brandingproblem | au shenanigans for icasm

There is hesitation, confusion, curiosity, all within Loki in the moments it takes Clint to realign his body. When Clint's legs move Loki's hands shift to press into the couch at either side of his hips. He had, in all honesty, expected the other man to inform him that he'd already reached that particular limit just by being here in the first place. In Loki's apartment, in his presence.

If you don't get your hopes up, you won't be disappointed. If you expect the worst you can be surprised by things being not as terrible as that, even when they're still fairly terrible.

The confusion remains even as Loki twists his body, angles himself more in Clint's direction, and holds out hands that are immediately unsteady without something to apply constant pressure to.

There are... several reasons for that, honestly. Instead of being precious about it, Loki decides instead to focus on the fact that the tremors are less bad than they were merely two days ago. So is the pain. He suspects that the scars will always be visible, to the two of them especially and in particular, but he sees little reason to be upset about that.

Scars are a mark of survival.

He cups Loki's hands in his, gentle, palm up. Focuses on the scarring there, and on long fingers lightly curled, and on the shake in them. Presses his thumbs into certain points, the meat of Loki's hands, feeling him out.

Nods to himself, sets one of Loki's hands back down--on Clint's knee, even, rather than anywhere else. A deliberate choice. And sets both of his hands to the task of rubbing the one between them. Massaging his thumbs into the muscles. Pulling firmly but gently at fingers, rolling joints, rubbing long lines down the whole length of Loki's hand. If anything in particular seems to hurt or pull, he turns his attention there.

Having spent a lifetime using his hands for his work, he knows plenty about caring for them, exercises to retain flexibility and mobility, has had doctors massage at them before. He can't say he's ever been pierced through and through in the middle of them, but Loki's body is healing itself rapidly enough. When Clint is satisfied with his work on one hand, he takes the other back up for the same thorough attention.

At first, Loki more or less holds his breath in an attempt not to overreact. To balk from or desire too much of what he asked for: care. Which for him could cover a large swath of behaviors that aren't necessarily limited to acts of kindness, compassion; and while he knows that there can be a level of care in pain if applied for certain reasons, certain necessities, certain ends, it's definitely not the sort of thing he would expect out of Clint at this moment.

It's... nice? Not so gentle that Loki feels physically uncertain about it, in that way he has of being twitchy around unexpectedly soft and gentle things he's not prepared for (and this, actually, is what has him realize that perhaps the way he'd touched Clint earlier had not been the best idea). There's pain, of course there is... the muscles are stiff, the nerves are shot, but Loki makes a valiant attempt not to make any noises of discomfort, even when it does hurt.

Clint can tell, anyway, either by the involuntary movement of his hands or just by virtue of knowing Loki. Perhaps it's a ridiculous endeavor to begin with but Loki has always been a man of pride at odd turns, even when it does not suit or support him.

That his libido responds is not entirely surprising, honestly. It's touch and contact from the person he craves it from the most these days, after all. It is, however, embarrassing to become hard at this moment when he is trying very sincerely not to push, or make demands, or be...

Whatever it is that makes him difficult for Clint. Beyond the troubled history. Being himself, he thinks ruefully. Who gets horny at every single inappropriate damned moment, it would seem.

Really, it is one thing to find violence sensual. To be attracted to the things that others tell themselves cannot possibly be attractive. It is quite another to spend centuries sublimating suffering into ecstasy just to get incredibly aroused by soft kindness from someone who is offering nothing else.

He tries ignoring it, ensuring to keep his hip incredibly still, trying not to remember the moments of soft sensuality before pain that had taken him by surprise in Clint's dream, until he realizes the hand that had been set at Clint's knee is now, weakly, gripping into the fabric of his pant leg. Loki keeps his eyes on Clint's hands and forces himself to relax. It half works; his weakened death grip on Clint's knee lets up, at least.

Loki is not going to look up, however.

