Chapter Text
Thor Odinson had it all.
The ultra-modern penthouse in Manhattan's Upper East Side came with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed Central Park like a living masterpiece. Morning light carved geometric patterns across Italian marble floors, illuminating the carefully curated collection of contemporary art that had been carefully curated over the years—each piece chosen not just for its beauty, but for its ability to spark conversation at their frequent dinner parties.
A silver Aston Martin DB12 sat in his private garage, though Thor preferred the chauffeur-driven Bentley Continental GT for most business meetings. The corner office at Stark Global boasted skyline views that never failed to impress visiting executives, and his obscene paycheck—recently increased after another stellar quarter—afforded luxuries most people could only dream of.
But none of those material comforts compared to his husband.
Loki Laufeyson was a walking contradiction: elegant but icy, graceful yet disarming, slender but sharp-edged like the vintage Tiffany & Co. letter opener he used to slice through morning correspondence.
He ran Laufeyson & Associates, a boutique law firm specializing in high-stakes divorce proceedings, where he dismembered cheating billionaires with the precision of a symphony conductor wielding a scalpel. His reputation was legendary; whispered about in VIP country club lounges and invitation-only penthouse cocktail parties. When Manhattan's elite found themselves in marital crisis, Loki was the first person they called to handle the aftermath.
His own marriage, however, appeared to be a carefully preserved fairytale.
At least, that's how it looked from the outside.
This particular Tuesday morning unfolded like countless others before it.
Thor emerged from their master bedroom at precisely 6:45 A.M., already dressed in a charcoal Tom Ford suit, to find Loki seated by the marble kitchen island. His husband wore a silk robe the color of midnight, hair swept back in that effortlessly elegant way that made Thor's chest tighten with something between desire and guilt.
"Coffee's ready," Loki said without looking up from his tablet, where he was reviewing depositions for a case involving a tech mogul's messy divorce. "And I've scheduled dinner at Eleven Madison Park for Thursday. The Hamiltons are in town."
Thor poured coffee into his favorite mug; a simple ceramic piece that looked almost pedestrian next to their expensive dinnerware, but which Loki had given him on their first anniversary.
"You hate the Hamiltons."
"I hate their politics," Loki corrected, finally glancing up with those sharp green eyes. "Their wine collection, however, is impeccable. Besides, Richard Hamilton owes me a favor after I saved him from losing half his assets to that gold-digging second wife."
The casual mention of infidelity sent a familiar twist through Thor's stomach. He busied himself adding cream to his coffee, avoiding Loki's gaze. "Of course. Whatever you think is best."
Loki's fingers paused over his tablet screen for just a fraction of a second; a hesitation so brief that Thor almost missed it. Almost.
"You seem distracted lately," Loki observed, his tone deceptively casual. "Everything alright at the office?"
"Just the usual corporate warfare," Thor replied, proud of how steady his voice sounded. "Tony's got me managing the European expansion project. Lots of late nights ahead."
"Mmmm." Loki returned to his tablet, but Thor caught the slight curve of his lips. Not quite a smile, but something more knowing. "Well, don't let him work you to death. You know how Tony can be when he gets an idea in his head."
Thor's hand stilled on his coffee mug. There was something in Loki's tone; a subtle emphasis on Tony's name that made the hair on the back of Thor's neck stand up. But when he looked at his husband, Loki appeared completely absorbed in his legal documents, the picture of professional focus.
"I should go," Thor said, leaning over to kiss Loki's cheek. The familiar and intoxicating scent of his husband's perfume—something expensive and complex that Thor could never identify—wrapped around him like an embrace. "See you tonight?"
"Always," Loki murmured, tilting his head to accept the kiss. "Oh, and Thor? Arthur called. He's upgraded the security detail for your trip to Chicago next week. Something about enhanced protection protocols."
Another twist in Thor's stomach. Arthur rarely called the house directly—he usually coordinated security matters through Thor's assistant. "Did he say why?"
"Just being thorough, I'm sure." Loki's eyes remained fixed on his screen. "You know how seriously he takes his job."
Thor nodded and grabbed his briefcase, but as he headed toward the elevator, he could feel Loki's eyes on his back. When he turned for one last look, his husband was holding a crystal wine glass up to the morning light, examining it with the same meticulous attention he brought to everything in their perfectly curated life.
The elevator doors closed, and Thor tried to shake the feeling that he'd just crossed the event horizon of a black hole without realizing it until it was too late.
It started with Tony Stark.
Not innocently, of course. There was nothing innocent about Tony Stark, least of all the way he operated within the gleaming corridors of his own empire. Stark Global's annual charity gala was legendary among Manhattan's elite: a glittering and vulgar spectacle of wealth masquerading as philanthropy; where million-dollar donations were pledged over champagne and caviar, and corporate alliances were forged on the dance floor.
Thor had been with the company for eighteen months when he received his first invitation to the inner circle event. He was still relatively low on the corporate ladder then—Director of Strategic Partnerships, impressive enough to warrant a seat at the gala but not quite high enough to merit Tony's personal attention.
Or so he thought.
The Plaza's Grand Ballroom had been transformed into something from a fever dream of excess. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors, while servers in crisp white jackets glided between clusters of New York's most powerful figures. Thor nursed a scotch near the auction display, studying a vibrant Basquiat painting that would likely sell for more than most people's homes, when he felt someone approach from behind.
"Impressive piece," came a familiar voice, smooth as aged whiskey. "Though I prefer his earlier work. More raw. Less... calculated."
Thor turned to find Tony Stark himself, resplendent in a midnight blue tuxedo that probably cost more than Thor's monthly salary. The man's dark eyes held an amused glint, as if he was already three moves ahead in a chess game Thor didn't know he was playing.
"Mr. Stark," Thor said, extending his hand. "I wasn't expecting—"
"Call me Tony. And you weren't expecting me to notice you." Tony's handshake lingered just a moment longer than professional courtesy required. "But here's the thing about expectations, Thor — may I call you Thor? — they're usually wrong."
The blasé use of his first name sent an unexpected thrill through Thor's chest. In the eighteen months he'd worked for Stark Global, he'd attended exactly three meetings with Tony present, and in each one, he'd been addressed simply as "Odinson" or "You there with the good ideas."
"You've been watching me," Thor said, surprised by his own boldness.
Tony's smile was predatory. "I watch everyone worth watching. The question is: what do I do with what I see?"
Before Thor could respond, the lights dimmed, and the evening's program began. Tony guided him to a table near the front; not Tony's table, Thor noticed, but close enough to feel the gravitational pull of his presence throughout the evening. Every time Thor glanced over, Tony was already looking at him, raising his glass in mock salutes or leaning back in his chair with that infuriating, knowing smirk.
The auction proceeded with theatrical flair.
Rare vintage wines, all-expenses paid vacations to exotic destinations, private dinner dates with A-list Hollywood stars, West Coast summer houses, and priceless artwork changed hands with casual bids that represented more money than Thor had ever seen in one place. When the Basquiat came up for bidding, Tony caught Thor's eye and winked before raising his paddle.
"Fifty million," Tony called out casually, as if he were ordering coffee.
The room fell silent. The previous high bid had been thirty-two million.
The auctioneer, clearly stunned, managed to stammer out the traditional call for higher bids, but the room remained quiet. Tony's bid stood unchallenged.
"Sold to Mr. Anthony Stark for fifty million dollars!"
Applause erupted, but Tony's eyes never left Thor's face.
The message was clear: This is what power looks like. This is what I can do.
Later, as the crowd began to disperse and the evening wound toward its close, Tony appeared at Thor's side as if he'd materialized from thin air.
"Walk with me," he said, and it wasn't really a request.
They stepped out onto the Plaza's terrace, where the city sprawled before them in a tapestry of lights. The crisp September air carried a hint of autumn's approach, and Thor was grateful for the coolness against his flushed skin.
"You know," Tony said, leaning against the stone balustrade, "I've been thinking about restructuring the European division. I need someone with vision. Someone who understands that business isn't just about numbers. It's about power. Influence. The ability to shape the world according to your will."
