Title: Corruption and Crème Brûleé
Pairing: Loki/Clint Barton
Word count ~6,000
Summary: Loki finds that Agent Barton is peerless. In all things. For a mortal. Which is unforgivable.
Warnings/Enticements: Mind Control rape, i.e., non-consensual smut with dubious consent flavors. Coded as both non-con and dub-con for different reader values of both.
A/N: From the moment Loki grabbed Hawkeye's wrist six minutes into the film, I knew I had a new fandom. And that I'd be writing this scenario.
Thanks to fabularasa and cluegirl for most excellent and speedy beta duty.
(Read "Corruption and Crème Brûleé" on AO3)
"--eight men on the perimeter at all times. Checks every ten minutes. Someone doesn't respond, you report it to me, and the next time you see him you shoot first. Codes change hourly--"
As if he were already seated upon his throne and not merely standing in a vantage point for observation in this derelict hideaway, Loki watches as Agent Barton stalks the breadth of the tumbledown lair, those ghost-pale thrall's eyes glittering with every pivot of his head as he directs the growing company of Loki's mortal minions.
"--opportunity to strike at SHIELD, you tell him that's what he gets. That and twenty million euros. Forty if he can get the component to me by 1700 hours. Yes. Yes, at the time it's delivered, what did you think I meant? Yes. I figured he would. Rendezvous at--"
Mortals, Loki thinks as he watches Barton's operations, his mouth twisting with amused disdain. Oh, they are shaped like men, these creatures of Midgard; they speak and sweat and stink like men, but never once would Loki mistake these fragile, short-lived sacks of flesh for true men. To say man is to say god. To say man is to name the glorious sons that are born to Asgard, who grace its shining halls with the splendor of the truly divine. These, and only these, are men. Loki knows this as unassailable truth.
"--closed system network on these machines, we started the scrambler first thing so forget about firewalls--
And what, pray tell, does such doctrine make of Loki himself, then? Why, he thinks with every grain of accustomed bitterness, that would make him not a man.
"--yes, it's a version of USB and don't even ask which one; you're not gonna be able to count that high. It needs to be juryrigged onto the accessory arm of this--"
Why, by all the nine worlds, should he stick upon that difference? Why should it matter? Loki knows himself of Asgard, if not by birth then by the craft of Odin All-Father himself. Is that not better? It should not matter, and yet it of course it matters: blackly and deeply as the void, it matters as no other insult can, and so Loki has molded that small, that slender, that utterly cruel little difference between himself and a true Asgardian-born man into his most precious weapon. That weapon, that difference, is the lesion in his soul which demands that he conquer, which craves the subjugation of men beneath his foot, which lets him reject--with no more effort than a mordant laugh and a flash of knives-- any claim of kinship his puling, pathetic brother would think could touch some nonexistent nub of compassion within Loki's breast. Asgard put that weapon into him; let Asgard and all her children reap.
"--commandeered a quinjet, sir." Agent Barton is before him, palming away the tiny communication device with a quicksilver gesture. His nod of respect at Loki is as automatic as breath. "One of the new commissions. Wasn't scheduled to be delivered to SHIELD for another five days. Within thirty minutes it'll be at our access point twenty klicks away." As Barton folds his arms his chin jerks up, the lines about his handsome mouth set. The rime-blue eyes look unflinchingly back into Loki's. "That's where we stand."
Loki's hands flex about the scepter as he regards Barton. These human pets that his brother champions are not, and never shall be, men. But as subjects, Loki has to admit, they are making a most satisfying beginning.
"So. What are your orders, sir?"
Loki does not answer right away, his gaze lingering on this particular...Loki will be generous and call it a semblance of a man standing before him, waiting for his master's command. Belatedly he realizes that, yes, this actually marks the first time Agent Barton has said such words to him--what are your orders--and is that not a bit odd? What should be a commonplace soldier's request of his commander, Barton has not spoken aloud until just now, not since the moment Loki's scepter possessed him nearly two dayspans ago. He never bothered to ask for them, this soldier, this pawn, this creature in whom it should be lickspittle instinct to beg for orders.
