#ellipup

Elliott and Bloodhound were an odd couple. Octavio had paid for them to have their own little house, gave them the freedom to be themselves without having to watch their backs constantly. It’s a nice place, well guarded, the only people that might see them being his Familia who live near them, and closer to Octavio.

Elliott had felt bad when the kid gave them the keys, feeling like he was using the guy, but when Octavio explained he wants his Familia happy, and being together and without prying eyes was the best way to ensure they are just that;

Happy.

But lets backtrack to how this even came to be.

Bloodhound, at first, was very secluded, still wearing all their gear. The first time the two had cuddled was on the field whilst Elliott recovered from a near drowning by a fucked up Caustic and was freezing. Bloodhound was swiftly found to be a natural heater, and Elliott had relished in the closeness, both for his survival, and his personal needs. Not the most romantic memory, but Elliott cherished it.

The first time the mask was removed was out of kindness.

Elliott was breaking down, screaming and crying, making a mess of his personal room. Bloodhound had heard, had told everyone to leave for the night and entered the room alone.

Elliott had panicked, so lost in his flashbacks that he had tried to hurt Bloodhound. Bloodhound just knocked him on his ass and sighed. They slowly reached up, removing their mask, slow and careful, having told the man that he was safe, that is was them, Bloodhound. Elliott had broken down more and spilled everything to them, not registering that he was seeing Bloodhound’s face through the blur of tears.

Bloodhound had stayed with him through the whole night, had carried him to the shower, had bathed him, dried him off and carried him to bed. They had laid with him, still dressed in everything but the mask, and craddled him to their chest. They sang the song their mother had sung, something soft and precious, a true sign of their care for the man.

When he had woke the next morning, they were there, offering him water, coffee and a good breakfast, mask still off, their dull grey eyes without sight, yet meeting his gaze without pause.

He was stunned. The scars, thin little white lines telling untold stories, one line carving a frightening line from above their left eyebrow to their chin, right over their eye, but the eye was still there, simply sightless. He had brushed a mane of red hair aside to get a better look. It was such a simple gesture, but when Bloodhound leaned into his hand, allowed his fingers to cup their face, brush his thumb over the scar, he couldn’t take it.

“Breathtaking.” the word was the barest whisper, but the blush was a victory to the trickster, followed by the blunt demand that he eat, the smallest hint of a pout, and the Enigma had turned to gather their own food.

Their first kiss was frantic, a wild mess of desperation. Again, it was on the field. Elliott had barely survived a firefight, and Bloodhound had lost their mind. The Beast of the Hunt had burst forth, torn those apart who dared lay finger on what belonged to them, and returned to Elliott.

The kiss was tinged with blood, the medkit burning through Elliott’s body, but the kiss was easing the pain, guiding his mind to focus elsewhere. The mask was there, and then it wasn’t. Surprisingly soft lips clashed with his, a hand in his hair, tugging him into the animal above him. It was frantic, desperate, little growls of a tongue Elliott didn’t know melting into the deepest claim of ownership Elliott had ever heard.

He had a fear of being an object, but how the other moved, how they reacted to every frantic touch back from the darker skinned man, told him they were his as much as he was theirs.

A mutual ownership.

The first time they had sex was still to come, but Elliott now knew that Bloodhound’s body was male, but they were non-binary. That they bore the same ungendered titles as their closest friend, the last of their clan to die before the being.

Oh yes, Elliott knew the other as well as they knew him. They knew every nook and cranny of each other, knew every dirty little secret, knew every lie, every truth, every smile given and every tear shed. They knew everything, a closeness neither of them had felt in what felt like centuries.

Their first intimate moment, Elliott had laid Bloodhound down on a bed, had made a makeshift blanket fort, had marked their neck, kissed along heated flesh littered with scars, had gotten to warm hips before Octavio had burst into the room. Thanks to Elliott’s fort, they were hidden. Elliott had told Octavio ‘whatever mistake you made, don’t move the blanket, or so help me, my Mozambeque will make a hole in your other ear’ which had caused the smallest whine to escape Bloodhound.

Octavio put two and two together and just ran out, closing and locking the door from the other side.

Elliott didn’t leave Bloodhound in the lurch, especially not after Bloodhound had rumbled their approval of his voice, had groaned out how it was such a dominant tone. Elliott would be lying if he said he wasn’t grinning through the pain of a sore jaw when the other had keened out the title ‘Alpha’ half a dozen times in the throes of passion.

After that moment, Octavio had found, paid for, renovated and given the keys to a new home over to his new familia, smiling like a goofy child and, as he walked away, casually called ‘and this way I won’t walk in on you fucking, eh?’ Before either could yell, the speedster was gone and they were alone.

They have had the house for a week, barely been there because of a match. A Sunday morning, the two had found themselves trapped. They were tangled up in plush animal furs - much to Bloodhound’s purring pleasure - and each other. It was hard to tell where one started and the other ended, bar the slight tone change in their flesh.

Long red hair flowed out behind Bloodhound, their fingers trailing over tattoos, scars and muscle lines of their lovers chest whilst Elliott caressed soft skin and gentle scars of his lovers face.

“We really should get up, ástin mín*.” the words were soft, the Icelandic - Elliott is trying to learn - having the other shiver.

“You get up first.” Elliott mumbled as a childish reply, making Bloodhound let out a soft laugh. It was still wild, hearing the other’s voice with no heavy filter of a dense mask, just the unhindered tones of that throat.

“I would if you would stop being so falleg.” Bloodhound watched the other, fingers moving up to feel the blush spread over the others skin, a small smirk on their lips at their victory.

“Did you just... Call me beautiful?” he asked and the Clans Member hummed their affirmation, making Elliot chuckle. “I think you’re feeling the mirror, love. You’re breathtaking. Absolutely t-töf,töfrandi.” he flushed darker at his stumbling, but a soft kiss from Bloodhound was the silent praise at his success.

“You are learning very well, ástin mín.” they murmured and he grinned, a broad and proud sight.

“I am working on it.” he chuckled and Bloodhound hummed, poking at his side. Elliot squeaked, and Bloodhound blinked at the sound, Elliott covering his mouth.

Elliott saw the smirk slowly form and he glared at the other. “Don’t you even think about it, buddy.” he said, trying to be stern, but Bloodhound’s grin was infectious.

The next moment, Elliott was screaming, writhing around with tears in his eyes as laughter burst from his body, hands frantically trying to stop the relentless Hound, but like a pitbull with a bone, the Hunter was not giving up.

“H-Houn-Hound! Stop! I- can’t breathe!” he wheezed the words out through frantic attempts at breathing as Bloodhound rolled them over, pinning Elliott down whilst straddling his waist, as bare as the day they were born. “H-hey there, beautiful.” he breathed and Bloodhound grinned down at him.

“I-I thought we were getting out of bed?” he sounded stunned as the Hunter shifted, making the Trickster flush dark and fight down the urge to groan.

“We will, ástin mín, we will. But this is entirely your fault.” the Hunter purred as they moved down to kiss his neck, making him yelp.

“Wha- my fault? I’m not the one that’s-” his words broke off in a low groan, his back arching as the other bit soft, sensitive flesh.

“Unless you are rambling with passion, be quiet.” the words were a firm order from the other, but their actions were soft, calculated, listening to every tiny, subtle, silent cue from their lover.