Logan/Daken. NC-17. ~4500 words. Incest. Dubious consent (a la Daken). For delicious visual reference, Pond’s art Get a Grip, NSFW.
Logan’s attention is what he wants and he’s got it, undivided and pure.
Casually folding his menu, Daken hands it off to the server and stretches an arm out along the top of the booth as she swishes off with his order. A swirl of black ink shows above the gape of his collar. “Perhaps an appetizer to go with that keg.”
“I’m good,” Logan says over the mellow croon of art house jazz, comfortable with his chin tucked down and arms crossed. The leather seat’s soft as warm butter.
“You said you wanted to talk.” Daken’s hand appears at the edges of his vision, long fingers bracketing the stem of his wineglass as he sets it back on the table. More ink twines its way up his forearm, disappearing beneath the cuff of a jacket that retails for more than Logan’s bike parked out front. “You’re hardly living up to my expectations of a conversational companion.”
Logan wants to talk about the tattoo, the clothes, the fancy car and the iceberg frosted to Daken’s shoulder. He wants to ask just what the hell is up with the hair. But he knows there’s a hell of a lot more hidden underneath that cocky smile. He’s got more than sixty years worth of catching up to do. Maybe they could start with the last book they both read.
He gives the fancy evening throng a pointed glance. Where Daken slides in seamlessly with the crowd, he sticks out like a wart on the tip of Mona Lisa’s nose. “This ain’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Surprisingly enough, most of my life doesn’t happen over corpses in a dockside warehouse.” A smile joins the slow spread of Daken’s hands. “This is it, old man. Get used to it.”
A warm and foolish hope presses against the insides of Logan’s ribs. Get used to it. Because some things aren’t ever going to change. He drops an elbow to the table and picks up his beer. “You ever read Flatland?”
Why they’re really here clings sour as curdled milk to the edges of every word, but the bloated body of their shared past is weighted down under the slow and deliberate cadence of Daken’s voice. The low drone of conversation and the clinking of dinnerware vanishes from Logan’s notice.
The first thing he learns is that his boy actually knows a thing or two about what’s under the hood of that overpriced foreign car, and that he has a decent respect if not a proper appreciation for a classic panhead. As good as he is at taking things apart, he can put them back together again. He reads obscure newsletters from Gulmera. When he goes to the movies, it’s for real life dramas, documentaries. He goes to the fucking movies.
For as fucked up as the kid’s life is, he’s got a hell of a lot more of one than Logan does. And even knowing every last word could be a lie, he’s not sure how much he cares.
“Satisfied?” Daken finally asks, taking a sip of a dark wine that smells of blackcurrants and nettles. It mixes sweetly with the savoury traces his meal left on his breath. Logan can barely remember watching him eat.
Before Logan works up an answer, he slides a fan of bills onto the table, gets up and heads for the door. More than one head turns his way, half a dozen long-legged women and a few corporate suits. Daken looks good gliding through their midst. Like he belongs.
Giving his head a shake, Logan grabs his jacket. Only after Daken’s out of sight do any of those gazes turn his way, and he doesn’t have to be a psychic to know what they’re thinking. He’s seen it often enough before.
Outside the air’s cool, salted with the sea. The city lights sparkle on the bay. He shoves a hand into his pocket for his keys, but all he comes up with is a handful of lint. A quiet clink from behind kills the growl crawling up the back of his throat.
“You can give me a ride,” Daken says, leaning against his bike with the keys hooked around one finger. “Since I paid for your dinner.”
“Something wrong with your car?”
Giving the keys a toss, Daken swings a leg over to straddle the back of the bike. “I’ve got a room at the Clift.”
The twist in Logan’s gut says not to trust it. But he trusts that the kid’s got ambitions and won’t stop at anything to see them fulfilled. Killing him might still be on the table, might not. Either way, he’s not first on the list anymore.
With a winsome little smile, Daken shifts back a few inches.
Grunting, Logan slides on. It takes him a second to get used to the extra weight, but Daken’s knee is already out of the way when he goes to give the bike a solid kick-start. “Better hang on,” he says, giving it a bit of gas. “I’m not coming back to scrape you off the pavement.”
The bike rocks as Daken slips right back to where he was, thighs bracketing Logan’s hips. Scentless heat presses in close. That’s one thing he’ll never get used to. “I’ve scraped myself off of worse.”