Thor's pulse quickened. The European division of Stark Global represented the kind of opportunity that could transform his career overnight. "I'd be honored to discuss it with you."
"Would you?" Tony stepped closer, close enough that Thor could smell his cologne and the champagne in his breath—something expensive and intoxicating. "Even if the position came with... unconventional requirements?"
The question hung in the air between them like a loaded gun.
Thor knew exactly what Tony was asking, knew that his answer would change everything. He thought of Loki, probably at home with a glass of wine and a legal brief, trusting and unsuspecting.
Thor's morals didn't bend—they folded like a house of cards in a hurricane.
"What kind of requirements?" he heard himself ask.
Tony's smile was triumphant. "The kind that ensures absolute loyalty. Complete... dedication. Are you a dedicated man, Thor?"
"When properly motivated."
"Good." Tony pulled a business card from his jacket; not his regular card, Thor noticed, but something heavier, more expensive.
"Tomorrow. 8:00 P.M. The address is on the back. Don't disappoint me."
One week later, Thor was announced as Vice President of Global Strategy.
His salary quadrupled overnight, complete with stock options, performance bonuses, and a corner office with an executive ensuite bathroom that made his previous workspace look like a supply closet. The press release cited his "innovative approach to international markets" and "unique understanding of global business dynamics."
What it didn't mention were the monthly "performance reviews" that always took place after hours in Tony's sprawling office suite; where the behemoth, double-glazed windows offered a breathtaking view of the city while providing the perfect backdrop for their increasingly elaborate encounters.
It was transactional. Strategic. Addictive.
And it meant Loki could finally have that Amalfi Coast honeymoon he'd been dreaming about since their engagement.
Everyone wins, Thor told himself as he straightened his tie in Tony's private bathroom, the sweet taste of success and something else entirely still lingering on his lips.
Right?
The arrangement settled into a rhythm over the following months.
On the third Thursday of every month, Tony's executive assistant, Pepper Potts, would send a calendar invitation marked "Strategic Planning Session." Thor would arrive at exactly 8:00 P.M., they would conduct their business—both corporate and personal—and Thor would leave with either a new project to manage or a problem to solve.
Tony never demanded more than what was agreed upon. Never called outside their scheduled appointments. Never made their relationship about anything other than mutual benefit.
Which made it perfect, in its own twisted way.
Thor found himself looking forward to those Thursday evenings with an anticipation that both thrilled and terrified him. Tony was brilliant, ruthless, and utterly without conscience when it came to getting what he wanted. He pushed Thor professionally in ways that elevated his game, challenged him intellectually, and rewarded his success with opportunities that other executives could only dream of.
That the rewards sometimes came with Tony's hands tangled in his hair and the New York skyline glittering beyond the windows was simply part of the bargain.
The strangest part wasn't the sex. It was how natural and perfect it felt. How easily Thor slipped into this double life, compartmentalizing his guilt until it became just another item on his mental to-do list.
Call the contractor about the Hampton house. Review the quarterly projections. Feel guilty about betraying Loki. Pick up dry cleaning.
It helped that Loki seemed genuinely happy about Thor's sudden career advancement. His husband had celebrated the promotion with an ice-cold bottle of Moët & Chandon and a weekend trip to Paris, never once questioning the illicit circumstances that led to Thor's meteoric rise through Stark Global's illustrious hierarchy.
"I always knew you were destined for great things, my darling," Loki had said, curled against Thor's chest in their suite at the Four Seasons, the Eiffel Tower twinkling beyond their window. "You just needed the right opportunity to show the world what I've always seen in you."
The trust in his voice had nearly broken Thor's heart.
But not enough to make him stop.
Every Monday at 8:00 P.M., the exclusive members-only gym located in midtown Manhattan was almost always empty.
Except for Peter Jason Quill.
Knowhere House catered only to a select few within the one percent: C-level executives who needed to blow off steam after hostile takeovers, image-obsessed celebrities hiding from paparazzi, and old-money socialites maintaining their competitive edge at tennis and squash. The monthly membership fee alone could fund a small startup, which meant that by Monday evening, when the weekend's social obligations had been fulfilled and Tuesday's board meetings loomed, most members preferred the comfort of their private trainers and home gyms.
Thor had joined Knowhere six months after his promotion to VP, partly because the company covered executive wellness expenses, but mostly because he needed somewhere to channel the restless energy that came with his new double life. The weight room became his sanctuary—a place where he could push his body to its limits and silence the increasingly loud voice in his head that whispered about moral compromises and elaborate deceptions.
He'd noticed Quill immediately, of course.
The man was impossible to ignore: all golden skin, messy strawberry blond waves, and easy grins just on the right side of sleazy, moving through his workout routine with the kind of unconscious confidence that came from never having questioned his place in the world. Where most of the gym's clientele treated exercise like a necessary evil, Quill approached it with genuine joy, laughing at his own jokes and offering encouragement to anyone within earshot.
"You're new," Quill had said during Thor's third visit, appearing beside the bench press with a towel slung around his neck and that trademark smile. "I'm Peter. But everyone calls me Quill."
"Thor," he'd replied, grateful for the distraction from the weight of his thoughts. "And I'm not exactly new. Just... nocturnal, I suppose."
"Monday nights are the best," Quill had agreed, settling onto the bench beside him. "No crowds, no attitude, no suits trying to network while they bench press. Just iron and sweat and honest work."
Something in the way he said 'honest work' had made Thor's chest tighten with guilt, but Quill's enthusiasm was infectious. Before Thor knew it, they were spotting each other through increasingly challenging sets, trading stories about workout disasters, and debating the merits of different protein supplements.
It was... simple. Uncomplicated in a way that Thor had forgotten existed.
Over the following weeks, their Monday night routine solidified into something Thor found himself anticipating with surprising intensity.
Quill was everything that Thor's usual world wasn't—straightforward, optimistic, refreshingly free of hidden agendas. When Quill laughed, it was because something was genuinely funny. When he offered to help, he expected nothing in return. When he complimented Thor's form or celebrated a new personal record, the praise was honest and unvarnished.
"You know what your problem is?" Quill had said one evening, after Thor had struggled through a particularly frustrating set of deadlifts.
His mind had been elsewhere; distracted by a difficult contract negotiation that Tony wanted him to handle, on Loki's increasingly pointed questions about his late nights at the office, on the growing web of lies that seemed to expand with each passing day.
"Enlighten me," Thor had replied, more sharply than he'd intended.
But Quill just grinned and handed him a water bottle. "You think too much, man. Your head's so full of whatever corporate drama you're dealing with that your body doesn't know what you want from it."
Thor had wanted to argue, to defend the complexity of his professional responsibilities, but something in Quill's direct gaze stopped him. There was no judgment there, no hidden criticism—just observation and genuine concern.
"Try this," Quill had continued, moving to adjust Thor's stance. "Forget about tomorrow's meetings. Forget about whatever's eating at you upstairs." He'd tapped Thor's temple gently. "Just be here. Just be present."
The touch had been casual, friendly, but it had sent an unexpected jolt through Thor's system.
When was the last time someone had touched him without calculation? Without an agenda? Loki's touches, as loving as they were, carried the superlative weight of their shared history and future. Tony's touches were transactions; power plays wrapped in physical intimacy.
But Quill's touch was just... human contact. Simple and warm and real.
The deadlift that followed had been Thor's personal best.
"You married?"
Quill had asked that question a few weeks later while gesturing to Thor’s left hand, as they sat on the gym's outdoor terrace, sharing post-workout protein shakes and watching the city lights flicker to life below them.
The question should have been simple. Instead, Thor found himself hesitating, his timeless platinum wedding ring suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"Yeah," he'd finally said. "Seven years next month."
"That's awesome, man. What's he like?"
Thor had blinked in surprise. He'd never mentioned Loki's gender, had been careful to keep his personal life vague during their conversations. "How did you—?"
"The way you talk about them," Quill had said with a shrug. "One of my closest friends is gay. I recognize the careful pronoun dance." His expression had grown more serious. "Hey, if you're not comfortable talking about it—"
"No, it's... it's fine." And surprisingly, it was. "His name is Loki. He's beautiful and brilliant. Runs his own law firm, actually. Specializes in divorce cases."
