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Trickster's Gambit	By : Andartha Category: Marvel Verse Movies > Avengers, The Views: 2529 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers. They belong to Marvel. Like all the other fans, I only get to play with them a bit, in an entirley non-profit kind of way.

Chapter List
- 1-Burned
- 2-Stolen
- 3-Split
- 4-Bound
- 5-Hunted
- 6-Fallen & Cracked
- 7-calmed
- 8-Settled
- 9-Sparked
- 10-Sneaked
- 11-Pranked
- 3
- 4
- 5
The suite is an opulent study in the fancier aspects of Rococo. The Bed is a huge four-poster affair with sheets white as snow and a baldachin of diaphanous alabaster silk above the top half. Opposite the bed there’s a love-seat and a set of chairs, the slimly curving legs and backrests done in pale gold wood that is wrought with curlicues. They’re upholstered with dark-green velvet that matches the drawn drapes.
It’s the kind of romantic honeymoon set-up that would make a freshly married bride squeal with delight.
For his part, he’s close to puking his guts out, his heart is pounding away at a mile a minute and his mouth has gone dry as the Gobi desert.
Loki has reverted to his usual medieval-style outfit and has settled down comfortably on the love-seat, leaving his thrall standing in front of the bed.
He’s trying not to look the god in the face, which is partly due to the thrall, who wishes to show his deference to his master, and partly due to himself, who, right here and now, can’t bear to look at the triumphant sneer on Loki’s face.
All the way from the elevator to here, when he noticed that his hands, his, not the thrall’s, were trembling, he’s been desperately fighting to regain more control of his body.
He’s breathing hard, sides heaving with the effort, but nothing. NOTHING.
The thrall will only let him move as long as he makes NO move whatsoever that has even a remote chance of somehow defying his master. And since he is also the thrall, the thrall knows, instantly, even when the move starts innocently enough.
“Agent Barton?”
“Yes……sir?” A small pause in his speech, innocuous enough. But it’s more than he had an hour ago. Whatever the price, he needs to keep up his struggle. He mustn’t lose the hope that sooner or later, he will break free. Somehow.
“I wish to see you, Agent Barton.”
The trickster’s voice is barely above a whisper and there’s a haunting, hollow note to it, like the wind whistling across the empty steppe.
“All of you. Strip.”
His weapons and his body armour are the first things to go. He moves slowly, as if fighting a harsh wind, trying to take his time as he neatly arranges his things on one of the chairs. The tools of his trade blend with the delicate chairs like a Hell’s Angel would blend in with the debutantes at the Vienna Opera Ball.
Vest.
Shirt.
His upper body is naked now and the trickster’s eyes are burning on his skin like sunrays concentrated through a magnifying glass. He remembers the short conversation between Loki and Director Fury and can’t help but think of a sadistic kid burning ants on the sidewalk on a sunny day.
He kneels to take off his boots. They’re special issue, a high-tech fabric that’s supple and yet solid enough to protect his feet from projectiles, and it’s fitted with a flexible, yet durable sole made for swift running, silent sneaking and difficult climbing. Having them designed had been Coulson’s idea. Something up to par with SHIELD’S Hawkeye’ very special skill set, Phil had said.
There are throwing knives in a hidden compartment, barely larger than a needle, but he’s been known to kill with them. It would take but the blink of an eye to slide them out of their hiding place and palm them, he tries, he even undoes the latch on one of pockets….and then he sets the boots aside, the knives still inside.
Loki chuckles.
Socks.
Pants.
Briefs.
He’s naked.
And something he hasn’t been for more than a decade: completely unarmed.
His mouth is dry and he swallows.
He shoots a glance towards the Trickster God. Loki’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded, eyes filled with the kind of hunger one would expect in a starved wolf.
“Agent Barton?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you on the middle of the bed, on your back. And spread your legs for me.”
The sheets beneath him feel crisp and clean as he climbs atop them, the scent of freshly washed cotton at odds with how soiled he feels.
