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satingrove · 4 years ago

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clear your thorns

pairing: frankie morales x gn reader

summary: words of affirmation on the porch.

rating: M

content: lil bit of angst, alcohol, fluff n flirting, sexual references

words: 1.3k+

a/n: this was just a quick thing i wrote tonight, excuse the lack of meaning! we just all need frankie to love on us, don’t we? title taken from here.

gif: @uuuhshiny

He’s sitting by himself on the porch, beer in hand and an empty spot beside him. There, his hand rests — your thigh isn’t where it should be, under his palm. You aren’t where you should be.

Frankie’s been quiet lately. You watch him through the window from your place in the kitchen, all the lights turned off, allowing the purple hue of the evening to reach further inside. He takes a slow sip, as if he’s not interested in it nor even interested in being outside right now. This is what he does after dinner. He helps you scrub the dishes and leaves a quick kiss on your temple, hands squeezing at your hips before he slips away to the porch and sits in silence. Though, sometimes, you can hear him listening to something from his phone.

He shifts and you sigh.

It’s his alone time. You should let him have it. You should let him be with himself for as long as he likes — his gaze has grown wistful, but it’s not as if his doting tendencies have left you behind. Each morning you’re still awoken by his lips and the soft brushes of his eyelashes on your skin because he squishes his face that close to you. It tickles when he blinks and it makes you both laugh… and then he’s off to work. Is something bothering him there?

You remind yourself, hanging a dish towel on the oven handle, that it can’t be you. But then again. He’s quiet.

You busy yourself with some laundry, folding his soft t-shirts that somehow hold his scent after being put through the wash. You find one of your favourites — a soft grey one that picks up his sweat when he mows the lawn and you stare at him comically, an obvious smile breaking your lips apart as he bashfully comes over to kiss you, knocking his cap off by your forehead.

You hold the fabric against your cheek and softly rub it, reminding yourself. Alone time. He’ll come to you.

Next is one of his button ups. You think of all the times you’ve pulled him close by the collar, how many times you’ve complimented the tan skin of his chest that peeks out of it, earning yourself a cheeky nip on the neck.

There’s no real reason to fold his laundry. Frankie isn’t lazy. Unless it’s a designated day for laziness and he keeps you locked in his warm embrace — strong arms squishing your back to his soft belly. It’s just that you need something to do that doesn’t feel like prying him open when he doesn’t want to be.

It’s possible he might, you think as you finish up, pairing his socks, one of them with little polka dots in blue and grey.

Coming out of the laundry room, you peek out the window once more, and Frankie looks to be dozing off on his propped fist, his nearly full beer bottle left on the wood panel of the porch.

You grin at him, or what you can see of him — the back of his head concealed by fine, fluffy curls, and the way his cheek juts out from being smushed against his closed fingers.

As you decide to finally join him, you grab his favourite hoodie from the basket of folded laundry. Something to keep him warm. And maybe you can be part of that too.

You’re careful as you open and close the front door, careful as you turn on the lantern, and careful as you join him on the cushioned bench. He slowly startles awake at the sensation of you beside him, his face contorting from a furrowed brow into a sleepy grin when he registers you looking at him kindly, his hoodie in your arms.

“Baby,” he croaks, reaching not for the garment but for you, pulling you snug into his lap. “I was hoping you’d join me.”

He’s warm and welcoming and it hurts your heart against his when he says this — you were wrong. He wanted you with him.

He stiffens as you apologize, one hand running up your back and underneath your shirt to soothe your concern for him. His other rests on the back of your neck and his stubble scratches on the side of your face but it’s the only thing you could want to feel for the rest of the night, the rest of your time. He takes a loud breath in, louder than it has to be, and you know from experience that it’s your cue to copy him. He never says a word during this, just presses his hand further into your skin to feel the way you breathe with him and whether they’re shaky breaths or unsure breaths, and once they’re steady he pulls your face to his and looks deep into your eyes.

He apologizes too.

And it’s hard.

His voice wavers and he’s so sorry that he can’t tell you what’s wrong. He doesn’t really know. His fingers toy with the hoodie at his side, despondent, discouraged.

“You don’t have to apologize either— at all,” you reassure him and he gains some light at that, “I just wondered that… maybe it was me. I wanted you to have time to yourself.”

His eyebrows shoot up in a guilty kind of surprise and he takes your arms and wraps them around his neck, whispering into yours.

“I don’t think it could ever be you.”

And it stays a whisper, because the sentiment is too soft and fragile to be said aloud. Too personal to let even the birds hidden in the tree branches at the edge of the porch catch wind of it, too loving to have the raspy edge of his voice harden it.

You only feel him, hear him, and when he finishes his murmur, you hold him a little tighter.

“I don’t really give a fuck what’s making me feel all... I just want you to remember,” he coos into your skin, stopping to press a kiss to your throat, “that I want you. Here. I like you here, and I know I could talk more.”

“I’d have asked sooner…” you begin, but the words fall away, or rather, he kisses them away with his lips on yours and this action means just as much as his words.

“Happens,” he slurs into your mouth, sneakily reaching his arm and blindly searching for the beer bottle. He grabs it and brings it between the two of you, and when your faces part he thrusts it to your lips, telling you to take a sip, tilting it up. You’re not ready for it and instead of drinking it, you laugh into it and the liquid spills over the both of you, Frankie’s own laughs vibrating against you.

“Francisco!” You scold him and he merely nips your chin. It’s cold and shocking and you can hardly find it in yourself to care. “How does it taste?”

“Like my second favourite thing in the world.”

“Second?”

He gives you that look that tells you not to play dumb, that you know what he means. He presses his palm against your shirt and you feel the stickiness against your stomach.

“Do you like it?” He asks, his big eyes searching yours.

You catch your breath and hold it as you kiss his forehead, your thighs squeezing his. “I’d rather not be sticky.”

“Oh? My bad. I guess there’s only one kind of stickiness you like.”

“Oh my God.”

In your happy exasperation you feel your muscles loosen around him — he sounds happy. It’s harder to see his face with the growing darkness, but there’s one side of it illuminated golden by the lantern and it paints such a beautiful picture, the lines and curves exaggerated.

“I’m not wrong.”

“Stop talking like that,” you push his chin up and attach your mouth to his neck and a hushed you got it fills your ears before his hands ride the line of your back again.

You realize just how much you underestimated your effect on him. How swiftly he changes when he feels you and hears your voice reminding him he has you. That he has simple needs, all tangled up in you.

tags for our beloved frankie: @filthybookworm @queenbbarnes @ayamenimthiriel @princessxkenobi @mitchi-c @jettia @bookofbriar @nomanchesnoncreator @harrys-stan @meshlamando @jabbajambler @nakhudanyx @lycheemi @kj-holmes @goldengubs @mandoclan @lady-of-glass-and-bone @thehippiequilter @colddecember-night

let me know whether to add/remove you!

#frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal#my writing #a shortie!! who would have guessed

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unsteadygalaxy · 4 years ago

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all is soft inside chapter 12

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3, my username is the same there!

previous | next

12. give me a piece of your heart

A quick note: I have the Pathfinder's Quest book and I finished it today (Feb 2nd 2021)! It was mind-blowing and amazing and SO, SO GOOD. Unfortunately, this fic can no longer fit into canon because of what we find out about Bloodhound. Don't worry, I won't be spoiling! I had a story set up for them before I read the lore book, and that's the story I'll be sticking to. Maybe one day I'll write some canon things, but for now, this story is no longer canon-compliant. Part of me is sad to have all the answers, but hey! That's what makes canon-divergent fics so fun :)

Elliott practically flies down the street towards the Legends’ apartment complex, bursting with nervousness and energy as he goes. The torrential downpour of rain doesn’t even manage to dampen his mood; he’s got a heavy-duty umbrella and an upbeat attitude that could make the skies clear up in moments. Bloodhound’s proposition hangs in his head, and he clings to it with an embarrassing neediness. ‘Would you like to visit me in my apartment later this evening?’ they had asked, and he thought his heart would burst out of his chest. He feels like a dumbass for the way he had reacted- god, he was so lame. Falling over his words, making the simplest mistakes… What fourteen year old in the area had reached out and possessed him? Whoever it was, he’d have to have a strong talk with them later.

