Work Text:
With practiced ease, Elliott steps and glides through the swarm of people. He's not worried he'll trip or he's going the wrong way. He knows this place like the back of his hand; empty or full, bright or dark. Moving with the flow is the best way to get through, he's found. Just let others' movements guide the way.
It's sort of his life motto. It's helped him in nearly every situation. Sometimes when he's on the field, he only really knows where to move based on where everyone else is. Enemies going north? Go east. Maybe northeast. They're probably moving to the ring, and getting ahead or around is a good option. Other champions applying for ranked competitions? Take a go at it too. They're bettering themselves, facing more challenges, winning more extravagantly. More than one person buying a specific flavor of drink? Get that one. It's probably the best seller.
Tonight, he lets that motto guide him through the often complex web of socialization. He's looking to chat. He's looking to drink. He's looking to maybe, quite possibly take someone home. Maybe even be taken home. Who knows? He'll just go with the flow. Maybe he'll just make a new friend tonight. With his luck tonight though, he might not even be getting that.
The crowd so far has been less interested in meeting new people and more interested in sticking with the ones they know. Elliott's not one to push or prod, so if he steps a little too close, says something a little too obvious, makes a look a little too up and down; when someone turns away, he bids his adieu without fuss. Well, maybe a tiny bit of silent, deep set fuss. He's past trying to charm, smirk, and seduce someone into getting a little intimate with him. Now, he kind of just wants to talk to someone. And he knows exactly where to do that.
When he makes it past the pulsing wave of human bodies, Elliott is able to finally slide himself into a cushy barstool with a relieved sigh. He hasn't sat down in a while.
"What can I get for you- ou- oh it's you," a voice greets him, charming and mechanical at first, then flat and disappointing all at once.
Elliott gives his biggest, hurtest pout, and plays a little. "I'd like to see your manager actually?" The man's face falls into a very unamused frown. "Yeah, that was kinda rude actually and I'm really just here for a good time. Like, I just wanna talk and I'm feeling so attacked right now--?"
A loud, heavy sigh, interrupts him. "What do you want, Witt." He states with a roll of his eyes. "Or should I say, Mr. Manager?"
Finally satisfied, Elliott slips into a grin. He winks, "That's Mr. Boss Man to you, Jeffery boy."
The man rolls his eyes again with a groan but there's a smile tugging at his lips, like he can't keep the charade up any longer. "What do you want, man?" he gives in, chuckling a bit.
Elliott laughs with him, "Ah, the usual, I think, Jeff. Not the most successful night I've had."
"Speak for yourself," Jeff shakes his head, going about making Elliott's drink. "Been a helluva couple of nights lately."
Elliott scrunches his nose and looks around. The bar is full of people tonight. It makes the building hot and stuffy. There are people in the middle of the room on the coincidental dance floor, trying their best to dance to the fast pace music that can barely be heard. It's not that kind of place. His bar is a little more laid back, a little more sway to the beat with your close friends or even closer acquaintances. It's not late enough yet to see everyone sort of settle into that groove, but it's almost there.
"Hot as hell in here," Elliott mutters.
"It's cold as balls outside though," Jeff says in a matter of fact way.
Elliott leans a bit closer into the bar when someone brushes his back a bit to pass. There's really no way to avoid it, not with everyone still clustered in the middle of the building or near the drinks. The unwanted heat of someone else on his back has him sweating, and not in a good way. "Where the fuck's the keys? I'm gonna open the windows a bit. See if I can air the place out or get people to move to the walls."
Jeff only nods to the side as he sets Elliott's drink down. Elliott takes a quick sip before getting up, letting the ice cold drink melt on his fingers and tingle down his throat. With a sigh of temporary relief from the heat, he leaves, trusting his drink at the table to be in good hands.
He shoves his way through the crowd this time, the stuffy heat making him overwhelmed. No one recognizes him as Champion Mirage or Elliott Witt on his short trip around the perimeter. It's all the same to him because he was ultimately ignored before too. He just focuses on shoving a few windows open and letting the air in. Something seems to work because when Elliott slips back into the barstool, he feels a lot better. Save for a patron two seats beside him, the crowd has already eased off from this side of the room as they opt to mingle around the doorways.
Elliott sheds his jacket to help cool off, tossing the heavy thing over the bar as a place for safe keeping. Jeff doesn't do anything but let it flop to the floor. He shakes his head and returns Elliott's drink from under the bar for him before turning away. Leaning back with a cold glass in his hand, and the fresh air flowing over him, Elliott can't seem to care where the jacket lands. He's wearing one of his best t-shirts, which happens to be a well fitting, silky white tee that hugs his body in all the right places. It's thin, making it easy for the wind to hit his skin, and it's soft, making other people want to touch him more. That's just a bonus. All in all, he's feeling comfortable.
Jeff has gone back to work, making some drink for the other patron a seat away, and can't entertain him any longer. He takes a casual glance at them to the side, then tries not to make it a double take because woah. She's pretty. The first thing Elliott notices is her hair. Stunning white, like it's dyed and cared for diligently. The roots blend into dark brown hair almost seamlessly and her elaborate braids bring out the contrast. Along the top of her head, is one wide, french braid, tied off shortly near the back. The tail of the braid falls down her back in gentle white waves. Just above the ear, likely on both sides, a much smaller, thinner french braid trails alongside her head, disappearing underneath the waterfall of the top's tail. Her dark roots can be seen between the mix of braided and unbraided bright, snowy hair, accenting it beautifully.
He ends up taking another glance at her. It's possible she still hasn't noticed him. He tries not to be too obvious either way. The second thing Elliott notices is her skin. Dark, yet so light. It's a similar tone to his own skin but much more like a smooth chocolate that might have a bite of spice, a tad of cinnamon. The shade is so breathtaking against her ice white hair, Elliott is almost jealous. A lack of sleeves expose her arms, displaying a variety of black and white tattoos and marks. Symbols and scars he can't quite make out line her arms, in a way that tells him they hold heavy meanings.
The third thing Elliott notices is her face. A hard expression sits on soft features. She's looking so pointedly away, Elliott almost believes she doesn't want to acknowledge him. That's what's so intriguing, he realizes. Her seemingly effortless expression of what might be boredom or simple indifference. Her eyes are cast down to the side as she leans against the bar, watching the mass of people as if there's nothing better to do.
Elliott has found himself taking more than a few glances, especially since she hasn't turned his way. He ends up watching her just a few moments longer, trying his absolute best not to be creepy. He really wants to see her more clearly. Eventually, she gets her drink, pays, and Elliott turns away, fully expecting her to leave. Interestingly, she doesn't.
Not many people stay to sit at the bar. The back support of the stools are basically nonexistent, the table is probably only a foot from the bartender, and most of the more comfortable chairs are on the other side of the room. If anything, one could only really lean against the table while standing to make the most of it. Elliott is saving up to get a better bar, he just hasn't had the time to go out looking.
Though the woman beside him hasn't left, she definitely isn't paying attention to him. It looks like she's trying to find a break in the crowd to leave, he figures. She doesn't make any sort of indication that she might see him, so he doesn't try to act seductive or flirtatious toward her to rope her into a conversation. Instead, he goes with the flow and hopes it'll spark some idea of entertainment. And right now, the flow has him leaning back, with his drink at his lips, watching one of the few dim televisions in the bar.
Some highlights are playing of the latest game. Being as he was there, he doesn't really care. The screen flashes Wattson for a good few minutes. Everyone still thinks she's new to the game. In a sense, she is; she's never really gone out there and tried to win, but she's lived on King's Canyon for almost her whole life. Wattson knows the arena like the back of her hand, and not many people know that, so they're always surprised a newbie like her can come up with such effective traps. Wattson won this last game, along with Caustic and Pathfinder, a team that seems to compliment each other perfectly, so she'll be on the front page of every piece of media for another few months.
Quickly bored without Jeff to talk to, Elliott notices the woman next to him still hasn't turned his way. That's okay, but he's a little unnerved by someone blatantly ignoring him. Does he look bad? Smell bad? No, he's dressed for the occasion down to a T, including a tad of cologne. He looks sexy. It's not hard to put a finger on how he'll try to move a conversation. If anything, she's probably picked up on that is trying to avoid it.
Either way, Elliott doesn't have any interest in making any real sort of move on someone at the moment, no matter how pretty they look. He clears his throat a bit loudly, and gestures at the screen above. "You watch the Games often?" he tries to ask, hoping she'll notice he's speaking to her.