“Do me a favour. Don’t tell me about it.” Traffic is moving fast enough to make it a smooth slide into the flow, but big city driving has never been his favourite. There’s too much to keep track of to enjoy the ride, including the strange fit of Daken’s hands low on his sides. It bothers him in a way that doesn’t have much to do with them sitting at the perfect angle for claws to slice into his kidneys.
“Swing over to 11th,” Daken says, a few blocks back from the turn. “We need to make a stop.”
“Not your errand boy.”
“Don’t worry,” Daken says, leaning close to be heard over the blaring of a car alarm everybody’s ignoring. “You’ll appreciate it.”
Logan watches from the street as some punk with a nose ring hits on his son. Just to give the music pounding out onto the walk three doors down a hand in pissing him off, Daken flirts back.
He slumps lower over the handlebars and drags his gaze away from the broad windows. Two seconds later it’s back, and this time it’s brought a low, trickling growl along for kicks. They’re in line at the cash talking shit by the shapes of the few words he catches, but it’s the body language that’s screaming in his head. Daken’s posture is open, inviting, daring the hand settled low on his back to sidle on down a few inches more. The punk’s boner is practically jabbing him in the hip.
Daken looks up, winks. His wrists ache from holding back the slow grating slide of his claws.
“Whoa,” the punk says, trailing along in Daken’s wake, “Sweet ride.” His mismatched eyes jump from the engine to Logan’s leg and take their time moseying up, stopping for a breather just below the belt. “Sweeter ride. He yours?”
The weight of Daken’s smarmy smile tilts his head to the side. “That’s my daddy.”
“Get on the fucking bike,” Logan growls.
The punk honest to Jesus shivers. Any second he’s going to drowning in his own drool.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Daken says, and swings up behind Logan smooth as sin. He tucks the case of Japanese ale he’s carrying under one arm. “It looks like I’m staying in to play tonight.”
“Keep talking,” Logan snarls under his breath, revving the engine as he waits for the light to give him a break.
“Going to paddle me?” Daken asks in a slinking whisper.
Logan guns it and the punk shouts, “Call me!” at the top of his lungs, desperate as a dying man.
“I realise you’re not used to this,” Daken says, taking a fresh glass of wine with him as he settles into a comfortable lounge on a couch half the size of Asia, “so I’ll give you a break. Most places have a policy against shedding on the furniture, after all.”
Logan squints down at the thin curl of condensation rising from the beer Daken just popped open for him. There’s a tiny niggling worry in the back of his mind, needling at him like his lost memories used to. He looks up, out through the window with the city spread out and glowing far below, then back across the expansive suite. Everything is some degree of plush, lush and outrageous, mix and match to taste. It makes him feel like even more of a brute than he is.
The same as in the restaurant, Daken belongs. Logan grabs up his beer and gives it a cursory sniff before downing it. He’s going to need a hell of a lot more than a dozen to take the edge off.
An edge he hadn’t even felt riding him until that door had closed behind him, closed him in with a son he can’t keep from watching. All the little details that would normally slip through his mind cling like cobwebs. The rustle of cotton against Daken’s skin, the shadows playing across his face, the soft noise his throat makes when he swallows.
Snagging another beer, Logan pops the top as he paces to the bank of windows. There’s something he wants to say but it’s jammed in his throat, clogging up the way for the words to get out but not the alcohol to go down.
“You really have no idea what’s going on here, do you.”
“I know you’re up to something,” Logan grates.
“Of course I am.” Tipping his head back, Daken drains his glass. The hidden track lighting slides down the curl of hair over his shoulder to glow warmly on the hollow of his throat. “Lucky for you, I put out on the first date.”
The low level prickling that’d been at the edges of Logan’s awareness all night rises to a tangible pressure. It pushes its way down his throat, coils round his lungs and squeezes them tight. All of a sudden he can feel how much of it’s saturating his blood. He’s been breathing in Daken’s intent for hours and he’d never noticed. He hadn’t wanted to.
“And that’s the beauty of it,” Daken says, carelessly dropping his empty glass to the floor. “I can make you want what I want.” The corner of his lip catches between his teeth. “Come on, daddy. Tell me what you really need.”