He works in this not-so-casual silence, focused. Will not demand that Loki look at him. Won't scoff that he needs to get a grip on himself. Feels that hold on his knee, curled into the denim, does not comment on it.

Loki wanted care. This is him, caring, without hating himself for it. Maybe hating what he did in some regards, but not hating this. He refuses, too, to feel self-hate for this giving into Loki's wants again so easily. In a sense, Clint asked for this himself.

At least this is something that makes full sense to find attractive. A desire that he can wrap his mind around. He doesn't think on it much, because that will get awkward fast, because he might instead think of pulling those fingers into his mouth, or elegant hands wrapped tight around his windpipe, or nails digging into his skin. Clint lets out one little breath about it and refocuses.

Until he feels done with that hand, too, and sets it back down as well. A moment where his hand is over Loki's, on his leg. This could be cozy if they wanted it to be.

"Does that feel any better?"

Loki nods, breathes. Doesn't look up. He wants to lift his hands and sign 'thank you', keep his mouth shut and his voice out of Clint's head, but he also doesn't want to break the contact at all.

So. Another breath, and then: Thank you. The jumble of emotions behind that lead with desire and shame at the forefront.

The kind thing, or perhaps the sensible one, would be to gently imply that Clint should leave. Or perhaps just ask him to, outright. He's going to fuck it up, Loki's even more certain of it now, this fragile moment of peace; it is merely a kindness that Clint hasn't laughed at him, or rolled his eyes, or grown irritated or disgusted or what have you.

'Why are you incapable of self-control?' is Odin's voice, in his head. An argument centuries past, a man years dead. 'What need have I for that?' had been his response, at the time, but now?

He screws his eyes shut. Clint will decide what happens next. He'll probably leave before it becomes too strange to handle. And Loki will refuse to make any move to stop him.

They are sometimes way more similar than Clint feels entirely comfortable pointing out. Because there is shame that filters through, which is something he wasn't sure Loki was even capable of feeling at all, much less about...whatever this is. That he's horny for touch? That hands are one of the most sensitive parts of the body for obvious reason, that interest and warmth and kindness and tenderness and arousal intertwine in this case, that he likes something that isn't pain and horror and blood?

Loki does not technically answer the question, but Clint doesn't feel like being pedantic about it.

This is a nice moment. They come so few and far between with them. He wants to frame it and hang it on a wall to remind himself he is capable of this. So he keeps his hand there over Loki's. Warm and secure.

He should go.

"Do you need any help with anything around here?"

A furrow between his brow, heat rising in his cheeks, are both responses Loki tries to push aside in his own mind in favor of extracting Loki's overwhelming and unrelenting desire away from Clint's question. The warmth of the other man's hand on his.

The shock that Clint hasn't opted to leave yet, despite the fact that both of them know he should.

He opens his eyes. Doesn't look directly at Clint. Looks around the apartment instead. Some of the plants need watering. He could probably manage it, or at least the bulk of it now that Clint has alleviated some of the pain in his hands, but. Well.

Loki doesn't actually want Clint to leave.

Clint does not comment on the blush. He's being nice. He's being kind, maybe because Loki deserves it, maybe not, maybe out of guilt, maybe not. So he's going to make an effort. Sees it, notes it, says nothing.

They are both trying right now, trying to live in a moment that is not likely to happen this way again, doesn't want to scare it off like a skittish wild animal. Loki makes a suggestion, something that may or may not really need doing, to keep him around. Avoids anything wild or lewd or strange or annoying. Clint could go, should go.

"Okay."

There's a question that's been sitting right under his ribcage that even now he wants to ask, but he's not sure he'll like the answer. Not sure he needs it, can guess at it, maybe. He moves, slow and easy, off Loki's lap, makes to stand. Whatever's left of the tea is cold now, and he takes the mug and empty beer bottle to help clear up. Rummages around a little, until he finds a little watering can to fill. Loki has taken good care of his plants, but some are looking a little bit parched. No wonder, if his hands cramp up enough that holding anything for long is a burden. Does this chore, without complaint. Sees the view out the windows. Shivers at the deja vu.

