In the Temple of My God
Received a lovely prompt from a reader a few weeks ago which immediately captured my attention, and spawned this fic. I hope I did your vision justice and that you enjoy the story.
8k+ words of FrostHawk ahead. Warnings for all that this pairing brings.
Clint ripped himself from slumber, a strangled cry spilling from his lips as the pounding in his head kept perfect time with the throbbing in his groin. Bringing his hands up to scrub over his eyes, he voiced a deep sigh and pointedly ignored his aching need as he tried to banish the dream from his mind.
It was the same as always; cracked, dank walls; somewhere deep underground, following the taller man (don't say his name don't even think it) through dimly lit corridors. He was there, but wasn't. Awake, but not aware. The thrall was heavy upon him, compressing his free will down to a tiny, screaming sliver in the corner of his mind.
But beneath that lay a darker, more secret terror. One he had shared with no one else. Not the SHIELD appointed shrink; not his team-mates. Hell, not even Nat knew what lurked under his guilt and rage. No one could possibly understand that part of him that had watched his captor…and approved of what he saw. And as such, he could never reveal that hidden bit of himself that had reveled in earning the god's approval, and yearned to please him in all possible ways.
In the dream, that part of Clint was very much in evidence. He trailed along behind the other man and noted how even his simplest movements were predatory. He didn't walk; he prowled. He didn't look; he visually devoured. And when those glittering eyes were fixed upon his? The memory alone was enough to bring that feeling back to the forefront, so fresh and bright that it hurt, calling up an ache that the sniper didn't want to examine. Because to identify it, to claim it would be admitting to something he just couldn't bear to own.
The fact that for as much as he had railed against the god's control, Clint had also craved it; had craved him.
Raw power was a seductive master, and for a man who had lived the life that Clint had, submitting to a controlling influence was second nature. He never felt as stable as when he had a clear set of instructions and allowed his focus to narrow until the entire world held only two things; his target and the successful completion of his mission. All doubt and fear and pain were washed away; eclipsed by the deep seated need to please.
Clint sighed again, recognizing the irony in the fact that SHIELD didn't offer him even the smallest measure of approval for a job well done. It was all gruff debriefings and 'What more can you do for us, Agent?'. Sad to think that in Clint's few short days as a thrall he had received far more approval and praise than he had in the eleven months since.
Not that praise was Fury's strong point. That had been more Coulson's area of expertise.
Pain flared again, and with it the ever present guilt. Clint slammed shut the door to his memories of Phil and how he'd met his end. That was a path he didn't quite have the strength to yet follow, and if he was being truthful, he didn't know that he ever would.
Exhaustion was creeping up on Clint, weighing down his eyelids and making him yearn for sleep. But his body still bore the mark of betrayal. He was tight with need, burning for release, and he knew he'd never be able to rest while in such a state. With a resigned whimper he slid his hand beneath the blanket and gripped his cock tightly. He wasn't gentle, fisting his length harshly and trying to ignore the turmoil in his mind as he sought his end.
And as the tension in his belly rose, the worst (best?) part of the dream came to him, unbidden. The god's slender hands on his body; that low, dangerous purr in his ear as murmured, "You have done so very well, my Hawk, and are deserving of a reward. As you have pleased me with your actions, so shall I bring you pleasure of a different sort." The feeling he had had in that moment washed over him. Pride, contentment and lust all combining to set him aflame as he submitted even further to his god. And as he came, painting his belly in wet streaks of need, Clint sobbed out the one word he hadn't dared speak aloud in nearly a year.
"Loki."
Far and away, across realms and distance immeasurable, bright green eyes cracked open and thin lips curled in the smug approximation of a smile. The ghostly, pleading sound of his own name echoed through Loki's mind, and he answered that call with a rough whisper. "Oh, my little Hawk. After all this time and still you desire me so. And how that must sting your pride."
His smile widened into a grin as he considered what fun could be had with this newly rediscovered connection. If Agent Barton could focus his will enough to reach across the abyss, and he a mere human, what might Loki be able to visit upon the archer in return? With a pleased hum, the god curled onto his side on his narrow prison cot and plotted his next move.
"You alright," Nat asked quietly, voice pitched low so as to not draw the attention of any of the others milling about the shooting range.
Clint stiffened and turned a wary eye to the redhead. "I'm fine," he answered tersely.
"You don't seem fine," she returned, crossing her arms over her chest and giving the archer a baleful look.
"Oh? And how do I seem?"
"Touchy, for starters. Distracted. Tired. Should I go on?
"Nope," Clint snapped. "I said I'm fine, and I meant it. Just…leave it alone, 'Tasha."
"Right," she huffed. "Go ahead and lie to me all you want. But when you're done lying to yourself and you want to talk to me about whatever it is that's bothering you, well, you know where to find me." With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away.
Clint watched her go with a slight frown. He should have known better than to try and lie to Nat. He wasn't the best at that sort of subterfuge, and she'd known him long enough to see right through his attempts as deception. He thought about calling her back and spilling his guts before deciding that would be a very bad idea. How could he hope to make Nat understand the dreams? Was there a way to explain the disjointed feeling they brought; the anger and disgust that so quickly gave way to arousal?
