clint "idk the archer or something" barton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brandingproblem) wrote2022-08-17 07:57 pm
brandingproblem) wrote2022-08-17 07:57 pm
au shenanigans for icasm
there should be a name for this at some point
we'll figure it out shh
we'll figure it out shh
Clint hears his name from lips that have never uttered it and stops. His hand stops, any kissing stopped, his own breath had stoppered up in his chest. How much this means to Loki. How important the act is. For some reason. Sex can be a deeply personal act, or it can be just another day. He doesn't know how to read this. This desire to be consumed, to be owned and conquered, overriding all sense?
Not that any of this encounter has had any sense.
It's all mixed and muddled up. This violence and possession and hunting and hurting and killing and softness, desire, want, need. There is blood in their mouths. The knife keeps cutting into soft skin when he moves too much. Loki is caught prey ready, begging for the slaughter, if only he is granted this one wish first, this fulfillment that's pulsing through him.
It isn't as though Clint is unaffected. He's hard as a rock and bewildered and out of his depth but also the winner, the successful hunter, the one in control, the warrior. He will tear the man under him all to pieces and eat the rest. He'll drain him of blood just because, here, he can. And enjoy every moment of it. And he cares.
He kisses Loki, a gentle thing this time. They aren't rutting on a barn floor anymore. Under his knees, softness. There's light streaming in through open bedroom windows. No one is here but the two of them, in this bed, in this room, that Clint knows all too well and that Loki may or may not recognize himself. He pries himself from Loki's arm around him to sit up, like he desperately needs the room for air, to breathe deep. Thankful his dreamscape hasn't conjured Laura up to watch them brutalize each other softly while these deranged men sully their bed.
He grips at Loki's hand, digs fingers into the openly bleeding wound of it, and works his newly slickened fingers back to that needing cock. The sheets are white. The sheets are red. They look better red. Loki looks better red.
"What you've got of me in you isn't enough? Is anything ever enough for you?" Is there any good god damn reason why he's jerking Loki off but denying anything for himself? He doesn't look that directly in its eye.
Not that any of this encounter has had any sense.
It's all mixed and muddled up. This violence and possession and hunting and hurting and killing and softness, desire, want, need. There is blood in their mouths. The knife keeps cutting into soft skin when he moves too much. Loki is caught prey ready, begging for the slaughter, if only he is granted this one wish first, this fulfillment that's pulsing through him.
It isn't as though Clint is unaffected. He's hard as a rock and bewildered and out of his depth but also the winner, the successful hunter, the one in control, the warrior. He will tear the man under him all to pieces and eat the rest. He'll drain him of blood just because, here, he can. And enjoy every moment of it. And he cares.
He kisses Loki, a gentle thing this time. They aren't rutting on a barn floor anymore. Under his knees, softness. There's light streaming in through open bedroom windows. No one is here but the two of them, in this bed, in this room, that Clint knows all too well and that Loki may or may not recognize himself. He pries himself from Loki's arm around him to sit up, like he desperately needs the room for air, to breathe deep. Thankful his dreamscape hasn't conjured Laura up to watch them brutalize each other softly while these deranged men sully their bed.
He grips at Loki's hand, digs fingers into the openly bleeding wound of it, and works his newly slickened fingers back to that needing cock. The sheets are white. The sheets are red. They look better red. Loki looks better red.
"What you've got of me in you isn't enough? Is anything ever enough for you?" Is there any good god damn reason why he's jerking Loki off but denying anything for himself? He doesn't look that directly in its eye.
Part of Loki's mind is a little slow on the uptake, now. Due to bloodloss, possibly, or perhaps just the memory and the concept thereof. The driving force of his arousal. The disorientation of being in someone else's mind through a method other than enchantment, one that locks his magic away and twists the use of most of it far out of his reach. And so, at first, it is just a bed. There is light, comfort, and soft kisses. Blood on his cock and pain in his hands and denial of what he wants, what they both want. Clint pulls away and touches him more and refuses him and really, Loki would be proud of his insistence if he wasn't already feeling so neatly unraveled.
He doesn't reach for the other man again, right away. He groans, instead, muscles tensing and relaxing in turns, the fingers in his free hand balling into a fist that bats ineffectually at Clint's shoulder in annoyance before falling back to the bedsheets.
There's something familiar about the shape of the window, he realizes, before he remembers where he's seen it. In a photograph. One saved on his phone. The Barton children all grinning into the camera and sending it to him for some holiday or another.
It's actually his phone's wallpaper, now that he thinks about it.
Ah. That explains a lot of things. Where they are, anyway. But it in turn explains very little. Clint will hunt and hurt and care but take no pleasure in any of it.
Loki can't stand it, conceptually. Even as he sees the appeal.
"No." A simple answer for a complicated question. "It is not enough. If we were only enemies, if this were only about the death of a god who avoids death, there would be an altar, and a knife, consecrated. My blood, and yours. You would fuck me, and take my heart out after you came, and eat it. And then your people would kill you to ensure you wouldn't rise up in my place."
There are tears on his face now. Frustration. Regret. Sorrow. He hates them, as always; attempts to wipe them away just to smear blood all over his own face in the process.
"If we had not..." He frowns, and shakes his head. If there had been no Thanos, if Clint had become Loki's champion via some other means, some other twist of the Norn's threads of Fate, there would have still been this. Violence and the desire to submit. "There is power in what I'm asking of you, Clint. And pleasure. Have you decided you're not allowed either?"
He doesn't reach for the other man again, right away. He groans, instead, muscles tensing and relaxing in turns, the fingers in his free hand balling into a fist that bats ineffectually at Clint's shoulder in annoyance before falling back to the bedsheets.
There's something familiar about the shape of the window, he realizes, before he remembers where he's seen it. In a photograph. One saved on his phone. The Barton children all grinning into the camera and sending it to him for some holiday or another.
It's actually his phone's wallpaper, now that he thinks about it.
Ah. That explains a lot of things. Where they are, anyway. But it in turn explains very little. Clint will hunt and hurt and care but take no pleasure in any of it.
Loki can't stand it, conceptually. Even as he sees the appeal.
"No." A simple answer for a complicated question. "It is not enough. If we were only enemies, if this were only about the death of a god who avoids death, there would be an altar, and a knife, consecrated. My blood, and yours. You would fuck me, and take my heart out after you came, and eat it. And then your people would kill you to ensure you wouldn't rise up in my place."
There are tears on his face now. Frustration. Regret. Sorrow. He hates them, as always; attempts to wipe them away just to smear blood all over his own face in the process.
"If we had not..." He frowns, and shakes his head. If there had been no Thanos, if Clint had become Loki's champion via some other means, some other twist of the Norn's threads of Fate, there would have still been this. Violence and the desire to submit. "There is power in what I'm asking of you, Clint. And pleasure. Have you decided you're not allowed either?"
"I could still take out your heart. I could still eat it. You can still die." A breath. Hold it. Let it go. "You're going to die. You just won't be dead." Dream is not reality. He's killed Loki in dreams, just not as often as the other way around or worse. This doesn't have to mean more than that.
It does. But it doesn't have to.