"Divorce lawyer, huh?" Quill had grinned. "Bet that keeps things interesting at home."
"You have no idea," Thor had muttered, then immediately regretted the hint of frustration in his voice.
But Quill, perceptive in his straightforward way, had simply nodded. "Marriage is tough, man. All that pressure to be perfect for someone else, to never let them down. Sometimes you need a place where you can just be yourself, you know?"
The understanding in his voice had been like a balm to Thor's guilty conscience. Here was someone who got it; who understood that even the most loving relationships could feel suffocating sometimes, that even good men could crave escape from the weight of expectation.
"Yeah," Thor had said quietly. "I know."
The shift from friendship to something more had been gradual, then sudden. Like ice melting in spring, imperceptible until the dam finally burst.
It had been a particularly brutal Monday.
Thor had spent the day managing a crisis in the London office, fielding angry calls from investors while trying to coordinate damage control across three different time zones. Tony had been in rare form, alternately charming and cutting as he orchestrated the company's rapid response to a competitor's hostile acquisition attempt. By the time Thor reached the gym, his shoulders were knotted with tension, and his head was pounding with the kind of stress that made sleep impossible.
Quill had taken one look at him and whistled low. "Rough day in corporate paradise?"
"Something like that," Thor had replied, grateful that Quill never pressed for details about his work. It was another thing he appreciated about their friendship—the way Quill accepted Thor's need for privacy without making it feel like rejection.
They'd worked out mostly in silence that night, Quill seeming to sense that Thor needed physical release more than conversation. But as they'd moved through their routine, Thor had found himself watching Quill more closely than usual; the easy grace of his movements, the unconscious confidence in his own skin, the way sweat highlighted the defined muscles of his chest and arms.
When Quill had pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt after their final set, Thor had felt his breath catch.
The other man was unfairly beautiful in an entirely different way than Loki. Where his husband was all sharp angles and elegant lines, Quill was warm curves and solid strength, built like a golden statue of some ancient god of joy and abundance.
"You ever wonder," Quill had said, seemingly oblivious to Thor's suddenly racing pulse, "what would it be like? Two guys like us, I mean. All this muscle, all this strength..." He'd gestured vaguely at their reflected images in the gym's mirrored walls. "Must be pretty intense, right?"
The question had hung in the air between them, loaded with possibility and invitation. Thor had known exactly what Quill was asking, had felt the same curiosity building between them for weeks now.
"Yeah," Thor had said, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "I've wondered."
Quill's victorious grin said it all.
What followed had been a drastic re-examination of simplicity.
Where his encounters with Tony were choreographed productions of power and submission, his time with Quill was pure instinct and mutual pleasure. No games, no hidden meanings, no psychological warfare wrapped in physical intimacy.
Just two strong, beefy, handsome men celebrating the simple joy of bodies in motion, of shared pleasure and uncomplicated desire.
Quill approached sex the same way he approached everything else—with enthusiasm, humor, stamina, and genuine care for his partner's experience. He made Thor laugh during foreplay, something that had never happened with anyone else. He was generous and creative and completely present in each moment, never distracted by thoughts of what came next or what the encounter might mean in the larger scheme of things.
For Thor, those marvelous stolen hours spent with Quill became a form of meditation; a place where the constant noise in his head finally quieted, where he could exist purely in his body without the weight of his various deceptions and responsibilities.
It was addictive in an entirely different way than his arrangement with Tony. Where Tony's hold on him was psychological and professional, Quill's appeal was almost spiritual—the promise of simplicity in an increasingly complicated life.
When they were together, Thor could pretend he was the person he'd been before the promotions and the lies and the careful balancing act of his double life. He could be just Thor. Not Loki's husband, not Tony's protégé, not a rising corporate star with a reputation to maintain.
Just a man who enjoyed the company of another man, no strings attached, no ulterior motives, no hidden agendas.
It was the closest thing to peace Thor had felt in months.
When Thor arrived home that night, still glowing with the simple satisfaction of uncomplicated pleasure with Quill, he found Loki exactly where he'd expected: propped against the headboard of their king-sized bed, reading glasses perched on his nose, absorbed in a leather-bound novel.
"Good workout?" Loki asked without looking up from his book, his tone carrying that familiar note of mild interest that never quite felt like an interrogation.
"Yeah," Thor replied, unzipping his hoodie as he moved toward their walk-in closet. "Productive night. You know how it is."
"Mmmm." Loki turned a page with deliberate care. "I'm sure it was... enlightening."
Something in his husband's tone made Thor pause, but when he glanced back, Loki appeared completely engrossed in his reading. The book's spine caught the lamplight: Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy.
Thor frowned slightly. "New book?"
"Oh, this old thing?" Loki's fingers traced the cover almost lovingly. "I've been meaning to revisit it for ages. There's something fascinating about stories of passion and consequence, don't you think? The way people rationalize their choices, convince themselves they can manage the unmanageable..."
He looked up then, meeting Thor's eyes with that sharp green gaze that seemed to see everything.
"It's a cautionary tale, really," Loki continued with a slight smile. "About the price of keeping secrets."
Thor's mouth went dry, but Loki had already returned to his reading, seemingly oblivious to the way his words had landed like precision strikes.
"I'll just... grab a shower," Thor managed.
"Take your time, darling," Loki murmured, not looking up. "I'll be right here when you're finished."
As Thor stood under the scalding spray, washing away the evidence of his evening, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just walked through a dangerous minefield without realizing it.
In the bedroom, Loki continued reading, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Peter Parker was a wide-eyed college kid on a summer internship who wore suspenders unironically, said "sir" too often, and brought Thor coffee exactly how he liked it without ever being asked.
The Stark Global Summer Scholars Program was legendary among Ivy League students: twelve weeks of intensive mentorship with the company's top executives, complete with networking events, real project assignments, and the kind of résumé enhancement that guaranteed acceptance to any post-collegiate job application at any Fortune 500 company. Not to mention the Summer Scholars Program was a generously paid internship along with other exciting office perks like unlimited coffee and free daily lunches at the Stark Global cafeteria.
Only twenty students were selected each year from thousands of applicants, and Peter Parker had somehow managed to secure one of the most coveted positions: direct assignment to the office of the Vice President of Global Strategy.
Thor had initially been annoyed by the news.
Babysitting a college student wasn't exactly how he'd planned to spend his summer, especially with the European expansion project demanding eighteen-hour days and Tony's increasingly complex "performance reviews" eating into what little personal time he had left. But when Peter had appeared in his office doorway on that first Monday morning in June—nervous smile, portfolio clutched against his chest, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world—the hardness in Thor's chest had unexpectedly softened.
"Mr. Odinson?" Peter's voice had cracked slightly on the name. "I'm Peter Parker. Your summer intern? I know you probably didn't ask for one, and I promise I won't get in your way. I'm just really grateful for the opportunity to learn from someone of your caliber."
The earnestness in his voice had been almost painful to witness. Here was someone who still believed in the purity of hard work and merit, who saw corporate success as something noble rather than a series of increasingly elaborate compromises.
"Call me Thor," he'd said, gesturing at Peter to take a seat. "And don't apologize for being here. If you weren't exceptional, you wouldn't have made it through the selection process."
The smile that had bloomed across Peter's face had been radiant, like a nebula giving birth to a new star.
Over the following weeks, Thor had discovered that Peter Parker was everything his résumé had promised and more.
Brilliant without being arrogant, curious without being intrusive, eager to learn but never presumptuous about his place in the corporate hierarchy. He absorbed information like a sponge, asked thoughtful questions that often made Thor reconsider his own assumptions, and approached every task—no matter how mundane—with the kind of enthusiasm that Thor dimly remembered possessing before cynicism had set in.
"You remind me of someone," Thor had told him one afternoon, watching Peter meticulously organize a presentation for the London team. They were alone in the conference room, the late June sun streaming through the panoramic windows, and Peter had rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie in a way that made him look older, more sophisticated.
