Chapter 2: Light the candles

"You don't do anything with them, they're just… candles."

They were back in the Jag, Loki at the wheel and Clint, having been allowed on the leather this time around, sitting beside him. The bow had been wrapped up reverently in tissue paper and sent home ahead on the Teleporter Express, so with neither body nor deadly weapon in the trunk, the stars blurred away behind them as they sped into the city.

Cars and scenery alike smeared past in an angry cacophony of beeping and swerving. But Loki was all cool repose, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking casually through the gears. Clint would have been screaming road signs and traffic lights at him, except he was too busy busting a nerve trying to explain how birthdays worked.

"It's just… symbolic or something. You get one for every year you're turning, and they- I dunno, they look pretty when you stick 'em in the cake."

"They're in the cake?" Loki arched an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose.

"No, not- ew! They're not baked into the cake," he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"Look, you have a cake-" He gestured round and chocolatey. "-and then you get your candles, and you stick them–" He stabbed imaginary, stripy candles into the air. "- on top ofthe cake. Comprende?"

Loki shifted down, tapped the brakes and dragged the wheel left, cutting off a semi-trailer to beat the lights and fucking drift into an exit off the main road. The truck's deafening horn followed them accusingly down the street. Loki had to repeat his question.

"To what end?"

"To what…?" Clint flailed, because how do you explain birthday candles? "To… the end… that… you can blow them out when you make a wish, and then everyone can ask what you wished for, but you can't say 'cos otherwise it won't come true, and thus joy is brought to children."

Loki considered.

"So, it's a spell."

With a thud, Clint bashed his head against the dashboard.

"Forget it," he groaned. "Forget I said anything. Just. Let's go kill a goat or rob a village or whatever you Vikings do."

But Loki apparently could not take a hint. For the entire trip back, he drilled Clint endlessly for details. What kind of candle? How big? Does the wish come before or after blowing out the candles? What kind of cake? Does the cake have anything to do with the wishing? Do you eat the cake?

"Of course, you eat the cake."

Clint stared incredulously as Loki wedged them into an impossibly tight space along the kerb. Hopping out, he jumped and slid on his ass over the gleaming hood to land on the sidewalk.

"What else would you do with it?"

Leaving the car on the side of the tree-line street, they made their way to a red brick apartment building like every other red brick apartment building in Brooklyn. A midnight jogger nearly tripped staring at the blatant thief-bait just sitting there, screaming money, in a line of soccer mom SUVs and high-schooler second hand sedans.

"You apparently use candles for neither heat nor light, why should the cake not be symbolic too?"

From the bottom of the steps, Loki simply waved the door open without any mention of keys. Clint sprinted past, bounding up three at a time to catch it before it swung shut again.

"The cake is not symbolic," he corrected firmly, glaring Loki through the door as he held it open. "The cake is for eating."

Loki threw a patronising glance over his shoulder. "If you insist, pet."

Their apartment was on the fifth and highest floor, with windows facing the alley. Loki again forewent keys in favour of just turning the knob. The lock clicked open with a flare of light through the keyhole and gold threads fizzled out through the wood, disarming whatever magical home security Loki had installed. He refused to give details, though, and Clint almost wished they'd have a break in just to see what it did. He wouldn't risk the pizza guy, but perhaps he could wedge the front door open and lure a Jehovah's Witness upstairs.

Following Loki over the threshold, Clint turned on the lights (with the switch, like a normal human being) and kicked off his shoes, lining them up neatly against the wall. Then, two steps into the room, he sank smoothly to his knees at his master's feet.

The floorboards were cold and hard through his jeans, but that had nothing to do with the shiver that went up his spine. Without waiting to be told, he bent over to unlace Loki's shoes with quick, precise fingers. Then he pulled them off one by one, shuffling over on his knees to place them on the rack.

When he turned back around, Loki proffered his right hand in a lazy, expectant gesture. Clint crawled forward, brushed his lips over the knuckles, then flicked his tongue out to lick the centre of his palm. Loki hummed, eyes narrowing in that cat-like expression of contentment. Clint turned his wrist to find the silver cufflink and carefully unscrewed it before depositing it in Loki's open palm. As he repeated the same procedure for Loki's left hand, he wondered aloud –

"Do you even have cakes in space?"

