Nights Run Long

Movieverse. Logan/Remy. NC-17. ~550 words. Biting/bruising. Post-movie.
“Nights run long in New Orleans,” Remy says, and rolls onto his back, baring his belly to the scrape of Logan’s teeth.

Old bedsprings creak as Remy grabs at the edge of the mattress like a man dangling over the side of a cliff. The curse he gasps out when Logan’s teeth dig into the meat of his shoulder isn’t anything Logan understands beyond the sentiment behind it. A shiver becomes a long, languorous stretch under the pass of Logan’s hands, lean muscle smoothing out like warm clay.

“Don’ stop now, cher,” Remy says, rubbing his cheek against threadbare sheets, as loose and languid as a cat in the noonday sun. “I’ve been missing you.”

“Christ,” Logan says, the same thing he’s been told he said before, and traces the worst of the bites with his tongue. The raw taste of it sparks the memory of how moments ago Remy had been writhing, held pinned by hands and teeth, how his moans had cracked when Logan had broken skin, and just maybe he’s remembering a fraction of a time before, too.

Remy is a mottle of old and new, fresh red welts on the backs of his thighs, faded yellow bruises on the round curve of his ass, more here, there. There are never as many as Logan thinks there are, maybe as many as he thinks there should be; they’re spread out, easily hidden beneath clothes. It’s the constant scent of healing wounds that threatens to drive him to distraction more than the teasing scraps of a familiarity he might be imagining. That, and the spike in Remy’s pulse when he starts thinking about them and his smile turns lazy, the red of his eyes flaring brighter and the black seeming all the blacker for it.

“Nights run long in New Orleans,” Remy says, and rolls onto his back, baring his belly to the scrape of Logan’s teeth. A growl ripples up from the pit of Logan’s stomach, something weeks ago he would’ve tried to hold back, but if he doesn’t remember Remy past the taste of his flesh, then Remy remembers him well enough and the proof of what Logan really is only serves to bring a fresh rush of blood up close to the surface of his skin. He shivers as Logan scents it, the thin string of precome trembling from the head of his cock finally snapping, glistening wetly in the weak light. “No hurry.”

“So you keep telling me.” The skin stretched taut over the bone in Remy’s hip is soft against Logan’s open mouth, thinner, more delicate than the vulnerability of his tender belly. His breath hisses and his spine arches when Logan kisses him there, remakes a bruise that had almost completely vanished with swift, sucking pressure and the cruel edge of his teeth. “Something tells me I never bothered to listen before.”

Non,” Remy says, his smile as slow and shameless as the spread of his legs as he bares the soft insides of his thighs to the press of Logan’s teeth. He still smells like Logan, like sex and sweat, like something had and to be had again, and the sound of his moans, the sweet, hot flush of his body fucked loose and open around Logan’s fingers, is a sin a man would be hard-pressed to forget he’d already committed.

“Learn something new everyday,” Logan says, and pushes his fingers deep, fills his mouth and his memories with the taste of Remy’s skin.

End

One Response to “Nights Run Long”

  1. Doomflower Says:

    Hee!! I loved this, poetic and beautiful and very very hot <3

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