Rough Trade

Movieverse. Victor/Logan. NC-17. ~5300 words. Uninformed consent.
“An army boy,” Victor says, gaze on the chain tucked into Logan’s shirt. He hooks a finger in the one dangling around his own neck. “Imagine that.”

It took two weeks for Logan to decide he was a whiskey man. A bartender in Duluth took one look at him, said, “Whiskey,” and had it poured up before Logan’s ass even touched the seat. Out of pure stubbornness, he switched to imported vodka for the rest of the night, even though it tasted like shit.

Some things were easy to figure out. Whiskey for serious drinking, otherwise, a good draught beer. Mayo, yes; mustard, never, unless honey ham was in the mix. No cream in his coffee and always two sugars even if he had something sweet to go with it. Thirty-two long for jeans, boots not shoes, and he likes the rich smell of leather.

Maybe he worked in a tannery once upon a time. He has no telltale scars, for reasons he was quick to learn thirty seconds into a barfight he definitely didn’t start, but even aside from the strength in it, his body feels accustomed to hard labour. The few odd jobs he’s picked up drifting from town to town, searching, have mostly been construction, or when he was making his way up the coast, dockwork. The steady rhythm of it settled on his shoulders as comfortably as an old shirt.

He uncovers memories as sensation. There are two different forests in his mind, one dark and wet, thick with decay, the other bright, crisp, reeking sharply of spilled blood. Waking up on the cold, hard ground exists side by side with the brush of jersey cotton sheets. He remembers the feel of a woman’s softness cradled to his chest and the press of a man against his back, rough hands digging into his flesh, hard, harder, trying to mark him deep enough to make it stick.

The bartender in front of him now, Edwin, cheerful owner of a hole dug deep in the southern end of Minneapolis catering to men with an appetite for the rougher side of life, nods at the old pool tables in the back. “Seems like your type.”

Logan glances at the spotted mirrors lining the wall behind the counter. It’s the guy Logan noticed about a week ago, then again a few nights after that. Not a regular according to Edwin. He’s in the same dark coat and battered boots, his brown hair cropped as short as his beard. His hands are big and his smile crooked when he bothers to give one. He sits with a toothpick stuck between his teeth, drinking the same whiskey staining the bottom of Logan’s glass, watching people watch him.

To Logan’s raised eyebrow, Edwin says, “Comes in, drinks, makes the boys crazy and doesn’t put out.”

Logan snorts. “Cute.”

After a quick look in the mirror again, Logan swivels around on his barstool, elbow propped against the counter. If he’s not careful, he finds he thinks too much of the observations others make of him, testing their fit to see if he can find truth in them. All he has are snatches of memory and the idea that whoever he is, it’s nobody nice. Too many nights he wakes in a sweat, craving something, anything, familiar. Names float beyond his reach and it feels like if he could catch them, say them just once, someone that knows him would suddenly be there to not make it right, but make it okay.

The night he walked into Edwin’s place the smell hit him hard as a fist to the gut. Beer, smoke, sweat; he remembered a tiny room with raw wood planks for walls and dirt for a floor, the guttering flame of a gas lamp and the sweet scratch of whiskers on his belly. Ever since, he’s been sitting around waiting for something to yank another scrap of himself free from the mess in his head.

Logan stands up, cracks his neck. “How about another, Ed?”

Pursing his lips in a low whistle, Edwin sets a fresh whiskey beside Logan’s rumpled napkin. A moment later a second joins it. “On the house.”

Logan nods in thanks, ignoring the sidelong glance the guy at the other end of the bar slides his way. Middle-aged nine to fiver that worked up the guts to hit on him his third night back in a row, with two point three kids and a wife that doesn’t ask enough questions. Logan can smell her on him, almost as thick as the guilt he’s trying to drown in cheap bourbon. Guilt doesn’t feel like anything new to Logan. He’s still not here looking to be anybody’s crutch.

