WARNING/DISCLAIMER: Trigger Warnings for Rape/Non-Consensual Sexual Abuse. Disclaimer: This story is not how I envision Loki. This story was an exercise in dark writing, a method of working through some issues of my own. I prefer to not turn this into a discussion/debate over Loki's character arc or morality. I understand that this is not how events occurred in MCU canon. If you do not wish to read a story in which Loki performs some truly heinous acts, then please don't read any further.
Track 1: "Bodies" by Drowning Pool
Draw. Load. Focus. Aim. Fire.
Around a second, give or take. Clint's done better, but he's done a lot worse.
Draw. Load. Focus. Aim. Fire.
Shred the target, move on to the next.
Draw. Load. Focus. Aim. Fire.
If I keep going, I won't get caught again. Stay back, stay moving, stay high or low or just out of the goddamned way, but...he...he won't catch me again, Clint swears to himself, circling the targets for the seventeenth time. There's a spot behind those crates, under that ledge, around that column. Exit, exit is behind and another to the left, behind the false wall.
Draw. Load. Focus. Aim. Fire.
Nat thinks Clint just needs to get back into a routine, find himself in old habits and old friends (and new friends, apparently, God bless the motherfucking Avengers). Of all the people in this building, though, Nat should know better. Clint knows she does, actually, because she's been just about where he is now. Hell, she was raised just about where he was just a few weeks ago, and...and…
Frost creeps over his skin, dancing delicate and intricate patterns of blistering frostbite along his forearms and fingers.
Not my hands, not my hands, oh, God, please not my hands-
"Agent Barton, your loyalty never ceases to amaze me. What information would you care to present to me today?"
The chill lifts for a brief moment, inviting and almost erotic in the relief of its absence. Deep within himself, Clint screams, shrieks, shreds his fingers bloody against the walls of ice entrapping his mind. Even down here in this frozen hell, though, he still feels his body move willingly, eagerly forward, feels his lips forming the words, hears his voice spilling the deepest secrets and trusts given to him by those he cares for the most: Coulson, the handler who took a mediocre agent and made him a legend; Fury, who took a fucking carnie and made him something worth looking at twice; and Nat, well...there's a special place in Hell reserved for the two of them, and God and all the angels in Heaven help Satan when the two of them finally kick it.
He can feel lips against his cheek, silken flesh moving along the stubble lining his jaw, and the shivers ripple into his soul.
"My thanks, Agent Barton. I look forward to...conversing with you again."
The pile of crates explodes from within, showering the contents of the warehouse with splinters and whatever stuffing operations decided to fill them with this time. From the amount of debris still floating in the air, Clint thinks there might have been a large amount of sawdust this time. He doesn't bother dusting his face, simply rolling away from the largest of the shards, throwing himself behind a column.
Draw. Load. Focus. Aim. Fire.
He was scheduled for team building exercises hours ago. Maybe. He thinks. Probably.
So much for Nat's schedule.
Draw. Load. Focus. Aim. Fire.
His arms itch. He's been taking a lot of hot showers lately. Okay, he thinks, his brow lowering as he glares at the paper silhouette dangling from the wooden hanger. Okay, maybe less like hot and more like scalding.
There might have been blisters at some point. A few points. He might've tweaked the water heater hooked up to his room. A couple of times. Because he's always fucking cold. It's so goddamned cold in these institutional places, designed to be clinical and sterile and hostile and…
No, no wait...no, he's the one being hostile. That's right, that's what the shrink has been saying. Gotta get out the aggression in the right places, take it out on the paper targets and the crates and the dummies and the obstacle courses, not on his teammates or sparring partners or meter maids or assholes in traffic who can't signal or lane change for shit or poor, innocent coffee baristas who can't get his goddamned order right, and…
And...
And he's still so fucking cold.
"You seem proud of yourself today, Agent. I take it you gathered adequate reconnaissance?"
"Yes, sir. Here are the details you asked for."