After arriving back to his apartment above the bar, he’d scrubbed himself clean and very meticulously arranged his hair. He’d eventually chosen a deep purple sweater over a light blue button down, a pair of his nicer dark jeans, a black belt, and sneakers to wear for the evening. He’d hemmed and hawed in front of the mirror for at least twenty minutes, rolling and unrolling his sleeves, second guessing each outfit choice he made until he settled. He had decided to keep the sleeves rolled up, but the easy confidence he usually has in himself has chosen to take a pointed leave of absence.

Elliott really does feel like a teenager obsessing over their first date all over again, but he has to remind himself it’s not a date, it’s just a talk. A nice evening in. A nice evening alone with Bloodhound. His cheeks blaze, and the enormity of his crush on them plummets onto his head all at once.

Ahh, shit.

He finally lets his thoughts race and wander while thinking about them. For the first time in days, he lets himself linger on his memories of their face, though the quick glimpse he had gotten had not left him with much to remember. Their gorgeous red hair, their piercing green eyes, the striking contours of their face… They are so beautiful, and he would do anything to see their face again.

A giddy smile crosses his face when he thinks of all the times they’ve touched him on the arm or on the shoulder, or held his hands so softly. They had exuded kindness and compassion in those moments, the genuineness of which Elliott has not truly felt in a while. Bloodhound’s quiet vulnerability in the bar the other night had struck him as both odd and humbling; their increasing trust in him is something he definitely doesn’t want to take for granted.

The complex comes into view and Elliott’s heart starts to pound harder in his chest. It takes a great deal of effort to not run all the way to their door… until he realizes he doesn’t know which floor is theirs, much less which door.

Bzzt! His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he jumps a little before retrieving it. A message from an unknown number is emblazoned across the lock screen:

Second floor, number 14.

-BH

Excitement and happiness surges through his veins, and he immediately saves their contact information. God, is he really that pumped about having their number? A big stupid smile stretches across his face, and he wants to smack himself. Chill, Elliott, chill. You’ve gotta get ahold of yourself before you get up there. He takes a deep breath and sends a quick reply to Bloodhound as he continues down the sidewalk, valiantly avoiding the puddles.

Nearly there! How’d you get my number?

A reply flashes through faster than he thought it would.

Renee owed me a favor. I hope it is all right that I asked her.

Oh, yeah, that’s fine! No problem :)

He has to physically restrain himself from adding a little heart; Renee or Octavio or Makoa were used to his nonsense, but he figures Bloodhound would only find it strange for him to be adding those things to his texts right off the bat. He’s busy smiling off into space when his phone vibrates again.

I am looking forward to seeing you.

Elliott’s heart practically explodes in his chest, and he steps right into a puddle.

------

Bloodhound can’t stay still.

Ever since those traitorous words had fallen from their mouth, they’d been on red alert, their brain and body a hopeless torrent of conflicting emotions that hadn’t quite settled. They think it’s fitting that it is raining; it seems the Allfather is showing his sympathies in the smallest of ways. The rain patters against the windows in a steady rhythm, and under any other circumstance it would have been very calming. They would have shed the mask and goggles and snuggled into the couch with a book and a cup of tea, but tonight, that isn’t an option. Instead, they’re wandering aimlessly around their apartment- cleaning corners that don’t really need to be cleaned, tending to Artur, and sipping at a glass of water every time they walk by the kitchen.

They’d hopped into the shower immediately after arriving home and cleaned every inch of their skin with an annoying attention to detail. Their anxiety had mounted in their chest until they had had to sit on the cold tiles of the shower with their head between their legs. Everything is going to be fine, they’d repeated to themself over and over again. Elliott would never hurt you.

The thought is ironic because of the stubborn headache at the base of their skull- Boone’s pain medicine had done little to abate the throbbing in their neck. As they think back on their day, they feel a surge of pride for Elliott. It seems that he is finally allowing himself to succeed, instead of limiting himself like he had before. He had truly surprised them today. Where they had once seen hesitation and worry, it had been replaced with deadly precision and focus, and Bloodhound would not change the outcome of the match even if they could. Elliott had been a wonderful sight to behold.

The frantic fear is nearly gone, but it lingers just enough to make them a little self-conscious. Opting not to wear their Games attire, they’ve picked a thick turtleneck, fitted cargo pants, woolen socks, and a slimmer pair of gloves that will hide their hands but not hinder any movement. The mask is laid on the table, ready to be put on at a moment’s notice. They’re already wearing the helmet, their goggles, and the leather cap. They’ve always hated having to pile wet hair under the hood, but their plans left them no choice. Bloodhound hasn’t cared much about their physical appearance in years, but for some reason, the idea of being alone with Elliott again makes them want to hide away in embarrassment.

An eager knock at the door startles Bloodhound, and they very nearly knock over their glass.

Their heart starts pumping in their chest, and their fingers fumble a little as they clip the respirator to the cap. Immediately, their breathing comes easier, and they scold themself for going so long without it this evening. Bloodhound makes their way to the door and opens it, revealing an absolutely drenched Elliott holding a broken umbrella in one hand and a pair of sopping wet sneakers in the other.

“Hey! I, uh, definitely stepped in a ton of puddles on the way here. I usually watch where I’m going but these ones were sac- ski- scattered everywhere, so I couldn’t see them at all, and then of course the wind picked up and shredded my umbrella, so I’m totally soaked.” He shrugs helplessly and shakes the bent umbrella off a little, showering Bloodhound’s feet with droplets of water. “Ah, shit. Sorry!”

They shake their head at him and sigh, and a shiver goes through their body as they think about being drenched in this weather. “It is of no consequence, Elliott, I can very easily change socks. Please, come in,” they say, and they lead him into their apartment.

They try not to look at him as he takes in their apartment, suddenly insecure about how simple and bare it looks. The apartment had come furnished, but it is not quite to their tastes. Bloodhound prefers a more homey and warm feel, not the modern, sleek look that is so popular these days. The windows in the living room are quite large. Bloodhound had had a tinted effect added to them immediately- for their anonymity and so the light coming in would not be quite so harsh on their sensitive eyes. The furnishings are a combination of aesthetically pleasing colors and fabrics, all tones of white or grey or brown. A couple of plush blankets are draped over the back of the couch, and minimalistic frames are hung on the walls, great white voids containing typeface quotes and old cliches. The fireplace is an inordinate monolith of dark stone, and if Bloodhound had thought of it, they would have started a fire to make it seem less dull and boring. The thought occurs to them that they should have made this place more welcoming, but they are not vain enough to care in the long run. After all, will Elliott even want to return after he receives the answers to his questions? Bloodhound thinks not.

“Wow,” Elliott remarks, leaning his umbrella against the wall by the door. “It’s so clean.” He strips off his socks and rolls up his pants a little so the soggy ends aren’t rubbing around his ankles. The cuffs fit tightly around his very sculpted calves, and Bloodhound blushes before looking away pointedly.

“This space is not to my tastes,” they reply, watching him walk around. “My real home is much more notalegt- cozy- and warm. Not cold and unfeeling like this place is.”

“Your real home?” he asks, glancing at them. “You don’t live in the Legends complexes full time?”

“I stay in the buildings during the on season, but during the off season, I retreat to a modest cabin in the woods,” they explain, and they realize they’ve made their first confession of the night. That... wasn’t so bad. “There are bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a large fireplace, plenty of furs to keep warm, and a view that would take your breath away. I quite enjoy it.”

“That sounds amazing,” he grins. That smile… Bloodhound has to take a deep breath.

“Maybe I will show you one day,” they say, surprising themself with how easily they offer. “It is a beautiful place, and I think you would like it.”

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “You’d, uh… you’d let me go with you?”

“Perhaps,” they murmur, and their heart starts to beat hard in their chest again. They notice he’s still carrying his wet shoes and socks, and they move to take them from him. “Here. Let me start a fire. Your shoes and socks will be dry in no time.”