"Baking isn't unique to Midgard, pet. There are only so many ways to heat food."

Clint hid a snicker. His nibs might have been playing it cool, but Clint knew better. That little cupcake store down the street with the Alice in Wonderland themed icing could probably thrive off Loki's patronage alone. And while Clint religiously avoided fair grounds, Loki had more than once appeared in his living room plucking delicately at billowing pink clouds of cotton candy. If the guy hadn't been a god, he'd be a dental drill's wet dream.

"But I mean cake," he pressed, moving onto the belt and cranking the buckle open. "Full on gooey chocolate mud cake. The kind that'll give you a heart attack if you eat it too quick. Don't tell me you got those in the land of mead and pheasant."

"Assassination by pastry," Loki considered as he neatly rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. "You really are an inspiration, pet. I should write this down."

Clint slid the belt free, folded it once, then offered it up to Loki with both hands. The strap on this one was thin and soft; it would sting, but the marks would fade by morning. The buckle, though, would bruise fantastically. He looked up from under his lashes with big, puppy dog eyes, smiling suggestively, and wriggled coquettishly on his knees.

"Tempting," Loki smirked, commending his pet's initiative with a pat to the cheek. "But I have a better idea."

The belt and cufflinks vanished. Clint pouted, though the look in Loki's eyes and the mischievous curve to his lips was starting to make up for the disappointment. Ideas were good. Clint usually came out of Loki's ideas covered in welts and gasping for breath, or biting his tongue off trying to keep quiet in public places with very thin walls. He straightened up, hands coming up to grip Loki's trousers, eyes bright with anticipation.

Loki smiled indulgently. With a lazy ease, he stroked Clint's hair and rubbed his ears, palmed the side of his face, ran fingertips up his neck to the tip of his chin… Clint kept waiting for an order, an iron grip around his neck or pulling his hair – but none came. Loki touched for the sake of touching, careful like his pet might break if he pressed too hard, and it was taking Clint apart faster than a belting could ever have done.

It should have been frightening, how quickly the world seemed to disappear around them, how easily Loki and his teasing, too soft caresses became the centre of his universe. Loki was being so good to him – had been, for so long – and Clint was seized by the need to prove that he deserved his lavish attentions, to show his master he was grateful, to be good, to give.

Except Loki didn't seem to want anything. And it was driving him insane.

For long minutes, Loki played with him like a puppy until Clint was squirming with need. He let out a stream of tiny little mewling noises with every touch and tried to catch Loki's fingers in his mouth. He'd forgotten he could speak, could stand, could do anything with his hands other than clutch desperately at Loki's trousers.

When he couldn't take it any longer, Clint forced the issue. He pressed forward until his knees were hugging Loki's feet and snuggled his face into Loki's stomach. Long fingers carded through his hair indifferently. He pressed wet, open mouthed kisses into the silk, tongue flicking out between the buttons to taste skin. Loki was salty and sweet and warm, in contrast to the perpetual chill at his fingertips. Just above the waist of his trousers, Clint found Loki's navel and dipped his greedy tongue into it. The plane of hard muscle underneath shivered, making Clint moan as he lapped and sucked hungrily, trying to get the same delicious reaction again.

"Mmm…" Loki's teasing fingers found the shell of his ear. "Good boy…"

Clint shivered and whined, pushing even closer to be flush against Loki's legs. His hands were curled around the backs of Loki's thighs, sweeping up and down, needing to touch, to be close. He nosed down past the waist and rubbed against Loki's crotch. He needed to hear that harsh inhale, feel the tightening grip in his hair like he needed oxygen. Opening wide, he licked up the length of the zip with the flat of his tongue. Loki let out a sighing moan. His hand was heavy on the back of Clint's neck, holding him close, and Clint's head swam with the feeling. He rubbed one cheek then the other against the growing warmth in Loki's groin, then decided to make out with the zipper some more. There was another rasping breath above him and Clint groaned in delight, panting, as Loki ground against his open mouth.

He had just caught the button between his teeth, intent on getting past the pesky, interloping cloth, when the hand in his hair curled painfully tight and dragged his head back.

"Ah… Lo-ki…" he whined.

He was flushed pink, exhaling in little needy moans and salivating for the taste of Loki's skin. His mind was a giddy fog of want.

