I saw a prompt, and then I was like oh man and started to write it. And then I went I WANT TO MAKE LISE A THING BECAUSE SHE WRITES THE BEST CLINT/LOKI. (lise is lise on ao3 and veliseraptor on tumblr)
So I wrote her a Clint/Loki!
This is both canon and AU at the same time! It's set after the events of the Avengers; the AU element will become rapidly obvious.
special thanks to my betas-embershx and spontaneousfagasm
warnings: fighting, blood, knives, knifeplay, self-harm, masochism, really really fucking unhealthy s/m
like
so unhealthy
this is not how you s&m
"You won't shoot me," he says, entirely smug.
Clint does, just to prove he will.
This is how Clint ends up with a god bleeding in the backseat of his car, tuning out a high-pitched "You shot me!"
xxx
This is also how he ends up with same god bleeding all over his couch.
"You shot me," Loki complains again.
"I did," Clint agrees, voice even, and hands him the first aid kit. Loki takes it, turns it over in his hands warily, then opens it. Curious.
Loki does nearly everything curiously, and Clint has mostly adjusted to it.
Loki is mouthing the words on the wrapper for one of the antiseptic wipes—apparently All Speak doesn't let help him read other languages—and he's stopped bleeding. Clint isn't surprised; it was only a scratch, enough to get through his somewhat ridiculous leather outfit and catch his arm. Loki could have stopped bleeding while they were in the car, long before he got to Clint's couch.
Petulance, mostly. Loki—this Loki—has never met someone who doesn't treat him like the prince he is, or isn't intimidated by the threat of his retaliation. It fascinates him, as much as everything about Clint does.
"What are bacteria?" Loki finally asks, tearing the wrapper open, drawing his feet so he's sitting cross-legged on the couch, examining the wipe.
"Clean the couch first," Clint calls over his shoulder, heading for the kitchen. He needs a beer to deal with this, before he starts to get a headache.
He can hear Loki sniff behind him. When he gets back, the couch is clean, though, and the tear in Loki's clothing is gone.
xxx
Clint has shot, punched, kicked, and—once—bitten this Loki.
This Loki has taken all of it a bit surprised, but he only defends himself.
Clint has no idea why this Loki showed up or why he's so fixated on Clint. He has no idea where this Loki is even from. He isn't the Loki he knows—the one that crept into all the spaces of his brain, pressed his soul out and twisted it into a shape he found more pleasing, the one who said you have heart with all the glee of a child finding a favourite toy.
xxx
This is how Clint ends up with a god that looks like his worst demon ghosting his steps:
Clint has been ignoring him today, ignoring the second glances that follow Loki, ignoring Loki's attempts to talk, grinding his teeth together to keep from snapping. Last time Loki showed up on his doorstep, he locked him out, and—for once—Loki took the hint. This Loki.
"Buy me that," Loki says at his shoulder, ridiculous in a baseball cap, too big t-shirt, and—incongruous—dress slacks, like a tourist who isn't quite sure how to dress but thinks this is blending in. He says it imperious, like a command, like he expects Clint to buy the pastry he's pointing at.
He says it the way the other Loki would say things, and memory and reflex have Clint moving even without anything to compromise him in his head, reaching for his wallet.
He makes himself stop, going tense, and says, short, "No."
Because he can.
Because Loki isn't in his head.
"Aha!" Loki—this Loki—says, delighted. Clint looks at him. Loki is grinning, green eyes bright—green, not pale blue that shines green in the right light. It's the first time Clint's noticed.
"Someone who looks like me used to have some hold on you," Loki says.
Clint cocks eyebrow.
"You're being obvious," Loki says. Apologetic, but only just. Nothing like the Loki Clint knows.
Clint punches him in the face, in public, because he can, because he's sick of grinding his teeth down trying to ignore him. Loki staggers back a step, surprised, blinking and blood spilling over his lips, then he grins.
Like he's been given a surprise gift.
The only reason Clint doesn't get arrested by the cop in the coffee shop with them is that Loki teleports them away, laughing.
xxx
It's very therapeutic.
Sort of.
On the one hand, he's stopped seeing Loki as a threat. The instinctive craving when Loki orders him is gone, though he still pushes back because he can. He doesn't have so many nightmares.