No. It was better that he kept this to himself and dealt with it the best he could.
Sliding his P30 from its' holster, Clint stepped into position and fired off a few rounds, trying to focus on the task at hand. Anything was better than the constant rehashing of the ways his mind sought to torture him. And it wasn't doing him a bit of good to try and figure out why the dreams were ramping up both in frequency and intensity. Nothing about this situation made the slightest bit of sense to him. Why now? What had changed? It had been nearly a year; shouldn't his memories of his time as Loki's thrall be starting to dissipate?
After expending two full clips, and racking up a dismal hit-miss ratio, Clint holstered his pistol in disgust. His focus was shot, and he had accumulated more questions than he had answers. Stalking from the shooting range, he decided to head to the gym. Maybe if he physically exhausted himself he would earn a night's respite.
When he woke in the small hours of the morning, panting raggedly with that familiar heat pooling in his gut, the despair was almost overwhelming. He'd run until his thighs burned; hit the heavy bag until his knuckles were raw and bruised. But all to no avail. And the worst part? This time the dream had been…different.
It had begun the same; trailing after his god through the tunnels. Battling the sense of unease that warred with the anticipation for what was to come. But instead of culminating in the archer panting out his release under those skilled hands while splayed across Loki's sparse pallet, this time the god had whispered something very different in Clint's ear.
"You are mine, yes?" he had asked as those slender fingers teased hardened flesh.
"I am," Clint had answered without hesitation.
"And do I hold sway over all you are?"
"Yes."
"You think of me; dream of me; desire me with every beat of that valiant heart," Loki stated.
"More than I should," Clint gasped out.
Loki's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening almost to the point of pain. "Insolent brat," he hissed. "Perhaps I have been too…lax in my ownership. It seems you are in need of a firm hand."
Clint sobbed as Loki released his cock and lifted, turned, pushed the archer until he was on his hands and knees. For a long moment he knelt alone, bereft without his god's touch. He wanted to beg. To plead for Loki to lay those hands upon him, but he held his tongue, not wishing to provoke the god's wrath any further. When Loki's fingers bit into his hips, dragging him back, the gasp he voiced was born nearly as much from fear as it was relief. And as the god slowly pushed inside of him, molding himself to Clint's back, he nearly broke apart.
His dream-mind rebelled, vehemently insisting that this had never happened. Loki had never taken him; never mounted him and driven deep into his body while uttering breathy growls into the archer's ear. Clint didn't doubt that it would have eventually progressed to this had Tasha not managed to break the thrall. It seemed that Loki…favored his Hawk. Especially considering that in the few short days he had spent under Loki's influence, the god had 'rewarded' him for his good works more than once.
But this dream felt too real; too like a memory, and as Loki moved within him, Clint felt himself responding. First with his panting breaths that quickly grew to moans, then with the movement of his hips, rocking back to meet the god's thrusts.
Warm breath ghosted over Clint's throat, and that voice was again at his ear. "This is what you truly wanted, was it not? To be possessed fully? For me to take you like the beast you are and mark my claim deep within your belly, where it can never be wiped away?"
Clint sobbed then. The melodious growl Loki voiced nearly as enticing as the silken drag of the thick flesh filling him again and again.
"No need to answer, pet," Loki hissed, his hips picking up speed as he rutted savagely into Clint's trembling body. "Remember; the Tesseract allowed me to clearly see inside your mind, and this is exactly what you were hoping for all the while my hands were on you. Such deliciously filthy thoughts you had."
Clint gasped as Loki brushed against his spot, and the god quickly changed his angle in order to fully break his little plaything. His breathing was becoming ragged as he pressed deeper with each motion, and Clint bucked and writhed, signaling how close he was to his release.
And as he tipped over the edge, he came with the god's voice echoing in his ears.
Loki growled out, "You are mine, Agent Barton. Mine to do with as I please, from now until I bring about Ragnarok. And for as conflicted as your mind is; for as strongly as you wear the mask of hatred during your waking hours, you will always burn for this. For me." And with one final thrust, Loki was spilling within him, washing Clint's inner walls with wave after wave of wet heat as his archer wailed beneath him.
It was then that Clint had awoken, still able to feel the warmth and weight of the god against his back, his cock throbbing painfully between his thighs. And as he took himself in hand to finish what the dream had started, he brushed his fingertips across his entrance. He uttered a startled cry at the sensation. He was sticky and wet and pulsing. Hungry. Arching his back, Clint easily slid two fingers into himself, pressing against his spot and coming almost immediately. As he panted through his orgasm, he had the image of glittering green eyes in his mind, and the name of his god on his tongue.
