Not Yours to Break

Movieverse. Victor/Logan. NC-17. ~4000 words. Direct sequel to Rough Trade.
Stupid to let Victor get close again and that’s just what Logan’s doing.

Planes roar overhead. The tarmac beyond the chainlink fence stretches far into the distance, heat-ripples distorting its surface. With the line of scraggly trees pressed as close to the road as they are, it’s painfully easy to imagine the meadow the airport used to be.

Or the smell of pine has jogged loose another measly scrap and the picture in Logan’s head is a memory.

That plane that just took off, he should’ve been on it. A good two-thirds of the damn country sits between him and Minneapolis. A fake passport and a ticket would’ve racked up a couple thousand miles more. It hadn’t been easy to get his hands on the money for either of them and now both are just burning a hole in his pocket.

The article had been barely a blip in the news. A decorated veteran discovered missing, property and possessions ransacked, evidence of a squatter in one of the bedrooms wanted for questioning. No picture of the missing man accompanied the type. Logan didn’t need one.

So he got the hell out of Dodge before someone else connected the house to Victor and Victor to him. All he needed were a bunch of cops asking him questions he didn’t have answers to. One thing he does know for sure is that mutants and fair treatment from the law don’t go hand in hand.

The softest rustle in the trees catches Logan’s attention. He folds his arms, gaze rigid on the horizon. Three weeks to the day. Being honest with himself apparently isn’t his strong suit.

Long minutes pass. Logan calls himself all the kinds of stupid he can think to name. Practically going looking for trouble and he gets the feeling it’s the sort of trouble Victor would be just too glad to bring to the party.

The breeze tumbling listlessly down the mountains carries with it Victor’s scent. Close, but not as close as Logan had thought. Victor’s giving him time to run.

“I’m gonna get bored soon,” Logan calls.

Boots thump hard into the dirt. An involuntary twitch tenses Logan’s shoulders. His memory’s gone faulty on him all the way around; he doesn’t remember Victor smelling so god damned good. Fresh sweat and sunlight, green growing things, hint of violence, dark and animal. It curls up tight in his gut, warm as easy Sunday morning, unwelcome as an ulcer.

The shocks on the old beater Logan picked up for his cross-country getaway squeal in protest. Logan glances over his shoulder to see Victor casually stroll across the roof, cheap frame buckling beneath his weight. Something cracks when he steps down onto the bonnet.

“That wasn’t yours to break,” Logan says.

“Something tells me it wasn’t really yours, either.” Victor jumps off the hood, lithe as a cat despite his bulk, and sits himself right back down on it, folds his hands loosely together between his knees. That same dark coat flares out over the grille, smells vaguely damp. “Planning on a trip, Jimmy?”

“Name’s Logan.”

“Oh, I know what your name is.”

An air freighter taxis towards the runway, engines rumbling. Victor watches its slow progress, idly scratching at the car’s paint. When he bores of that, he says, “You don’t like flying.”

“Think I can handle it just fine.”

“Handle it, sure,” Victor says. “But you don’t like it. Puked on my boots once.”

Logan snorts in disbelief. His insides might’ve done a sideways twist when he’d watched the planes from the highway but it wasn’t as bad as all that. “Not so good at telling stories, are you.”

“Want to hear another?”

Logan finally turns from the tarmac to lean back against the rattling fence. More than a hint of fang shows in Victor’s broad smile. Snatches of memory all try to crowd into Logan’s head at once: The look on Victor’s face as he’d licked Logan’s claws, the taste of him after, the heavy weight of him bearing Logan down into the sagging mattress. Nothing older than a month ago, and Logan isn’t sure if he’s grateful for that or not.

“You followed me all the way out here,” Logan says, gesturing at the miles of nothing between the city and the airport, “for this?”

Victor shrugs. “Life’s boring. I’ve never been the golfing type. Ask me a question.”

Right off the bat, no thought given, Logan asks, “How do you know me?”

Victor’s smile is slow, secretive. Wrong question and Logan knew it before he’d even finished. Savouring the moment, the answer chocolate on his tongue, Victor says, “Intimately.”