He pulls up the schematics requested, his fingers dancing robotically over the keyboard, staring straight ahead at the screen. Loki stands behind him, leaning down over his shoulder, presumably to better study the details on the screen in front of the two of them. With anyone else, Barton would feel the warmth of their breath on his ear, the heat of the blood in their veins even through most uniforms, but this…this is almost like being spooned by some goddamned wraith, and his hackles rise instinctively at the absolute wrongness of the presence behind him.
But there's nothing he can do. He can't move him away, can't voice his displeasure, can't even flinch. All he can do is rail internally and beat his buried self senseless until he really is as numb as he seems.
"You've done well, Barton. Shall I reward you today? Do you feel you've earned such a thing?"
The voice is as silken and frozen as the flesh of the slender hand that brushes almost negligently over his cheek before sliding down his jaw to rest on the crook of his neck. His skin involuntarily shivers now, and he looks up in time to see a slow, cruel smile spread over the Trickster's lips.
"My queries always require answers, Agent. I do not waste time with rhetorical questions. Have you earned my favor, or do you provoke my displeasure with your silent insubordination?"
Inside, he clenches his teeth, determined that this time - this one time - he will stay silent, take the punishment, and maybe...maybe this time Loki will…
God, just please make this the last time...please…
"I fulfilled your command, sire. I...desire your favor."
"Excellent, Agent. Let us begin."
Breathe. In. Out. Slow it down. Can't hear, can't hear anything, ringing, breathing, ringing….stupid fucking buzzing...
It's all chaos and too many colors now. He thinks it might've been that way for Nat, too, at first, when she was coming out of the conditioning. Red, for her, he's pretty sure. But it was so blue...and cold...and infuriatingly peaceful. Numbly peaceful. The peace of the dead without the comfort of knowing the end was finally there. It was easy, that was the worst part, he thinks sometimes. So fucking easy to just give in. Everything happened regardless of how much he fought; the fighting made less than no difference.
Even now, he's not sure if he's more guilty about the things his body did with Loki or for Loki. More for the people he killed and betrayed or for the rewards he received for doing so...but, either way, he fought through the whole thing, and it still nearly killed him.
The doctors tell him the headaches are residual damage from Nat knocking his head on that railing, but he's taken hits like that before and been clear as a rung bell the next day. No, this is...this damage is different, it's…
God, it's personal and...and…
"Stop it."
Clint springs from his cover, sending a volley of arrows at the target that mocks him from across the room, severing the paper long before he's done firing.
"Stop it!"
He spins on his heal, tilting up and dropping three dummies in rapid succession from where they descend at him from the rafters. They explode with the arrows' impact, sawdust raining around him even as he's turning to yet another target.
"STOP IT!"
Clint's throat is raw, and someone is screaming (probably him), and still he shoots, his fingers bloody and torn even through the decades of calluses.
"JUST...FUCKING...STOP IT!"
"Is not this better than resistance, Barton? Is this not sweeter? I can be a magnanimous ruler, I can see to the desires, nay, the needs of my subjects. Do I fulfill your needs, Barton?"
No, no, no, he needs to be warm, he needs to get back to Coulson and report, he needs to prove to Fury that he's better than this traitor he's become, he needs Nat to make fun of him, knock him around a little, tell him he's fucking fine and to stop being such a pussy, and-
"Tell me how I please you, Agent Barton. You please me more with every assignment you fulfill, and I wish to reward such loyalty. Tell me how best to honor such fealty from my most trusted soldier."
"I...I…"
So...fucking...cold…
Nat, please…
Ice, burning cold, slices across his stomach, steals the air from his lungs, and he can't even scream anymore. Teeth, pointed and smooth, scrape over the shell of his ear and something hard and achingly cold presses into the small of his back before sliding lower.
"Speak, agent. You are a good, loyal dog to your master. Tell your master now what treat you would like today. I will care for you, fulfill all your needs, but first you must ask for them, beg for them like an obedient hound."
No, Clint, just...don't…
...this one time, Clint, please, oh, God, Phil…
Nat, please, just…
Please…
"Please...sire, I...please…"
Something might be on fire, which is kind of funny, because he didn't bring any explosive or incendiary tips…
Huh.