"Someone good, I hope?" Peter had asked, glancing up with that shy smile that never failed to make Thor's chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to affection.
"Someone I used to be," Thor had replied, then immediately regretted the hint of melancholy in his voice.
But Peter, perceptive in the way that only the truly intelligent could be, had simply nodded and returned to his work. He never pushed for personal details, never made Thor feel like his privacy was being invaded. It was another thing Thor appreciated about him; the way Peter seemed to understand instinctively that Thor's life outside the office was complex and off-limits.
Which made what eventually happened between them all the more complicated.
The shift had been gradual, like watching a sunset: imperceptible moment by moment, but undeniable in its ultimate transformation.
Peter's initial nervousness had evolved into steadily growing confidence, his student eagerness had matured into professional competence, and somewhere along the way, the careful distance between mentor and protégé had begun to blur.
It started with working dinners that ran late into the evening, just the two of them in Thor's office with takeout containers and spreadsheets spread across the conference table. Peter would loosen his tie and push his glasses up his nose when he was concentrating, and Thor found himself watching those small gestures with increasing fascination.
Then came the weekend work sessions, when the office was empty and their conversations could range beyond quarterly projections and market analyses. Peter was well-read, thoughtful, surprisingly funny when he let his guard down. He had strong opinions about literature, politics, art—opinions that he expressed with the kind of passionate conviction that Thor hadn't felt in years.
"You don't talk to me like I'm just an intern," Peter had observed one Saturday evening, looking up from a contract he'd been reviewing. "Most of the other executives either ignore the summer scholars completely or treat us like we're there for decoration."
"Maybe because you don't act like you're just an intern," Thor had replied. "You ask great questions and execute tasks much better than most of my senior staff."
Peter had flushed with pleasure at the compliment, and Thor had felt that now-familiar twist in his chest: pride mixed with something darker, more possessive.
The night it happened had been unremarkable in every way except the most important one.
They'd been working late on a presentation for the European expansion project, the office building empty except for security guards and the occasional cleaner. Peter had been cross-referencing market data with regional compliance requirements—menial and tedious work that most interns would have rushed through or delegated to an assistant.
But not Peter. Never Peter.
He'd been meticulous, thorough, asking clarifying questions and double-checking every figure. When he'd finally finished, it was nearly 11:00 P.M. and they were both exhausted from the long day.
"I think that's everything," Peter had said, gathering the scattered documents into neat piles. "Unless you need me to—"
That was when it happened. The accident that wasn't really an accident, the moment that changed everything between them.
Peter had reached for a folder at the same time Thor leaned forward to collect a stray report, and somehow—later, neither of them would be able to explain exactly how—the papers had scattered across the floor in a cascade of white.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry," Peter had stammered, immediately dropping to his knees to gather the documents. "I'm such an idiot, I can't believe I—"
"It's fine," Thor had said, kneeling beside him to help. "These things happen."
Their hands had touched as they reached for the same paper—a simple, innocent contact that should have meant nothing. But instead of pulling away, they'd both frozen, Peter's fingers warm against Thor's palm, their faces suddenly much closer than they'd ever been.
Thor had looked up to find Peter staring at him with an expression of such naked longing that it took his breath away. This wasn't the shy admiration of a student for a respected teacher; this was lust and longing entwined, pure and simple, desperate and honest in a way that made Thor's carefully constructed walls crumble.
"You're... really handsome, Mr. Odinson," Peter had whispered, his voice quivering in the quiet office.
Thor should have stood up. Should have stepped back, reestablished the professional distance between them, reminded Peter of all the reasons why this was impossible, inappropriate, dangerous.
Instead, he'd reached out and traced the line of Peter's jaw with one finger, watching the younger man's body tremble with anticipation at the contact.
"Peter," he'd said, and the name had sounded like a prayer.
Thor hadn't corrected the return to formal address. Couldn't, when Peter was looking at him like he was something precious and unattainable.
Instead, he'd stood and locked the office door.
What followed had been a surprising unveiling of carnal tenderness.
Where his encounters with Tony were calculated exercises in power dynamics, and his time with Quill was pure physical exuberance, his erotic connection with Peter was something else entirely: careful and reverent and achingly sweet.
Peter had been nervous but eager, inexperienced but intuitive, and Thor had found himself taking on a role he'd never played before: the gentle teacher, the patient guide, the protector of something precious and fragile.
There had been no games between them, no psychological maneuvering or hidden agendas. Just Thor wanting to give Peter pleasure, to show him what his body could feel, to be the one who introduced him to this new aspect of himself.
And Peter—brilliant, observant, and no longer virginal Peter—had been a quick study in this as in everything else.
Afterward, as they'd dressed in the soft glow of the desk lamp and the clock was twenty minutes past midnight, Thor had tried to find words for what had just happened between them.
"This was..." he'd begun.
"A one-time thing," Peter had finished, but there had been no conviction in his voice. "I understand, Sir. This can't happen again."
It had been meant as protection for both of them. But especially for Peter, whose career could be destroyed by rumors of favoritism or inappropriate conduct.
But they'd both known it was a lie.
Both of them knew that once would never be enough.
That sinful summer had continued and so had they.
Careful, discreet, always professional during business hours, and finding workable excuses to work late, to meet on weekends, to extend their time together in ways that felt natural and necessary.
Peter had thrown himself into his internship with even greater dedication, as if trying to prove that their taboo relationship was about more than just physical attraction. He'd produced work that was genuinely exceptional, insights that impressed even Tony Stark, presentations that Thor had shown to the board without a single modification.
"You're going to be extraordinary," Thor had told him one evening, watching Peter put the finishing touches on a market analysis that would have been impressive coming from a senior analyst, let alone a college student.
"Only because I had an extraordinary teacher," Peter had replied, and the sincerity in his voice had made Thor's heart ache with something that felt dangerously close to love.
When the summer had ended and Peter had returned to Columbia for his senior year, they'd both tried to pretend it was over. Thor had written him a glowing letter of recommendation, had shaken his hand formally in front of the other executives, had wished him well in his future endeavors.
But Peter had pressed a business card into his palm during that final handshake—his personal contact information written in his careful script—and Thor had known that their story was far from finished.
The first text came two days later: Thank you for everything you taught me. I'll never forget this summer.
Thor's response had been immediate: The door is always open if you want to continue your education.
Three weeks later, Peter had called to accept Thor's offer of a part-time position during his senior year—officially to help with research projects and undergo training for a potential assistant role, unofficially to continue what they'd started in that quiet office on a summer night when the rest of the world had been asleep.
It was wrong on every level that mattered; the power imbalance, the age difference, the potential for scandal that could destroy them both.
But when Peter looked at him with those bright, trusting eyes, when he said "Sir" in that breathless voice, when he approached their clandestine meetings with the same earnest dedication he brought to everything else in his life, Thor found that the wrongness of it only made it more intoxicating.
Some boundaries, once shattered, could never be pieced back together.
And some temptations were too sweet to resist, no matter the cost.
Arthur Curry had been Thor's faithful shadow for three years.
Where most executive protection specialists blended into the background—anonymous suits with dark sunglasses, hidden earpieces, and forgettable faces—Arthur always commanded attention wherever he went. Six-foot-four-inches of solid Hawaiian muscle, with intricate traditional tattoos spiraling across his bronze shoulders and chest like ancient stories carved in flesh. Long, dark caramel hair kissed by the sun and flowing in languid waves when left in its unstyled state.
His presence was oceanic: deep, powerful, impossible to ignore.
Tony Stark had personally recommended him after a security incident involving a botched assassination attempt. "He’s the fucking absolute best in the business," Tony had said with that knowing smirk. "Discreet, lethal when necessary, and he's got that whole 'Aquaman fantasy' thing going for him that the ladies—and gentlemen—seem to appreciate."
What Tony hadn't mentioned was Arthur's uncanny ability to read people like weather patterns, or the way his intense eyes seemed to see straight through Thor's carefully constructed facade from day one.
"You're not sleeping," had been Arthur's first observation after a week on the job, watching Thor pour his fourth espresso at 6:00 A.M. in the penthouse kitchen.
