He slides into Loki's lap. Carefully, cautiously, hesitantly. Loki has bony thighs, bony knees, and he smells like sweat and snow. Clint buries his head in Loki's neck, blindly seeking more touch. Every bit of skin contact makes him feel sharper, stronger. He wants Loki, a bone-deep desire -- heh. Bone deep.

Jesus, the places his mind goes in times like this.

"Loki," he breathes, and he laughs, at himself, and he grips too hard on the chair arms so that he won't grip too hard on Loki's vulnerable flesh. He's conquered his god. And now his god's hands are on him.