Security Camera
This is what happens when you drink a lot of caffeine before bed after abstaining from the stuff for a month and you watch both P!nk's video for "Trouble" and The Hurt Locker (specifically punching-contest scene) as you stare at the ceiling at 3 in the morning; the twisted plot bunnies come calling.
This story does not occur in the same universe as the Bound series.
PS This story probably merits some warnings. Read at your own risk. (Nothing TOO bad. I'll actually write warnings for something I think might traumatize somebody.) Oh, and it's unbetaed.
She paused the video and reversed back to the beginning of the confrontation again. Her anger at the image on the screen was surpassed only by her anger at the feelings that rose within her. Anyone watching would mistake the flush that crept up her chest, the dilation of her pupils and rapid, shallow breathing as rage, rage at the scene of her partner being brutalized. To her chagrin, very different emotions roiled as she watched. She uncrossed and crossed her legs again, squeezing her thighs as she tapped the play icon again.
Housed in a lower level of Stark Tower, there was round chamber like a large kiln. The thick concrete walls contained the heat when the room became a thousand degree kelvin oven to strengthen the alloy components of the Iron Man suit. This room had become a make-shift containment unit, a single camera positioned by SHIELD above the solid, sealed door. The lens focused squarely on the chamber's only occupant as he sat chained to a solid iron chair bolted firmly to the floor.
She watched as the door opened in view of the camera and heard the heavy thunk as door relocked itself. He was reckless and stupid. But she knew that. Well, not stupid; he made short work of the secure lock and managed to silence Jarvis as the computer advised against his actions. However, what he planned to do was definitely stupid.
Even as he stood with his back to the camera, she could see Clint's intense glare in the set of his shoulders. She didn't need to see his features to know cold enmity warred with smug satisfaction at the god's imprisonment and defeat.
"Agent Barton, I've been expecting you," Loki smiled like a man at ease welcoming an anticipated guest to his home.
"Not so tough without your scepter," her partner drawled. He circled the chair, kicking one of the legs with his boot. Loki looked languidly bored at the impact. "Are you, huh?" he demanded with more fervor. As he progressed, she could see the complacency in his easy swagger, chest forward and powerful arms loose at his sides. He completed his rotation twice and then crouched, clutching a hank of Loki's hair to force him to meet his gaze. "How does it feel to be trapped and chained, to be in someone's power? To have no control?" His voice was low and dangerous. "What are they going to do to you when you go back tomorrow? What do they do to upstart despots there? I've got a few suggestions, if they are interested." He released his grip on the dark hair, disgustedly.
Loki's eyes dropped to the floor where the agent rested on one knee. He smirked, "I told you, in the end, you always kneel."
The snapping of the chains and lunge occurred simultaneously. Loki rushed forward, driving his shoulder under Clint's ribs as his back slammed against the cinder blocks of the chamber with a huff of surprise. Loki's hand snaked up and clamped under Clint's jaw, lifting the archer up to match his own considerable height. The first time she'd watched the replay she'd had to remind herself that she wasn't watching a live feed and couldn't affect the outcome in anyway.
A second blow landed in the middle of Clint's unprepared abdomen, pinning him firmly to the wall. The fist remained buried in his flesh, his plain SHIELD fatigues offering no protection. His groan of humiliation and pain escaped as a strangled gasp. He clawed at the grip on his throat, but even his strong archer's hands were no match for the Asgardian's strength. Loki's hold slackened only enough to tilt Clint's chin up and force their eyes to meet, just as Clint had done to him.
"What else have you to say to me?" Loki intoned. "Have you vented your outrage or have you more to say? I, the king who sought to set you free. I, the one who sought to bring order to the chaos of your mind. To rule you, to bring you peace. You are not worthy to question me."
Clint's breath came in shallow gasps through his nostrils as he defiantly stared back, a mixture of fury and necessity as he struggled against the unrelenting pressure at his trachea and stomach. Unable to speak, he leveled several futile kicks at the Loki, but the immobilizing force defeated him. He pressed his lips into a thin line, glowering, realizing he was once again subject to the god's whim.
Klaxons blared distantly through the thick chamber door and on the video, signaling the impeding arrival of a heavily armed response team, but for the moment, they were alone. The camera's focus showed both men in profile, malevolent green eyes penetrating blue. She watched Clint's face, anticipating the next event; crimson with equal parts shame and excitement. She leaned closer to the monitor in fascination, her lip caught against her teeth, intensely aware of her partner's body on the screen.
Abruptly, Loki pressed his mouth to Clint's. He attempted to turn away from this fresh assault, but Loki's hand tightened and jerked him threateningly. The archer squeezed his eyes shut in pain as he opened to the kiss, lips passive. He braced his hands around the arm holding his throat to support his weight. Loki deepened the kiss, drawing Clint's lower lip between his teeth before invading his mouth with his tongue.