Fortunately, she does. She turns to him curiously, then confused. Her deep brown eyes narrow, flicking to the television then Elliott like she didn't expect anyone to speak, and it's obvious she's forgotten what he's said. She's genuinely confused.
Elliott shifts in his seat, "Apex, you know? Do you watch it?"
She raises a perfect eyebrow - brown, despite her hair - and shrugs undecidedly as she leans back. It's clear she understands this is a conversation now. She doesn't turn away or shake her head, so Elliott believes it's a go-ahead to continue.
"Yeah, I don't really either,'" Elliott admits, following her lead and watching the screen. "It's way too long. The highlights I watch sometimes though. Other than that, not really."
It takes a moment, but he realizes she's looking at him. He turns to see a face of unamusement. More of an 'I'm not buying that' sort of look as she points to the screen. Elliott himself is up there now, running around shooting things.
He scratches his neck and shrugs a bit, "Well, okay, yeah, I'm in them, but it's not like I watch it, you know? When it's live, I, like, physically can't, right? Then the reruns are so long, I just don't bother." She only watches him blankly. He's not sure why he's trying to explain himself. Maybe because she isn't talking and he just wants to have a conversation. Yep, that's why.
The woman finally purses her plump lips and gives a swift nod before looking back up at the screen. Something about it has Elliott itching with deja vu. The intent dip of her head as a reply, the flashes of light against her hard features, the turning of attention to something other than Elliott as if she would rather stay silent in his presence than directly speak to him. He leans in, curious.
"Hey, uh, do I know you?" Elliott asks now, leaning in with a squint like one might to an old friend they haven't seen since high school. She snaps her head to him. If he really paid attention, he might see a flash of fear, but he mostly just sees surprise.
That's another thing he recognizes, the silence. She doesn't reply with words, but rather her expressions and actions. It doesn't really throw him off in regards to having a conversation with someone. He's met mute people and people who just don't want anything to do with him; she just seems to be somewhere in between. Not wanting to speak to him but not trying to get away very quickly. He recognizes it. He recognizes her.
"I think- I think I do," he says slowly. She raises an eyebrow again, her surprise melting into a kind of indifference, as if she couldn't care less. It makes him uneasy. "Have we, like-" He makes a few random gestures with a red face.
She stares at him, not even glancing at his hands, then shakes her head no. It should fill him with relief that he's not forgetting someone he's slept with - that would be embarrassing. Instead, it just confuses him more. Her hair had swayed so elegantly across her shoulders when she shook her head no and nodded yes, and it brings him another feeling of familiarity.
"I know you though," he concludes, more for himself than her. "Did we meet at another bar? Like, maybe for just a drink or a chat? Like, you might not've said anything, but still."
Her expression turns almost annoyed. He should probably stop talking. But she doesn't move away. She leans into the table and fixes to face him sternly, expectantly. Almost daring him to remember. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.
"Just- tell me if you remember too," he tries uselessly. "Like, we definitely met before, right?" She stares at him. "At a bar…?"
Finally, she huffs and rolls her eyes, her lips still pursed as she turns back to the television with another short nod. Relief floods him there. She doesn't seem to want anything to do with remembering their previous meeting, but he's just glad he isn't crazy.
"Cool, alright, yeah I know you," he sighs, smiling a bit. She doesn't look at him. In fact, she turns away.
That's his sign. He shouldn't try to push any more. He isn't the type to force someone into a conversation. Not unless he really likes them, he regretfully reminds himself. And with the way her stunning white hair flows with the turn, her tattooed arm comes up to put a drink to her full lips, and he gets a glimpse of more chocolate spiced skin beneath what might be a cropped top, Elliott thinks she's dead on his type. He feels himself panic a bit when he notices her search the crowd behind them, possibly for a break in the masses to slip through. He wants to talk to her, but more importantly, he wants to keep from making this encounter a bad one for her.
"If uh- If it makes you feel any better, I don't remember it," Elliott admits, a little hurriedly She only spares him a glance. "I don't remember which bar or what you were wearing, or… what I said. I mean, I get the feeling I might've said something wrong, you know? I was probably drunk and you- you probably knew that so uh-" She's not looking at him, but she's scowling at the crowd. He scratches his head and sighs, opting to blurt out everything the second before she goes. "Yeah, I'm sorry. It's not often I meet someone like you, I think. You're uh- very pretty. And I like your tattoos."
The crowd breaks, and she's on the edge of her seat, positioned to leave. She doesn't. Instead, her head tilts and she looks at the ground, as if debating whether
or not he's worth her time. Hesitantly, she pulls her hair to one side and curls the snow white ends around her fingers in a habitual way.
He takes this moment to look at her outfit. Her top is a simple grey, contrasting her dark skin and complimenting her bright hair. It's sleeveless, using strings to lace around her neck instead. The back is unexposed and laces circle around her waist snuggly. It fits her body well, not too tight nor too loose. Her pants, however, are deep red and tight. They're ripped stylishly at the thighs to show more of that gentle brown skin he loves. Though her clothes accent her body, he notices she's built more toned than curved. She definitely has the body of an athlete. Toned arms, hard stomach, thick legs. Her chest is rather flat, another trait he notices often in more muscular women. Considering he's also really into men, he wouldn't mind if she didn't have breasts at all. She's so wonderfully breathtaking, Elliott finds himself gazing at her with his cheek against his hand, leaning on the bar. She hasn't left in these few moments he's admired her, so he soaks in her beauty as long as possible.
"I didn't really think much of tattoos before," he says pointlessly. She turns to him, confused, still probably wondering if he's worth her time. His eyes flicker away with a blush for just a second before he goes on, "Someone told me they can have a lot of meaning. I forgot who it was. Makoa, probably." He waves somewhere behind him to the television. "Gibraltar. He's got some. He said tattoos can have a deep meaning to their owner. Age doesn't change that. Like, even if you're young, they can be a kind of… coming of age, I think." Elliott sighs and takes a drink. "I don't know, though. I don't have any. Your's are just different. They seem cool. Important. Yeah."
Still positioned away from the bar, the woman releases her hair to run a hand over her arm carefully. He thinks, for a moment, that maybe he's made her insecure. Anxiety curls in his stomach that he's probably done it again. He's sure that when he met her last time he was drunk and enamored by her beauty, then rambled and rambled until she got uncomfortable and left. Much to Elliott's surprise, she turns her stool to face the bar again, her bright blue drink held with both hands now being set to the table.
Elliott smiles at her as a heavy weight is lifted off his shoulders. Her head is turned down but she's smiling to herself slightly. Just a curve to her lips when she nods. He thinks it's consent for the conversation to go on, as well as a thanks for complimenting her tattoos. Somehow, he caught her attention that way, so he supposes she might agree that her tattoos carry meaning. Maybe she wants to share.
Taking another sip of his drink to cool down, Elliott leans an arm on the bar and faces her pointedly to let her know she has his full attention. "Which is your favorite?" he asks curiously, genuinely wondering what she enjoys.
The women purses her lips and tilts her head slightly, thinking. Then she points to the mark on her shoulder. He leans closer to get a good look. The mark is less of a tattoo and more of a scar. The skin is white and raised to create the design. This one is of four lines crossing each other at the middle, where the outline of a small circle lies. Each line has a different design along the stem and a sort of forked point at its end. The circular design seems to have been made meticulously, especially if it looks to have been burned into the skin.
Elliott leans back with a whistle, "Wow. That's awesome. What's it mean?" She cocks her head to the side and looks away, a hand coming up to cover the mark. He sort of panics again. "Uh, you don't have to tell me! I should've known by now you don't really talk. That's- that's cool with me. I can talk enough for the both of us, really. Just, uh, it has meaning though, right? That's why you got it?"
She nods at him, a little quirk to her lips that isn't a smile, but some kind of acknowledgement. He grins either way, happy he hasn't scared her away. "Nice. Did you get it burned on?" Some more nodding. "Did it hurt?" At this, she smiles, rolling her eyes at him in what looks like a silent snort. He laughs, "Yeah, I guess that'd hurt."
Elliott leans closer again to look at the markings. He notices how she's turned herself toward him a little more, maybe so he can see more clearly. Down the outside of both arms is a trail of six symbols. Each is an odd arrangement of a few lines at different angles. Like a scroll displays a doctrine, the way these symbols are displayed make him think each has its own special meaning.