“Oh, thank you!” he replies cheerily, and the smile he gives them makes their heart skip a beat. They take the soggy items from him, cringing a bit at the questionable texture, and set them on the mantle for a moment. Overly aware of how closely he’s watching them, they kneel down, turn the gas knob, and light the fire quickly. In moments, a rosy glow emanates from the fireplace and Bloodhound pulls the screens over to eliminate any chance of Elliott’s things going up in flames. They reach up and place the shoes and socks on a small rack in front of the fire, and then they stand and retreat to their room for a moment.

Before long, they return to the living room wearing a fresh pair of socks and carrying a pair for Elliott. “Here,” they say, holding them out to him. “So your feet are not cold. It can be drafty in here when it rains.”

A pink tinge comes to his cheeks, and he accepts them hesitantly. “You’re way too nice,” he grumbles quietly as he sinks down onto the couch. He puts them on and then pushes his floppy wet hair out of his face. “Hey, can I borrow your hair dryer?” he asks, giving them a questioning glance.

“I… do not own one,” they reply, face burning. “Mine gave out a few weeks ago and I have not yet had time to buy another.”

To their surprise, he grins widely and looks away, suddenly very focused on the fire. “That’s all right,” he says, and his voice is curiously flustered. “I can just sit in front of the fireplace for a bit. You’re about to see the fluffiest hair the Outlands has to offer.” He laughs and rolls his eyes, raking his hands through his messy mop.

The thought of Elliott with an untamed mess of curly hair makes them smile like a lovesick teenager, and they’re so, so glad they’re still wearing the mask. “So your hair is not perfect all the time?” they tease, sitting down on the couch next to him. They leave a respectable distance between them, but the distance is smaller than it would have been two or three weeks ago. “Ah, so he does have a flaw. Artur, can you believe it?”

They look to Artur’s perch where the bird has been sleeping peacefully throughout all of this. The bird shakes his beak and gives a soft caw before shuffling along his branch, completely ignoring Bloodhound. They shake their head at him. Unhelpful creature, they think affectionately.

Elliott scoffs and says, “Psh, no! I’m absolutely fal- flo- fu- perfect. My hair just has a life of its own sometimes.” He flips his hair to the opposite side and gives Bloodhound a ridiculously goofy expression. It takes everything in them to not burst out laughing, and they would have given him a deadpan expression if they could.

“Like your aim with an R-99, then,” they reply, keeping their voice as even as possible.

His mouth drops open, but he’s smiling. “Wh-What? Was that a joke? Did you actually just tell a joke?” A huge, incredulous laugh escapes his throat and he grabs his chest, and Bloodhound almost loses it. “That’s a little unfair though, considering how I absolutely lasered you today.”

It’s Bloodhound’s turn to laugh, and their face hurts from how much they’ve smiled lately. “You are correct, Elliott,” they admit, holding their hands up in a placating gesture. “I was very impressed with your skill this morning. Your precision and focus made you a formidable opponent, and I was honored to fight with you.”

Instead of the cocky, arrogant response they have come to expect from him, Elliott actually blushes. It is a welcome change; his cheeks turn a lovely shade of red and he looks away, biting his lip. “Thanks,” he says simply, and his voice is… bashful?

Bloodhound does not quite know what to make of that.

------

His face burns fiercely and he can’t meet their eyes. He loves getting praise from his fans and from his friends, but getting praised by Bloodhound somehow means so much more. Maybe it’s because they’re so skilled, or maybe it’s because he respects them the most out of any other Legend, but such high compliments coming from them renders him a little speechless.

“Hey, I know this is dumb since we’re paid to kill each other, but, um… Sorry about today,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “Taking an entire clip of ammo to the head always gives you a nasty headache.”

Bloodhound huffs quietly, and Elliott takes that to be a soft laugh. “Do not worry, vinur minn. I am perfectly fine. It was simply the Allfather’s will for me to lose today, and I am not offended.”

Elliott lets out a small chuckle, relieved. “Well, that’s good to know. I was worried I might have broken your mask.”

They tap their mask firmly, and it makes a solid thunk sound. “You see? Perfectly fine,” they reply, and Elliott can hear the smile in their voice. “It is quite solid and substantial. Unlike much of your humor.”

Elliott stares at them open mouthed. “I’m wounded, Bloodhound, truly!” he rebutts, scandalized. He flops back against the couch dramatically, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. Bloodhound, making multiple jokes in one night? The world must be ending, he thinks, and he doesn’t even care that the jokes are coming at his expense.

Bloodhound laughs, and God, he’s missed that sound. The gentle lilt, the soft breathiness of their voice… Elliott blushes even as he giggles, and he treasures the noise they’re making.

“I have been known to be humorous now and again,” they say, still chuckling.

Elliott can only smile and shake his head in wonder as the two of them laugh, and soon, he’s wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Wow. Okay, out of all the things I expected tonight it definitely wasn’t that.”

“And what have you expected for this evening, Elliott?” Bloodhound cocks their head and leans back into the couch, folding their arms.

A thrill of joy runs its course throughout his body when they say his name, and he finds it strange. Bloodhound has surely said his name hundreds of times, but this feels different. Elliott is sure he’s overthinking it, but the way they had said it feels like they were humming a song.

His entire body glows with warmth. “You promised me answers,” he says carefully as the giddiness starts to drain away. “You don’t have to go into specifics but… still, you promised answers.”

Bloodhound is silent for a moment, and their hands fidget lightly in their lap. Then they nod. “Yes. I do owe you answers, so please, ask whatever you would like.” Their voice is guarded and serious, and the shift in attitude is sobering.

Elliott notices how discomfort begins to creep into their posture, and so he resolves to not push them any further than they are willing to be pushed. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the air hissing between his teeth as he leans back and begins to think. “Okay, um… Well, I was worried about your mask breaking because I don’t know how it works or how it helps. Can I ask why you need it?”

The question only makes Bloodhound’s body language tighten up more. They are silent for several long moments, seeming to ponder and consider his question. Was that too much right out of the gate? he thinks frantically, and he’s about to redact his question when they let out a big breath and begin to speak.

“When I was a child, I was… in an accident,” they say, but something about their admission feels shallow, as if they have more to tell. “No. I made a grave mistake.”

Elliott takes a deep breath and readjusts himself on the couch. He can tell this story will be a long one, and he intends to listen to every word.

“In my culture, young warriors must endure a rite of passage that shows our strength and our transition into adulthood,” Bloodhound explains. “My test was to slátra a prowler beast. I was afraid, but... I knew the Allfather would guide me.” They pause for a moment, and Elliott hangs on to their every word. “I followed its tracks to an abandoned IMC facility deep in the woods, but what I found there was far more hryllilegur. Horrible,” they add when Elliott raises an eyebrow.

“A jötunn had made its home there. It is a terrifying beast, all horns and teeth and claws. It is as large as some of the buildings in Slum Lakes, if you can recall. I began to run away, but I found a prototype Charge Rifle and shot the beast. I thought it was dead. I collected its horn to present to my uncle, but he was... disappointed in me.” They sigh deeply as dread begins to pool in Elliott’s stomach. “I had rejected the sacred laws of the Hunt by using a gun in order to defeat this beast. Artur was steadfast, immovable in his convictions, and no matter how hard I tried to convince him of my victory, he would not validate it.

“I left in anger. I was a child, only fourteen years old, but if the other village elders knew what I had done, they would have exiled me. I was... so ashamed.” Bloodhound swallows, and it sounds like it takes a lot of effort. “I retreated to the forest to be alone, as I often did, and… the jötunn was there. It was not dead, as I had hoped. It sought revenge.

“I tried my best to fight it off. My uncle was alerted to my cries, and came to help, along with many other villagers. They fought, and…” Their voice tightens, and Elliott’s heart breaks. “Many died. Including my uncle.”