The guy in the coat doesn’t look up when Logan nears but shoves the chair across from him out with a toe. He pushes his own drink aside, still a few mouthfuls left swimming around the ice, and crooks a finger for a new one.

Vicious claws sit where his nails should be, thick and deadly. The guy lets him look, spreads his palm flat on the table with his fingers wide like he’s been waiting for a chance to show off. Logan recognises his scent now. Why it wraps around him, thick as a curl of smoke, so familiar. Mutant.

Sliding the glass into the guy’s waiting grip, Logan says, “Name’s Logan.”

When he says nothing, just drinks, Logan starts to doubt his choice to come over. Ed wasn’t just blowing smoke when he said the guy showed no interest in anybody. Logan’s got no reason to think he’s the type this guy is looking for. Hell, Logan doesn’t even know what his type is, but he does know one way to find out.

Then the guys sprawls back, slants that crooked smile, and says, “Hello.”

“Nice coat.” Logan takes the offered seat. “Good for lurking?”

“Like the villain in an old movie.” He takes another sip, sucks a droplet from his bottom lip. “Just going to watch me drink, Logan?”

There’s a sharp tug in Logan’s gut. He wants to hear the guy say his name again, and again in a voice rough with something other than drink. “Got a name?”

“Just for you.” The guy flashes teeth, wicked canines to match his wicked claws, and sticks out his hand. “Victor.”

Victor’s touch lingers. Clawtips gently scrape the inside of Logan’s wrist, spark a quick rush of heat. “Nice to meet you, Victor.”

“Pleasure all around.”

A bark of laughter jumps out of Logan’s throat. Victor shows him more fang, eyes glinting bright enough to rival the shine of his teeth. “Liked that one, did you?”

“Well enough.” A genuine smile tugs at Logan’s lips. “Do you have any more?”

“As long as I have a captive audience.”

Victor’s wit is whip-quick, a little surprising. As soon as Logan’s glass is empty, he gets up to fetch another. He hooks an ankle around his chair when he comes back to drag it closer to Logan’s. Their thighs touch, the rising heat of Victor’s body presses in, brings his scent closer with it. Logan finds himself breathing deep, savouring it. Each pull into his lungs feeds the slow, hungry burn.

As Victor talks, his claws tap the glass. It draws Logan’s attention sluggishly from the shape of his mouth to the tiny scratches steadily clouding the clear glass.

“An army boy,” Victor says, gaze on the chain tucked into Logan’s shirt. He hooks a finger in the one dangling around his own neck. “Imagine that.”

Logan’s heart gives a hard thump. It’s not much to go on but it’s the closest he’s ever come outside his own mind. He waits for his pulse to steady before asking, “In the field much?”

“A little here, a little there.” Victor rubs at his chin with a knuckle. “Playing civilian now. Got me a room with a view and all.”

The invitation hangs. If Victor knows anything at all, some rumour Logan can use to connect himself to Three Mile, or even hook him up with someone who’d be in a position to point him in the right direction, he’ll still know it in a few hours. There’s no harm in taking what Victor’s offering. Fishing in his back pocket, Logan comes up with half a dozen bills and flicks them onto the table.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Victor says. He heads for the exit, tossing a grin over his shoulder.

Scattered applause and more than one catcall follows Logan out into the night. All he can do is shake his head. He came looking for answers first, sex if it caught his fancy second. Night after night in this place and no one’s struck the chord Logan can feel humming through his veins now.

It’s late, the air cool. A few steps outside the door Victor’s on him, Logan’s blood running faster, hotter as he’s muscled back to the wall. He lets it happen, the want pouring off Victor edging his need to fight back into something else entirely.

For a moment, Victor just watches. A smartass comment leaps to the tip of Logan’s tongue, slips right back down his throat again when Victor grabs the side of his face, mutters, “Hope you haven’t turned priggish on me,” and shoves their mouths together.

Logan can’t help the noise he makes, can’t stop his eyes from snapping shut or his mouth from opening up beneath the push of Victor’s. Victor wipes the phantom taste of a man Logan doesn’t know straight off his tongue. He goes after the whiskey tainting Victor’s mouth in turn, needs to strip it away so all that’s left is him, them.