"This isn't a ritual. You're in my head. Begging for a fuck that's only as real as the mind's eye makes it. You're walking in my dreams, where I've got some power. That doesn't make this--"
He's crying. Loki is crying, and Clint doesn't understand any of this anymore. If he ever did to start. "It's your fantasy. But it's my dream." Why is he crying? Tears and blood are mingling and dips in close to lick some of the mess up. Everything is muddled and complicated and confused and maybe he should just wake up and leave them both unfulfilled, a petty desire.
"Why should I give you want you want?"
It does. But it doesn't have to.
"This isn't a ritual. You're in my head. Begging for a fuck that's only as real as the mind's eye makes it. You're walking in my dreams, where I've got some power. That doesn't make this--"
He's crying. Loki is crying, and Clint doesn't understand any of this anymore. If he ever did to start. "It's your fantasy. But it's my dream." Why is he crying? Tears and blood are mingling and dips in close to lick some of the mess up. Everything is muddled and complicated and confused and maybe he should just wake up and leave them both unfulfilled, a petty desire.
"Why should I give you want you want?"
"You're right; I won't be dead." There will be consequences. A price, perhaps, or possibly merely a side-effect. He doesn't know. Their situation is rather unique, all told. But he's sure he'll feel it, the dream-death. Draw his last breath and feel it rattle before he ceases to be.
He is looking forward to it, in the way he looks forward to anything that might destroy him in its wake.
"You care." He hisses out the word, having closed his eyes again when Clint licked the blood and tears from his face. A feral gentleness he can't hope to have again. "You always cared. You are soft and compassionate and gentle with me, even in your anger, your fury, your disgust. I don't deserve that, we both know it, but that doesn't change it. And... the things you want from me above all others I can't give you. I can't take it back. I can't undo what I've done. And I can't leave you alone. So what am I supposed to do? You won't free me of this, and I cannot. Instead, I'm to be left with the sensation of falling at all times, empty and alone, and disconnected from..."
This time, he doesn't bite down on his lip. He bites his tongue instead, allowing the blood to coat the inside of his mouth. I have never asked you for much, he thinks. Forced, yes, demanded, certainly, but asked? If I were you, I'd deny me out of spite, follows quickly on its heels.
Opening his eyes he gazes at Clint for a moment before tearing his gaze away. "There's no reason why you should."
He is looking forward to it, in the way he looks forward to anything that might destroy him in its wake.
"You care." He hisses out the word, having closed his eyes again when Clint licked the blood and tears from his face. A feral gentleness he can't hope to have again. "You always cared. You are soft and compassionate and gentle with me, even in your anger, your fury, your disgust. I don't deserve that, we both know it, but that doesn't change it. And... the things you want from me above all others I can't give you. I can't take it back. I can't undo what I've done. And I can't leave you alone. So what am I supposed to do? You won't free me of this, and I cannot. Instead, I'm to be left with the sensation of falling at all times, empty and alone, and disconnected from..."
This time, he doesn't bite down on his lip. He bites his tongue instead, allowing the blood to coat the inside of his mouth. I have never asked you for much, he thinks. Forced, yes, demanded, certainly, but asked? If I were you, I'd deny me out of spite, follows quickly on its heels.
Opening his eyes he gazes at Clint for a moment before tearing his gaze away. "There's no reason why you should."
What is Loki supposed to do? It's not an unfair question. And Clint has no answer.
It's the explanation, the defining of feeling and sensation, that slaps him in the face. Jerks himself back like suddenly Loki is too hot to touch, but he can only really sit up, suck in a breath. Falling and empty and alone and disconnected. Is that how Loki feels, all the time? Five years of it nearly drove Clint mad. And how long can Loki stand it?
It's enough to distract him just enough from the idea of blood, of lapping it hungrily up. The ringing voice in his head. If I were you. And he is not Loki. It's the most damning thing Loki could have said.
Because he does want to deny. Does want to be spiteful. Wants to spit on everything Loki wants and asks for. Tear it to shreds. Tear him to shreds and then make him put himself back together. But Loki is good at getting right under his skin. Have you decided you're not allowed either? Fuck him. Fuck him and his bloodied silver tongue. Maybe he shouldn't be allowed power or pleasure. Where's that gotten him, exactly?
"You don't know what I want from you." He grits it out even as she pulls and shoves at Loki's pants. "You don't know, because I don't fucking know." And his own. Maybe he's angry at himself now, because if this is manipulation, it's such an easy thing to do. "I've never fucking known. Sometimes I think it would've been better--" He cuts himself off with a hissing noise, bent back over his quarry, his unwanted companion. "Oh, never fucking mind. You don't deserve this. Neither do I."
That's apparently not going to stop them, though. Loki feels good sliding in, the kind of thing that feels expected from sex out of a dream, built out of memories, built out of want. He kisses, rough and deep and bloody. It feels wrong. It feels right.
It's the explanation, the defining of feeling and sensation, that slaps him in the face. Jerks himself back like suddenly Loki is too hot to touch, but he can only really sit up, suck in a breath. Falling and empty and alone and disconnected. Is that how Loki feels, all the time? Five years of it nearly drove Clint mad. And how long can Loki stand it?
It's enough to distract him just enough from the idea of blood, of lapping it hungrily up. The ringing voice in his head. If I were you. And he is not Loki. It's the most damning thing Loki could have said.
Because he does want to deny. Does want to be spiteful. Wants to spit on everything Loki wants and asks for. Tear it to shreds. Tear him to shreds and then make him put himself back together. But Loki is good at getting right under his skin. Have you decided you're not allowed either? Fuck him. Fuck him and his bloodied silver tongue. Maybe he shouldn't be allowed power or pleasure. Where's that gotten him, exactly?
"You don't know what I want from you." He grits it out even as she pulls and shoves at Loki's pants. "You don't know, because I don't fucking know." And his own. Maybe he's angry at himself now, because if this is manipulation, it's such an easy thing to do. "I've never fucking known. Sometimes I think it would've been better--" He cuts himself off with a hissing noise, bent back over his quarry, his unwanted companion. "Oh, never fucking mind. You don't deserve this. Neither do I."
That's apparently not going to stop them, though. Loki feels good sliding in, the kind of thing that feels expected from sex out of a dream, built out of memories, built out of want. He kisses, rough and deep and bloody. It feels wrong. It feels right.
It is, in fact, how Loki feels all the time. How Loki has felt, for centuries. To wonder if you are an outcast, alone, because of your choices or just who you inherently are, and then to learn it's both, both are true, they've always been true and you were lied to about it, a perfect storm of monster and madness that no essence of nurturing could avoid.
Loki would like to be better, sometimes. But he has no real idea how to start without lying about the past whole cloth. Not an option, really, especially not on this planet, and he is stuck on this planet until Clint decides otherwise.
He won't admit that, however. Let the Hawk figure it out on his own, perhaps.
This is what he does to the things he loves is a bitter realization to have, as Clint presses into his body, as Loki tilts into those kisses, as he wraps his legs around Clint's waist to give him better access. This man would kiss him softly, on this bed, but resisted taking more from him, even when offered, even when begged for, and for what?
