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themareverine · 2 months ago

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Bed of Bones | Logan Howlett x fem!OC

synopsis: When he promised her something different, she didn't think it would be this. Alaskan stars, scraping to survive, trying to feel. Anonymous faces in a forgotten frontier. It isn't much, it's barely living—but really all she needs to live is him.

warnings: comic adaptation, pre-established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series, angst, survival aesthetics, mentions of hunting, dead carcasses, extreme minimalism, blood, mentions of Logan's time at Weapon X, implied sexual content.

a/n: after listening to the podcast drama Wolverine: The Long Night and its sequel, Wolverine: The Lost Trail, i'm kinda obsessed with Richard Armitage's take on Logan. tortured, angsty, deeply raw and emotional—sign me right up for that. there's a scene that describes Logan's living conditions when he makes his home in nowhere Alaska, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Conditions beyond the four walls of the high-woods cabin would be not far removed from that of frozen hell, if laid out parallel to the everyday eye. Void of sunlight at dinner hours. Harsh wind howls, clawing the boards of the condemning thing so bravely titled architecture—even at this altitude, as the crow flies from the water.

Mountain landscape is wild, unforgiving—snow manages to hurricane in sideways, somehow, snaking between trees and low brush, rock. Drives a hard blanket of heavy wet to the once-lush forest floor. Thick trees Goliath tall in an unmovable, chaotic troop. Lowlight, and you would never see the slatwood slapped together with tar and faith—evergreen fronds sentinel away the world, strong walls taunting the world beyond the reach of woods.

When the sun breaks the horizon over the water, the world will be still. Canvas of untouched snow, pure like a virgin, will breathe life into the forest again. Creatures will cull from their caves and beds, will roam freely the fresh from God—breathe air normally unthinkable to mortals. Mountain stone, miles away in the untouched Yukon, will reach jagged fingers to heaven, as if they themselves in their might will rip God from heaven. Kissed with snow even at a distance, they impose harsh laws of the wilderness—survive or die. Life, or death.

There are no lines to walk in Alaska when it comes to the games of living and dying. They are the masters, humanity but an unwise player at the table of chance. Fools before the slaughter. Life, here, is fickle—left up to the false gods of chance and fate. Day and night. Sun and moon, life falls on the blade of time.

Time, and most often attributed by headlines and big-city newscasters, luck—either kind. Four-leaf, or devil-may-cry. The fortunate see the colors of sunrise, breathtaking and pure, over crystalline waters whitecapped with rage and promise. The not-so, well—

—they become quickly acquainted with that throne the mountains try to steal from God.

For those who try to die and don’t—for them—it’s another thing altogether. An Eden, the holy-of-holies away from the battle of living, the war of the being seen. Paradise lost to the knowing. A forgotten frontier, cursed and barren in the hands of men ill understood of the way the wolf walks, the hunger of prey scratching at ice in spring. Fruitless and forbidden, existing on maps as No Man’s Lands and undesired terrains— spinning in the hearts of those who cry someday and never again.

A simple life with little reward beyond morning, Alaskan wilderness reeks of chore and survival. Mundane and petulant. Concepts now lost in the age of machines, swipe right, thumb left; technology’s far-reaching lust of instantaneous gratification. Such things scream louder than the cry of fresh air and escapism, of ample and simple.

Man is blind to the fruit of the earth, lost to concrete. And concrete always wins—the machines. They always win.

“Where are you, Logan?”

Pacing the threadbare boards of the cabin—minding the one every fifth step, it wobbles with the threat of breaking—has yielded no different answer to the question Mare Howlett has asked four other times, checking the sky outside as if the night will change as the hours do. Fire snaps from the hearth on the west wall, blasting heat throughout the small, single-room space like an oven. Sweat has started accumulating between her shoulders, the river of her spine.

It’s after one. In the morning, at least. It’s hard to judge the night by the black veil of the sky, but, she’s learned over the years. Watching the moon, forces of habit—the amount of hours spent not sleeping in the darkest midnight would make God laugh. It had become life, just another part of heartbeats and pulses, blood and living—sleep was, most of the time, a luxury. Expensive, if you knew it. Dangerous.