Victor pulls away, nips Logan’s lips none too lightly. He scrapes those teeth over the hinge of Logan’s jaw, pulling another low sound deep out of Logan’s throat. Down a little more, rough push of tongue followed by the hard edge of fang, and Logan drops his face into the crook of Victor’s neck, lets the smell of Victor’s desperate want seep into his bones.

If he’d been paying attention, he’d have caught the slight shift in Victor’s body language the second before teeth pierced his flesh. He jerks back on instinct, feels skin tear beneath Victor’s hold. Metal claws rip down through Logan’s arms and out of his hands, pain slamming head-on into the electric buzz of Victor in his blood, twisting up tight with the ache in his dick.

Catching his wrists in a light grip, Victor says, “Now, now. Showed you mine, you show me yours,” and nudges Logan’s arms back, angling his body so the streetlight reflects off the metal. He licks softly at the healing bite before pulling away.

Victor presses their palms briefly together, lets their fingers lace. His own claws lengthen, curl, prick sharply at the backs of Logan’s fingers like a promise. With a smile, Victor slides his fingers away from Logan’s, runs them up between the metal straight to the tips.

Holding very still, Logan waits for this to blow up in his face and he has to kill the only lead he’s found in months.

One of Victor’s claws screeches back down the length of Logan’s. Victor makes a quietly pleased noise and grasps Logan’s hand, licks at his palm. Turns it over to do the same to the cold metal.

“Mind your tongue,” Logan says, not surprised to hear the train wreck of his voice. He’d thought he’d seen it all before–shock, revulsion, curiosity and pity, but this is none of those. Victor’s eyes gleam with a covetous light. Lust rolls off him in sweet, dizzying waves, thriving on the violence he holds between his hands.

Logan flexes his fingers as the blades retract. Victor follows them down to the knuckle, tongue rasping between Logan’s fingers. He bites at the back of Logan’s wrist, scrapes his teeth up Logan’s arm to bite again just above the latent claws like he knows exactly where they sit.

“Said you had a room.”

“Oh, I do.” Victor kisses him again, cool tang of metal on his tongue. When he moves to break it, Logan grabs on, keeps kissing him until all that’s left is Victor.

Victor shoves him back with a hand to his chest and a quiet chuckle. “Come on then.”

The walk is three blocks down, two over. Not nearly long enough for Logan to get his fill of Victor’s smooth, easy gait falling into line with his. He remembers hurrying to catch up with someone whose strides ate up the ground like Victor’s. Maybe his father for all Logan knew.

Victor ducks into an alleyway off a one-way street. His boots clang heavily on a set of old metal stairs. Logan hangs back as he fiddles with the lock, wonders at the shape of Victor’s body beneath that bulky coat.

The door swings inward and Victor steps back with a flourish. “My humble abode.”

Inside is dark, musty. The shades are drawn and the place reeks of age. Victor comes up behind him, rests both hands on his shoulders, noses at the nape of his neck. Instead of the bite Logan expects, he gets the warmth of Victor’s breath and a slow kiss.

“Upstairs,” Victor says. His claws hook into the open collar of Logan’s jacket. Logan lets him drag it off, one foot already on the stairs.

Victor tosses both their coats over the banister. He follows a few steps behind, seemingly indifferent to the tension tightening the space between Logan’s shoulders, if he even notices it at all.

Photographs line the staircase. Predictably, Logan recognises none of the stern, blank faces, but it rules out this as a central hall to a building full of rented rooms being the cause of the closed-up feeling weighing heavily in the air.

“Straight ahead,” Victor instructs, hand coming to rest low on Logan’s back.

The door’s unlocked. Stepping over the threshold is like stepping into a different world, one old and familiar, soaked in warmth and Victor. There are clothes scattered on the floor and bed, haphazard strew of bottles on the floor. Victor gathers the bed covers and everything tangled up with them in a heap, tossing them aside.

