fucky feelings for cuttingremark

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(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.

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With the moment's reprieve, Loki also shucks off his own shirt. He is just about to push the skirt down as well, but Clint it back on him in a second. Soon his hands are occupied again with broad shoulders unshielded from his perfectly manicured nails. He wants to dig in, to claw out whatever piece of him is trapped inside the other. What else could call to him like this?

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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There is most definitely a hardness to rub on, and he breathes heavy at the sensation before, also unfairly, pulling his hips just far enough away to get out of that reach. Not to worry, he replaces the sensation with deft fingers again, sliding along his wetness, playing with his clit.

"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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The combined sensations of Clints fingers sliding over his clit and his lips and teeth on his nipple makes Loki moan loudly. His hands fumble with the belt more, finally getting the buckle loosed so he can yank the strip out with a quick tug.

"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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There is a moment where he wants to fight it. To pull himself away entirely and tell Loki, very petulantly, that he doesn't get to give orders anymore.

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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That gets him to cry out even louder. The pain, the pleasure, the fullness (not as full as he could be. Not as full as he desperately wants to be.)

"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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That one he doesn't have to follow. He doesn't feel compelled. But with the sounds Loki's making, he doesn't see any good reason to stop, save out of spite. And if the god is going to get his hands on him like that...

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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The button and zipper of Clint's pants are easier to undo than the belt was. Loki still can't manage to shove them down much from his angle, but he is able to get a hand under the waistband of his underwear. He growls and gives the hard length a rough tugs.

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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God, they're really taking the advice of a shitty wizard and fucking so they can quiet the wordless voice of a magic stone in their heads, huh. He hopes it works, because the idea of rutting against Loki's hand, getting inside Loki, to hurt be hurt have be had more and more and more, it's all sounding way too good. Better than it has any right to.

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.

[cuttingremark]

Just when he's almost found his voice again to tell Clint to 'get on with it already!' When he pulls his fingers out, Loki can do nothing but moan clenching around nothing but the sudden emptiness, his grip tightening on Clint's dick. It steals his voice again, leaving him with nothing but a snarl at the sass. Even that is snatched away by the sharp kiss and then leather between his teeth.

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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It's a relief and a craze that take him over at the same time. The buildup and the desires coursing through him means actually finally taking what his nerves sing out for is a balm, so good against the strain of resistance he'd put up. But there's also no time to slow or to think or to consider or even for any finesse. He wants and wants and takes and has and the influence inside him is a greedy son of a bitch.

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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Clint shifts him forcefully and Loki howls at the new depth he's able to reach. Heat builds and builds and he can't hold it back anymore. There is no denial here, so there's no reason to stop his hand as it moves from the archer's back to where the two of them are joined. The slick there lets him glide his fingers over his swollen clit in tight, rough circles. It's enough to put him right on the edge, enough that when he feels Clint spill inside him he tips over into his own orgasm, walls spasming as he moans through this own release. He feels like he's thrust from his body for a moment, floating in pure extasy as waves of pleasure crash over him.

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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Loki coming practically at the same time doesn't help matters, but it does mean they don't have to keep at it longer than necessary.

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."

[cuttingremark]

Loki wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after the belt is removed. The angry red lines from where the leather pressed against his skin are already fading a second later.

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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He stares at Loki, disheveled hair, disappearing marks, the long long lines of his sweat-drenched body, the mess disappearing between his legs. And then finally rolls onto his clawed up back to stare at the ceiling instead, for Loki to deal with later.

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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Loki wants to roll closer, always having craved contact and softness after sex. He doesn't, knowing it would just make Clint leave faster.

"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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"How much does it bother you?"

It feels like a fair question. Maybe even a safe one.

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"Not as much as it bothers you." Not at all, in fact. Clint is a handsome man, and the ferocity he exhibited was exactly what Loki needed in that moment.

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"So you might as well be smug about it. How long have you wanted--" He snaps his mouth shut. That one...is not a fair question. It's one he doesn't think either of them want or need an answer to.

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There's silence for a moment while Loki waits to see if Clint will actually finish his thought. It isn't hard to tell what he was going to say next, but Loki wants to see if he has the balls to actually say it.

He huffs and turns over on his side to face the human, making sure to keep the same distance between them.

"Keep hating me. It will make all of this easier."

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"No, it won't." Hating him makes this so much harder. It'd be better if he could just relax into this and enjoy it fully. A friend with benefits. A fuckbuddy. A bootycall.

He turns his head to look at Loki. Doesn't bridge the gap. Considers it. Considers them, drying and tired and sated and naked.

"You want me to fucking say it? I'm going to sound like an idiot, and you're going to scoff at me, and you know what I was going to say. How long have you wanted this?" 'This' is not exactly it. That's not what he means. "How long have you wanted me to fuck you?"

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Loki's eyebrows draw together.

"It's not that I actively wanted you to fuck me before we started feeling these...urges. But you are an attractive man, so it was more the sense that I would have enjoyed it should the opportunity present itself."

He frowns.

"Ideally under more consensual circumstances."

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That isn't actually the answer he was expecting. He breathes it in slow. Back out again. Nods. There's no reason for Loki to lie to him, now, like this. (Loki, who has his cum inside him and his blood under perfectly painted nails, who holds this connection with a certain tenderness that Clint rails against.)

"Sorry about the belt thing," is what then comes out of his mouth, not knowing what else to say. "But you seemed to like that well enough."

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Loki frowns, rolling back over onto his back. The sudden openness makes him itchy. Worse than the actual itching from the drying sweat and cum.

"Feels odd having you apologize to me. Not sure I like it."

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"Then I won't do it again." He frowns in return, still staring at Loki. Apologizing to the god is not in his nature, but he thought it might at least be not unwelcome.

When he sits up at last, the sheet under him sticks to him for a moment. "I'll go. And we'll see how long this all...lasts."

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Loki watches him, only now realizing the blood he'd have to try to get out of those sheets.

"Only time will tell, I suppose. I'll-" he groans, "I'll contact the wizard in the next few days, see if he's found anything else." He should probably do it before then, but he really really doesn't want to.

"Feel free to use the shower and such. There are towels and wash cloths in the hall closet."