fucky feelings for cuttingremark

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(from here)

He keeps his word. He doesn't tell anyone where Loki's hiding out, powerless. Even though he should. At the very least, Thor deserves to know, and when he inevitably finds out, Clint is going to accept whatever anger the thunder god levels at him.

Steve's gone, Tony's dead, Nat's dead, Bruce is...happy and content with his life and doesn't deserve that dropped on him frankly. So. That's all the OG crew accounted for. The new crew would obviously have heard about Loki, but that's not the same as actually being present fighting him or his forces. That Scott guy doesn't count, either. Like, would they do something? Maybe not if he hasn't actually done anything and doesn't pose a threat.

NYPD might have a few choice words, but. Clint tries very hard not to get noticed by the local LEOs if he can help it. Loki isn't really their jurisdiction, and SHIELD is...more or less out of commission even though it still works in the shadows, where Fury and Hill are. Wherever they are.

Which doesn't mean Loki gets of scot free. If he is up to something, then it's up to Clint to suss it out. Clint's mess, as ever. If Loki really is as powerless as it seems, there are still plenty of other ways he could fuck around and cause trouble. So. His responsibility.

It's definitely not whatever lingering connection of magic that binds their minds, not telepathy, not even really empathy, but still. A connection. It might have been severed long ago, but it's as Loki implied: you don't come out of that, something that strong and strange and otherworldly, and not have there be something that remains behind. Therapy has been all well and good. He isn't angry about it, not really, and he doesn't get nightmares the way he used to, after. But also, he's not sure it prepared him for Loki being in his life again. Not just a passing glance, either.

It jumbles everything up. The same type of traitorous thought that had him pondering Loki's sleeping habits and the absurd thought of touching crops up whenever he's near. Something damn near affectionate, something starved. Something that's in Loki, too, and it makes him feel sick. Makes him feel wanting. Which makes him feel sicker.

His eyes might be clear, but his mind feels clouded. Not a great way to show up at the apartment, but he can't just let this pass by without checking in on Loki. That's most of the reason he takes these trips back to NYC in the first place. Occasionally check in on Avengers-y things, see how the cleanup of the compound is up north, catch up with a few people he actually knows. But. It's about Loki.

It's always been fucking about Loki, huh.

He raps on the door, drinks nestled in a holder. Hot tea for Loki, a spiced blend, cloves, cinnamon. Makes him think of wintertime. Makes him think of the spicy and complicated (former?) god. Coffee for himself. Peace offering.

Comments

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He sighs, annoyed by the whole damn thing. Because now he has to be honest about something. But also: "No, I don't really think it's you as much as it's...the thing in your head. We can probably separate those into different entities, right?"

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"Perhaps. I've never been terribly good at ignoring these types of urges though."

Pasta in the now boiling water, Loki walks back over to the counter, sitting in the bar stool opposite Clint.

"Now I believe you owe me a truth."

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"Guess that I do." Loki's closer. He doesn't really like that. But he can't argue against it. "What do you want to know?" To put the onus on Loki, rather than just coming up with a truth out of his mouth.

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Closing the distance between them is not making this situation better and Loki knows it. He should have stayed on the other side of the kitchen, but that magnetic pull was there again, just behind his navel, urging him closer. He puts his elbows on the counter and leans over so he's a bit closer. They won't come into physical contact unless Clint moves as well, but it's enough to ease the urge for the moment.

For a moment he thinks about asking an innocuous question, letting the archer off easy and putting something of a dampener on the strange game of cat and mouse they'd been forced into.

"What would you do if you got your hands in my hair?" But when had he ever acted in his own best interest?

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"Pull it," the immediate answer, no hesitation. "Hard. After I pet through it a couple times to see just how soft it is."

There is a second, brief, a blink at most, where that seems like that's gong to be all. And then impulse takes over, and he grabs Loki's arms, pulls the elbows out from under him, pulls him closer still.

"I want," he growls, "to fight this. I'll settle for fighting you."

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Loki isn't resting a lot of his weight on his elbows, but he's resting enough that the sudden jerk causes him to pitch forward. It's either grab onto Clint's shoulders for balance or smack his face into the granite, so in the split second he has to decide he chooses the former.

Of course this brings them even closer, Clint's words ringing fresh in his ears. Fire zips though him at the image and again he's consumed with nothing but a violent want

"I think we both know how that's likely to end," Loki says, so close his breath ghosts over the archer's lips like a gentle breeze before a storm.

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There are several tense moments that follow, feeling Loki, feeling him, with no sound in his head other than the drumming of his heart.