Elegant fingers dance over his belly, creeping lower and lower, and his abdominal muscles twitch involuntarily. Impossibly sharp nails scratch gently over the hyper-sensitive flesh, brush at the wiry hair between his thighs.
"Are you going to finally release your whole self to me, Barton?"
His stomach lurches in terror. At least, deep within himself, he has the sensation. How could-
"I can see that light within you, Agent. Ever the good little soldier, and yet, you have a mind of your own. You take orders, you fulfill every assignment perfectly, and yet there is still a part of you, buried deep within, that you have managed to hold back from me."
"I...obey your commands, master, I don't-"
The fingers, once sickeningly gentle, contract around him suddenly, impossibly strong, squeezing until he hasn't the breath left to scream.
"Do not lie to me, Agent!" Loki hisses against his ear. "Is not all I tell you true? Do you not prize my approval above all else? Dare you risk your place beside me - your place before me - only to attempt what cannot be done? You cannot fool me. I am your ruler and your god, and I know what is in your heart."
Help me, please….
Loki's hand relaxes, returns to its soothing, nauseating strokes over the nearly-ruined flesh. Barton's breaths come in shuddering gasps; his lungs alternate between paralyzed and overachieving, and the combination of oxygen deprivation and hyperventilating makes his vision wavy and unreliable.
Then Loki's hand slows and finally stops. Barton sags against the god, and it is only Loki's arms, bands of frozen iron, that keep him from collapsing.
"You must earn the completion of your reward, Agent."
What...no...just...just kill me, please, let me die...I can manage that myself, if you'll just...leave me alone, just let me-
"Shatter yourself against me, Barton," Loki purrs, his words deeper and more intimate than any lover the agent has ever known. "Let me break you entirely, let me remake you. Allow me to give you the peace you crave, and your existence will be so much more than you ever dreamed possible. Give your whole self to me; just let go, Barton, it's so simple."
I...can't...please, please don't, I can't do this…
"Yes, Barton, you feel it...give over. Give yourself to me, move with me, earn your completion."
His traitorous hips inch forward in Loki's fist, and a groan rips itself up from his fucking toes. Tears stream down his face, his whole body throbs with agony and revulsion...and...god help him...with need.
...everything….everything is so wrong.
"You're doing so well, pet, obeying your master so very well. You are beautiful in your obedience. Now, come back to me as you know you crave to do. Give in, Barton, it's so simple, so peaceful, so complete. Please me and complete yourself, Barton. Just let go."
I...I…
"Tell me, Barton, tell me how it please you, how I please you."
His muscles burn with strain as he fights harder than he's ever thought he could, even as his thighs tense, but he can't stop the inevitable any more than he's been able to stop anything in this nightmare. He screams, long and raw and shattered, and Loki's arms tighten around him, the Asgardians laughter mingling with the remnants of his ragged breathing.
"Do you not feel better now? You are lovely, my obedient little hound, absolutely divine."
He ran out of arrows ten minutes ago.
After wielding it like a club, his bow broke, five minutes after that.
Now he's pretty sure he's crushed a few knuckles and jammed a wrist.
He pants desperately in the middle of the ruined training course, wood creaking and settling around him, sawdust falling like ashes from the ceiling, the ledges, the rafters, his hair, mixing with the blood on his uniform.
Apparently, black shows red a little more brightly when you mix sawdust in.
Blood red is still better than blue, though.
And he's not quite as cold, now.
"You don't understand. Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Take you out and stuff something else in? You know what it's like to be unmade?"
―Clint Barton
Author's Note: As I said before, this story was an exercise, a way to work through some issues. I also wanted to challenge myself just to see if darker writing was something I could do. I'm not displeased with the results. As the story title and chapter title implies, there could be further songs and further working through issues, if parties are interested. Let it be known that I love Loki's character progression in the MCU, and I am both a Loki and Tom Hiddleston fan. I did warn at the beginning that he's not a nice or good guy at all in this story. Let me know if a second chapter (or more) is something you'd like to see. Thanks.