Palms slick with worked-up perspiration, two more paces has her in a staring contest with the door. Her eyes flick to the slide-board lock—-it’s knocked back, any wind could force it open. And that makes the corner of her mouth lift with amusement, the thought of the wind—he would be furious.

Time and countless time again in the six months they’d been squatting here on Alaskan rock he’d checked this very lock. Like it was his religion, and in a way, it is. Staying alive is a form of religion to those not guaranteed daylight again, Logan had always told her that. Full time job stayin’ this side of the dirt, honey—just to see the next sunrise. I’ll get you to the morning, sweetheart, don’t you worry.

If staying alive was religion, they wrote books.

Logan may as well be a priest.

Back teeth gnaw at the mesh of her cheek, canines pinching the chap of her bottom lip nearly to the point of blood—any second she expected the sting of copper on her tongue. Rocking forward on her toes only to fall back to her heels, her arms cross at her chest, leathers of her jacket groaning with the effort. Eyeballing the door may as well be willing it to vomit what she knows it doesn’t have, so she turns on the ball of her foot—thick wool from her sock catches on the callous of her heel. Doesn’t care, hasn’t ever cared. These were the same pair of socks she’d been wearing since Christmas—last year.

Low hunger gnaws at her guts like a wolf biting at the marrow of bones, sucking every last drop only to burn again tomorrow. It’s only been a four hours since he’d taken north, but it may as well be eternity—even God had created oceans in less time, had knit man together out of dust. Perfect, savory meat boils in delicious broth in the thick pot at the hearth, simmering like it has for hours even before the sun had fallen. Bread, laborious bread warms on another of the hearth’s rocks, golden. Glistening. Practically the food of gods.

And butter—she hadn’t had butter in weeks. It taunts her from its little throne, a pewter dish sat not a stone’s throw from that very hearth, far away to keep soft but not destroy. Logan had surprised her with convenience groceries two weeks ago, coming up the mountain from the water—even the growl of the truck had felt heavier. She’d heard the thunk of something in the bed as he’d pulled up to the door, heightened senses triggered by the crunch of snow, the little squeak of extra weight on the shocks.

“Figured some food we didn’t have’ta kill would make your day,” not that fresh game had been an issue—Logan was an excellent hunter. It came with the territory—with the Wolverine. Venison, rabbit, goose—they hadn’t starved, by any stretch of imagination. Field dressing just didn’t top her list of favorite activities, even as a wife.

He’d almost smiled when she’d popped up from her place before the fire, dropping the rucksack off his shoulder to his feet. Presenting it as if it would cleanse him of sin, “Would you believe they had butter. And honey,” her smile couldn’t have been any brighter, giggling like a child at the feet of Christmas as she’d curled her arms around his thick neck, chilled with the bite of night and dusted with snow and cigar smoke. His nose had brushed into her hair, hand at the back of her neck as he’d pulled her close. “‘Sweet’n you up a little, hm?” She hadn’t expected him to have the jar on his person, but he’d plucked it from his pocket with gusto, like a proud child.

“Excuse me?” her nose had crinkled, shoving his hand down in favor of running her nails along the line of his jaw, through his beard. Mutton chops. Features that belonged to her. “You saying I ain’t sweet?”

How he’d laughed—“Darlin’. If you were any sweeter, my teeth would rot outta my head.”

Nevermind such a thing being the opposite of possible—-they’d found creative ways to use the precious commodities of honey and sugar. She’d never seen him be so greedy. Quick work fo the goodies aside, the rest of the haul she’d squirreled away in the corner, among their provisions—provisions not so playworthy. Due for water, which is what had sent Logan north, away from her. Two kliks to the stream, the hunting grounds. He’d check her traps and trails—pastimes for him, duties for her when he was away earning greenbacks on the water.

Even here in the woods, away from the living, money was a god.

It never took him this long—an hour, maybe. Logan was nothing if efficient, especially on nights like tonight when the weather challenged even the unkillable. Not that he actively worried, being unkillable, but for her sake he made tracks and kept them quickly. He was on the water so often, every second he was here she kept him here—memories of simpler days chiseled her into a desperate little thing. Reduced to the ashes of wanting him close, of fighting to keep his body. How had she ever not wanted him around, survived distance? Opposite schedules? Grueling nine-to-fives, endless missions that always seemed over before they began.

