fucky feelings for cuttingremark

[brandingproblem]

(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

[brandingproblem]

"I don't know what that means," he scoffs, knowing what it means. "I don't know a damn thing about you. All I know is stories, and a glimpse of whatever crazy little gremlin was running around behind your eyes. You've got me at a disadvantage. You always have. You saw all of me, and I don't know what I saw."

[cuttingremark]

"You saw more than you think. I didn't have the wherewithal to try to block the connection from backflowing. You think you were confused what you glimpsed? Imagine living in it." He lets out a half-mad laugh, leaning in just a bit closer.

"You see me, Barton. Do you know how long it's been since I heard someone address me by my name?"

[brandingproblem]

"I saw enough. I saw--" Too much. He saw too much, even if he's trying to say otherwise, and that's why he's still not afraid of Loki, only the mad influence behind him. And now that that's long since gone, what's he scared of?

Loki wants to be seen, revels in it, and Clint doesn't want to be seen unless he gives it. Is that it? He's reminded that he is seen, and it leaves him feeling bare and defenseless. And Loki wants to dive in and be felt and heard and seen and understood.

When two souls touch one another, it's impossible to extricate themselves completely. Intermingled, intertwined, a bit of him in Loki, a bit of Loki in him, forever. Somehow knowing each other better than anyone else and not knowing anything at all. It's not a knowledge of facts and figures, but mind, emotion, an intrinsic understanding of the person inside.

When did he start hovering closer? He doesn't remember doing that consciously.

"Pretty sure you last heard it five years and change ago before you died." He'll fight it. With snark, anyway.

[cuttingremark]

What Loki wants to say is that he didn't. Thor was muzzled at the time so all he heard was his muffled screams as Loki gasped for air like a fish on a line. But he doesn't say that. He doesn't say anything, actually.

Like magnets whose forces draw them together with more strength the closer they get, Loki crashes into Clint. Lips crushed onto lips in a fervent need to feel something, anything: the sting of rejection, the sear of a bullet, possibly even the heat of reciprocation. He does not move with rational thought, only a primal want who's only direction is towards the archer.

[brandingproblem]

There's no more fighting it once contact is made. They kiss, or some version of kiss that is deep and primal and without understanding or thought. It's two bodies bashing against each other in a show that is somehow violent and affectionate at once. Clint meets the kiss fervently like he's needed this, like a dying man meeting water, lips yes but also teeth, desperate for more.

His fists bunch in Loki's shirt, and if there's any remote thought of pulling away, he won't allow for it. Just as easily, he could push, could shove, but simply keeps Loki right here. The only pull there is is a separation, just enough to gasp for breath, pressed so close, nose along nose, foreheads touching.

"Get your hands on me," nothing short of a growl. "Right now."

[cuttingremark]

Electricity shoots through his veins when Barton returns the kiss, heat sending a flush of desire to his cheeks and tips of his ears. Though his ears don't comprehend when Clint asks for more, his soul does. In one fluid motion Loki straddles his lap, one hand pushing up the bottom of the other's shirt to feel the soft skin beneath. The other hand moves to fist the hair at the back of his neck, angling their heads just right for Loki to shove his tongue into Clint's mouth.

[brandingproblem]

It's damn near practiced, how smooth the transition, how readily Clint accepts what is given. For the first time since he got here, he seems to relax. There's still a taut tension in him, but of a very different kind. Everything seems to slot into place, and he is a man possessed--not (just) from something inside him, but being possessed by Loki, owned and controlled and seen and beloved. He doesn't understand it and doesn't have to.

He belongs. That seems to be enough.

The hands on him soothe an inner ache he's had since waking up in Loki's bed, the one that made him feel twisted and sick now instead making him feel bold. He lets this perfect-seeming moment go on until he moves, sudden, a surge, until Loki's pinned under him back flat on the couch.

[cuttingremark]

Clint's weight on top of him sooths some jittering part of Loki he hadn't fully realized was there until it suddenly isn't. He arches his back, pressing impossibly closer to Clint as he pushes up his shirt further, exposing more and more skin to Loki's pale fingers.

"Fuck," he whispers against soft lips. Normally he would be talking quite a bit, but part of him is too afraid to break this...whatever this is. "Please." Even he's not sure what he's begging for.

[brandingproblem]

He feels naked even while fully clothed, bare and raw in the best of ways. Loki's eyes seem too bright and yet not blue bright. Not an influence, not directly, but something inside of them left behind by an influence. Dangerous to give in to it, but it's far too late for that.