"I sleep fine," Thor had replied, not looking up from his tablet where he was reviewing quarterly projections.
Arthur had simply nodded and said nothing more. But that evening, he'd handed Thor a small bottle of Kava extract. "From my grandmother's garden in Maui. Better than Ambien, no morning fog."
It had worked like a miracle. That should have been the end of it.
Instead, it became the beginning of something Thor couldn't name and couldn't stop.
Arthur was a study of contradictions.
Deadly and gentle. Silent and intensely present. Professional to a fault, yet somehow intimate in ways that made Thor's chest tighten with unnamed longing.
He accompanied Thor everywhere: board meetings where his imposing presence made belligerent shareholders reconsider their aggressive tactics, charity galas where he moved through crowds like a great white shark through schools of fish, private dinners where he stationed himself just far enough away to provide security but close enough that Thor could smell his enticing cologne seamlessly blending with his natural alpha male aura.
It was when Thor traveled with Arthur that things got complicated.
Stark Global's fleet of executive jets were veritable flying palaces: leather seating that converted to beds, fully stocked bars, master bedrooms with Egyptian cotton sheets and ensuites that carried only the finest bath and body products one could need to properly refresh themselves before landing.
On long-haul flights to the European offices or Asia-Pacific branches, Arthur would secure the cabin of a typical Stark Global jet and then settle into the seat across from Thor, removing his jacket to reveal the intricate tattoos that told stories Thor was desperate to understand.
"What does this one mean?" Thor had asked during a red-eye flight to London; the wine making him bold enough to gesture at the geometric patterns spiraling around Arthur's forearm.
Arthur had looked up from his security briefing, surprised. Most clients never asked personal questions.
"Navigation chart," he'd said simply. "My great-grandfather was a navigator. Could read the stars, the currents, the way birds flew. He never got lost."
"And this?" Thor's finger had hovered over a series of waves that seemed to move in the cabin's dim lighting.
"The ocean that connects all things." Arthur's voice had grown softer. "My people believe water has memory. That it carries stories from one shore to another."
The air between them had shifted then, charged with infinite possibility and dangerous attraction.
"What story would it carry about us?" Thor had asked, immediately regretting the intimacy of the question.
Arthur had smiled—the first real smile Thor had ever seen from him.
"That some currents are too strong to resist."
The night it happened, they were thirty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere between a successful merger negotiation in Oslo and Thor's inevitable return to his complicated life in Manhattan.
Thor had been reviewing contracts for what felt like hours, his eyes burning from the fine print and his shoulders knotted with tension from three days of intensive meetings. The cabin was quiet except for the steady hum of engines and the occasional rustle of paperwork.
Arthur was sprawled in the leather chair across from him, jacket discarded, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of those intricate tattoos. He'd been reading—some thick tome about maritime history—but Thor had caught him watching instead, those dark eyes tracking every movement with predatory focus.
"You look stressed," Arthur had said finally, his deep voice cutting through the cabin's hushed atmosphere.
Thor had glanced up from a particularly dense merger clause, his vision slightly blurred from focusing too intently on the documents. "Corporate law isn't exactly recreational reading."
"When's the last time you took a real break?"
The question had been simple, but something in Arthur's tone made it feel loaded with implication. Thor set down his pen and really looked at his bodyguard—the way Arthur's shirt clung to his chest, the lazy confidence in his posture, the heat in his gaze that had nothing to do with professional duty.
"I don't really take breaks," Thor had replied, but his voice came out rougher than intended.
Arthur had stood then, moving with that fluid grace that always reminded Thor of water in motion. "Maybe you should learn."
The space between them had seemed to compress; supercharged with months of unspoken tension and carefully maintained professional distance. Thor knew exactly what Arthur was offering, knew that accepting it would be another sin that couldn’t be forgiven.
He'd tossed the contract onto the mahogany desk.
"Then teach me."
What followed had been an eye-opening investigation of intensity.
Arthur moved like he did everything else: with purpose, control, and devastating efficiency. His hands, so careful and protective in his professional capacity, became powerful instruments of pleasure as they mapped the spectacular geography of Thor's perfect body with the same precision his ancestors had used to navigate uncharted waters.
There was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling of first encounters. Arthur seemed to understand instinctively what Thor needed; not gentle worship or playful exploration, but something raw and primal that matched the chaos constantly churning beneath Thor's polished exterior.
"You think too much," Arthur had murmured against Thor's throat, his voice a rumble that Thor felt more than heard. "Always calculating, always performing. Stop thinking."
And somehow, impossibly, Thor switched his brain off; letting his body take control.
For the first time in months, his mind went quiet, focused only on the sensation of Arthur's voracious mouth, the heat of his skin, the way he moved with the rhythm of someone who understood that pleasure was just another form of wayfinding; all about reading currents and following them to their inevitable destination.
When it was over, they showered together in the bathroom—a slightly tight fit for two muscular men of considerable height, but they didn’t complain—then dressed in comfortable silence. No further words were spoken, but they both knew with certainty that the dynamic between them had fundamentally altered but somehow more honest. Arthur had returned to his security protocols and Thor to his contracts, but the air between them hummed with new understanding.
As they descended toward JFK International, Arthur had leaned over to check Thor's seatbelt—a gesture that would have seemed purely professional to any observer, but which allowed him to whisper against Thor's ear:
"This doesn't change anything about my job. Your safety is still my first priority."
"And what about yours?" Thor had asked, his lips brushing against Arthur’s cheek.
Arthur's smile had been sharp as coral. "I'm very good at managing risk."
The limousine ride from the airport had been Arthur's second lesson in risk management, Thor's grateful mouth and eager hands a testament to exactly how stress relief could be efficiently administered in the back of a moving vehicle.
By the time they reached the penthouse, Thor was floating on endorphins, and Arthur was adjusting his tie with the same calm professionalism he brought to everything else.
Loki had been waiting in the living room with chilled Sancerre and a Hermès tie box, looking like he'd stepped out of the pages of Architectural Digest.
"Good trip?" he'd asked, accepting Thor's kiss with the warm familiarity of seven years of marriage.
"Productive," Thor had replied, meaning it in ways Loki couldn't possibly understand.
Arthur had nodded respectfully to Loki, collected his gear, and disappeared into the night like he always did, leaving no trace of the earthquake he'd just caused in Thor's carefully ordered world.
Some protection, Thor had realized as he'd unwrapped Loki's gift, came at a price higher than money could measure.
Clark Kent had approached the assignment with his usual meticulous preparation.
As a senior business correspondent for the Financial Tribune, he'd interviewed dozens of corporate titans, tech moguls, and Wall Street legends. He researched their backgrounds, studied their public statements, analyzed their market strategies until he could predict their responses before they opened their mouths.
But Thor Odinson had proven to be an entirely different species of executive.
The cover story—"America's Most Influential Executives Under Forty"—was supposed to be straightforward: the magazine's annual list profiling the best mix of rising and established corporate superstars who were reshaping and influencing global business. Thor's meteoric rise at Stark Global made him an obvious choice within the editorial team, and Clark had prepared accordingly.
What he hadn't prepared for was the way Thor looked in person.
The photos in Forbes and Fortune hadn't captured the sheer physical presence of the man. Thor filled doorways, commanded rooms, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced corporate expression—it was like watching lightning illuminate a storm-dark sky.
They'd met at Le Bernardin, Thor's choice, and Clark had arrived fifteen minutes early to settle his nerves and review his notes one final time. When Thor appeared in the restaurant's hushed, elegant atmosphere, every conversation seemed to pause mid-sentence.
"Mr. Kent," Thor had said, extending a hand that completely engulfed Clark's. "Thank you for making time for this."
Clark had expected corporate polish, media-trained responses, the usual dance of publicity and careful image management. Instead, Thor had been disarmingly genuine; leaning forward when Clark asked questions, laughing at Clark's nervous jokes, treating the interview less like an obligation and more like an actual conversation.
"You're not like other executives," Clark had observed halfway through their meal, surprising himself with his boldness.