Cursing memories hadn’t ever been something she’d imagined herself doing, but, she did. Multiple times an hour. If being mutant—if being unkillable—meant holding onto every memory, in vivid and living color, God must’ve really stretched His hand the day He had given Logan breath. Some days never seemed to end, trapped in this prison of cabin in the hell of the woods, alone with her own thoughts. Memories of the living, of the dead. They cut deep like adamantium, unforgiving thieves.

A bed of bones, the place of nightmares coming to life like Lazarus from the grave.

Walking on the tips of her toes, hands fiddling with the buttons of her flannel, the snap of the fire almost oversings the unmistakable crunch of snow beyond the walls. Heart kicking heavy behind her ribs, pain flares in her chest—and for a moment, she thinks maybe it has touched bone, but quickly disregards it when blood hurricanes through her skull. Pupils blown wide with thrill, heat floodgates down her spine, sending lightning energy through every nerve in her body—-she all but leaps like a cat.

Flesh between her knuckles split, mutation coming full force without even thought. Habit, like breathing—-takes little thought. Hardly removed from sucking air into her lungs, it’s muscle memory. A slight trigger of muscle, a flick of the wrist—she’d gutted men with less effort. And it doesn’t even take suspicion, being afraid, not like before. Once, maybe—but now it’s daily motion. The nine-to-five.

The little thrill of clotting blood has her glancing at her weapons, her bones. It marveled her still, how beautiful and precise they were. How, somehow, they looked like her—how bones could look as if they belonged somewhere. Considering them for all of a few second has the porch step moaning like a lover, creaking in the way it had since they’d paid the deposit. Floorboards vibrate with weight, tremble with the weight of presence, and before she can even think to maybe, by chance, consider it isn’t Logan—-it kicks open, bounces on the hinge as it hits the wall, light from the fire bleeding out into the open maw of midnight beyond their haven.

Fractions of seconds and he’s still lingering in shadows, Logan stepping through the front door. Thick snow clings to his boots like a bad habit, which he knocks off on the frame. Cheeks blazed with color, if he were anyone but the Wolverine he’d surely be aching with dangerous cold, but, he isn’t—barely kissed by the weather. Merely flirting with the idea of conditions. Facial hair frosted and eyelashes blinking away remnants of snow, he looks more Hallmark than he does Survivor—Logan has always thrived, though. Any celebrity pales in comparison, even in the blood and guts of survival.

He doesn’t miss the weapons drawn at either of her sides, elephants in rooms of their own power. Brow triggered up in surprise, his eyes flick up to hers. Not upset, but the cant of his head suggests amusement.

“Jumpin’ at shadows, pretty?”

Tension that’s been hanging like a lead ball in the center of her breastbone releases, and like barbed wire it releases down her spine, cutting away stress hormones and adrenaline. Loosens the knot between her shoulder blades that kicks like a mule. Snikt. And as soon as the claws come, they leave.

“Shadows are better company than suspicion.” Disregarding his jibe that teases the edges of her resolve, she approaches, holding open the door with a foot. He finishes knocking off his boots at the door, “It’s been hours, Logan. I was beginning to worry.”

He chuckles, and it’s like honey whiskey—low and warm, setting her blood on fire like it’s gasoline. “Always worryin’,” his lips press into a thin line, “when you stop, hell’ll be as frozen as my ass.” It’s untruthful, but, the point lands—his brows lift at the muscle in her jaw ticking with the strain to not smile. Soft eyes flick over her features carefully, wrinkles drawn around their corners with a lift of a barely-there, quicksilver smirk.

After a few seconds beneath his gaze, she shifts—ignores the something, whether it’s heat suddenly kicking around the cradle of her pelvis, or the pang of hunger in her gut, she isn’t sure which. He fights a smile, she can see the muscle in his jaw tick. Watches the swell of his tongue tracing his front teeth as he watches, studies—concentrates. When his eyes lift from their stalking of her abdomen, he takes a more serious tone.

“Hungry?”

