Fic: every inch the warrior [Avengers]
Title: every inch the warrior
Fandom: The Avengers (film)
Pairing: Loki/Clint
Rating: NC17 [dubious consent]
Warning: This story contains a sexual situation in which one participant is incapable of giving consent.
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for early in the film.
Summary: He appears the moment Loki summons him, standing at the ready like a good soldier.
A/N: Three words: Magic Mind Control. If you didn't think I was going to go there, you obviously don't know me very well. Thanks to
sabinetzin for the beta and her approval.
Loki understands the fascination with humans. He does, truly. They are remarkable creatures, so undeterred by their own insignificance.
This Agent Barton is especially captivating, courageous despite his frailty, every inch the warrior despite the fact that he has been so thoroughly defeated. Even enthralled, he is fierce as the raptor whose name he has taken. He is also, it must be said, as pleasing to the eye as any human can be, and Loki finds himself contemplating what sort of lovers these mortals make.
He appears the moment Loki summons him, standing at the ready like a good soldier. Loki smiles.
“I would have you give me pleasure.”
Barton shrugs. This, Loki has seen, is his most common answer to orders, as if joy, pain, and duty are all the same to him. “Sure thing, boss. What can I do for you?”
His speech is crude and uncultured, even compared to the other mortals Loki must suffer, but it is of no consequence. Loki is not concerned with the caliber of Barton’s words, so long as their content is acquiescence.
“Kneel,” he commands, and Barton does so with easy grace. His clouded eyes remain fixed on Loki’s, unconcerned and expectant. “Closer.”
Barton begins to rise, but Loki stops him with a raised hand. “No. Crawl to me.”
If Barton finds this position distasteful, no sign of it shows in his face as he places his palms on the floor and crawls forward to the very edge of Loki’s seat. “Any closer, sir, and this could get awkward,” he says, as if he is amused, as if he is pleased to be on his knees at the feet of a god.
Perhaps he is, Loki thinks. Perhaps this is what Barton seeks in his lovers’ trysts: to be commanded, to serve the pleasure of a master. It is a compelling notion, that he might choose this for himself, beyond Loki’s control. What Barton could once have wanted, however, is irrelevant. What he needs is purpose, and that is Loki’s to provide.
He gives Barton’s face a tender caress, just the soft trace of fingertips across a strong jaw, and says gently, “It is not my intention to cause you discomfort. I ask only your service.”
Barton grins, a wicked expression that does not touch his empty eyes. “That’s what I’m here for, sir.”
“Excellent.” Gripping Barton’s hair, Loki guides his head into its proper place. “Now, serve.”
Loki is impressed by the speed and efficiency with which Barton sets to the task, though he is hardly surprised. Barton has spent his miserable life on the end of a leash held by one man or another, and he would have done his best to please them in whatever way is required. Loki, at the very least, intends to put him to better use than his previous owners.
Barton’s mouth is hot around him, and Loki allows himself to release a fraction of the tension wound tight in his muscles. The business of conquering is a trying one, and this momentary pleasure is a welcome distraction. He scrapes his fingernails lightly across Barton’s scalp and gives himself over to the drag of lips and slide of tongue.
The other workers go about their tasks as if they do not see, as if they are blind to Barton’s hands twisting desperately in their master’s garments.
Loki wonders how many lives those hands have taken, how many souls sent screaming into whatever realm is reserved for mortal dead. And now this deadly, dangerous creature kneels with his face between the thighs of a god, brought to perfect obedience by a simple touch of power. The thought gives Loki a small thrill.
It is also, he thinks, a fitting reward for so valiant a mortal warrior.
The tide of his pleasure is rising, heat swelling in his belly. He slides his hand to the back of Barton’s head, urging a quicker rhythm, a deeper pull. To his irritation, Barton hesitates.
“Come now,” Loki chides. “Be a good boy.”
After a second, Barton resumes his attentions with a low groan. It might be pleasure or protest, but it makes no difference. The sound produces an exquisite sensation.
