clint "idk the archer or something" barton (
brandingproblem) wrote2022-06-13 10:40 am
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fucky feelings for cuttingremark
(from here)
He keeps his word. He doesn't tell anyone where Loki's hiding out, powerless. Even though he should. At the very least, Thor deserves to know, and when he inevitably finds out, Clint is going to accept whatever anger the thunder god levels at him.
Steve's gone, Tony's dead, Nat's dead, Bruce is...happy and content with his life and doesn't deserve that dropped on him frankly. So. That's all the OG crew accounted for. The new crew would obviously have heard about Loki, but that's not the same as actually being present fighting him or his forces. That Scott guy doesn't count, either. Like, would they do something? Maybe not if he hasn't actually done anything and doesn't pose a threat.
NYPD might have a few choice words, but. Clint tries very hard not to get noticed by the local LEOs if he can help it. Loki isn't really their jurisdiction, and SHIELD is...more or less out of commission even though it still works in the shadows, where Fury and Hill are. Wherever they are.
Which doesn't mean Loki gets of scot free. If he is up to something, then it's up to Clint to suss it out. Clint's mess, as ever. If Loki really is as powerless as it seems, there are still plenty of other ways he could fuck around and cause trouble. So. His responsibility.
It's definitely not whatever lingering connection of magic that binds their minds, not telepathy, not even really empathy, but still. A connection. It might have been severed long ago, but it's as Loki implied: you don't come out of that, something that strong and strange and otherworldly, and not have there be something that remains behind. Therapy has been all well and good. He isn't angry about it, not really, and he doesn't get nightmares the way he used to, after. But also, he's not sure it prepared him for Loki being in his life again. Not just a passing glance, either.
It jumbles everything up. The same type of traitorous thought that had him pondering Loki's sleeping habits and the absurd thought of touching crops up whenever he's near. Something damn near affectionate, something starved. Something that's in Loki, too, and it makes him feel sick. Makes him feel wanting. Which makes him feel sicker.
His eyes might be clear, but his mind feels clouded. Not a great way to show up at the apartment, but he can't just let this pass by without checking in on Loki. That's most of the reason he takes these trips back to NYC in the first place. Occasionally check in on Avengers-y things, see how the cleanup of the compound is up north, catch up with a few people he actually knows. But. It's about Loki.
It's always been fucking about Loki, huh.
He raps on the door, drinks nestled in a holder. Hot tea for Loki, a spiced blend, cloves, cinnamon. Makes him think of wintertime. Makes him think of the spicy and complicated (former?) god. Coffee for himself. Peace offering.
He keeps his word. He doesn't tell anyone where Loki's hiding out, powerless. Even though he should. At the very least, Thor deserves to know, and when he inevitably finds out, Clint is going to accept whatever anger the thunder god levels at him.
Steve's gone, Tony's dead, Nat's dead, Bruce is...happy and content with his life and doesn't deserve that dropped on him frankly. So. That's all the OG crew accounted for. The new crew would obviously have heard about Loki, but that's not the same as actually being present fighting him or his forces. That Scott guy doesn't count, either. Like, would they do something? Maybe not if he hasn't actually done anything and doesn't pose a threat.
NYPD might have a few choice words, but. Clint tries very hard not to get noticed by the local LEOs if he can help it. Loki isn't really their jurisdiction, and SHIELD is...more or less out of commission even though it still works in the shadows, where Fury and Hill are. Wherever they are.
Which doesn't mean Loki gets of scot free. If he is up to something, then it's up to Clint to suss it out. Clint's mess, as ever. If Loki really is as powerless as it seems, there are still plenty of other ways he could fuck around and cause trouble. So. His responsibility.
It's definitely not whatever lingering connection of magic that binds their minds, not telepathy, not even really empathy, but still. A connection. It might have been severed long ago, but it's as Loki implied: you don't come out of that, something that strong and strange and otherworldly, and not have there be something that remains behind. Therapy has been all well and good. He isn't angry about it, not really, and he doesn't get nightmares the way he used to, after. But also, he's not sure it prepared him for Loki being in his life again. Not just a passing glance, either.