Perhaps for the same reason that Loki has resisted anything that doesn't come wrapped in suffering. To have anything, briefly, something that helps him forget that feeling, or fills him with faith that he might not live an entire existence of only that, just to have to turn to dust between his fingers each and every time. Because of his choices. Because of the immutable will of the universe.
"You want me out of your head." That has not been a possibility since we met. Loki's expression is rueful as he touches Clint's cheek in a show of softness he likely doesn't desire and Loki does not expect a return on. "You want to know where I begin and you end. You want to know if you could be a good person." Loki could give him many things, but not the answers to those questions. He cannot unmake the past.
It is a terrible thing to realize you are not the best thing for someone you need so completely, he imagines. Mostly, for him, the terrible thing has been realizing he may not be useful to them in some way. A hindrance instead of a help.
For a moment he is not disconnected, the warring sensations of dream and memory colliding inside his head, his body. For a moment he is something important to someone important to him and it feels like what he imagines belonging must feel like. Even if it's terrible, and tainted, and probably wrong for everyone involved. Even if Clint hates him for it.
Even if Clint won't remember in the morning.
Loki would like to be better, sometimes. But he has no real idea how to start without lying about the past whole cloth. Not an option, really, especially not on this planet, and he is stuck on this planet until Clint decides otherwise.
He won't admit that, however. Let the Hawk figure it out on his own, perhaps.
This is what he does to the things he loves is a bitter realization to have, as Clint presses into his body, as Loki tilts into those kisses, as he wraps his legs around Clint's waist to give him better access. This man would kiss him softly, on this bed, but resisted taking more from him, even when offered, even when begged for, and for what?
Perhaps for the same reason that Loki has resisted anything that doesn't come wrapped in suffering. To have anything, briefly, something that helps him forget that feeling, or fills him with faith that he might not live an entire existence of only that, just to have to turn to dust between his fingers each and every time. Because of his choices. Because of the immutable will of the universe.
"You want me out of your head." That has not been a possibility since we met. Loki's expression is rueful as he touches Clint's cheek in a show of softness he likely doesn't desire and Loki does not expect a return on. "You want to know where I begin and you end. You want to know if you could be a good person." Loki could give him many things, but not the answers to those questions. He cannot unmake the past.
It is a terrible thing to realize you are not the best thing for someone you need so completely, he imagines. Mostly, for him, the terrible thing has been realizing he may not be useful to them in some way. A hindrance instead of a help.
For a moment he is not disconnected, the warring sensations of dream and memory colliding inside his head, his body. For a moment he is something important to someone important to him and it feels like what he imagines belonging must feel like. Even if it's terrible, and tainted, and probably wrong for everyone involved. Even if Clint hates him for it.
Even if Clint won't remember in the morning.
Clint wonders if this dreamt up version of touch feeling sensation skin and sweat and sex is going to sate the thing inside him that has wondered after it, that has nursed some horrible curiosity and desire since at least when Loki showed back up in his life. Perhaps before that. Maybe ever since coming to without the haze of unnatural blue.
Maybe before that. Sometimes, in dark and silent moments, the thing he didn't want to give Loki, he thinks of it. That it may have been better if he had stayed under that power, had followed Loki wherever he went. Stayed the willing, devoted right hand. Stayed.
It would certainly have been easier to be ordered instead of making choices for himself. This, too, is a choice, and it would have been easier if that choice had never been there at all. Power is always an issue, and Loki is trying to rectify that, to give him that power, to try and bridge the gaps. But maybe it isn't the imbalance that scares him so much. Maybe it isn't that he wants more power, but less.
(No. A dangerous thought, in a world of dangerous thoughts. He won't be a puppet again. He needs his agency, needs to not be pounding against the inside walls of his skull. It does not change the fact that it would be easier.)
He tilts his head to kiss at Loki's palm, red stained on his cheek, taste of blood sitting heavy on his tongue. These are desires that the god suggests, yes. Knows him well enough that some of the obvious easily floats to the surface. But it has never been as simple as that. There are no easy answers. There always are. He buries his face against Loki's neck, holds him with tenderness as he fulfills a need, something they both need. Kisses at some of the wounds, marks of teeth weeping blood. He can't heal this, won't. He can't heal either one of them. They are going to tear at each other until the sky falls down around their heads.
Reaches for the knife. Solid grip at the handle. Can even now, with each thrust, feel the blade lodged where it is. Pulls it free. He slams against Loki, shuddering, gasping, trembling at the sensation.
And then he is a hunter again. Taking what he wants. Reveling in the sensations as they come, his movements rougher, harder. Wraps a hand around Loki and presses the weapon to his throat. A warning. A promise.
Maybe before that. Sometimes, in dark and silent moments, the thing he didn't want to give Loki, he thinks of it. That it may have been better if he had stayed under that power, had followed Loki wherever he went. Stayed the willing, devoted right hand. Stayed.
It would certainly have been easier to be ordered instead of making choices for himself. This, too, is a choice, and it would have been easier if that choice had never been there at all. Power is always an issue, and Loki is trying to rectify that, to give him that power, to try and bridge the gaps. But maybe it isn't the imbalance that scares him so much. Maybe it isn't that he wants more power, but less.
(No. A dangerous thought, in a world of dangerous thoughts. He won't be a puppet again. He needs his agency, needs to not be pounding against the inside walls of his skull. It does not change the fact that it would be easier.)
He tilts his head to kiss at Loki's palm, red stained on his cheek, taste of blood sitting heavy on his tongue. These are desires that the god suggests, yes. Knows him well enough that some of the obvious easily floats to the surface. But it has never been as simple as that. There are no easy answers. There always are. He buries his face against Loki's neck, holds him with tenderness as he fulfills a need, something they both need. Kisses at some of the wounds, marks of teeth weeping blood. He can't heal this, won't. He can't heal either one of them. They are going to tear at each other until the sky falls down around their heads.
Reaches for the knife. Solid grip at the handle. Can even now, with each thrust, feel the blade lodged where it is. Pulls it free. He slams against Loki, shuddering, gasping, trembling at the sensation.
And then he is a hunter again. Taking what he wants. Reveling in the sensations as they come, his movements rougher, harder. Wraps a hand around Loki and presses the weapon to his throat. A warning. A promise.
The tenderness is both welcome and terrifying even as it is wholly unexpected. Clint presses his face into Loki's neck and his hand wraps around the other man's shoulders again, less of a demand and more of an embrace. The noises Loki makes in response to those kisses are breathy and sweet and just a bit needy.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Loki can imagine that this is different, that they came at this from some other shared past, that it would be safe and good and expected to be soft for this man, and his awareness that many parts of him long for that to be true while simultaneously believing it is impossible to ever be true is immediately interrupted as Clint pulls the knife free and slams into him.
Loki cries out once, wanton, terrified, his body having relaxed into the earlier pace of things, before the force of Clint's next thrust pushes the air out of his lungs. His hand at his shoulders slips down to Clint's arm, fingers curling around the bicep; the newly freed one settles at Clint's hip and ineffectually scratches at the skin there.