Barton’s hair is thick and soft and just long enough for Loki to twist his fingers in. He pulls, pressing himself further into Barton’s throat, savoring the pressure as muscles tense reflexively around him.
There is a thin, wet sound as Barton gags. His hands scrabble at Loki’s knees, and he tries to push away. Loki grips his hair tightly and holds him in place.
“No, no. None of that.” Barton blinks up at him from beneath dark lashes, and Loki gives him a kind smile. “You’ve done so well. You don’t want to disappoint me now, do you, Clinton?”
It’s there, in his blank blue eyes, a need to please that is not of Loki’s making. His conviction that excellence will win him something akin to the love he so desperately, obviously craves is as ingrained and as plain as the calluses on his hands and the scars on his skin. Loki will do nothing to dissuade him of this belief, but, though he certainly cannot offer anything like true affection, he is more than willing to reward Barton’s efforts accordingly.
Barton visibly relaxes, straightening his fingers and adjusting his jaw. As if to compensate for his momentary failure, he slides his tongue along the length of Loki’s flesh and strikes a fast, steady pace. Loki closes his eyes, his hand still clenched in Barton’s hair, and smiles.
When his pleasure crests, it is slow and hot, rolling through him in waves, and he holds Barton in place as he empties himself into that slick, panting mouth. He has known greater love-making, to be sure, but rarely has any diversion been so very satisfying. He gives Barton’s head a gentle stroke before pushing him away.
“That was most delightful, Agent Barton. Thank you.”
“No problem, boss.” Barton smiles vaguely, as if his lips are not red and raw and wet, as if the corners of his mouth are not streaked with saliva and Loki’s seed. “Need anything else?”
He is truly a fetching creature. “Not for the moment. You may return to your duties.”
Barton rises smoothly and departs with a simple “Yes, sir”. Loki watches him go, watches the graceful strength in his movements, and thinks that he may have inadvertently acquired a favorite pet.
He does hope Barton survives.
Fandom: The Avengers (film)
Pairing: Loki/Clint
Rating: NC17 [dubious consent]
Warning: This story contains a sexual situation in which one participant is incapable of giving consent.
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for early in the film.
Summary: He appears the moment Loki summons him, standing at the ready like a good soldier.
A/N: Three words: Magic Mind Control. If you didn't think I was going to go there, you obviously don't know me very well. Thanks to
sabinetzin for the beta and her approval.
Loki understands the fascination with humans. He does, truly. They are remarkable creatures, so undeterred by their own insignificance.
This Agent Barton is especially captivating, courageous despite his frailty, every inch the warrior despite the fact that he has been so thoroughly defeated. Even enthralled, he is fierce as the raptor whose name he has taken. He is also, it must be said, as pleasing to the eye as any human can be, and Loki finds himself contemplating what sort of lovers these mortals make.
He appears the moment Loki summons him, standing at the ready like a good soldier. Loki smiles.
“I would have you give me pleasure.”
Barton shrugs. This, Loki has seen, is his most common answer to orders, as if joy, pain, and duty are all the same to him. “Sure thing, boss. What can I do for you?”
His speech is crude and uncultured, even compared to the other mortals Loki must suffer, but it is of no consequence. Loki is not concerned with the caliber of Barton’s words, so long as their content is acquiescence.
“Kneel,” he commands, and Barton does so with easy grace. His clouded eyes remain fixed on Loki’s, unconcerned and expectant. “Closer.”
Barton begins to rise, but Loki stops him with a raised hand. “No. Crawl to me.”
If Barton finds this position distasteful, no sign of it shows in his face as he places his palms on the floor and crawls forward to the very edge of Loki’s seat. “Any closer, sir, and this could get awkward,” he says, as if he is amused, as if he is pleased to be on his knees at the feet of a god.
