna cum," he gasped. "Fuck, I'm gonna..."
Her legs tightened.
Her arms pulled him closer, dragging him down against her, refusing to let him pull away. Not now. Not for this.
She kissed him.
Deep and desperate, tongue tangling with his, swallowing the groan that rumbled through his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there. She felt him pulse inside her. Felt the first hot flood of his release painting her walls. Felt him throb and spill, filling her completely.
She screamed into the kiss.
The heat of him spreading through her core, pulse after pulse, so much of it. Thick and copious, flooding her like a fountain, more than she'd expected, more than seemed possible. Her cunt clenched around him greedily, milking every drop, her body determined to take everything he had to give.
Norns, she thought distantly, how backed up was he?
The answer came with another hot pulse inside her, another throb of his cock, and she realized with triumphant satisfaction exactly how neglected this man had been. The women of Midgard were fools. Their female heroes, parading around in their tight costumes, completely oblivious to what walked among them. And Mary Jane Watson, especially Mary Jane Watson, who had held this in her hands and let it slip away.
Their loss, she thought. My gain.
She kissed him deeper, feeling him still pulsing inside her, her walls still milking him, determined to wring every last drop from his balls. He groaned against her mouth, the sound broken and overwhelmed, his hips twitching with aftershocks.
They stayed locked together.
Kissing messily, sloppily, all technique abandoned in favor of pure need. Her legs stayed wrapped around him, holding him inside her. Her arms stayed circled around his neck, fingers playing with the damp hair at his nape. His weight pressed her into the mattress, heavy and grounding and exactly what she wanted.
Eventually, finally, he softened enough to slip free.
"Nnnh....."
The whimper escaped before she could stop it. The sudden emptiness after being so full, the loss of that connection, it felt wrong somehow. She felt his cum start to leak from her immediately, warm and thick, trickling down to pool beneath her.
He shifted like he might move away.
Her arms tightened.
"No." The word came out hoarse, wrecked. "Stay."
He stayed.
Settled his weight back over her, his face finding the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. She held him there, feeling his heartbeat slow against her chest, feeling her own match its rhythm.
The sheets were ruined.
Evidence of the last several hours marked every surface within reach. Wet spots darkened the expensive fabric in overlapping circles, some still glistening, others dried to stiff patches. Green lipstick stains scattered across the pillows, the headboard, smeared in abstract patterns where bodies had pressed and dragged. The musk of sex hung heavy in the air, thick enough to taste, mingling with the salt of sweat and the lingering ozone of magic.
Lady Loki lay against the pillows, thoroughly debauched.
Her hair spread across the white silk in a tangled dark halo, knots and snarls where fingers had gripped and pulled. Bite marks decorated her shoulders, her neck, the curve of her breasts. Hickeys bloomed purple and red across her pale skin, a constellation of claiming that matched the marks she'd left on him. Between her thighs, thick warmth leaked slowly, his cum so copious that it kept flowing even with his cock still buried deep inside her, her walls too stretched and satisfied to hold it all in.
She had never been fucked like this.
Not in her very long Asgardian life. Not even close. Centuries of lovers, beings of power and legend, and none of them had wrung her out so completely, so thoroughly, so many times that she'd lost count somewhere around the sixth orgasm and stopped caring around the ninth.
And to think these female heroes had no sense.
Walking around in their tight costumes, fighting alongside this man, and not one of them had claimed him for themselves. Fools. All of them. No Asgardian woman worth her salt would ever let a man like Peter Parker get away from her. Would never let him leave the house with full balls for other sluts to tempt and steal. A warrior who fucked like that? You chained him to your bed and threw away the key.
Peter was asleep on her breasts.
Using them as pillows, his face pressed into the soft weight of her, one arm draped across her waist. His expression was peaceful in a way she hadn't seen from him before. No tension pulling at his brow. No guilt shadowing the corners of his mouth. No grief lurking behind closed lids.
Just rest.
Green lipstick marks covered him from his hairline to his chest. Evidence of her worship scattered across his skin like war paint. His forehead, his cheeks, his jaw. The column of his throat and the hollow where it met his shoulder. His collarbones, his pectorals, the line down his sternum. Anywhere she could reach, she'd pressed her lips and left her mark.
He looked claimed.
He looked hers.
Lady Loki traced patterns on his back with her fingertips. Idle spirals and loops, feeling the muscle beneath his skin, the warmth of him against her. She watched him breathe, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, and felt something unexpectedly tender bloom in her chest.
She pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
"Sweet dreams, little spider," she whispered, and laced the words with magic. A gift. A spell woven into the soft syllables, sliding into his sleeping mind, ensuring whatever visions found him would be gentle. Pleasant. Full of warmth rather than the grief she'd glimpsed in his memories.
He groaned against her breast.
His cock twitched inside her, hardening, swelling where he was still buried. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling himself closer, pressing deeper even in sleep. Her walls clenched around him instinctively, massaging the length of him, and the moan that escaped her lips was soft and satisfied.
"Mmmm....."
The dreams were sweet indeed.
She laid a kiss on his hair. Then another. Then another, trailing them down to his temple, his ear, the curve of his cheek. Each one gentle. Reverent. So different from the desperate, claiming kisses of hours before.
She wrapped herself around him more securely.
Her legs tangled with his, thighs pressing against his, ankles hooking behind his calves. Her arms circled him, one hand splayed across his back, the other cradling the back of his head. Holding him against her. Making sure he couldn't slip away even in sleep.
"I'm keeping you," she told his sleeping form.
The words came out quiet but certain. Not a question. Not a hope. A decree from a goddess who had decided, and whose decisions were law.
"You're mine now." She nuzzled against his hair, breathing him in. "I don't share. I don't let go of what belongs to me."
Her hand stroked down his spine, slow and possessive.
"A goddess has claimed you, Peter Parker. And I mean to keep you." Her voice dropped lower, softer, fierce despite the tenderness. "Forever."
His groan vibrated against her breast.
His cock pulsed inside her, another wave of cum releasing, flooding her already full cunt with more thick heat. His hips pressed forward in his sleep, grinding deep, his body answering her claim even unconscious.
Lady Loki smiled.
Answer enough.
She kissed him one more time, soft and sweet, her green lips pressing against his forehead with all the tenderness she rarely let herself show.
Then she closed her eyes.
The triumphant smile stayed on her face as sleep claimed her too, wrapped around her spider, her treasure, her prize.
Hers.
Two years passed.
The raven arrived on a Tuesday.
Thor was in the middle of breakfast when it landed on his windowsill, obsidian feathers gleaming, a golden cylinder clutched in its talons. The bird fixed him with an imperious stare, dropped its burden on the counter, and departed without ceremony.
"Brother." Loki appeared in the doorway, holding an identical cylinder. "I assume you received one as well."
The invitation was ridiculous.
Heavy cream paper, thick enough to cut yourself on, edges gilded with actual gold. Emerald ink spelled out the details in calligraphy so elaborate it bordered on aggressive. The wax seal bore two symbols pressed together: a spider and a serpent, intertwined.
You are cordially summoned to witness the union of
Lady Loki, Goddess of Mischief, Rightful Queen of a Thousand Realms
and
Peter Benjamin Parker, the Spider-Man
Your attendance is not optional.
Thor turned the invitation over. A photograph had been affixed to the back, its corner marked with a deliberate kiss of green lipstick.
Peter stood in formal Asgardian attire, the kind of outfit usually reserved for princes and high nobility. Deep blue fabric with silver threading, cut to emphasize his shoulders, his lean strength visible even through the formal lines. He was grinning. Not his usual self-deprecating smile, not the mask he wore for cameras. Genuine, unguarded joy, the expression of a man who had found something worth keeping.
He was carrying Lady Loki in his arms.
Her weight appeared to be nothing to him, spider-strength making the pose effortless, holding her like she was precious rather than heavy. She wore an Asgardian bridal gown of green and gold, the fabric flowing around her like water, the bodice cut to display her considerable assets while somehow remaining regal.
Her belly swelled beneath the dress.
Six months along, at least. The curve of pregnancy unmistakable, prominent, the fabric designed to showcase rather than hide it. One of her hands rested on the swell, possessive and proud.
Her expression was pure smug triumph.
She smirked directly at the camera, green-painted lips curved in satisfaction, eyes bright with victory. The look of someone who had won a war everyone else hadn't known was being fought. A goddess who had claimed her prize and intended to keep it.
Thor studied the photograph for a long moment.
"I have received word," he said slowly, "from higher powers."
Loki's eyebrow rose. "Which higher powers?"
"Cosmic entities. The Norns themselves." Thor's voice was grave, weighted with significance. "The kind of beings one does not ignore."