Loki was not unaffected either. His pale skin was starting to warm along his razor blade cheek bones and his eyes, more black than green, were just a little too round, a little too bright. Letting go of Clint's hair, he licked his lips.

"Strip."

His voice was just rough enough to betray his arousal and it tingled like static through Clint's skin. He could hardly move fast enough. Tearing his shirt forward over his head by the collar, he rocked back on the floor, doing an undulating hop with his hips to shove his jeans past his ass and off his feet, taking his socks with them. The clothes were hurriedly rearranged into a pile before he was back on his knees, hands clasped behind his back, eyes wide and eager.

"Go," Loki nodded at the bedroom. "Lie down on your back. Spread your arms and legs."

The small, clear-headed part of Clint's brain bounced on its toes and clapped its hands. The rest of it just collapsed that much further down the scale from sentient being to thick, flailing mush.

He started to get up – then stopped when Loki pointedly cleared his throat. Ducking his head, he felt the blush rising from his neck. Then he pitched forward onto all fours (and he didn't know why, after everything else, this still gave him pause) to crawl across the floor. He could feel Loki's eyes on him the whole way there. And the idea of it – his master towering over him, still fully dressed, as he crawled beneath him on his hands and knees, ass in the air, to (what had better be) his own torture – it sent the blood from his already deficient brain directly to his groin.

Clint shivered as he lay his flushed skin over the cold sheets and arranged himself as ordered. Loki strolled casually to the foot of the bed, watching with darkening eyes and a wicked smile.

He twirled his fingers. Light flared around the bed; lengths of wide, satiny ribbon in bunny rabbit white slithered up the bedposts. They twirled themselves securely around the wood, then slid up onto the mattress to find each of Clint's wrists and ankles. The ribbon slipped smoothly over his skin, looping around itself in a knot before straining tight.

Clint gasped.

The ribbons pulled his limbs apart, tighter, tighter, to spread him wide open for Loki's feasting eyes. He started struggling on instinct, flexing the aching muscles in his arms and shoulders. But the bed was big enough that, eventually, he was stretched so taut he couldn't bend his elbows or knees at all, thus robbed of the leverage he needed to really struggle. Once he was effectively drawn and quartered, the ribbon tails picked themselves up to dart around each other until they tightened into four plump, floppy bows at the inside of his wrists and over his ankles.

Clint arched one last time, drinking in the tension along his shoulders and hips, then fell back against the pillow. He was already breathing heavily, blood and heat pooling between his spread legs.

He watched with hooded eyes as Loki ran a teasing finger up the inside of his thigh, lifting up just short of the main event, then continued up, bumping past each of his straining ribs, making the muscles tremble and jump, rasping over the sensitive skin on the inside of his forearm to reach the pretty bow over his wrist.

Loki adjusted the knots so the ribbon would pass over his palms. It would give him something to grab hold of rather than strain the precious bones in his hands.

"Does it hurt?" he asked gently.

Because, bless him,he did care.

Via thorough experimentation and one hairline fracture, the resident alien had learnt that humans, however much they might look and sound like Aesir, were basically jelly set over snowflakes. And though Clint fancied the sadistic bastard might enjoy the screaming if he did accidentally snap a wrist on the restraints, Clint knew that Loki would never actually let it happen. For one, he was far too covetous of Clint's suffering to let a petty thing like Accident take all the glory.

Clint shook his head earnestly. The ribbon was wide and soft, hugging him even as it threatened to tear him limb from limb.

But as Loki did nothing more than stare down at him with that infuriating smile, fingertips trailing absently across his skin, still standing like he might walk away any moment, Clint found he couldn't stop twitching and straining.

He was tied up, he was willing, he was desperate, what the hell was Loki waiting for?

Then Clint was struck by the horrifying thought that this was Loki's 'idea': to spread him out like so much warm butter and just watch as he melted into a pleading, trembling puddle of goo. A little ironic gift for having been so eager earlier. And Clint knew from experience the number of magical cheats Loki had for making him slowly lose his mind without laying a hand on him.

It wouldn't be so bad, Clint supposed, as long as Loki stayed. Better if he still pet him like earlier. It was a good thing that Loki never seemed to tire of just touching him; whether it was about possession or just because he liked it, Clint soaked it all up like sunlight on a daffodil.