Expecting lust to sock him in the gut like Banner on a bad day, Logan’s not at all ready for the warm slither of it beneath his skin. It rises up like a whisper, soft as a lover’s hands, and only when it’s got him firmly by the throat does it flip over to a flashfire burn through his veins. His dick goes from a lazy stirring to hard as his fucking skull so fast his knees buckle. A hand slapped to the glass is the only thing that keeps him on his feet, hunched forward over the bone-deep ache of his cock throbbing in time to his heartbeat.
“Or I could tell you,” Daken says, his jacket sliding off his shoulders to land in a heap where he was just sitting. “Right this minute, you want to fuck me. Well.” He bites his lip again, paused in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt. “Let’s be honest. You want to fuck. Who or even what could be up for debate.”
“What the blazes is this supposed to prove,” Logan grits out, flexing his fingers when his claws won’t pop. Too much of the wrong type of adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Nothing. We both already knew how easy it is to pull your strings.” As soon as they’re close, Daken cups a hand over Logan’s jaw and turns his gaze to the window. Their reflections stare back at him, the urge to take, to overwhelm and have churning inside him reflected in both sets of eyes.
But Daken’s still hiding his scent and that drives a iron nail of rage straight through it. There’s no halfway to Logan’s want. No compromises. He’ll take it all.
“Beat me down, Logan,” Daken purrs, his hands loose at his sides. “Sink your teeth into me and make me take it. I know you’re dying to find out what it’s like to have me squirming on both your claws and your cock.”
The slow grate of his claws sliding back up his arms is agony. He’s panting by the time it’s done, knows he’s poisoning himself with every breath and powerless to stop it. Whatever Daken’s done to him isn’t going to fade after a few gulps of clean air, even if he could find it.
“Something you don’t realise about me,” he says, answering Daken’s raised brow with a toothy grin. “I’ve been fightin’ what I am since before you were a twinkle in my eye, boy. You do this, it ain’t gonna be that way.”
Less than a split-second of the rage Logan’s more accustomed to seeing from the inside out flares in Daken’s eyes. It’s rolled back and banked down under another one of those smiles, slick as the suit he’s shedding all over the floor as he moves in close, risks a gutful of metal to murmur in Logan’s ear, “Going to pretend I’m her, are you?”
“Bastard?” Daken breathes, and seizes a fistful of his hair to yank his head up, bringing their mouths together in a vicious, biting kiss. The hot iron tang of blood explodes across his tongue. There’s nothing of Daken in it beyond the lingering wine, not even a trace of what he really tastes like.
Logan grabs onto his chin and forces his jaw wide, licks at his tongue searching for something more than the taste of his own blood. When he doesn’t find it, he drives his teeth into Daken’s slick bottom lip.
With a hiss, Daken shoves away. He touches the back of his wrist to his torn mouth, a fresh rivulet of red trickling from the corner of his smile. “You really are an animal.”
“Ain’t seen nothing yet,” Logan says, but he’s got what he wanted now. Daken can’t mask the scent of his blood when it’s coating the inside of his mouth. It’s only a little like her. Not enough as long as he doesn’t think too hard about it.
What’s worse is how much Daken smells like him. And what’s fucking worse than that narcissistic bullshit is how good Daken looks sinking to his knees with his mouth bloodied, his tongue glistening wet behind the hard line of his teeth as he wrenches Logan’s jeans open, both hands wrapping around his cock in a strong and knowing grip.
“No,” Logan snarls, catching him with a few fingers hooked into his mouth before it gets all over his dick. The last thing Logan ever wants to have burned into his brain is his son’s smile stretched tight like that. “Up on your god damn feet.”
Daken’s gaze flickers up. “I like the view down here.”
A hand clamped to his throat gets a better result, his teeth scraping Logan’s knuckles as he climbs slowly to his feet. He shrugs off the shirt barely clinging to his shoulders, closes his mouth and sucks on Logan’s fingers as he shucks his belt and steps out of his slacks without a lick of shame. The thick scent of his lust for power smells the same as every other lust Logan’s ever had his faced rubbed in.
Leaning forward to give the pads of his fingers one last lick before they’re out of range, Daken steps up to the glass, folds his arms against it and bows his head. The dark fall of his hair vanishes into the black ink flowing across his shoulder. It leaves his neck bare, his spine vulnerable. Raw lust slams a clawed fist into Logan’s gut the same as if he’d rolled over and offered his belly.
