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It feels as natural as breathing to be on his knees in front of Loki. With his hands folded in the small of his back, head bowed, and back straight, there's something that almost feels like--standing to attention, in how important it is to get it right for his superior. But this will always carry so, so much more weight.
Clint has never known loyalty like this, never known worship like this. He didn't grow up religious; a couple vague memories of his Ma carting him and his brother off to Sunday school, maybe, but she died when he was young enough that it stopped mattering. He never believed in god--not out of a strong stance against it, but just because he never spent all that much time considering the subject to put any effort into belief, even if he had the inkling.
He sure fucking has the urge now. More than that--his belief has hit him hard like a tsunami, unable to be denied or ignored. His belief in Loki, in what the god can achieve. In his mission. In everything Loki deigns to grant Clint permission to have. It is...everything, to him.
Even this, right in this moment. Even doing nothing more than kneeling at his feet brings Clint a type of...satisfaction that he didn't even think possible. He never wants to be anywhere but here.
There's a soft, breathy chuckle from up above him, and then Loki's fingers slide through Clint's hair. They are long and cold, playing with the short strands of Clint's hair almost idly before the grip tightens. Clint stays perfectly pliant as Loki uses the grip to tilt his head back, forcing Clint's gaze up to meet Loki's own.
A Cheshire smile looks down at him. "Hello, Agent Barton," Loki purrs. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Yes, Sir," Clint says immediately, knowing the right answer to give even if it wasn't the truth--which it very much is. "How are you, Sir?"
It's instinct to ask after him. He wants to take care of Loki. He wants to give Loki everything his god desires, craves. Everything he could possibly need.
"So loyal," Loki muses, ignoring Clint's question. That's okay, though. Loki's inside his mind, his every atom. He doesn't need to answer his questions. "Who are you loyal to, Agent Barton?"
"You, Sir," Clint answers without hesitation. It's the truth. There's no one who could ever possibly come above his god in his eyes, not anymore. Not even close.
Loki's smile grows. He nods down at Clint, and then uses his free hand to begin undoing the laces of his pants.
Immediately, Clint lets his jaw fall slack. This isn't the first time his god has used him in this way, and he doubts it will be the last. He doesn't mind it. Had never done it before Loki, but, well--his god is a good teacher.
When Loki pulls his cock out of his pants, he's half-hard. He strokes himself lazily, staring down into Clint's eyes as he does so. Clint can't look away. He'd burn the fucking world down to keep Loki looking at him like this, like he's something truly fascinating. Him, a random ass SHIELD agent who uses a bow, fascinating to a literal god. It's...heady.
Slowly, almost torturously so, Loki feeds his cock into Clint's mouth inch by inch. He's a warm, familiar weight on Clint's tongue, long and thin, and Clint stays perfectly still, breathing through his nose as Loki's cock begins to slide down his throat.
"What a wonderful tool you make," Loki says with a groan and a laugh both, still grinning down at Clint. Clint would thank him, but his mouth is a little occupied at the moment.
With no warning, Loki suddenly snaps his hips forward, forcing the rest of his cock down Clint's throat in one quick motion and making him fight back a gag. From there, Loki doesn't stop--he fucks hard and fast, pistoning his hips and making Clint drool from how hard he's fucking him.
Clint doesn't mind. He thinks he might've once upon a time. Before Loki, before that staff of his. He thinks he might've minded getting fucked like this. But instead, Clint is hard as a rock in his pants, moaning as Loki fucks his throat brutally, taking Clint's body like it belongs to him--and it basically does. What is Clint anymore, if not an extension of Loki's will? What is his purpose, if not to serve his god? Does it matter if "serving" is on his knees or in the field? Clint doesn't think so.
"Is this not better?" Loki says, hair falling in front of his eyes as he roughly fucks Clint's face. "Is this not where you were made to be, ruled and serving? Is this not your life's true light?"
Clint would agree, if he could. He'd tell his god just how much he loves this, how this life he lives now is leagues above whatever it used to be, because he gets to serve Loki. The best thing that ever fucking happened to him was Loki looking at him and deciding to choose him--SHEILD, Natasha, everything that came before is nothing compared to this. And if Loki had only looked in a different direction, Clint might not've gotten this.
"I know," Loki continues, his tone almost mocking but Clint doesn't care. "I know, I see it in your mind--don't worry, Clint Barton. I won't forsake you. You will serve me until your last dying breath, and maybe in your next life beyond."
With a moan, Clint comes in his pants. His hips jerk upward in pointless search for friction, but it's not like he needs it; Loki's words to him are enough. Loki' claim, his bold statement of ownership not just in this lifetime, but in anything that might come after--fuck, how was Clint supposed to hold off when hearing shit like that?
Loki follows him down soon after, hips jerking and breaths stuttering as he comes down Clint's throat.
For a long minute after, Loki doesn't move, keeping himself sheathed inside Clint's mouth, his throat, a familiar and solid weight on his tongue. Clint, in turn, doesn't move either, allowing his god the respite he needs.
For a few moments, it's pure peace. Soon, they'll have to be in action again. They'll have to carry out Loki's plans, get him the throne he desires. But for right now, Clint allows himself to bask in this peace with the god who chose him still resting on his tongue.