It’s nights like these that he cannot tell dream from reality - everything feels so real, but somewhere in his mind, he knows it isn’t. Or, at least it can’t be. The archer watched as the god was taken away to Asgard, well in custody after all. Yet, that does not warm the coolness that creeps up his spine like long, talented fingers, keeping him in a half-awake state that leaves him questioning his sanity. Goosebumps appear on his skin, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as invincible coolness curls around his neck, before spreading to his shoulders, pinning him down against the bed as good as any weight would have.
He knows how this dance works, far too well, in fact. It is the same one that occured before, each night since he left, and of course, when he was the controlled puppet. Odd, how the same thing Clint cursed with every fiber of his being now made him feel so very hallow in it’s absence. Swallowing thickly, he could picture it, detail and all. The frigid press of lips down the column of his neck is electrifying, the grip of too strong hands moving to his hips, with a bruising intent. Even wrapped in a cocoon of blankets the hawk is freezing, but he doesn’t mind, no. It’s a delicious friction against his own body heat that only escalates when met with such coldness.
A shallow breath escapes his lips, back arching faintly as surprising warmth encases him, but for a moment, where he desires it most, before fading into a familiar cold. Between perpetually twisting in the thick comforter and the all too real dream, his skin has broken out in a sweat, each nerve awake and on fire, begging to be cooled. In the height of it, a low moan is pulled from his throat, pectorals tensing as his hand instinctively reaches down, seeking to curl in jet-black hair, only to grasp cotton instead. Even still, in his mind, only one word prevails, undeterred: Loki.