It jumbles everything up. The same type of traitorous thought that had him pondering Loki's sleeping habits and the absurd thought of touching crops up whenever he's near. Something damn near affectionate, something starved. Something that's in Loki, too, and it makes him feel sick. Makes him feel wanting. Which makes him feel sicker.
His eyes might be clear, but his mind feels clouded. Not a great way to show up at the apartment, but he can't just let this pass by without checking in on Loki. That's most of the reason he takes these trips back to NYC in the first place. Occasionally check in on Avengers-y things, see how the cleanup of the compound is up north, catch up with a few people he actually knows. But. It's about Loki.
It's always been fucking about Loki, huh.
He raps on the door, drinks nestled in a holder. Hot tea for Loki, a spiced blend, cloves, cinnamon. Makes him think of wintertime. Makes him think of the spicy and complicated (former?) god. Coffee for himself. Peace offering.
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"The floor is yours."
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"Pretty sure the floor's not gonna cut it this time." Which is not what she meant and yet.
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"I whole heartedly agree," he says, bending down to nibble lightly on his ear. "Lead the way?"
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The resolve, or really the fight in him, finally gives way. That there's still just enough of himself present to be angry at himself means, yeah, okay, those little incidents through yesterday really did help in small measures. Is it better if they are both somewhat more conscious and aware of all they're doing rather than submerging under the pull of this otherworldly gemstone? (Or, better question, will even this fade away when they give in entirely?)
He wants Loki's hands all over him, to pick him apart, to sink into his chest and take hold of his very heart.
Well. They can take hold of something else soon enough if they really want to. He presses back against Loki, adding a bit of friction, and takes one of those roving hands, brings fingers to his lips, takes a few into his mouth to suck on. Ignores an impulse to bite.
...Right, he was supposed to lead the way. Bit distracted from that.
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They aren't moving, and he isn't doing much to help that as he moves his lips down Clints neck, kissing and nipping and sucking. He's gripped with the urge to mark, to claim. To let everyone know that this is his. His to devour, his to see.
There's the sudden urge to slam Clint against the wall, to ravish him right here in the entrance hall. Loki suddenly detaches and takes a step back, pupils blown wide.
"Bedroom. Or couch, fuck, I don't care."
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Which, maybe he hasn't quite reached, since he actually pulls away. Couch is tempting. It's closer.
But a bed will give them more space. And somehow, it seems fitting. A month ago when he'd laid out on that bed fighting what he thought was a sickness with that sense-memory of Loki's touch that had never touched him in the ways lying there wanted him to be touched. It's more intimate that way, for better or for worse.
Clint takes a step closer, strips off his shirt as he goes, tossing to the floor, baring chest and tattoo sleeve and all. And he closes the distance, pushing into Loki, pressing him back. He remembers where the bedroom is, after all. Kisses, nips at him. Slides hands up under that skirt to grab handfuls of ass none too gently.
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It's a miracle neither of them trip on the way to the bedroom. Loki doesn't even realize they're there until his legs hit the edge of the bed.
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His mouth travels down, rough kisses and little bites over his jaw and neck, following down the dip of the V of his top. And one of his hands occupies itself running up one of Loki's thighs, over stockings and over skin, and then along the hem of panties, and further still until he runs his thumb over a particular bit of soft, wet, warm patch of fabric and starts to rub.
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"There!" Loki's hips grind up into his hand, doing everything he can to increase the pressure and friction. It's been a while since he sought pleasure in this form, the sensations similar, yet so different.
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As ever, it's a confused jumble of feelings and sensations, and so much easier to focus on someone else's pleasure. The way Loki keens under him. He indulges for a short time before the impatience, the insistence, rumbles a growl out of him, and he pulls away long enough to once more shuck his shirt. There's no plan to retrieve it this time. His hands push down on Loki's hips, fingers worked under fabric, pulling down roughly. Nails catch on stockings without care, a pull here, a run there, until he flings the panties off Loki's legs entirely and to somewhere on the floor.