“Fuck you,” Logan snaps. “Get off my car.”

“C’mon. Ask me another.”

“How about this one: You’re an asshole.”

Victor’s smile turns crooked. He lifts a finger, points it Logan’s way before tapping the side of his nose twice. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

“Now will you get the fuck off my car?”

Victor spreads his arms out wide, claws screeching over metal. It sets Logan’s teeth on edge. “No.”

The shock of pain that sings up his arms when the claws snap out isn’t any less than it was the first time. But it’s just pain, no screaming panic in his head, no horrified fascination. He’s getting used to being what he is and fighting comes easy. He wishes the rest were so obliging.

Amusement colours Victor’s eyes. “You don’t want to do that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You’re Canadian.”

Logan slips just an inch off balance. “What?”

“You’re Canadian,” Victor repeats. He eyes the faint quiver in Logan’s claws, grin flashing as bright as sunlight on metal. “And here I thought yours was a peaceable nation.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Victor bursts into raucous laughter. He waves a vague hand in the air before passing it over his face, claws rasping through the coarse whiskers on his jaw as he quiets to a low chuckle. “How many times have I heard you say that? First time you ever said it to me, though.”

The car creaks as Victor stands. “Lets try this again.” He brushes his hands off, poses in dramatic silence, then says, “Hey Jimmy. I hear it’s your birthday.” Logan’s fists come up, claws glinting in the sun, but he ignores the threat. Doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash as he reaches out to push the blades aside. “Would’ve brought you a present, but.” One more step, two, and there’s only token distance left between them. Victor’s scent is like an overwarm blanket, muffling his senses, making his head spin. “What do you get the man who has nothing?”

“Son of a bitch,” Logan snarls, not at all surprised when Victor slams him back into the fence. His own damned fault for letting Victor get so close.

“Hate to be the one to tell you, Logan,” Victor spits, “but you don’t have room to talk.”

Logan brings both claws down in two quick slashes to Victor’s forearms. The laughter’s gone from Victor’s eyes like a blown lightbulb, nothing left but rage as he fists the front of Logan’s jacket, turns smoothly on his heel to bring Logan smashing down on the car’s hood.

Victor snarls in his face, lips curled back to bare wicked fangs just looking for the chance to rip into his throat. “Told you, you didn’t want to do that.”

Logan crashes back into the fence, dazed but standing. Nobody’s been able to even touch him in the pathetically short time he can remember. To be tossed about like a rag doll all of a sudden makes him wonder if he’s as hard to kill as he thinks he is.

“Ah, there it is,” Victor rumbles happily. He stalks Logan in a shallow semicircle scenting the air, his gaze tracking the smallest twitch. “There’s the old Jimmy. Not afraid of me now, are you?”

Trying to slow the rapid flutter of his heart, Logan shrugs his jacket back into place. “I got a reason to be?”

Victor slows to a stop, doesn’t call Logan on it and Logan knows he can hear it. “You tell me.”

One quick sniff gives Logan all he needs to know. It slams into him almost as hard as Victor had slammed him into the car, only instead of shock and pain its all lust and a twisted, vicious greed snaking into his veins. Victor didn’t come for blood but it’ll do in a pinch. From the dirt caked under those claws, he figures Victor’s been in an awful lots of pinches lately.

“Said it’s my birthday,” Logan forces past the stiffness in his throat. “How old am I?”

“Not as old as me.”

“How old are you?” Easier now, if Logan keeps his breathing shallow. What he really needs to do is quit talking and get the hell out of here. All Victor does is mess with his head.

Victor puffs out air. “Can’t remember.”

“Waste of time.” Digging the car keys out of his pocket, Logan tosses them to the ground. “Car’s yours. Enjoy.”

“You killed your father when you were eight. He was a drunk. Deserved it.”

