Loki sits up as soon as Clint is off him, eyes wide, a hand clutching his throat protectively. (Like that would have stopped it, he just would have crushed your hand along with your windpipe.) The haze of need slowly lifts and he grips the couch arm so tightly it nearly rips.

He can't look at Clint, just at the floor next to the coffee table.

"What the fuck was that?"