But Christ, if he just left the room…

It must have shown on his face – in the whistling keen that escaped his throat or his wide, pleading eyes – because Loki was soon at his side, hip warm against his ribs, hushing him softly. He lay a palm over Clint's chest, sliding up to where the heartbeat was strongest.

Clint sighed with relief, loving the weight of it over his heart, the way he could feel it with every breath.

His anxiety quickly faded. Eyes drifted closed. His chest rose and fell steadily with increasingly slower and deeper breaths as he sank into the warm, tingling embrace of surrender. Even his once urgent arousal seemed unimportant compared to the steady pressure over his heart and the voice murmuring nonsense in his ear.

The sting dripped like ice cold rain through the fog.

Clint inhaled sharply, breaking the surface of his reverie. Then the pain became real and he groaned softly at the feeling of nails clawing into his chest. Loki chuckled.

"Wake up, pet."

Clint's eyelashes fluttered. He didn't even remember drifting off.

"'M not sleeping…" he slurred.

The room was dim, relying on the living room light seeping under the door, but Clint's eyes were as black as if he were outside under a moonless sky. Only the barest rim of hazel was visible when he lifted his clouded gaze.

"Oh, good." Loki tipped Clint's head back into the pillow with a thumb under his jaw and leaned in close. "Because I have so many ideas..."

And then he licked him hot and wet up the length of his neck, found Clint's throbbing pulse and bit down around it, sucking the flesh into his mouth.

"Ah… nghh…"

When he let go, a bright, red-speckled bruise framed in a round bite mark was already blooming. Loki lapped at the spot again, tasting blood under the surface, as Clint arched into it. Being a chew toy wasn't so bad, he pondered dreamily, while Loki sucked another hickey painfully close to the first.

On three, Loki let go with a slurp to admire the lovely traffic light configuration of round bruises up the left side of his neck, from the base to just below his jaw.

"Purple looks good on you," he pointed out, and dug his finger into the newest mark.

Clint panted, turning his head away; whether to escape the pain or to give Loki more access, he wasn't sure.

"I liked you with the blindfold, today," Loki went on. Clint preened. "Did you like it, too, pet?"

Clint nodded. Loki reached down and pinched him hard on the inside of the thigh, making him cry out.

"Words, pet," he admonished.

"Yes," Clint moaned.

"Good boy." Loki smoothed away the hurt, smiling down at down at him, and Clint melted just a little more. "I want you like that again, but I don't want to hide those pretty eyes. Will you let me try something new?"

Clint wriggled, started nodding again, then caught himself. "Yeah. Yes. Anything."

Loki pressed a kiss to his forehead. One hand was placed over Clint's eyes, blocking out the room. The other was back over his sternum, fingers playing with the rise of his collarbone.

"Safeword?"

"Mockingbird," Clint replied easily. He felt a kiss on the tip of his nose and giggled.

Gold light flooded his vision. It grew brighter and brighter, a pressure swelled behind his eyes, then all at once, it was gone. Clint's lashes tickled Loki's palm as he blinked rapidly.

"This is just a spell," Loki explained. "If you don't like it, we do something else. I can undo it anytime you want and I won't be angry or disappointed. Do you understand?"

"Yes." A small, conscious part of him wondered at Loki's suspiciously tender voice.

He felt Loki's hand leave, but didn't look. Loki cupped his face.

"Open your eyes, pet."

So he did. Everything was still black, his retinas presumably bleached from the gold flash. He swivelled his eyes. Blinked furiously. Still black. He turned, towards what should have been the window, alight from the street lamps outside, but –

"L-loki?"

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He jerked, hands suddenly straining taut with fingers splayed, tossing his head and craning his neck.

"What- Loki, I can't-"

The heart rate under Loki's hand leapt into a panicked shrill. His breathing turned suddenly to gasps that he tried and failed to subdue. Clint whipped his head side to side, eyes growing wider and wider – but he couldn't see a thing. There was so sliver of light, no shadows or hints of movement. He was blind.

(And if he was blind, he couldn't shoot. If he couldn't shoot, he was nothing. He was less than nothing. He was – )

It was a few moments before he realised Loki was speaking again, felt his warmth, cheek to cheek, nuzzling his ear. A tongue slid over his lips, dipping in just to taste his gasping breaths, all while that low, silky voice hushed and cooed against his mouth. Hands stroked his hair, rubbed up and down his body. In the absence of sight, Loki was flooding him with touch and scent and sound and taste. Over and over, between kisses and nuzzling and nipping at his lips, ears, nose, "I'm here, I'm still here. You're safe. Say the word and it's gone, pet. It's not real. It's just a spell. Just a silly parlour trick, that's all."