"What are other executives like?" Thor had asked, cutting into his roasted duck breast with surgical precision.
"Guarded. Calculating. They speak in soundbites and quarterly projections." Clark adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit he'd never quite outgrown. "You actually seem to be enjoying this."
Thor's smile had been radiant. "Maybe because you're not like other journalists."
The compliment had hit Clark like a physical blow. Heat had crept up his neck, and he'd fumbled with his wine glass, grateful for the dim lighting that might hide his blush.
"How so?"
"You ask questions like you actually want to hear the answers."
The shift had been gradual, then sudden.
What began as professional curiosity had evolved into something more personal as the evening progressed.
Thor spoke about his work with genuine passion, described his vision for global expansion with the kind of fervor that made Clark lean closer to catch every word. But it was the moments between business discussions that proved most revealing.
Thor's quiet observations about the restaurant's art collection, his dry commentary on the pretentious couple at the next table, the way his eyes lingered on Clark's mouth when he thought he wasn't looking.
"This might be forward of me," Thor had said as they lingered over dessert, "but would you be interested in continuing this conversation somewhere more private?"
Clark's heart had hammered against his ribs. He'd been attracted to men before, had even had a few relationships during his college years at Yale, but nothing since joining the publication he worked for. His career had consumed everything, leaving very little room for personal complications.
But Thor Odinson wasn't asking for complications. He was asking for something else entirely.
"I'd like that," Clark had heard himself say.
Thor had smiled and discreetly signaled for the check. "I know a place."
The penthouse was Thor's secret.
A minimally furnished sanctuary overlooking the East River that existed entirely separate from his public life. Clark had expected luxury, but the space was almost austere in its simplicity: clean lines, muted colors, enormous windows that framed the city like a living photograph.
"This is... not what I expected," Clark had said, loosening his tie as he took in the vast space.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. More... corporate executive stereotype? Leather furniture and abstract art chosen by an interior designer."
Thor had laughed, moving to a sleek bar cart in the corner.
"That's my other life. This is where I come when I need to remember who I am underneath all the suits and board meetings."
He'd poured two glasses of bourbon—something expensive and amber that burned perfectly on the way down—and handed one to Clark. Their fingers had brushed during the exchange, and the contact had sent electricity racing up Clark's arm.
"And who are you? Underneath it all?"
Thor had studied him for a long moment, as if deciding how much truth to reveal.
"Someone who's tired of pretending. Someone who wants things he's not supposed to want."
The admission had hung in the air between them, loaded with implication and invitation. Clark had set down his glass and stepped closer, close enough to smell Thor's cologne, to see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.
"What do you want?" he'd whispered.
Instead of answering, Thor had reached out and removed Clark's glasses, folding them carefully and setting them aside. Without them, Thor's face became slightly blurred, dreamlike, more beautiful than any human had a right to be.
"You," Thor had said simply. "I want you."
They'd never made it to the bedroom.
What happened next was a staggering discovery of brand-new horizons for both of them.
Clark discovered that beneath his mild-mannered exterior lay something darker, more commanding.
When Thor responded to his touch with breathless submission, when those powerful hands trembled against Clark's chest, something primal and possessive had awakened in him.
"You like this," Clark had murmured against Thor's throat, his voice deeper than he'd ever heard it. "Being told what to do."
Thor's response had been a broken moan that went straight to Clark's groin.
Clark had taken control with an authority that surprised them both, guiding Thor's movements, setting the pace, determining exactly what wanton sounds he could draw from that perfect mouth.
When Thor had tried to flip their positions—tried to regain the dominance that probably came naturally to him in every other aspect of his life—Clark forcefully pinned his wrists and shook his head.
"No. Not tonight," Clark growled in a low tone. "Tonight, you follow my lead."
The submission in Thor's piercingly gorgeous eyes had been intoxicating.
Clark had taken his time, mapping every inch of Thor's body with methodical precision, learning what made him arch and gasp and beg. He'd been gentle but implacable, generous but demanding, and when Thor had finally shattered beneath him, calling Clark's name like a prayer, it had been the most powerful moment of Clark's life.
Afterward, they'd dressed in comfortable silence, the dynamic between them radically changed. Thor had seemed almost shy, stealing glances at Clark as he straightened his tie and ran fingers through his disheveled hair.
"The article—" Thor had begun.
"Will be excellent," Clark had assured him, meaning it. "You gave me everything I needed."
Thor's smile had been soft, vulnerable in a way that made Clark's chest tight.
"Will I see you again?"
"Do you want to?"
"More than I should."
Clark had kissed him then, slow and thorough, tasting the lingering bourbon on his lips.
"Then you will."
A month later, Clark's cover story had hit newsstands and on the Financial Tribune’s official website. The piece was shared and discussed in corporate boardrooms around the world with the impact of a small earthquake.
The piece was masterful, insightful without being invasive, flattering without feeling bought and paid for like a frothy puff piece or pretentious hagiography. Clark had captured Thor's vision and charisma while maintaining journalistic integrity and showcasing his impeccable writing talents; painting a nuanced portrait of a business leader who was both brilliantly strategic and genuinely human.
The receptionists at Stark Global had fielded dozens of interview requests in the days following publication. Stock prices had ticked upward. Tony Stark had personally called to congratulate Thor on what he termed "the best PR coup of the decade."
But it was Clark's private message that had mattered most: Your secret is safe. The penthouse is beautiful in the morning light.
Thor had called him that same evening.
Bruce Wayne was everything Tony wasn't: restrained, brooding, and surgical with his seductions.
Where Tony operated with flashy displays of wealth and power, Bruce moved through shadows with the precision of a master strategist. He was old money—the kind that didn't need to announce itself—and carried himself with the unshakable confidence of someone who had never questioned his place at the apex of the world's power structure.
Thor had heard whispers about him for years. The Wayne family fortune, built on several generations of undisputed industrial dominance. The tragic backstory that had forged him into something harder than diamonds. The reputation for acquiring what he wanted through methods that were always legal, if not always ethical.
Their first encounter had been at a technology summit in Zurich, where the world's most influential CEOs gathered annually to discuss the future of global commerce. Thor had been representing Stark Global's interests in several potential acquisitions when Bruce had materialized beside him at the hotel bar, nursing what looked like a very expensive scotch.
"Tony tells me you're unforgettable," Bruce had said without preamble, his voice carrying that distinctive Gotham accent; cultured but with an underlying edge that spoke of dangerous streets and darker alleys.
Thor had turned to study the man everyone called the Prince of Gotham. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of brooding handsomeness that belonged on magazine covers or movie screens. But it was his eyes that gave Thor pause—gray as storm clouds, Machiavellian, missing nothing.
"He talks too much," Thor had replied, lifting his own glass in a mock toast.
"Does he?" Bruce had smiled then, but it hadn't reached those penetrating eyes. "Then prove him right."
Bruce's penthouse suite at the Hotel Baur Au Lac had been a study in understated luxury.
No ostentatious traces of wealth, no gaudy artwork chosen for shock value. Just clean lines, expensive materials, and the kind of curated sophistication that only those born with excellent taste can understand.
Someone like Bruce.
"You're different than what I expected," Thor had said, accepting the scotch Bruce poured, something aged and smoky that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more like Tony, I suppose. All that razzle-dazzle and theatrical gestures."
Bruce's laugh had been soft, almost musical. "Tony performs his wealth. I simply live mine. We still manage to get along despite our differences." He'd moved closer, close enough that Thor could smell his cologne—something dark and complex, like black leather and virgin spring water in some underground cave.
"The question is: when do you perform, and when do you simply live?"
It had been a loaded question, one that cut straight to the heart of Thor's carefully constructed double life. But before he could formulate an answer, Bruce had reached out and proceeded to gently loosen Thor's tie with movements so precise they might have been choreographed.
"You don't have to answer," Bruce had murmured, his fingers lingering against Thor's chest. "I can usually tell the difference between performance and authenticity."
"And what's your verdict?"
"You're performing right now. The confident corporate executive, the charming dinner companion. But underneath..." Bruce's hand had moved to Thor's bearded jaw, thumb brushing against his lower lip.