He's too old, sometimes, he thinks, to still be pulling needlessly acrobatic stunts. There is no good reason for him to vault over the counter and into Loki, except that that is the shortest and fastest way to get to him. But he does it because the yearning wanting desiring connection between them demands it.

He crashes into Loki, both of them knocked off the seat and too the floor, lips wherever he can put them, fingers in Loki's hair. Running through, petting him, just as he said, just as he knew he would, until he grabs on tight and pulls.

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Loki lets out a noise of surprise at the action, but doesn't fight it. The hard, cool tile at his back provides a wonderful contrast to the hot body pressing him into it. He keeps a firm hand on the back of Clint's neck, holding him in place as if either of them has the ability to pull away. The fingers in his hair send shivers down his spine in anticipation.

He should probably be embarrassed at the noise he makes when Clint tugs, but they're both back in that hazy place of want and action and burning. All he can do is buck his hips up in and angle his head into the pull, exposing even more of his throat to whatever assault is coming his way.

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It isn't an embarrassing sound at all. It drives him harder, in fact, some animal part of him ready to rip him apart or fuck him into oblivion. Or both. Loki bucks his hips, Clint grinds down against him, friction setting them aflame, nerves firing like crazy with want and need. He bites against Loki's lips, down his chin, along his jaw, --stops, hesitates, with his mouth breathing hard against Loki's throat. They've been here before and he made a bad call, and that part of him that understands that keeps him still before he makes the same mistakes.

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Clint hesitates and Loki lets out a growl. A slender (unfortunately clothed) leg wraps around the archer's hip, giving him the leverage needed to continue grinding their hips together. The fire in his veins is swiftly collecting in his groin, his dick already half hard in his tight jeans.

"Don't you dare stop." Despite what happened last time Clint was at his throat, Loki isn't afraid. Mostly because there's no room in his head right now for fear, but also because there's a part of him that trusts.

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It feels too good for the hesitation to last long. It's an order, and a sensation, and a need. And it overrides all other senses. He pulls at Loki's hair again with one hand, tongue and teeth at that bare and enticing throat, while his other hand slides along Loki's body, along his side, hip, up the thigh hooking around him.

He doesn't know if it's about sex so desperately as it is a desire to be together, to be as one, the only way their meager mortal forms can. But it also doesn't matter in this moment.

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Another guttural moan forces itself out of Loki's throat at the combine sensations. Pulling, biting, caressing, friction, heat, heat, heat. It makes him want to pull Clint closer, to tear him to shreds with his nails, to hold him tenderly, to just be with him. In him, him inside Loki, both in a sexual way (shit he's getting harder with every bite, with every tug) but also in a very undefined way made of pure existence. Like if their essences, their minds, their souls could meld everything would suddenly feel right again.

But that's not actually possible (at least not at the moment,) so Loki settles for snaking his hands between their rutting hips to undo the fastenings of his jeans. If nothing else, to release the pressure on his throbbing cock.

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He needs this, needs Loki, needs needs needs. His mouth moves down to Loki's collar, and his hands move as well, to the open pants to grab hold of fabric. They can do this right here and now; they'll do it dry if they have to. (Or Loki could decide he feels more like someone who is capable of being very wet. That would work, too. Or, hell, they're in a kitchen, someone grab some oil.)

He's grabbing, tugging, pulling fabric-- when a shrill noise pierces the kitchen air. And along with it, the smell of burning.

Clint feels like he's been doused in ice water, or coming up for air with straining lungs, sitting up so sharply his head swims. The bacon, left forgotten, is doing a fair impression of char in the skillet.

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The piercing screech of the smoke detector causes Loki to jerk back as well, cracking his head painfully on the white tile floor.

"Shit." It's unclear if he's cursing at their burned dinner or the interruption. In one smooth motion he slides out from underneath Clint and hurries over to turn off the burner and dump the now ruined meat and vegetables in the sink.

"Windows," he says back at Clint, gesturing to the living room windows as he climbs up on the counter to fan the infernal device with a random flyer left on his doorstep. The windows don't open much, but anything to get the smoke out of the apartment and stop the detector from screaming.

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"Right." Any good excuse to get away from Loki. Jam the windows open, get in some of the fresh(?) city air. His face is still hot, everything hot, desire still running rampant down low and a salt tang of skin and sweat on his tongue. But it ebbs back and away.

He sits himself down against the wall under the windows, breathing. Watching Loki and his open fucking pants, the effect of the sight somewhat mitigated by his frantic air waving and wafting. "Baking soda and vinegar," he eventually supplies. "If the pan's burnt."

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The smoke detector stops screaming, but Loki continues to fan, knowing from experience that it could come back on at any moment if there was any amount of smoke in the room.