When he's stood over Loki, breath heaving, and Loki is blinking up at him, dazed and bruised and bloody, Clint knows what it looks like, what it feels like to be fully and wholly himself, to physically beat his demons down. He stops being so afraid of how he thought he'd always have a hole in his soul. While it isn't going anywhere, it's not holding him back either.
Even if said demon doesn't quite look like this Loki.
This Loki is good enough—maybe better.
On the other hand, he actually kind of likes this Loki. He's cheeky and brilliant and curious, constantly getting into everything of Clint's, showing up at the worst times. The longer Clint knows him, the guiltier he feels about just hauling off and hitting him to be contrary.
He wonders if that's intentional. Get his guard down.
But he doesn't know.
xxx
"Clint," Loki breathes across his face; Clint wakes fast, elbowing him in the kidney and throwing him off the bed in the process. Half the blanket goes with Loki and he can hear laughter. He blinks, trying to place the smell in the room.
Loki lies on the floor, tangled in the blanket and his own limbs.
Alcohol. Clint's smelling alcohol.
"You're drunk," Clint says, flat, and Loki only laughs harder.
"Yes," he giggles.
Clint is pretty sure his eyebrows can't climb any higher as he gets out of bed, poking Loki with one toe. Loki grabs hold of his foot, curling around it. Despite the lack of more than yellow street light slipping beneath the blinds, his eyes are vibrant, and he peers up at Clint through his hair, slight curl of mischief in his lips. Mussed hair—this Loki tends not to ever have it out of place, but it's damp and curling at the nape of his neck.
"Let go," Clint sighs, because he's used to Loki showing up at the worst times.
Loki tightens his grips, curls tighter.
"No."
"Why are you here, Loki?" He pauses, then considers. Loki is drunk—he might manage to get an answer tonight, if he's persistent. "At least get off of the floor. I have to be up in two hours."
Loki huffs, hot breath against Clint's calf not entirely unpleasant, and uncurls, dragging himself into the bed still fully clothed in his ridiculous Asgardian 'casual' wear and curling up right on the spot Clint had been sleeping. He should have expected that, and he catches sight of Loki's grin. Smug. Self-satisfied.
Loki's eyes are gleaming, watching to see what Clint will do.
"You're being obvious," Clint tells him. "I'm not going to fight you."
Loki huffs, obviously put out, but also rolls over so Clint can at least get back in bed.
"Why do you keep following me around?" Clint asks.
"You're being obvious," Loki mimics, voice pitching to match Clint's.
"Tell me anyway," Clint says. "You're drunk. Drunk people say the dumbest things."
Loki goes silent. Clint figures he won't get an answer, and rolls over, pulling the blanket up.
"Because whoever I am in this universe hurt you," Loki whispers, "and so you are willing to hurt me."
By the time Clint twists back, the other side of the bed is empty.
xxx
Loki doesn't come back.
Clint tells himself he doesn't mind it.
He doesn't. He doesn't need Loki around.
He still misses him, though—his Loki.
xxx
He walks into his kitchen, then ducks on reflex.
The door frame splinters under the blow, and Loki snarls, spinning around to grab for Clint. Clint elbows him in the side, palm connecting with Loki's throat hard enough Loki chokes and his windpipe breaks.
"I hate," Loki rasps as he heals, but not all the way. There's a bruise blooming bright on his throat, and Clint eyes it, then Loki's face. He takes another step back.
Loki is vibrating. There is blood on the backs of his hands, under his nails, and he's grinding his teeth together as he stares at Clint.
Loki—this Loki—has never attacked Clint before.
Loki lunges again, sloppy and obvious, and Clint is twisting out of the way—Loki sloppy means Loki's punch shatters the cabinet door when he misses. Clint grabs a fistful of hair, keeps the motion going, and slams Loki face first into the counter, grabbing a knife with his other hand.
Loki makes a stunned noise, but he's tensing, so Clint does it again, keeping his grip tight in Loki's hair and pressing the knife into the side of Loki's neck. He's always been aware that Loki holds back, that Loki lets himself be hurt, but he hadn't been entirely aware how much; there's a visceral satisfaction in having that strength momentarily pinned.
"You wouldn't," Loki spits, though his words shake the way he's shaking under Clint's hand.
Clint presses the knife into the skin and watches blood bubble up over the silver. The sound Loki makes is almost like relief, a wet sob in his chest; Clint stops.
