"I SEE BETTER FROM A DISTANCE"
The manacles rubbed against his wrists, breaking opening barely healed blisters from the last time he was chained this way, hands curled around the iron pipe, knees raw against the icy concrete floor. The cold seeped into his naked flesh, head hanging between his burning shoulders, arms outstretched until his back muscles screamed in pain. The only heat Clint felt was from Loki's body, bent over him, cock buried deep inside, rocking him with each thrust.
Grabbing Clint's hair at the scruff of his neck, Loki wrenched his head up, leaning in to whisper, "Still you fight me, fight my power. Even now, when you should be completely in my control. I can feel it inside you."
Clint groaned, his body responding, painfully hard, but denied release by Loki's order.
"You are mine." Dropping Clint's head, Loki dug hands into Clint's hips instead, changing his angle, sending a jolt of pleasure through the agent. "Say it."
"I am yours," he repeated, unable to stop himself from obeying the demand. "But it's not me you want," he managed to grind out between clenched teeth. Nails cut into skin and drew blood as Loki tightened his grip, pounding into Clint, angry now, words gasped out with each thrust.
"You don't know me. How they saw me. How they called his name when they came. Sneered at me if he smiled at them. Ignored me to be discarded by him. So many women. He never saw them. Never. Saw. Me."
With a powerful final plunge, Loki came, spilling into the agent, leaving Clint aching with need and unfulfilled as Loki pulled out and rolled off him. Sagging to his knees, Clint dragged in deep breaths, forcing away his own climax, grimacing with effort.
"Why does it bother you so, archer? You fight my will, why care about my motives?"
"You call his name," Clint managed to say. "No one likes to be runner-up. To not be seen."
The next moments were silent; eyes squeezed shut, Clint could feel his heart beating wildly in time with the blood pulsing in his swollen shaft. It was the lightest of touch at first, a gentle stroke followed by a more firm grip, working him until he dropped over the edge, coming violently with a moan.
"Clint," he whispered. "I just may let you have your little red-head. Before you kill her, of course."
Trapped inside, wrapped in chains of magic, Clint screamed, struggling against the image of his hands, covered in Tasha's blood, forcing himself to shove it all aside, to watch, to observe. He filed away the information, adding new weaknesses to be analyzed, waiting for his chance.