Safe:
A sequel to Pressure
I can't scrape the feeling of him off my skin.
He presses all around me, even still, invading my body in all the ways you'd expect, and in ways I never ever imagined. Haunting me. Awakening me in the night with an imagined breath. Pulling like a chain behind my navel every time someone gets too close to like a vice at every minute element even vaguely reminiscent of the evening I spent in Loki's bedroom.
Even as I stand here on the crystalline-bright observation deck of the Tower, I remember the chill of the stone, the lonely echo of each water drop it wept, the smell of Loki's skin. I hunch over the railing, my arms protective across my torso.
The therapist they forced on me—she thinks I'm mostly troubled by the mind control and about the agents I killed. And I haven't disabused her of that. It's a much better narrative than the truth.
I didn't want to talk to her, but it was just one more violation. One more indignity.
Now, it's a minor bother twice a week until she clears me for active duty. Some days, like today, it leaves me feeling raw, but it's usually just an excuse to leave the tower and avoid people for a few hours.
I'd be lying if I didn't say that, yes, being used as a weapon against my own world wasn't part of my distress. But I've killed lots of people and there are no innocents in my line of work.
I'm pretty sure she suspects Loki did more to me than violate my mind, but after my repeated and firm denials, she's dropped it.
I've been trained to withstand a real interrogation, at least one in which I have control of my own brain. I'm pretty sure I can convincingly lie to a PTSD-specialist who wants to make me feel 'safe'.
Fuck that.
Safe is not how this session made me feel.
It made me sick to my stomach until it hurt.
And I like that.
Memory presses into me like his iron-cold hands, my guts flowing away from his invasion until it penetrates so deeply, I feel nothing else.
Recreating the feeling of pressure, re-experiencing that pain, grounds me. Makes me remember who I am and that I'm alive. It quiets the urge to scream until my lungs give out. It shoves the crush of emotion away and I can continue with my life as it is.
At times in Loki's service, I didn't want to be alive, but now, that gut-deep ache is my most salient reminder of my after-Loki-existence.
What happened, happened to me.
Some other guy used my bow to kill all those people.
But it was me that Loki pushed against the wall and punched until I couldn't stand up. My stomach he groped and prodded. Me he forced to my knees. My mouth and ass he raped. Me he twisted around until my body betrayed me, my trained abs soft and defenseless, my traitorous dick, hard and unappeased.
That happened to me.
And I'm embracing it. All that weird shit he did; the remembrance squirms thickly around inside me, deep in myself and I've found a way to quell that shame, to pin it down and press it away.
I lean over the railing more, nonchalantly letting it dig into my belly until I feel the thrum of my heart against the passive muscle. I pretend to be supporting my weight with my arms while finding terrible solace in my belt buckle as it etches it's contours into my flesh.
Here I am, folks, just enjoying the view of the skyline. Nothing weird happening here.
One last memory flashes through my mind; the way Loki glared at me just before he was returned to Asgard.
That look was a sucker punch as hard as any he'd dealt me.
My knees sag even at the recollection and my stomach takes up the slack. I bite back a grunt of pain and stare out at the city glittering in the mid-morning sun.
I stay there, discretely buttressed, until I hear footsteps on the balcony. I retreat to the hallway near the gym, hoping to make it to the stairs and the sanctity of my own room before Natasha's voice cuts me short.
"You can't keep hiding from me, Barton." she calls as she closes the distance between us.
Rather than retorting that, 'yeah, I'm pretty sure I can,' I decide not to issue her such a direct challenge. I wait for her to approach me, expecting the same wide berth and respectful courtesy everyone affords 'victims'.
She's having none of it; she invades my space. "Are you going to tell me what he did to you? Or are you going to let me keep imagining the worst?"
I make the mistake of meeting her eyes and I stare dumbly at her, momentarily stunned by the intensity, before turning away.
She grabs my wrist and rage spikes in my chest. In milliseconds, I have her pinned to the wall.
"You know what he did," I growl, forcing myself to say it for the first time. "He raped me. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that the 'worst' that you imagined?" I hiss, threateningly close to her face, daring her to do exactly what she does.
She hits me, hard, in the head, followed by two quick defensive knees to my abdomen. I brace for the blows, but the second one drives my navel into my spine and I crumple against a haphazard stack of discarded sparring mats, partially reclined, legs splayed in front of me,
I cough weakly, and realize my cock is stirring for the first time since Germany, just a twinge as I struggle to force air into my lungs. To regain control of my body. To push that crushing feeling from my stomach.
