Cannot Fix.

While under the Tesseract's spell, Clint is made to brutally attack Natasha. She has a very hard time coping. Rating for language and sexual violence. AU. Not sure how many more chapters there will be. It all depends on how the story moves along and how I feel. Not so subtle hint: reviews spur my desire to write.

TW: rape.

Where are you, you bastard.

Natasha slinked down the catwalk and eyed the enormous pipes surrounding her. It was dark, and hot, and wet. It made her suit squeeze and rub uncomfortably as she walked. A tremor betrayed her legs, adrenaline still shooting through her nervous limbs from facing the Hulk. She forced herself to push his furious image from her mind, lest she stop focusing on her mission and compromise herself again. She knew Clint was near - she could feel the slight pull in her body, seeking its mate. But where...

She knew about a millisecond too late that she should have ducked, but it happened just a touch too quickly - Clint was suddenly there, and punching her in the face. It was something she could handle, and the relief of seeing him alive numbed some of the pain as she moved to immobilize him.

"Clint!"

She grunted and grit her teeth through their struggle to overpower each other. Clint was grabbing her hair by the fistful, a move he would never normally pull. Not like this. "Clint, what the fuck." She was nearly breathless at the end of her sentence, Clint's fists leaving her hair and sinking into her belly. She keeled over and landed hard on her palms and knees. She hissed as they slammed down on metal grating. Clint pulled his boot up faster than she thought possible, pain exploding again in her stomach. She landed flat this time. Alarms went off in her brain, screaming at her to get the fuck up Romanoff! GET UP even though the pain was throbbing and she couldn't seem to catch her breath and Clint was grabbing her roughly by the back of the neck and -

"Clint!"

"Why do you gotta fight back, Nat?" Clint's voice was low and rough as gravel. Irritation flared up through her as he spoke her nickname. This Clint didn't know 'Nat'. This Clint had no right to be tugging at her outfit like that, and she jerked an elbow behind her. It connected with his shoulder, and he only grunted and fisted her hair again. "Stop it," he growled. Natasha took this as a challenge and flailed her limbs about, bucking her body up in an effort to - well - to deter him, she supposed. It wasn't working. It only seemed to agitate him, and he slammed her face down on the grate. Her cheekbone met with an explosion of sharp pain. It rang so loudly in her brain that she couldn't yet feel the bruising and cutting on her lips, or the bone in her brow sharing the same fate as her cheek. She could only focus on the white-hot surge of agony each time he brought her down against the metal.

Natasha bit back a sob as he pushed her onto her back. He tore the zipper down her suit so recklessly that the damned thing twisted off in his fingers. She watched in numb horror as he tossed it aside, and the intent in his eyes was enough to bring a fresh wave of adrenaline. It throbbed hotly in her face and weary limbs, and she brought her fist into Clint's nose. He cursed and clutched his face. She pounced away from him like an animal. She felt a flutter of relief as she escaped his grasp, but it was followed by dread. The dread ate her entire being and left her feeling strangely hollow. She wouldn't - couldn't - let herself dwell on what he was trying to do - and yet she couldn't stop thinking of her broken zipper, and the way he gripped her neck.

She risked a glance over her shoulder and caught Clint's glare dead-on. His eyes were striking. They were way too bright, but she couldn't focus on that, either. She turned her head and ignored every ache and throb she felt, abandoned all trains of thought. All there was was running from Clint. Finding somewhere she could get the advantage on him.

When she felt his fingers sink into her shoulder, her heart stopped. He spun her around to smirk at her before shoving her over the railing. She gracelessly slipped over and grabbed for something to hold onto, but her fingers grasped thin air. The fall was short, and the landing hard. She allowed herself to cry out as her ass hit the cement floor hard enough to bounce her hips up. "Oh god," she whispered to herself. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck..."

Clint landed only a moment later beside her. He wasted no time in crawling over her and holding her arms above her head. "Clint, don't," she pleaded. "This isn't you. This isn't you." He ignored her and she tried to hold it together. She was exhausted, and for once, afraid. She could get herself out of almost any situation. But now? Now there was no con, no creative or sneaky move she could make. Sometimes there was just somebody stronger, and Clint definitely was. He had the upper hand. She was failing him. And she was failing herself.

She bit back a sob as he continued ripping her uniform. She tried struggling one last time when he unbuckled his belt, but it was pointless. He backhanded her. The way her skull bounced against the cement put stars behind her eyes.

"Nat. Nat, look at me."

She did. She glared at him, gritting her teeth. She didn't look away when he pushed himself inside of her. The sheer pain was astounding. He was unnecessarily rough, and mean, and left bite marks on her shoulders. Each time his hips slammed forward, she held her breath. He was tearing her. She couldn't help but think about how something they both enjoyed so much could be so horrible. Natasha struggled to stay in the present. Her mind tried to retreat into nothingness, like she always did when being tortured. But this was beyond torture. She would gladly lay herself out for beatings, whippings, any variety of the shit she'd gone through, if she could stop this.

Biting her insides of her sore lips brought enough fresh pain to make her focus on not crying. She refused to cry, or scream, even though Clint's force was hot and sharp as knives.

When Clint finished, he grunted. Natasha felt a wave of nausea as she caught a glimpse of Clint's cock before he pulled his pants back around his hips. There was blood, and a lot of it. She twisted her body around and dry heaved over the floor. Clint sat on his heels and watched her struggle to stand, smirking. She leaned against the wall and shook, bringing herself to her feet.

"How was it for you?" he laughed. Before she could process it, her leg was moving and the steel-toe of her boot crashed into Clint's jaw. He flew backwards and lay dazed on the floor. She froze.

He groaned and slowly rolled his head around to gaze up at her. "N...Natasha?" His eyes looked dimmer. He looked confused at first, and then vaguely horrified.

She slammed her boot into his temple.

Her fingers shook as she pressed the bud in her ear. She stammered out her location and that Barton was alive and in custody, and to send help.