Logan’s POV for Gammameta’s Slow. (Go read it first!) When she sent me her fic, I did my hap-flappy dance of joy. And then I read it and got depressed. But in a good way. (Yes, that’s possible.) So, I instantly wondered what it would be like for Logan. It was so sad and tragic, my poor heart ached for the both of them. I just couldn’t let this go, and started writing the moment I was done sending her feedback. Thank you, Gammameta, for inspiring me!|
He liked it hard and rough and knew she could take it. Sometimes, it was angry. All about release and hurt and rage. He always felt guilty afterwards, afraid. That he’d stolen her spark. That she would be changed. Gone. But she never was. She still looked at him the same. Knew when he needed it. Accepted it and lit him up. He still got her. Even then.
With her, he didn’t mind tired, or sleepy and soft. And he’d never tried playful before, but he found out that he could be teasing and mischievous and still be passionate. Her giggles, sparkling eyes, the playful wiggle of her body underneath his. Unknown territory, but he learned that it was a part of him, too. Simple fun. Uncomplicated.
But then he went slow.
Her eyes changed. Avoided his. Blinking, suddenly concerned. Her hands grew impatient, restlessly moving over his arms, his shoulders, urging, wanting more. Faster. A frantic kiss. A bite.
“Shh-shh…” He stopped. Wanted her to see him. Feel him. Feel them. He tried to show her. Needed to show her, but he couldn’t seem to hold her the way he wanted. She didn’t let him. She wasn’t soft anymore.
He went slower. Willed her to notice. Man, not beast. Love, not lust. Asking, not giving. Trying to find a way. Slow, but deep. Carefully exploring her skin, warm and pure. Innocent, but dangerous. He trusted her.
A gentle nibble, a light caress. Lazy movements, ignoring her dragging fingernails, her anxiety. Was she nervous? Afraid she’d slip?
“Relax,” he said. “Take it slow.” And she held him, but he couldn’t feel her.
She looked up. Dark eyes uncertain. Almost - scared?
The room seemed too small. There were too many shadows. He was taking up all space, the oxygen. Smothering her. He was too much. Or maybe she was too little. Not quite ready. Too young. He hovered. Wanted to let go but couldn’t. He was so close. So selfish.
He tried to find her again. Her light. Her smile. A brush against her hair to draw her attention. She looked up, but there was no glow.
Slowly, he traced her eyebrow with his thumb. Searching for more. Wanting her to flourish again. To keep the light. To stay the same. Instead, she closed her eyes and wrapped her legs around him. She cradled his body, tightened her muscles and clung on. When she wildly lifted her hips, he had to support himself with his hands beside her head. His jaw clenched, and he gave an involuntary thrust. She opened up, became soft again, recognized the rhythm, and he surrendered.
He couldn’t stop.
He had to make her join him and urged her to breathe his breath, to feel his yearning, to light his dark. He knew she tried, but she couldn’t catch up. He called out her name, dragging her after him. He fell. She pulled.
Choking shadows surrounded him, draining, consuming. He tumbled, got lost, couldn’t see. He clawed at the light, pictured her face, thought of her hair, every pore of her skin. Her name like a mantra, over and over again, until he was back.
She trembled. Didn’t move. Wasn’t quite there. He lifted his weight and tried again.
She kept her eyes shut. Didn’t look.
He felt a rush a panic. He needed to know if she was okay. That he hadn’t been too much. That she was still the same.
“Open your eyes.”
She didn’t, and he then knew.
This time, her light was gone.