Just a spell. Just Loki playing with him. Like the ropes, the duct tape, the gag. Just another way for him to hold Clint in the palm of his hand.

Not real. Just a spell.

After letting his panic wear out for a minute or so, Loki kissed his eyes closed and held them down with a hand.

"No- Wait. It's-" Clint tried to turn away. "It's fine. I'm fine." Which might have sounded halfway believable – if he hadn't been on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Shh… breathe, pet. Just breathe. Come on. In."

So Clint took a deep breath through his nose and held it. It definitely felt better with his eyes closed.

"Out. Nice and slow, that's a good boy."

He pushed the air out past his lips in a long sigh. His fingers and toes still twitched from the adrenaline dump, but his full body trembling had stopped. His breathing grew even. The rigid muscles in his arms and shoulders relaxed; his fingers settled loosely around the ribbon over his palm.

Loki pulled his hand away from over his eyes again. This time, Clint knew what to expect. He blinked open and stared into the dark.

"Okay," he rasped, then cleared his throat. "I'm okay. Sorry."

"Hush, pet, you've nothing to apologise for," Loki admonished. He couldn't stop watching Clint's blank, still too round eyes as they darted left and right, up and down, lingering near his face, but never quite catching. "You're really alright, now?"

"Yeah. Yes," he replied firmly. "I like it."

Loki stole the end of his answer with a kiss, nibbling at Clint's bottom lip as they parted.

"Is it because of your bow? Is this my payment? Would you have said 'no' otherwise?"

Frowning, Clint shook his head. "No! Loki, that's not… I want this. I like it, Loki. I swear."

"You're lying," Loki stated serenely. "You're lying to make me happy, aren't you?"

Clint shook his head, ready to defend his answer, but Loki licked the words out of his mouth.

"I don't care," he murmured dismissively. "You don't know how gorgeous you are when you're scared, pet. If I could, I would leave you like this. Like they the birds at the palace. Would you like that, too?"

Clint shuddered. The blindfold had been all well and good, but this… Knowing that Loki wasn't serious, he wanted to nod. He did. He wanted to give in to the fantasy and just play along…

"No," he whimpered in defeat. "Loki, please, you wouldn't…"

Unseen, Loki broke into a warm smile. He brushed his lips along Clint's neck again, licking at his darkening bruises.

"I know, pet, I know… I'm only dreaming. Just a few hours, just tonight, can you do that?"

Clint nodded eagerly with relief. "Yes. Yes, please."

"Mmm… you're being so good, pet." A hand slid down his chest, over his belly and then crawled slowly toward his groin. "Would you like a reward?"

The tension broke as Clint tried to hold back a grin. "Yes, please."

By now, he'd slipped all the way up out of the warm fog and, after the struggle, he felt the pull of his restraints afresh. That and this newest layer of vulnerability was fanning the flames of his erstwhile fading arousal.

Clint pulled suddenly taut against the bed posts, arching with a gasp as he felt a warm, wet pressure run up the length of his cock. One more time, and then his mouth fell open in a breathless cry as he felt lips sliding down his length, burying him in heat, further and further, past the point where Clint would have started to gag and tear up.

"Mmm…"

When his nose was finally buried in Clint's stomach, Loki moaned filthily, like he was sucking on one of his ridiculous swirly lollipops, and Clint nearly dislocated his ankles yanking on the ribbons. It made Loki chuckle, actually laugh with Clint still halfway down his throat, and then swallow.

"G-god, yes! Loki, yes, yes!"

After only a couple of minutes, he felt himself start to leak down the back of Loki's throat. And Loki must have tasted it, because he hollowed his cheeks and sucked as he pulled off with an obscene pop. Clint could have killed to see Loki's face, because he could hear him licking his lips. Then cold fingers – always so goddamn cold – wrapped themselves hard around him and pumped rapidly up and down, slick with saliva.