As he settles into position, he can hear the hard click of Loki’s boots on the hardwood floor as the Trickster approaches. He pauses at the bottom of the bed, raking his eyes over the naked body laid out before him and there’s an appreciative gleam in his eyes…and Clint can feel himself flush. With anger. With hatred. With embarrassment.

If past experience is anything to go by, his face has just gone beet-red.
He expects the Trickster to chuckle at his obvious bodily reaction…to make some snide remark about the weakness of humans…but no. There’s just an intense kind of focus settling over the Trickster, one that parallels the keen attention the scientists paid the Tesseract.
Loki hasn’t undressed. Even the long coat is still on, including the armoured shoulder piece. Way to stress who’s top dog around here. Asshole. Clint snarls and he can feel his lips curl so that his teeth show.
Unfazed, Loki crawls on top of him, lodging one knee right beneath Clint’s balls and the other beside his right thigh. He holds himself above Clint, arms slightly bent, an unholy amusement now twinkling in his eyes. Briefly, he bends down to nuzzle the sensitive spot of skin just behind his thrall’s ear, and goose-bumps run over Clint’s arms. The thrall turns his head, giving his master better access. A nip to the earlobe, and the thrall sharply inhales, his insides going tight with delighted anticipation.
Whatever Loki has planned…it looks like it’s not going to be anything at all like what they did in the Balkans. No dirty, broken floor, with splinters digging into his knees and hands. No hits to the stomach that leave him puking, unable to resist while he’s pushed down and into position. Hawkeye is not sure if it’s a good thing.
Loki backs up a bit and, gripping his thrall’s chin, forces Clint to look at him.
“Say, Agent Barton. Do you hate me?”
“Yes”. The word, once spoken, calls the feeling to the front. Clint welcomes the hatred’s renewed heat coursing through his veins, heady like old whiskey. He plans to get well and truly drunk on it. Maybe if he can immerse himself in his hatred deep enough, there won’t be enough of him left to feel what the God is doing to him.
He knows that Loki can feel his hatred. Feels how Loki regards it with the same amusement that a cat might feel when confronted with a squeaking mouse. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he has to keep trying to hold on to himself…has to keep trying to find a way out.
Loki laughs quietly and moves back down. Clint can feel the mattress give way as the Trickster settles between his captive’s legs.
“Look at me. Look at me and don’t turn away unless I tell you otherwise.”
The trickster is poised over his thrall’s thighs, his mouth but inches away from the Agent’s limp cock. His breath feels hot on Clint’s skin.
Loki’s tongue flicks out, pink and narrow, and laves the head.
Agent Barton got himself circumcised when he entered the SHIELD. He’d known that missions would take him to some pretty unsavoury places, where a proper wash might be impossible for months, and he hadn’t favoured the thought of getting jungle rot on his junk. Not having a foreskin made keeping clean easier and reduced the risk of infection. The ensuing loss of sensitivity hadn’t been too bad, but he had ended up needing longer and more intense stimulation in order to come.
The tongue that’s tracing a languid pathway across his glans is slightly rough, more like that of a cat than that of a human, and the intense sensation sends a different kind of fire exploding along his nerves.
He gasps, hates himself for it, and Loki feeding him his satisfaction at his thrall’s reaction along their mind-link just pushes home the point that he’s holding a losing hand in this game.
What comes next makes him feel like he’s pushed the panic switch on a jet’s ejection seat and is now tumbling through the air, out of control, unable to tell up from down.
Lick.
Pause.
Lick.
Fire racing through his veins, making his heart pound.
A hot tongue running slowly up and down his hardening cock.
The firm pressure of a kiss to his balls.
The tip of a finger stroking his perineum and the thrall spreads his legs some more, wider, to give his master better access.
Agent Barton is panting hard…and it takes every inch of his self-control not to push forward with his hips, towards that hot and wet mouth, begging for more. For harder, faster.