"Do you want more tea?" To help soothe that throat further. To keep his aching hands nice and warm. This might all be honest; this might all be a lie. But it doesn't bother him right now to keep it going.

His gaze does affix itself to Clint's face when he acquiesces to Loki's request. Clint moves away from him carefully and Loki's hands slide back to settle into the seat of the couch as he attempts to breathe and will his arousal down to a manageable and less embarrassing state.

There is always something oddly fascinating about watching someone else navigate a space in which Loki spends a great deal of time alone. The children know where he lives, yes, but he can count on one hand the number of times they've been inside for more than a handful of minutes; usually Loki meets them out in the world, shape-shifted into a different form, a different gender presentation, in order to avoid attention or scrutiny from those that would recognize him otherwise.

The Bartons always recognize him, though. That he allows for, on purpose.

Clint's new question startles him out of his considerations. The sense of longing for something as simple as this to continue rises in his chest, his throat. He can't, won't, ask for it. The presumption and imposition inherent in the concept of it are too much. What would he even say? 'I'm desperately lonely could you just stay and be here? I won't fight you. You wouldn't have to touch me.'

Desperate. Pathetic. His hands ball into fists.

Yes, thank you. Predominantly Loki feels thankful, in his uncertain and wary way, though the longing remains; Loki can't help it but he will continue to ignore it. So too, remains the self-disgust quick on its heels. He rises, then, because his kitchen is full of things both potent and dangerous, even though the tea in question is still on the counter, the kettle half full of water on the stove. But if he doesn't do something, if he just continues to passively accept Clint's help in this way, if he remains consumed by wanting with no real outlet, he's certain that he will say or do something foolish.

Ruin it. He's so afraid of ruining it. Of proving that he doesn't deserve this because he can't even pull it together long enough for a trial run.

In the kitchen he gathers the few things that aren't still out. The honey, the lemon, the tea ball. A spoon. Arranges them on the counter as something to do with his hands, something else to focus on, as the cat follows and leaps up into the window seat, cleaning herself.

Loki finally gets up, and that feels so much better than him staying seated right there, watching him, trying to breathe through arousal and all else. It's better than him being entirely passive. Clint could have withstood it, yes, but it feels like some kind of oppressive weight is starting to lift off his shoulders as he puts the kettle back on.

Someone's going to break this silence, this niceness. It might as well be him, hands curled on the counter, watching the kettle, suddenly lacking anything else to do immediately before things are ready to go.

"I'm not sorry for the things I did in a dream where I don't think I was ever in full control and where I didn't have all the information." Start with that. "I do feel guilty about it." He blinks, sucks in a breath. "You're going to be frustrated with that and ask me why. Don't ask me why. I think we both know I'm not going to have any satisfying answers for it. But I feel it. Guilty and used. A little like a monster. Which I know. I know you'd scoff at it. What's a monster to the likes of you, to the likes of people much more awful than you ever were or could be? Logic doesn't have a place in dreams, and it doesn't always have one in feelings, either."

I don't think you're a monster, Loki starts and then pauses. He's a good negotiator, knows how to understand others well enough to get them to do things that are more aligned with his interests than their own. But it's not often he turns that ability around, forces himself to listen, not for the cracks where he can slip in, but for the shift in perspective. For many reasons. But I don't think a monster would feel guilty about it at all.

He's not trying to change Clint's mind. It's not insistent, or cajoling. He meant what he said earlier, when he'd told Clint that he wanted them to understand each other. This is him, making an attempt to understand in the face of the certainty that he will fail at it.

About feeling used, well. Accurate, perhaps. Loki did use him to an end. Trusted him with something he still feels relatively certain needed to happen, though he can also see how perhaps it went further than Clint feels was necessary. To that end he almost asks if Clint would still feel the same way if Loki had merely been injured, not dead, and then he remembers his own reaction the last time he unintentionally broke Clint's arm. In a crowded place, in the middle of an argument.