Hawks hunt snakes. He wants to close his eyes but shouldn't, cannot, won't. He wonders how much Clint can see and understand. Does he know that Loki is honestly afraid, and pleased, and sorry, for all the good it will ever do either of them?
His cock jumps in Clint's hand; Loki's back arches a little and the moan that escapes his lips is ragged. It won't take much for Loki to be pushed over the edge into orgasm.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Loki can imagine that this is different, that they came at this from some other shared past, that it would be safe and good and expected to be soft for this man, and his awareness that many parts of him long for that to be true while simultaneously believing it is impossible to ever be true is immediately interrupted as Clint pulls the knife free and slams into him.
Loki cries out once, wanton, terrified, his body having relaxed into the earlier pace of things, before the force of Clint's next thrust pushes the air out of his lungs. His hand at his shoulders slips down to Clint's arm, fingers curling around the bicep; the newly freed one settles at Clint's hip and ineffectually scratches at the skin there.
Hawks hunt snakes. He wants to close his eyes but shouldn't, cannot, won't. He wonders how much Clint can see and understand. Does he know that Loki is honestly afraid, and pleased, and sorry, for all the good it will ever do either of them?
His cock jumps in Clint's hand; Loki's back arches a little and the moan that escapes his lips is ragged. It won't take much for Loki to be pushed over the edge into orgasm.
He could see Loki clearest while under the thrall. Can still yet see him, through the lingering, pervasive remnants of their unholy connection, but not nearly to the same extent. To have seen the driving forces behind Loki, back what feels like a lifetime ago, wasn't anything special to him; it seemed downright obvious. Now his vision, sharp as ever, can't always see the shapes that Loki's consciousness forms, the things that he wears just under the skin. Can't pull them out even when cut.
But there are things he can see. And it's so hard to figure out what to do with it all, because he shouldn't have it, doesn't want it, should not be allowed.
Loki doesn't close his eyes to this, and so neither does Clint, not even when he kisses, bites. Not when the building pressure of pleasure in him starts winning out over everything. Is this where Loki belongs? Eternally under someone, desperate to please, and just as desperate to be punished for not pleasing? Desperation drives a lot of what Loki does, is, and maybe it's feedback that drives Clint desperate in ways he finds hard to define. Goads him, baits him, until he feels that there aren't any choices left to him.
Easy to blame him for everything, in spite of knowing that's a lie his mind clings to. Desperately.
Loki won't last long. In every sense. Clint watches him, feels him, the only real thing in this world of unreality, the only thing worth focusing on. Not the breeze from the windows, and not the sheets staining with violence and effort, and not even the hunt. All just parts of a story. He watches, and he feels, and when he thinks there is a rising peak coming, or an edge to hurtle over, that's when he presses the blade in, pulls it neatly across.
But there are things he can see. And it's so hard to figure out what to do with it all, because he shouldn't have it, doesn't want it, should not be allowed.
Loki doesn't close his eyes to this, and so neither does Clint, not even when he kisses, bites. Not when the building pressure of pleasure in him starts winning out over everything. Is this where Loki belongs? Eternally under someone, desperate to please, and just as desperate to be punished for not pleasing? Desperation drives a lot of what Loki does, is, and maybe it's feedback that drives Clint desperate in ways he finds hard to define. Goads him, baits him, until he feels that there aren't any choices left to him.
Easy to blame him for everything, in spite of knowing that's a lie his mind clings to. Desperately.
Loki won't last long. In every sense. Clint watches him, feels him, the only real thing in this world of unreality, the only thing worth focusing on. Not the breeze from the windows, and not the sheets staining with violence and effort, and not even the hunt. All just parts of a story. He watches, and he feels, and when he thinks there is a rising peak coming, or an edge to hurtle over, that's when he presses the blade in, pulls it neatly across.
Here is an arrangement of facts:
Loki dies that night. Literally, in the waking world. He remembers dying, in the dream, and then he remembers the excruciating agony of resurrection into a body that held no life for a time. It only takes roughly twenty-four hours, but he has no real sense of that.
He's covered in wounds. Blood. The sheets, somehow, aren't. His throat hurts (unpleasantly), his ass hurts (in quite the opposite fashion), his hands have knife wounds through both palms. There are cuts and bruises and teeth marks all over. He feels sluggish and overwhelmed by the pain; his magic exists in fits in starts and he's too exhausted to sort out how to fix that, or any of it, so he doesn't.
Instead, he sleeps. For seven more days.
On the fifth day, the Barton children become aware something is amiss. Because Loki has missed an appointment with Lila to gossip about her dating life over sugary beverages. He doesn't answer the series of phonecalls that follow, or several text messages. When Cooper actually goes to the apartment on the next day, the door doesn't open, and the only response he receives from "Is anyone in there?" yelled toward the door is Glød's meow.
It's decided between the two of them that it is Lila who will inform their father that something is wrong, but they're still debating how exactly to go about doing that, when Loki wakes up and responds to text messages stating he'd "been asleep" and "wasn't feeling well", along with apologies for worrying them. When threatened with another visit he sent a photo (after he'd had a bath) as proof of life and told them that he couldn't have visitors or take a video call because he'd lost his voice.
But he was certain that he would get it back in a few days. They shouldn't worry overmuch. Everything would be fine.
So that is the context in which Clint gets a text from his daughter, followed by an address, and several unhappy smiley faces.
Loki dies that night. Literally, in the waking world. He remembers dying, in the dream, and then he remembers the excruciating agony of resurrection into a body that held no life for a time. It only takes roughly twenty-four hours, but he has no real sense of that.
He's covered in wounds. Blood. The sheets, somehow, aren't. His throat hurts (unpleasantly), his ass hurts (in quite the opposite fashion), his hands have knife wounds through both palms. There are cuts and bruises and teeth marks all over. He feels sluggish and overwhelmed by the pain; his magic exists in fits in starts and he's too exhausted to sort out how to fix that, or any of it, so he doesn't.
Instead, he sleeps. For seven more days.
On the fifth day, the Barton children become aware something is amiss. Because Loki has missed an appointment with Lila to gossip about her dating life over sugary beverages. He doesn't answer the series of phonecalls that follow, or several text messages. When Cooper actually goes to the apartment on the next day, the door doesn't open, and the only response he receives from "Is anyone in there?" yelled toward the door is Glød's meow.
It's decided between the two of them that it is Lila who will inform their father that something is wrong, but they're still debating how exactly to go about doing that, when Loki wakes up and responds to text messages stating he'd "been asleep" and "wasn't feeling well", along with apologies for worrying them. When threatened with another visit he sent a photo (after he'd had a bath) as proof of life and told them that he couldn't have visitors or take a video call because he'd lost his voice.
But he was certain that he would get it back in a few days. They shouldn't worry overmuch. Everything would be fine.
So that is the context in which Clint gets a text from his daughter, followed by an address, and several unhappy smiley faces.
Part of Loki is pleased and honored to have deserved a (relatively) clean death. A steady blade, an almost quick release from existence. Painful, yes, but what isn't? The rest of him is too busy dying in the first place, gasping for air that doesn't come, the sense of overwhelm that comes from an intense orgasm colliding into rapid blood loss. His body tenses and doesn't stop tensing. He feels faint; this, too, doesn't improve.