“Not expecting company?” Logan asks.

“Not your company,” Victor counters. He grasps the hem of his shirt and tugs it off, his dogtags falling back against his chest with a dull clink.

Logan kicks the door shut in concession to anybody else that might be in the house, though Victor hardly seems concerned. “You got a light in here?”

In the middle of unbuttoning his pants, Victor nods at the wall behind the door.

Logan flicks the switch, flooding the room with yellow light. He blinks the spots out of his eyes as he crosses back to Victor, pushing his hands away from the zip. “Slow down, will you?” he says, testing the fit of Victor’s hips in his hands, thumbs angled along the cut-glass lines of muscle. He wants to know what they’d feel like against his mouth. “Any reason you got to be in a hurry?”

Instead of answering, Victor says, “Get this off,” already pushing to get at Logan’s skin. He doesn’t bother with the buttons, gathering up the well-worn flannel and the tee shirt beneath to yank them off over Logan’s head. His claws catch on the seam of one, quick snag and rip that curves his lips.

“Hey now.” Logan scowls, grabs at the trailing sleeve of his shirt, just out of his reach as Victor gives it a careless toss across the room. “That’s my good shirt.”

Victor’s smile deepens. Claws scrape Logan’s belly as he hooks open Logan’s jeans, barely hard enough to notice but it still makes Logan’s breath catch. “So take one of mine.”

Logan lets himself be dragged along as Victor backsteps towards the bed. He thinks about walking out of here with Victor’s scent sunk into his skin, Victor’s clothes trapping it close. The ache in his cock spreads up, out, fills his chest with a vicious need.

“Wont be saying that when I take your favourite shirt.”

“They’re all my favourite.” Victor sits on the edge of the bed, feet planted wide so there’s space to pull Logan between his spread knees. He nuzzles at Logan’s stomach, weird contrast to the claws pushing into Logan’s open fly, plucking at his underwear. Victor presses another open-mouthed kiss to his skin, follows the trail of hair down to where the elastic waistband cuts it off. He snarls in annoyance, giving Logan a glimpse of saliva-wet fangs.

“Hey now,” Logan repeats, kneeing Victor back. He grabs Victor’s shoulders, means to hold him there and gets lost for a moment in the shift of muscle beneath his hands, the memory of someone else’s strength barely contained by his touch. Long enough for Victor to press forward again, get his underwear pulled down to expose the wet head of his cock.

Tightening his grip just makes Victor smile. “Is that a no?”

“That’s a watch where you’re putting those teeth, buddy.”

Anger hardens Victor’s gaze before his dark laugh chases it away. “Trust me,” he says, in a way like he knows Logan’s going to do just the opposite. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, good for you,” Logan starts, trying to pull himself out of the thrall of Victor’s lust long enough to pull out of his grasp, too.

The first rasp of Victor’s tongue over his cock shuts him down, breaker tripped. His whole world narrows down to the wet heat dragging over his slit, the prickle of hair against the sensitive ridge as Victor turns his head to lick at the shaft. Victor follows the length all the way down to bury his nose in the soft hair at the base.

Claws settle lightly against Logan’s bare ass, dig in just enough to get his attention when he palms the back of Victor’s skull intending to put that mouth back where it belongs.

“Going to argue with me this time if I tell you to kneel up there?” Victor asks, jerking his chin at the wooden headboard shoved flush to the wall.

Logan hesitates. His memories are even more jumbled than usual, flashing from the heavy weight of another man’s cock against his thigh to the drag of his tongue down someone’s bowed spine, ripple of muscle beneath sweat-slick skin, strong hands jerking him closer, urging him to give more, take more, just more.

Victor yanks him back to here and now with the blunt pressure of teeth pressed to his cock. He sucks in a shaky breath, a lust all his own slicing deep to spur him on this time.

“Since you seem to know what you’re doing,” he says finally, setting one knee to the mattress and keeping his other foot braced solidly on the floor. His jeans are an awkward bunch around his thighs but he finds it hard to care. He rests his forearm against the wall, trying to pick his way through the whirlwind mess Victor’s made of his mind.