Loki’s mouth is flush against the rock-hard length of his thrall’s erection and Agent Barton can feel the bastard’s mouth curve in a smile against his flesh. He growls, the harsh sound abruptly snapped off as Loki obliges to his captive’s unvoiced desire and slides his mouth all the way down.
And Agent Barton’s mind goes blank, not with the blue glow of being overtaken, but with the blinding heat that comes with pushing deep into the welcoming mouth of a lover.
That rough tongue is rubbing along the underside of his dick, its’ rhythm sometimes fast and sometimes slow, but never something he can anticipate. Loki will pull back some, then push forward, more, deeper, so that, not before long, instead of hitting the palate, the tip of his glans is gliding down the trickster’s throat, the convulsing pressure of the man swallowing around his length pulling unwilling moans of desire from him.
Agent Barton catches himself reaching downward, wanting to bury his fingers in the silky softness of lanky black hair.
The movement is all his own, no thrall involved.
In combat situations, conscious thought takes a back-seat and the movements that guide his hands are mostly pure reflex.
In the split-second where he finds himself moving, freely, uncontrolled, he goes for it.
His left hand balls into a fist, his arms pull back, ready to see if a solid hit to the temple is sufficient to temporarily daze a God. The right continues on his way to Loki’s hair, ready to grab, hold on, yank closer, all to better hit the trickster in the face.
Before he’s even halfway there, his body bucks.
Shudders.
Stops.
Falls back.
Loki doesn’t even pause in his tender ministrations, the unconcern echoing along the mind-link adding insult to the injury.
After this, Agent Barton keeps his hands above his head. If he can’t move to fight, then he’d rather not move at all. He hates the way his hands shake despite this, so bad, the tremors of a drug addict desperate for his next hit would look steady by comparison.
The hand that has been fondling his perineum, with the occasional stroke of a thumb across his balls for variety, disappears for a moment, only to return, slick with some kind of oil.
The tip of a finger rubs across his anal ring, lightly at first, but then with ever more pressure, until the tip suddenly pushes beyond the sphincter and Loki is inside of him.
Hawkeye bucks beneath his captor, hard, unable to hold still as the thrill of being touched THERE and just like THAT explodes through his body like molten rock from the very core of the earth; and he curses himself as he does so, for his lack of discipline, hating himself for his weakness; eyes burning.
*Close your eyes, archer.* His enemies’ voice in his head, gentle, like the illusory warmth that envelops you just before the frost kills you.
For once, he has no problems obeying his enemies’ orders. It’s bad enough that Loki can FEEL his prisoner’s shame, so allowing Clint to hide the helpless desire that’s no doubt written all over his face is a boon that he’ll take gladly, tainted as it is.
Of course, closing his eyes makes him even more keenly aware of the sensation as Loki slowly works his finger in deeper, in step with the burning caress of his tongue along his victim’s rock-hard erection. And then Loki hits that sweet spot deep inside of him and he can’t hold a muffled shout in as the touch sends shockwaves of mindless bliss reverberating through his system.
Fuck.
If the trickster god keeps this up, he’ll be coming before not too long.
After a while, a second finger joins the first, pumping into him, in and out, in and out, widening him, pushing him to the edge.
He can feel the tightening of his balls that speaks of imminent release, but then, abruptly, the mouth withdraws, leaving his cock aching and weeping, and the fingers still their movement inside of him.
Unable to think, swamped in sensation, a soft, mewling, begging sound escapes him, wordless but no less real.
Loki shifts, leaning forward so he can whisper in his ear.
“If I were doing this with a lover, I’d stretch him more, so my entry would be all pleasure, and no pain….but you’re not my lover and this is not supposed to be a romantic tryst, is it?
He feels Loki draw back, the fingers slip out of him and he hears the rustling of cloth. A few heartbeats later, his legs are bent and roughly shoved backwards so his hips tilt upwards, a position that fully exposes him to the Trickster’s assault.
And an assault it is. Loki shoves violently into him and there’s a burning, ripping sensation as the Trickster pushes in to the hilt.