This is how Clint sees Loki for the first time in two months.
"You're being obvious," Clint tells him.
Loki snarls, starts to push up again, and Clint lets him just enough he can slam him face first into the counter again.
Loki goes limp.
"What do you need?" Clint asks. "And don't lie. Don't say one thing and mean the opposite. You're getting what you ask for. Don't try manipulating me into it. That's what the fuck your problem is here."
He means the other Loki, the one native to his universe. He's not sure when he started defaulting to this Loki, pinned to the counter in front of him. Probably when he decided he liked this one.
"Fuck you," Loki snarls, tensing.
"Okay," Clint says evenly; if Loki was going to say anything else he doesn't, just goes rigid with surprise. "What else?"
"How dare—I don't need you, hawkling."
It's a testament to his impromptu therapy he doesn't just shove the knife through Loki's throat at the name. And he knows this Loki is goading him, because that's what he does, he presses against all the lines Clint has until Clint hauls off, he's just never pressed against those lines.
"Isn't that right?" Loki hisses. "You need me, not the other way around. Whoever I am here, I crawled into all your spaces and left a hole perfectly shaped to fit right back in, and you don't know what to do about it. It eats you alive, doesn't it, that even after all this time I can still—"
Clint throws Loki to the floor, wrapping a hand around the column of his throat, burying the point of the knife next to his collarbone. Loki freezes, wide-eyed, glee and hurt shining in eyes too green to ever be the Loki that crawled in Clint's head. He's panting, and Clint wants more than anything to calm him down because this is his Loki, not the other. He likes this Loki, his Loki, even if he shouldn't.
He doesn't think about the fact the only reason he's willing to hurt this Loki is the one that crawled in his head, and so the only reason he can calm his Loki down.
"You," Clint says evenly, dragging the knife along the curve of Loki's collarbone and watching how too green eyes glaze, "are going to tell me what you need."
There's blood dripping from Loki's nose to his lips, across his brow where the skin split, a bruise forming by his temple, another across a high cheekbone. Clint takes them in, then dismisses them, watching Loki's face, waiting for him to try and lash out again. To provoke.
"Don't make me ask again," Clint says.
"Or what?" Loki sneers, hissing as Clint digs the knife just that little bit deeper.
"I won't hurt you." He pulls the knife away, loosens his grips where its crushing Loki's windpipe. "That's why you come to me anyway, isn't it?"
"I'll rip you apart and put you back together, I'll—"
"You already did," Clint says flatly. "Tell me or fix what you broke and get out."
This Loki, his Loki, shakes, eyes wild. There's blood in one of them, vivid red lines of broken vessels, and Clint watches his hands twitch on the tile of the kitchen floor. He doesn't move to grab them, doesn't tighten his hold or shove the knife back into Loki's skin to follow the line pooling along the curve of his neck.
He waits.
"Hurt me," Loki whispers hoarsely, closing his eyes. "Break—" he chokes off, trembling violently, shame flushed across his cheeks.
"Okay," Clint says. "That so hard?" Then he tightens his hold on Loki's throat, cutting his air off, and Loki's eyes fly open again, a hand gripping Clint's wrist on reflex. He chokes, what wants to be a whine vibrating against Clint's palm; Clint digs his fingertips in to bruise until Loki's hand relaxes, until Loki relaxes except for his pulse beating a panicked rhythm.
"You can't talk straight for more than two minutes at a time," Clint says. "You're going to give me a word, and you're going to use it if you need to stop." He grins, lopsided even if it doesn't touch his eyes. "You aren't the same person who was in my head, and I actually like you." He lets his grip up. "The longer I have to wait, the less I'll hurt you."
Loki snarls, eyes cut glass green; embarrassed, Clint thinks. He drags the tip of the knife lightly over the skin of Loki's throat, one eyebrow tilted up, and makes a show of glancing at a nonexistent watch.
"Hawk," Loki spits out instead of protesting; petty, because this Loki never calls him that.
"Good boy," Clint says, and before Loki can push himself up, furious at being patronized, he grabs a fistful of black hair to slam the back of Loki's head into the ground. One hand still twisted in Loki's hair, he stands, dragging Loki behind him towards his bedroom; Loki lets out a whimper, trying to get to his feet, and Clint pauses long enough to slam his head against the edge of the doorframe, keeping Loki dazed and crawling on hands and knees, his breath shallow and shakey.
