Drop Zone

Movieverse. Victor/Logan. NC-17. ~1500 words.
Don’t say a word about time and place.

As far as Logan’s concerned, one jungle’s the same as any other. They’re all sweltering, rancid, insect-ridden pits. Every one he’s ever trekked through has been rife with the stench of death and decay.

The drop zone is west of a squat mountain range. Skirmishes erupt as pieces of their unit break off, fan into the undergrowth. Gunpowder and blood soon saturate each breath he draws.

Victor seeks out the guerrilla soldiers too familiar with the territory for the others to flush from the trees and brings them down before anyone realises he’s there.

Half a dozen lay dead at their hands by the time night creeps in. Beneath the trees, darkness is absolute. There are only two men from their squadron that managed to keep pace with him and Victor, one too young to know why he should be afraid of the dark and the other too old to do anything useful about it. The kid keeps tossing nervous, jittery glances into the black.

Tin clanks dully as Victor wrenches open one of the packs and flings a can of beans at the kid’s head. “Sit down,” he snarls.

The kid snatches up the beans and hesitates, looks to the old timer like he’s asking permission. Logan just shakes his head when the kid’s gaze slides his way. Somebody that young’s got no business being here.

Victor stalks to the invisible lines of their camp, head up and nose to the mountains in the east. Distant pockets of fighting echo through the trees. Close, but not close enough to join. The wind carries Victor’s scent, all blood and lust and heat. It crackles against Logan’s skin like something alive.

“You should take your own advice,” Logan says.

Victor’s lips peel back in a sneer that melts into a smirk. “Think so, little brother?”

“No one here to fight.”

The wind shifts. Victor’s nostrils flare, his teeth bared in a full grin. “Maybe, maybe not.” He jerks his chin towards the treeline, vanishing beneath the canopy as he says to the others, “You two stay here.”

Logan slips into the dark close on his heels. He spares a thought for the kid, hoping the veteran knows enough to keep him from following in a fit of stupid bravado. Of all the uneasy glances tossed around as evening waned, most of his were for Victor.

A hush settles heavy on his shoulders, broken only by the rustle of leaves, the muted echo of a rifle. All he can smell now is the muck clinging to his boots and the lingering trace of his brother’s sweat, Victor lost in the shadows.

“Victor,” Logan warns, just as a heavy, familiar weight crashes into him from behind. He loses his footing in the mud and slams hard against a tree. Barely biting back a growl, he shoves away, sharp pain radiating up his arms as bone slices clean through skin.

“Getting sloppy.” Victor jerks out of reach, claws raking the back of Logan’s neck. “What if I were one of those little jungle gnats? You’d be picking bullets out of your teeth.”

Logan shakes the ache out of his shoulder, brings both arms up. With more effort than it should take, the spears of bone sink back into his arms. He gets his fill of fighting well enough without these games. “Do you really want to do this here?”

“One or the other,” Victor says. He ducks beneath Logan’s half-hearted guard and tsk-tsks like a schoolmarm. His heavy breaths stir the sweat-damp hair at Logan’s nape. “Put a little effort into it, baby boy.”

Claws prick the small of Logan’s back through the heavy weave of his jacket. Victor closes in, solid muscles and sharp-edged bone, suffocating in the jungle’s humidity. The quick press of teeth to his throat follow a lazy swipe of Victor’s tongue.

“Don’t say a word about time and place,” Victor cautions. His hands move to the front of Logan’s trousers, tugging impatiently at belt and buttons.

Logan can’t hide the spike of his pulse no more than he can help the spark it sets to smouldering in his gut. “Keep an ear out,” he says by way of consent.

Victor’s eyes gleam in the dim. “Don’t I always.”

Hardly bothering to get their clothes out of the way, Victor wraps a strong-fingered hand around them both. Logan fills out in his brother’s grip, feels the slick already leaked from Victor’s cock smeared along his own. Pleasure skitters up from the pit of his stomach, hums in his blood like Victor’s scent, heady as old bourbon. It shortens his breath like nothing else can.