He’s able to hear her gut sounds, she knows that. Being an endless abyss is, well—there’s nothing like it. A lifetime before her mutation, she’d eaten like a bird. Now food is a culture, a thing which to obtain, treasure. Worship. Either of them were always hungry—insatiable creatures always prowling, snatching when well within reach. Bears before hibernation and after, equal amounts of desperate and always empty. Fact which prompts the growing supply of kill buried in the shed beyond the cabin, hanging carcasses and squirreled-away skins. Normal, since her mutation—hunger came with rapid-fire metabolism, with regeneration. Logan had been consuming food like a cretin since before she knew him, certainly.

She lies. “Not really.” Hell fed on such lies. And Logan knew it.

Audacity to call her on her bull had always been one of Logan’s strongest suits in their relationship, even before the vows binding them together in the sight of God and Canadian law—he doesn’t hesitate to call her BS. “Well, that would be somethin’, wouldn’t it?” His lips dust hers in a chaste kiss before he’s leaning back outside the door, reaching for full water canisters. Already dusted with frost and sloshing with the slush of chilled, partially-frozen snow.

Passing one to her, “Too bad I don’t believe you.” The back of his knuckles are warm, somehow, skimming along the line of her jaw. Logan runs hot, always had—part of that regeneration that won’t say die.

The question hadn’t been so much a genuine investigation as Logan’s roundabout way of admitting he was on the hunt for something for his gut, a practice only time would perfect to know. Years together had shown his hand—she knew him pretty well. Wolverines, after all, were sheltered. Hideaway creatures by habit, preferably unseen and unknown outside of their own order. At their genesis, she hadn’t been—had been privileged, really, with what he’d let her see.

Now, she’s one of him. Two of a kind, two of a breed—two where there, once this side of heaven, had only been one. God had willed it. Genetics executed. Two Wolverines, running in the same lines, stalking the same moon—she didn’t, wouldn’t, wear the name, but it was the same class, different act.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she gestures with her head towards the fire, their feast awaiting. It’s one in the witching hour, but who couldn’t eat? “Stew and bread, on the hearth—knew you’d be hungry.” And she does, like so many other things.

Lips tipping up, he chortles. Pleased. The housewife in her keens. “Y’know me pretty well.”

Keening into his lingering touch, his appreciative hum is deep. Echoes off the adamantium in his chest, a low thing that rises her womb from the frozen wastelands—he’s tired. His deep eyes hold hers, unwilling to let go—dangling on some precipice, the edge of glory. And she can see the shadows fall in like soldiers, demons. Frothing, uncaged phantoms that lap up the blood of his living, his being. Wolves that pick him from between their teeth—had, for centuries. For nearly two centuries, he’s been mummified in unknowns, in could’ves, should’ves, maybes. Such memories, such living, came calling when the sun was low and sleep was little more than a dream.

Taking the canister from her, Logan rests the pair in the corner, beside the standing bath bucket and towel. Limp accommodations compared to a lifetime ago, in mansions and gardens. What she wouldn’t give for a deep, lava-hot bath in a swirling tub of bubbles and bought water, champagne and silk. Faraway dreams, certainly, but beautiful ones—-sugarplum, delicious. Kicking the door closed, she drops the sliding lock, moving to the fire to roust the stew.

Checking the bread with the back of her fingers, which has swollen to a delectable, Betty Crocker-gold, she lifts the lid of the thick pot with the hem of her flannel. Thick broth bubbles with heat, the swirl of meat and carrots all but mouthwatering. Eyes moving to consider him, he stretches his hands while glancing out the window. Thumbs rubbing hard, deep circles into the heel of his palm— shrugging out of his heavy jacket, brushes off the remnants of hell outside.

Laying it out before the fire, he sheds his best and outer flannel. Squats to begin unlacing his boots in nothing but jeans and that faded, almost-stand-in-the-corner t-shirt they’d nabbed from a boutique in NOLA, dodging agents and suspicious eyes. It needs washing, she should take it to that north stream and beat the living hell of it on the rocks, but—another day. Better time. She’s too enthralled with the idea of his boots being sat in the corner, empty, to worry about laundry.

It lifts her brow. Logan doesn’t ever not wear those God-heavy things, even inside. It’s one of the habits of an all-soldier mindset, that little piece of go, go, go that never leaves the living who have crawled beyond blood, through bone. Actually, in the last year—since X, since…since the labs—she’s maybe seen Logan’s actual feet a handful of times. Even in bed, when he so gorgeously steals her breath. Makes a prayer out of her name. Reminds her to whom she belongs—they’re there. Tangled up in bed, hard against the soft heat of her feet, their tomorrows. Always on, symbols of a living weapon.