It hurts as bad as a stab-wound to the gut.
Without giving his captive time to adjust, no time at all, Loki pulls back again, almost all the way, only to slam back in, brutally. His defences worn down to almost nothing, Hawkeye tries to hold in a whimper…and fails.
Loki laughs, the sound harsh like breaking ice. He pumps into Clint’s body, the rhythm pounding and unforgiving like heavy artillery fire. It HURTS and the sudden fall from rapturous bliss to unbearable agony is too fast, too sudden for Clint to process.
What’s left of his inner defences is torn to shreds and he can feel tears sting in his still closed eyes and overflow down his cheeks.
Loki slows down.
A bit at first, then more, and finally stops.
He reaches up and Hawkeye feels him intertwining his fingers with his own. Needing something to hold on to….anything to hold on, to give him stability in this world that’s falling apart, he grips Loki’s hands as hard as a drowning man might hold on to a floating piece of driftwood.
For a few heartbeats, there is silence…stillness…only broken by Hawkeyes’ jagged breaths that sound perilously close to sobs.
The pain slowly ebbs, until it is no more than an ache, no worse than a slightly pulled muscle.
Slowly, Loki pulls down their hands, still fiercely clasped together like those of condemned-to-death lovers. He lets them rest on the covers at the height of their shoulders.
“Look at me.”
Clint squeezes his eyes shut more tightly.
*LOOK at me*
Bile rises in his throat and Hawkeye swallows once, hard. Then, slowly, he obeys.
The first thing he notes is that Loki….Loki almost naked save for a wide-open medieval shirt with billowing sleeves….is a beautiful creature, all cream skin and dark-rose nipples. His ears told him that Loki was undressing (magicking his clothes away?) when he heard cloth rustling earlier on and the skin on skin touch that followed confirmed it.
However, he finds that what he heard has badly prepared him for what he sees. Disregarding the queasy feeling in his stomach, his mouth seems to think it a great idea if he could rise up and lick those nipples….tease them with his tongue and teeth until they hardened under the onslaught.
What for a fucking brilliant moment for his libido to pipe up. Agent Coulson would say something about his arousal being a normal, physical reaction to external stimulation, but he won’t make excuses to himself like that. Furious at himself, at his body which is betraying him, he reflects on how maybe getting circumcised was too small a step and he should have gotten himself castrated instead.
The second thing he notes is that there is no malice in the Trickster’s face, just something that looks like….sorrow? Bitterness?
Lord, he must be really out of it, if his brain is trying to con him into thinking that there’s anything akin to a softer human emotion in this psychotic killer.
He can feel his anger flash upward through the link like lightning, and Loki winces, breaking the eye-contact for a second, but then he looks back, grim determination turning his eyes into cold green jade and jaw clenched tight so that his mouth is pressed into a firm line.
“Keep your eyes on mine and don’t break contact. Not until you’re going over the edge.”
And then Loki begins moving again. Small, shallow thrusts. Very, very slowly.
Hawkeye’s half-flagged cock is lying on his belly and Loki lowers himself a bit so it’s squeezed between their bodies. Not too much. Just so it gets some friction as the Asgardian moves on top of it.
Hawkeye’s breath hitches.
The trickster’s going deeper again, still holding the slow pace he set. He’s scraping up against that sweet spot inside of Clint again, and Clint mutters an unbelieving curse as he feels himself grow full and hard once more.
Loki’s features relax somewhat and he takes a deep breath, one that Clint mirrors.
The thrusts grow harder, faster again, and with the burn of friction the pain returns too. Clint tenses up and Loki mutters a soft curse.
The mind-link shifts….expands…and from one moment to the next, the pain is washed away by a wave of blinding arousal.
Not his.
Loki’s.
Clint muffles a scream, bites down, teeth clenched, and he can taste blood where he nicked his lower lip.
Loki pulls back.
Pushes back in.
And Clint defiantly lifts his hips to meet him.