He'd fled. Not far. But still.

Sometimes a scale is only bad to worse and 'better' has no place in it.

He could tell Clint that he hadn't meant for him to find out, or a least not until Loki was better healed, more himself, but he doubts that would help.

I don't know how to improve any of that. The guilt. That I used you. That you feel like a monster as a result.

Edited 2022-08-20 15:56 (UTC)

"I know." That Loki doesn't think him monstrous. That guilt has no place in the heart of a monster. "I know I'm not one, not for those reasons. I think it's...that I want things, enjoy things, that I don't think I should. They make some part of me feel that sickness. Like I said before. That...I liked it. A lot of it. And hated it, too. I'm not supposed to..."

He breathes out slow, leans heavy over the counter, counts to five in his head. "I'm not supposed to like any of that. I can deal with wanting, but liking feels like I'm crossing a line. I'm a weapon." Saying that feels grounding. Grounds him, solidifies him, makes him whole. "Weapon's not supposed to like it, just do."

He's been a weapon without a master for longer than sits well with him. SHIELD fell, but there was still work to do. The Avengers fell, and the law came down on him, forced him into another retirement. And it was good. Enough space on the homestead that he didn't always feel caged, quality time with the family. The caged feeling could be set aside and mitigated by other shit. Or he tried to.

And then Thanos happened, and there was work to do, and now that that's done, he has to keep finding work, but without someone to tell him exactly what to do. If Fury calls him, he'll answer. If one of the Avengers that are left called for him, he'd consider it. Apparently, given one Kate Bishop, he can get into his own damn trouble just fine. There's still shit out there. And with two birds having left the nest now and another on his way to growing up, everything's starting to feel like a cage again. Laura's given him permission to go and do. Whatever he needs to, so long as he comes home. But he doesn't have anyone but Fury to answer to now, and who knows where that son of a bitch is. He'll never be Ronin again, never don the outfit and run around with a fucking sword cleaning up the sorry shit that filled every fucking vacuum of power. But he'd be something not dissimilar if left to his own devices.

The kettle starts to whistle. He turns off the heat, thankful for even something small to break him out of this feeling threatening to pull him under.

"Am I your weapon? Am I a weapon you use against yourself?"

Watching Clint breathe through to voice the idea that he has function but is not meant to have... violent desires? No, that's not entirely correct. Take pleasure in the fulfillment of violent desire, yes, that's more accurate, puts a few pieces of their differences into perspective.

Loki's frowning, as Clint speaks, as he listens feels senses his way through the emotional response on the other side of their connection. Being a weapon elicits the same response in Clint that knowing Clint killed him elicits in Loki. It's probably not the healthiest thing, in the broader sense, for most people, but.

Neither of them are most people.

The question has him huffing, slightly amused as his hands spoon honey into the mug, add tea into the tea ball, arranging both items so that Clint can add the hot water.

Often. It is not all he wants of Clint nor does it encompass all that he believes the archer is capable of, but. It's not an inaccurate assessment of how things have been between them. Ideally that would not be all.

There's a frown light on his lips, a divot between his brows, as he sets to pouring the water over tea leaves. Tea ceremonies are meant to imbue harmony and balance and patience, beauty in the mundane, tight control, everything perfect and in its place. Mindfulness of the everyday, enhance the aroma and taste.

Pretty sure he couldn't do any of that shit. It's leaf water. You drink it. But he's trying to internalize some of that as Loki's uncomplicated words wash over and in him.

He doesn't think he needs to ask what more he would be. Ideally. 'Partner' seems like the safest word for it, and it feels tremendously inadequate. "I'm yours, and you're mine." If he is a weapon, and he is Loki's, then he is Loki's weapon. Stands to reason.

Question it from the side, then. Direct and yet indirect at the same time. "What else would you use me for besides your instrument of suicide?"