The sickening stench of alcohol-soaked blood fills Logan’s nose. Beyond the sun-dappled trees, at the very edges of his vision, is the dim flicker of lamplight. Blood fades, becomes soiled bedsheets, vomit, the weariness of being stuck in bed too weak to move, his bones aching like after a slow, methodical beating. Silence except for the steady heartbeat of someone else nearby, someone safe, someone that smells like Victor.

Logan shakes it off, packs it down. The bars he frequents are all the same, and the fights he gets into there never change, always smell of beer, piss and blood. His memories are messed up and Victor knows it, knows how to use them against him. “You got some twisted sense of humour, buddy.”

“Am I laughing?” The corner of Victor’s mouth twitches. “Alright. A little. You know, this isn’t going to work very well if you pick and choose what you want to believe.”

“How about you tell me something that isn’t a stinking pile of shit?”

“Sure.” Victor starts moving closer again in a lazy prowl. The back of Logan’s neck prickles and he hates that it feels familiar and still wrong, as if he should be by Victor’s side. “You’re the sweetest fuck I ever had.”

And all that want comes swelling back stubborn as the tide sweeping away Logan’s tenuous grasp at control. It’d been good with Victor, so fucking good, and he hasn’t felt anything like it since. He’s been craving it, tried to make himself sick over it and ended up getting lost in the memories Victor had knocked loose, turning them over and over in his head until he’d ached. The urge to let go now is so tempting he’s dizzy with it and he doesn’t know if it’s claws or cock he wants to sink into Victor for doing this to him.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Victor growls, “I’m probably gonna like it,” and for the first time Logan doesn’t have an ounce of doubt it’s the truth. Something tells him most people that tangle with Victor, in bed or not, don’t walk away.

Stupid to let Victor get close again and that’s just what Logan’s doing. Rooted to the spot like he’s got no choice, barely managing to lift his chin to stare Victor in the eye as Victor leans in, smiles that same smile he’d worn as he watched Logan walk away weeks ago. Not the least bit worried; he still knows something Logan doesn’t. He knows a lot of somethings.

Victor leans in, breathes deep near Logan’s throat. Pure animal instinct rushes through Logan and tears out of him in a warning snarl. It stalls Victor for a moment, puff of an annoyed breath hot on Logan’s skin. “You know I can smell you.”

Words come with more effort than they should. “Didn’t figure you for a romantic.”

A low chuckle tickles its way under Logan’s tightened skin. Victor’s tongue rasps warm and wet across his throat, sends slivers of lust spiking into his gut. He’s not thinking straight, can’t be with Victor calling up the swelling tide of memories, how once he’d been pulled close, pushed down, pinned beneath heavy, solid muscle, revelled in the fact that he could’ve gotten free but never really wanted to.

“Now you’re getting the idea,” Victor says, familiar cadence of his voice melding with the memory, pushing through both it and the haze in Logan’s head. Logan doesn’t know when but his claws have retracted, his fist twisted up in the front of Victor’s coat in a white-knuckled grip. “You gonna let me give you your present now? Or pretend you don’t want it some more?”

“You gonna quit talking?” Logan counters, and means it. The more Victor talks, the worse everything gets, all the memories dredged up ones he could’ve lived without until he had them again.

Victor just laughs, goes for Logan’s jeans, and tension springs to life in Logan’s muscles. The fence creaks, jars a quick hiss out of him as a few of the links catch and yank at his hair. “Relax, Jimmy,” Victor says, scrape of his teeth anything but soothing. “Just want to get my hands on you again.” He yanks Logan’s fly open, makes a noise Logan can’t figure out at finding cheap, plain black boxer-briefs beneath. Logan had gone back to the same nameless department store three times trying to figure out which cut wouldn’t drive him insane, more and more pissed off with himself each time that he couldn’t even remember what fucking underwear he wore.

Victor’s claws pluck consideringly at the thin cotton. “Going to get mad at me if I rip these?” he murmurs, and tears through them regardless, claws scraping dangerously close to Logan’s dick. Adrenaline floods into Logan’s blood, quicksilver spike of want that almost spills free in a moan. Victor’s lips curve as if he heard it anyway.