He withdrew the crushing weight on Clint's stomach and retreated for a moment as he sucked in breath. Loki traced a line from the corner of Clint's watering eye to his mouth, pressing menacingly close. "A piece of you will always belong to me," he whispered against the agent's cheek. "No matter what, I owned you, Clint Barton. Remember that." He resumed the possessive kiss even as Clint struggled to fill his lungs.
The heavy door crashed open as Thor burst in to seize Loki and pull him forcibly away.
Clint slid heavily to the floor, coughing. Thor shoved his adopted brother back into chair and held him fast while SHIELD agents secured him with stronger manacles. Loki leered over the broad shoulder and wiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Clint unequivocally waved away the agent who offered him a hand up. He braced himself against the wall as he stiffly left the chamber.
He'd sustained far worse physical damage and would again. She knew, had he been really injured, really mistreated, she wouldn't be awash in this conflicted tug of anger and arousal. His daring had always excited her, seeing him upbraid Loki in defiance of regs and common sense induced both emotions. And, she now knew, his subjugation had enflamed her with those same feelings.
Clint emerged from a side room after being dressed down by Thor, Stark and Hill simultaneously. She thought the brash billionaire's participation rather rich, but it was his building and his security system Clint had thwarted. She recognized angry pride and obstinance in her partner's rigid spine and tensely-coiled stride as he passed her and moved toward the elevator. She left the observation room and followed him.
At a dark turn in the corridor, he rounded to face her. "Here to yell at me, too?" he demanded.
In answer, she put a tentative hand on his cheek in apology for his ordeal and her secret pleasure in it. She wanted to tell him she was glad he was alive; that, yes, he had been a fucking idiot; that, contrary to the concern she saw in his eyes, she wanted him as much as ever. When he didn't retreat or push her away, she invaded his space and let him crush her against his chest. He held her tight for a lingering moment before lowering his head as if waiting for her to recoil. She rose up to close the space between them and kissed him yieldingly.
She imagined his lips still swollen from Loki's mouth. She swiped at them with her tongue as if she could both take away the indignity and to absorb the energy that had turned her on so much. Her hands explored his body, fingertips lingering on the rapidly purpling imprints on his neck and palms soothing the ache he must feel in his midsection.
A soft ping announced the arrival of the lift. They stumbled into it as the doors swished open. He blindly punched a button for an upper floor and hit the 'stop' button soon after the elevator had risen a few stories as she twined herself about him. The elevator light dimmed as a distant bell rang.
"We probably don't have long before they get this thing moving again," she said, "Mind if we make it quick?"
He shook his head rapidly as he shucked his shirt and loosened his belt before returning to their urgent embrace. He helped her shed her clothes, finished removing his own and pulled her to the new flooring of Stark's elevator. She found herself sitting between his legs, his chest and erection flush against her back. He sucked at the sensitive place where her neck and shoulder met, one hand covering her breast, the other slipping down to feel her arousal.
His breath hitched at how wet she was. She smiled secretly, knowing how long she'd been soaking through her panties. She covered the hand at her chest with hers and encouraged him apply more pressure, and turned her head to continue kissing him. She tensed as he stroked urgently against her center.
"Don't have a lot of time here, Barton," she said with impatience. She'd take her time with him later.
"I always thought a quickie on the floor was a vastly underrated fuck," he said.
He lay her back, his hand behind her head to protect her from the hard floor. He guided himself into her with a groan of relief. She sighed at the long-wished for fulfillment.
She hooked her heels around him, holding him close. The air in the small room grew close and sultry as she ground out her passion against him and he moved relentlessly inside her.
"God," he gasped, "I'm going to be too sore to do this tomorrow."
"I'll take care of you tomorrow," she promised, resting her hands on his hips, feeling more than a little guilt about the pain probably radiating from his core.
He slowed and his eyes lost focus as he hovered above her. "I don't know why he didn't kill me..." he said quietly, "I think it was just to fuck with me, to let me live with that 'I owned you' shit in my head."
She kissed him to silence this train of thought. "He can't have you, any of you. Ever. You are mine," she affirmed.
"Yours," he echoed, "all yours."
"Then prove it," she goaded, trying to bring him back to the present. "Fuck me like you mean it. Make me come." As far as their usually level of dirty talk, it wasn't much, but in the short-hand of the moment, it worked just fine.
Shaking off his consternation, he nuzzled her neck and nipped at the pale flesh there, marking her. A shudder ran through her. She flexed her fingers on his hips and he sank back into her. They resumed, crashing together as desperately as before. She raked her nails across his shoulders, not quite drawing blood. He arched into it with a feral sound. He obliged the gesture's unspoken meaning, and increased intensity. She clung to him, each gasping their release against the other. He collapsed across her chest, planting lazy kisses on her throat and clavicles. She idly caressed his back as the tension ebbed from him.
She cleared a damp lock of hair from her face as she glanced up to see the impersonal red light of security camera regarding them.