There is a flush of fondness, pride, and no little possessiveness at Clint's acknowledgement of their state of belonging to one another that comes through without Loki expressing anything else directly, though he is watching Clint with an enigmatic smile that the archer is very familiar with.

There's a wind-up kitchen timer on the counter. Loki sets it to three minutes.

You could consider it my rebirth, if that helps at all. Since one must die in order to be reborn, no matter what some insane evangelical Christians might insist. For myself? A corrective measure. For others? Well. He shrugs, hands open, palms up. There are many things I would show you, many places different from this. And there are some methods of behavior that even I cannot tolerate, that should be also be corrected in those we may encounter.

He knows about the Ronin, even though it has mostly been Nate who has explained to Loki the history and cultural references at play there. He thinks Clint didn't have a terrible idea, really, he just doesn't thrive without an external sense of direction.

"You just wanna go on a space adventure with me and fuck up some assholes who need fucked up?" Clint squints his eyes at Loki. That seems so simple. That seems too simple. But then, Loki has no home, no kingdom. An agent of chaos across the stars.

Be Hawkeye, just for the likes of a sad and lonely prince who thinks a little step sideways has him reformed.

"Seems like you're just gonna have to get used to life on boring old Earth for the next couple decades and then find someone else to hurt you 'til you cum."

A possibility I am... more or less prepared for. A possibility he has actively plotted against, more like.

There's a moment's hesitation; not to tell Clint about Idunn's apples but for the admission that not every orgasm has to be led by pain. That he craves Clint's softness, as well, before. During. After.

There's that longing, again. Softer than before. Immediately tinged by embarrassment. Stop making him feel soft things, Clint, he doesn't know what to make of it at his big age.

He shrugs, swirling the tea ball in the mug.

Edited 2022-08-20 20:19 (UTC)

He huffs out of his nose and raises a hand like he's going to--he doesn't know what. It moves unbidden. Like he's going to rest it on Loki's shoulder? Stroke his cheek? Take him by the jaw?

Lowers it again. Flexes, once, like shaking off whatever drove the impulse to begin with.

"It's not like you to be shy." Shy with--is it desire? It's not exactly desire that bleeds through but something like it. "You talk too much, remember? So what is it?"

Green eyes track the lifting movement and drop of Clint's hand, before the alarm begins to rattle, and Loki reaches out to silence it.

Any of those gestures would have been welcome. There's a sense of thrill at what almost occurs, that doesn't quite dissipate despite Clint's decision not to see it through.

Loki picks up the mug, removes the tea ball and sets it into the sink, and blows against the surface of the liquid.

They are standing very close to one another, now. Loki turns to fully face Clint, leaning slightly against the counter.

I am not a creature that tends toward gentleness. I, perhaps, have never been, or at least not after I reached adulthood. I thrive in the absurd, the outcast, the subversive. That which has been deemed outside of reasonable desire. Pain is part of that.

You know this. An incline of his head.

And yet. I find that I crave your care, your gentleness, even in the face of my belief that I do not, could not, possibly be deserving of it. It's complicated. Confusing, even, at times. I know how to navigate a desire for suffering, for pain. How to encourage it, pursue it. I don't know what I'm doing with the rest.

So. Shyness. Embarrassment. He takes another sip and shifts his gaze away.

Loki tends to be confused about Clint's dual state of mind, and yet when Loki explains his desire for pain and craving for care, he thinks it's the clearest he's ever seen Loki. Maybe the reasonings they hold differ, but the idea of being split down that middle, wondering at what it means to deserve, juggling desires that are unusual, that makes so much god damn sense he could choke.

"You don't ask me to. You only ever ask for..." Loki barely asks for anything, honestly. He thinks about the taste of tears and blood. Blinks. It's gone again. But when he licks his lips, just a brief darting to wet them, the warm metallic taste lingers in the background.

He tips his head, searching. Drums fingers on the countertop for a moment before flattening his hand on the surface. Phrasing. It's interesting. Curious.

