momentary ficlet: hearts like ours
Words: tortured, flower, shy, purple, alluring (from scottxlogan)
There would be no flowers. No long walks on the beach; no grandiose make-out sessions in the rain (where all Logan would taste and feel would be water, and the heavy slide of clothes against skin).
It would be this: A purple bruise bitten to the corner of Scott’s mouth, and Scott would lick it, and Logan would pause – finding a space and time mid-battle – to admire just how alluring he was.
Because if either of them were professionals at anything, it would be self-torture. And so the luxury of time, or sweet nothings, or the gradual blossom of affection were stunted by words, and fists; and the slice of a red beam cleaving through skin to reveal the gleam of metal.
Logan had been the one to put the bruise there: a nip of teeth, followed by a swipe of the tongue, to which Scott had responded in turn: head canting as his fingers stole into Logan’s shirt. Careful, shy and sure.