"And what did these beings communicate?"
Thor set the photograph down carefully, treating it with the reverence of a sacred artifact.
"This union must continue. It has been seen. Prophesied. Blessed by forces beyond our comprehension." He met his brother's eyes, expression serious. "The children Peter Parker sires with Lady Loki will be Asgardian demigods. They will carry the blood of the main spider totem of the Web of Life itself. They will become defenders of the universe. Protectors of reality across all dimensions."
Loki nodded slowly, his own expression matching Thor's gravity. "The implications are... significant."
"Indeed."
"The bloodline of Asgard merged with the totemic power of the Great Weaver."
"Precisely."
"Children who will bridge the mystical and the mortal, the divine and the heroic."
"You understand the weight of this."
"I do."
They stood in solemn silence for several seconds.
Then Thor's expression shifted.
The gravity cracked. The seriousness crumbled. A grin spread across his face, slow and wicked and utterly delighted, the kind of shit-eating smile that made Loki take an involuntary step backward.
"A female version of you," Thor said, each word landing with mirth, "fell in love with Peter Parker."
Loki's expression didn't change. "Coincidence."
"Got pregnant by him."
"These things happen."
"Is marrying him in a lavish ceremony." Thor's grin widened impossibly. "With your female looks. Your blood. Your magic."
"She is a variant. An entirely separate..."
"Brother." Thor stepped closer, savoring every syllable. "Is there something you wish to confess?"
Loki went very still.
"Hidden feelings, perhaps? For the spider?" Thor circled him slowly, predator scenting weakness. "A secret attraction you've been harboring all these years?"
"I have no idea what you're implying."
"Is that why you always seemed to let Spider-Man escape during your conflicts?" Thor's voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. "All those battles. All those schemes. And somehow the wall-crawler always slipped away. Almost as if someone wanted him to survive. Wanted to keep him safe. Wanted..."
The chair hit the wall where Thor's head had been a quarter second earlier.
Wood splintered. Stone cracked. Thor was already moving, laughter booming through the chamber, his feet carrying him toward the door at a dead sprint.
"COME BACK HERE AND DIE LIKE A MAN!"
Loki's staff materialized mid-charge, green energy crackling along its length, runes flaring with murderous intent. He vaulted over a couch, sent a blast of magic that scorched the doorframe as Thor ducked through it.
"How DARE you suggest such a thing!" The words echoed through the corridor as Loki gave chase. "I am the God of Stories! I have no interest in mortals that way!"
Another spell. Thor dove, rolled, came up running. A tapestry burst into green flames as he passed.
"This is SLANDER! This is DEFAMATION!"
Thor's laughter only grew louder.
"I will END your bloodline, you thundering oaf! I will erase you from the annals of history! I will..."
A table crashed against the wall. Several priceless vases followed.
In a sitting room adjacent to the chaos, Sif watched the destruction unfold with mild interest. She occupied a comfortable chair by the window, her feet propped on an ottoman, a cup of tea warming her hands. Her belly curved prominently beneath her dress, six months along with her and Thor's baby and showing every inch of it.
Another crash. More shouting. Something that sounded suspiciously like a minor explosion.
"Don't break anything irreplaceable!" she called out, her voice carrying easily through the commotion.
A pause in the chaos.
"HE STARTED IT!" Loki's voice came back, indignant.
"I regret nothing!" Thor added laughing, followed immediately by the sound of more running and another spell impact.
Sif took a sip of her tea.
This was apparently normal.
Loki's curses continued echoing through the halls of Asgard, growing more creative and anatomically specific as the chase moved deeper into the palace. Something about Thor's hammer, something about goats, something in Old Norse that made the servants blush and quicken their steps.
Sif smiled, rubbed her belly, and went back to her tea.
OMAKE: TOO LATE REDHEAD
Mary Jane Watson stood outside an expensive apartment building in Manhattan, checking the address on her phone for the third time.
This was Peter's new place. Or so she'd been told. Tony had given her the address with a strange expression, something between sympathy and amusement that she hadn't been able to parse. "Good luck," he'd said, and nothing else.
The lobby had been nicer than her current apartment. Marble floors, fresh flowers, a doorman who'd actually checked a list before letting her up. The elevator had a concierge. A concierge. Since when did Peter Parker live somewhere with elevator concierges?
She found the door. Room 69.
She tried not to read anything into the number.