He's loath to break contact for even a moment, but after that beg, he sits back if only to strip off his top with a few short tugs. Even less gentle with Loki's, pulling tugging he'll rip if he has to until that fabric is off, too. And wastes no time pressing their bodies back together, hands at the god's waist, mouth kissing mouth, jaw, neck, reveling in the taste of skin and the hot beat of a heart just under his lips tongue teeth.

[cuttingremark]

He doesn't have to do much to get Loki's shirt off— as soon as Clint sits up, Loki starts working it up his torso of his own volition. Loki lets out a very undignified whimper as Clint yanks the fabric the rest of the way off. Luckily for him it's mostly muffled by their lips meeting again.

The skin on skin contact is nothing short of glorious. Forget hearing his name, how long had he gone without being touched in a way not meant for battle? This is a battle of it's own, but the fire that races across his skin where they touch is an entire different sort of feeling. His hand go to Clint's back, nails digging into the muscular shoulders as if pinning him in place on top of Loki.

"Yes!"

Terrible, it's terrible and beautiful and he never wants it to end even though it wold probably be better if it did. He could end it too, if he were a stronger person. But Fortitude of character or morals has never been one of Loki's hallmarks so he'll take what he gets until the spell breaks.

[brandingproblem]

It would be better to end it. But that feels so impossible. His teeth want to bite, and then to rip and tear, like digging into Loki's throat and gnawing it out like a wild beast. Love and hate mashing together into something vicious and wonderful.

He doesn't. Only works a bruise into the side of Loki's neck, shivers at the plaintive and praising word out of his mouth. Huffs an abortive noise at the dig of nails into his skin. He can't even say he'd mind if Loki breaks skin. Might prefer it, even. Whatever this is, it's in their blood and in their viscera and their hearts and souls and essence. He tips his head, forehead pressed against Loki's shoulder as he desperately tries to breathe. The fog of need doesn't clear, but he thinks he can see through it a little better. It's very small, the part that's horrified. The rest of him seems to revel in that horror and bundle it into the overall experience like this is exactly what needed to happen. As though this is the natural state of things.

One hand comes up, fitting along the other side of Loki's neck. Where his teeth had itched to go, he traces his thumb along. Presses in. Presses. He can't lean his weight into it, but his hands are strong and steady. Clint's eyes are wide and wild when he looks into Loki's. "I fucking hate your guts," he growls out, words like gravel, almost not words at all, before he licks his way back into Loki's mouth.

[cuttingremark]

Loki isn't sure if his nails do break the skin on Clint's back, but if they don't it's a close thing as he starts marking up his neck. They drag down, surely leaving angry red marks in their wake. He knows the mark on his throat will fade quickly, but these will stay. Possibly even be seen.

He doesn't get to revel in that thought for long, for good or ill. A calloused hand comes to his throat and for a moment he's still lost to the sensations. It's something he enjoyed greatly once upon a time, the ecstasy of giving his very breath to another in a moment of heated pleasure (or whatever this is.) But now as the thumb presses down and the air halts partway down his throat all he can smell is smoke and burning, everything is burning, his lungs and eyes and limbs are burning and going numb and it's getting dark and Thor is screaming-

One hand comes up and wrenches Clint's away as he bucks his hip to the side, trying to throw the other off and onto the ground. Normally when dealing with a human he would try to mitigate some of his Jotun's strength, but the screaming in his head and in his veins won't stop until the hand is off his throat and the first few gasps of air enter his lungs.

[brandingproblem]

He knows it's bad. But that's also part of the thrill. The fucked up nonsense in his head of trying to fit everything together and just acting on the basest impulses. Would he have kept going or let off pressure at some point? Even he has no idea.

But Loki is not defenseless and reacts. He reacts, and before anything has registered, he briefly skids over the coffee table, cups flying, and further across the room until he finally hits the floor, the wind knocked right out of him and everything suddenly seeming far too bright, too bitter, too loud though that may only be his pulse pounding in his ears.

[cuttingremark]

Loki sits up as soon as Clint is off him, eyes wide, a hand clutching his throat protectively. (Like that would have stopped it, he just would have crushed your hand along with your windpipe.) The haze of need slowly lifts and he grips the couch arm so tightly it nearly rips.

He can't look at Clint, just at the floor next to the coffee table.

"What the fuck was that?"