He tries to say something, to grant Clint his thanks, his absolution, but there are no words, no air for them, and his throat is ruined besides.
He smiles. His fingers trail down Clint's arm. Clint is the last thing he sees.
Loki exists, physically, in the dream for a moment. The real in the unreal. And then the god, too, becomes unreal, so much dust in green and glittering gold.
For the next day the connection between them lies dormant, existing but unresponsive, a door that may or may not exist. Something that was once a door, definitely, that now leads to nothingness. It doesn't flare to life again until Clint falls asleep the following night, but there is no god walking his dreams then, either, only a sense of something where there was nearly nothing for a while.
When Clint next wakes it is reformed, reforged. A window, perhaps, or a doorway in which the only real barrier that exists is merely a flimsy bit of fabric. Nothing that can be locked, or slammed.
He tries to say something, to grant Clint his thanks, his absolution, but there are no words, no air for them, and his throat is ruined besides.
He smiles. His fingers trail down Clint's arm. Clint is the last thing he sees.
Loki exists, physically, in the dream for a moment. The real in the unreal. And then the god, too, becomes unreal, so much dust in green and glittering gold.
For the next day the connection between them lies dormant, existing but unresponsive, a door that may or may not exist. Something that was once a door, definitely, that now leads to nothingness. It doesn't flare to life again until Clint falls asleep the following night, but there is no god walking his dreams then, either, only a sense of something where there was nearly nothing for a while.
When Clint next wakes it is reformed, reforged. A window, perhaps, or a doorway in which the only real barrier that exists is merely a flimsy bit of fabric. Nothing that can be locked, or slammed.
There are things he remembers, and there are things he does not. Some of it is reduced to sensation and emotion rather than anything physical. Some of it burns painfully bright. He wakes up achingly, ragingly hard, and he doesn't bother Laura with some fun morning sex about it.
And as far as he's concerned, that's the end of it. At least until the next time Loki comes around or bothers him in his sleep.
Until it's Lila that sends him a concerned text.
He knows the kids care. That 'Uncle Loki' worked his figurative magic and warmed them over, even Cooper in the midst of his disaffected teenagerhood. He knows that Loki genuinely cares about them in return and has at least once (that he's aware of) actually helped one of them out of a dangerous situation. In the most Loki way possible. Clint cares, too, of course, something long established even if it's never simple, just the same as everything else between them, but he's tempted to suggest that it sucks to be Loki and leave it be.
That there is an address bothers him. That he did not know this address before but his eldest children did. That it's in state.
Also that Loki is apparently not just not speaking, but unable to speak. This is Loki. He doesn't just get a sore throat and hoarse voice from simple human illnesses. And he loves to talk. Too much.
He tries to drown some of the worry out on the drive with radio, but it's only background noise. It isn't until he's making his way up that he's starting to think the surroundings of the apartment are irrationally familiar. That gets stuffed in the back of his mind when he picks Loki's lock and does not even bother with knocking.
Except the door isn't even locked. He doesn't know for sure if somehow Loki's in bad enough shape that he didn't lock it at all, or if there are enchantments in place that have recognized one connected and intertwined with Loki's soul and allowed him entrance.
There's a cat at his ankles immediately, and he closes the door again in a panic. Not a panic about there being a cat. Panic that he already knew Loki had a cat. That cat. He knew this. This is familiar. It makes his heart tick up in pace.
Opens the door again and has to navigate around a furball who seems determined to trip him up. He doesn't know what to expect out of Loki.
And as far as he's concerned, that's the end of it. At least until the next time Loki comes around or bothers him in his sleep.
Until it's Lila that sends him a concerned text.
He knows the kids care. That 'Uncle Loki' worked his figurative magic and warmed them over, even Cooper in the midst of his disaffected teenagerhood. He knows that Loki genuinely cares about them in return and has at least once (that he's aware of) actually helped one of them out of a dangerous situation. In the most Loki way possible. Clint cares, too, of course, something long established even if it's never simple, just the same as everything else between them, but he's tempted to suggest that it sucks to be Loki and leave it be.
That there is an address bothers him. That he did not know this address before but his eldest children did. That it's in state.
Also that Loki is apparently not just not speaking, but unable to speak. This is Loki. He doesn't just get a sore throat and hoarse voice from simple human illnesses. And he loves to talk. Too much.
He tries to drown some of the worry out on the drive with radio, but it's only background noise. It isn't until he's making his way up that he's starting to think the surroundings of the apartment are irrationally familiar. That gets stuffed in the back of his mind when he picks Loki's lock and does not even bother with knocking.
Except the door isn't even locked. He doesn't know for sure if somehow Loki's in bad enough shape that he didn't lock it at all, or if there are enchantments in place that have recognized one connected and intertwined with Loki's soul and allowed him entrance.
There's a cat at his ankles immediately, and he closes the door again in a panic. Not a panic about there being a cat. Panic that he already knew Loki had a cat. That cat. He knew this. This is familiar. It makes his heart tick up in pace.
Opens the door again and has to navigate around a furball who seems determined to trip him up. He doesn't know what to expect out of Loki.
There is music coming from the bedroom area; something quiet, without lyrics. The bed is pristine, made almost perfectly, with small imperfections in the tucks and folds and placements of pillows that might indicate that Loki did the arrangement by hand, instead of by rote magic. There is a plush couch in the immediate space Clint finds himself in, and a small door that likely leads to a bathroom, along with a large scrying mirror on a wall opposite the entryway.
There are books. Many books. Several plants, also, arranged on windowsills. Glød does not meow at Clint, merely continues to weave her way between his ankles as he proceeds past one large bookcase that blocks the view of the kitchen from the doorway.
The kitchen where Loki is sitting, actually, on a bench beneath another window, a book in his lap and blowing on the surface of a hot cup of tea. Which he nearly drops in his startlement once he notices Clint standing there. It's telling, perhaps, that his capturing of the mug is imperfect, that his hands shake a little, that he nearly drops it again and hisses in annoyance at the hot liquid splashing against his skin, refocusing his attention on the offending mug even though no real sound comes out.
He steadies himself then. Takes the sip of tea he'd been intending to have, swallows, only grimaces for a split second. Returns his gaze to the man in his living room. Why are you here? Not "how did he get here" or "who told him about this place" because Loki is a fool in many ways but not in others.
It is telling, also, perhaps, that there is more communicated in the question in Loki's voice in Clint's brain than just the query itself. That there is emotion behind that, emotion that Clint can perhaps sense: a sense of disquiet, exhaustion, and also... something settled. Some manic, still-sharp edge laid smoother within him.
There are books. Many books. Several plants, also, arranged on windowsills. Glød does not meow at Clint, merely continues to weave her way between his ankles as he proceeds past one large bookcase that blocks the view of the kitchen from the doorway.