She should be more careful, Learn by example, pretty. But freedom is rapturous, too good to spoil with adrenaline and survivor’s guilt, cold fear. Tastes sweet—forbidden fruit.

Kicking them off with a groan, Logan sheds thick woolen socks. Lays them before the fire beside his outer layers, like sacrifices. And they are, in a way—and, nose even scenting the savory pull of stew and warm, carby bread on the hearth, the entire room fills with his scent. Cigars and snow. Cold and pine. His freshwater kiss still lingers on her lips—the scent of the stream clings to his clothes, even before crackling flame. She can feel him move even in the depth of her bones, which practically sing with every breath he draws—how he stands in front of the hearth, fire kicking shadows over his features.

Everything about him is like living color. Heightened senses, hunger. King returned to his castle, he takes up the air like it’s a throne. Turning from the fire, Logan drops one of the cut oak stumps before the fire. Makeshift furniture for a keeps-out-the-wind home, she swears to Christ she can hear the shift of adamantium in his skeleton as he lowers onto it. Watching her intently, he nods to the pot. Elbows on his thighs as thick, calloused fingers scratch through his facial hair.

His back arches in a catlike stretch, a small smile trying to play on his lips. “Smells like jackrabbit,” that roundabout way, smells good, “what else you got in there, pretty?” Pretty. Even now, years later—it raises pink to the apples of her cheeks. Fondly, Mare remembers the first time Logan had ever graced her with such title, title he’d been using for years—even in the blood and sinew, even in the waist-high sludge of the stay-alive.

Pretty, not aesthetically— in soul.

Turning, she retrieves the bread from the stone hearth and tosses it his direction. He catches it like a pro. “Carrots, the last of the potatoes. A hit of whiskey,” his brow raises suspiciously as she smiles, “I’ll have to get some staples from the store next time you leave me with the truck.”

She stands to retrieve the hollowed gourd bowls, balancing them in her palm before stooping to dip them into the stew. Handing one of them over, she receives the half loaf he’s split for her.

Sinking to the floor, cross-legged, it takes seconds before the bread is gone. Warm, in the pit of her gut. Logan is practically licking his bowl, “I was thinking we could get some rope—I’d like a washline,” she shrugs a shoulder, nodding towards the door, “and we could use some lumber. Couple of the boards are rottin’ out—I’d rather not heat dirt.”

He knows. Nods, “I’ll make it happen,” and it won’t be difficult—Logan makes good money working the rigs. Cash, no questions—no fed papers or taxes, identification is laughable. Half the men on the crew are probably anything but Jim, Jack, and Johns, but she prefers it that way—even if Logan refuses to use another name.

Money is good—and money spends anywhere, just as easy as anything. And it’s low man’s work, but Logan doesn’t care, simple work means clean breaks when the time comes. Less complicated, less messy. One thing they could never get enough of is cash, and if the work is honest—well. Can’t ask for more’thn that, darlin’.

Get around Benjamins, Logan called it. Cash moved, and one could go anywhere for the right price.

Precisely why she’d been trying to drive through his thick skull her want of a job. Not anything long-hour or even long-term—this makeshift home was her first responsibility, her priority. But, if she could work in town, off the mountain and with people, she could keep an eye on the happenings. Scout out the bodies, the gossip—something Logan couldn’t do for days out on the water. She’d already been approached for some work in the bar, and contacts at the local watering hole weren’t a bad thing. Network was everything, the grapevine was even faster than Google.

And God never said discounted booze was an unwelcome thing, either. But Logan had been adamant she stay on the mountain—selfish reasons. Out of sight, out of mind. Beyond the press of curiosity.

He, after all, worked the water in a town primarily built on the foundations of fishing. One woman in Burns for every five men, and it didn’t take Hank McCoy genius to do the math. Two weeks—ten days for her to beg the truck off of him, and he’d done so with such reluctance that she’d had to practically fuck logic between his ears.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, got a high off controlling her. Logan hadn’t ever superimposed harsh rules in their union, just expectations and thrills. Satisfactions and proud-ofs, she knew the things that stoked his trust and kept him coming home. Logan was a simple man, and he didn’t need much from her—he wanted, but never towed the line. Wanted her to thrive, to love, and that was a fine line to draw in the sands of marital relations—especially from a man who knew little to nothing about lasting love.

