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Trial Run

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He doesn’t need it, neither for practical reasons nor for shadier ones, nevertheless Loki indulges in asking agent Barton, “How do I look?” when he last knots the tie around his Midgarian formal attire. His reflection on the tall mirror shows his majesty subdued to mortal finesse, and from the doorway of his chambers, respectful distance kept for what he assumes is a professional call, the killer studies Loki slowly from glossy shoes to sharp-cut coat and slicked hair then all the way back before eyeing his master levelly.

“You’ll mingle perfectly with the target, sir,” he answers, all military efficiency. Loki smiles indulgence as he steps up to his puppet, extending a hand to brush a nonchalant thumb to Hawkeye’s delectably firm lip line.

“That’s the intention, yes, and while your analysis is perfectly accurate, I was aiming for more… personal input,” he whispers, letting both his arms wrap gingerly around the killer’s neck. “Do you like what you see, agent Barton?”

No, he doesn’t need it – Loki can do without the renewed once-over blue eyes do of him, he can spare the thrill he only feels running down Barton’s spine because he’s got his fingers on his skin, he can ignore the pleasant heat of the human’s solid body slowly pressing closer to his. His degree of dependence on such niceties is entirely nil, but they are niceties indeed. Loki is meant for greatness, but he’d be a fool to invalidate the fun aspects of base instinct when it’s so much more profitable to play with them.

Power is but an illusion if it’s not used, and master of illusions that Loki is, he’s grown quite fed up of not enjoying the things he’s entitled to, regardless of their significance. “I don’t need a vantage point to say it’s a great view from any given angle,” Hawkeye says as he dares breathe the same air that his master does, chin up to make his nose graze Loki’s, a note of husk scratching at his voice even past the monotonic edge it’s taken ever since Loki’s control therapy. “I really can’t see what’s there not to like, sir.”

“And if you can’t see it, it probably doesn’t exist, isn’t that right?” Loki laughs out loud once, then pushes the human fully into his chambers and onto his mattress. He collects his scepter from the vanity beside the mirror so with a gesture both the bedroom door and the minds of his minions are blocked from any attempts of intrusion during his playtime. It’s still awhile until he has to interrupt the human feast, and it’ll be no trouble to recompose himself for the big event. Besides Loki’s fondness of tinkering with his disguises, slight debauchery never went astray on his complexion: his scarf hangs to brush Hawkeye’s thighs as Loki bends to look the seated man on his sharp blue eyes, shining even bluer from Loki’s touch – soon his fingers go alongside the wool, kneading on tight muscles over clothing, evaluating the primitive strength they must show when trapping Loki between them . “And what would you do if I granted you privilege over that sight you so appreciate? What would I have you do to me, Barton?”

“Whatever made you scream yourself senseless,” and Barton is bold to wrap his archery fingers around his tie and pull Loki into a kiss that is all heat, tongue and boundless desire. Morality and free will truly are disposable traits of humankind – Loki likes this raw, rough, docile version of his to-be underlings so much better than the spirited twigs they make themselves into when running loose. He’s seen Barton’s mind, felt the absurd and misguided sense of goodness and duty that justifies and drives his killing hand – the way the man kisses, Loki knows he’s doing him a favor by tracing his destiny in his stead.

It takes a few more swipes of a hot tongue for Loki to settle around his legs, holding a fistful of light hair on one hand and grabbing a rock-solid forearm on the other, letting Barton’s teeth slide from their lip-swelling meeting to close on the line that shows over his shirt collar. From the heavy slits of his eyes Loki can only watch tendons work on Barton’s neck, his shoulder roll in delicious sync to the callused fingers that snake and scratch up Loki’s back. His breath scorches at Loki’s ear and a feral growl rumbles at the back of his throat as the god grinds their bodies closer, hips crushed together and torsos brushing at burning points past the wondrous tangle of arms they’ve sunk into. It’s truly a marvel to feel Hawkeye’s arousal pressing at him from the slow twist of his rear end, and Loki isn’t surprised to feel quite the matching strain inside his own garments.

“Off with that uniform of yours,” Loki smiles, detaching Barton’s truly talented mouth from his neck by pulling at his hair with both hands. The good soldier doesn’t bother with removing himself from such a position before dealing with zippers and buckles – the efficiency involved in presenting him with thoroughly delectable shirtless entertainment is not lost on Loki’s evaluation. His push is even gentle as he makes Barton lie down on the bed, and he doesn’t need to be told to arrange himself better while Loki undoes the top of his shirt and tie and divests of his scarf and jacket. As soon as that fabric is on the floor Loki starts carving bruises with his teeth on the fragile and lethal planes of his chest and shoulders – this one Loki wants marked, if only because he can. “I hear you have quite the sharp tongue, Barton.”

“Some people can’t deal with the heat I pack,” Hawkeye rolls his eyes and puts his hands under his head, smiling up at Loki. How such a small creature can believe itself entitled to such smugness is beyond Loki, but this once, he decides to find it endearing – the eyebrow that climbs up his forehead as Loki moves up his body to straddle his chest is just the finishing touch. “And I guarantee, I’m not just talking about talking.”

“I trust on that,” Loki easily undoes his belt and zips down his dress pants, finishing ruining the straight press it once sported as he pushes it just down to his thighs. Barton’s breath rushes as he leans forward, holding his cock to smear its tip against the man’s parted lips – toned arms anchor Loki’s thighs and rough fingers steady him by the hipbones, and then Hawkeye takes a mouthful of his length.