He keeps the knife in his other hand.
Clint lets go when he's at the bed, shoving the god towards it with one foot. Loki's hands reach for the sheets as he looks up at Clint—half wild, feral and want in his eyes. Clint weighs the knife in hand, taking in the sight of Loki's too long limbs drawn tight, how his fingers are hanging onto the sheets like he's trying to keep himself together. Catastrophe waiting to happen, fire curling his edges and ready to leap from the hearth and burn the world down.
"Stretch out," Clint says.
"No," Loki says, hands curling tighter into the sheets, eyes wide. Curious and angry and shuddering apart.
Clint has no intention of letting whatever panic has brought him back take him over—not when he had thought he'd never see thi—his Loki again.
His. Not the other way around.
Clint shrugs, crouching down and Loki flinches, licking blood off his lips and breath hitching, like Clint's movement is a promise. He slides his free hand to cradle Loki's head, and kisses him. Soft, slow, no teeth at all; when Loki tries to press, he only grips enough to hold him back, keeping the kiss steady and slow slick slide, tasting copper and chill on his tongue. Keeping it soft, even when Loki sobs.
Painless.
"Stretch out, Loki," he says again, gentle this time, because he doesn't need to hurt the way Loki needs to be hurt.
Loki uncurls as soon as Clint lets go, message clearly received, panic making his movements jagged.
"I am not—" Loki starts, hissing, and then sucks his breath in, freezing against the bed. Clint keeps one hand on Loki's stomach and slides the knife along the seams of his shirt, letting the point bite into flesh, beads of blood drawn to surface. "Clint," he breathes; beneath Clint's hand, his muscles spasm.
Clint glances up at him briefly, meeting his eyes.
"Stay still," he says.
Loki does.
Clint keeps going, peeling the clothes off of Loki and tossing them away. He goes slowly, methodically, and when Loki stays still—except for the occasional spasm, tiny whimpers slipping his throat, eyes following Clint's hands—Clint pushes the knife deeper, drags the lines out longer.
"You can't tame me," Loki whispers, ragged, when Clint leans back to take in his work. There are claw marks down Loki's forearms—not from Clint, and he thinks of blood under Loki's nails. Loki's hands are flat to the floor and his cock is hard, head flushed red and beading precome; as Clint leans up, he slides his hands up the insides of Loki's thighs and settles them on his hips, blood smearing and streaking over trembling muscle.
"Don't plan to," Clint says, and pauses, remembering what Loki asked. "Just break," he breathes over Loki's lips, watching his eyes right up until they slip closed, relief lightning flash over his features.
Clint grabs a fistful of Loki's hair, pulling him into another kiss. He digs his teeth into Loki's bottom lip and sucks, kisses him like he's trying to devour him, swallowing Loki's whines, licking into his mouth. Loki's hands flutter at Clint's side, then pause; Clint twists the fistful of hair until tears streak Loki's face, until Loki's grinding up against him, the panic-shivers beneath his skin stilling as he falls open. Clint pulls back, hand still bunched in Loki's hair, and rakes his eyes over his face. Dark, greedy, he looks at the bruises and blood and Loki's tear-washed eyes, violence humming under his skin.
He'll break him until he never thinks to try what the other Loki did, over and over, and it will hold his Loki together.
"Get on your knees and face the bed," Clint says, and lets go.
Loki opens his mouth, then snaps it closed as Clint picks up the knife again, eyes following it. Clint prods him with a foot against one of the new cuts in his calf, and Loki moves, but he's twisting to look over his shoulder, trying to follow Clint. Clint grins at him, knowing it doesn't touch his eyes; Loki's face twists briefly, muscles rippling under pale skin.
"That's hardly breaking," Loki says, haughty and ruined.
Clint sets the knife down on the dresser, digging out the cat of nine tails he bought not too long after Loki's confession, drunk and thinking that he'd need to prove to Loki his confession wasn't a reason for Clint to stop hurting him. If Loki reacts, he misses it, but Clint doesn't mind.
"Eyes forward," Clint says, testing the weight of the whip in his hand. Loki sniffs, but he does as he's told, twitching bodily as Clint lets the tails ghost over Loki's spine. Clint can't help chuckling, and Loki stiffens for an entirely different reason, blush running down high cheekbones to the back of his neck.