"Loki, Loki, please- ah! – Please, can I- I have to- nngghh…"

"Oh, wait," Loki cut in, like he'd forgotten to add the sugar. His hand stopped, then disappeared all together. "How foolish of me. I'm getting ahead of myself."

Clint wanted to break things. Preferably Loki's nose, if that was even possible. But more than anything he wanted back in Loki's mouth, his hand, fuck, he'd take whatever he got just if the fucker could only finish what he fucking started,was that so much to ask!?

"I have a surprise for you," the teasing jerk continued lightly, like Clint wasn't shaking and panting, banging his head back against the pillow like he might knock the blood back into it against the gravity of his arousal.

He didn't even bother trying to beg. Loki was on script now; his only option was to play along.

(Clint wouldn't remember until much later that the panic of losing his sight had completely disappeared.)

"What… what kind of surprise?"

"Well, I realised that you were right earlier, about your birthday," Loki ran the pad of his thumb ever so lightly over the tip his straining, leaking cock, and Clint actually fucking bleated like a lamb – then drew back and flicked it with his forefinger. Clint yelped, biting down on his bottom lip too late to catch it, because that hurt, goddamn asshole. "I am in your world, after all, and when in Rome… et cetera. And it appears I've been awfully remiss."

The bed dipped around him. Loki had climbed up to straddle Clint's hips. The cloth of his slacks chafed against Clint's feverish skin as he settled, and Clint was reminded that Loki was still dressed, after all that. Still breathing normally. Still as coherent as he ever was while Clint had been reduced to a sweating, burning puddle of need.

"Now… what was it you said I was missing?"

Clint took about ten full seconds to grab his brain by the shoulders and shake the memory violently out of the mush. The sooner he answered, the sooner Loki got on with it.

"Candles," he found at last, triumphant. "And cake."

"Ah, yes," Loki agreed sagely. "We'll start with candles."

Clint heard the click of Loki's snapping fingers, a tiny, hissing pop. Warmth flared over his abdomen –

And then boiling hot wax was dripped into his navel.

It hurt like nothing else. No impact, no sting, no heat. Just a blinding white flash of clear sensation that stole his breath away.

A second later, Clint howled. One short, gasping note that had him arching off the mattress, every limb taut against their bonds.

It was only as the wax began to cool that Clint felt the heat and recognised what it had been. The whine escaped his throat unbidden as he panted through the shock and lingering burn. It was only one drop, but he was already twisting against the ribbons. He felt Loki's hand sliding over his belly to feel the muscles in fluttering under his skin.

"Little stripy ones, about this big," Loki explained, and Clint realised hatefully that he was being quoted back to himself. All those questions in the car, the whole trip back, the bastard had been planning this. "Did I get it right, pet? How does it feel?"

He felt the flame draw closer again –

Another drop, right over the last, in the centre of his navel.

Clint twitched, both arms and legs yanking hard against the bed, and cried out brokenly. As the wax cooled, he squeezed his eyes shut, out of habit, and tried to steady his breathing through his nose. It had only been two drops for fuck's sake. And no one ever died from hot wax. His skin wasn't really burning off, Loki wasn't really stabbing him with a needle dipped in acid, it only felt that way.

But it was never going to work. His heart raced and small, breathy whimpers escaped even as he bit his lip to stifle them. His hands and feet flinched without his volition. Because the realisation had dawned, that if Loki remembered those tiny details about the type of candle, then surely he also remembered…

"But of course, the number of candles is also significant. Symbolic, is it not, pet?"

Another drop, then another at each word for emphasis, still over the exact same spot.

The first bright burst was pure, breathtakingagony, amplified tenfold by repetition. Clint was rendered momentarily mute. His mouth hung agape, every muscle in spasm, eyes empty and wide and black. As it faded to a slow flare of heat, his senses returned.

"J-jesus Christ of motherfucking Nazareth! That hurts!"

From under the wax, a bright pink flush was spreading out over his stomach. Loki brushed his fingertips over the skin, drawing a nervous twitch, and then dragged his nails through it.

"Nnngh… Ah! God, Loki..."

"I had no idea you were so religious, pet," he observed placidly. His voice belied his own racing heart as the heat pooled rich and cloying inside him, hotter and hotter with each one of Clint's moaning breaths.

He tipped the candle and there, again, over that same postage stamp patch of hypersensitised nerves, the wax dripped down.

Clint screamed.