Her reflection stared back at her from the polished brass numerals. Red hair carefully styled. Makeup done carefully. The dress she'd chosen after changing four times, something that said I'm doing well and I miss you and please give me another chance all at once.
She was here because she needed to talk to him. Needed to explain everything. Needed to find a way back to what they had.
Paul was gone…well not gone but they weren't together anymore. The children... the children had never been real. Or they had been real, but they'd been erased, and the universe insisted they'd never existed, and she still didn't know how to grieve something everyone said was a phantom. Four years of her life, collapsed into nothing. Therapy had helped her understand what happened. Trauma bonding. Survival instinct mistaken for love. She'd never stopped having feelings for Peter, not really. She'd just been too broken to see it.
Surely Peter would understand.
Surely they could work through this.
They always had before.
She raised her hand to knock.
Hesitated.
There was... noise. From inside.
A woman's voice, high and desperate, muffled by the door but unmistakable in its tone.
"FUCK..... YES..... RIGHT THERE..... DON'T STOP....."
The wet rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, fast and hard. A pace that spoke of stamina she remembered. A deeper groan. Peter's voice. She'd recognize it anywhere, even rough like that, even wrecked like that.
"HARDER..... BY THE NORNS..... HARDER....."
The unmistakable protest of a bed frame under violent use. Springs creaking. Wood groaning. Something hitting a wall in rhythm.
"Ohhhh..... gods..... gods..... NNNNGHH....."
Deep wet sounds of kissing between moans. Flesh against flesh. The obscene symphony of two people fucking with absolute abandon, completely unaware they had an audience.
Mary Jane's face went red.
Hot crimson spreading across her cheeks, down her neck. Her hand hung frozen in the air, inches from the door, paralyzed between retreat and denial.
She didn't quite believe it.
Refused to believe it.
Peter didn't... he wasn't... they hadn't officially ended things, had they? He'd been distant, yes. Avoiding her calls, her texts, her attempts to see him. But that was grief. That was processing. That was him needing time, the way she'd needed time, and surely he hadn't...
"YES..... YES..... FUCK ME..... CLAIM ME....."
The woman's voice crescendoed into something raw and animal.
"PETER..... PETER..... NNNNGHH....."
His name. Screamed like a prayer. Like worship. Like possession.
Mary Jane's jaw tightened.
She rang the doorbell.
The chime echoed, absurdly cheerful against the backdrop of passion. For a moment nothing changed. The sounds continued, building toward something, the woman's cries reaching a fever pitch.
Then silence.
Abrupt. Total. The kind of silence that said we heard that.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened halfway.
Peter stood there looking thoroughly wrecked. Sweaty, dazed, hair a disaster of spikes and tangles going in every direction. His chest was bare, gleaming with perspiration, and every visible inch of skin was covered in green lipstick prints. Lips, cheeks, neck, shoulders, collarbones. The marks continued down his chest, disappearing below the doorframe's edge, evidence of worship scattered across him like war paint.
He looked freshly fucked.
He looked deeply satisfied.
He blinked at Mary Jane like he was having trouble focusing, his pupils blown wide, his breath still coming uneven.
"MJ?" The word came out slow, confused. "Hey. Uh." He ran a hand through his ruined hair, which did nothing to improve it. "This is... this is really not a good time right now."
Before he could say anything else, hands appeared from behind him.
Pale. Elegant. Possessive.
They grabbed his shoulders and dragged him backward into the apartment. Mary Jane heard the sounds of furious kissing, wet and desperate. Peter's muffled protest, something that might have been her name, cut off by more kissing. A feminine moan. Another protest, weaker this time. The wet sounds of tongue against tongue.
Then a face appeared in the gap.
Lady Loki.
Flushed and annoyed at the interruption, her green-painted lips swollen and smeared, her dark hair wild around her shoulders. Her emerald eyes swept over Mary Jane in a single dismissive glance, taking in the careful hair, the strategic dress, the desperate hope written across her features.
"Are you the cleaner?" Lady Loki asked flatly.
Mary Jane's mouth opened. "I... what? No, I'm..."
But Lady Loki was already moving. Her hand disappeared briefly, reappearing with a fistful of hundred-dollar bills that she threw directly into Mary Jane's face.
The bills scattered, fluttering down around her like the world's most insulting confetti.
"Come back later," Lady Loki said, already turning away. "The apartment isn't that dirty."