"Underneath, you're something... so much more interesting."
What followed had been an unparalleled masterclass in controlled fornication.
Where Tony overwhelmed with sensory overload and Quill attacked with enthusiastic passion, Bruce dissected Thor with surgical precision. Every touch was deliberate, every kiss strategically placed. They’ve only met that day, but already it seemed that Bruce understood instinctively which of Thor’s buttons to push, which vulnerabilities to exploit.
And all of this despite the fact that Bruce was the bottom and Thor was the top.
"You like being taken apart," Bruce had observed, his voice clinically detached even as his mouth and hands explored Thor's body with devastating efficiency. "Piece by piece, until there's nothing left but nerve endings and need."
Thor had wanted to deny it, to maintain some semblance of control, but Bruce's mouth had chosen that moment to descend on the side of his neck—that one weak spot which overrides his logic and reason—and coherent thought had become impossible.
Bruce approached sex the way he approached everything else: with methodical rigor and an almost scientific curiosity about cause and effect. He studied Thor's responses like he was solving a complex equation, skillfully adjusting his technique based on feedback that he seemed to read in languages Thor didn't even know he was speaking.
It should have felt clinical. Cold. Instead, it was absolutely scorching hot and passionate to the highest degree.
"You're a fucking perfectionist," Thor had gasped during a brief respite, his chest heaving as Bruce casually traced patterns across his sweat-slicked skin.
"Always," Bruce had agreed without shame. "But that doesn't make this less real. If anything, it makes it more honest. No pretense. No performance. Just cause and effect."
When it was over, they'd dressed silently and maintaining eye contact, the dynamic between them irrevocably transformed but somehow still maintaining that edge of scandalous danger that had drawn Thor to him in the first place.
"This isn't a relationship," Bruce had said as Thor prepared to leave, his tone matter-of-fact rather than cruel. "This is a mutual satisfaction of our needs. No strings, no expectations, no messy emotions."
Thor had nodded, understanding exactly what Bruce was offering: pure physical release without the complicated emotional landscape that came with his other entanglements.
"I can work with that," he'd said.
Bruce's smile had been sharp as a blade. "I thought you might."
Their arrangement had continued sporadically over the following months; always discreet, always on Bruce's terms, always with that underlying current of peril that made Thor's pulse race even when he was simply answering Bruce's rare phone calls.
Bruce never demanded more than what was agreed upon. Never showed up unexpectedly or made claims on Thor's time beyond their scheduled encounters. He was, in many ways, the perfect affair: all the physical satisfaction with no emotional complications.
Which made it more unsettling when Thor began to realize that he actually looked forward to those calculated seductions, to the way Bruce could strip away all his carefully constructed personas and reduce him to something elemental and honest.
Bruce Wayne was dangerous precisely because he offered Thor something he hadn't even known he craved: the luxury of being completely, utterly known, without the burden of being loved.
It was terrifying. It was addictive.
And Thor couldn't get enough.
Loki knew everything.
He always did.
But Thor had been too intoxicated or blinded by his own elaborate delusions to recognize the signs: the way Loki's questions had grown more pointed, the subtle shifts in his schedule, the knowing glances that lasted just a moment too long.
Loki Laufeyson had built his career on reading people with frightening accuracy, on recognizing tells and weaknesses and leverage points. Did Thor really think his husband—a man who regularly destroyed unfaithful billionaires as his life's work—wouldn't notice when his own spouse was living a double life?
But Loki had always been a patient hunter.
He preferred to let his prey reveal themselves completely before making his move.
Thor turned forty on a sweltering August evening, the kind of oppressive Manhattan heat that made even air conditioning on full blast feel inadequate.
The penthouse was transformed into something from a lifestyle magazine spread: soft candlelight flickering across Italian marble, the dining room table set with their finest china and crystal, a bottle of 1982 Château Latour placed beside perfectly prepared filet mignon with truffle reduction.
Loki had outdone himself, as always.
He moved through their home like a conductor orchestrating a symphony, adjusting flower arrangements, checking wine temperatures, coordinating closely with the hired staff that evening and ensuring every detail met his exacting standards.
"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," Thor said, loosening his tie as he took in the intimate scene. After months of stolen encounters and intricate lies, the simple domesticity felt almost foreign.
"Nonsense," Loki replied, lighting the final candle with practiced precision. "It's not every day my dashingly handsome husband turns forty. Besides, I wanted tonight to be... memorable."
Something in his tone made Thor pause, but Loki had already moved to pull out his chair with theatrical gallantry.
The meal proceeded with deceptive normalcy. Loki regaled Thor with stories from his latest case: a tech mogul's wife who'd hidden assets in cryptocurrency, a delicious tale of financial subterfuge that had Thor laughing despite the undercurrent of tension he couldn't quite identify.
It wasn't until dessert arrived—a decadent chocolate soufflé that Loki had somehow managed to time perfectly—that Thor noticed the small, elegantly wrapped envelope beside his wine glass.
"What's this?"
Loki's smile was enigmatic, dangerous.
"Your gift. Open it."
Thor's fingers trembled slightly as he tore away the expensive wrapping paper. Inside was a card, cream-colored and heavy, with Loki's beautiful calligraphic handwriting across the front:
To the most creatively unfaithful husband a man ever could ask for.
The blood drained from Thor's face.
Loki continued eating his dessert with infuriating calm, each spoonful deliberate and measured.
"You look surprised, darling."
"Loki, I—" Thor's voice cracked. "I can explain—"
"Oh, please don't." Loki set down his spoon and dabbed his lips with his napkin, every movement a study in controlled grace. "I've known since Tony. Actually, no—I suspected since Tony. I only knew for certain when you started coming home smelling like that dreadful cologne Arthur wears."
Thor felt like he was drowning. "You... you've known this whole time?"
"Months, darling. Months." Loki reached across the table and placed his hand over Thor's, his touch gentle but somehow more terrifying than anger would have been. "Did you honestly think you could hide something like this from me? I've built my entire career on recognizing deception."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Loki's laugh was soft, musical, and utterly without warmth. "Oh, Thor... Because I was having far too much fun conducting my own little... research project."
The words hit Thor like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, Loki stood and made his way to the kitchen. He politely asked the servants still midway through their cleaning to leave the penthouse immediately and return the next morning to resume their duties.
After tactfully dismissing the attendants, Loki slithered over to the windows that overlooked Central Park, his silhouette elegant against the glittering cityscape.
"Do you remember what you said to me on our wedding night? About how we'd never have secrets from each other?"
Thor's throat felt raw. "Yes."
"Well, darling, it seems we're both magnificent liars."
The admission hung in the air between them like a loaded weapon. Thor wanted to stand, to go to his husband, to somehow bridge the chasm that had opened between them, but Loki's posture warned against it.
"So what happens now?" Thor asked quietly.
Loki turned back to him, and for the first time all evening, his mask slipped slightly. Beneath the cool composure, Thor caught a glimpse of something raw and complicated—hurt and betrayal, perhaps, but also something that looked disturbingly like excitement.
"Now?" Loki returned to his seat and poured himself another glass of wine, his movements precise despite the emotional undercurrent. "Now we finally stop pretending. I know about Tony's little monthly 'performance reviews' with you. I know about your sweaty sessions with that ridiculous golden retriever at Knowhere House. I know about that sweet little collegiate twink you've been corrupting, and your stoic bodyguard on those international trips, and that meek journalist who writes about you like you're the second coming of Christ."
Each revelation felt like a knife twist, but Thor found himself oddly relieved. The weight of secrecy had been crushing him for months.
"And I know about Bruce Wayne, of course," Loki continued, his voice growing softer, more dangerous. "Tell me, darling, does the brooding Prince of Gotham City always insist on being in control like the power bottom he is? Or does he sometimes let you think you are?"
"How could you possibly know about—"
"Because I make it my business to know, Thor." Loki's interrupted coldly; his smile glinting like a row of icicles. "Just like I made it my business to ensure you'd never be the only one with secrets in this marriage."