But--fascinatingly--he has not. Not that Barton did not intend to take orders; he simply did not need them. Not once since Loki took Agent Clinton Barton's heart from him, yet left every niche of his singular mortal mind intact. Not until he had delivered Loki, the Tesseract, and Dr. Selvig well out of danger; without him, Loki recognizes, he might still be smothering under an avalanche of rock in the American desert. Not until they were half a continent away in a coastal city of Barton's choosing, hidden in a cavernous locus of transport, gutted and abandoned. Not until a procession of sober-faced mortals began to arrive at this underground den, all of them bearing boxes and chests as if Barton had summoned them to pay proper tribute to their new king. Machines of shining silver and crystal. Stacked ingots of gold along with more ready currency. Enough black metal weaponry to reduce a small realm to smoke and ash.
All of it Barton's doing, and Loki did not even need to order him, is that not enchanting. All of it by virtue of Barton's anticipation and his reflexes and a remarkable number of mortals rendered neatly dead in the archer's wake. And, of course, not to discount the tiny miracle of those communication devices that have made all of this possible; Barton's used and abandoned at least two dozen of the things during their flight.
And only now, it seems, does Barton find his work has reached its point of pause. Their refuge is secured, their subordinates plentiful, their resources stocked; only now has Barton concluded, it appears, that he needs to ask his master for further instructions. Two entire days.
How very...independent of him. Loki feels this pique of his rising in a manner that feels peculiarly like delight: how utterly impertinent for any mortal to be so faultlessly, damnably competent. Is this, perhaps, what deludes his brother to care for these creatures? Their ability to beguile, to masquerade as their betters?
As for Loki, he will not be so misled. Barton's skill only proves Loki's assertion, that the mortals' natural state is to serve. Give them a king worthy of their devotion, and, why, they will erect an empire beneath his feet, formed from their very bones if they must.
Has Barton even slept since their escape, Loki wonders, looking over the grey hollows of his thrall's face? He doubts it. Loki, after all, has not yet told him he may. Such a dutiful soldier. The thought eases Loki's vexation; when Barton does drop in his tracks at last, Loki will watch and sneer.
Loki's throne is not yet won, however, and the Chitauri, never creatures for patience, claw at the gate in ever-hastening agitation, he knows. A restless desire to pace seizes him; Loki quells it, stands where he is and answers Barton. "Doctor Selvig requires time with the Tesseract," he says. "If its power is to serve me in this realm he will most quickly know what is required to bring its power to heel."
Barton nods. "We've brought in containment units for the Tesseract. Selvig can play with the thing in the open as much as he wants and nothing's going to show up on SHIELD's scans. The units are being set up as we speak; Selvig's standing by to begin as soon as the field's up."
Loki nods at him in turn. Of course it is already being readied. Faultless Barton, damn him. "Then," Loki says, "until the good doctor tells us what is needed, we have come to the chokepoint. Aid him where you can, Agent Barton, and prepare to fetch what he lacks."
He turns from Barton, surveying the mold-mottled walls of their hideaway. Waiting does not sit well with Loki. He is suddenly bone-weary, the fevered intoxication of the chase at its ebb, and his urgency with it. He thinks of the sustaining potency of the apples of Yggdrasil, and his mouth fills with saliva at the memory of their sharp sweetness. He will taste them yet again, he has promised himself. Once Midgard is his, he will then storm the very stronghold of Asgard itself, battering his new subjects against its barriers, heedless of how many of their laughable deaths it may cost, until the sheer weight of their numbers wins him an opening, and then, oh, then he will slither within to strike at the heart of Asgard in one blow.
At his false father's heart. The two are the same, are they not?
He does not realize he has allowed his eyes to shut for something longer than a blink, savoring this thought, surrendering to it, when Barton speaks again: "Those storage quarters, back there--" Loki opens his eyes once more; had he not dismissed him? But no, Barton still remains where he had been standing. His sturdy arms are still folded tight upon his breast, and he gestures at the distant door with a brief thrust of his jaw. "I've personally cleared those out for you and thrown together some sleep gear in there, if you need it, sir. Do you want me to get you something to eat besides energy rations?"