The kitchen where Loki is sitting, actually, on a bench beneath another window, a book in his lap and blowing on the surface of a hot cup of tea. Which he nearly drops in his startlement once he notices Clint standing there. It's telling, perhaps, that his capturing of the mug is imperfect, that his hands shake a little, that he nearly drops it again and hisses in annoyance at the hot liquid splashing against his skin, refocusing his attention on the offending mug even though no real sound comes out.
He steadies himself then. Takes the sip of tea he'd been intending to have, swallows, only grimaces for a split second. Returns his gaze to the man in his living room. Why are you here? Not "how did he get here" or "who told him about this place" because Loki is a fool in many ways but not in others.
It is telling, also, perhaps, that there is more communicated in the question in Loki's voice in Clint's brain than just the query itself. That there is emotion behind that, emotion that Clint can perhaps sense: a sense of disquiet, exhaustion, and also... something settled. Some manic, still-sharp edge laid smoother within him.
There is so much going on in just a few short seconds.
Loki is either without magic or without specific aspects of his magic. He still can't speak. He can speak inside Clint's head. (He does not remember this detail of the dream.) He was closed off entirely for a day, then came back, and now, now here and close and with feeling, he does not feel the same. Changed, somehow. Not in a negative way, perhaps. His hands tense. Relax again.
Okay. He's going to scoop up the cat and let her hang out on his shoulder. First thing. Maybe a little bit of weight and something to do with his hands will help ground him in this situation.
"Hi, how are you, I'm great, thanks for asking. Would you like to stay for dinner? Can I get you something to drink? Oh no, I'm just passing through." Deadpan. "You're not a great host." And no one can argue that Clint is unwelcome. The door is attuned to him. That's an open invitation.
He pets the cat and doesn't move any closer. It's entirely possible this whole interaction could last less than five minutes. Likely? No. But possible.
Until: Loki's hands. They catch his eyes. There are scars, fresh enough to catch the light. There's a thin line across his throat. The petting hand flies to his side where a knife had been stabbed in, something he did himself, where there is no scarring, had been no wound.
Breathes out hard. Answer the question. Answer the fucking question, Clint. He doesn't. He's frozen in the moment. Red hot burning blood blood blood in his mouth on his teeth on his tongue. He can feel it sliding down his throat.
Loki is either without magic or without specific aspects of his magic. He still can't speak. He can speak inside Clint's head. (He does not remember this detail of the dream.) He was closed off entirely for a day, then came back, and now, now here and close and with feeling, he does not feel the same. Changed, somehow. Not in a negative way, perhaps. His hands tense. Relax again.
Okay. He's going to scoop up the cat and let her hang out on his shoulder. First thing. Maybe a little bit of weight and something to do with his hands will help ground him in this situation.
"Hi, how are you, I'm great, thanks for asking. Would you like to stay for dinner? Can I get you something to drink? Oh no, I'm just passing through." Deadpan. "You're not a great host." And no one can argue that Clint is unwelcome. The door is attuned to him. That's an open invitation.
He pets the cat and doesn't move any closer. It's entirely possible this whole interaction could last less than five minutes. Likely? No. But possible.
Until: Loki's hands. They catch his eyes. There are scars, fresh enough to catch the light. There's a thin line across his throat. The petting hand flies to his side where a knife had been stabbed in, something he did himself, where there is no scarring, had been no wound.
Breathes out hard. Answer the question. Answer the fucking question, Clint. He doesn't. He's frozen in the moment. Red hot burning blood blood blood in his mouth on his teeth on his tongue. He can feel it sliding down his throat.
Loki sighs, a shift in posture more than a sound, and then sets the mug and book aside on the counter. Stands and moves toward the fridge where he then hands Clint a bottle of his favorite beer. Not whatever he drinks at home but whatever he seeks out abroad, when traveling. Something difficult to import, or at least not usually worth the effort.
If he has to take Clint's hand and wrap it around the chilled bottle himself, so be it. Either way, Loki won't be accused of being a bad host again.
He doesn't indicate that he has noticed Clint's realization, or where that hand was, doesn't ask again why he came; only gestures towards the couch. They should probably sit, yes? He'll collect his tea and join him, even if it means putting a hand at the other man's shoulder, turning him around, and then nudging him toward the couch physically.
If he has to take Clint's hand and wrap it around the chilled bottle himself, so be it. Either way, Loki won't be accused of being a bad host again.
He doesn't indicate that he has noticed Clint's realization, or where that hand was, doesn't ask again why he came; only gestures towards the couch. They should probably sit, yes? He'll collect his tea and join him, even if it means putting a hand at the other man's shoulder, turning him around, and then nudging him toward the couch physically.
Why isn't Loki reacting more? To any of it. Why is he so calm? Oh. Shit. Did exactly what he wanted. Gave him some peace, settled something, and it feels...that should feel better than it does, shouldn't it? Loki is being patient. And it all feels kind of wrong. Where's the sharpness, the baiting banter, even if it's in his head alone?
There's an overseas beer in his hand, a cat on his shoulder happy to stay there, and he's sitting on Loki's couch like they're old friends about to do some catching up. He does not understand this.
He feels like there's a phantom ache in his side. And pointedly ignores it. The beer is appreciated, but he still sets it down so he can scrub at his face with both hands.
"The kids are worried. That's why I'm here."
There's an overseas beer in his hand, a cat on his shoulder happy to stay there, and he's sitting on Loki's couch like they're old friends about to do some catching up. He does not understand this.
He feels like there's a phantom ache in his side. And pointedly ignores it. The beer is appreciated, but he still sets it down so he can scrub at his face with both hands.
"The kids are worried. That's why I'm here."
Holding the mug with both hands is ideal for keeping it steady; seeing Clint here, as Loki slowly but certainly rebuilds his body and connection to magic after being severed from both due to both of their decisions in Clint's dreamscapes is unnerving and a little frightening and also...
And also. There's a reason the door didn't allow Cooper through but didn't even pose a semblance of hesitation at allowing Clint inside. If he'd come days earlier, while Loki was sleeping, it would have been the same. It's an interesting sort of thing, the way this thing between them works. Has grown. Has evolved.
Loki knows that his first thought upon waking (the second time) was a sense of vague disappointment that he'd woken alone. Not that he'd expected anything else. But emotions and desires aren't often made of purely sensible things, in his case.
The part of Loki that is fascinated by a puzzle loves it, everything that he's learned, everything it implies for the future. The part of Loki that is frightened of what it means, represents, the power that it indicates Clint holds over him, unwillingly perhaps, unwittingly at times, is trying to have faith in the idea that, eventually, one day, it'll be fine.
That doesn't mean it'll be fine today. Nor does it mean that he wants Clint to find himself mired in grief over what has occurred, for his role in it. It was wanted. Perhaps even necessary.
I told them I would be fine. Regret, yes. That he worried them. That he lied, via omission, to two of the people he tries very hard not to lie to when he can avoid it. Sometimes it can't be avoided, however.
Loki sets the mug down next to Clint's currently ignored beer and, gently, hesitantly, runs his hand up from the nape of Clint's neck into his hair. I will be fine. I'm just tired. An uncomplicated truth from a being who doesn't really believe in such things. As much for Clint's benefit as his own.