Victor’s hands skim down his sides. The first bite digs deep into the meat of his shoulder. He snarls a soft warning, shaking Victor off, only to feel another bite seconds later under the curve of his arm.

“Victor,” he growls.

“You like it.” Claws drag down either side of Logan’s spine, nerves lighting up in their wake like wick after flame. Another bite to the back of his neck and Logan lets his head drop against his arm, baring his flesh to Victor’s teeth. “Going to have to start listening to me sooner or later.”

Fingers push down between the cheeks of Logan’s ass, sensation thickening Logan’s tongue. Victor’s careful, too careful, holding him open. Not even the barest scratch. Logan scrapes his tongue against his teeth, swallows.

It’s not enough. Victor’s breath scorches his flesh like a brand. Restless, Logan pushes away from the wall.

“Don’t,” Victor says, the brush of his lips setting Logan’s skin to tingling, quieting the edge Logan’s riding even as it ratchets it up a notch. “You should let me enjoy this.”

The rough drag of Victor’s tongue snaps Logan’s body taut. He takes his time, long, lazy licks giving slowly way to blunt pressure lingering longer and longer at Logan’s hole. Saliva drips between Logan’s legs, cooling fast, sending a shivering skittering under his skin as Victor’s mouth warms it again.

Then Victor’s tongue is a slick, dirty wiggle inside him. He can’t remember if he’s felt this before, feels not quite right letting someone he doesn’t know do this to him. The headboard creaks in Logan’s grip. He tries to swallow the groan inching its way out of his throat and makes the mistake of opening his eyes, sees Victor’s claws curled over his hips, eight tiny pinpricks of blood staining the tips.

Victor snarls a curse into Logan’s flesh, all the warning offered before Victor yanks him bodily down to the bed, just missing smashing his chin on the headboard on the way.

“Jesus Christ,” Logan snarls back. He shoves up off his elbow to twist around, stopped halfway there with Victor’s heavy weight draped over his back.

“Had to,” Victor breathes, a far cry from an apology or even an explanation. “Not going to try to stop me now, are you?”

A strong hand wrapped around Logan’s dick almost sends him crashing back down. The teeth of Victor’s open fly dig into his ass as he fucks into a maddeningly loose grip. Wet smears over his skin, Victor’s cock still trapped in his underwear but the slick from it leaking through.

“Didn’t think so,” Victor says, dragging his nails up the inside of Logan’s thigh.

Logan grits his teeth against a casual bite to his side as Victor inches back, then bites again close to his hip. “Anybody ever tell you you’re an asshole?”

Victor’s fingers curve over his ass again, dig in, expose. “Just you,” he says, words rushing hot over damp skin. He breathes in deep, rubs his face along the crease, moans softly in response to Logan’s shudder. “Lately.”

Another slow, dirty lick. The point of his tongue traces the rim, dips deep. He ignores Logan’s suggestion of putting a hand back on his cock, ignores everything except fucking Logan loose and open.

Little by little, the pad of Victor’s thumb replaces his tongue. Logan tenses, quiets his shallow, panting breaths. The mattress creaks beneath their weight.

“You’d heal,” Victor whispers, mouth on the curve of Logan’s spine.

Logan curls his hand into a fist. The feel of metal displacing the bones in his arm is still alien. “Doesn’t mean it’d be fun.”

Victor leans close, breath stirring the hair curled damply behind Logan’s ear. His thumb presses harder, clawtip resting below Logan’s tailbone. “It might be for me.”

“Try it and see.”

Victor laughs. He plants a sloppy kiss on Logan’s shoulder and slides his hand away, smoothes it up over Logan’s side to curl just below his armpit. His teeth graze the shell of Logan’s ear. “Move over.”

When Victor’s weight lifts, Logan sits back on his haunches. He’s about to ask, Move where? when Victor drops into the space just vacated, slanted halfway across the bed.