Perhaps he is, Loki thinks. Perhaps this is what Barton seeks in his lovers’ trysts: to be commanded, to serve the pleasure of a master. It is a compelling notion, that he might choose this for himself, beyond Loki’s control. What Barton could once have wanted, however, is irrelevant. What he needs is purpose, and that is Loki’s to provide.
He gives Barton’s face a tender caress, just the soft trace of fingertips across a strong jaw, and says gently, “It is not my intention to cause you discomfort. I ask only your service.”
Barton grins, a wicked expression that does not touch his empty eyes. “That’s what I’m here for, sir.”
“Excellent.” Gripping Barton’s hair, Loki guides his head into its proper place. “Now, serve.”
Loki is impressed by the speed and efficiency with which Barton sets to the task, though he is hardly surprised. Barton has spent his miserable life on the end of a leash held by one man or another, and he would have done his best to please them in whatever way is required. Loki, at the very least, intends to put him to better use than his previous owners.
Barton’s mouth is hot around him, and Loki allows himself to release a fraction of the tension wound tight in his muscles. The business of conquering is a trying one, and this momentary pleasure is a welcome distraction. He scrapes his fingernails lightly across Barton’s scalp and gives himself over to the drag of lips and slide of tongue.
The other workers go about their tasks as if they do not see, as if they are blind to Barton’s hands twisting desperately in their master’s garments.
Loki wonders how many lives those hands have taken, how many souls sent screaming into whatever realm is reserved for mortal dead. And now this deadly, dangerous creature kneels with his face between the thighs of a god, brought to perfect obedience by a simple touch of power. The thought gives Loki a small thrill.
It is also, he thinks, a fitting reward for so valiant a mortal warrior.
The tide of his pleasure is rising, heat swelling in his belly. He slides his hand to the back of Barton’s head, urging a quicker rhythm, a deeper pull. To his irritation, Barton hesitates.
“Come now,” Loki chides. “Be a good boy.”
After a second, Barton resumes his attentions with a low groan. It might be pleasure or protest, but it makes no difference. The sound produces an exquisite sensation.
Barton’s hair is thick and soft and just long enough for Loki to twist his fingers in. He pulls, pressing himself further into Barton’s throat, savoring the pressure as muscles tense reflexively around him.
There is a thin, wet sound as Barton gags. His hands scrabble at Loki’s knees, and he tries to push away. Loki grips his hair tightly and holds him in place.
“No, no. None of that.” Barton blinks up at him from beneath dark lashes, and Loki gives him a kind smile. “You’ve done so well. You don’t want to disappoint me now, do you, Clinton?”
It’s there, in his blank blue eyes, a need to please that is not of Loki’s making. His conviction that excellence will win him something akin to the love he so desperately, obviously craves is as ingrained and as plain as the calluses on his hands and the scars on his skin. Loki will do nothing to dissuade him of this belief, but, though he certainly cannot offer anything like true affection, he is more than willing to reward Barton’s efforts accordingly.
Barton visibly relaxes, straightening his fingers and adjusting his jaw. As if to compensate for his momentary failure, he slides his tongue along the length of Loki’s flesh and strikes a fast, steady pace. Loki closes his eyes, his hand still clenched in Barton’s hair, and smiles.
When his pleasure crests, it is slow and hot, rolling through him in waves, and he holds Barton in place as he empties himself into that slick, panting mouth. He has known greater love-making, to be sure, but rarely has any diversion been so very satisfying. He gives Barton’s head a gentle stroke before pushing him away.
“That was most delightful, Agent Barton. Thank you.”
“No problem, boss.” Barton smiles vaguely, as if his lips are not red and raw and wet, as if the corners of his mouth are not streaked with saliva and Loki’s seed. “Need anything else?”
He is truly a fetching creature. “Not for the moment. You may return to your duties.”
Barton rises smoothly and departs with a simple “Yes, sir”. Loki watches him go, watches the graceful strength in his movements, and thinks that he may have inadvertently acquired a favorite pet.
He does hope Barton survives.