Loki was rocked by the force of the pleasure directed at him. He lay, gasping on his cot, still reeling from his actions in the archer's 'dream' when the heightened waves of his Hawk's ecstasy crashed down. He moaned as his back arched, hips leaving the bed in a sharp spasm. And when the euphoria faded, a tired grin spread across his face. The connection to his Hawk was growing stronger with each interaction, and the god had to admit that he was enjoying this game far more than he had originally anticipated. The mortal's deep seated desire made it quite easy to infiltrate his dreaming mind. He called Loki to him, eager to worship at his altar, and any god worth his measure would never ignore his supplicants.
As he slowly regained his senses, Loki pushed himself upright to lean against the wall, his gaze roaming over his sparse cell. He had languished here long enough, denied the lion's share of his magic, and starved for stimulation of any kind. These…interludes with his Hawk were a welcome distraction, and the first taste of pleasure he'd had in quite some time.
And what pleasure it was.
He let his thoughts roam back to the few short days he had owned Agent Barton. The man was simply magnificent for a mortal. Focused, skilled and single-minded once he had a target in his sights, willing to do whatever necessary to get the job done. And Loki had felt a base attraction to him upon first sight. The immediate tension between them was that of two alphas fighting for dominance, neither willing to give an inch. But that was a battle Loki had won…with a bit of help from the Tesseract.
Remembering that moment, Loki gave a pleased hum. The shocked look Agent Barton had given him when the scepter had made contact. Steel-blue eyes sliding up to meet his own gaze before going over to pitch black. And then that final shift to the swirling, ethereal blue as the tension drained from Barton's frame and he holstered his weapon. Suddenly so compliant and ready to serve. Had he possessed more time with his Hawk, Loki would have fully tested that fealty and given him a myriad of ways in which to serve his god.
But alas, it was not meant to be. Stuttgart had happened, and the near destruction of the Helicarrier had cost him his favorite thrall. Then came his imprisonment, and Loki had assumed he would never lay eyes on Barton again.
Oh, and it was such a pleasant surprise to find out how mistaken he was in that respect.
Now he had the means to fully explore the agent; to take the spoils he was denied by the meddling little spider's actions. And he meant to do just that.
As Loki once more stretched out upon his cot, he found he was already anticipating the next time Barton called his name deep in the night.
And so it went on. The days turned to weeks; the weeks to months; and Loki's nocturnal visits grew more frequent until scarcely a night passed without the god's presence. Clint was still conflicted. His confusion over the dreams weighed heavily on him…and yet…he also slowly grew to welcome the pleasure they brought.
He'd come to terms, somewhat, with the fact that he wanted Loki even though he was still unsure how and why that feeling had taken hold within him. And while the dreams have been savage when they'd first begun, lately they had shifted. The Loki that visited him now seemed less obsessed with using Clint's body and more intent on bringing him to ruin right alongside the god.
This just served to confuse Clint further.
He could understand possessiveness. And revenge. Hell, he could even understand the way domination often meant more than the sex itself. But this new focus of Loki's? Clint didn't get that at all. The god's possessive streak hadn't waned, and he still made a habit of detailing all the ways in which the archer was his. And some secret part of Clint craved those words; feeling a thrill of pride in the fact that Loki desired him so completely that he wanted to own him. The very thought sent a shiver down Clint's spine, and raised an ache in his throat that caught him completely by surprise.
For several days Clint had pondered this feeling; wondering exactly what the fuck was going on in his head. He'd just made peace with the physical attraction he had to the mad god; telling himself that at this point he'd welcome any offer of pleasure. Ever since Manhattan Clint hadn't really had the opportunity or drive to attend to his more base needs. He found it difficult to trust anyone, and the few times he'd actually tried to let go and just give in, well…it had ended badly. Eventually he stopped trying, preferring the company of his own hand to a total meltdown in a stranger's bed. The last attempt had been nine months prior to the first dream, so it made sense that if the god was the only one who could bring him to release, then an attraction would soon follow.
"And it's not like Loki's ugly," Clint muttered to himself, pacing the length of his quarters as he examined the situation from every possible angle. "So that helps."
The image rose in his mind then of the god moving between his spread thighs, his lissome frame glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Those bright green eyes glittering down at Clint as Loki's back arched, muscles trembling with the strain of holding back his release until his Hawk could accompany him. And the ache in Clint's throat was suddenly eclipsed by the growing heat in his belly.
"Goddamn it, Loki," the archer growled. "What have you fucking done to me?"
"What have I done," Loki murmured, a smug grin playing across his lips as the echo of the mortal's words reached him. "Why, nothing, Agent Barton. Simply broken you."
'And he, you,' hissed that small voice at the back of Loki's mind from which all his doubts and fears issued. 'Or do you deny you feel an attraction of your own?'
Loki's grin faded as he considered the accusation. It was true that he anticipated his nightly visits to his Hawk. And he had grown rather…soft in the ways in which he visited his lust upon the archer, preferring to make the man's body sing for him over just taking that which he craved. But surely that did not mean…
'You knelt before him,' the voice reminded, gleefully. 'Pleasured him with your mouth like a common whore.'
"Quiet," Loki growled, allowing his thoughts to turn back to that night.