The implication hit Thor like a freight train. "You've been—"
"Exploring my options? Absolutely." Loki raised his glass in a mock toast. "Happy birthday, my love. I do hope you're ready for your gift."
Before Thor could respond, the soft chime of their doorbell echoed through the penthouse. Loki's smile widened, predatory and triumphant.
"Ah, perfect timing."
Thor watched in stunned silence as Loki glided to the door, his movements flowing like water. When the door opened, Thor's breath caught in his throat.
Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes stood in the hallway, both impossibly handsome in their perfectly tailored suits, both wearing expressions of barely contained anticipation that made Thor's mouth go dry.
"Gentlemen," Loki said, his voice warm with welcome. "Thank you for being so punctual."
Steve stepped forward first, his All-American good looks somehow made more devastating by the knowing glint in his blue eyes. "Loki. You look stunning, as always."
Bucky followed, his darker presence a perfect counterpoint to Steve's golden boy appeal. "We brought champagne," he said, holding up a bottle of Dom Pérignon. "Seemed appropriate for the occasion."
Thor could only stare as Loki accepted the champagne with the same gracious composure he brought to dinner parties and charity galas, as if welcoming two devastatingly attractive men — who also happened to be married to each other — into their home for what was clearly going to be an intimate encounter was perfectly normal.
"Thor," Steve said, offering a respectful nod that somehow managed to be both polite and provocative. "Happy birthday."
"We've heard so much about you," Bucky added as he licked his lips lasciviously, his gaze traveling over Thor's body with obvious appreciation. “Only good things, of course.”
Thor's voice seemed to have abandoned him entirely. He looked helplessly at Loki, who was watching the interaction with the satisfied expression of a chess master who'd just achieved checkmate.
"Cat got your tongue, darling?" Loki asked sweetly. "Don't worry, you'll have plenty of opportunity to observe. Steve and Bucky have been so eager to meet you properly. Haven't you, boys?"
"Very eager," Steve confirmed, his voice dropping to a lower register that made Thor's pulse quicken despite his shock.
Loki moved to the bar cart and began opening the champagne with practiced efficiency. "Thor, why don't you make yourself comfortable in the bedroom? Front row seat to the evening's entertainment."
"Loki, wait—" Thor started, but his husband silenced him with a look.
"The rules are simple," Loki said, his voice taking on the same commanding tone he used in court. "You can only watch. You cannot participate. You cannot touch yourself. Your clothes stay on all throughout. And you absolutely cannot touch any of us. Break any of these rules, and I'll have divorce papers filed before breakfast."
The threat was delivered with such casual elegance that it took Thor a moment to process its full meaning. When he did, a strange thrill ran through him—part terror, part arousal, part something he couldn't name.
"Do you understand?" Loki asked.
Thor nodded mutely.
"Good." Loki's smile was radiant, terrible, beautiful. "Then let's begin."
The procession to their bedroom felt surreal, like moving through a fever dream. Steve and Bucky flanked Loki as they walked, their hands occasionally brushing his arms or the small of his back with easy familiarity that spoke of previous encounters. Thor followed behind, feeling like a complete stranger in his own home.
Their bedroom—the sacred space he'd shared with Loki for seven years—had been transformed.
Scented candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows on the walls and filling the air with a heady bouquet of alluring fragrances. The lighting was soft, ambient, designed to flatter and seduce. Even the bedding had been changed to something more luxurious, silk sheets in deep emerald that complemented Loki's eyes.
"Sit," Loki commanded, gesturing to the wing-backed red leather armchair positioned strategically at the foot of the bed. "And remember the rules."
Thor sank into the chair, his legs feeling unsteady. He watched as Loki moved between Steve and Bucky with fluid grace, accepting their greedy touches, returning their torrid kisses, slowly beginning the intricate dance of seduction.
But this wasn't just about sex, Thor realized as he watched his husband's hands work at undressing Steve and Bucky, as he saw Loki's mouth curve in that particular smile he'd thought was reserved only for him. This was about power. About control. About showing Thor exactly what he'd been missing while he'd been focused on his own elaborate deceptions.
"He's so handsome," Steve murmured, his hands framing Loki's face with reverent care. "You're so lucky to have Thor as your husband, Loki."
"You really are," Bucky agreed, his fingers tangling in Loki's dark hair. "Aren't you, Loki?"
"Devastatingly lucky," Loki purred, but his eyes found Thor's in the dim light. "All of us."
What followed was simultaneously the most erotic and torturous experience of Thor's life.
He watched his husband transform under Steve and Bucky's synchronized ministrations, becoming something wild and abandoned that Thor had glimpses of but never fully possessed. Loki's usual controlled composure melted away, replaced by raw need and uninhibited pleasure.
The sounds he made—gasps and moans and broken endearments—seemed to echo directly into Thor's bones. Every arch of his back, every flutter of his eyelashes, every breathless cry of pleasure was both a gift and a punishment.
And through it all, Loki made sure Thor could see everything.
The way Steve's mouth moved against his throat, the way Bucky's hands mapped the flawless surfaces of his body, the way both men ravished him with the same desperate intensity that Thor had been giving to his coterie of lovers in hotel rooms, jet planes, and private offices.
When it was over—when all three men lay tangled together on silk sheets, breathing heavily in the candlelit darkness—Thor found himself trembling in his chair, his trousers damp and soiled by an orgasm he never even acted upon, and totally overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't name.
Steve and Bucky eventually dressed and left, but not before kissing Loki goodbye with the tenderness of established lovers, not before nodding respectfully to Thor with expressions that managed to be sympathetic, knowing, and lustful all at once.
When they were alone, Loki remained sprawled across the bed; naked and magnificent in his dishevelment, watching Thor with lazy satisfaction.
"Well?" he asked. "How did you like your birthday gift?"
Thor's voice came out as a whisper.
"How long?"
"How long have I been seeing them? About six months. How long have I been planning tonight? Since the moment I realized you thought I was too naive to notice your little adventures."
Thor stood on unsteady legs and moved to the bed, sinking down on its edge.
"I'm sorry."
"Are you, though?" Loki rolled onto his side to face him, propping his head on his hand. "Because you don't look sorry. You look... something else entirely."
Thor met his husband's gaze and saw his own complicated emotions reflected there—hurt and arousal and love and betrayal all tangled together into something that defied easy categorization.
"I don't know what I am," Thor admitted. "Seeing you like that... seeing how they touched you... I wanted to kill them and thank them at the same time."
Loki's smile was soft now, almost tender. "And how do you think I felt, knowing about all your lovers? Imagining them with their hands on you, their mouths on you?"
"Did you hate it?"
"Sometimes." Loki reached out and traced the line of Thor's jaw with one finger. "But mostly... mostly I found it fascinating. Thor, I—you couldn't imagine how relieved I felt when your infidelity freed something within me I never thought existed. The idea that my husband was so irresistible that half of Manhattan wanted to possess him."
Thor caught Loki's hand and pressed it against his cheek. "What happens now?"
"Now we stop lying to each other." Loki's eyes were bright in the candlelight. "Now we admit that we're both monsters, and we figure out how to be monsters together. Forever."
Thor leaned down and kissed him, tasting Steve and Bucky and champagne and something that was purely, essentially Loki. When they broke apart, both men were breathing hard.
"I love you, Loki," Thor said. "Despite everything—because of everything—I love you."
"I know, my darling." Loki pulled him down onto the bed, into the warm circle of his arms. "I love you too. More than I should. More than is probably healthy."
They lay together in the flickering candlelight, processing the wreckage and revelation of the evening. Outside their windows, Manhattan glittered with a million lights, each one representing lives less complicated than theirs.
"So what are the new rules?" Thor asked eventually.
Loki was quiet for so long that Thor thought he'd fallen asleep. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but certain.
"No more secrets. No more lies. And no matter what we do or who we do it with..." He turned in Thor's arms, meeting his eyes with fierce intensity. "We always come home to each other."
Thor kissed him again, sealing the pact. In the morning, they would have to figure out how to navigate this new reality they'd created.
But for now, it was enough to hold each other in the ruins of their old life, ready to build something new and glorious from the ashes of their beautiful deceptions.