A growl pushes at the backs of Logan’s teeth, trickles through before he can swallow it back down. It leaves his throat aching, but he resists the urge to sniff at the back of Daken’s neck, follow the ripple of a shiver down his spine to the high curve of his ass.
“What’s the matter?” Daken asks, the reflection of his smile floating above the bright city lights, Cheshire cat wide. “Can’t reach?”
Logan hauls him off the window by his hair. He twists against it and deliberately goes down, sprawled on his side, still fucking smiling. Winding his hair up tighter in a fist finally breaks the smooth curve of his mouth down into a slack line. His eyelashes sweep down, rest heavy and low over his eyes, and there might not be a smile on his face but there’s one in every line of his body, every slow, deep breath he draws.
One of Logan’s knees hits the plush carpet. He drags his hand from Daken’s hair, watches the white lines the strands cut into his flesh mottle red and fade away. His head’s stuffed full of cotton all soaked in the scent of Daken’s pleasure at seeing him lose control. There’s no room left for what he wants, only what Daken does, and it’s nothing, nothing like what a father should want from his son.
And still the next words that come tumbling like a rock slide out of Logan’s mouth are, “On your belly.”
Sadistic childish glee sparks in Daken’s eyes. “Put me there.”
Forcing his hand out of the fist he wants to feel crunch against Daken’s jaw hurts almost as bad as keeping his claws sheathed. There’s no way out of this. He’d had his chance to dive through the fucking window and he couldn’t take it, couldn’t convince his body it wanted shards of glass slicing through it more than the sweet hiss of Daken’s breath. He’s going to fuck his son, and if he’s lucky the only thing he’ll have any control over is how he does it.
“You’re not gonna enjoy this,” he warns. “You think y’are, but you’re not.”
“Yes,” Daken says, rolling onto his back as smooth as the tides, one knee bent and his cock lying thick against his thigh, “I am.”
It’s too easy for Logan to throw a leg over his, bend low and fill his lungs with the scent Daken’s finally quit hiding from him. No point now, especially when all it’s doing is feeding the hunger threatening to take him over. He gulps it down like a man breathing his first sweet breath of air, his face pressed to the quiver of Daken’s belly and another growl rising up from the pit of his. His instincts are driving at him to sink his teeth into flesh, let the hot surge of blood across his tongue whip him into the frenzy Daken so badly wants.
He pulls away with a groan before it happens. Daken watches lazily, eyes glittering, mouth smug. There’s a small flicker of something else in there when Logan spits on a few fingers, presses them up between his legs. Maybe real hate, Logan thinks, and that’s all right. That’s what a son should feel for a father with two thick fingers pushing up into his ass.
It’s gone again though, quick as it appeared, and Daken slides his other knee up, spreads them wide in a dare for Logan to look down, see as well as feel what he’s doing. In a choice between what’s better or worse, watching the pleasured curve of Daken’s mouth slowly baring his teeth or the slick pink flush of his hole stretched thin around Logan’s knuckles, there’s no lesser evil. He spits on his fingers again and squeezes his eyes shut instead, stays braced on his knuckles as far away from the pulse fluttering in Daken’s neck as he can get.
But that doesn’t stop Daken from rising up to nuzzle at his throat, the brush of soft lips and softer words sinking straight through his skin to taint his blood. “You love me,” is what Daken says while his body is a hot, tight clutch around Logan’s fingers. “Even before you met me, you were so in love with just the idea of me. And I’m exactly like you. I want you to love me. I want you to show me how much you love me.”
A groan scrapes along the inside of Logan’s skull when he pulls his hand away, shameless and deep in Daken’s throat like he’s honestly hurt by the loss. “This ain’t love,” he says, nothing at all like love to get a leg up over his shoulder so he can get his cock slicked up and press the head tight to delicate muscle, feel it give way to the steady push. He grits his teeth and tries to ease off, make it as smooth as he can when all he wants to do is bury his dick deep.
Daken’s mouth goes slack on the tail end of a laugh. He stretches an arm out over the carpet as he brings his other leg up to hook around Logan’s waist, the long curve of his body sinuous and sweet, nothing but muscle and bone and smooth warm skin. “Yes it is,” he says, tucking an arm beneath his head and scratching three long angry lines straight up the inside of his own thigh. “Or you’d have stuck it in me twenty minutes ago.”