And also. There's a reason the door didn't allow Cooper through but didn't even pose a semblance of hesitation at allowing Clint inside. If he'd come days earlier, while Loki was sleeping, it would have been the same. It's an interesting sort of thing, the way this thing between them works. Has grown. Has evolved.
Loki knows that his first thought upon waking (the second time) was a sense of vague disappointment that he'd woken alone. Not that he'd expected anything else. But emotions and desires aren't often made of purely sensible things, in his case.
The part of Loki that is fascinated by a puzzle loves it, everything that he's learned, everything it implies for the future. The part of Loki that is frightened of what it means, represents, the power that it indicates Clint holds over him, unwillingly perhaps, unwittingly at times, is trying to have faith in the idea that, eventually, one day, it'll be fine.
That doesn't mean it'll be fine today. Nor does it mean that he wants Clint to find himself mired in grief over what has occurred, for his role in it. It was wanted. Perhaps even necessary.
I told them I would be fine. Regret, yes. That he worried them. That he lied, via omission, to two of the people he tries very hard not to lie to when he can avoid it. Sometimes it can't be avoided, however.
Loki sets the mug down next to Clint's currently ignored beer and, gently, hesitantly, runs his hand up from the nape of Clint's neck into his hair. I will be fine. I'm just tired. An uncomplicated truth from a being who doesn't really believe in such things. As much for Clint's benefit as his own.
There's a flare of something, anger? No, not as intense as anger. Indignation? Frustration, perhaps. Loki is not fine, he's not fine now, and it's hard to see him being fine in the future if all of that happened to him. Happened to him in the real, waking world. He thinks, briefly, of his bedroom, of spreading red. Blinks it away.
Loki's hand is lovingly petting him.
Clint's relationship with Loki is fraught and confused and an exercise in polarity. This is not a surprise. Attraction and repulsion in equal measure. The touch makes him want to shiver and lean into it while at the very same time want to crawl directly out of his skin and jump out a window. The affection and kindness and softness and familiarity feels nice. But it's too soft, too familiar, too kind.
He jerks, dislodging the cat, turning sharply in his seat to snatch Loki's wrist tightly. His heart is lodged directly in his throat, pounding away.
Loki's hand is lovingly petting him.
Clint's relationship with Loki is fraught and confused and an exercise in polarity. This is not a surprise. Attraction and repulsion in equal measure. The touch makes him want to shiver and lean into it while at the very same time want to crawl directly out of his skin and jump out a window. The affection and kindness and softness and familiarity feels nice. But it's too soft, too familiar, too kind.
He jerks, dislodging the cat, turning sharply in his seat to snatch Loki's wrist tightly. His heart is lodged directly in his throat, pounding away.
Glød makes a very catlike noise of protest at being suddenly dislodged from her new favorite perch on the archer's shoulders before settling herself at Clint's hip, paws against his thigh, sharp claws digging in through his pants just a little. Not a threat as it would be for a guest that behaved this way, that dared to touch her master; merely a reminder that she exists.
Petting her was better than whatever this is.
Loki, for his part, narrows his eyes and freezes. Indignation and frustration and the briefest flash of anger mirrored in his expression, in their connection. You're being a poor guest. Which is about the still ignored beer, actually, which Loki clearly obtained just for Clint at some point in the past, and is not directly about the touching. Or Clint's reaction to it. Though Loki did, for a split second, entertain the idea of slapping Clint across the face for what he perceives as a nearly hysterical reaction.
He's just not sure what would happen, as a result. If he would be able to mitigate the force of his hand. If Clint would take offense to that, too. If it would inform the other man that he's sturdier than he used to be.
Too many variables. Loki's nostrils flare. What are you angry at me for, now?
Petting her was better than whatever this is.
Loki, for his part, narrows his eyes and freezes. Indignation and frustration and the briefest flash of anger mirrored in his expression, in their connection. You're being a poor guest. Which is about the still ignored beer, actually, which Loki clearly obtained just for Clint at some point in the past, and is not directly about the touching. Or Clint's reaction to it. Though Loki did, for a split second, entertain the idea of slapping Clint across the face for what he perceives as a nearly hysterical reaction.
He's just not sure what would happen, as a result. If he would be able to mitigate the force of his hand. If Clint would take offense to that, too. If it would inform the other man that he's sturdier than he used to be.
Too many variables. Loki's nostrils flare. What are you angry at me for, now?
And Loki's the one who's mad about it?
"Tell me to leave, then," he says with a bite, which is weird, because his voice sounds so fucking muted and distant to him, the pounding panic in his ears a familiar roar.
The sharp little pricks in his thigh are actually just grounding enough to keep him from getting actually hysterical about anything. Good thing Loki didn't voice that particular thought, or he might have done something genuinely ill-advised.
It's another long moment, two moments, before he finally lets Loki go, dropping the wrist like it's become far too hot. Reaches for the beer instead, cool in his grip. "Thank you for the drink."
It does not at all surprise him at this point that Loki knows what he likes, that he would keep it stocked just in case. The heavy taste of it feels like it weighs him down, but not in this case in any bad way. Grounding, like the cat. That he finally deigns to stroke.
"I'm not your cat. I'm not your pet." Is what he says as explanation, but it feels weak, like it's a step to the side of what he means.
"Tell me to leave, then," he says with a bite, which is weird, because his voice sounds so fucking muted and distant to him, the pounding panic in his ears a familiar roar.
The sharp little pricks in his thigh are actually just grounding enough to keep him from getting actually hysterical about anything. Good thing Loki didn't voice that particular thought, or he might have done something genuinely ill-advised.
It's another long moment, two moments, before he finally lets Loki go, dropping the wrist like it's become far too hot. Reaches for the beer instead, cool in his grip. "Thank you for the drink."
It does not at all surprise him at this point that Loki knows what he likes, that he would keep it stocked just in case. The heavy taste of it feels like it weighs him down, but not in this case in any bad way. Grounding, like the cat. That he finally deigns to stroke.
"I'm not your cat. I'm not your pet." Is what he says as explanation, but it feels weak, like it's a step to the side of what he means.
Don't be daft. Sharp. Annoyed. Clint still has his wrist and this feels like an edge that might be dangerous for either or both of them. Or, perhaps, there might be stairs on the cliffside to the bottom, to the next thing.
He probably won't find out if he moves too fast, so Loki merely raises his eyebrows and waits. Why would I do that?
It pays off. Clint releases him, and Loki sets his hands in his lap and watches the other man with some curiosity.
I know that. Less annoyed, now. Still petulant, however. He doesn't think this is the most direct method of getting to the source of what has upset Clint, but it is... progress, of a sort. His fingers twitch in his lap before he folds them and forces them to relax.
He wants to touch him, reassure himself that he's really here. As something for his hands to do. As a method of chasing and refreshing the memory of that sense of complete connection he'd had before the other man slit his throat.
It's possibly a very stupid thing to want, in light of Clint's... complaint.
We are beyond that. Clint won't look at him, and, well. Loki supposes he shouldn't blame him. He hadn't intended for the man to find out this way, if at all. And to be pedantic, Glød is more than a cat, anyway.
