This story is unapologetic kink with non-con mind control (but thats par for the course in a Hawkeye/Loki paring) Warnings apply. I reply to all signed reviews. Flames welcomed. (Ok, not "welcomed" but I'm not going to say "no flames")
If you are filtering for 'M' rated stories, you shouldn't be shocked when the stories are dirty or even kind of pervy. This one is totally the latter.
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Loki loved Clint's stomach. Smooth and toned; defined but not chiseled by vanity. He found no perfection in the oiled, bronzed, shorn specimens exhibiting the anatomy of every muscle. He preferred the curving lines and flat planes of his thrall's abdomen; firm but flexible muscles etched under his skin, a concave navel, each swell and furrow framed by the sharp delineation of ribs and hips. Natural grace distinguished each contour as he moved and breathed.
His strength and shape came from dedication to duty and discipline. Prowess developed purely for function. The resulting form, however, was superb. A body designed for use, not for show.
And Loki yearned to use it.
Hawkeye entered the former munitions locker and respectfully waited Loki's pleasure. The god lounged on an antique couch in the richly appointed bed chamber. Elegant and ornate furnishing filled the room: the couch, a table and chairs, and an elaborately carved bed. Steel shelving and hooks for weapons still lined the unadorned stone walls. The stone wept in places, dampening the dense dark green and gold carpeting.
"Lock the door."
"Yes, sir."
"Have the arrangements been made?"
"Yes, sir."
"All the equipment ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know why I called you here?"
"No, sir."
"It wasn't for a status report."
Barton blinked. "Sir?"
Loki watched as Clint absorbed the details of the room he had conjured: the furniture, the barred door, his absence of helm and armor, his languid posture, his courtly but loose clothing and predatory eyes. Individual elements coalesced into a realization.
"Are you planning to fuck me, sir?" he asked, quiet voice full of deference.
"Oh, yes. Is that a problem, Agent Barton?"
"No, sir." The respectful monotone didn't reveal the horror the archer felt, but Loki could taste it on his tongue.
His carotid pulse quickened visibly as the god approached and he shifted from formal parade rest to a more ordinary stance, but he otherwise stood obediently. He licked his lips but stayed silent; he only spoke to the god when directly addressed. Loki idly wondered if fear or perhaps unwanted excitement coursed through those veins before deciding he didn't care; he planned to take his pleasure irrespective.
He stroked the side of Clint's face, smirking in satisfaction, knowing he couldn't flinch or pull away. The caress continued down his neck, clavicle and chest before tracing slow circles on his stomach. As soon as he slid his other hand around his throat, he had his answer: fear. This confident soldier's training honed him physically and mentally and he had endured much in the line of duty but this was different. It was unfathomable and it terrified him.
Loki decided preferred it that way.
He released his grip and gestured. Barton began removing his weaponry with the angular, precise movements that characterized the Tesseract's effect on him. First, his bow and quiver came off. His heavy gloves and guards, thigh holster, several blades and two smaller revolvers quickly joined them on the table. His hands shook almost imperceptibly as he unbuckled his belt and pulled it free, gathering the collection of gear it held.
His jacket and shoulder holster followed. The jacket covered the small arsenal as he dropped it on the pile. His array of weapons was useless here.
Loki then took the task of striping him into his own hands. He watched with fascination as shirt came off, finally revealing the object of his fixation. Stepping in close, he opened Clint's pants. He nudged down the boxer briefs, grasped the zipper on either side and tucked the front of the pants inside against the skin, baring Hawkeye from throat to public bone.
Loki's eyes raked the length of his body, lingering on the planes of his abdomen, the curl of his navel and the alluring contours of the muscles. Several scars marred the skin. A particularly ragged line skittered just below his sternum, undoubtedly an old injury, field-dressed and never properly treated. He traced the pink slash and thrilled at the shudder as his damaged nerves awakened.
He was as Loki had hoped; responsive but unwilling. Toys who begged to be used just weren't as exciting. However, constraining a man with nothing more than will, outwardly docile but impotently raging inside; that was sweet. And a subservient with a body both so sensitive and physically pleasing; that was a true delight.