Victor twists his wrist. Claws scrape Logan’s belly and adrenaline dumps like quicksilver into his veins, instinct screaming at him to fight before those claws rend his tender underbelly. Boneshards sprout between Logan’s fingers with a burning jolt. He sucks in a hissing breath, meant to warn, but Victor lets out a low, satisfied grunt when the tips press into his chest.

“That’s it,” Victor purrs, leaning closer without a care. Blood trickles down the bone, mingles with the dirt scrubbed across Logan’s knuckles. Sharp teeth follow the line of his jaw, scrape down over his throat to the edge of his collarbone. Victor’s tongue rasps over his skin, rougher than a human’s, rough like everything about Victor. His skin prickles in its wake. “Can’t control yourself half the time, can you.”

Logan snaps, “Victor,” and Victor snarls, teeth clicking in the air above his jugular.

Victor’s grip on him vanishes. Both palms slap Logan’s chest, hard, sending him back a grudging step.

“What’re-”

Another slap, another low, rumbling growl. Logan gives ground until his clothes catch on rough bark. He’s grown accustomed to the anger simmering under his brother’s skin but never completely sure what to do with it. More and more as the days go by, only rage lights Victor’s eyes.

Victor’s claws slam into the tree beside Logan’s head. Bits of dirt and the dust of dead, dry leaves sprinkle down. “Baby brother,” he whispers, “do you think I care?” He sniffs at Logan’s throat, scenting the blood pumping hot through his veins. “I know what you are, remember?”

Victor takes him in hand again, proves just how well he’s known by bringing him back to full, aching hardness in less time than it takes for him to get a solid grip on the torn shoulder of Victor’s jacket. The wet head of his brother’s cock nudges his sac. Though it’s not the first time he’s felt Victor ride the tight space between his legs, he jerks away.

“Ah,” Victor breathes. With a pleased grin, he pulls his hand away, spits in his palm and wets the length of Logan’s cock with it. Without shame, he shoves his trousers down, rocks forward onto the balls of his feet to move in close, cheek pressed to Logan’s, thighs parted just enough for Logan to slip between. “Be a savage for me.”

Logan’s head swims. His whole body tightens with want, his nose filled with the smell of Victor’s skin, his mouth wet with the promise of its taste. He grabs at the back of his brother’s head and buries his face in the crook of Victor’s neck, biting viciously at warm flesh, holding it between his teeth to keep Victor in place.

Victor shudders and laughs, the claws of both hands digging deep into the bark as Logan’s free arm clamps tight around his back, drags him in even closer to rut into the hot, slick space he’s made.

The iron tang of blood on Logan’s tongue shoots straight to his groin. The pure, visceral thrill of it makes his jaw tighten. Skin splits beneath his teeth and Victor’s answer is a groan breathed straight into his ear.

It all dissolves into a dizzying blur of smell and taste. He can feel Victor’s cock trapped between them, the pulse of warmth as his claws press too close to Victor’s spine. His brother’s slick coats his skin and catches in the thin hairs on his belly. He muffles a snarl in the bruised mess of Victor’s neck as the pungent scent hits him all over again, punches all the air straight out of his lungs like a full round to the chest.

He’s barely come round from the thrumming glow of release before Victor’s hand cups his cheek, thumb edging past the corner of his lips to skid over his teeth. Abruptly, he lets his jaw go slack.

Victor slaps his neck companionably. He says, “Knew you had it in you,” and sets about righting his clothes, unconcerned by the stickiness Logan can still smell clinging to his skin. Blood spatters the collar of his coat, his throat a raw, dark mess of it. Shame slithers like a snake in Logan’s belly when the sight of it makes his spent cock jerk. He’s marked his brother in blood and come and he wants so very, very badly to shove Victor into the dirt to do it again.

“We should move northeast,” Victor says, stripping off his coat and chucking it into the brush. “They’ll be leaving the mountains come dawn.”

End

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