"Your aim so poor now? You act as if you can hurt me," Loki hisses, starting to shake again. "Perhaps, hawkling, I should have gon—"
Clint doesn't bother listening, bringing the cat down across Loki's shoulders, three quick lashes overlapped, so Loki is trembling, hissing, teeth dug into his lip.
Clint keeps going, hard enough to draw blood but no more, and Loki's hands fist the sheets, forearms tensing and relaxing. He lets his blows dip lower, over Loki's ass; Loki yelps and tries to arch away. While his back is still bowed, Clint cracks the tails across Loki's shoulders, across cuts already splitting the skin, and smiles at the way Loki curls in on himself.
"Clint," Loki half-prays, hands scrabbling over the bed, twisting and untwisting the sheets. "Clint, Clint, please."
Clint starts to put actual force into the blows and Loki howls, muffled by the bed as he presses his face down, flinching violently with each new set of marks on his skin. He goes lower, over Loki's thighs, until Loki's legs are shaking, barely managing to keep himself from sitting back down on the floor by hanging tight to the bed; then, he works his way up, slowly, grazes over his ribs, patterns the lines of them into Loki's skin like he's giving shape to Loki's form, all to the sound of Loki's muffled sobs.
A blow as hard as he can along Loki's spine and Loki cracks, screaming into the bed, hips rutting against the side as he orgasms.
Clint stops, tossing the cat of nine tails aside to catch Loki before he slumps boneless and bloody to the floor. Loki is still crying, silent tears that spill and leave his face puffy beneath streaked blood, but he's relaxed in Clint's arms, eyes glazed and out of focus. Clint pushes some of Loki's hair out of his face, stroking his thumb along Loki's throat as he gets settled, waiting on Loki to come back to himself.
When Loki stirs, Clint smoothes his hair down at the slight panic he sees in too green eyes.
"What happened?" Clint asks quietly—because he likes his Loki, and he knows the only reason he came back was because something went wrong and he didn't know how to hold together otherwise. His Loki doesn't attack him.
Loki shudders; Clint presses his thumb into the cut on his collarbone and it bleeds fresh under the pressure. Loki goes still.
"Bed," Clint says. "Clean up first."
Cleaning is a matter of handwave. Getting Loki into bed is more difficult—he's loose, uncoordinated, and Clint has no desire to push him and end up undoing what it's taken to get Loki calm—but they manage, Clint leaned against his pillows and Loki curled around him.
He doesn't remember Loki crowding his space before, but then he also hadn't beaten Loki until he orgasmed before.
"What happened?" Clint asks again, once Loki's breath is even, running his fingers over the patterns whipped into Loki's skin.
"Thor," Loki starts, then stops, trembling. Clint presses a nail against the edge of one of the lacerations, getting a hiss even as Loki relaxes again. "My brother," Loki clarifies, like Clint doesn't know, "he was banished."
Clint pauses.
"Fath—Odin lied about," and Loki cuts off.
It's almost like Clint didn't just ruin him.
Grabbing a fistful of hair, Clint pulls him back and away from the edge Loki hangs on, digs his fingers into Loki's back to hold him in place. Loki shudders as he relaxes again, and his voice is soft. "I shouldn't be here. I have a kingdom to rule, plans to finish, but everything is…"
In the silence, Clint strokes Loki's hair, listening to his breath and how it relaxes again, the sound of Loki letting the thought go.
"Time's different here," Clint says. Loki nods.
"Thor, he's on Midgard?" Clint asks.
"Human," Loki says. "I need to find him, tell him…" Loki trails off as Clint presses his fingertips against the bruises on Loki's neck; it's involuntary, but Loki doesn't know, doesn't notice, only sighs hot over Clint's stomach and leans harder into him.
Clint knows how this goes. How it went. Remembers lining a shot up in the rain, and in the end not releasing the arrow. He remembers a half-destroyed city and then, a year later, Loki and you have heart and blue. Hawkling.
Not his Loki. His Loki is the same, but different. Too green, too bright, too curious.
There is a Clint, not him, wherever his Loki is from, and Clint would do anything to not have him go through what Clint went through.
"Loki," he says.
Loki hums against him. His eyes are closed. There's a cut at his temple, bruise on his cheekbone. He looks shattered and content curled into Clint, arms wrapped around Clint's waist.
"If things go badly, come here."