Victor grins, nudging his leg between Logan’s until his boot heel hitches the jeans still hanging on around Logan’s calves. “Take those off,” he says, angling his hips to pull his clothes down, free his cock. His claws trace the thick vein on the underside up to his slit. “Ride me.”

The whole room sways. Logan remembers men, a man. Thinks he does, anyway. He thumps down on the edge of the bed, legs slung over the side so he can tug at his laces. “Got something to make it easier on me?”

“You’re loose as you’re ever gonna be,” Victor says, lazily stroking his cock. At Logan’s sideways glance, he heaves a sigh, digs around in the mess beside the bed to come up with an open jar. “No rubber,” he says.

Logan’s body clenches down tight on the heat lanced straight into his gut. He drops his boots, kicks off his jeans. “No rubber.”

The thick gel in the jar’s cool as the rest of the house. Logan slicks up his fingers and Victor’s cock, thinks about smearing some on himself but wipes his hand off on Victor’s belly instead. He’s never managed to get himself drunk before but this must be what it feels like. “Be in more of a mess soon enough.”

“Promises, promises.”

As Logan straddles Victor’s legs, heart trying to find its way to freedom by cracking through his ribs, Victor’s hands come to rest on his hips almost immediately. Always there, stubborn and greedy, fingers slotting over bruises that barely have time to form before they’re wiped away. Teeth clamped on the back of his neck always in the same place, too, to hold him down, to keep him safe-

“Don’t make me wait now,” Victor says, snuffing out the brief memory.

Logan shuffles forward, braces himself with one hand on Victor’s shoulder, the other guiding the blunt head home. He drops his chin to his chest as Victor’s hips lift, push past what’s left of his body’s resistance. Victor hisses a curse and keeps going, fucking up into him with tiny, shallow thrusts, hands kneading at his sides.

Light glints off the dogtags hanging loose around Logan’s neck. Victor’s are a bright spill across his chest. On impulse, Logan twists his fist up in Victor’s chain, pulls it taut over Victor’s throat.

Victor’s eyes go black. He thrusts up hard, drives a grunt out of Logan and echoes it seconds later as Logan drops down, takes him right to the root. Sensation bursts out all along Logan’s limbs. He’s too full and split wide open, aching for it, craving it. He lifts up, meaning to do just what Victor asked, but Victor meets him halfway there, slams him back down with more strength than Logan would’ve guessed.

“That’s it,” Victor urges, the echo of it so familiar it feels like going crazy. “Always afraid of how bad you want things, aren’t you, Logan?” His gaze jumps from Logan’s face to the drag of Logan’s cock over his stomach. “How far you’ll go to get them.”

Logan freezes. Victor lets out a savage snarl and tries to shove him back down, face twisted up in fury. “You know me.”

Claws slice into Logan’s sides. The sudden shock of it gives Victor the leeway to fuck up into him, barest trickle of blood marring Logan’s skin before the wounds begin to knit around Victor’s fingers.

“You know me,” Logan repeats. He lets go of the dogtags to set his fist right against Victor’s heart, flesh mottled beneath his knuckles. “Tell me.”

“This is not letting me enjoy myself,” Victor says.

The nick of metal claws shortens Victor’s breath. His fingers flex like a warning, claws inches from shredding Logan’s kidneys, but Logan doesn’t care.

“Tell me.”

Victor says, “No,” and rips his claws free.

Three blades pierce Victor’s chest with a dull thunk. Victor’s laugh turns into a burbling wheeze and clears again just as quickly, becomes dark and knowing, pleased.

“Never killed the mood before,” Victor says. He shifts, hands back on Logan’s hips, and Logan can feel layers of muscle and sinew cleave around the metal buried in Victor’s chest. He coughs, spits a bright red spray of blood carelessly onto the sheet. A slow, sinuous roll of his hips has his cock dragging over delicate inner flesh. “Used to you and your impulses,” he rasps.

Victor’s heartbeat reverberates up Logan’s arm into his own chest. It speeds his own pulse as much as Victor’s slow fucking.