Loki blinks; his eyes nearly widen, but he makes them narrow instead. "Personally prepared the room, have you?" He lets the shadow of a smile bloom on his mouth. "Are you saying that you and you only, among all my followers, should be witness to my vulnerabilities, is that your meaning? Are you looking for the tell-tale signs of my weaknesses, Agent Barton?"
Barton does not change expression--brazen creature, should he not at the least blush, to be caught so? "I see what others don't, sir," Barton says, the sleet-touched eyes steady.
Loki chokes back his laughter--oh, this is entirely too much. Even if it is the truth. Loki cannot, simply will not let that insolence go unpunished.
Loki draws himself to his full height, scepter a satisfying weight in his hands. Barton's posture changes as well, a soldier recognizing the imminent delivery of a command. Good. "Very well," says Loki, feeling his shadow of a smile become corporeal. "Attend, Barton." Barton has so tirelessly provided for his needs, and not even had the good grace to apologize; well and so, Loki will now indeed indulge himself frivolously. Barton can now pander to his whims, for his presumption. "Bring me food, then. Dishes savory and bloody, wines pure and potent, fruits--" he is thinking of the apples again-- "sweet and bursting. Bring me a feast fit for Asgard's halls, let alone for the new king of Midgard."
"Heavy on the meats. I got it, sir."
Loki does not quite think that is a smile on Barton's mouth. It should not dare to be.
"Bring me all this," says Loki, his voice slipping into a hiss, "and then fetch--" He stops. He had planned to say, fetch me female flesh; it would be a sweet indulgence, to lie idle for an hour or two, spend himself within the coyntes of half a dozen mortal women while about him Barton and the rest of Loki's creatures continue their toil. Simpering, keening mortal women, honored to serve as receptacle for a king's pleasure.
And yet...no. It seems a flat, rote imagining, and--here is the crux of it, would it be any sort of challenge for Barton to attain a clutch of meager harlots for him? Hardly, Loki thinks, understanding what he wants. That would be no more than a task. Not, he decides, looking at Barton's cursedly imperturbable face, a punishment.
"No. Never mind," says Loki. "Fetch the feast, and I shall give you further orders after."
And Barton accomplishes this task as admirably as any other before, as if any doubt should have existed. Within the hour Loki is sequestered in the room that Barton has prepared, contemplating Barton's success. In the neglected ruin of the hideaway, in particular this smaller enclosure, the display of cloth-draped table and silver and glass and candlelight is incongruously delightful, and the meal promises to be lavish.
Barton has even provided a servant to lay the feast before him, a skittish slim pock-faced youth with a wealth of silver rings piercing one ear. He is clad in simple black livery and is clearly no agent, only some unfortunate hireling unsuccessfully trying to conceal his bewilderment at his surroundings as he lays dish after dish before Loki, an occasional tremor of his hands betraying him.
As befits a king's feast, Loki takes no more than a few bites of each dish before abandoning it in favor of the next intriguing preparation. It is not Asgard's fare, no, but it is more than passable; well worth the savoring. The meal finishes with a custard of such succulence, sugar-glazed and cream-rich, that Loki has another of those fleeting moments of appreciation for mortals and their creations.
Barton stands at attention for the entire duration of the meal, the only other one present in the room besides Loki and the increasingly claustrophobic servant. When it is finished and the dishes hastily cleared and collected, Barton crosses to the youth and produces a thick bound stack of the paper currency, pressing it into the youth's startled hand. The distraction serves long enough, Loki sees, for the youth to stand still, staring at the unexpected bounty, while Barton unholsters his weapon and in the same swift motion raises it to the youth's eye, and fires. The report is dull and muffled yet echoing in the closed space, and the body does not even have time to tumble before Barton has it in his arms, hefting the dead weight over his shoulder. The stack of currency has fallen to the floor; Barton pays it not the slightest heed.
"For spilling the soup?" mocks Loki, as Barton carries his burden to the door. "I am terribly touched."