Loki hums.
"Loki," Clint repeats. "I'm not kidding. Come here."
He doesn't know what's going to happen, but he can't risk losing this Loki. Can't risk his Loki hurting that other Clint, having these events repeat themselves across hundreds of universes he barely believes in.
Loki is watching him, is looking up at Clint with too green eyes, uncertain and unsettled. Clint tugs his hair and twists down to kiss him, grazing his teeth over Loki's split lip, other hand cupping his face and thumb rubbing over the bruise on that cheekbone.
"Promise," he says, pulling back, soothing the tug of hair with his fingertips.
"Very well," Loki says. He's frowning, but the little reminders of pain are keeping him calm. "You say that as if you expect them to."
"No," Clint says, though he does. "Always have an exit plan. Remember what I told you about Budapest?"
That makes Loki smile, lazy, reassured that Clint's just looking out for him. Not anything else. Clint doesn't even know what happened that span of days—he's never bothered to ask Thor. Never cared, until right now, seeing how ready his Loki was to shatter when he arrived.
"Clever Clint," his Loki murmurs, closing his eyes. Clint just keeps running his hand through Loki's hair.
Loki will be gone when Clint's alarm goes off an hour later, bleary and uncertain if it was a dream or not until he sees the still wrecked kitchen. He only hopes Loki keeps his promise.
xxx
Time passes differently for his Loki. In Clint's world, it was three days before Thor got his powers back.
Three days for Loki's universe is barely one in his, so he might not need to wait long; but then, events might not go the same. His Loki's universe is years behind Clint's, if Thor's only just now been banished. Maybe it will take more than three days. Maybe his Loki will be fine. Maybe things don't play out the same, even if Clint thinks they will.
xxx
A day later: two in the morning. Clint wakes, not sure why, and then hears a noise in his living room, wounded, like the world breaking apart.
This is how Clint finds Loki: ceremonial armour, green cloak hanging from his shoulders, lying in the wreckage of Clint's once-coffee table. He's rolled onto his stomach, head pressed between his forearms, and when Clint comes in, he does not look up.
Not at first.
Clint takes a step towards him, then pauses as Loki looks up. Too green eyes focus on Clint, bitter and angry and Clint's stomach goes cold, because it's a little of the other Loki. Because other than the pose, it could be when Clint first saw the other Loki, except… Not as broken. Not yet.
Just wounded.
"You knew," Loki says, voice quiet and wet though he isn't crying. "Didn't you." It isn't a question.
"No," Clint says.
Loki stands. He's shaking, unsteady on his feet, and looks every inch the fallen king the other Loki claimed to be.
"You did," Loki says, insistent, a touch of madness edging his voice. "You knew." He starts towards Clint, hands curling into fists and trembling, eyes wide and wild.
"No," Clint repeats, even as Loki gets closer and he has to look up to meet his gaze. He keeps his voice steady. "What did I tell you?"
"Exit—always to have an exit," Loki says. He's still furious, barely contained storms, but it's covering worse. He's falling apart, Clint thinks. "But why—"
"Budapest," Clint says, a reminder.
Loki goes silent. He's examining Clint's face; Clint doesn't move. This is still his Loki, barely. His Loki won't attack him.
"Stay," Clint tells him, risking placing his hand at Loki's throat, thumb pressing against his windpipe.
"Why?" Loki demands. "Why? I should—"
Clint tightens his grip.
"Stay," he says again.
Loki says nothing. He's going to break, Clint thinks. He's going to leave, going to fall apart in a thousand ways, and then he'll find the other Clint and break him because he won't know how to do anything else anymore.
"I don't care what happened," Clint says. "You're mine. Do you understand? I'm telling you to stay."
Loki closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Clint's, and slowly, he stops trembling. His breath is wet, ragged. He whispers like he's confessing, words torn from his soul like barbs, face and neck flushing. "But I am broken. Who wants the broken and lost son of no one?"
"You aren't broken, not yet," Clint says, and Loki opens his eyes. "No one will break you but me, remember? That's why you found me."
Loki blinks at him, then, hesitant, as if he's afraid Clint will vanish, puts his hands at Clint's waist, around him, leaning down to press his face into Clint's shoulder, holding tight.
"Yes," Loki whispers. "Yes."
xxx
This is how Clint ends up with his god trailing his steps.