au shenanigans for icasm

[brandingproblem]

there should be a name for this at some point
we'll figure it out shh

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[icasm]

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.