Barton passes the body to the two subordinates standing outside of the door. "Bag it and put it with the others," he says. They ask no questions, of course, and bear it away.
Mortal blood in a lace-like spray decorates the wall; more of it stains the back of Barton's jacket. Loki rises from his seat. The smell of it is intoxicating, overpowering the lingering smell of the foodstuffs in the room, spiking Loki's hunger for something quite other as he looks at Barton, who shuts the door once more; Loki can see flecks of the youth's blood on his cheek.
As if a brood of strumpets could have been better sport than this.
The promised bed, Loki has noted, that Barton has provided for him within the room is rough, nothing more than two stiff cots lashed together and cushioned with soldiers' bedrolls to form a sleeping pallet. No luxury, but Loki hardly plans to use it for sleep. It will serve.
"Barton." Barton turns his head to face Loki, that raptor-like pivot. Yes, Loki recalls; this one is well-named. "Come here."
Barton does. Loki moves around the table to meet him, feeling the air stifle within the room as his breathing quickens in his eagerness. Barton is more than an arm's reach away when Loki lunges with one hand, reaching out, tangling his fingers into Barton's short hair. Barton starts; his hands lift, but he makes no move to escape Loki's grip. Loki brings his face close to Barton's. "Another duty for you, Agent Barton. Kneel."
Loki watches Barton's eyes, wanting to see the remaking of Barton's wants and desires yet again, to see how Barton's cognizance shifts from the sterile comfort of allegiance to Loki to something greater still: to the directive of obey your master in all things, and be glad of it. Barton does not move for a moment, and then his lips press together, the corners of his mouth almost quirking--oh, yes, that little show of insolence again; Loki would not have it any other way--and then Barton sinks to one knee, wrists falling to rest lightly on his thighs. And yet this is still no cringing slave Loki has before him; Barton's eyes still look up, fixed on Loki's face, waiting for his master's next command, which he surely knows will come.
Again, Loki feels that surge of mixed outrage and delight, feeding his rising desire. Not even the humility to drop his gaze, this one. How much more entertaining than abject groveling. How much more entertaining to chastise.
Loki extends the scepter, allows Barton to contemplate the weapon that stole his soul from his body and made it Loki's. The point hovers before Barton's face. "Apply your mouth to that, Barton," Loki says, smile completely undisguised. "Lick it as though it were the treasure between the legs of a woman you want to please very, very much."
He sees emotion flicker behind Barton's eyes, the only vulnerability Loki has witnessed since taking this mortal--and then Barton leans forward and lets his tongue capture the point of the scepter, a delicate, precise caress that Loki finds himself feeling as if the scepter were indeed a part of his own flesh, another pulse of desire rippling through him, and yet another twitch of resentment heightening the need to discipline this creature.
Barton continues, pulling the scepter's point into his mouth, a wet noise escaping as he sucks. The act looks so fitted to Barton's charming mouth that Loki imagines he should never let this one off his knees. "Do you think this is a waste of your talents, Agent Barton?" Loki croons. "Are you reluctant to obey my whims for something so trifling when your capabilities of command and covertcy are unrivaled?" He finds he wants to know. What wars within his puppet? Is there any war at all?
"Answer," Loki whispers, no less a command for all that it goes as unvoiced as breath.
Those icy eyes flicker upward once more. "Are you sure you want me to answer with words?" Barton says, pausing, the well-licked end of the scepter only an inch from his mouth. "Because I'm more an action kind of guy."
"And if I ask for both?"
Barton's lower lip caresses the end of the scepter once more, eyes never leaving Loki's. "I think," he says, "that you want someone you trust, especially here. Especially now." His head cocks to one side again. "That's never a waste of a good soldier. Sir."
Loki sucks in his breath. The deliberate audacity of that; Loki hears the little separation between those last two words. Oh, he had not thought beyond the pleasures of Barton's mouth--now Loki knows there will be no mercy, none.
