Disclaimer: All rights belong to Marvel. I own nothing and no profit is being made.

Rating: T

Warning: Contains language and hints of slash.

Author: Another Loki/Clint story. My plot bunnies keep demanding so I keep writing. Enjoy and don't forget to review.

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"Do you know what is like to be unmade?"

Clint sat in the dark of his new room at the Stark Tower, days after the battle, and tried to keep his hands from shaking as his own question whispered over and over again in his mind.

He'd told Natasha he didn't remember the things he'd done. That the moments of clarity had been few and far between. Hence the reason he could tell her when Loki was going to initiate the plan but not where. He'd told her that the days under Loki's control were a blank.

He'd lied.

He remembered every moment. Every action he'd taken all by the command of an alien God. He hadn't wanted to. He'd tried to fight, to resist, but it was like being trapped in his own head, watching his body act without his consent. He'd been a prisoner in his own body, forced to do what he was told. Forced to obey without a thought.

It had been a living nightmare.

So it wasn't surprising that when he slept his dreams were of being trapped again. His control being stripped away. His actions guided not by his own desires but by those of a God.

He had woken an hour ago from a nightmare that hadn't been just a figment of his fearful imagination. A memory.

Loki stripping him.

Ordering him to his knees.

The glide of hard male flesh on his tongue.

A pale hand caught in his hair.

Desire coursing through him like fire.

Clint shook his head, trying to clear it of the unwanted memory. "I'm not weak," he whispered aloud, needing to hear the words to help burn the knowledge into his mind. "I'm not weak."

Instead of helping to push the memories away, his words only caused them to rush to the forefront of his mind. Closing his eyes, he pushed his hands into his hair, gripping it and muttering the same three words over and over again until it became a mantra. He had to be strong. Stronger than the memories. Stronger than the hold Loki still seemed to have over him. He was strong. He was.

He remembered, suddenly, the touch of a cool hand as it wrapped around his aching length, stroking him to completion while he begged for it.

The jarring thrusts as the Trickster took him upon one of the many tables in the building they'd occupied before heading to Germany.

The way he'd screamed, crying out the God's name, arching into every touch. Every caress that told him who he belonged to.

He remembered being weak in the presence of the Trickster God who had stolen days of his life.

"I am not fucking weak!"

His shout rang in the otherwise silent room.

When silence fell again he felt like someone had just dunked him into a pool of ice water. He closed his eyes, head dropping forward so his chin almost touched his chest, and let out a ragged sound even as his body began to shake. "I'm not weak," he whispered hoarsely, tears slipping from beneath his eyelids to roll silently down his face. "I'm not…I'm not…"

He flinched suddenly, head snapping up and eyes open wide, when a hand ran over his hair, cool fingers gently brushing his own.

He suddenly felt frozen in place.

Acidic green eyes stared down at him from a pale face, shining ethereally in the darkness of the room.

This couldn't be real.

He was dreaming.

Or hallucinating.

"I'm not weak," he said again, refusing to allow even a figment of his imagination to hold any sort of power over him. "I'm not weak."

That cool hand cupped his cheek, thumb softly brushing back and forth.

"No, Clint," a richly accented voice, a voice that haunted his dreams and now his waking moments, whispered. "You're not weak."

He let out a strangled noise, closing his eyes as the hand touching him seemed to fade away as though it had never been. The chill clung to his skin and just as he started to open his eyes he heard the voice again, though now it sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away.

"You are not weak."

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Author: FIN!