On the outer forearms are thick and thin white lines, some with the skin slightly raised, others with the skin pulled tight. It's clear these are unintentional scars. The larger, deeper ones are pale, almost pink. Elliott doesn't think it's a stretch to say they were the result of an animal attack. There are also smaller, thinner scars going in the same, perpendicular direction to her arms. These raise the skin in jagged white lines and look to be made less by scratches and more by some type of puncturing. Flowing between each tattooed symbol and through the scratchwork of scars, are tendrils of black waves. They start at the base of the wrists and twist and turn all the way up to the collarbone, reminding him of a shadow trying to wrap its inky tendrils around in a gentle embrace. They drift both above and below the scars to show a sort of timeline, the more animalistic scars coming before the inking, while most of the thinner ones came after.
"Wow…" Elliott breathes, rather obvious and unashamed in his staring. It's clear there's a life story written on her skin, one only the owner knows the language of. In a way, he's sort of jealous. She presents herself so openly, yet so secretly at the same time with nothing but confidence.
"Is that the only one burned on?" he asks instead of his burning questions of what they all might mean. She shakes her head gently, then taps a finger to her chest, right on her heart. Elliott's eyes widen and she smirks a bit. He blinks. "Um. Ouch." The woman nods with a proud, close-lipped smile in agreement before taking another drink of the electric blue liquid gently. "Do you have any more? Or are they just on your arms and chest?" he wonders aloud.
She purses her lips, raising an eyebrow at him for a moment at his enthusiasm. Elliott smiles sheepishly and scratches his neck, a little embarrassed for asking so much. "Sorry, I just don't have any. I think- um- it's cool to see other people who have them for their meaning." Softly, she nods in understanding.
"I uh, I think I recognize the lines. The smaller ones." She blinks at him curiously. "Yeah I think I remember them from the last time I saw you." Then he laughs at himself, "I must've been plastered if I hardly remember anything else!"
The woman only shrugs. He thinks she agrees, he was plastered. She doesn't mind him now, and that's what he really cares about. At long last, he's found someone to talk to. After a minute of rather comfortable silence, he turns to her again. "You got any pets?" he asks curiously.
Only her eyes glance to him but she nods with a little smile all the same. Elliott grins, finding the information interesting. "Lemme guess," he offers. "You have a dog. A big dog! You look like a really big dog type person. Like a mastiff or something."
She snorts silently, smirking and rolling her eyes. It's a no, and Elliott is surprised. He usually thinks the pet looks like their owner. She's tall, built, probably really strong, and has the face of someone who could definitely take on anything head on.
"That's crazy," he laughs. "So you got a small one?" She nods now, amused. "Like a small dog?" A shake of her head. "A small pet." A nod. He leans back with a whistle. "Wow… How many?" She lifts just one finger in response and he hums in understanding. "Yeah, too many pets can be crazy. They're like kids, I think. I think! I don't have any. Kids, I mean. But I can imagine. They're crazy, but you love 'em. Pets, I mean. And kids. Are you one of those pet parents that spoil their pets?"
When Elliott asks this, he vaguely notices how he rambled. Any sort of sign that he did is only in her expression. The raised eyebrows and subtle smirk from behind her glass shows she noticed it and probably finds it entertaining. She looks off to the side when he asks the question, facing away with a sort of dreamy look as if she's thinking about the pet. She nods slowly in reply.
Elliott doesn't say anything back. He's getting caught up in the thoughtful way she seems to daydream. Her head tilts up to the ceiling as she relaxes back into the chair in a sort of lazy way, becoming immersed in the thought of something she loves. He thinks he might be making the same expression.
After a few silent moments, Elliott finally speaks up again. With a gentle smile, he asks, "Hey, could I buy you a drink?"
She turns to him quickly, confusion rewritting all over her features. A blue glass is in her hand. He blanches, "Oh. Yeah. Well- um, I'm sure you know, but I uh, I own the bar." Blankly, she waits for him to say something else. "I mean, I can buy your drink. I'll pay for it." She stares at him, then shakes her head slowly. He frowns. "Did you already pay for it? How much? I'll get another. Here--"
Feverently, the woman shakes her head and tries to stop him from taking out his wallet by waving her hands no. He scoffs, ignoring it, "Bold of you to assume I won't pay for a woman's drin--" He stops. She's leaned over the seat between them to push his hands away. Elliott's mouth flops open uselessly when she covers his hands with her own, tentatively urging it back to him. She's frowning and shaking her head with big pleading eyes, genuinely not wanting him to pay. With such a pretty face so close to his, Elliott has no choice but to obey. He clears his throat and stuffs the cash and wallet into his pocket. "Ok," he squeaks in surprise.
She purses her lips again and nods slowly before backing away. A hand runs through her hair again, pulling it to one side so she can fiddle with the ends. She hasn't turned away yet so Elliott is able to see her fully as she does this. Rich brown eyes drift down, plump lips tilt into a nervous frown, and clear cinnamon skin glows under the flashing lights. At her shoulder, a waterfall of braided and unbraided cloud white hair hangs down. Elliott forgets he hasn't said anything for a while until she turns herself back toward the bar.
"You really don't care who I am, do you?" he asks suddenly. Her eyebrows furrow, confused. "Like, you know I'm Mirage, right? And you know I own the bar. But… you don't care." Confused, she looks around as if trying to find something that will make him more important. Then she turns back to him with the same unimpressed expression. Slowly, she shakes her head. Elliott chuckles to himself and looks down. "Yeah I didn't think so. That's pretty nice, I guess. Not a lot of people are like that. I wanna introduce myself to you then, okay? Here:"
He extends a hand across the stool between them and gives a genuine, naturally charming grin, "I'm Elliott. Elliott Witt. Yes, that's three double letters. Nice to meet you properly for the first time. Sorry about being dumb and drunk the first first time."
Interestingly, she smiles. It's a soft sort of smile, her lips closed and tilting up at the edges. Her eyes and cheeks smile too. With a swift nod, she grabs his hand in a firm handshake. She's stronger than most women, and it only confirms his suspicions of her being an athlete. When she shakes his hand, it's a greeting and an acceptance of an apology. They've met properly now and she's forgiven him of whatever he may have done in the past. A sort of relief and confidence fills Elliott all of a sudden. He takes his hand back with his grin still in place before nodding to the side.
"You wanna dance?" he asks hopefully. In just a few seconds, the woman's smile melts into a look of surprise and something a lot like fear. She glances out at the pulsing body of people for just a moment, then at him. With intently pursed lips, she narrows her eyes and frowns, shaking her head at him before turning back to sip at her drink.
Elliott doesn't let it deter him too much. He looks at the crowd and sighs loudly, then shakes his head in distaste, "Not a dancer, huh?" He raises an eyebrow at her, which she only glances at. "Looks like most of these people aren't either, to be honest. Heh. How about we change the music? Jeff!"
Raising his voice to be heard over the commotion and a hand to be seen over the heads of others, Elliott flags down his trusty employee. The woman watches him in mild interest behind her small, half full glass. Jeff comes over quickly at his boss's call.
"Yeah, man?" he questions, eyes darting between Elliott and the woman cautiously.
"Could you change the music to Playlist Number E?" Elliott asks with a smile, knowing full well he'll do whatever he asks.
Jeff's face falls in judgement. "Playlist Number E?"
"Yeah. That's what it's called. I didn't name it, dude."
"Sure you didn't," he huffs. Then he walks away, mumbling, "I'll do it."
Elliott flashes the woman another smile while she raises an eyebrow at him. Something like amusement crosses her features as they wait for the music to change. It doesn't take long for the playlist to come on, and when it does, the entire room's atmosphere seems to change. Slow, heavy beats drift through the speakers overhead. The sultry voice of someone singing passionately to a loved one sets the mood to one more intimate. The whole building feels the change.
The woman watches as half the people on the dance floor retreat to wallside booths or tables with friends. The loud laughter and constant commotion dims down to a murmur of hushed chuckling and quiet chatting. Slowly, Elliott sees the woman's face change as well. Mild anticipation turns to surprise, wonder, and disbelief, like she can't believe the atmosphere could change so much with a simple change of perspective. He hopes that's what she feels. He hopes she knows he did it for her, so they could dance for a song or two. She seems frozen, looking out at the settled sea of people without a word.
Satisfied with the effects, Elliott removes himself from the stool and swiftly stands in front of the woman. He clears his throat, bows slightly, and offers his hand with his best smile. "Care to dance?" he tries again.