“Had a cabin once,” Victor says, for all the world as if they’re having a regular conversation except for the hunger lacing his voice and his fingers slipping under Logan’s clothes, casually easing them down over the curve of his ass. “Maybe a couple different ones, can’t remember.”

This should stop, now, but as soon as the thought hits, Victor’s none-too-gentle bite to neck chases it away. Unlike the clarity from before, this sharp pain brings more heat rippling through his body, wiping away what little resistance he clings to in favour of a different tension, one that makes him push into Victor’s hands at the same time as he relaxes under the harsh press of Victor’s teeth.

“Never took you long to forget about clothes,” Victor goes on, and scratches his claws carefully through the hair at the base of Logan’s cock. He curls his hand around it and jacks once, no hesitation, fingers slotting perfectly into place like the heft of Logan in his hand is as familiar as he says it is. “Could roll you under me whenever I wanted and you’d still be wet from the last time.”

A shallow hiss slips from between Logan’s gritted teeth. Victor’s fingers are tough and broad but his touch is feather-light, gently coaxing Logan’s blood to flow faster, hotter. His low rumble of pleasure as Logan’s cock fills out slinks its way right under Logan’s skin. The breeze kicks up, hits Logan in the face with the scent of fresh pine and Victor’s warm skin and the memory of a smoothly muscled belly beneath his mouth, all soft skin, thick curl of hair, desperate roll of hips begging Logan to hurry up.

Logan says, “Full of shit,” and doesn’t know if he believes himself or not. Victor pulls harder, dry rasp of his palm on Logan’s cock easing as slick seeps from the tip. Long fingers curl downward, cup Logan’s balls with claws tucked beneath, pricking at delicate skin. Logan’s still got a hold of Victor’s coat, fingers of his other hand slipped through the links in the fence to keep his balance when his knees threaten to buckle.

“Nothing you wouldn’t do for me.” Kicking Logan’s feet apart, Victor settles one knee between his legs, body twisted so there’s more than enough space to keep playing. His cock presses thick and heavy against Logan’s hip and Logan’s breath stumbles to a halt in his throat, his lungs clenched tight. “Wanted me to suck you, went off like a shot when I wasn’t careful about it.” Slowly, clawtips press in, a rush of lust knocking Logan’s pulse another beat off track even as he rocks up on his toes to escape the pressure.

A quietly satisfied moan precedes the brush of Victor’s lips over Logan’s ear. “Still think I’m full of shit?” he whispers, squeezing Logan’s sac just this side of too hard before letting go.

The last thing Logan wants to do right now is give Victor the satisfaction of hearing in his voice exactly what this is doing to him, but Victor’s watching him expectantly, fingers lightly grazing the length of his dick over and over without really doing much of anything. “Think you still better watch where you go putting those teeth.”

“That’s what you say now.” Victor rubs his palm over the head of Logan’s cock and brings it up to his face, slight twitch of his noise betraying the quick sniff he gives it before he licks it clean, wet shine of his spit left behind in the sunlight. It’s still warm when he puts it back on Logan, grip firm just the way Logan suddenly knows they both like. “How about you fuck my hand so I can watch,” he says, “for old time’s sake.”

“Still full of shit,” Logan growls, but switches his grip to Victor’s arm above the elbow, giving it a shot just to see what it feels like. A part of him hopes for awkward, passable, anything to help clear his head, and gets instead Victor squeezing tight at the peak of his thrust, the pure pleasure of it lancing deep into his gut.

“That’s it,” Victor murmurs, nosing at a damp curl of hair at Logan’s temple. “That’s all I want, show me.” He fits his free hand to the cut of Logan’s hip, impatiently urges Logan to do it again.

Claws dig in, spark a flash of the room Victor had brought him to, laid him out in and spread him wide, vulnerable, and Logan tries too late to bite back a noise that sounds too much like need. Victor shamelessly echoes it, quick quiver of his muscles beneath Logan’s grip, and when the next groan builds in Logan’s chest he lets it free without a fight just to feel it shiver its way under Victor’s skin.