Their voice has become achingly vulnerable and soft the longer they’ve spoken, and Elliott wants nothing more than to reach out and take their hands again. He shifts closer to them on the couch, closing the gap ever so slightly. His eyes stay glued to their mask, and the lenses of their goggles reflect the flickering light of the fireplace. He’s always found the mask to be either intimidating or expressionless, but Bloodhound’s sadness speaks for them, and the mask seems to be considerably more morose than usual.

“I sought the beast out,” they continue, and Elliott is surprised by how quietly angry and low their voice is. “It had returned to the abandoned facility. The halls had been equipped with coolant lines in case of an explosion or other emergency, and I broke them in order to immobilize the beast. But I breathed too much of it in, and… it dehydrated and froze my skin and lungs, leaving me scarred. Fortunately, I was able to find an oxygen mask just before I succumbed to the cold. Once the beast was frozen, I killed it with my uncle’s axe, fulfilling my test.”

Bloodhound is quiet for some time, and it takes Elliott a moment to realize they’re done talking. He knows he’s staring, and he knows he looks like he’s pitying them, and he fights to find an adequate response. “I’m so sorry, Bloodhound,” he murmurs, and he reaches out to them hesitantly. He takes their hands ever so softly, giving them every opportunity to pull away. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with such horrible things when you were younger. That sounds really tra- tor- traumatizing.” He’s struck by an incredible urge to pull them into his arms and hold them close, and a wave of embarrassment runs through his body as he presses that urge down.

Bloodhound’s hands begin to tremble in his, and he’s alerted to their discomfort immediately. Their breathing comes quicker and shallower even through the mask, and he holds onto them tighter. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks, worried.

“I-” Their voice breaks and Elliott’s heart clenches in his chest. “I- I am sorry, Elliott, you do not want to see me like this-” Bloodhound makes an attempt to pull away and stand, but Elliott holds on tight, keeping them right where they are.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes. “It’s okay! It’s all right. I’m not bothered by you being emotional. It’s actually pretty refreshing, honestly. Makes you feel more normal, like the rest of us.”

They laugh weakly, and Elliott sighs in relief. “T-Thank you, vinur minn. I just- I am prone to anxiety attacks, and…” They suck in a huge lungful of air, but they’re still shaking. “That is why I left the other night. When you asked me about Artur, I was overcome and needed to leave as quickly as possible. Please do not take any offense- it was not your fault.”

Elliott’s chest fills with a strange sense of compassion and guilt, and he squeezes their hands comfortingly. “It’s okay, Bloodhound,” he reassures them. “I’m not mad. Just… worried.” The admission makes him feel exposed and overbearing all at once, and he really hopes he’s not making them uncomfortable.

An idea comes to his mind. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Breathe with me.”

Bloodhound stiffens, and Elliott hopes to God he hasn’t somehow offended them. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and after a moment, he hears Bloodhound inhale greatly as well. He finds himself rubbing his thumbs back and forth across their rough gloves, just like they had done to him a few nights ago. He lets the air calm him and settle his racing heart. He still doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or if he’s even doing this right, but to his delight, Bloodhound’s breathing begins to slow and even out. They gradually stop shaking, and he smiles.

Elliott opens his eyes. “Better?” he asks, and he gives their hands a quick squeeze.

They are quiet for a moment. “Nearly,” they murmur, and they pull their hands away. Elliott’s face falls, and rejection begins to rise in him, but they take off their gloves and reach for him once more. He eagerly closes the gap between his shaking fingers and theirs. The place where they make first contact with his skin- a small place near his thumb- tingles pleasantly, and the warmth of their hand settles in his. He inhales sharply, and beams as their fingers curl into his own.

“Better.” They are so quiet and soft as they speak, and Elliott almost misses what they say. “Your kindness is a blessing to me, kæri vinur. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, trying to find their eyes beyond the lenses of their goggles. Despite his happiness, he finds himself wishing that he could search their face for meaning, for emotion, for clarity. He knows why they need and wear the mask. He knows why he will likely never see their face again. But, damn, does he desperately want to gaze upon them just one more time. He doesn’t know what kæri vinur means, but he can’t help but notice the similarities between it and what they usually call him.

He doesn’t dare to hope it means anything.

...does he?

“Do you… do you want to talk about it, or…?” he trails, attempting to do what they had done a few nights ago.

“No, Elliott,” they reply, but their voice is not unkind. Their grip on his hands tightens for a moment, then they loosen, and it sends a thrill down Elliott’s spine. “Your help was more than enough to calm me.”

He adjusts himself on the couch, and his knee brushes against theirs. The only light in the room comes from the quietly crackling fire, and it highlights Bloodhound’s features with a silhouette of warmth. His heart starts to pound in his chest once more, and every sense heightens. Elliott suddenly becomes aware of how intimate and vulnerable this little bubble of space is, and his shoulders tense in anticipation of something he knows will never come. He wants to pull them close. He wants to lace his fingers in theirs. He wants to…

“Can I trust you, Elliott?”

They sound so… exposed. So afraid. His breath catches in his throat for a moment. “O-Of course, Bloodhound. You can trust me with anything,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs across their knuckles reassuringly. He’s surprised by how rough their hands are, and it’s only then that he remembers the silvery spider web scars stretching across their skin.

“Then… there is something I wish to share with you,” they reply, and their hands begin to tremble in his again. They let go of him, and to his utter shock, their hands go to their helmet, edging towards the many clasps that fasten it to their goggles and respirator.

“W-Wait, hold on,” he stutters, and he reaches for their hands again. “A-Are you- hey, you really don’t have to do that if you don’t want to, I mean- I mean, are you absolutely sure?” He stares at them in confusion and worry, and his stomach is an unintelligible knot of emotion. Elliott searches their mask and their body language, trying desperately to figure out what the hell they’re thinking.

“If I was not sure I would not be doing this,” they chide gently, and they remove their hands from his grip. “Please, just let me do this. Ég er svo- I am so tired of hiding.”

Elliott can’t argue with that.

“Okay,” he says, still very unsure. His hands fall back into his lap.

------

The child inside them shakes and trembles horribly as they raise their hands to their head. Part of them screams and begs for them to stop, and it’s only in this moment that they realize that part is the terrified twenty-five year old that had had their mask shattered in front of all those people so long ago. That crowd had been so cruel, but Elliott could never share their vitriol, their hatred. Bloodhound has seen into the man’s heart more than they ever thought they would, and no trace of cruelty exists inside him.

How long has it been since they willingly showed someone else their face? Five years? Ten? Ajay seeing them had been a complete and total accident- one that they had learned not to mind. Boone had grown up with them, of course, so he does not count. But Elliott… At the beginning of this night, they never would have dreamed of doing what they’re about to do. But Elliott is so kind, so thoughtful and accepting that their heart yearns for him greatly, and they can ignore that fact no longer.

Their fingers fumble with the straps of their helmet, but something drives them forward. It drives them to be vulnerable- to be open and take a risk. Elliott has seen their face already, so why are they so nervous? He has seen the scars they bear- why are they trembling like the young one they used to be? They do not know, but they hope that the price of them being so vulnerable is a price he’s willing to pay.

There is no turning back now, they think.

With trembling hands, they remove the helmet, cap, goggles, and finally, the mask.

#apex #apex legends #miragehound #mirage #bloodhound #mirage apex #mirage apex legends #bloodhound apex #bloodhound apex legends #miragehound fanfiction #elliott witt #elliott witt apex #elliott witt apex legends #my writing

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septic-dr-schneep · 5 years ago

Note

What are your swap boys' typical outfits and accessories?