[brandingproblem]

Everything's cooling down significantly. He feels incrementally more himself. Which means. That the horror and panic begin to claw to the forefront. He takes a few deep, shaky breaths from the floor and almost doesn't register the question. Almost.

"I don't know."

It's as honest as anything else he's said. He aches, physically this time, but pulls himself up. To his feet. He feels next best to lightheaded for the sudden removal of that insisting stimulus.

And makes a beeline directly for the door.

(without his shirt? all scratched up? yes. these are things that are not on his mind at all.)

[cuttingremark]

Loki should stop him, should at least get him to put a damn shirt on before running out. But then again, she should have done a lot of things differently in the past few minutes. So he lets him go, staying completely still for a good 5 minutes after he hears the door slam shut.

Though his body is still, his mind has never worked faster. Were they really...engaged for only a few minutes? It felt like eternity. Why did he do that? Why did Barton reciprocate? Why did he-

Loki jolts to action in a split second, grabbing the essentials first and throwing them into a backpack. The books are already sorted, but there are more in the "necessary" pile than he thought. It needs to fit all in two boxes max.

[brandingproblem]

So maybe in other places, a shirtless scratched up panicky looking guy who may or may not be recognized as an Avenger might be cause for concern. This being New York City, however, there's stranger shit on about every street corner. Some people look, of course, but if there's more than that, he doesn't take notice. His head is on fire. The hamster's back on its wheel. Everything is going wrong and imploding and fucked up and he doesn't know what to do about it.

He barely even comes to realize he's still shirtless when he gets about halfway around the block. At least he's still got pants. He stops, breathing hard, and digs out his phone. But he doesn't know who to call. Laura? And say what? His therapist? And say what?

The air helps his head to clear, even if it makes what happened not at all any clearer. He's less frantic when he makes the rest of the trip around the block, hands shoved in his pockets, just Some Shirtless Dude Taking A Walk, nothing anyone should notice. And while he hates...going back, hates the idea that maybe he's crawling back, even if he doesn't apologize, he does anyway. Right back to Loki's door. Where he stands, shifting from foot to foot for a minute, two minutes, three. And knocks quietly, head resting on the wood.

[cuttingremark]

Loki is lost in his mind, debating if he needs both "Runic Magic of Vanaheim" and "Advanced Ruins by Esotopes Solbakken" when the soft knock echos through the apartment like a gunshot. This time it does startle him. He knows who it is even before he get to the peephole.

He sighs and squares his shoulders before opening the door.

"So were the men in black who gathered for my arrest waiting on the first floor, or did you have to go all the way to the end of the block?"

[brandingproblem]

"What?"

Not what he was expecting. But past Loki, he sees a bit of organized chaos.

"No...nobody's coming, Loki, 's just me. Unfortunately."

[cuttingremark]

Loki pokes his head into the hallway, looking one way, then the other, before stepping aside for Clint to come in.

"Your things are on the side table." Back turned to Clint, he gestures at the shirt neatly folded, any items he may have left behind laying delicately on top.

A sturdy looking black backpack is sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, upon rests two medium sized boxes filled with books. More books lay dumped on the couch with only a small spot open where Loki sits back down to continue debating the two books at hand.

[brandingproblem]

He doesn't, at first, move from the doorway. Like entering is a bad idea that will only lead to bad things. He doesn't want to be here. But it seems Loki doesn't, either.

Finally, with a sigh, he steps in and closes the door. "You don't have to leave. Nothing's changed." Everything has changed. "On the front of who knows where you are, I mean."

[cuttingremark]

Loki pauses long enough to give Clint a dubious look.

Both books land in the left box with a loud thud.

There's a lot they should say, a lot that would do them good to get out into the open. But Loki didn't get to where he is with clear lines of communication and a healthy concepts of boundaries.

"Changed your mind about dinner, then?" So snark it is!

[brandingproblem]

Where the hell would they even start?

With a sigh, he gathers up his things, pulls the shirt back on over his head. There's a little stinging on his back, but any blood that was drawn has definitely already dried, so it's fine. It's fine. Nothing else is fine but that much is fine.

"I wouldn't wanna distract you from your cooking by existing in your presence." Just because Clint has needed to Talk It Out before and currently does not mean he's an open book unwilling to snark right back.

[cuttingremark]

"I assure you, I've cooked under more duress." Had he?

He sighs and gets up. "The question is can you stand to be around me?"

[brandingproblem]

"The question is if it's gonna end with us going at it." Fine. He'll be the adult in the room and Talk About It. "You feel it, too. Whatever the fuck this is."