His reward is seeing the Trickster’s eyes go wide and his eyes light with a fire that rivals the sun in its’ heat. The renewed wave of lust that races down the link, flooding through Clints’ body and pooling in his groin, is forceful enough to leave him gasping for breath like a fish on dry land.
He’s not the only one affected. Loki blinks and swallows. Licks his lips. Starts to say something…but then doesn’t.
They breathe, oddly in sync now.
Eyes locked, green on blue, carefully gauging each others’ reaction, they begin to move together.
The archer wraps his legs around the trickster, pulling him deeper inside, and it’s the tricksters’ turn to moan, an edge of bleakness in his voice.
Clint smiles and does it again.
Loki takes up the challenge and pushes in. Faster. Deeper. Rougher.
They writhe on the covers, bucking, twisting, shoving.
What started slow grows frantic, edged.
Clint’s eyes never leave Loki’s, and there’s a part of him that wishes he could see from a distance, wishes he could see clearly, but he’s too close and everything blurs.
Their violent dance on the sheets reaches its’ cusp and Loki rears up, eyes closing, body curved backward like a bow. The sight is the one thing that pushes Clint over the edge and he takes the Trickster with him.
The shared climax mauls them with the ferocity of a hurricane, scattering their thoughts to the howling wind like up-rooted trees.
Clint can feel Loki spilling his seed deep within his body, there’s a slight burn to it as if it were spiked with sharp spices, and then he’s shooting his own load, the pearly liquid spattering up to his chest.
Loki collapses on top of him, and for a good long while, it seems that all which either of them seems is able to do, is to re-learn how to breathe.
Hawkeye can feel the mind-link collapse in on itself, shrinking until it is only a fraction of the size that it was.
He twitches his fingers, which are still intertwined with Loki’s.
There’s no reaction either from the thrall, who seems to have disappeared entirely, or from his “master”.
Letting go of Loki’s hands and making a jab for his eyes with both thumbs, all the while trying to knee the bastard in the groin is one fluid, integrated combat move.
It doesn’t go anywhere.
Loki might not be the fighter Thor is, but he has been trained as warrior. Plus he’s larger than Clint, and inhumanely strong, nevermind his speed that would put a striking rattle-snake to shame.
Dazed and ears ringing from a light blow to the head, he finds himself face-down on the bed, arms twisted painfully behind his back, with Loki kneeling down on his legs.
He hasn’t felt this helpless, this useless, this cornered since Jacques…teacher…mentor…father figure…beat the crap out of him when he discovered Duquesne was embezzling money from the circus, and then left him for dead.
All he can do is bury his head in the soft pillows beneath and scream out his anger, his fear, his hatred of himself and of the monster that took away his freedom.
Loki lets him.
Lets him scream himself almost hoarse.
Lets him buck and twist and kick-out beneath him, even though they both know it is futile.
Lets him vent until he feels hollowed out and spent, a puppet with its’ strings cut.
And then Loki bends down to whisper in his ear once more.
“Obey.”
“NO!”
“Obey me.”
“…no…no…”. It’s more a sob than words.
*OBEY ME*
“Yes.”
And just like that, he can feel the thrall coming back to the forefront, taking over. Taking control.
As Loki gets off him, he sits up, ready to follow his master wherever he may lead him.
Ready to follow whatever orders he might be given.
Loki pushes him back down on the mattress. He doesn’t resist.
Whatever his master wishes to do to him is fine.
But all Loki does is get off the bed and pick up the covers that have been pushed down to the floor during their tussle. He spreads them atop his thrall, tucks him in.
“You still have one hour until you have to be back on your post. You will sleep for a half an hour, soundly and restfully. Then the concierge will make a call to this room to wake you up. Clean yourself then and report back to me.”
The thrall obeys.

Note:
On circumcision:
While it might offer benefits e.g. if you’re in a place where hygiene might be an issue, I believe that the one who gets circumcised should be the one who gets to makes the call, not the parents.
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Trickster's Gambit