Long and loud, like his throat might burst, until he broke off to harsh, quivering sobs. The ladder of his ribs strained visibly through the skin as he gulped air for dear life.

"P-please," he gasped. He could feel the burn in his eyes and thick at the back of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing with hitching breaths. "Please, it hurts, Loki, it hurts, please-"

"Now, what was the rule?" Loki mused, ignoring him. "Ah, yes… One –" drip "– for every –" drip "– Year." Drip.

Clint's mind went entirely blank. He convulsed with every new eruption of pain at Loki's cruel hand, stomach cramping with the strain of at once trying to curl up and being stretched taut by his trembling limbs.

As he finally came back up, whining and squealing wordlessly through the last throbbing flare of heat, he cursed himself for ever having opened his stupid mouth about stupid goddamn candles.

"Remind me, pet, because I want to do this properly," Loki breathed silkily against his ear, feigning sincerity, even as Clint heard the smug leer in his voice. "How many does that make for you?"

Trembling all over, he could only manage a pathetic whimper. So Loki painted a dotted line up from his navel to the hollow of his chest. With every drop, Clint flinched and shook, the scream bubbling up inside his throat until finally, he burst out yelling –

"Nineteen! Nineteen, f-fuck,please. I'm sorry. God, Loki, p-please, I can't– "

Because suddenly it wasn't just the wax that burned, but the promise of eighteen more candles to come, and (what had Loki said? Just for a few hours) hours of this torture that sent a terrified wave of heat through his gut and robbed the air from the lungs.

Ever merciful, Loki heeded Clint's prayers and moved away from his navel. Instead, he painted a lazy, meandering trail up the inside of his right thigh. He was careful to go slow enough that the line was continuous all the way through.

Clint buckled as he screamed and swore and begged.

Halfway through, he clamped his jaws shut, trying to hold it in. Tears rolled out of the corner of his eyes and the stream of aborted shriek and sobs catching in his throat sang hot and sweet in Loki's veins. It was all so cute. He had to stop and watch, holding the candle still, perilously close to his groin, until Clint gave in with a rush of blubbering pleas.

Which Loki categorically ignored. A particularly loud cry as the line crept closer and closer to Clint's still rock hard cock found him suddenly muzzled by Loki's hand over his mouth, while he completed the line up his thigh, and then went back to fill in the imperfections. Clint struggled all the while, writhing and arching as he tried desperately, fruitlessly to escape.

When the little candle had melted down to a stub, Loki relented.

Clint remained tense, though, blind to what Loki was doing. Unable to anticipate where or when he would burn next had Clint flinching constantly, every small movement or breath of sensation over his skin enough to drive him almost to hyperventilation.

At length, Clint felt the heat by his lips.

"Blow."

Because of course, according to custom, the birthday boy had to do it. Clint sucked in a shaking lungful and blew out the flame.

"Good boy," Loki purred.

Clint exhaled in a groan rush of relief, sinking into the sheets. He felt Loki lean across him, then the tip of a tongue flicked out over his eyes as Loki licked away fat tears, relishing in the salty taste of his agony. When he tried to turn away, a hand came up to hold him still, those perpetually frosty fingers ice cold against Clint's burning skin; cheeks flushed, lips bitten and bruised.

"How many was that, pet?" Loki asked.

Clint let out a distressed moan. His knuckles turned white as he clenched in a spasm around the ribbon that bound him.

"One," he whimpered.

Out of nineteen. God, if Loki expected him to count them… He wouldn't make it past three at this rate. And what if he lost count? Would Loki punish him? Make him start all over again?

Just the thought forced another high pitched, broken whine through Clint's throat. Wide, sightless eyes darted around the room, brimming with fresh tears in mere anticipation of torment.

Loki hummed gleefully. He smoothed a hand over Clint's chest, up to his shoulder, then down, over the jutting bone of his hip, along his painted thigh and past the hollow inside his knee. It should have been comforting, perhaps, but Clint only shook harder. The message was more than clear: so much skin and such tiny candles… whatever shall I do?

The demigod closed his fist, gold light seeped out through his fingers, and another stripy birthday candle, red and white like a candy cane, appeared in his hand. Not that Clint would be able to appreciate it, but Loki was a perfectionist. This might just have been some of his best work.

He snapped his fingers.

Click.