"Indeed," Loki murmurs in answer, withdrawing the scepter another inch, in order to watch Barton chase after it with his tongue--Barton's vigilant eyes actually close for a moment as his tongue connects; Loki's arousal surges to levels that simply should not be reasonable, damn this creature. He snatches the scepter away altogether, then flings it to the makeshift bed, where it falls with an unceremonious whump into the soft layers of bedding, portent and promise of what is to come. Barton's eyes--open again--follow its trajectory, but then they are back on Loki's face once more.
Loki's own eyes do not leave his thrall's gaze as he strips off his clothing, allows all of it--cloak, garments, footwear, everything but the amulet about his throat--to be shed, displaying an even greater majesty before his dutiful mortal servant. Barton watches, his breathing never changing, not a muscle flinching.
Loki extends his fingertips, touches the hard angle of Barton's jaw. He bends a little, for the pleasure of bringing his face closer to Barton's once again, inhaling the sweat-ripe smell of him, watching Barton's eyes flicker to follow him. "Now," he sighs, "for a display of that trust I prize, my dear Agent Barton."
He straightens again; Barton shifts forward the necessary distance to bring his lips to the shining wet eye of Loki's rising length, Barton's gloved hands moving boldly to curl about Loki's flanks, steadying himself as he draws the end of it into that shapely, insolent mouth of his. Loki draws in a long breath as Barton sucks him in deeper; he raises a hand to slide his fingers into Barton's hair again, gripping, tightening his fingers not to direct him--Barton seems to need no direction at all, in this as in everything--but for the pleasure of simply pulling at Barton's hair, harder, and harder yet, waiting for Barton's wince, seeing it in the flutter of his eyelids, hearing it in the short groan at the back of Barton's throat.
As if in delicious apology, Barton shuts his eyes and pushes his face forward, sucking breath through his nostrils and swallowing Loki's shaft to the root. Loki gasps as that warm wet mouth wraps about him and pulls; he lifts his face to get his own breath, and grips Barton's hair all the tighter.
It won't do to have it over too quickly, he forces himself to recall. He allows Barton to slide his mouth along his shaft in thorough driving movements for a long minute, then at last uses his grip in Barton's hair to drag his mortal slave off him. Barton doesn't disguise his flinch of pain; his hands remain on Loki's hips and tighten on them, pads of his fingers pressing into his master's flesh like a plea. His breath is coming fast.
Loki bends again. "Disrobe," he purrs, and lets his handful of Barton's hair relax, flinging him back like the chattel he should be. Barton's hands still have him by the hips, though, and though his head snaps back there's a moment before his hands move away of his own accord at the command. Barton brushes the knuckle of one finger across his wet lips before he settles back on his haunches to comply.
Loki takes a step back to watch his thrall obey, each clasp, each fastening falling apart between Barton's hands like small armies surrendering. Barton shrugs free of his armor, claws his garments over his head, off his legs like the shed skin of a snake, lets them fall into a pile and shoves the pile away to one side with both hands, settling back upon both knees now, thighs splayed, palms resting on his thighs...and his face, as ever, raised. Loki cannot, it would seem, humiliate this one.
But, oh, he can use him, and use him, and use him up if that is what it takes to satisfy his anger. Loki already knows it will.
"Put yourself face down into that bed," Loki demands. "I want those capable hands of yours above your head, gripping its edge, and should they leave it, I will cut them off."
Barton shows no distress at the threat, naturally. Loki has not yet given Barton permission to rise, and he watches with delight as his thrall crawls on hands and knees to the pallet.
Loki is standing at its side as Barton reaches it, and he plucks the scepter from the bedding. Barton crawls into the hollow it has left, puts out his hands and curls his fingers about the pallet's edge as instructed. No death grip this; Barton makes it look casual, as if he could fear nothing Loki might do to him in this position.
That particular display sets Loki off again, inflames him as much as the broad muscled back laid out for him, the only other thing of beauty in this squalid sealed room. He longs to ruin something at this moment. Barton's composure will be only the least little part of it, he promises himself.
He allows the point of the scepter to sink, to touch the center of Barton's back. He could impale Barton with it here and now, let him bleed out upon the pallet like a sacrifice, and his thrall would die with no other emotion but peace, no other regret but that he could not do more for his king before his death.