In simpler days, he asked very few questions. He’d cut out his heart and hand it over, if the situation were right—hedged bets on her, even in the early days of her mutation rearing its ugly mug. Cared very little about outside opinion, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Watertight confidence and grave-tight faith —in her. In other people, well, that was another shitshow.

Logan didn’t trust anyone even farther than he would be able to toss them off his claws.

After a few heartbeats of quiet, she stands. Sets aside good-enough dishes, blows out a long breath between her lips. Rising on her toes, she about-faces on the ball of her heel to face him. “Logan—” stops short when she notices his attention is welded to her in an unshakable way that implies the study of fine artwork. Some soft, dreamlike look on his face—wrinkles around his eyes deepen, smile growing a little more lopsided, a little more white. Her brow furrows, head canting to the side. Never unappreciative of his attention, she managed a little chuckle, “—pfft. Staring much?” She fingers one of her curls behind her ear, which has fallen from her half-loosened bandana.

Dismissing her with a little shift of his shoulder, he lifts a hand and crooks a finger for her to come. “You gonna blame me?” Can’t argue with logic that knocks the wind from her bones, sends her knees together like some kind of schoolchild. “C’mere, darlin’.” Leaning forward, his elbows find his thighs —she can’t do otherwise.

Foot over foot, she crosses to him in a handful of steps. She lifts fingers to card through his hair, his big hands anchored on her hips. Strong thumbs rub gentle circles as he shuffles her a little closer, leans to nuzzle his nose beneath her breast, against her ribs. Breath heavy against the apex of her heart, her nails gently rake through his mutton chops, one of his hands moving behind her thigh, nudging her to lower to his lap.

“You gonna let me ask you something?”

He hums, nodding once. “Depends what you wanna ask, honey.” Ask me later. Much, much later. It’s there unspoken, in the depth of his eyes and the half-cocked smile that deepens the wrinkles at his eyes.

Familiar territory—he’s due on the water in two days. Never knows how long he’ll be gone, it’s always a heartbeat too long. Hours may as well be days, days small eternities in the eyes of heaven. Being alone is a burden, high in the air, among the silent evergreens and giants of mountain shadows. Logan left her too often for a man who promised never to—promised life. And this may not be much of a life, but it was theirs together—and all her living really needed was Logan, anyway.

Dropping her full weight to his lap, the boards beneath his oak stump creak a little, surprised. Resting her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs trace his defined collarbones lazily, the muscle of his arms and familiar veins alive with his moving, breathing blood. His palm presses hard around the back of her neck, thumb tracing over her steady pulse—other fingers dip into the soft curve of her hip. A flick of his wrist tips her pelvis forward, against his. Hardly feeling her weight, her hand presses against his abs, feeling their definition. Engaged, riveting. Almost trembling.

And suddenly the room is barely contained, a dreamstate of everything and nothing at once. Logan’s fingers, working buttons on her shirt steadily, like a pro. Flesh seeking flesh, fingertips brushing against breastbone. Deep breaths, the steady pulse in his chest is strong, alive—possessive, hers. He eats every one of the shallow breaths she manages between biting the corner of her lip and the tip of her tongue.

Keening, drunk on the dark of his eyes, how the fire moves in and out of them like dreams—the methodical way he fingers aside the front of the flannel hanging open on her frame. And it’s so intimate, at its finest— heart-to-heart, bone to bone. Logan’s bed had never been anything but this, close. Open, unified. Everything he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever asked—-share, honey. Share me. And she does, willingly, gives what he asks, even unto the half of her soul.

His head tips back just enough to manage a half-cocked smirk at her as her fingers curl into his shirt, skips through the hair on his arms. He pulls the bandanna from her hair, lets it fall from his fingers. Chuckles at the way her cheeks flame, hair wilding away every direction as his fingers pick, play with it like it’s a plaything, amusing. Her eyes fall to the floor, but two strong fingers on her chin pull her attention back.