The gritty tug on his dick when Logan pulls out almost makes him drive straight back in. He hangs his head and concentrates, manages to block out the next taunt that comes spilling out of Daken’s saucy mouth. He scrubs his cheek against the thick flex of muscle in Daken’s thigh, follows it up to rub whiskers against the delicate skin on the inside of his knee. Back down again, this time with his hands, then a little more slick spread over his cock to ease the way.
He doesn’t open his eyes again until Daken snarls, “Come on, old man.”
“Told ya you wouldn’t like it,” Logan says, the words bitter as coal dust on his tongue.
Daken’s lip curls. He can’t deny it now; Logan would smell the lie on him. Can’t admit it’s true either, because they’re both half-lies. He’s caught up in the same twisted web Logan is, hating the slide of calloused palms up his sides as much as he’s enjoying it. Logan’s attention is what he wants and he’s got it, undivided and pure.
“Fucking miracle I was born at all, if this is how you fucked her,” Daken spits, the involuntary clench of his insides around the slow thrust of Logan’s cock countering the venom in his voice.
But he wasn’t fucking born at all, ripped from a cooling corpse and buried neck-deep in them for his whole life after. “Not gonna work,” Logan says, and the sneer he gets in response says Daken doesn’t understand that he’s not talking about being goaded into turning this into the brutal fuck Daken had been betting on. His son can rip his heart out and sink teeth into the last desperate beat of it, it’s not ever going to be enough to make him hate.
Daken’s arms snake around his shoulders, haul him down so close he can smell the wine still scenting Daken’s breath and the hot thick line of his cock trapped between their bellies. “Then give me a kiss,” he says, and Logan’s stomach drops out when there’s no pheromone push behind it. It’s a bluff, and one Daken’s so sure he’s not going to call.
The slant of Daken’s jaw fits imperfectly in his hand. Daken’s eyes stay open and on his until they’re too close to focus, but even then he doesn’t look away. He’s certain it isn’t going to happen until it does, the glide of Logan’s tongue over his lips and into his mouth met with frozen disbelief. The noise he makes falls flat, useless, and with another like the bitter crack of thin ice, he starts kissing back.
It’s still not enough to make Logan stop. He knows exactly what he’s doing, fucking his son in the middle of the floor with his tongue shoved halfway down his throat, a hand wrapped tight around and tugging hard on his dick, and it’s nothing good. He means to keep going until Daken’s come smears warm over his fingers, and no matter what anybody tries to tell him, this isn’t love, but that doesn’t change the fact it’s all he’s got.
A fresh surge of tension springs to life in the body twisting beneath his once Daken figures out that of all the ways for this to end, it’s not going to be the way he planned. Teeth tear into Logan’s lip but he doesn’t jerk back, takes the pain like a balm until Daken gets sick of the taste of blood in his mouth and turns away, spits a watery red fan out onto the carpet.
“You think this means something,” Daken says, breathless and choppy at the edges, too close to losing it now to hide it. Blood drips from Logan’s chin onto his chest, bright crimson spatter ruining the unbroken curve of ink. “You think getting me off on your dick is something to be proud of.”
“Proud as you are to make me do it.” Logan already knows he’s bound for hell, and one tiny voiceless sliver of him wishes he could look away when Daken comes. He clamps his teeth together and tells himself to do it, do it now, but he doesn’t. A hand curves into a claw on his shoulder, digs five neat hooks into his flesh and rips it open. The way his son’s face twists in furious pleasure cleaves onto his soul, leaves it blackened and hungry for just one more taste.
He shoves an arm roughly beneath Daken’s lax weight and gives in to it, lets the thick wet slap of their bodies bring him snarling up to the edge and over it. The hot white haze of orgasm doesn’t wipe his mind clean of the fact that it’s his son clutching at him, all long limbs and loose muscles and dangerously, spitefully beautiful.
The slow stroke of a gentle hand down his spine brings him back around. “I don’t have to ask if it was good for you,” echoes weirdly up through Daken’s chest.
Logan picks himself up with a silent snarl. The front of his shirt is stiff with drying come. There’s not enough booze in the world for this.
Daken doesn’t say anything as he gets up, content to stretch out on the carpet and watch him drain a beer before dealing with his clothes. Then, “You know this will happen again, anytime I want. And it won’t always go like that.”
“Nope,” Logan says. He can’t get the taste of his son out of his mouth. “Won’t always.”