With Victor purring dirty encouragement in his ear it’s easy to get lost in the sweet push and pull. The tiny corner of his brain that was vainly trying to tell him what a bad idea this is finally shut up and he’s not thinking about what Victor’s really after, or what happens next. There’s a jungle somewhere in his head, rain pouring down and steam rising up as it strikes the ground, and Victor on his knees in the mud, head thrown back, mouth wide in a laugh or a roar. There’s the ghost taste of come in Logan’s mouth and the feel of a rough hand on his cock then overlaying the hard tug of the one on him now.

Victor says, “Knew you’d see it my way,” and brings his other hand down. Logan’s mouth goes wet in anticipation of the hot press of Victor’s cock against his own but it’s both hands dragging once down the full length of his dick before Victor takes over, shoves him hard into the fence and straight over the edge with a couple rough, quick jerks.

Victor’s open mouth drags across his cheek, bumps clumsily against his as Victor keeps pulling, squeezing him dry. He’s the one who goes for the kiss first, hungry for the taste of something not just a memory and lips buzzing from the scrape of whiskers. Victor makes a pleased noise and grabs his face, pungent smell of his own come flooding his nose as Victor’s tongue fucks into his mouth.

Victor pulls back long before Logan’s ready to let him go, licks at Logan’s lips, then his chin, his jaw. It takes Logan a moment to realise Victor’s licking come from his skin and by then all he can do is slump against the fence, breathing hard, face tilted up to the warm rasp of Victor’s tongue.

When Logan finally goes for Victor’s belt, a hand clamps tightly to his wrist. Logan scowls, starts to ask, “What-” and Victor shushes him, comes back for another longer kiss, careless enough to slice up Logan’s lip with the edge of his fangs. Logan’s sharp hiss is lost in the harder press of Victor’s mouth, the taste of blood licked straight off his tongue.

This time, when Victor pulls away, he pushes Logan firmly back against the fence, palm flat and fingers splayed wide in the centre of Logan’s chest. His gaze travels leisurely downward, taking in the ruin of Logan’s clothes, the come smeared on his slowly softening cock, all the way back up to the bit left drying on his face along with Victor’s saliva.

“You look good like this,” Victor says, “always have,” and his smile grows at the sharp kick of Logan’s heart against his palm.

“That’s it?” Logan says. Victor’s put him on blatant display and he doesn’t care, he can still smell the fine, sharp edge of Victor’s lust. “That all you came here for?”

“I told you,” Victor says, and pauses, breathes deep, savouring the heavy scent of sex Logan can smell on his own skin, “Happy birthday, Jimmy,” and then, mouth brought enough to Logan’s that his lips part on instinct for a kiss that doesn’t come, “and many, many more.”

A chill rushes in when Victor steps back, just turns and starts walking away. He pats the car absently as he passes by and his name jumps onto the tip of Logan’s tongue. Logan quickly chokes it back down, breathes deep of the cool air to try clearing the hazy smell of Victor from his head.

Sluggishly, Logan tucks himself away, fixes his clothes. His face is tight, itchy; he tries to scrub it away and his stomach flips at the fresher scent of come. The last thing he should want to do is call Victor back here for round two, never mind the ache in his gut or the insistent, lingering want to feel his jaw stretched wide. If Victor had wanted it, he’d have taken it, there’s no damn good reason for Logan to go chasing after him.

Logan yanks the plane ticket out of his pocket and viciously rips it in two, flinging it to the ground. Waste of money when he should’ve already known he wouldn’t use it.

The car is caved in on itself, the windshield shattered. He could beat the worst of the dents out but it doesn’t seem worth it. He leaves the keys in the dirt with the shreds of paper and starts walking east, towards the city. Easy enough to get his hands on another set of wheels there if he looks in the right place.

From there, north. Canada.

End

One Response to “Not Yours to Break”

  1. Nassau Says:

    The most intriguing thing about the pairings you explore is how often there is the feeling of the characters being left unsatisfied. Beautifully done, of course, and it builds an almost continuous tension in the piece.

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