There's a laugh that becomes a cough that becomes a moan as Clint touches him, and yes, it's good, very good actually, but not enough, rather like several drops of water on the tongue of someone dying of thirst. The hand impaled to Clint's side shifts as far as it can before the presence of the blade puts a stop to that, and the one at Clint's neck is now an arm across his shoulders, gripping and encouraging and keeping him from moving too far away.

"You're right." He talks too damned much and he should leave, but he's not going to. "Clint." He never uses the other man's name, for some reason. Foolish ones, probably. Sentiment, and the like. But he needs his attention, now, even as Loki struggles to catch his breath. "Please," and he shuts his eyes because he is reduced to this, yes, and there's a good chance he'll be denied anyway, but. "I need... I need you. Inside of me. If only the once."