He hadn't planned on doing anything of the sort, but the urge had risen as he watched his Hawk pitch and writhe beneath him. The motions of that solid body had just been too enticing. And when Agent Barton had taken himself in hand, fingers gliding up and down the thick shaft of his cock in time to Loki's thrusts? Well, that had been enough to convince Loki that he needed to taste the mortal's lust. He had pulled free from the archer's clenching heat and dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed. The howl the mortal had voiced when Loki took him deep was more than enough to make up for the minor loss of dominance. And as those dazed and incredulous steel blue eyes held his own gaze, the god began to swallow around his Hawk's arousal; triggering the man's release, and milking him dry for every drop of pleasure that Loki could inspire.
Those strong hands had flown to Loki's hair, fisting harshly as he emptied down the god's throat. Loki had growled out a warning around the pulsing flesh; one his archer had heeded, loosening his grip as he shuddered through his orgasm. And when Barton had been spent, chest heaving and stomach muscles trembling beneath that golden skin, Loki had once more driven deep between his thighs, his need even greater with the flavor of the mortal heavy on his tongue.
"No," Loki murmured. "It was but a momentary urge; nothing more."
'We shall see,' the voice in his head retorted smugly.
'They're all looking at me funny,' Clint thought warily as he glanced around the briefing room at his team mates.
Well, to be fair, only Tony was openly gazing at him, one eyebrow quirked as he surveyed the archer. Natasha was as stoic as ever, Banner rarely made eye contact with anyone, and Cap was too goddamn polite to directly stare him down. Thor just looked vaguely concerned, and that irritated Clint for some reason.
"So what's the deal, Legolas," Stark questioned. "You going wonky on us again?"
Clint's head snapped around, the glare he sent Tony's way impressive in its' intensity. "What's that supposed to mean," he growled.
The billionaire raised his hands palms out, and frowned lightly. "Sorry. Bad phrasing on my part. But you have to admit you've been…off, lately."
'Calm the fuck down, Barton,' Clint thought. 'You are not helping by flipping out over a simple question.'
"I'm just wound a little tight," he muttered, scrubbing one hand over his face. "Been awhile since we've seen any action, and SHIELD has been awfully quiet, too. I'm not used to just sitting on my ass."
Clint didn't miss the way Natasha's eyes narrowed at his explanation. She knew he was lying, and he'd bet his last arrow that she'd be all over his ass about it later.
"Well, here's your chance to blow off some steam," Tony announced, sliding a file folder across the wide table to the archer. "Fury sent this over a little while ago and demanded we throw someone at this. I need Banner here with me; Cap is signed up to go do something wholesome, and I think Natasha's getting her hair done."
The redhead spat something in Russian at Stark, and he grinned before replying, "Maybe later, sweetheart."
Clint picked up the folder and paged through it, slowly taking in the details. It seemed that a South American cult happened to be trying to win the favor of some god or another by sacrificing the locals in droves. SHIELD was unsure as to why they were doing that, but the body count had risen high enough that it needed dealt with, and soon.
"What about you and Thor," Clint asked, raising his eyes to Stark's.
"This is really below my pay grade," Tony sniffed. "Plus, I'm right in the middle of something with Banner. And Blondie here is headed home in a minute. He's gotta check in on Loki. Make sure he's not giving anyone a hard time without big brother around to keep him in line."
He couldn't help the way his breath hitched at the mention of Loki, and Clint could only hope that no one else had noticed. "Fine then," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I'll do it. When do I leave?"
"You have two hours to collect your gear," Cap answered. "But…are you sure you're up for this, Barton?"
"I'm fine," he stated firmly, pushing to his feet and looking at each Avenger in turn. "I get that you guys are worried, but really. Everything is fine." And with that, Clint stalked out of the room, unable to see the glances that he knew were being exchanged behind his back.
When Clint's door opened fifteen minutes later, he didn't even have to wonder who it might be. But when Natasha spoke, he quickly realized he'd underestimated how much she'd discerned from his reactions in the briefing room.
"So this is about Loki," she snapped. "Has been all along, right? Why wouldn't you tell me, Clint?"
He heaved a small sigh before turning to face the woman glowering at him from across the room. And judging from that expression she was intensely pissed that he had kept this from her. Clint's shoulders slumped and he sank down to the bed, clasping his hands between his knees and giving Natasha a pleading look.
"What was I supposed to say," he asked. "It's not like this was something I was comfortable with myself. I couldn't very well have popped off with, 'Hey Nat, I think I've got the hots for Loki!'"
The glib admission stopped Natasha dead, freezing the anger she felt and raising an immediate question.
"You…what?"
And so Clint spilled his guts, detailing the dreams and the unexpected side effects to the one person that might possibly understand. He didn't particularly care for the way the worry grew on her face with each word, and when he finally fell silent, Clint waited uneasily for Nat's response.
"Tell me you don't think these are just dreams," she asked slowly.
"What else could they be," he asked, the confusion evident in his tone.
"Oh, come on, Clint," Natasha exploded. "Loki is a goddamned sorcerer! I know you've had your fair share of concussions, but you cannot possible believe that these are just regular dreams! Think!"