Ooh, nice question! I really should make full body refs for them soon

Puppetmaster:

- Black/green armored jumpsuit, black and green boots

- Casual: Black long-sleeved/quarter-sleeved shirt, gray slacks or jeans, black boots

Accessories: glowing green mask hovering in midair, glowing strings, knives

Janson:

- Torn dark red hoodie, black jeans, black sneakers

Accessories: black ear cuffs, bandages on throat, camera bag, sunglasses, boba cup

Dr. M:

- White lab coat, blue shirt, navy blue suit pants, black leather shoes

- Casual: gray half-sleeved jumper, dark blue jeans, blue socks (no shoes)

Accessories: black and red card suit pins, blue scrub cap, hair tie, contacts, laser pointer

Splendor:

- Varying multi-colored sparkly/glittery outfits, multi-colored capes

- Casual: lavender turtleneck, gray slacks or jeans, black dress sneakers

Accessories: round gold-frame glasses, blue/purple dragonfly mask, dangle earrings, glow sticks

Charles:

- Maroon pinstriped suit jacket, white dress shirt, black suit pants, black dress shoes

Accessories: black fedora, monocle, pocket watch with family picture enclosed, handkerchief, old-fashioned pistol

James:

- Gray “:): You decide” shirt, light blue jeans, gray lace-up shoes

Accessories: white cap, bandages on forearms, oven mitts, various sweets, baseball bat

#ego swap au #puppetmaster #janson #dr marvin mcloughlin #the splendorous schneeplestein #charles brody #jameson jackson #accessories #answered ask #Anonymous

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ravager-life-for-me · 8 years ago

Link

Summary:

The Kree planet doesn't have the same atmosphere as Peter's used to. So they need to fix him up with something if he's going to be able to breathe while getting to the vault. Kraglin has just the thing.

Chapter 2: Every Breath You Take

The Eclector seemed to be abuzz with new life. Everyone was doing whatever it was they did as their little pre-steal ritual, whether it was important stuff like checking gear, resupplying their ammo packs, checking in with the Tailor to make sure their Ravager jackets were up to snuff, or really weird stuff like grooming each other’s hair or fighting over what looked like a balled up sock. Peter swam through the crowd per his usual route. It was under feet, away from elbows, and ducking out of reach of an errant claw or knife. Lots of blades were flashed in the galley. Almost had a “that’s not a knife, this is a knife” moment between Hyvar and R’x. Peter saw a blade slice right in front of his face before he stumbled back into the solid mass of a familiar pink-skinned Ravager.

“Hey! I was just lookin’ fer ya!” said Oblo and flashed a grin with a staple of Ravager metal teeth. “Look at you! Not scrubbin’ no decks today, right?”

“Yeah,” said Peter, who sounded more put-out than how he really felt, which was just on the edge of terrified. It was better this way. Sometimes they liked to cheer him up when he was pouting. Sometimes they knocked him on his back and told him to suck it up, but Oblo usually didn’t, so, it was how Peter decided to play it. He scrubbed the back of his head and shrugged a shoulder.

“What’s the matter then?” asked Oblo.

“Oh, I dunno.” Peter scuffed his foot on the ground. He was absolutely milking in. “Just thought it was gonna be something really cool, y’know? But it’s just crawling through vents. I do that, like, all the time.”

“Oh it’s gonna be great. Yer probably gonna have to dodge lasers and kill some guards once yer down there.”

“What?” Peter’s throat started to constrict before Oblo struck him on the back.

“Nah!” he said and doubled over with laughter. “By the stars, could you imagine? That’s ridiculous! You’re just going through the vents!”

“Yeah!” Peter answered, defensive. “I know! Don’t make it sound like, I dunno, like a death sentence.”

“It’s not. Like you said, you do it all the time. Yeah, cause yer the best at cleaning them,” said Oblo and laughed again, barely able to compose himself. “You know what we used to do?”

“What?”

“We used to take Kraglin, right, when he was fresh, and we—”

“Pete!”

“Hey hey, we was just talkin’ about you!” said Oblo as Kraglin waltzed through the galley, finishing up whatever drink he’d managed to steal off the nearest table. It had to be sour because he was fighting with his tongue, his face starting to pinch and squinted down into the cup before he tossed it back towards the table. Kraglin came up to them and Oblo thumped him on the chest. “Remember when we put you in the vents?”

“Yeah,” said Kraglin absently. “Seemed y’all was keen on repeating it today, too.”

“Woulda been funny,” said Oblo, tempting Kraglin to sock him in the jaw.

“Well…” said Kraglin and waffled his hand before he pointed down at Peter. “Hey. Need ya for a second. Got somethin’ important fer the mission.”

“Important?” Peter was excited. Genuinely excited. It was a treat to get something, especially if it was important, and he couldn’t help but wonder what this gift might be. But he was quick to squash that down and give Kraglin a skeptical eye. He had learned early, act aloof and just a little callous and make it a joke in order to save yourself. “What’s so important, huh?”

“You come with me and you’ll prob’ly find out,” said Kraglin and hooked his hand over his shoulder as a wave to follow before he went back the way he came.

Peter checked with Oblo, who was thrusting another thumbs up at him, wagging the tips of his thumbs near his cheeks before he laughed. His face was flushed as he slumped down at a table and picked up the oily-looking drink he’d been enjoying before Peter found him. The Ravager next to him knocked shoulders and they both clanked their mugs together, shouting something at the ceiling and then chugging their drinks.

“Well he’s gonna have a headache,” Kraglin was muttering as Peter caught up to him. They went down towards the medic bay and stopped off in a supply closet. Kraglin opened one of the panels in the wall and started rummaging around in a crate. “Gonna hafta put him on a cannon if he’s gonna…hey, Pete! Good, come ‘ere.”

“I am here,” said Peter. “What’s this yer giving me?”

“Somethin’ important, like I said. Got it rigged up to yer ‘sensitive Terran system.’”

Kraglin said this in a fluty voice, wagging his head back and forth like it was a whole ordeal to recalibrate something so Peter could use it. Like he was the only Terran ever in space, which he discovered wasn’t even true! Just, y’know, not exactly as common as Xandarians, sure, maybe even rare, but Kraglin didn’t have to be a dick about it, is all. He crossed his arms and stood back.

“What?” Kraglin asked without looking over his shoulder.

“Nothin’,” said Peter.

“Then don’t pout.”

“I’m not!”

“Ya are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, ya are.”

“Oh my god, Kraglin, just—”

“Ah, found it.”

Kraglin thrusted his fist out and capped Peter’s comeback, which wasn’t much of a comeback at all, really. It was just a roundabout conversation that would drift in and out at the same point each time he and Kraglin managed to talk to each other for more than five minutes.

Peter tried to stand on his tip toes and see what Kraglin had, but it was wrapped up tight in his fist. He even crouched down to Peter’s level and gently grabbed his shoulder. He was about to reach up to the side of his head and plug something in when Peter braced his neck and jerked out of Kraglin’s grip.

“No, what is that,” said Peter, holding himself.

He’d had lots of things stabbed into him, the translator being the first and foremost. There was a biometric system implanted by the Doc, an alien set of handcuffs, a syringe with a tracking bug on it from a guild of thieves who thought they could use Peter to get to Yondu, and two different sets of teeth from bat-like creatures that made him throw up this green and purple sludge for what felt like forever.

“Listen, I know ya don’t rightly know what them fuckin’ Kree folks are,” said Kraglin, forcing the words “fuckin’ Kree” out between his teeth, “but planets that they inhabit have lots of nitrogen so’s they can breathe.”

“Yeah?” asked Peter. “So?”

“So.” Kraglin motioned vaguely at the ship around them. “So, we got a pretty even mix here. Mostly anyone who can breathe what we need is good.” Peter felt himself intimately aware of his need to breathe then, and consciously pumped his lungs full of air. “Yep. Like, say you went with us down to Xandar, right? Fine fer you. Fine fer me. Fine fer the Captain even, and he don’t even look like us, right? But Tullika’s gonna be a sight more poisonous than yer used to.”

“Poisonous?” Peter quaked and Kraglin squinted his eyes as he watched the kid go paler than usual. But Peter swallowed and rolled his eyes, if only to stop himself from crying. His tongue felt a little thick, so he cleared his throat. “I mean. More and more you guys talk about it…sounds like it’s gonna be, like…dangerous.”

“Some,” said Kraglin with a shrug. He finally held his palm out flat and showed Peter what he’d fetched from the supply crate. “But this’ll help.”