The first blow forced all the air from Clint's lungs; the archer should have been expecting it, a hard palm heel strike just below the solar plexus. It knocked him to one knee. Loki dragged him up bodily as his powerful shoulders were wracked with shallow gasps as he tried to regain control of his spasming diaphragm.
He waited until the breathing became less ragged and labored and resumed his grip on his throat. He lifted and squeezed sufficiently that his heels left the floor but allowing Clint to cling to his wrist to keep his airway less restricted. The merciless god smirked just enough that Clint was prepared but exposed. He saw apprehension in his eyes as he delivered three quick jabs to either side of and then directly on his navel.
Barton reflexively gripped his stomach, lurching forward, his groan cut off as he fell against the choke-hold. He managed to get his feet under himself while he struggled to breathe. Loki watched him suffer for a few moments and then disdainfully let go. He stayed on his boots if barely, holding his neck and his abdomen and coughing.
Clint's thoughts were plain—what the fuck?
Cruelty curled Loki's lips as he contemplated just "what the fuck" he'd get to do tonight. Subjugating this entire world would give him ample opportunity to indulge his various tastes, but this was his favorite and he couldn't imagine a much more satisfying antagonist than Clint Barton. The union of artificial compliance and insurgence within coupled with that impeccable stomach seemed unsurpassable. Heady excitement and arousal surged through him and his cock beginning to strain against his trousers.
He pinned his shoulder against the wall and struck more blows to the side, upper and lower abdomen, meeting less resistance with each subsequent one. Palms braced on the stone, Barton endured the belly beating. Jaw clenched, he strove to repress gasps and moans. With each impact, he compressed his lips to hold back the sounds; each impact threatened to force them out more than the last. Loki enjoyed unchecked articulations of pain, but found even more gratification in eroding his restraint.
He concluded he had struck much of the strength from his thrall's body when he could no longer contain them. Once more, he raised him by his throat. Again, Clint helplessly clung to his wrist to keep from suffocating. Loki glanced at his completely unprotected target, raised his gaze to meet the archer's eyes and drove directly into the middle of the stomach. He left his fist buried in the flesh, knuckles rocking back and forth to burrow even deeper into his belly.
Clint moaned and hung his head momentarily, before returning the god's stare. Something that almost looked like defiance flared briefly in his spellbound eyes. He was as much fun Loki hoped. The vehemence faded to submission once more.
The invading fist prevented any recoil. His legs jerked briefly but soon hung limp as his spine pressed flat against the cold damp wall. He gritted his teeth and drew air slowly as if breathing through pain that would soon be over.
Not likely.
The abdominal aorta thudded desperately against Loki's fist. He felt desperation in the racing heartbeat as adrenaline saturated Hawkeye's system, even though his body was incapable of fight or flight. Weakened muscles involuntarily tried to repel the attack until failing, allowing further penetration into his stomach. He imagined the agent's organs repositioning in response to this crushing onslaught, adapting to this sudden new presence, soft guts slipping aside. Humans adjusted so quickly. He drew back and Barton exhaled hard and sagged forward as if seeking to regain equilibrium.
Loki pushed him back to the wall, his skull thumping dully on the stone. He brought his knee up and languidly pressed it into the place his knuckles had been, slowly traveling downward, pressing and releasing and reordering and pressing again. Loki wondered if Clint knew how much more damned desirable he was making himself as he shifted his hips evasively and muffled gasps with each incursion. Probably not.
Exploiting his superior height, he propped against the stone and spoke conspiratorially in the archer's ear. "Don't struggle so, Agent Barton. The sooner you become accustomed, the less vexatious it will become. Accept this as your natural place and perhaps you might learn to be grateful for my attentions." He blithely ran his fingers over the front of Clint's pants, feeling his unresponsive cock.
"Before this night is done, you will ache for my touch," Loki promised, squeezing lightly. Again, thoughts leaked into those empty eyes—fat chance. Loki's malevolent grin promised to prove him wrong.
TBC
This is my first foray into fetish/kink. Offended? Repelled? Titilated? Use the review button. Happy to hear from the critics.
Yeah, I'm a perv and a review slut.