"So, magic then," Clint huffed.
"Yes, magic," she answered tiredly, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. "Or astral projection. Or some other fucked up thing he can do. And the only person I could even ask about this has already run off back to Asgard."
"Do not tell Thor about this," Clint thundered, rising to his feet.
"Would you rather I ask Fury what he thinks we should do," Natasha questioned in a low and deadly tone. "Because I'm sure he'd have an answer. Don't know if you'd like it or not. But he'd have an answer all the same."
Clint stiffed at the veiled threat in Nat's words. "You wouldn't."
"Try me," she shot back. "You can't keep secrets like this, Clint. Not something this big."
"Fine," he spat. "Talk to Thor when he gets back. Tell him everything for all I care. Just…don't involve Fury."
"And no more secrets," Natasha continued, glaring at Clint.
"No more secrets," he ground out, ready for this conversation to be over.
The redhead studied him for a long moment before giving a slight nod. "Just keep it together through this mission, Clint. And I'll talk to Thor as soon as possible. We'll figure out how to stop this."
'And what if I don't want it to stop,' he though petulantly. 'What then, Nat?' But instead he muttered, "Yeah, okay," and turned back to his duffel, shoving items in haphazardly.
He could feel Natasha's eyes on him, weighing whether she should say anything more. Clint continued packing, ignoring the prickling sensation at the nape of his neck, and hoping that she would just let this drop. He cursed himself internally for even telling her; he should have known she'd immediately swing into big sister mode, and try to fix everything. It was one of her more annoying traits.
"I just want what's best for you, you know," she said softly.
"Funny way of showing it," he answered stiffly. "Threatening to call Fury down on me."
"I haven't forgotten what Loki did to you the last time, Clint," Natasha stated. "And I'll be damned if I let him try and take you again."
Clint wheeled around, fixing her with a heated stare, "And you think I have? You think I just forgot?! Why do you think I was so fucked up about these dreams, Nat? It's because I remember what happened when he took me and turned me into a monster! I shouldn't want him as anything more than target practice…but I do, and that scares me."
Natasha looked back at Clint, watching his face impassively as he ranted.
"And he's not trying to take me," Clint continued. "I don't know what exactly he's doing, or what he wants beyond a quick fuck. But he hasn't…hurt me, and if these dreams aren't really dreams, then I would think that he could just as easily slit my throat as suck my cock."
"You have a point," she grudgingly admitted. "Look. I'll do what I can to keep the more…gory details from Thor. You know me; I can get information from just about anyone without them knowing what I'm really after."
"I'd appreciate that," Clint replied quietly.
Natasha stepped forward then and placed her hand on the archer's shoulder. "Just be careful. That's all I ask. And I'm sorry about threatening to involve Fury, but sometimes you need a smack to keep you focused."
"Yeah, but that was still kind of low," he growled.
The redhead shrugged before squeezing Clint's shoulder once and moving away. "I do what needs to be done. Sometimes it's not pleasant, but that doesn't mean I get to ignore it."
"Well, don't make a habit of it."
"Don't give me a reason to," she shot back, before moving toward the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, giving Clint one last pensive look before she exited the room.
"Gee, that went well," Clint muttered, and then set about readying himself for the coming mission.
As the archer sat in the back of the SHIELD transport, he replayed the dream from the night before. The light, teasing touches Loki had showered him with; the pleased curve of that cruel mouth as Clint had shamelessly begged, 'More,' and 'Harder,' and 'Please!'. It had seemed to go on for hours, Loki worshipping Clint's body before finally deigning to give him that for which he begged.
And when he slowly filled Clint, pressing that thick cock in so deeply, he'd held Loki's gaze, the god's eyes filled with an indefinable emotion. It was more than the physical bliss of coupling, more than the simple, mindless act of fucking. A shiver ran down Clint's spine as he remembered that voice growling in his ear, "Mine, Agent Barton. All that you are. All that you will ever be. Mine!"
As Loki had reaffirmed his ownership, Clint had considered the fact that he liked being owned. If it meant that he would be pinned and taken, if he could writhe out his want under his dark god, well…then he liked it just fine.
The pilot chose that exact moment to pipe up, breaking into Clint's reverie to announce that the drop-zone was fast approaching. He stood to his feet, taking a moment to check the straps on his chute before moving to the back ramp and pushing the thought of Loki out of his mind. There was a job to do; a team to prove himself to…and he needed every bit of his focus to accomplish that. Rolling his head to either side, Clint took a deep breath and jumped.
Four and a half minutes later, Clint made contact with the ground. The landing itself was textbook perfect, and he quickly gathered the crumpled parachute, shoving it into a rotted out stump just inside the tree line. Checking his GPS, the archer moved off in the direction of the cult's compound, senses on high alert as he ghosted through the thick underbrush.
The surrounding jungle was oddly quiet, as if the wildlife had all gone to ground. And the light filtering through the canopy overhead was hazy and muted, giving the whole scene a vaguely surreal feeling. When Clint finally caught sight of the large wooden fence that bordered the compound, he gave a sigh of relief, eager to be shed of the silent woods at his back.