The contraption didn’t look to be more than an inch or two long and about as thick as Peter’s pinky. The dull silvery metal curved slightly, ending in two small red buttons. Kraglin waited for Peter to poke it once before he offered to plug it in again. Peter jerked his head back out of habit before he finally relented, shoulders tense but still as Kraglin fitted the device just behind Peter’s ear. It fit snuggly against the hinge of his jaw. It didn’t sting, so it seemed that nothing had actually penetrated his skin. Peter wondered briefly how it was staying in place. It hummed just a little, just the edge of recognition, and it felt warmer than he was expecting.

“Right, that should do it,” said Kraglin, nodding once. He fondled the piece again to be sure it was absolutely snug before tapping once on the button closest to Peter’s earlobe. “Ya feel that?”

“U-huh,” Peter answered.

“Good.”

Kraglin pressed it and suddenly the world disappeared as something metal materialized in front of his face. The mask seemed to build in pixels wrapping around his head, leaping up over his eyes and forming two perfectly circular red caps of glass. Peter whipped backwards to get away from it, his throat constricting again as the mask completely encased his head except for his neck and the top of his skull, leaving a tuft of hair. In his panic he started prying at the sides, grappling with anything he might get his fingers under to free himself. The air was hot, almost burning in his nostrils and chest.

“Hey, hey, hold on,” said Kraglin, trying to grab Peter as he thrashed about.

“Get it off!” Peter screamed, yanking at the edge under his chin. “Kraglin! Get it off! Get it off get it off get it off!”

“Hold on,” said Kraglin. He finally had Peter’s wrists and held on so he wouldn’t toss himself back into a wall or beam himself on anything in the supply closet and knock his brains loose. “Hey, I’m right here, Pete. Y’hear me?”

Peter was panting hard, his chest rising and falling fast. He felt himself getting dizzy and nearly buckled if not for Kraglin having a tight hold on him. His eyes stung and he couldn’t tell if his vision was blurry because of sweat, condensation, or tears, but he stared wide-eyed through the red lenses until he saw Kraglin’s face. The Xandarian looked calm as ever. He didn’t have words yet, just raspy gasps of air, but it was good to find Kraglin. It was good that he was holding his wrists. Peter told himself this over and over until his heart wasn’t beating at the back of his throat.

“There we go,” said Kraglin, taking big slow breaths as he encouraged Peter to do the same. “You go anywhere that don’t got any air or it ain’t got the right air? You press that button, like I did. That’s gonna save yer life.” Peter sniffled inside the mask, his whole body trembling. “You good, Pete?”

Peter nodded.

“Ya want me to show you how you take it off?”

He nodded again.

There was another button that appeared on the outside of the helmet once it was activated. It was larger and harder to depress, making it easy to find but safe in a fight. Wasn’t gonna just disappear on accident if someone clubbed him. Kraglin took Peter’s hand and ran his finger over it, showing him where to press. The mask disintegrated much in the same fashion that it appeared. The air was much cooler in the Eclector and Peter took giant, grateful breaths before he collapsed against Kraglin, sobbing angrily into his chest.

“Okay,” said Kraglin, and patted his back. “None too pleasant.” When Peter started picking at the device to get it off his head, Kraglin held his hand again. “Keep it there, Pete. Like I said, it’ll save yer life.”

Instead of saying how much he didn’t want to go anywhere he would need it, or how he didn’t want to have to go through with the vault job and how he wasn’t sure he was ready for it, how he was scared, he cried until he felt wrung out. Kraglin, for what it was worth, let him.

After a while, Peter calmed down. He slipped out of Kraglin’s arms, standing awkwardly near the wall as he wiped his face with the back of his hands. Kraglin peaked down at his uniform, which weren’t worse for wear. If anything, Peter’s face was now streaked with dirt except for the lines down the sides of his cheeks. Kraglin dusted his hands and stood.

“Come on, then,” said Kraglin with an eye roll. “Let’s go get you cleaned up ‘fore anyone sees ya.”

He put his hands in his pockets and started off towards the washroom. Didn’t even mind that Peter had hooked his hand into the crease of his elbow and was holding on like he was being escorted.

“So,” said Peter, and sniffed again. “This thing.” He gestured vaguely at the device still there under his ear. “It’s special then, huh?”

“Yep,” Kraglin answered.

“You went and got me something special?”

“I just said, didn’t I?”

“You think I’m special?” asked Peter and there was that old impish grin again.

“I think yer a special case of ‘pain in the ass,’ sure,” said Kraglin.

“Tsk.” Peter wrapped his arm around Kraglin’s skinny waist. “You think I’m special.”

“No I don’t,” Kraglin shot back, trying to wriggle out of Peter’s hug.

“You do.”

“I do not!”

“You do!”

“No!” He broke away from Peter with a shove, not unkindly of course, before he stomped ahead. Peter was right on his heels, taunting back up at him, “You do, you do, guys, Kraglin thinks I’m special!”

“I’ll toss you out the airlock, Pete,” said Kraglin with a scowl, but he let the kid stay close by and walked with him all the way to the washroom, even when he had plenty of other tasks to see to before they were set to head off on the job. Weren’t nothing but his own sort’ve pre-steal ritual, seeing after the man who would get them into the vault. Well, not man. Boy. Brat, actually. But the brat would be able to breathe, so that set up his chances for survival to a higher percentage, and Kraglin felt better about it.

#gotg fanfic #kraglin obfonteri #peter quill #Ravagers #crew is family

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winterhawkkisses · 8 years ago

Text

25. Quick Fix

Bucky pads down the corridor in the tower, barefoot and hair dripping into his eyes. He’s carrying a bundle of clothing that he’s hoping he can sneak into the nearest laundry pile on his way out of the tower – he’s exhausted after missions enough that he sleeps here maybe once a week, so it’ll be good to have some fresh clothes around. He’s even kinda claimed one of the guest suites, one of the empty ones on Barton’s floor, since the guy never seems to be around much to use them.

Speaking of, Bucky dumps his clothes in with Barton’s, and finds the man himself in the communal kitchen area. He’s sitting on the counter with his feet resting on a stool, happily munching on some kinda brightly colored cereal and listening to Tony rant about Reed Richards. Every time Bucky catches Clint somewhere in the Tower he seems to be eating, and he’ll admit he’s got his concerns – do SHIELD even actually pay the guy?

“Hey Robocop,” Tony eventually winds down his rant enough to say. “Have you moved in without me noticing? I thought you were bunking with the Capsicle in Brooklyn.”

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, deciding to follow Clint’s example and grab something from Tony’s overstocked kitchen. He grabs a packet of Poptarts out of the cupboard, ignoring the parchment attached to the box that glows faintly gold. Pray you are worthy, mortal, it says, before you lay hands on this snack food of Thor’s. Bucky sure as hell ain’t anything like worthy, but he figures if it comes to it he can always blame Steve.

He tosses the poptarts in the toaster and grabs a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, taking a swig right from the bottle. Tony makes a disgusted noise; Clint holds his hand up for a high five.

“Steve’s shower’s busted,” Bucky eventually answers, wiping his sleeve across his mouth and putting the milk back in the refrigerator door. “I figured you wouldn’t mind me using one of the dozen you got, Stark.”

Tony snorts, probably at the possibility that he could ever have so few showers, and Clint cocks his head, suddenly interested. Bucky’s not often the subject of his laser focus, and he notices irrelevantly that the guy’s eyes are seriously freaking blue.

“What kind of busted?” Clint asks, a half-full spoon of brightly colored loops dribbling unregarded back into his bowl. “Are we talking flow rate, heat, leaking…?”

“Why are you asking?” Bucky asks, confused.

“Hey, I’m great at showers,” Clint says, and Tony busts out laughing right off.

“Sure, Barton,” he says, his tone full of amusement, “you’re a regular plumbing miracle. I’m pretty sure you’d knock yourself out in a shower before managing to fix anything.”

Clint ducks his head, smiling lopsided at the floor, and lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck, an uncomfortable two-step that Bucky’s kinda surprised to notice he’s recognised, that it’s somehow familiar to him.

