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Loki could still feel Thor’s fingers in his throat--the dull ache where his once-brother had caught him and pulled him from the aircraft.

More than anyone, Loki knew the Thunder God’s strength.

The Iron Man was learning it now, in the clearing below. Loki grinned as he sank to his knees, touched a steadying palm to dirt and rock. Thor wielded his hammer with a brutality usually seen on the field of battle, combating hundreds of foes instead of a single competitor. The Iron one--Stark--was himself strong, something Loki understood from Barton’s description.

But how strong?

Soon Loki would know. Soon one would best the other, and the victor's attention would turn to where Loki knelt. Where he waited.

He was wet. Linen under his armor soaked through with desire. He snorted ruefully. Trust his heat to come on now, when he had--oh, so many other pressing concerns. So many goals to achieve. But that wasn’t how this body worked.

Loki knew how it worked, after so many centuries of ... affliction. His need would grow, would cast his powerful scent into the wind. Draw the attention of any and all sentient beings with a pair of balls swinging between their legs. Any being with a cock to press between his nether lips, to leave behind pools of slick, life-generating seed at the entrance to his womb.

Both men had breathed him in on the aircraft; at that moment, this fight was fated.

Odin had lied, long ago. When it first came upon him, then when it, to his horror, returned, Loki was assured it was a product of the practice of magic. Seidr creating a womb, a cunt as a focal point to make his power stronger. Loki was stupid, he knew now--he hadn’t thought of his mother, a sorceress in her own right and never seen crippled with this same affliction.

Never thought to ask her.

It wasn’t, of course, his magic; it wasn’t his power. It was his Jotunn blood that called forth his womb to open once a century, to invite in any and all who could overpower him and make him conceive. He had birthed each of his children as a result of this trick of his blood. Children overlooked by Odin at best, driven off or hidden at worst. Known to but a few trusted family confidants.


Such a fine trick, he had raged bitterly in centuries past, but this time ... this time he welcomed it.

Thor landed a particularly cruel blow to the human’s metal skull below. The clang echoed up the cliff wall, rattled Loki’s teeth. His once-brother was so strong.

And with such willpower.

After all, Thor had waited. In corners and down hidden halls, he had stopped and stared and scented. Scented his own brother, to their shared confusion and shame. Loki was to avoid all males, Odin told him--even family. Thor would be struck dumb by his brother’s condition, would forget his place.

Loki squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled as the next gush of slippery fluid escaped his channel and left his underthings sodden. The wetness would slick the way as he was taken, almost frictionless, by the victor’s needy cock.

His place.

But Thor wasn’t his brother anymore--not in the way that mattered when Loki desired, more than anything, to be bred. His maidenlike avoidance of his huge, stupid, glorious brother was at an end, and if Thor won--

--if he won--

Loki would be pinned beneath his bulk, armor and linens ripped away, and speared on that legendary cock, its thickness and vigor and endurance praised in more than one realm. Muninn and Huginn were nearby--they hadn’t gone far, he knew--and they would report on this final confrontation of the Odinsons. The one that would result in Loki’s best trick yet.

An heir for the throne of Asgard.

Not that simple, of course. Odin wouldn’t recognize his bastard--monster--grandchild, not without a fight. Not without a convenient sleep, something Loki could induce only accidentally, to his chagrin. But Loki’s child with Thor, even denied, would have a claim to the throne. Could be brought up, very thoughtfully and strategically, with both a yearning for rule and desire for revenge on his golden, blessed father.

The child would have Thor’s blue eyes and Loki’s dark hair. Thor’s wide shoulders and Loki’s seidr potential. Would be strong and fiercely intelligent and deadly.

Loki’s attention was caught by the shift in the fight below. Instead of the metallic strikes of the Thunder God’s hammer, dual flashes of yellow-white light arced through the trees. It appeared Stark momentarily had the upper hand. The seeming magic he wielded--literally at his fingertips but also from his heart, how poetic--kept Thor off-balance as the larger man only used techniques that should have quelled a mere mortal.

However fierce his blows, Thor wasn’t truly fighting to the death--he was being too soft.

Stark was not soft.

Loki was grateful once more that Barton had crossed his path so early. Barton, well-placed in the mortals’ security vanguard, had proved invaluable with his overwillingness to share everything he knew, both official (in stories that painted Stark as rich and brilliant) and unofficial (Stark was functionally insane and possessed of fluctuating morals).

The twinge of disappointment Loki would feel at birthing a half-mortal child would be fleeting. He’d birthed worse, Odin knew, and what he would lose in his child’s potential for strength and chaos could be readily made up for.

A child of Asgard and Earth? Thor’s precious, protected realm? Thor would be wounded at first, and, pregnant, Loki would be as untouchable as he once was, as the second, unimpeachable prince. His son or daughter, fluttery and briefly-lived and vulnerable, would shortly come to be much loved by the realm’s patron god, would bind Thor, Loki, and child together in a way that promised less madness, but a longer, more satisfying end to the game.

Thor's tender heart would leave him vulnerable.

That is, if he survived Stark's attack ... but that was Thor's concern.

Stark himself would be no disappointment, regardless. Life fleeting as a mayfly’s, he just now reeked of the power he himself had created. That much intellect at its peak, his to use. His to create, to better, to destroy. Nothing like the brutish Thor, good for battle-strategy and kind to a ridiculous degree, but not worth much else. Loki’s child with Stark, if underpowered physically, if only on this earth for a short while, would generate so much change, so much--


Yes. Loki shook his head at his own earlier illogic: Do not underestimate any offspring of the Iron Man and the God of Mischief.

But Tony Stark wasn’t using his intellect now. Now, he was fighting, possibly to his own death, for the right to fuck into Loki's sweet cunt. Loki bounced on his knees. Either outcome showed promise, if they would just get on with it. He was overheated, impatient, as he throbbed with a quickening pulse. He was ready to be pressed to the ground. Ready to be mounted. Ready. He shuffled his knees apart, pressed fingertips just under his lifting cock to try to ease the pressure, but all it did was displace the liquid gathered there with a heavy squelch.

He was so distracted by his own need, he didn’t hear the footfalls behind him, the flap of heavy fabric folding, ropes collapsing as they struck the ground. Didn’t suspect a thing until the hard fingers of one unfamiliar hand laced into his hair and, with a single yank, jerked his head back.

Neck curved, Loki looked up into the stern face of the other. Knew him even from this disadvantageous position. Knew what he was from Barton's words.

The soldier. And a weapon in his own right.

Loyal and true.

“Oh, Captain,” he breathed over the sound of the ongoing combat below. He pulled his hair free, looked over this mortal's broad form with appreciation. Between his legs, his erection was prominent, twitching close to Loki’s open mouth ... and when the air of his exhale gusted lightly over it, Steve Rogers’ whole body shuddered.


Loki smiled warmly as, without a word, Rogers moved his hands to his fly. “My apologies, Captain. I shouldn’t have ruled you out.”

The battle below raged on.