Loki pulls the scepter away and lowers it to the floor, leaving it there as he straightens. There are better ways for him to create ruin.
His fingers dig into the solid curves of Barton's shoulders as he climbs onto the pallet, knees astride Barton's bare hips, and he bends and sets his teeth to the flesh just below Barton's neck, biting until the skin splits beneath the bite, coppery mortal blood a poisoned tang upon his tongue. Barton's sound of pain is balm to Loki's affronted ears, and Loki can feel Barton's shoulders quiver as he forces his hands to stay wrapped about the cot's edges.
Forcing the air from his lungs in an ecstatic breath, Loki releases his toothhold on Barton's back, licking at the bloody mark, hearing Barton pant beneath him. "Marked, now," Loki murmurs. "Hardly the only scar you bear on this wretched encasing of yours, but you'll remember it 'til the end of your days, won't you." Given how quickly Loki is burning through this one, that may not be long away. Perhaps Barton will be lucky, and Loki will allow him to live, his leashed pet.
He can smell the fresh break of sweat on Barton's face; he licks at Barton's cheek to taste it, salt and pain, and the traces of the dead youth's blood; Barton is still silent but for his breathing. Loki grasps Barton's jaw again and angles Barton's face back to meet his own. "You are far too chary with your words. I expect an answer."
Barton's set lips unseal at Loki's demand. "Yes," he gasps, the word almost a sigh, almost enough to appease Loki with its resemblance to entreaty. "Yes, I'll remember it, sir."
"Of course you shall." Another lick of Barton's cheek, and then Loki releases his jaw. "You'll feel the pull of that scar every time you bow your neck--" his fingers tangle into Barton's hair once more, and he shoves Barton's face into the bedding-- "that neck of yours which, it seems--" Loki's voice becomes a growl-- "is too proud to bow even when I put you on your knees, my dear, defiant Agent Barton--"
Barton turns his head to one side, not fighting to escape Loki's grip, no, but only to give Loki an answer. "I didn't think...you brought me along for bowing," Barton says as he pants for breath. "You brought me to serve you."
How is it that on his lips such a declaration of obedience can be so damnably, unsufferably smug? Loki's arousal, far from dormant, surges even higher. "And how do you serve, Barton? How do you serve a king?" he hisses.
Even as he gasps an unmistakable smile alters Barton's mouth; if Barton were not panting so there would surely be a chuckle; as it is his answer still manages to be a lazy, seductive drawl: "Any way--" the smile reaches Barton's eyes-- "and every way he wants, sir."
Loki's vision sears red at the edges in an ecstasy of fury. "If I cannot make you humble, Agent Barton," he declares, clamping a hand down onto the back of Barton's neck, "then I shall at the least make you scream."
Loki spits copiously into his free palm; even his spittle is too good an unction to anoint a mortal, this mortal in particular. It should be venom that he uses to slicken Barton's flesh, but this act is meant to be for Loki's own pleasure as well, so he gifts his audacious thrall with a bounty he does not deserve, as he smears the palmful into Barton's cleft, cupping himself in his wet hand and fitting himself into that cleft until with one merciless thrust he splits Barton open, earning himself the bliss of that humid clutch about his aching length and a heartfelt cry from Barton's throat that falls sweetly on Loki's ears; yes, at last.
He withdraws, thrusts in again without quarter, wanting that cry again as much as he wants anything in this room, can want anything on all of Midgard, or in all the nine worlds. And Barton gives it to him again and again, not because Loki has demanded it but honestly, fairly won of flesh and conquest and Loki's unrelenting assault on his minion's mortal shell. He drives and drives, Barton's undisguised groans of torment a glorious accompaniment.
Loki forces himself to stop. No, still not enough, not nearly enough. He withdraws, lifts himself away just far enough to wrench at Barton's shoulder and demand, "Turn. Face me."
Barton struggles to turn himself about, hastily rearranging his arms so that his hands remain above his head, taking a fresh grip upon the cot's edge as he rolls to his back. Good little minion.