The laziest of grins spreads on Loki’s face in tide with the hot tightness flooding him, hardening him even further against Hawkeye’s tongue – and he’s so sure, as he feels that controlled puppet pleasure him with mouth and soul, that he doesn’t need any of it. Barton sucks at the tip and licks at the track of veins and chokes on the full length down his throat, and Loki doesn’t need it - but he can, he absolutely and utterly can, so we thrusts slowly and deeply into that obliging heat and rides the thrill of carnal fulfillment and enforced power that courses up his spine.

The headboard squeaks under Loki’s hold, one arm supporting his increasingly shaking frame and the other pulling his shirttails out of the engrossing sight of his cock disappearing into the spit-and-tongue wonder of Hawkeye’s mouth. Barton’s fingers close almost possessively on Loki’s ass, flexing on his flesh in time with suction and licks, and Loki pets his messed-up spikes with condescending appreciation. “You do love running that mouth of yours, I see,” instead of letting Barton speak in his defense, though, Loki just fucks his throat harder and lets his tongue do the explaining – he’s fluent in blowjob, Loki will give him that.

Loki knows exactly where his hold on the human’s mind stops and where his psyche starts, and that pleased pride shining on Barton’s face is of Loki’s doing only up to the point it comes from hearing a string of moans escape the god’s chest.

Loki is pretty much riding Hawkeye’s face by the time the sheer decadence of the whole scenario sends him over the boundaries of his body. He spills his ecstasy and contempt down Barton’s waiting tongue with the shout of a freed prisoner and lingers on that wet, welcoming heat for a few moments longer, then deprives Barton of the focus of his oral fixation by moving to sit at his side, back against the headboard and satisfaction poisoning his every last organ.

“Will you help me over here?” Barton asks after a few minutes of Loki’s unmoving basking in the sensations, therefore the exiled prince cracks one eye open to examine the still nicely tented front of Hawkeye’s uniform.

The downside of being the incarnation of chaos is, sometimes, the excess of completely flawless opportunities to take. “Oh, I believe I have just been spoiled beyond redemption,” he grins, petting Hawkeye’s hair lightly, “however I would never turn down a spectacle.”

Laughter shakes his marionette, then he kneels on the mattress and kisses Loki again – tasting his taint on that mortal vessel very nearly quiets the unrest that thrashes and turns inside Loki. “You would be the kind of guy to go for a show when he could fuck me blind instead,” Barton whispers against his neck, pushing his own trousers off his hips, curling a hand around his half-hard cock .

“Oh, that I could. I could do a great many things to you,” Loki could do everything and anything to him, truly, and that knowledge is both reassuring and hilarious, “but I’d much rather enjoy what you could do for me. Impress me, agent Barton. Make me want what only you can give.”

“Wow, no pressure there, boss,” he trails nips down Loki’s jawbone before settling down in the middle of the bed, legs spread as wide as his barely-lowered pants will allow, torso propped up on his left elbow while that hand rests languidly on his stomach. The right one is more occupied thumbing the crown of his cock, squeezing hardened flesh in a sure grip, stroking up and down in a deliberate pace. “Talk to me, sir. Your voice is damn hot.”

Loki crawls the bed to sit beside him again, pressed against his side, looking at his working hand over his shoulder. “Do you want to listen how I’d fuck you like an animal, Barton?” he whispers to his ear, fingers caressing his waist in tandem with the masturbation almost as an afterthought. “Do you want to know how I’d have you on your fours, drooling on the carpet and sobbing my name? Because you’d have forgotten even your own. You’d forget everything but the fact I was there, all over you, inside you.”

“Yes,” and that acceptance is so deep, so corrupt, so human, Loki can only laugh softly at his ear while Barton jerks off faster, harder, playful twists of fingers forgotten in face of stronger pulls up the shaft.

“I’d have you spread out, taking me to the hilt, and you’d come without touching yourself at all,” Loki runs his palms up and down his sides, squeezes his legs, bites at his neck while his rhythm only increases. “And when you were finished I’d keep on driving and driving into that tight ass of yours ‘cause you can take it. You’d like it. I’d use every last inch of you and you’d grovel for more.”

“Yes,” he chokes, blue eyes very nearly glowing – control and will clashing, meshing, becoming one and the same, right arm pumping up and down in a violent rhythm. Loki watches his body tense up, sweat roll down the lean planes of his strong, fragile human frame, desperation move his hand around the stiff burn that zeroes all his basest needs. “Yes, yes, yes…”

“I’d take everything from you, and you’d love it.” It’s the truth of humankind, and Hawkeye shudders in his embrace. “You would love every second of it.”

“Yes,” Loki slides a hand from his jaw to his neck, down his heaving chest and past the quivering muscles of his abdomen, to cup a nonchalant hand around the tip of his cock. Barton grunts between his gritted teeth as he coats the god’s hand in white, and Loki chuckles “Good boy” to the short bristle of his hairline.

Barton sprawls on Loki’s bed, spent – meanwhile the Asgardian prince licks his hand clean, nice and thorough, enjoying the bitter tang of corruption far too much. In lazy steps he stands up in front of his mirror and pulls his suit straight, all buttons and zippers and semblance of harmless normalcy. Since his coming to Earth he hasn’t felt such ease of spirit, but making proper use of his resources on a small level reassures him of his conviction on the greater tasks that lie ahead.

Loki has a mission to accomplish tonight – a war to win in the coming days – but he knows he’s just conquered invaluable shares of humankind right on that bed. “We take off to Stuttgart in half an hour, agent Barton. Take care of any pending details.”

“Roger that, sir,” Barton breathes out, tossing his shirt back on, hypnotized eyes searching for Loki’s reflected gaze in the mirror. Loki smiles him off, sees him straighten out and return to base to round his infiltration team up.

Loki only hopes taking over the rest of Midgard is at least halfway as fun as that.