She blinks at him, eyes wide and lips slightly popped open. Her eyes flicker to his open hand, his kind eyes, the scattered dancefloor, then finally to her hands in her lap. Elliott watches her shift uncomfortably in the stool. He wonders, suddenly, if he's pushing it. She said she didn't want to dance at first. Will this really change anything? Attentively, Elliott watches her grip the glass in her hand and cock her head to the side in what looks a lot like nervousness. Then she huffs to herself and scowls at the ground. He thinks she might be having a sort of disagreement with herself rather than with him, so he waits patiently for her eyes to meet his in an answer.
It takes a few more long seconds of silence where she avoids eye contact, runs a hand through her hair, and looks off to the side desperately as if that will give her an answer, before she finally turns to Elliott. He greets her with another smile, this one a little smaller, a little more gentle, reserved, hopeful. She doesn't smile back, but she narrows her eyes and keeps his attention as she sips her drink slowly, intently. With a soft sigh, she sets it down, tilts her head at him, then slips off the stool and takes his hand; all while keeping her gaze steady on his.
Elliott couldn't be more overjoyed. The woman lets him guide her to the dance floor, where just a few groups of people remain. He uses the hold on her hand to place her close in front of him, just about a foot apart. Through her lashes, she sends him a hesitant look where her head is tilted down and her mouth almost in a pout.
He's a bit surprised at the reaction. At the bar, she had seemed so confident. She was more calm and collected, and that's what drew him to her. When she stood up, he was pleasantly surprised to see they were about the same height as well, but it's all the more obvious how she looks off to the side instead of catching his eyes again.
Elliott tilts his head a bit, watching her with a frown. "Hey, if you don't wanna dance, we don't have to," he tells her quietly.
This spurs her into shaking her head, which shifts a few strands of bright hair from her dark eyes, then she looks up at him with a more neutral expression. He can't see anything that tells him 'I don't want to' nor 'I would like to', so he tests the waters by holding her gaze and placing his free hand on her hip. She smirks, her lip twitching up and her eyes seeming to darken. Elliott grins at this and takes the opportunity to release his other hand and set it on her other side. She responds by winding both arms around his shoulders and cocking her head to the side in something like a challenge. He's not sure what it means but he knows he likes it.
Soon, they're leaning together much closer. His hands are tight on the exposed skin beneath her top and he's resting his head against the side of hers, his breath hitting her neck in a way that would've drove him hot and crazy in a second as a recipient. She seems to be doing fine, however, though he can't see her face. This close, he can see the same, thin scars scratch at her exposed shoulders, adding a glint of white to her chocolate skin. One of her arms fall lazily along his back as her other curls around to rest a heavy hand on his neck. As Elliott glides his hands up her sides, she softly trails her fingers up his neck, scratching at the shorter hair there before dragging her nails down his skin. It brings shivers to his spine each time, causing him to tighten his grip a bit.
They stand like that a few moments longer, swaying to the beat of the music in their embrace. It's not much of a dance but Elliott isn't one to complain. He's content with getting comfortable so close to her seeing as she seemed hesitant to be here in the first place. Then he feels her arms tighten around his shoulders experimentally, pulling him close so their chests are nearly touching while she continues to scratch at his hair. He encourages it with a shudder and dares to touch more of her waist, widening his palms to drag them up her sides, and down her warm stomach, feeling the hardness of her abdomen beneath his fingers. It makes him want to touch more, to see what other parts of her are toned and would be able to take a little bit of prodding.
Pressing his fingertips into her stomach gently, he feels the resilience of her muscles, the goose bumps on her skin, the gasp by his ear. She sighs pleasantly and tilts her head down a bit. Their similar heights make it so her lowered face is level with his. Elliott carefully turns toward her, his eyes watching her full lips barely open as his hands continue to touch and wander her waist and hips. He takes a chance and leans in, making sure watch her eyes for any kind of sign.
He doesn't need to catch her eyes because she seems to feel him leaning in for a kiss, and she pulls away herself. Elliott doesn't mind much, he knows some people don't like to be that close. Fortunately, she doesn't let him down hard. She simply turns her head to the side and presses at his shoulders to have him step back.
Expecting to see a look of sadness or reluctance, Elliott is pleased to note an expression of tranquil peace. Her eyes are heavy lidded and dark. It seems his actions had much more of an effect than she was letting on. The thought makes him smirk as he takes in more of her appearance. Her slightly parted plump lips and subtle sheen to her skin. The room has gotten a bit hotter in the past few moments. Whether it's because more people have stepped up to embrace someone of their own or because he's so close to such an attractive person, Elliott doesn't know.
He brings a hand close to trail up her neck, then tangle in her white hair. Her eyes drift close when he scratches at her scalp before pulling her closer by his hold on her tight waistband. Unintentionally, he knocks their hips together for a heartbeat. Neither seem to mind so Elliott tips her head back and breathes hot on her neck as if going to place his kiss there instead. He doesn't touch, just in case she doesn't want that either. There's no real answer, but her fingers curl against his neck and back in a sort of silent pleasure at the act anyway. Just as Elliott sees and feels her shudder in his arms, she pulls her hands back around his front, pushing him away again. This time, she does so seemingly only to trail her hands across his chest and down his stomach slowly.
She feels him through his shirt a few moments longer, then brings a hand up to the underside of his chin. Sternly, she taps him there thrice with her head leveled across, eyeing him pointedly with a raised eyebrow even through heavy lids. Elliott is sure this is a sort of warning about the attempt of a kiss. He shows his understanding with a sheepish grin and downcast eyes. Flicking his eyes back up to her, Elliott tilts his head to touch their foreheads together. Though she may not be on board with any sort of kissing, he presses their bodies together hopefully to make it clear he'd like to be more intimate.
She rolls her eyes and finally presses him to step back. All at once, he's confused, and it flashes on his face too. She doesn't pull away completely though, making sure to level with him in a knowing gaze and give a short squeeze to his shoulder to show she isn't going anywhere. Relief fills Elliott with only a dash of disappointment. He hadn't started talking to her with the intent of getting so close. It wasn't until they were touching each other heavily that he wanted to try for something more. He understands, nevertheless, and is just glad she continues to hold him and move to the beat with him.
"Did it hurt?" he asks in a husky sort of quiet tone, breaking the silence after what seemed like hours. Deep brown eyes look up at him expectantly from a rather pleased expression. "When you fell from the vending machine? 'Cuz you're looking like a snack."
For the first time that night- no, for the first time since he's ever seen her, she smiles. Genuinely, fully smiles. It sort of creeps up over a couple seconds. Her eyes smile first, slowly as she realizes how ridiculous what he just said is. Then she scoffs nearly soundlessly and rolls her eyes with a shake of her head. The smile of disbelief and amusement so clear and careless in the silent laugh at his words. Elliott gets to see her lips part in a grin, displaying white teeth and a surprise of a glint of gold.
He freezes. Four teeth, he counts, are shining gold. Each canine sharpened in a way to make something a lot like fangs. Elliott has a hard time processing this information. It's sexy as hell, first of all, but he's never seen someone with such a modification. Never knew anyone who might have something similar. Except--
"Bloodhound," he breathes.
In an instant, a hand is pressed to his lips harshly. Elliott's breath catches as the smile on the person before him is wiped from existence. Their eyes turn fearful and dart around to anyone near as if the name he spoke was poison to anyone who heard it. No seems to have heard anything. No one really cares about what's going on around them either way. It's just Elliott and them, pressed so closely together in the remains of an intimate embrace.
Once they realize nothing truly went wrong, the fear melts from their features and is replaced with relief and exhaustion. They close their eyes and tip their head forward until their forehead rests against the hand covering his mouth. Elliott doesn't dare to move. He doesn't say anything either. He's not sure what he'd say because he's having a difficult time processing that this female presenting person he's been talking to is not only widely known Apex Champion Bloodhound, but also Elliott's coworker and close friend.
When Bloodhound tilts their head back, they do so with closed eyes and another sigh of relief. They remove their hand from Elliott's mouth, then also from his shoulder. It takes a second before Elliott realizes they're pulling away completely. They don't walk away, not yet, Elliott thinks, but they take a step back and let him have his space.
