Clint hears his name from lips that have never uttered it and stops. His hand stops, any kissing stopped, his own breath had stoppered up in his chest. How much this means to Loki. How important the act is. For some reason. Sex can be a deeply personal act, or it can be just another day. He doesn't know how to read this. This desire to be consumed, to be owned and conquered, overriding all sense?
Not that any of this encounter has had any sense.
It's all mixed and muddled up. This violence and possession and hunting and hurting and killing and softness, desire, want, need. There is blood in their mouths. The knife keeps cutting into soft skin when he moves too much. Loki is caught prey ready, begging for the slaughter, if only he is granted this one wish first, this fulfillment that's pulsing through him.
It isn't as though Clint is unaffected. He's hard as a rock and bewildered and out of his depth but also the winner, the successful hunter, the one in control, the warrior. He will tear the man under him all to pieces and eat the rest. He'll drain him of blood just because, here, he can. And enjoy every moment of it. And he cares.
He kisses Loki, a gentle thing this time. They aren't rutting on a barn floor anymore. Under his knees, softness. There's light streaming in through open bedroom windows. No one is here but the two of them, in this bed, in this room, that Clint knows all too well and that Loki may or may not recognize himself. He pries himself from Loki's arm around him to sit up, like he desperately needs the room for air, to breathe deep. Thankful his dreamscape hasn't conjured Laura up to watch them brutalize each other softly while these deranged men sully their bed.
He grips at Loki's hand, digs fingers into the openly bleeding wound of it, and works his newly slickened fingers back to that needing cock. The sheets are white. The sheets are red. They look better red. Loki looks better red.
"What you've got of me in you isn't enough? Is anything ever enough for you?" Is there any good god damn reason why he's jerking Loki off but denying anything for himself? He doesn't look that directly in its eye.
no subject
Not that any of this encounter has had any sense.
It's all mixed and muddled up. This violence and possession and hunting and hurting and killing and softness, desire, want, need. There is blood in their mouths. The knife keeps cutting into soft skin when he moves too much. Loki is caught prey ready, begging for the slaughter, if only he is granted this one wish first, this fulfillment that's pulsing through him.
It isn't as though Clint is unaffected. He's hard as a rock and bewildered and out of his depth but also the winner, the successful hunter, the one in control, the warrior. He will tear the man under him all to pieces and eat the rest. He'll drain him of blood just because, here, he can. And enjoy every moment of it. And he cares.
He kisses Loki, a gentle thing this time. They aren't rutting on a barn floor anymore. Under his knees, softness. There's light streaming in through open bedroom windows. No one is here but the two of them, in this bed, in this room, that Clint knows all too well and that Loki may or may not recognize himself. He pries himself from Loki's arm around him to sit up, like he desperately needs the room for air, to breathe deep. Thankful his dreamscape hasn't conjured Laura up to watch them brutalize each other softly while these deranged men sully their bed.
He grips at Loki's hand, digs fingers into the openly bleeding wound of it, and works his newly slickened fingers back to that needing cock. The sheets are white. The sheets are red. They look better red. Loki looks better red.
"What you've got of me in you isn't enough? Is anything ever enough for you?" Is there any good god damn reason why he's jerking Loki off but denying anything for himself? He doesn't look that directly in its eye.