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Victor’s fist connects with Logan’s open mouth either just wrong or just right, and Logan staggers back, cursing, blood welling from mouth and lip. He recovers in a flash and the stagger turns to feet spread, hands up and ready, and then he spits bone-white.
All of Victor’s senses jolt, time slowing and colors and smells going too bright, too vivid and nothing tethered in their proper time.
Two teeth bounce in the dirt, curved and pointed, smaller than his but still obviously canines, fresh and bloody. He can almost feel the gap in his own mouth, swears he can taste the blood, and his eyes fly up, to Logan grimacing, spitting to the side, running a tongue along his upper line of teeth. Through the pounding of his blood in his own ears, he hears Logan growling like it’s from under meters of water, and the words lisp slightly, breath gone funny through the gaps in his teeth.
“Dammit, Vic. Thought we said not in the face?”
He doesn’t think of moving, but somehow his hands are on Logan’s cheeks, his claws (claws, he still has his claws) resting feather-light on the man’s skin. Logan jerks back slightly in surprise, eyes widening, and then hands are on his arms.
“Vic? You alright?” someone asks, and Victor sees the gaps in Logan’s teeth again as his mouth moves. Those gaps, only someone terrible would put those there.
“Oh. Shit. Hey, Vic, breathe, I’m alright,” he hears, and Logan is grabbing one of his hands, pulling a thumb toward his lips. “Here, feel. They’re already growing back,” he says, and then drops his jaw to press the pad of Victor’s thumb up into his mouth.
He feels it, slick against his skin, a sharp little prick of bone steadily growing.
“See?” Logan says, muffled and mangled around his thumb. “It’s fine.”
The next moment Victor rips his hand away and his mouth is over Logan’s, tongue sliding in wet and needy to press to each gap, to feel those teeth regrowing. He knows his own teeth are still in his mouth only because Logan’s tongue curves around each one in turn, slow and meaningful, like he knows he needs to let Victor feel them, needs to let him know how much he likes them. How much he loves them.
Victor doesn’t stop until the fresh, vicious point of both small teeth stops moving, until he’s licked the last hint of blood out of Logan’s mouth like a desperate apology and then licked some more. When he finally pulls his mouth off and straightens, panting like he’s just run a sprint, Logan is running his fingers down his sideburns, gently petting at his beard.
“You okay?” Concerned blue eyes under quirked eyebrows are holding him with their gaze.
He’s definitely not okay, but he’s never going to say that.
“Yeah. Sure,” he manages. He knows Logan sees the lie on his face, but that he won’t call him on it. With a shudder he adds, “Yeah. Not to the face sounds like a good plan when we’re playing. Won’t happen again.”