Scaling the nearest suitable tree, Clint hugged close to the trunk and observed the camp spread out below him. There was no sign of life in the main courtyard or the small, thatched huts that ringed the open area. On the far side of the clearing slumped the large stone ruins of a step pyramid, the riot of vines and foliage creeping up the sides making it seem as if the temple were slowly being pulled back into the jungle. The whole thing gave Clint the creeps, and he shuddered lightly as his eyes were drawn to the pitch black doorway at the base of the pyramid.
"And of course I'm gonna have to go in there," he muttered softly. "If anybody's left in this place, I'll bet that's where they'll be."
Steeling his spine, Clint dropped to the ground inside the stockade wall and ran toward the temple. He paused just outside the doorway and drew his sidearm, checking the magazine and sliding the safety to off before huffing out an irritated breath. Enclosed spaces were hell to clear with a bow, and the pistol didn't give him the same sense of comfort as his preferred weapon.
"So either way, I'm fucked," Clint growled. "Nothing new there." And with a deep breath, he moved forward into the dark.
The entryway led directly to a T junction, the cap of which was a freestanding wall extending roughly a dozen feet in either direction. Pale light bled around the edges and as Clint held his position, he reveled in the absolute silence. If anyone was lurking nearby, then they weren't even so much as breathing. He crept to the left, back flush to the wall, movements slow and measured as he advanced toward the light. Another pause, and then a quick peek around the corner revealed a large chamber devoid of any life, light filtering in through the partially collapsed roof.
Clint moved deeper into the chamber, eyes darting about warily as he took note of his surroundings. Every inch of the walls were carved with mad scenes, all done in high relief, and the debris from the ruined roof had been pushed to the edges of the chamber. The room itself was dominated by a crude stone altar, crusted black streaks adorning the surface and spilling down the sides to form dark pools at the base.
"Well. Guess I found where they were offing all the locals," Clint sighed, his lip curled in disgust. "That's…a lot of blood."
Kneeling next to the altar, Clint brushed his fingers through the stain on the dirt floor, finding it mostly gone to powder. "Been a while since anyone used this spot, though," he mused before wiping his fingers on his pants and pushing back to his feet. "Big waste of time this turned out to be."
Turning to exit the chamber, Clint's eyes fell upon the mural carved into the freestanding wall, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Whoever had done this particular image had chosen realism over the abstract nightmares that capered around the rest of the room, and the effect was startling. The central focus was a man reclining on a large throne, an insolent smile on his face. And even chiseled in stone, Clint would have recognized those features anywhere. After all, that face stared down at him night after night; hissing out the possessive words that he craved so deeply.
"Loki," Clint breathed, taking a step toward the carving.
"You called," asked a familiar voice from behind him; satisfaction tempered with a touch of amusement dripping from his tone.
Clint whirled around, panic flaring in his gut as he was met with the sight of the god standing just to the side of the altar. Without a moment's hesitation, Clint had his gun aimed directly at Loki's left eye. "How the fuck are you here," he ground out, finger slowly tightening on the trigger. Just another half pound of pressure and the P30 would start singing its' war cry.
"Put that away," Loki said.
"You don't get to tell me what to do anymore," Clint answered in a tight voice. "Since you've been gone, I do what I want."
"And we both know you want to put that away," Loki purred as he moved back, putting the stone altar between them. His eyes bored into Clint's own, and that ghost of a smile rose again as he considered the archer's single-minded focus. He was so intent on keeping Loki in his sights, even though he knew that the weapon was useless against a god.
Clint fought to control the tremors he felt rising in his belly, making his gun hand waver just the slightest bit. He couldn't let Loki see just how much his presence affected him. If he did, then all was lost. 'It's already lost,' his mind babbled frantically. 'He's free; here; right in front of you. And there's not a goddamn thing you can do against him.'
"I'm gonna ask you again. How did you get here? You're supposed to be locked up back on Asgard."
"Yes, well, be that as it may, this is my temple," Loki stated, before sniffing in disdain. "I'll admit, it is not one of my finer places of worship. But no matter. It has served its' purpose and brought me to you."
"How?!"
Loki flashed that quick grin Clint was so familiar with; there one moment and gone the next. "I can travel to wherever my name is uttered in reverence. When the…desire is great enough, then it calls to me. You called to me."
"Am I dreaming," Clint asked frantically. "I must've fallen asleep on the transport, right? Because you're not… you just can't…" His voice broke then, the words falling into a small, shuddering sob as he finished, "You can't really be here."
The god frowned lightly at the expression of dismay on the archer's face and the growing tremors wracking that solid frame. "And yet I am," he answered coolly. "I assure you, Agent Barton, that you are not dreaming."
"Why are you doing this to me," Clint whispered. "The dreams. The things you do to me in those dreams. And now this. Why?"
"Because you wanted me to," Loki returned as he stroked those long fingers Clint knew so well over the surface of the altar. "Had you not called me to you that night so many months ago, then we would not find ourselves here now. I would currently be languishing in my cell, and you would be doing whatever it is mortals of your caliber do. But it seems that you wanted something…more."