The first thing Elliott really does is watch them. Watch their eyes drift down, their hair fall across their shoulder, their lips purse, their feet shuffle. It's a stark contrast to the person he was with just seconds before. There's no strong gaze in those big brown eyes, no nervous hand twirling in the white strands of hair, no confident posture that brings them up to level with Elliott's height. All he sees now is a rather bashful person looking like a teenager caught out past their curfew.
The next thing he does is reach a hesitant hand out, to comfort the person they've gotten to know. His movement causes Bloodhound to tense and jerk away before he can even touch them. They're frightened, then confused, narrowing their eyes at him suspiciously with a frown.
Elliott's hand closes uselessly around the air between them. His mouth opens and closes without anything coming out for a while. "You- um," he manages to start. They stare at him. "You're really- really pretty." Bloodhound's mouth pops open, and they squint at him slightly. "Or- handsome. Whatever you p-prefer. Just really- uh- pretty. God, you're so hot, Hound, damn."
Their lips fall into a scowl all of a sudden and they press a hand against his mouth again. Checking the surrounding people once more, they huff sharply before turning those shining brown eyes at Elliott in a deadly glare.
"Do not say that so freely," they warn. Their voice is possibly just an octave higher without a mask muffling their words, but the accent is still there, thick and unique. Oddly enough, their deep voice doesn't contradict their feminine qualities. They sound strong. They sound foreign. The clear, natural rumble attached to such an attractive body makes Elliott's knees go weak in a way he never thought would happen for Bloodhound. Thankfully, they don't seem to notice this. "I cannot afford someone recognizing me, and I will see to it that you cannot either. Understand?"
Elliott nods quickly with a muffled humming of agreement. They make sure to stare him down for a few more seconds before ripping their hand away. They seem to sneer, stepping back and shifting their eyes to the side as stray white strands of hair drift down to cover their face. Despite this, Elliott sees the slump of their shoulders and hears what sounds a lot like disappointment in their sigh.
"What, um, what should I call you?" Elliott dares to ask, a little hopeful they'll stick around for him to talk more with them.
That doesn't seem to be part of their plan because Bloodhound gives him a curious look. Like they didn't expect him to ask such a meaningless question. "Simple. You should not."
Elliott sputters, "What? But what about--"
He's jostled to the side by a nearby couple. The two were dancing close behind him. As the music's tempo changes to one a tad more fast paced, the bodies on the dancefloor move with it. All of a sudden, Elliott is annoyingly aware of where they are. They're no longer in an intimate bubble of their own, swaying and touching as they please. They're in the middle of a hot bar with a dozen other hot bodies pressed against each other, trying to have a good time.
The annoyance must be clear on his face as Elliott tries to regain the footing he had earlier. All the while, Bloodhound regards him in that same stare of indifference they had back at the bar table. He quickly gives them a glance of desperation in hopes of finishing his sentence but the couple beside them give him and Bloodhound an ugly look for just standing around. Bloodhound sighs mutely and turns around, already weaving through the bodies to get away. From Elliott or from peering eyes, he's unsure.
Either way, Elliott is taken by surprise. His eyes widen as he watches them go. A sort of panic comes over him, different from the one he felt when he thought he might scare them away. This time, he's not afraid that he's made someone uncomfortable, he's afraid that he might be missing an opportunity of a lifetime. He wants them to come back.
Elliott does his best to trail after them. In the minutes he and Bloodhound were together, he hadn't noticed anything other than them. Especially, the amount of bodies that surrounded them. They're about the same height as him, but that doesn't matter when everyone else is as well. Elliott focuses his attention on getting out of the crowd. Eventually, he's back at the bar, but on the opposite side.
At the other side of the table, half a dozen people ahead, he spots Bloodhound's bright white, braided hair. They're heading for the front door. Elliott picks up his pace, weaving in and out of couples to try to keep Bloodhound in his reach. There's no way he can tap their shoulder or grab their arm, so he tries to call out.
"W-wait, hey! Don't- don't go, please! Uh- hey!" Shoving through groups of people, Elliott could really be calling out to anyone. "Can we just- talk? Please? Hound, wait--!"
For better or worse, they do stop. They stumble in their steps before glancing to the sides quickly. They don't look back, but they certainly stand still long enough for Elliott to catch up. When he does, Bloodhound fixes him with a stern, clearly upset, scowl. He immediately snaps his mouth closed. He messed up again. Usually, Elliott uses terms like 'dude' or 'man' instead of someone's name, but that's unclear when he's trying to catch the attention of someone who is not 'dude' or 'man' presenting. Even 'fam', as he's taken to calling Bloodhound, is not preferred at the moment when it's clear Bloodhound does not want to be close.
"Elliott," they sneer, scowl ever present and threatening with their low, dangerous voice. "I have warned you not to say that."
"I - I know, I'm--," he tries to explain.
"Nor any sort of variation of it."
"I'm sorry, really, I am. I won't do it again. Just can--"
"No," Bloodhound stops him. They take half a step closer to make sure he sees their anger. "Nothing else. I'm leaving, Elliott."
With a tone of finality, they turn back once more, leaving Elliott with a flash of cloud white, wind swept hair. Elliott rushes to stop them. "No. No no no, please. Hey, don't go, not yet. Please."
He manages to secure two fingers hooked around their belt loops to keep them from going past arms reach. It makes them jolt in surprise but they don't do anything more than try to twist his hands off. Elliott feels a dash of guilt and quickly transfers his hold to their hips. The same hips and waist he touched so passionately not five minutes earlier. Bloodhound huffs and brushes him off again, so he steps forward to wrap an arm around the exposed waist instead and urge them to the side. Elliott has them in a loose hold that involves nothing more than his hand looped around to press them in the direction he nods his head.
"Please," he says, looking at them with something a lot like desperation and a little like hope. "Can we just talk? For two minutes."
Bloodhound's anger never waivers. They put a heavy hand over his where it's laid on their side. "No," they state. "I do not trust you to keep your running mouth to yourself." They look off to the side and add, "You've shown me that in various ways."
"Th-that's what I wanna talk about," Elliott pleads, his face turning bright red. They huff uninterestedly when he nods to the side again. "Let's talk. Please? In the bathroom. No one will be there." Bloodhound finally takes a second to stare at him. "Promise."
With a loud, heavy sigh, they frown and say, "Fine."
Elliott takes no time in celebrating his small victory, and instead gives a short nod before leading the way. He does his best to drift between others quickly so they can get to the bathrooms before Bloodhound changes their mind or someone else gets in there first. He hesitates in the dark hallway for just a second, trying to choose between the men's and women's room while Bloodhound watches him impatiently. He chooses the men's bathroom. Bloodhound probably doesn't mind either one but Elliott definitely prefers the men's.
It's only once they're inside that he releases Bloodhound - though they could've stepped out of his arm at any time. Elliott leaves them in the middle of the brightly lit room as he hurriedly checks each stall for occupants, the two with the glory hole first. He's paid someone to fix it but they have yet to actually do so. When he determines the room clear, Elliott uses his master key to provide a quick Out of Order sign for the outside of the door.
He turns around just in time to see Bloodhound looking around the room boredly, yawning almost unnoticeably. He catches a glimpse of the gold teeth that he hadn't had much time to think about when he first saw them. Now, Elliott watches in a sort of wonder at the glimmer, even as their plump lips fall closed. The only thing that threatens to take him out of his 'that's hot' mindset is the realization that Bloodhound is now staring straight back at him.
The light of the bathroom is really quite incredible. He's probably only saying that because as he meets Bloodhound's eyes, Elliott is suddenly aware of how much more detail he's able to see. The bathroom walls and floor are white, along with the lights. He makes sure this place is the cleanest mainly because of the awful, dirty things that might happen in it. Bloodhound seems to be everything but awful in this moment. Their chocolate spiced skin contrasts beautifully against the white of the room and their hair. Stray white strands fall beside their face while others circle around their shoulders and head, creating a sort of glowing halo.
Bloodhound stands evenly on both legs, arms crossed to stare him down in a casual but powerful stance Elliott recognizes easily. This time, however, they're not wearing a mass of gear and heavy clothes. They're wearing those deep red, skin tight jeans that hug their muscular legs so perfectly. A grey cropped top fits snug about their torso and leaves unblemished skin from their hips to above their belly button open for the world to see. There's no deep curve to their waist and hips like he sees in women's bodies, but there's toned muscle that he's definitely yearning to touch. Their arms are dark even in the bright lights as a result of the heavy tattooed tendrils and deep scarring.