“Tell Rogers I’ll take a look at it when I’ve got a second,” Tony continues, dismissive, and Bucky kinda glares at him a little before getting distracted by the toaster popping up. He grabs his snack, balancing the hot pastries on the palm of his metal hand, and heads over to where he left his sneakers.

“Hey,” he says to Clint on his way past, “you coming?”

Clint kinda blinks at him for a second, looking dopey as hell with his big blue eyes.

“Coming?”

“Shower,” Bucky says, pointed, and the grin Clint shoots him is the kind of unexpected gut-punch beautiful that actually almost knocks Bucky back.

“Right,” Clint says, and hops off the counter, leaving his cereal bowl on the counter like a heathen. “I’m great at showers.”

“You know, I heard that.” Bucky offers a grin of his own, and Clint hunches his shoulders a little, shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and grins at the floor.

The elevator ride is a strange kind of comfortable. They lean in separate corners and don’t bother making conversation, but Bucky’d usually be more on edge at this point. He figures his hind-brain has got used enough to Clint watching his back now that it’s willing to trust him even without a bow in his hand. And it’s not like Bucky wouldn’t; he’s seen the guy fight.

It takes them a little while to get a cab, and when they do there’s a puddle on one of the seats. The driver insists it’s only water, and it’s hot enough outside that Bucky’s not willing to wait for another, but it gets him Clint close up against his side, a long line of heat against him, and Bucky has to concentrate to stop his foot from tapping and giving him away. He opens the cab window instead and turns his face into the wash of hot traffic-scented air like it’s a cool fresh breeze. The cars are all backed up and their progress is painfully slow; Clint sings along low and crooning with something on the radio, and it’s another layer of awareness that Bucky seriously doesn’t need. It’s starting to feel a lot like he’s been missing something here, something that tugs at his belly and the inside of his chest.

They eventually pull up in front of the apartment building and Bucky hauls himself out of the back seat like his ass is on fire, pulling out his wallet and tipping the cab driver enough to make his 1940s heart quail a little in his chest. Clint clambers out a little more slowly, stretching himself out when he hits the sidewalk and leaning back against the baking brick of Bucky’s building. He tips his head back and basks in the afternoon sunlight, eyelashes resting against lightly freckled cheeks, and it takes Bucky a second before he remembers to fumble out his keys.

Inside, the lobby is cool and dim. Clint’s bright purple Converse squeak a little on the tiles. Of all the fuckin’ things, this is what catches in Bucky’s gut; he feels, all of a sudden, like he’s bringing someone home after a date, and it’s queer as hell how that works for him. He’s got years and people and places entirely gone, and yet he can remember this sick nervous feeling like he’s twenty years old again and trying to sneak Barb Morrison past the old lady downstairs. He rolls his eyes at himself and leads Clint up the stairs, two flights up and through their battered door, hollering for Steve as he dumps his keys on the phone table.

Steve ducks his head through the window to the fire escape, grinning as he sees Clint behind Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hey, Clint,” he says, and swings his legs over the sill. They leave the window open most of the year, ‘cos air-conditioning’s a luxury and what’ve they got to steal? Plus the sound of traffic outside, of horns blaring and distinctly Brooklyn swearing, it anchors Bucky on bad nights.

“Hey, Cap,” Clint says, “I hear you’re having problems with your shower.”

Steve frowns, looking kind of confused. “I – wasn’t aware you were a handyman,” he says, and the doubt in his voice puts the glare back on Bucky’s face, partly for the second person doubting Clint’s abilities, and partly for the crooked grin on Clint’s face that says he doesn’t blame them.

“I’m kind of a landlord,” Clint says, awkward, “had to find my way around a wrench.” He looks at Bucky and his grin kinda firms up a little. “You got some tools I can use?”

So it turns out that Bucky didn’t exactly think this through. See, he’s a guy with one arm, and even with the metal prosthesis there are accommodations that have to be made. He’s got a leather tool belt that Clint is seriously delighted by, that he slings around his hips straight off, and the weight of it tugs his sweatpants down a little. Not much, but enough that his shirt doesn’t quite meet his pants, enough that there’s a slight glimpse of a line of golden hair that has Bucky’s tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He’s honestly confused how he hasn’t noticed this before. Objectively, sure, he’s noticed Barton’s attractive; he’d challenge anyone not to notice his damn arms. But this more specific focus, this attention that’s caught and he’s finding tough to drag away, that’s something that’s new – and something that Steve has noticed, if his smirk is any indication. Bucky shoots him a glare that has him choking on a laugh, and Clint smiles along even if he looks a little lost.

“Bathroom?” he says, after a second, and Bucky nods, his shoulders tight, and leads him through to the hallway off the lounge. He grabs his bedroom door and hauls it shut on his way past, and Clint kinda flinches at the slam.

The bathroom has frosted glass panels set into the door, letting some light through into the hallway; the window is huge and has a slatted blind across it after Steve realised how much the lady in the next building had been staring. Everything’s black and white and scrubbed to a high shine, but there’s a pool of rusty water sitting under the shower head, and the gentle tap of dripping water breaks the silence.

“Did I piss you off?” Clint asks, uncertain, and Bucky looks at him, startled.

“Doing what?”

“That’s what I’m asking,” Clint says. “You seem kinda tense.”

“And you assume that’s you?”

“Pretty much always,” he answers, with a rueful grin. He toes off his sneakers and sets them down outside the bathroom door, and the hole in his left sock is doing ridiculous things to Bucky’s heart and seriously, this is becoming a worse idea by the second.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, shortly, and Clint gives him a dubious look before climbing into the bathtub, bicep stretching out the tight sleeve of his shirt as he reaches up to feel around the base of the shower head. “And I’m – getting coffee,” Bucky adds, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

“Sure,” he hears behind him. “Fine.”

Steve is out on the fire escape again, sketchbook resting on his hitched up knees, but he swings himself inside at the sound of Bucky gently beating his head against the refrigerator. He puts his hand in the way and cups Bucky’s forehead when he just lets his head rest there, whimpering faintly under his breath as Steve’s thumb brushes at his hairline.

“Aaw, Buck,” Steve says, and the gentle amusement in his voice is honestly a little hard to take.

“Did you know I have a thing for Barton?” he asks, pathetically.

“Yup.”

“Ever think about maybe telling me?”

“You’ve been staring at him whenever he’s not looking for a solid month now. I kinda figured you knew.”

Bucky sighs and rolls his head back and forth against the palm of Steve’s hand, denial and confusion in one.

“Apparently,” he says, “I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Well that one,” Steve answers drily, “I knew.”

“Punk,” Bucky says, and pushes himself upright, leaning over to flick a switch on their coffee-maker. Steve’s got his earnest face on, opens his mouth to say something sappy and stupid, and Bucky holds up his finger.

“Tony,” he says, warning, and Steve flushes pink and closes his mouth again.

“You’re right,” he says after a second. “Good talk.” And he ducks out onto the fire escape again, burying his blush in his sketchbook that is filled with studies of skilled hands and dark hair.

Bucky pours two coffees and is just about to head into the bathroom with them when Clint appears in the doorway, his shirt now bearing a large wet patch and clinging to his skin.

“Just needed a new rubber -“ he says, but trails off as Bucky puts the mugs down hard, pushes a hand through his hair.

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

“What?” Clint asks, backing up a couple steps as Bucky advances on him, his eyes intent on the gleaming droplet of water that’s making its slow way down Clint’s neck. Clint stops when he hits the wall, eyes confused but unafraid, and Bucky gently reaches up to trace the line the water has taken with his fingertip, feeling Clint swallow hard against his skin.

“I swear to god you’re gonna be the death of me, Barton,” he says, low and soft.

“Hey, who’s touching who here?” Clint fires back, his mouth curling up and his blue eyes dark.

“I’m all for making it mutual,” Bucky says, “just say the-“

Clint cuts him off with his mouth, pressing forward against him like Bucky’s not the only one that’s been looking, that’s been wanting. One hand rests on Bucky’s hip and the other slides into the hair at the nape of his neck, taking a firm handful and making Bucky groan low in his throat as Clint smiles against his lips.