Loki meets Barton's pale-eyed gaze with his own again as he seizes Barton's ankle, pushes it up to force Barton's knee up to his armpit. Barton, dutiful, insufferable creature that he is, is already drawing the other knee up, his breath huffing out of him as Loki shoves his legs apart, seeking to breach him once more, and Barton's body arches like his bow as Loki connects and forces his way inside him yet again. Barton tips his head back and rewards Loki with a guttural cry.
Loki tells himself he couldn't care less about Barton's arousal, though he feels that length of flesh half-stiff against his own belly. He craves Barton's undoing, craves his distress hissed through parted lips, craves the watering of those watchful eyes as Loki sends the sharp pain of his thrusts into Barton's tender insides. Barton lies splayed out for him, better sacrifice than blood or death could ever be, and Loki runs his fingers over Barton's mouth, forcing it open, wanting to hear his thrall's cries come full-throated. In that moment Barton touches his tongue to Loki's fingertips, and why, why should that send a fresh spark of delight through Loki? Not merely delight, but the discovery that, why, yes, he does care that his thrall is aching for his own culmination, is needy enough to plead with his master in this way. Loki drives two fingers into Barton's mouth, deep enough to make him choke, wanting to know if that short loss of breath will take Barton further away from climax, or send him skyward. Nothing about Barton flags, not his rigid length nor his grip on the edge of the pallet nor the moans of want that punctuate Loki's every thrust.
Loki pulls his hand back. Digging his fingers into the flesh of Barton's chest like claws, as though he would still like to tear out that heart he prizes, Loki loses himself in Barton's body, thrusting in heedless rhythm, spiraling down into the whirlwind that takes him, surrendering to it just as he has surrendered so much, to Asgard, to the Chitauri, to these crawling, contemptible mortals of Midgard, without whom he will not be a king-- not merely that they must exist as his subjects, but that these creatures, these are the ones he must rely upon to make him king, it is not to be borne...
His climax claims him and Loki counts it a grace, a miracle, that he does not slice Barton's throat open with his nails in that moment. Instead as he erupts he seizes Barton's length in his own hand, throttling, wringing Barton's wretched pinnacle out of him in turn, watching as mingled torment and touch wins him the vertiginous loss of control in Barton's eyes at last, the whimper of submission, the tremble of Barton's hands as his fingers nearly splinter the pallet's edge when he too climaxes, painting the space between them with fluid hot as blood.
Not humbled. No. Still not that. But something that at the least looks very like. Loki can tell himself that and feel his rage quiet.
When it is done, when Loki comes to himself again and notes idly that he has allowed himself to rest his flesh against Barton's in his lassitude, he does not allow himself to be annoyed by it. He only pushes himself up, leaving the confines of Barton's body in one movement that leaves Barton shuddering yet again. That too provides a moment's sublime contentment, watching.
Barton still has his hands locked about the pallet's edge; Loki knows he will not release it until allowed, even if he starves there waiting for the order. He chooses charity. "Sit up," he says, pushing himself into a seated position on the pallet. Barton releases his grip and also rises, breath still coming in deep swells.
Loki allows himself to recline back onto his elbows. "A bit more of that talented mouth of yours, I think," he decides, with a throwaway gesture of his hand. "A king cannot have too much of worship."
Barton, of course, obeys instantly, shifting to his knees again, his head pushing into Loki's lap and his tongue beginning its requested duty. If Barton can pique his interest in taking him again, why, he may very well indulge himself once more. Perhaps he should restrain Barton with something other than his own willpower this time. Wire would do.
Loki allows his fingers to caress the ends of the sweat-bristled hair as Barton licks. No, that mouth should never be permitted to do anything else, should it. "When I told you," he wonders aloud, "to imagine a woman you wanted very much to please, you had a particular someone in mind, did you not?"
Barton pauses only long enough to say, "Yes."
Laughter bubbles from Loki, unexpected. "Why, how very fortunate of her, to be worthy of such affection." Oh, yes, he wants this from Barton as well. To take this from him. Whatever Barton can pay, in whatever coin, it will never be enough. "Tell me her name," he says, catching Barton's chin and lifting it. "And tell me everything about her."
And Barton does.