"That's a lie," Clint said in a flat tone, still sighting down the barrel of his sidearm at Loki, yet hating himself for the glances he kept stealing at Loki's hand as they touched and stroked the filthy stone surface before him.
The god's eyes widened in mock hurt, and he affected a deeply offended tone. "Why, you wound me, my Hawk. I speak nothing but the truth in this matter. This is all your doing."
"I'd almost believe that if it wasn't for one thing."
"And what is that," Loki asked, his eyes glittering in amusement.
"You've gotten awfully…attentive lately. I'm starting to think you keep coming back for more because you like it. You like me."
With a feral snarl, Loki was across the room, twisting the P30 from Clint's grip and glaring down into the archer's eyes. "How dare you presume anything of the sort," he hissed. "You are the one who began this, and I continued it for no other reason than to break you, my Hawk. To remind you of where your loyalty truly belonged; where it would have remained had that meddlesome woman not interfered."
And with those few words, Loki confirmed all of Clint's suspicions. The god could protest all he wanted, but it was clear he returned night after night for more than just some half baked revenge scheme. Clint felt the tension and fear wane, and he returned Loki's glare with a steady gaze, a smirk plucking at the corner of his mouth. The god's brows drew together, and his glare turned to confusion as Clint remained silent for a log moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm.
"So, what you're saying is that you missed me."
Loki's jaw sagged and he narrowed his eyes at his Hawk. "You," he began, only to be cut off by the archer.
"I sorta missed you too. Not that I should, y'know, especially after that whole deal where you kidnapped me and tried to take over the world," Clint said pointedly. "But whatever. I've never been very good at doing what I should. And something tells me you're pretty much the same."
"Your insolence is becoming tiresome, Barton," Loki returned stiffly.
"So do something about it," Clint whispered, stepping closer to the dark god, his eyes burning up at him. "C'mon, Loki. You know you want to."
Clint watched with interest as the emotions cycled through Loki's gaze. Confusion warred with lust; anger glittered momentarily only to be overtaken by curiosity, and then all were washed away under an expression of want so deep that it was almost shocking in its' intensity.
"There you go," the archer murmured. "Once you stop lying to yourself, it's pretty fucking easy to see that there's more to this than just breaking me. Right?"
"Yes," Loki answered quietly, seeming shaken by the one small word.
"Took me a while to figure it out, too…so don't feel bad. Sometimes the easiest lies to believe are the ones we tell ourselves."
Loki's hand slipped up to circle around Clint's nape, and he turned his Hawk, pressing him back to lean against the altar. The god moved in close, hesitating for a long moment before brushing his lips over Clint's own. The pleased growl the mortal voiced sent a shiver down Loki's spine, and he deepened the kiss, nipping at the archer's lower lip before licking full across his mouth.
Clint bucked up against the god, his own hands going to Loki's hips to pull him flush against him, and the taller man gasped at the sudden motion. In their dream couplings, Clint had long been the subservient one; content to take whatever Loki deemed him worthy to have. It would seem that his Hawk was a bit more insistent in the waking world.
Well, if he wanted more, Loki would happily deliver.
"I want this off," Loki murmured against Clint's mouth, plucking at his tactical vest.
"Yes, sir," Clint replied, his hands leaving Loki's hips to pull down the zipper and quickly shrug out of the constrictive material. The god hummed appreciatively and dropped his head to mouth along the curve of Clint's shoulder, pressing sharp teeth into his collarbone before sucking a vibrant bruise into the archer's flesh.
Clint voiced a low moan, and dropped his hands to his belt, quickly pulling it free from the loops and thumbing the button of his pants open as he toed off his boots. Loki moved to the join of throat and shoulder, running his tongue up to lap just under Clint's ear as the smaller man eagerly shed himself of every stitch of clothing. And when he stood bare before the god, Clint took Loki's wrist and guided his hand to where he most wanted it.
Loki wrapped his long fingers firmly around Clint's arousal, earning a guttural cry from his Hawk. A predatory smile rose on the god's face, and he began to slowly stroke, thrilling to the immediate response from the archer.
"Ah, there is the desire of which I spoke," Loki murmured. "This is what drew me back to you. This deep seated need."
Clint slid his hand between their tightly pressed bodies to palm Loki's cock, fingers tracing the clear outline of the god's length. "Looks like it goes both ways, now doesn't it?"
Loki groaned and nipped the shell of Clint's ear. "Yes," he breathed. "Very much so, it seems."
Clint's hand rose to the fastenings of Loki's pants, quickly working open the buckles and ties. He slid the leather down just far enough to free the god's arousal before catching them both up in a tight fist. Loki drew back slightly, looking down as Clint slowly twisted his fist around their combined girth, ripping a needy whine from the taller man. His hips stuttered forward of their own accord, and Clint panted raggedly at the silken drag of Loki's cock against his own.
"Is this what you wanted," Clint asked, his hand beginning to move over them in long, languid strokes.