Logan twists his wrist.

“Ah, Jesus,” Victor groans, rhythm faltering. Like Logan’s, the wounds barely even bleed. He scrubs a hand through the slick Logan smeared on him and takes Logan’s cock in hand, squeezing tight before giving it a hard tug. “Yank them out.”

Logan sucks a breath between gritted teeth. “What?”

“Yank them out and I’ll tell you who you are.” Victor’s head rolls back against the flat pillow. Beneath the few smears of blood, his chest is flushed, sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. The muscles of his stomach bunch as he grinds up into Logan’s body. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Logan doesn’t know why, but he waits. He lets the rhythmic pull of Victor’s hand on his cock distract him, snippets of memory bubbling up one after the other to mirror the hard push of Victor’s cock inside him, the smell of their mixed blood and sweat. He waits until he can’t tell the difference between the pleasure and pain in Victor’s voice and then he jerks his claws free, rocked to the core as Victor’s body bows, lets out a noise trapped halfway between a snarl and a scream.

Somehow, Victor shakes it off before Logan can. “You too,” he grunts, tightening his slack grip, raking his claws down Logan’s chest to take him in both hands. Logan slumps forward, rutting into the slippery tunnel of his hands, cock jerking at the hiss of his breath as metal claws slice his shoulder.

Head swimming, not enough air in his lungs, Logan loses it. Through dazed eyes he watches his come spatter Victor’s belly, shine wetly on Victor’s rough hands. He barely hears Victor’s purred, “You too, little brother,” but it tears another ragged groan out of him, another spill of white onto Victor’s skin.

Logan slaps away the hand Victor lifts to his face, rolls up and off Victor’s softening cock. Come clings to the inside of his thigh. He can feel the warm, wet seep of it. His stomach churns on the memory of Victor’s tongue rasping up the back of his leg, gathering up spilled come and pushing it back into him.

He wants that, right now. Like he’d kill to have it. Like he has.

“Poor Jimmy.” Victor casually tucks an arm under his head. “You only think you know.” He pats the empty mattress beside him. “Come sit down.”

“To hell with you,” Logan snaps. He hauls on his jeans and tries to ignore the thick smell of Victor on his skin. He can’t think through the richness of it.

“I thought you wanted answers.”

“Answers, not lies.” There are four holes each clawed in both of Logan’s shirts. Disgusted, he tosses them aside and grabs Victor’s. It smells like home.

“Leave if you want.” Victor shrugs, drags a clawed fingertip through the mess of Logan’s come drying on his belly. “I can always find you.”

“Come after me and I’ll kill you.”

Victor stands, hitches up his jeans just enough. Logan’s mouth goes wet, not sure if he’s remembering the strong, solid line of Victor’s chest pressed against his own or if he’s imagining it.

“You’ll want to kill me.” Victor strolls across the room, stops a few inches away. Heat pours off his body, heat and sex and blood. It strokes Logan’s skin like lover’s hands. “But you won’t.”

Logan’s torn between smashing his fist into that smiling mouth, or biting it, feeling soft flesh give way to his teeth, listening to Victor moan as he does it.

“Try it and see,” Victor invites.

On his way down the stairs, blood thrumming through his veins, Logan looks up to see Victor hanging in the open doorway. Like Logan, his skin is unbroken, no marks from teeth or claws to prove what they’d just done, but it’s there, carved in the shape of his satisfied smile.

“Your birthday,” Victor calls. “Three weeks from today. I’ll bring you a present.”

Logan jerks his gaze away and doesn’t look back a second time.

End

2 Responses to “Rough Trade”

  1. Nassau Says:

    Delicious. Absolutely delicious. You have a real knack for getting characterization down to a “T,” and this piece is no exception.

  2. sadness1986 Says:

    Your fics are amazing. I’m always looking for something, that touches me, pulls my strings, plays my melody and you do.
    They are deeply sensual, beautiful, rough and soft at the same time and baring all illusions.

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