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He lets out a groan, hips moving to allow the green lace and silk panties to slide down his legs. He bucks up again, rubbing his wet heat on the hardness in his pants.
"Not fair," he says, hands moving to fiddle with the belt there. Fuck, the things he could do with that belt. Restraint, paint, so many promises in one thin piece of leather.
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"No such thing as fair." Between nails on his shoulders, shirtless Loki, Loki scrambling for Clint's belt, there's so much going on that plays with the imagination, and he can't just let this go on without getting his mouth back on there somewhere. At least ducking in to bite at Loki's chest keeps him from uttering I want you to hurt me. It's there on the tip of his tongue, but it can't get out if said tip of tongue is too busy lapping at a nipple, right?
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"Harder." It's unclear if he means the teeth on his very stiff bud, or the fingers working his folds. Possibly both. Sure, he's been known to enjoy a bit of pain with pleasure before, but he's never needed it. Not like this.
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And then just as quickly, he bites, hard, while his fingers dip into Loki, thumb pressing rough circles at the low nub. He does not have to follow it like an order, but the idea seems to soothe something in his animal brain, in the--whatever magic bullshit is inside of him. Good little soldier, doing as he's told. Beautiful weapon, given purpose.
So very hard to say no when it feels so good to give in.
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"Yes- fuck - don't stop. P-please don't stop." Unlike before, Loki sounds more like he's pleading than giving an order. He can't stop himself from thrusting his hips up to take Clints fingers even deeper. He can't thrust all the way to meet his hips, but his hands are in a rather advantageous spot. He grinds his palm down, cupping and squeezing the hard dick through his pants.
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Clint leaves another sharp bite to his chest. "Fuck," he growls at the touch, needed, needing. Rolling his hips into that giving hand.
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Giving in rather than letting everything bottle up is helping with him truly not loose control, but as they sink deeper and deeper into the animalistic sensations and urges. He wants to posess but also be posessed. To hurt and be hurt. To drive the other mad with pleasure and pain and everything in between and be driven mad in turn.
As if he needs more madness in his head.
Still, in this moment, the only thing he can think of is Clint's cock inside him. The fingers aren't enough, but when he tries to beg for more all that comes out is incoherent moans as he strokes in time with thrusting fingers.
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Loki has since stopped forming actual words, and that's the point where Clint slides his fingers out. Partly it's to leave Loki breathlessly wanting. Partly it's so he has his hands free, shimmying out of the rest of his clothes before taking up his belt and looming over the god. The urge to bind his hands up is great. The desire for him to sink his nails in like claws is greater.
"Cat got your tongue?" He could be petty about it. Make Loki beg. But neither of them have too much in the way of patience left. Another time, then. (Is there going to be another time? Is it wrong that he hopes there is?) He kisses Loki, deep, rough, needing, and the moment he pulls away again, the belt replaces his mouth as a makeshift gag, pulled firm around Loki's head. It'll keep him from offering up any smart remarks. Or orders. At least until he decides to take it off himself.
Not that Clint's willing to give him that much time to think. Leather in place, he wastes no more time in gripping Loki's hips like a vise, sinking his cock deep inside with no further preamble, no gentleness. "Fuck," he grits out, dipping his head to muffle the rest of the sounds he might make against Loki's shoulder, biting an unkind mark as he moves his hips.
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He bites down on the belt, giving a performative struggle against it. Of course it would be very easy to reach up and undo the bindings, but there's something about the tight pressure around his head, the weight of the leather on his tongue. It grounds him in the moment, makes everything feel more visceral and real, but also makes his head go fuzzy with need. Not just carnal need, but the need for Clint to take control, to take him and make him whatever the other wants.