As Elliott dumbly takes in their features, he notices Bloodhound has not moved. They keep an unwavering glare at him with those dark eyes in a clearly judgemental expression. Elliott thinks this is the same expression they do every time they catch someone staring. Worst of all, they don't say a word, as if daring him to continue looking.
Elliott meets their eyes after those long few seconds with a red face. He might as well try to explain himself, so he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and says, "You're like- really good looking. Like, it's not even fair. Just. Damn."
It looks like Bloodhound almost scowls again. Instead, they take a deep sigh and narrow their eyes, then give a clipped, "Thank you."
Sensing their hostility and impatience, Elliott casts his eyes down while he scratches his neck. "Okay then, uh," he starts mindlessly. "I'm sorry for staring, I guess. I--"
"You guess?" they raise an eyebrow.
Elliott winces. "No, I know. I'm sorry for looking at you- your… body. I know it's not something you do often. I'm just really useless when it comes to people who, uh… look so nice…" He makes a general hand gesture toward their whole body. Bloodhound tilts their head, shoulders going a little more lax. His face starts to go red around the ears and a blush can surely be seen through his beard. "Yeah, sorry for trying to uh, kiss you… Those times. I didn't know you were, you know, the Bloodhoun--"
"Elliott!" they interrupt quickly. He snaps his head up only to see their posture go rigid again, their face reverted back to anger. "Do not say that."
His head whips around, expecting to find some random person or camera lurking about but finding nothing. "Why? We're alone!"
"I do not care," they state. Bloodhound approaches him, slowly, threateningly, with a growl to their voice. Elliott can't seem to look away from their narrowed brown eyes as they step closer and closer until they're just a breath apart. "Regardless of where we are, as long as I am unmasked, I am at risk of being found out. If you do not keep your mouth shut, I will have to make you."
Caught off guard, Elliott stumbles to take a step back. He didn't expect them to switch gears so suddenly but it has him getting upset himself. "First of all! Why the fuck are you so mad?" he exclaims. "That night, you said you weren't gonna be upset. Something about god's will and whatnot, but here you are, barking up a storm--"
"No," they snap. Bloodhound is almost snarling and it has Elliott's legs going weak again, for multiple reasons. "I said I will not be upset if you see me. There are now two souls on this planet who are alive to see me both like this, and as who you name. You have decided to make yourself one of them by your own actions." Their voice takes a subtle turn to something softer for just a few moments. "You managed to catch my attention and break me down well enough to find out who I am. It happened. I cannot change it. I respect that. For better or worse, you have a responsibility now. Just stay quiet."
Elliott takes a minute to do just that. He's messed up, probably more than he knows, but through the scolding, Bloodhound tells him that it's only because he said their name. It's alarming being on the wrong end of Bloodhound's anger, even more so when its outside of the ring. Inside, he pushes all their buttons and usually ends up dead. Outside, that possibility is much more terrifying. No one knows their motives, their age, their background, their past. They could be a very real threat despite being his friend. He takes a shameful minute to think about what they say. They're not upset that he's recognized them, only stressed that he keeps risking others knowing.
After staring at the ground for a while, Elliott frowns and turns back to where Bloodhound watches him carefully, possibly to see if he'll put their identity at risk again. "Okay," he says at last, giving them a sharp, embarrassed glance. "Okay, alright? I get it. Don't say your name or you'll fucking kill me or something. Got it." Elliott huffs and steps away. "You don't have to say all that like it was a bad thing though. Makes me sound like a mani‐ manpul- tive- just, a huge jackass."
Bloodhound squints at him, confused. "Yes. Calling me by a name the public knows me by is what I consider to be a… jackass move."
"No! Well, yeah, but not that! Damn…" Elliott shakes his head and tries to explain. "I mean you didn't have to say I 'broke you down' and shit. That I tried to figure you out or something. I'm not- I'm not like that, you know." They watch him curiously, all the anger drifting from their features to show a more relaxed person in general. Elliott purses his lips a second. "I just- I just did what I did. I went with it. I didn't fucking- push you. Stop telling everyone that."
Bloodhound takes half a step back and all at once, their big eyes turn somber. "Oh…" they say gently. Elliott watches them suspiciously. "I do not mean to do that. I have told no one about your advances to me, Elliott. Not other than that night. I only meant to describe how you…" they turn a bit red, "made me more comfortable."
Elliott sees the the way they try to explain themself, the way they apologize for saying something they didn't mean. He feels guilty for not apologizing as clearly for saying their name so many times and putting them in more danger than Elliott's ego would be. He sighs and catches their eyes in a mix of embarrassment and pleading. "And I just meant to call for you and keep you around… I'm sorry. You're sorry. We're good. Right…?"
At this, they smile a bit. Just a quirk to the edges of their lips as acceptance and understanding. He finally sees the comfortable, relaxed person he met at the bar. With that signature, short nod that shifts bright hair into dark eyes, Bloodhound says, "Yes."
Bloodhound turns to leave only a second after. They're across the room before Elliott notices he's stuck in the same spot. So before they can reach the door, he startles and blurts, "Wait!" Bloodhound pauses and turns back to him curiously, a lot like they did that late night after the house party. Elliott blinks dumbly for a moment before putting on a slightly nervous smile. "What- what about earlier?"
They squint at him, confused. "What?"
"You know..." he says, taking a few slow steps toward them with a red face and hopeful eyes. He scratches his neck as he glances at them. "We had a- a moment. Earlier. Out there."
Bloodhound's mouth pops open in realization and Elliott can't help but stare at those full lips as they delicately form words. "Perhaps," they say. He sees how they tilt their head to the side and watch him carefully. "Essentially, nothing happened."
Elliott's mind blanks and he snaps his eyes back up to theirs. "What."
"We danced, Elliott," they tell him slowly. "That is all. It was before you knew who I was, so I know none of your feelings nor actions were directed toward me. Our relationship was my responsibility then. I did not let you kiss me. I did not let you take me anywhere nor do anything."
His confusion fades during their explanation and is replaced with amusement. He raises an incredulous eyebrow and opts to hold their gaze in a challenge, "Anything like what?" he scoffs.
"Anything you will regret," Bloodhound states simply. Their eyes fall from his for a second as they sigh. "I would not let you kiss me when you don't know who you are kissing. You did not know what you are doing. I saved you any trouble."
Elliott smirks, finally understanding them in full. As careful as they were to be mindful of Elliott's boundaries, Bloodhound was still forward in their own actions. He takes a couple strides to close the distance between them and narrows his eyes toward theirs as he says, "Oh, I understand. I didn't know. Maybe I don't want to kiss you, right?" he asks sarcastically.
Bloodhound catches the change of tone and watches him silently in suspicion. They aren't one to back down if someone approaches them in any way. Threatening nor… seductive. Elliott counts on them to keep their ground and stand still. Their head remains level with his as he steps right up to them with a smirk on his lips, just inches away. Bloodhound tilts their head up and holds his heavy gaze.
The look actually sparks something in his belly. Elliott chuckles and puts on a fake pout. Each statement he makes drips with sarcasm to show its absurdity. "Not you. Not my teammate. My partner." He steps closer with a smirk, "The Legend," he stresses, just near their ear with a deep voice. "Right?"
Bloodhound takes a moment to answer. As they do, Elliott leans back and grins in satisfaction at watching their eyes narrow at him and their mouth open to say, "Yes." Their tone is even, but Elliott sees the way their lips never quite close and feels the way the word comes out a lot like a breath.
"But you knew who I was," Elliott says at last. His eyes spark when he sees Bloodhound's eyebrow raise in mild surprise. They're curious, but they surely understand where he's heading. He lets them remain silent as he lowers his voice with a smirk. "You knew who I was and you still wanted to dance, right?"
There are no words but Bloodhound pointedly looks away at the call-out. They purse their lips and turn to look at some abstract thing on the side while Elliott takes the opportunity to lean toward their presented neck slowly until his lips are just a hair away. Each word he speaks he makes sure breathes hot on their chocolate skin.
"Poor little me, huh?" he hums from beside their jaw. "Dancing with someone so fine and never getting to kiss." He brings up his hands to gently, carefully place on their still hips. "Never getting to hear them speak."
Bloodhound's head ticks to the side when they feel him trail his fingertips up their hips and back to their exposed waist. They huff in his ear in what sounds a lot more like impatience and annoyance rather than any sort of anger. He smirks and goes to whisper in their ear, lowly, seductively, "Only able to get close..."