"This, and more," Loki gasped, raising his gaze to meet Clint's.
"Then take more. Take whatever you want."
"No," Loki replied hesitantly. "I-I've taken more than enough from you, my Hawk. Now I wish for you to ask, so that I may deliver."
That tone paired with the look of contrition in Loki's eyes stilled Clint's motions, and brought that now familiar ache up in his throat. He swallowed it down and considered the god's words for a moment before answering.
"You want me to ask for it, huh? Pretty sure we both want the same thing."
Loki gave him an expectant gaze, and Clint pulled him down to rasp out his request directly into the god's ear.
"What I want," he ground out. "Is for you to splay me out across this filthy altar of yours and fuck me senseless, Loki. You wanted to break me? Well now's your chance."
The low growl Loki voiced shot straight to Clint's cock, and he rutted his hips forward before finishing, "Please, Loki? Fuck me?"
Loki's only answer was to pull free from Clint's grasp and lever the archer up onto the edge of the altar. Clint fell back onto his elbows, and gazed down the line of his body at his needy god between his spread thighs. A smirk rose on the smaller man's face as Loki pressed in closer, murmuring a quiet incantation. He knew this particular trick very well, and when Loki's slick fingers slipped inside of his body, Clint arched his back and loosed a shout that echoed off the walls around them.
The god worked his Hawk's body expertly; long months of nightly visits having taught him all he needed to know of Clint's buttons. He slid long fingers deep, seeking, and finding the archer's spot, and pressing down against it as he slowly gripped and released Clint's cock with his other hand. His Hawk's hips stuttered, first pressing down on Loki's fingers, then bucking up into the tunnel of his fist, fucking himself in equal measure. And before long he began that quiet begging that never failed to break the god.
"Oh, please, Loki," he panted raggedly. "More. I need…-fuck-…I need you inside of me. Fuck me. Now!"
"There is nothing quite so enticing as when you beg, my Hawk," Loki murmured, pulling free from the archer's body. The piteous whimper the archer voiced, and the rolling motion of his hips sent a spike of lust directly to Loki's cock. He slicked himself quickly, and wrapped his hands around the backs of Clint's thighs, pushing them back and spreading his Hawk open for him. Loki teased the head of his cock over Clint's entrance, prompting a sobbing cry from the man beneath him. That feral grin played on Loki's lips as he ever so slowly pressed forward, breaching Clint's body.
The keening cry his archer uttered rang in Loki's ears, and the wanton motion of Clint's hips begged for the god to fill him, fuck him, take him. But he resisted the urge to rut savagely between the smaller man's spread thighs, choosing instead to set a slow and steady pace, delivering such delicious torment to them both. The friction of Loki's cock as it dragged over Clint's spot prompted a ragged, sobbing cry from his Hawk, and Loki replied with a pleased growl, drawing his hips back and pressing deep again and again. Clint's hands latched on to Loki's forearms, and the pleading gaze he turned upon the god was nearly enough to make him spill right then and there. But no, he knew what was coming next, and he was loathe to miss that which fanned the flames of his arousal so very high.
"P-please," Clint stuttered.
"Please, what, my Hawk," Loki questioned.
"Oh god, please," he gasped. "Just…-goddamn it, Loki-…fuck me."
"I am," the god teased, punctuating his words with a sharp snap of his hips.
"Harder," Clint wailed, his fingers digging into Loki's forearms.
With a pleased hum, Loki arched down over Clint's writhing frame, driving deep with a harsh thrust. Clint bucked beneath him, his arousal trapped between their bellies, and the archer gasped at the friction against his neglected cock.
"Yes," he growled. "Just. Like. That."
Loki smirked down into the lust hazed eyes of his Hawk, and nipped at his jaw. "Are you going to spill for me, Clint? You feel so very close…"
Clint nodded, his breath coming in ragged gasps as Loki assailed his spot with each savage thrust. The cold stone of the altar dug into his back, and he felt the tension in his belly growing tighter with each motion of the god's hips. He sobbed then, a broken sound falling from slack lips before he panted out, "Make me. Oh fuck, Loki, make me come on your cock."
"As you wish," Loki murmured, and redoubled his efforts to bring his Hawk to ruin. He rutted deep and hard, grinding his belly down with each thrust to tease against Clint's cock. And as the archer's moans grew more frantic, spiraling up into near screams, the god lowered himself further, whispering into Clint's ear and urging him on.
"I can feel you growing tighter around me, my Hawk. Now spill for me. Paint me with your lust; let go and come."
The melodious voice in his ear was Clint's breaking point, pitching him over the edge with a ragged shout, and his orgasm took him. The wet heat that pooled between their bellies and the sudden clenching tightness of Clint's body triggered Loki own release a moment later, and he howled out his completion as he ground his hips harder, deeper into the archer's.
And as each struggled to catch their breath, Loki caught Clint's bleary gaze and held it. "Mine," he asked hesitantly, afraid that the answer may have changed now that they had moved beyond dreams and consummated their lust in the waking world.
And with a lazy smile, Clint replied, "Yours. Absolutely."