#winterhawk #winterhawk kisses #longer than usual #domestic fluff #hawkguy #Clint has self esteem issues #Bucky fails at feelings #Should I put this one on AO3?

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absumink · 5 years ago

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April: the sky looks like it was injected by a needle-point sewing machine, my eyes look like a paint-by-number dream. nobody told me life eventually got stale, i thought the people who warned me of dullness were all crybaby misfits who were prudes towards colour. maybe i should've payed more attention in science class when they spoke about how the illusion of getting cold is really the absence of heat. my father started making buttermilk hot-cakes every Sunday, he said the weather is just right. it's really because he buys too much cream.

May: heat has crept up on me. the stale breath of the orchids down the street started seeping down the drainage pipes and up evaporated concrete. i didn't have time for lunch because I'd rather be filled till i'm full on decadence and watch plagiarized clouds till my pupils dilate. i turn fifteen and watch my skits start to wrinkle, i'm just paranoid; but maybe my life really is collapsing. my mouse pad was peeling so i ripped it right off. it's sad that i have a tendency to pick at the imperfect, that may be why i have so many scabs. summer is relaxing alone while bluebirds are basking in riverbanks, the wind feels like ghost-silk on the nape of my shivered neck. this is what it's like to be afraid of home.

June: savoury solitudes are spread across my bedsheets. i've been trying to find sweet ones for too long because i'm tired of sleeping on spiced spruce and sourdough that rots of dead roots. the shipwrecks of ice-caps have found their way to the bottom of the pond. i used to run above seaweed when i was six till i got sick of the feeling of fingers on my feet. i wear socks now so my toes don't get so pale. the ocean's sea spray stings my throat but only for cleansing because it knows im hooked on the alcohol that i've let control me. sometimes i wake up in the dead of night, watching it screech up my floorboards in red and yellow and blue. the band-aid on my left ring-finger-knuckle is gnarled and frayed from how many times i scrub it with salted soap. i've wasted eight now.

July: my brother buys a shirt that has the pattern as one of my own, similar at least kids at school scream profanities, it's for a girl. he doesn't care. i remember when he'd crack as deep as a sidewalk crevasse when someone else disagreed. i daydream about what it's like to live a life that free. my body has never looked normal to me, i've always hated how my thighs remind me of jelly fish in southern oceans and my smile as wry as bruised bone structures at age ninety-nine. gulf streams soak up too much of my black pants so I'd rather not put them on at all. but i have to, i'm insecure. speaking of, the pockets on the side of my jeans cup my hands like my mother used to. her skin was softer than this denim. but then again she washed the dishes four times a day. i'm now used to the dampness behind my knee-caps and screams under the slits of my tongue.

August: a birthday party under the saturated sun leaves me singed on the back with a ringing in my cars. my brother is growing up and it's not long until he's dead. it's like everything ?ye ever loved is evacuating from flames. i don't see them but i'm engulfed anyway, i smell nothing but God. there's grapefruit slices in the sky and my window broke its nose trying to breathe so loud i woke up. i remember when sunrises looked more cool toned and took no back to alpine mountains, now it looks like the devil under my bed has thrown up blood and burn stains. pain accumulates on my palms, when he looks at me i'm blue, no i'm red. at least, i feel like it.

September: i see him again and statistics are proof i am no longer shallow. something tickles my throat when we kiss so after i go home, i gargle with cough syrup. my teeth are putrid of grape flavouring and dye number 16185. the dog across the street finally shuts up and whimpers when the sky bleeds. it's not that i'm afraid. i mean. i am but it doesn't matter. my new desk at school smells like rotting moons and werewolves that scream at new ones, maybe they haven't yet marked their territory. tomorrow i'll find carved hearts and ill-fated fantasies. my father said i shouldn't get so caught up in love; i am too young.

October: banshees lay their heads on my shoulders and their tongues shackle to my wrist. i feel as if i can't move without waking up the guard dogs and making them shriek. everyone i ask tells me to keep going, they must not know what it's like to balance demons against your hips and listen to the secrets they say underwater. i wish my collarbones would be striking enough to strangle me like the briar brushes strangle rabbits at the edge of my neighbours yard. fences twist metal words from safe to scared from new to old and old to young. they have stories engraved in their bones. i see him at school and i puke out nervous water weeds, the ones that have sprouted inside me. he says i'm becoming broader and that i should stay small, he can pick me up that way. he sounds like a city man 3 thousand in his pocket and his name scrawled on half the town. i loved a small town boy who smelled like the cherry tree its front of my bedroom blinds, not whoever he is now.

November: i'm homeschooled and i don't see him anymore. he swore he'd come around but his excuses echo how little effort he's flossed between his gums. i guess i shouldn't be complaining but the air i'm surrounded with now tastes technicolor ebony, a muted damsel in distress, a silenced plead. snow attempts to bite at my cheeks, i bite back, except it won't budge and i do. i'd trade the clothes i'm in and the food in my stomach to go back to when things were easy. all the mistakes i made no far have been moulding between my pillow cases. i didn't mind the stench before but now that i spend my life indoors i'm starting to cough a lot more. my father won't make breakfast so I'm stuck with bread and curdled milk.

December: i don't wash my clothes. i've been wearing this sweater for a month and a half and i've only showered twice. every time i step into cold air i look at myself and wonder how anyone could love her. people look for happy girls with shrivelled hips and baby blue eyes. i am the opposite. my front door lock has rusted shut because of how no one will open it anymore. our house is a spirit home made of aged mumbles and clenched fists, the old ache of love has bludgeoned me. i forgot to colour my hair black, he said that was his favourite shade and at the time my hair was a charcoal brown. i promised i'd fix myself and he promised he'd stay so i believe that makes both of us liars. how cliché.

January: people say a new year is a fresh start but the sixty seconds between yesterday and today has done nothing but make me nauseous. i'm done hurdling over high trees trying to reach heaven. i think i'm here already. he hasn't called in 3 months and today i don't care. because people say a new year is a fresh start and maybe their fresh start can be shared. i've stopped missing sun rays because i have hope they'll come back tomorrow. if not i'll still have hope then. i refrain from cracking my knuckles. he did too. it makes me sick to my stomach, which has already been bruised. i'm not fixed but i'm getting there. every afternoon i've began blowing the snowflakes off our tree swing so i can swoon below the sky. i'm waiting for blue to move to gold and gold to wave goodbye.

Februaq: Hallmark's profit went up this month but it was no longer because of me. 'he' is just a pronoun and love is something i'm no longer familiar wills. am i complaining'? no, not any more than i am about my body. which, by the way, isn't as bad as it seems. i still feel like i'm an antiseptic to an open cut but i hope it'll pass like everything else has. a program on television told me i needed weight loss pills and wrinkle cream? i think i look fine. skin folds come with aging and maybe i'll still look beautiful its pounds over one hundred-twenty-five.

Mairh: team broke through my stained glass walls and strained my eyes to purple. everything's in a blue hue and i'm afraid i've gotten bad again. i've worked so hard to climb this peak, this prominent place of ease. i am scared that what i'm looking for at the top of the next one. the veins in my arms haven't yet grown back. they look more like agitated vines on corroded brick walls. rain has visited me again and unfortunately it's making me miss how comfortable i felt knowing i was slowly dying. alas, i'm no longer worried of the dark that looms after six. i go walk for five miles in hopes someone will strike me with their front license plate instead of passing me with their back one.

April: well, this is it. relapse is okay, recovery is better. i'm not afraid to love. yes i am vulnerable but i'm not strung together with cuttable cord. my limbs are stationed with metal pipes and i'm not as fragile as i was before. nobody told me life eventually got harder, i thought the people who warned me of the lack of light were pessimistic outlanders who were afraid of their own shadow. maybe i should've payed more attention to the world when it told me i'd eventually come home. the sky now looks like cotton candy and my eyes breathe burgundy butterflies. i've travelled further than i started, i understand that's the whole point. i find beauty in the most mysterious things, this ground beneath me has bellowed in praise. i've accepted things may become difficult, but i'm no longer afraid of the change.

— ; g.k.

#fav

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