They're calm under his hands as Elliott spread his palms up their sides slowly, feeling their cotton shirt and goose bumped skin as he pleases. Quietly, he mumbles, "Only able to touch…"
Elliott trails a hand around their waist and suddenly pulls them close. Close enough for their hips to knock together. Close enough for Bloodhound to finally, slowly, wrap their arms around his shoulders. Close enough for them to gasp in his ear and melt into his hold all over again.
"How mean you were," Elliott continues enticingly. His hands wander more and more, trailing over their skin and dipping under their shirt as he murmurs hotly in their ear. "Letting me touch and touch…" he scratches sharply at their skin and they shiver, tightening their hold. He grins, "and touch… But never letting me kiss…"
Their head has fallen down a bit and all at once the two of them are back at square one. Elliott is just at level with Bloodhound and tries to watch their expression for any sort of sign as he waits a heartbeat. The room has suddenly gotten hot. His hands seem to burn on their skin and the air Bloodhound puffs out is warm on his collar. It's beginning to drive him crazy. He takes a chance and leans in, hoping desperately that something has changed this time.
Like before, however, Bloodhound feels him moving and pulls away. They open their eyes and push Elliott back a bit, just enough so they can fix him with a look of unamusement. "We should not do that, Elliott. You know this," they tell him flatly.
Elliott pouts dramatically. He pulls them closer by his hold on their waist, which makes Bloodhound huff and roll their eyes. "That's mean," he says, then goes back to hide his face in their neck. "We've already gone this far. Octavio and Ajay went further, remember?"
"That was likely before they were both contestants in the Games," they say. "They are not us. We are not them." Bloodhound sighs like the conversation is over, but Elliott feels their hands hover just above his shoulders, wanting to touch yet trying to leave.
He takes the second of hesitation to shuffle closer until their feet are nearly side by side and Elliott can trail his mouth up their neck. He breathes hot over the skin, barely touching skin to skin so he can feel the tingle over his lips. Despite what they say, Bloodhound tilts their head to the side to he can have more access. Elliott hums deeply next to their ear and watches their skin prickle before smoothing out again. "What are we then…?" he asks distractedly.
"We are Legends," Bloodhound wastes no time to respond. They finally grasp his shirt, but only to guide him away from their ear. Elliott is pulled back to see half lidded eyes dark with something a little wanting and a lot warning. He watches their tongue dart out to wet their lips for a second before keeping their mouth slightly open. It has him itching to see what they'd look like if he bruised those lips with kisses and made sure they had to take a minute to catch their breath.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on what Elliott's nether region ends up liking more, Bloodhound notices his staring and quickly purses their dark lips. A hand comes between them to sternly tilt Elliott's chin up, making it clear they want his eyes on theirs. He blushes with a sheepish grin when he sees those heavy knowing eyes gaze into his.
"We have rules to follow, Elliott," Bloodhound tells him. Their tone is low, breathy, and thick with that harsh accent. They're being completely serious, but Elliott is definitely having an affect on them. "We cannot afford to have scandals. I cannot afford to have scandals. I cannot have someone know me so clearly." Their head falls to look at the ground as their thumb strokes his beard mindlessly. "If something comes out…" Bloodhound's tone turns quiet and they sigh heavily in defeat, removing their hand from his chin. They tangle their fingers in his hair instead while Elliott remains still, catching their sad brown eyes in guilt. "I would leave… I would leave the planet."
"That- that doesn't have to happen, you know," Elliott urges. Bloodhound only purses their lips and plays with the curl of his hair on their fingers. "We can be careful." They raise an eyebrow. "I - I can be careful… Even if this is just once and nothing else ever happens, I can be careful, I - I promise. Really. I can keep promises."
Elliott holds their skeptical gaze as he dips his head to brush his lips on their jawline slowly. He doesn't know why he does it. Maybe to show them that he can be gentle. That he can care for them. Maybe to show them that he can be worthy of spending this evening with them. The way Bloodhound's head tilts up reminds him of the way they would often watch him steadily during Games, looking down at him through expressionless glass lenses. Now, he can see hesitance in their features and curiosity in their eyes. When they watch each other for a long, silent moment, Elliott believes he's being given some sort of consent, some sort of acceptance to his promise. He blinks his gaze away to focus on their skin. He barely touches his lips to the surface in case they don't want a kiss, but the way they keep still tells him they're okay with whatever he's doing now.
Elliott tightens his hold on their waist. He tries to pull them closer but there's not much room left. Neither seem to mind when their hips touch again because they both gasp lowly into their shared space. Bloodhound's fingers scratch at his scalp gently, sending shivers down his spine and encouraging him to let his own hands wander their body once more. After all this time, he can't seem to get enough of their toned, soft skin. The subtle hairs he can feel when he spreads his hands over their stomach, the tight hemming that presses down on his fingers when he tries to dip his hands under their shirt. Elliott makes a soft noise of distress when he can't touch enough and shows his displeasure with a playful scratch at the skin just below their shirt.
Bloodhound chuckles quietly before humming to themself. They continue to run their fingers through his curly hair and shaved sides, stopping every so often to tug at his hair carefully or scratch at the base slowly. Their other hand is wrapped around Elliott's shoulders, keeping him close. As Elliott's hands wander over their hips and down their back, his mouth gets a little more adventurous. At the same time that his palms trail over the gentle curve of their backside, he takes a risk and dares to tug on the lobe of their ear with his teeth. Bloodhound shivers beautifully, letting out a wonderful shaky sigh in response. Their feet shuffle slightly and Elliott grins when he feels the muscles ripple beneath their jeans.
He loves being this close and he loves touching this closely even more, but Elliott craves to get to the next step. It only takes a moment for him to glance up and spot a nearby wall behind Bloodhound. It takes a much longer moment for him to pull himself away and try his best to guide both of them there. He has to force himself to lean back and remove Bloodhound's fingers from his hair.
All at once, he feels uncomfortably cold without the body of someone else against him. Without the press of chests together, the tangling of fingers in clothes, the heat of skin near skin, Elliott feels terribly alone. In the few seconds Elliott takes to carefully guide the both of them, he sees the heated, wanting, trusting gaze Bloodhound gives him as they walk backward under his hand. Half lidded dark brown eyes, plump lips open in an amused smirk, the glimpses of white and gold teeth, and a halo of messy, braided snow white hair flowing over smooth brown skin, all has Elliott breathing shakily and wanting to fill the sudden cold and loneliness with no one other than Bloodhound.
When Bloodhound's back knocks against the wall and he feels the pressure of their body against his once again, Elliott releases a desperate groan he didn't know he was holding. He tilts his head onto the wall beside their ear while simultaneously hooking a hand around one of their strong thighs to bring up to his hips. The new angle has their hips shifting together deliciously. Elliott quietly and shamelessly moans in their ear at the contact and Bloodhound hums deeply as well.
Elliott hikes up their leg to be more secure around his hip and revels in the feeling of hard muscle wrapping at his side. His eyes are closed and the only relief he can get from the sudden heat to his whole body is the touch of his forehead to the tile wall. Bloodhound's warm hand is tangled in his hair again, the other grasping at his shirt like their life depends on it. Then they do the unthinkable and grind their hips right back into Elliott's, giving him steady, hot pressure that disappears just as quickly as it began. Elliott tries not to gasp this time but finds it a lot harder to keep himself from making any noise. Instead, he releases a sort of muffled whine and shivers against Bloodhound.
In Elliott's hazy mind, he registers this as a kind of consent to grinding and dry humping their hip ‐ something he desperately wants to continue. Elliott hesitates in the middle of rolling his hips again when he second guesses what Bloodhound might want or how fast he's taking them, which creates an awkward shifting of hips together that gives Elliott only a clumsy pinch of pleasure and probably nearly nothing for Bloodhound.
Despite the clumsy movement, Bloodhound chuckles lowly beside his ear. Elliott strokes his free hand down their side in a way of an embarrassed apology. It's hardly needed because as Bloodhound nudges Elliott back, he notices their red cheeks and dark eyes that tell him they feel more than content with his actions. Their eyebrows are raised once again in that unwavering amusement and interest that seems to be a natural part of them. Elliott finds the look embarrassingly sexy if he's being honest. He can't ever seem to tear his eyes away from their smirking lips as they speak.
"What would you like, Elliott?" they ask lowly, curious and attentive to the expressions he makes in response. Their steady, foreign rumble spreads chills through his body. The longer he takes to answer, the more teeth Bloodhound seems to show in their smile.