The irony is not lost on me.
She stands over me with that unreadable Black Widow bearing and I blink away the punch until my vision clears. I see my partner truly looking at me without judgement or pity.
"I can't help you if you won't let me."
I begin to retort that I don't need help, but when she holds out her hand as if to help me up, I take it and pull her down on to the floor with me. And, suddenly, I'm telling her everything. Sitting there, on the floor, in a deserted corner of tower, I'm spilling my guts to her. Every detail of what he did and how it felt.
As I talk, she slides into my lap, straddling me and holding me and not interrupting me in that stoic way of hers. She settles heavily against me, warm and protective, her legs folded one on either side of mine, her breasts soft against my chest. It's an easy return of the sexual connection we've avoided since Loki took me.
When I tell her how I've lied to all the medical professionals, she nods approval. She knows "talk-therapy" doesn't help people like us. That missions and assignments are the best therapy SHIELD can offer us, even if they aren't always enough.
I only flush with shame when I recount the moment where I decided I'd rather die than have her see me like that. She makes a small noise then and strokes my temple. I fix my eyes on the hollow of her throat so can't see the emotion that passes briefly over her face.
I do not tell her how I eventually changed my mind and silently begged for her to come and save me. I could share this without shame, but won't burden her. No one could have done more for me than she did, but I know she blames herself. Her delay in freeing me sits heavily in the ledger of debts she keeps in her soul and I will not add to it.
After hesitating, I conclude by confessing by my embarrassing but effective coping strategy.
"Let me try," she says abruptly. She doesn't need to tell me, but she does anyway, "I'll stop as soon as you as you say so. "
At first, she just uses her own weight and the position she's been sitting in, pressing into me experimentally with her body as she cradles me between her legs. The soft pressure of her mound isn't enough and she shifts to get better access with her hands.
She silences me with a long kiss and slides her hands up my shoulders and tears my shirt away, buttons pinging down the corridor.
Her actions clearly mimic Loki's, but feels so astoundingly different. The taste of her kisses, the compassion in her face, the soft smirk of satisfaction when she finds a spot that makes me sigh. She holds my gaze while she does it - watching my reactions and telegraphing each action. Neither of us speaks, but she's soon gasping a little each time I do, adding a soft moan each time she pulls a groan from me.
After ten minutes, her pupils are dilated and her lips full and red. She probably isn't particularly excited by the acts but her eyes drink in my reactions and I grow hotter and harder as she seems to respond to my excitement.
Flushed, she yields to me. I pull her to me and I kiss her like I can't remember how to breathe. Unzipping her suit, I lay her back on the mat and expose her to the cool air and my hands.
I skim my fingertips over the white skin of her belly, but have no desire to press into her, no desire to share the sensation of my torment with her. She understands and guides my hand to her left breast and encourages me to explore the soft flesh there instead. It's a favorite spot of hers and she arches up against me, drawing her teeth across my shoulder.
She throws her head back in pleasure when I settle against her center and muffles a shuddering sigh against my collarbone when I'm completely inside.
Fucking her is like coming up for air. Half-remembered sensations are ignited by her breath on my neck, her nails on my back, her thighs on my hips.
My stomach aches as I move and I hold on to that pain to slide it against the ecstasy of her skin.
She moans my name and it sounds glorious and filthy and I remember little else until we are both spent on the floor and trying to rearrange our clothes.
She takes my hand, kisses it and urges me to my feet. A few discreet corridors later, she leads me into her rooms and to the opulent white marble bathroom.
Inside the shower, she runs the water so hot, fresh perspiration breaks across my face. Again, I draw down the zipper on her suit and this time, I have the luxury of stripping her completely and shedding my own clothes until I can hold her with no barriers between us.
Again, the memory of Loki's eyes intrudes on me, but I cling to my partner and inhale her scent and the sharp brilliance of those terrible eyes fades some.
Under the roar of the shower, her whispered words and hungry kisses, I forget a little more as she scrubs a soapy washcloth on my skin and I can feel the first layers of damage come away.I rest my cheek on the top of her head and am glad for the water cascading into my face.
Loki's power over me isn't broken. But my body feels like my own, a 'safe' place for my mind to inhabit again.