The haze only increases as the archer thrusts into him. Loki doesn't even know when his hands moved away from the other's dick, but he finds himself digging deep crescent moon shaped marks into Clint's shoulders as the air is punched from his lungs with a loud moan. It's muffled somewhat by the gag, but still loud enough that if there were any neighbors in the adjacent apartments they would know exactly what the two were getting up to.
Skin gives under his finely manicured talons as Clint bites down. He can feel the blood beneath his fingertips, core clenching around each thrust trying to pull him deeper faster harder. Each motion punches more muffled whines and moans out of the god. He curses and begs, not that any of it is intelligible around the gag.
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But he knows that Loki's just the same, from every wailingly loud moan to the way he clenches around Clint's length every time. They both need this, to satisfy the deep urges inside of them clawing to the surface.
And speaking of clawing, he can feel Loki's nails dig in, when the gripping and scratching turns to bleeding, the sharp tick of pain. That, too, feels good, soothes something inside him. Being hurt without having to ask or beg for it. Part of him doesn't want to enjoy this. Part of him desperately wants this to hurt, to bring a slew of negative connotations, so he'll hate this, so it's a chore. That part is probably going to be deeply disappointed in the way it feeds a violent desire, the same way that he wants to bite into Loki and tear him to shreds, a hate that is also a longing that is also a way to express a need they can't define. The pain swirls in, mixes with the pleasure, becomes part of the same.
He lifts Loki's hips, an adjustment of angle, to hit deeper harder faster, fingers digging hard into skin. Like he wants to meld with the god. Like if they could just dig into one another just right, they'll connect, they'll become one, they'll share in everything, and it will all be perfect. As though something could be more perfect than hot skin whining moaning groaning sweat and blood and fingers gripping mouth biting licking kissing pressing to pulse point feeling life feeling passion sex and more than sex.
When he comes, seated as far inside Loki as physically possible, trembling, pulsing, every fiber of his being pulled taut, it takes him by surprise.
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Loki isn't sure how long it takes him to come back to himself. Not long, he would think, as the two of them are still connected. He's breathing heavy, trying to collect his thoughts as what to do now.
"Fuck."
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Which is only a thought that starts lazily floating to the surface when Clint can start feeling his body again. The thing inside of him sated for the moment, merely passive background noise. Fed to filling. As filled as Loki is.
His skin buzzes with the rush of chemicals, exhausted pleasure, deep satisfaction, and he feels near drunk when he laughs at the muffled apparent curse Loki tries to spit out. It's not funny. None of this is funny. But it is, and it feels good, and when he's got just enough control to slide slick and easy out of Loki, the good feeling clashes harshly with that sick feeling of wrong he's been grappling with when not in the middle of the animal rutting.
He tries to summon up Laura's face, as though superimposing the image over Loki might help. It doesn't. His back stings, distantly, through the happy hormones, and it's not good enough but it's a start. His hands feel like they're glued to Loki's hips where they are, and it's an effort to move them away. At least so he can undo his belt from a very offending mouth. There is one very brief but very strong moment when he wants to kiss. And then shoves it very far away from himself.
Doesn't shove himself very far away, unfortunately, but he does drop on his side beside Loki rather than on top of him. He wants to be on his back, but. Ow. But blood on his sheets is just petty enough he might reconsider--
"Really don't wanna tell Strange."
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The noise in his head, that unending pull dragging him to Clint, driving him to tear and be torn in turn, seems to be quiet now. So he can't blame that for the relief he feels when the archer doesn't immediately get up and leave as soon as he's pulled out.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "He'll be utterly insufferable."
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There's so much about this that he hates. That the pain also manages to feel good is only one of the items. The question, asking for reassurance that Loki has the whole lack of protection thing covered, wants to claw up his throat, but it dies there. He should go. He should leave. His legs feel like jelly.
"So will you," he utters. Is that true? No idea. But why wouldn't it be?
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"Do I really seem like I have much reason to be smug at the moment? I had no more control over what just happened than you."
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