"What? Oh-" It takes his brain a second to catch up to what Clint had said, thoughts stretched thin between the situation at hand, and what it had ripped them from. The hae and heat of the moment left him feeling fuzzy in the head, but the longer he stayed there, the more it cleared. "Noted...thank you."

As the air clears more and Loki starts to evaluate if he can stop fanning, he's suddenly struck by just how ridiculous he looks squatted on the counter, pants undone, hair a mess, waving a flyer for some new pizza restaurant called 'Cheese Louis' in the air, the smoking remains of their dinner in the sink.

It starts as a chuckle, but quickly devolves into full on hysterical laughter. He doesn't even get time to get fully off the counter when it hits, leaving him sitting on the edge of the granite, clutching his stomach, laughing harder than he has in years.

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Clint does not, at first, see what's so damn funny about all this. But, at the same time, Loki's laughter is infectious. It's genuine. It's not maniacal, even if it is manic.

He's just. fucking sitting there on the counter of his stolen apartment after burning food accidentally, pants open, practically halfway off his hips, hard as can be, junk mail in hand, like this is a bachelor pad and they're trying desperately to exist right out of college or something.

(Clint assumes, having never done the college life much less post-college life.)

Yeah. Yeah, okay, that's ridiculous as fuck. Clint tries to only chuckle quietly, but he snorts, which sets him off further. Until they're both just laughing their asses off. And that feels almost as good as giving in.

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The erection is a bit of a problem, but it doesn't take much concentration to change things around down there to make any arousal not as visible. Chuckles subsiding, he slides off the counter while zipping up his pants.

"The pasta appears to have congealed into a single mass," Loki says, turning off the burner for that pot as well. "So it would appear takeout is in our best interest. If you would like to stay, that is."

They'd gone at it again, despite talking about how it was probably a bad idea. However something about this time has left Loki's mind just a bit more clear. Perhaps due to it ending with a cooking mishap rather than a flashback to his painful death.

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"I think I'm good, thanks," Clint says, getting to his feet. "Safer at this point if I get my own takeout somewhere away from you. Meet at Strange's in the morning? See if we can't get this figured out."

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A pang of panic shoots through Loki at the thought of Clint leaving, but he pushes it down. It's in the best interest of both of them to get some distance, clear their heads.

"Of course. Let's convene at roughly 10?" He busies himself looking at the flyer used to fan away the smoke as if suddenly very interested in this pizza.

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"...It's for us both. It's better this way." Is he trying to convince Loki, himself, or the thing in them both? "We'll probably start going at it before food even shows up. We can't keep doing this, or I really might rip your throat out with my teeth."

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"I know, Barton," He means his voice to come out in a harsh bark, but instead he just sounds tired. "I know. And at this point I'd probably thank you." Or worse: beg for it.

"Leave, eat, rest. We'll meet again in the morning."

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That's that, then. He doesn't say anything more, but he does briefly hesitate at the door. Does not look back. That might be the end of it if he looks. But that insisting part of him that wants Loki wants, obviously, to stay.

He leaves. Easy enough to find a cheap little place around. Get some food. Try not to think about Loki. Think about Loki. Work out until he's close to exhausted, get himself off in the shower, go the fuck to bed. Try not to think about Loki.

(Think about Loki. Dream.)

Their agreed upon time is late enough in the morning that even if (IF!) he's groggy come waking, he's perfectly awake and alert and clear-headed by the time he reaches the pretentious pretentium or whatever the wizard hut is called. He feels ready to face Loki and whatever magic voodoo the time sorcerer might be able to do.

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Loki lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when the door opens and closes. That traitorous part of him hopes that when he peers out into the entrance hall that Clint will still be there, having decided not to leave after all.

It's a strange mixture of relief and unease when he sees that the other really did leave.

Unknowingly, he spends his evening much like Barton: order food, workout, shower, jack off, go to bed. All while trying to not think about the archer, about his hands in Loki's hair and his teeth at his neck. If he comes with Clint's name on his lips, no one has to know other than himself and the drain. He'd hoped that taking care of that before bed would stop any salacious dreams, but of course he was wrong about that as well.

Not that any would know it the next day. Loki's taken care to look put-together with semi-casual, yet fashionable Midgardian clothes in dark greens and blacks. He holds out one of the two steaming travel cups to Clint as he approaches.

"Coffee?"

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There's the briefest moment when he wonders where Loki is and who this lady handing him coffee is, until he remembers, laughs, accepts a cup. Of course Loki wouldn't show his face in the city; that's the point. Having a different face (it's still Loki, he can see that, but he knows Loki, too) means better job being undercover.

"You can't quit the color scheme, huh?" he comments. "You don't see me wearing nothing but purples and purple-adjacents."