The door slammed shut.
The lock clicked.
Mary Jane stood frozen in the hallway, hundred-dollar bills settling around her feet, her carefully prepared speech dying unspoken on her tongue.
A moment of silence.
Then the screaming started again, louder than before.
"YES..... FUCK..... RIGHT THERE..... NNNNGHH....."
The bed frame resumed its protest, springs shrieking, wood groaning against the wall. The rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh picked up where it had left off, faster now, more urgent.
"PETER..... PETER..... DON'T STOP..... DON'T EVER STOP....."
Mary Jane stared at the closed door.
The hundred-dollar bills lay scattered at her feet.
Inside the apartment, a goddess screamed her triumph to the heavens.
Mj stood frozen in the hallway.
Hundred-dollar bills lay scattered at her feet, green portraits of Benjamin Franklin staring up at her with silent judgment. Her carefully styled hair. Her strategic dress. Her speech about second chances and understanding and please, Peter, I never stopped loving you.
All of it meaningless now.
The sounds from inside were impossible to ignore.
"YES..... FUCK..... HARDER..... NNNNGHH....."
Lady Loki's voice carried through the door with shameless clarity, high and desperate and utterly unhinged. Not the controlled, theatrical tones Mary Jane had heard about from Tony's descriptions. This was raw. Animal. The sound of a woman being fucked past coherence and loving every second of it.
"MORE..... DEEPER..... BY THE NORNS DON'T STOP....."
Peter's groans answered her, deep and rhythmic, the sounds of effort and pleasure intertwined. Mary Jane knew those sounds. Had made him make those sounds, years ago, in a different life. Before dimensions and time dilation and a man with a beard named Paul.
The wet slap of flesh against flesh filtered through the expensive door. Obscene. Rhythmic. Fast. The unmistakable percussion of bodies crashing together without restraint, without shame, without any awareness of an audience.
The furniture protested. Springs shrieked their complaint. Wood groaned against the wall.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
The headboard. Hitting the wall. In time with the rhythm.
"PETER..... PETER..... FUCK..... HAHHHH....."
Mary Jane's face burned.
The blush spread down her neck, across her collarbones, disappearing beneath the neckline of her carefully chosen dress. Humiliation and something else. Something she refused to name, refused to acknowledge, even as heat pooled in places it shouldn't.
"THERE..... RIGHT THERE..... NNNNGHH..... YES YES YES....."
The crescendo built. Lady Loki's voice climbing higher, breaking, dissolving into something beyond words. Raw keening that went on and on, punctuated by gasps and moans and the constant wet slap of Peter's hips driving into her.
Then the scream.
"NORNS..... FFFUCK..... NNNNGHH....."
Long and loud and utterly shameless. The sound of an orgasm that shook walls, that rattled the door in its frame, that made Mary Jane's thighs press together involuntarily. She heard the woman come apart completely, heard the broken cries of pleasure that followed, heard what might have been sobbing mixed with laughter.
The rhythm didn't even pause.
A brief moment of adjustment. The creak of the bed shifting. Then the slap of flesh against flesh resumed, building again, Lady Loki's voice already climbing toward another peak.
"Again..... please..... I can't..... hahhhh....."
"You can." Peter's voice, rough and commanding in a way Mary Jane had never heard. "You will."
"FUCK..... yes..... yes sir..... NNNNGHH....."
Mary Jane's blush reached her hairline.
Something shifted against her shoulder.
Black tendrils emerged from beneath her dress, coiling, forming. The Venom symbiote manifested a small face, white eyes blinking into existence, the features settling into something approximating a head that turned toward the door.
It stared at the door.
Then at Mary Jane.
The disappointment in those blank white eyes was unmistakable. Infinite. The kind of disappointment that transcended species and symbiosis and everything in between.
You fucking lost.
The words came out flat. Emotionless. Like a verdict being delivered in court, final and absolute, with no possibility of appeal.
Mary Jane's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
From inside the apartment, another orgasmic scream punctuated the point.
"YES..... YES..... FUCK..... NNNNGHH....."
The symbiote gestured toward the door with a tendril, the motion somehow conveying both accusation and mourning.
We could be enjoying that.
The tendril drooped with theatrical despair.
But you had to choose that pedo-looking Paul.
Mary Jane flinched.
She had no response. No defense. No explanation that would make any of this make sense.
The symbiote was right.
She knew the symbiote was right.
Fuck!