"I…" he starts, then pauses to lick his lips mindlessly. He's never been too good about hiding his pleasure. He can hide a frown, a tear, and even fright, but he can't completely clear his expressions of bliss. Elliott knows Bloodhound is watching his hazy half lidded eyes, his parted lips, and his deep breathing as carefully as a predator might watch their prey. This look they're giving him is not unlike the one they give him in the ring. Even with the mask, Elliott knows he feels a similar sort of vulnerability. This is one is a little different, however, because in this moment, Bloodhound's clear interest and anticipation sparks something a lot more heated that takes him over in a smothering wave.
"I want to kiss you," he confesses. Bloodhound's mouth parts in a surprised little 'oh' and it has Elliott feel all sorts of things. "After all these years, I never thought I would want to touch you or hold you so bad. I never thought I would want you so goddamn bad. But right now… you're so fucking hot inside and out that I don't care what happens to us tomorrow, or next week, or even in that awful fucking ring. All I care about is kissing you and kissing you and kissing you until you're breathless and asking for more."
Their expression quickly turns sinister but Elliott hardly feels the shame of speaking his mind so openly. Bloodhound continues to surprise him and doesn't back away from his words. Instead, they grin in satisfaction and tilt their head up. "You seem to forget who you are speaking with, Mirage," they remind him. "It would be wise not to say such things you will surely regret when you see me next."
Elliott shakes his head hurriedly and grabs the thigh on his hip tightly, feeling the muscles clench under his palm as he presses it closer. He shifts a bit so that their hips press together again and a bolt of pleasure travels up his spine, making his eyes almost flutter closed. "I know who you are," he assures them. Bloodhound rolls their eyes and leans their head back against the wall in a silent scoff, but Elliott carefully follows. Slowly, he closes his eyes and comes close to finally, tenderly, press his lips to their jaw in a gentle kiss. The heat on his skin lasts for only two seconds but seems to linger faintly for much, much longer. Huskily, he whispers, "May I?"
Their head drifts down, and Bloodhound levels their lips with his. Elliott takes a glance up at their eyes for a sign but sees they're shut peacefully closed. This time, when he leans in, they don't move away. Their lips touch with a wonderful, electrifying feeling Elliott hopes runs through Bloodhound's veins as well. Their lips are soft against his, pliant and pillowy for a long heartbeat that scares Elliott in the moment.
Quickly, however, Bloodhound is eager to kiss back. They press against his lips with more pressure than he began, and Elliott lets out a quiet noise of surprise. He breaks their contact for just a second so he can let out a pleased huff and a smile before diving right back in again.
Elliott kisses them with all the feelings in the world. It's a first kiss, for him and Bloodhound, and it brings a kaleidoscope of butterflies to his stomach along with a tingling numbness to his fingers. But their closeness also has an odd sense of familiarity. Elliott knows Bloodhound, and they know him. They're friends, colleagues, and sometimes rivals. He can rely on them for anything. Even as Elliott kisses them for the first time, he feels as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if what they do now has no negative effects at all. He feels comfortable being so intimate knowing he doesn't have to put up any sort of front.
There's a contradicting mix of content and eagerness in his movements though. Bloodhound kisses back with equal, almost stronger passion and it has him making noises of pleasure more often than he'd like to admit. They kiss surprisingly well, controlled and balanced, pushing and pulling. It sets a rhythm Elliott thinks he can carry on for hours.
At the end of it all, it's Bloodhound who breaks away but Elliott who's breathless and asking for more. As if this is just another pause, Elliott chases their lips again once he catches his breath. He's met with a grin that gently leans away instead of wonderful lips that mold so perfectly with his. Bloodhound smiles a lot like they had the very first time. He gets to see their beautiful white teeth and the glimmer of their sharpened gold canines more closely than he had before. It has him yearning to lean in and trace his tongue over them for as long as he's allowed.
He pouts when Bloodhound turns slightly away to avoid another kiss. "Mean," he huffs, then promptly goes to put his mouth on their neck instead.
Bloodhound chuckles and doesn't try to stop him. Instead, they tilt their head back against the wall and buries a hand in Elliott's hair, urging him closer. He hums, vibrating against their skin, and squeezes their strong thigh in response. Much to his pleasure, Bloodhound allows Elliott to kiss and suck and nibble anywhere on their neck he pleases. As he makes faint marks against their dark skin, he does his best to keep from irritating them. He knows his beard can scratch these marks uncomfortably, so Elliott gives his heavy kisses just beside their ear and works his way down slowly.
Bloodhound is quiet beneath him, but shows their emotion through actions instead. Each time Elliott makes a tiny, sharp bite at untouched skin, their whole body shivers and their short nails scratch at his back. For a moment, Elliott wishes he didn't have a shirt on so he could feel the scratches burn on his skin. Maybe they can make deep red lines along his shoulders that would stay for days, prompting knowing looks from the other legends when he takes his shirt off. Elliott moans at the thought, grabbing at their waist tightly and imagining them there. Bloodhound is often around when he and the others take off a few layers during training. They would probably stand and watch as Elliott showed their scratches with pride. Would they play along and joke about his partner? Or would they blush and turn away, saying something to the others about focusing.
Bloodhound gasps when Elliott sucks hard just beneath their jawline and runs over the wound with a wide, heavy tongue. Their hips kick up, creating a rush of pleasure bloom deep in his stomach and spread all the way up his chest and down his legs. Elliott whimpers into their neck. It takes him half a minute to gather his bearings and grab their thigh tighter, if possible, hiking it up higher and changing his angle to roll his hips lazily upward as he bites a patch of skin near their collar. All at once, Bloodhound's breath hitches and their fingers curl. Elliott feels the jolt travel through their body, their chest knocking into his and leg tensing to pull him closer.
He grabs the opportunity and keeps going. Elliott continues to grind his hips up and down against them while keeping a tiny bite of skin between his teeth. It only fuels him when Bloodhound lets out a broken moan, pitiful and delicate. When they hold him tight and try to roll back against him. It's hot. In a lot of ways. He's probably close to sweating and can feel the damp slide of his mouth when he bucks up and Bloodhound shakes. There are too many clothes, too many layers. He's getting cramped in these jeans, especially when he knows Bloodhound's skin is also just a couple layers away. He wants it all off. With a shaky, final grind of his hips, Elliott makes a noise of displeasure and presses a hard kiss to Bloodhound's lips.
Bloodhound doesn't mind when he stops to kiss them. They actually casually lick at his lip for a moment, receiving one in return when they take a short breath. Elliott isn't necessarily granted access to their mouth because Bloodhound just grins and pulls away. He watches as their body falls lax in his hold, their leg loosening, their fingers running through his hair. Their eyes fall closed and their bruised lips part to display a content, flashy smile.
"Are you satisfied, Elliott?" they ask after they've steadied their breath. They definitely don't sound as wrecked as they look. Elliott sees the deep blush in their cheeks and ears, the angry dark marks against their chocolate skin. Their shirt is crumpled messily and their white hair is everywhere, sticking to their neck, like lightning in a night storm, flowing above their head, like a halo for a sinful angel, and resting across their chest, rising and falling like a beautiful river with their breaths.
Their bright white smile is satisfied, and Elliott thinks he should be too. But there's still something about them that looks like they're just a few more meticulous prods away from falling apart. He sees it because he feels it too. He wants more. The sheen of sweat on their skin and the glimpses of gold in their smile tease Elliott's weak, enamored heart and his hot, tight pants terribly.
"No," he breathes out. Bloodhound raises an eyebrow and pops open their eyes to look at him in interest. His cheeks burn in a nervous blush as they watch him during the time he takes to find his words. Surely they can see the bruised lips and heavy eyes and know what he means. "I want- can I--? I want to take you home," he says at last. "Can I…?"
For a long, long moment, Bloodhound only stares at him. Not in judgement, or hesitance, or incredulity, or even arousal. They simply tilt their head as if observing a butterfly, watching him in content silence. Kind eyes trace Elliott's features in gentle delight as a pleased smile remains on their lips. Elliott tries not to shuffle under their gaze, knowing they're nowhere near upset with him, but only just… intrigued. Bloodhound watches him thoughtfully for a second longer before flicking their big eyes up to his hopeful ones.
"Yes," they say, relaxed and trusting. Elliott releases a heavy breath and grins, Bloodhound easily following. "Yes, I think I... want that as well."