"Am I outside of reasonable desire?"

He expects the answer to be a scoffed no, but he wonders. Loki thriving off the chaotic and unwanted and strange and set apart. Did Clint seem that way when he was chosen? Was there something of his difference in his eyes that Loki had seen?

Asking for things is difficult, for there always exists the potential for denial.

A sigh. Another sip.

I suppose it could be worked on, my habit of only allowing for and making implied and explicit demands.

Is that Loki giving Clint the room to tell him to ask for things more? To take the risk of being denied? (Will small miracles never cease? Apparently today is the day for it.)

Another sip as he turns Clint's question over in his mind. Yes. A breath. Some of that is my fault, if there's fault to be had.

He pulls a hand through his hair, causing the curls to bounce and rearrange themselves around his face.

It's not a no. It's a yes. He doesn't know why this feels settling and upsetting at once.

Hasn't he always known he was different, outside, undesirable? Look at the Avengers, at who they were, at the ones who claim to be them now. Fuckups and assholes and broken, damaged people. All of them. You have to be to do the things they do.

"Think if there's fault, it's to the guy that knocked up a young girl and left her all alone." Red noseless fuck had named him, son of Edith, and not anyone else. "You didn't help by reaching in my head and squeezing my brain like a sponge, no, but I don't think any of it's your fault."

One of the few things he doesn't think Loki can be faulted for, really.

"Still managed to get married to the greatest woman in history." He's allowed to be dramatic and sappy about his wife, thanks. "Raise a bunch of kids who are smarter and kinder than I'll ever be. Have a house. Have two houses, even if moving was kind of just a necessity of having a bunch of people suddenly know where your incredibly secret and private off the radar life is. Saved the world a couple times. I think that's pretty good for an outcast weirdo nobody dipshit who should've been dead decades ago."

Nose wrinkle. I take some offense to the idea that you're a dipshit. Also, Clint is definitely not a nobody at this point, even amongst his own people but especially in Loki's regard; still, that might be a pointless fight for another time.

Loki suspects it's a well-known secret amongst the Barton clan the high regard with which he considers Clint's family; even Laura who occasionally asks him pointedly (in his opinion) ridiculous questions he refuses to properly answer. You know how I feel about the children you've raised, the father you are. High praise, from a creature that has staunchly avoided parenthood for two millennia and also cannot stand a single person he ever has or could call 'father'.

"Hey, I'm the dumbass who never finished school; I can call myself a dipshit if I want." And maybe he's not a nobody now, but he most certainly was for a good bit of his life. "You attached yourself to a dipshit. Good job."

(Affectionate. Somehow.)

"You've been good." There's an emotion working its way up his throat, and he clears it, looks away. It's still there trying to claw. "You've been good to the kids. And to Laura. You didn't have to be. Pretty sure you only started trying to be part of the family just to piss me off," which worked at the time, "but you are, now. You're a good uncle. I know your family's complicated as hell, but I think if you ever wanted kids of your own? You wouldn't be a half-bad dad."

Eye-rolling. Also fondly. Yes, a good and somewhat predictable attachment for me, historically. You've met Thor. If we're going to talk about Loki's ability to handle being connected to a dipshit, then they might as well identify the first one he ever aligned himself with.

'You've been good', the emotion in Clint's voice, that he can simultaneously hear and feel coming from him, drives Loki to keep his mug up in front of his face, eyebrows slightly elevated. This is nice, this back and forth, but the compliment regarding his estimated parenting abilities is making him a little uncomfortable. Besides, it's not like Clint is wrong; Loki did begin ingratiating himself to the rest of the Barton family as a way of pissing Clint off.

It's just that he... actually enjoys children. In a broad sense. When they're old enough to reason. Usually. So that helped. And then, suddenly, somewhat to his own surprise, he'd managed to make friends with Clint's children.

Thank you. He isn't going to demand a subject change but it's a near thing. He will, however, continue sipping.

au shenanigans for icasm

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)