Avengers, its characters and settings, do not belong to me and are being used here without permission but for no profit. This fic is rated T for dark themes. It takes place right at the end of the film. All comments welcome.

But Don't Say "Ahh"

"No," says Clint.

Loki's lips quirk in a sheepish, it-was-worth-a-shot smile, but then Clint inches the head of the arrow closer. He wants to feel satisfaction when Loki's smile fades, when his gaze flickers from one angry Avenger to the next, but he doesn't. He can't take any pleasure from Loki's hands slowly rising in surrender. It's not enough. Loki may be bruised and bloodied, but he's also breathing. Clint can see in Loki's eyes that even though he's lost, he knows that imprisonment, not death awaits him. He will never suffer as much as the people he's hurt, never taste the fear that's pushed his enemies to the point of desperation.

He will never suffer enough for Clint to be satisfied.

Clint inches closer again. His entire body is drawn tight and his fingertips quiver against the bowstring, aching and eager to let it fly. Loki stares straight back, calling his bluff, even when the tip of the arrow presses a tiny crease to his bottom lip. He's seen Clint's heart and he knows that Clint won't fire with his peers at his back.

A few hours ago, he might have been right. But the world has fewer people in it that it did then, and Clint can feel the loss more keenly than he ever thought he would. His life, made up of only a handful of acquaintances to begin with, is falling in on itself, and it's so easy to let it narrow a little further, until it's only him and Loki in their hollow shell of destruction and regret.

"You want to suck on something," Clint says from somewhere outside himself, "you suck on this."

He presses the arrow into Loki's lip and draws blood. Loki doesn't flinch but his eyes widen and leap to a point over Clint's shoulder. Clint seethes. "Don't look at him," he says, his voice calm despite the fire coursing up and down his taut arm. "You look at me." His fingers slip a little more off the bowstring. "Look."

Loki does. He traces the length of the arrow to Clint's face, and though his nerves are starting to show, it isn't enough. He will never fear enough for Clint to be satisfied.

"Open your mouth," Clint orders.

"Barton," says a voice from somewhere behind him. Clint can barely make it out. "That's enough."

"No, it's not." Clint's every joint is tight with strain as he leans carefully forward, digging the arrow into Loki's skin. Blood trickles over Loki's chin and this time he flinches, but he otherwise remains still. So Clint tells him again. "Open your mouth."

"Clint." It's Natasha. She's edging closer. "Stop."

"No," Clint says. Sweat evaporates off his forehead and he shivers. His fingers are numb but they move without him, flexing against his weapon. He feels even less in control of himself than when Loki was in his mind, and as much as he hates himself for it, he can't stop. Natasha is just over his right shoulder and he knows what she's about to do.

"Don't," Clint says, his voice still calm and even. "Don't touch me, or I'll do it." Natasha knows better than to expect a bluff from him, and once she's stopped moving, Clint puts all his attention back on Loki. "Now open your fucking mouth."

Loki sucks in a slow breath through his teeth. He looks again over Clint's shoulder, but whatever he's seeing doesn't help him, because finally a flash of anxiety draws his face tight. He opens his mouth.

Clint pushes the arrow forward. The head is serrated and it catches Loki's skin, splitting his top lip. Loki shifts as if fighting the urge to retreat, his eyes again skittering to each Avenger, but he's still not worried enough. He doesn't believe that Clint will let the arrow fly, that at such a short distance it will have all the momentum it needs to bury into the back of his throat, slice through the base of his skull and sever his spinal cord. Even a god can't survive that.

The men and woman behind him are restless. Someone is saying something, but from so far away that Clint can't hear. His heart is pounding in his ears and his stomach clenches at the sight of Loki growing pale on the other end of his arrow. The serrations rub against the roof of Loki's mouth and his throat convulses involuntarily. He's staring at his brother, and Clint thinks he hears Thor ordering them both down, but Clint can't obey. Loki is crumbling in front of him and he has to watch. He can't look away, he can't let Loki survive with his sins, he can't breathe, and his entire arm is trembling and numb-he has to keep his eye on the weapon lodged in Loki's mouth, because he's afraid he won't know if he's fired or not until Loki's brain pours down his back.

And then Loki meets his gaze again. The fear turns to something bitter and hard. His tongue presses up against the head of the arrow and Clint freezes. It flicks over the sharpened ridges, caressing even as his taste buds snare and spill fresh blood over his lips. Without a sound Loki leans forward, drawing the arrow deeper into his mouth.

Everyone falls still. Clint alone is less than statuesque, shuddering with incomprehension as his wrath implodes in on itself. All Loki has to do is widen his red lips and he's suddenly in control, as easily and as surely as when Clint was nothing more than his willing slave. He seals his mouth over the widest part of the arrow and sucks, the quiet smack of wet flesh on metal the only sound in Clint's burning ears.

Kill him, Clint thinks, but he can't move as Loki's eyelids droop and a thin, eager sound hums out of his throat. The head of the arrow disappears entirely within Loki's mouth and Clint is helpless. He has no idea how it's happened but he's lost. Insanity screams at the back of his brain until the inside of his skull is blackened. He has to kill Loki and he can't, even when Loki draws the arrow in far enough to tickle the back of his throat.

The muscles along Loki's jaws clench. All at once he bares his teeth and bites through the shaft. Clint doesn't feel his fingers release the bowstring. He sees Loki jerk to the side, faster than should be possible even for him, so that the remaining arrow flies cleanly past his cheek. Five steel fingers wrap around Clint's wrist and he's dragged forward, twisted, long arms pinning his own to his sides. Before Clint can comprehend what's happened Loki has him back to chest, their legs tangled and secure. He's a hostage.

Loki's lips pull back, and he uses his tongue to twist the arrowhead around, until it's clenched in his teeth with the blades against Clint's neck. When Loki chuckles, the fleck of his blood against Clint's jaw makes him nauseous. "I'd still like my drink," he manages to purr, even around his weapon.

Tony says something, or maybe it's Steve. Clint doesn't know or care. Loki's voice against his ear raises every hair on his body and his nerves jolt with involuntary movement. Without a thought spared to anything else, his hand spasms against the bow still clutched in his grip, triggering the explosive nestled into the arrow head which Loki has overlooked. It bleats in shrill warning, and when Clint feels Loki's entire body clench against his in real panic, it's worth it. It's so worth it.

The Avengers flood over them. Thor rips the arrow out of Loki's mouth, and Hulk heaves it through the shattered windows, and Steve and Tony bend Loki's arms back, and Natasha-Clint can't figure out where Natasha is until he's in her arms, safe from the wrestling and the commotion and the boom of vengeance misfiring somewhere far above Manhattan's streets. He stares at bright red and orange blossoming beyond his reach and wishes it was closer, much closer. He wants to feel it hot and devastating against the side of his face while Loki's head disintegrates into ash alongside. Only that would be enough.

"Clint," Natasha says close to his ear. Her arms are around his shoulders and she holds him still when his lungs remember how to breathe in painful starts and stutters. She eases the bow out of his throbbing hands when pins and needles announce the return of blood to his constricted capillaries. "It's over," she says, letting him hide his face against her shoulder when his world crashes in a little deeper. "You've done enough."

But she's wrong and it'll never be enough.