Saying nothing but managing a low hum, he kisses her. Deeply. Almost hurts how good he feels—how she can taste the water of the stream somehow, still, in his mouth. Push and pull, give and take—Logan pulls a whimper from somewhere along her spine, guides her arms around his neck. She obliges, folding against his chest—-chest to chest, she can feel familiar muscles in her musculature itching. Burning between her knuckles, begging. Starving, craving.

Kissing her hard and rough, heat curls low in places only God had designed. “Hold tight,” before his hands slip under her ass, lifting her as if she’s nothing with little more than a huff and a flex of muscle and heat—and she isn’t nothing, but that’s aside for a mutation that enhances everything all at once.

Kicking the stump aside, it rolls noisily until it thunks against the wall, her legs firming up around his waist. She smiles, touching her forehead against his. Nose nuzzling the end of his, his heavy feet carry her the God-knows how many steps to the corner—-their corner. And before she can even haul in another full breath, her toes kiss the thick spread of hide as he lowers her to her feet—deer, bison. Elk, bear, wolf. Prizes from six months of survival, success. Need for blankets doesn’t exist when you have the whole of the woods to suffice, and Logan had learned how to cure hides years ago.

The warmest, safest bed she’d ever slept in.

Big hands practically shove the flannel off her frame, toss it somewhere in the abyss of existence beyond the positively filthy way he suckles a thick mark to the flesh of her neck. Greedy, like a man just fat on hot stew and bread—his fingers curl over the waistband of her jeans, old Wranglers she’d been making due for over a year. A tighter fit than before—she’s gained weight. Fresh diet and good air, peace made her fat. And while Logan may be the chiseled sun to her Icharus, she’d never been lean, never been built right—he hadn’t ever cared. Still didn’t, his low moan in her evidence enough.

Taking his face between her hands, she softly presses her lips against his. Nips at his bottom lip, takes her time—slowly manages to her knees. His fingers in her hair tips her head back enough to look her in the eye, an amused glint lighting up the flick of a smile on his mouth. Closing her eyes, her fingers curl into the denim clinging to his thighs, breathing in a heady whiff of him as her nose gently bumps the front of his belt buckle.

Forehead brushing the hair on his abdomen, she feels him shed the t-shirt she still needs to take to the stream. It takes herculean will to not lose track of her surroundings—the makeshift cabin in the deep woods, the fire that seems to roar a stone’s throw from their nest. Food that’s low and warm in her belly, the small shed with hanging meat for tomorrow’s another-stew. Washing that needs done, wood that needs split—there’s a dozen things that need doing, but that’s the way of this life. This life he’d given her, fought for her. Logan had waged war against the coming future for this—this moment, this iteration of them far beyond the reach of Weapon X, the faraway memory of the X-Men. Of the secret they bury, deep in bones and marrow. In the depths of the living.

It wasn’t what they’d originally thought, not even close. A lifetime away, but it’s enough. He’s enough. God, and peace—-Alaska. Logan.

Taking her chin between his fingers, Logan crouches. Kisses her, sweetly—like in the early days, when this, this life would’ve been laughable. The stuff of nightmares. He reaches for the thick splay of bison hide, her favorite—draws it over her shoulders. His eyes land heavy in hers, searching, scouting and tracing the lines of the moment. She’s able to read it in his eyes—-he doesn’t want to leave. Will never want to leave, but the Wolverine has lived a life of doesn’t-wants. If it means her happiness, he’d stay. A thousand times and again, he’d forsake the world and weld himself here.

But going means safety. And that, she knows, he’d fight any long war for.

His brow pulls into a deep line, uncertain of the look on her face. “You ok, darlin’?” He tips her chin up a little, eyes shifting before his palm moves to cradle her cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the plush of her lips, until her hand at the buckle of his belt gently pushes him to the mess of deer and elk and bones they call theirs.

Drawing the bison skin tighter around her shoulders, she swings a leg over the cradle of his hips. Looks down on his quirked brow with a quicksilver smile of a thing she can’t quite put a finger on. And, with a brush of her fingers through the curl of hair on his chest, she shrugs a shoulder.

“I’m fine now,” lowering to kiss the corner of his mouth, she hums as his finger traces up her spine, down again. Callouses rough against her warm skin. “You’re here, and I’m just fine.”

And that, really, is the truth of God.

tags: @fandomxo00 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

Based on the podcast─

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