As if in response to her (unspoken, by the literal definition) name, Glød chirps in pleasure and leans into Clint's hand.
He probably won't find out if he moves too fast, so Loki merely raises his eyebrows and waits. Why would I do that?
It pays off. Clint releases him, and Loki sets his hands in his lap and watches the other man with some curiosity.
I know that. Less annoyed, now. Still petulant, however. He doesn't think this is the most direct method of getting to the source of what has upset Clint, but it is... progress, of a sort. His fingers twitch in his lap before he folds them and forces them to relax.
He wants to touch him, reassure himself that he's really here. As something for his hands to do. As a method of chasing and refreshing the memory of that sense of complete connection he'd had before the other man slit his throat.
It's possibly a very stupid thing to want, in light of Clint's... complaint.
We are beyond that. Clint won't look at him, and, well. Loki supposes he shouldn't blame him. He hadn't intended for the man to find out this way, if at all. And to be pedantic, Glød is more than a cat, anyway.
As if in response to her (unspoken, by the literal definition) name, Glød chirps in pleasure and leans into Clint's hand.
Edited 2022-08-19 21:35 (UTC)
"Are we."
Maybe to Loki, yes. He has been chosen in some way. Even if at random, or on accident, or inadvertently. What feels like a lifetime ago, they became connected, because Loki chose him. Not knowing what that meant. Apparently knowing what it means now.
They are certainly well past Loki trying to worm his way inside to use him, to control him utterly. Sometimes it feels like the actual opposite. He keeps petting the cat that is something other than a cat, and sure, might as well be, whatever. A familiar, enchanted, an alien? He doesn't ask. Looks like a cat, sounds like a cat, acts like a cat.
He savors another sip, looking across the room. Looking at--not Loki. Deliberately not looking at him and his healing wounds right now. Keep it...lighter, maybe.
"I'm guessing you can only talk in my head because of what we've got. You didn't suddenly become a telepath, or you'd talk to the kiddos."
Maybe to Loki, yes. He has been chosen in some way. Even if at random, or on accident, or inadvertently. What feels like a lifetime ago, they became connected, because Loki chose him. Not knowing what that meant. Apparently knowing what it means now.
They are certainly well past Loki trying to worm his way inside to use him, to control him utterly. Sometimes it feels like the actual opposite. He keeps petting the cat that is something other than a cat, and sure, might as well be, whatever. A familiar, enchanted, an alien? He doesn't ask. Looks like a cat, sounds like a cat, acts like a cat.
He savors another sip, looking across the room. Looking at--not Loki. Deliberately not looking at him and his healing wounds right now. Keep it...lighter, maybe.
"I'm guessing you can only talk in my head because of what we've got. You didn't suddenly become a telepath, or you'd talk to the kiddos."
Do you feel like a pet? Indentured to me for protection and sustenance? In no way or sense my equal? Loki scoffs, even though the action causes him a bit of pain as he reaches for his tea. Not like he's unused to pain, is he? Besides, it's worth it to express his distaste for the frankly ridiculous association at this point in time. In the beginning, perhaps. A very loyal pet, who in turn ensured that I ate. Rather a reversal of the roles implied there, I would think.
He rolls his eyes (even though Clint isn't looking) and takes a sip of his tea. At least it's still hot and soothing. Glød is purring, now, making gentle kneading gestures into Clint's thigh. Claws still out, though.
No, I didn't suddenly become a telepath. Could he talk directly into the minds of the Barton children? Possibly, all things considered, with the correct materials, time, and spells, but he'd rather keep this to the two of them anyway.
Besides, he enjoys his text and phone video conversations with Lila and Cooper and the occasional incomprehensible meme from young Nate. Why give that up in favor of something that might just terrify them in the end?
I don't particularly feel up to croaking my way uncomfortably through a conversation you only seem half interested in actually having, when this is an available alternative.
He rolls his eyes (even though Clint isn't looking) and takes a sip of his tea. At least it's still hot and soothing. Glød is purring, now, making gentle kneading gestures into Clint's thigh. Claws still out, though.
No, I didn't suddenly become a telepath. Could he talk directly into the minds of the Barton children? Possibly, all things considered, with the correct materials, time, and spells, but he'd rather keep this to the two of them anyway.
Besides, he enjoys his text and phone video conversations with Lila and Cooper and the occasional incomprehensible meme from young Nate. Why give that up in favor of something that might just terrify them in the end?
I don't particularly feel up to croaking my way uncomfortably through a conversation you only seem half interested in actually having, when this is an available alternative.
Edited (lmao whoops names) 2022-08-19 22:13 (UTC)
Fine. Fine. Loki seems perfectly okay with all of this, maybe because he asked for it, wanted it so damn badly and was given it on a fucking platter. Clint sets down his drink and lifts both hands to sign as well as speak.
"We have a lot of different ways of talking. But it seems like this one isn't going to suit you, either."
He resists the urge to end that by flipping Loki off. It's a very adult decision of him. Very adult. So mature. He continues petting the pretty kitty.
"Why did--" A huff, a pause, rethinking his phrasing. Loki picks at him about how he never asks the right questions to what he wants to know. "Why did you think it was appropriate to touch me like that?" There. That...seems somewhat more specific than 'why did you touch me'.
"We have a lot of different ways of talking. But it seems like this one isn't going to suit you, either."
He resists the urge to end that by flipping Loki off. It's a very adult decision of him. Very adult. So mature. He continues petting the pretty kitty.
"Why did--" A huff, a pause, rethinking his phrasing. Loki picks at him about how he never asks the right questions to what he wants to know. "Why did you think it was appropriate to touch me like that?" There. That...seems somewhat more specific than 'why did you touch me'.
Glowering, Loki puts down the tea and signs back as the words echo in Clint's brain. You would have to fucking look at me for signing to be worth my time or consideration. Besides, his hands hurt, even with that little bit, though he won't admit it aloud or via their connection.
It's likely obvious in the fact that his hands, which are usually quick moving and full of fluent gestures, appear a little stiff and slow. The scarring doesn't help.
If he'd flipped Loki off he would have probably laughed aloud, or at least tried to, and then flipped him off in response. Slowly and purposefully. Because he thinks this is just about the dumbest possible thing for them to be having a pseudo-argument about in the first place.
I wasn't thinking about the appropriateness of it. He pauses, hands stilling. I wanted to touch you. I still do. Feel free to praise him for his self-control. Or don't; he's not expecting any praise for it, anyway. I don't know what you'll deem appropriate for me to do, in regards to you.
It's likely obvious in the fact that his hands, which are usually quick moving and full of fluent gestures, appear a little stiff and slow. The scarring doesn't help.
If he'd flipped Loki off he would have probably laughed aloud, or at least tried to, and then flipped him off in response. Slowly and purposefully. Because he thinks this is just about the dumbest possible thing for them to be having a pseudo-argument about in the first place.
I wasn't thinking about the appropriateness of it. He pauses, hands stilling. I wanted to touch you. I still do. Feel free to praise him for his self-control. Or don't; he's not expecting any praise for it, anyway. I don't know what you'll deem appropriate for me to do, in regards to you.
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