Sweet Bruising Skin, a x-men fanfic

SWEET BRUISING SKIN

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them. But they've been inspiring me to new depths that my therapist - if I were able to afford one - would find fascinating.

RATING: Strong R for the 'ick' factor.

SUMMARY: Logan's regenerative abilities haven't always been understood.

PAIRING: If you know Logan, not a surprise. If you don't... very much a surprise. m/m, though, so fair warning.

FEEDBACK: I live for it. Although I realise that this fic might not appeal to most. ;-)

WARNINGS: ICK FACTOR WARNING. SERIOUSLY DISTURBING IMAGERY, AND SEMI-CONSENTUAL M/M SEX.

***

{{Psssst pssst pssst can you hear my whisper? I know you can.....wake up Logan, wake up....}}

He smelled earth. Cold, damp, rancid with... something. Rotting meat, all around him.

{{Pssst, Logan, listen to me darling... you have to wake up. I want you to look up, Logan and see the stars. Look up at the stars, darling....}}

He opened his mouth to answer, and tasted earth. Cold, damp, tasting of rotting meat. Something fresh and green was above, putting down roots. He could feel soft vibrations against his skin, the scuttle of tiny feet and pincers and feelers against him, tasting him.

{{Whisper whisper whisper - can you hear my whispers? Can you see me? I know you can.}}

He doesn't even think about opening his eyes. He's a hunter. He hunts. He hears. He smells. He tastes. He feels.

Cold earth underneath him. Cold earth on top of him, smelling fresh and sickly-rotting-meat-sweet, all at the same time. Cold, damp earth all around him, underneath his fingers, underneath his bare, bare skin, on top of him, and God*damn*, his hands itch. Itch and itch and itch, like he hasn't used his claws in weeks. Months. Years.

He felt cold teeth nip him, cold sharp teeth sink into his side and nibble. Cold sharp teeth, and he felt, rather than saw, his arm fall off, limp on the ground. One and two and three, and other pieces followed, while soft, sweet-rotting-meat hands held him down. One and two and three, and there was a hand, a foot. One and two and three, and he saw the sword come down one last time, and felt teeth nip at his throat, and then his head rolled free, eyes staring open and stunned, at the pieces of himself.

He remembered that. He remembered the sword, and the teeth - oh, he still felt the teeth nip at him - and he remembered afterward.

He remembered being in pieces, and being put back together, and sweet wine being spilled, and sage and oil on his forehead - what was left of it, for he remembered the kick that had caved in his skull afterward - and hands, endless sweet-rotting-meat hands, stroking him all over. He remembered the sharp sting of dozens of tiny tiny teeth, small and sharp, going through him, in and out, while blood leaked out and leaked out, and then stopped leaking. He remembered more hands, still stroking their rotting-meat-sweet smell into him, holding him down while the sharp sweet teeth did their work and put him back together. He remembered the soft feather-light stroking of gauze against him.

{{Loganloganlogan openyoureyes lookatmelogan lookatmeopen youreyes wakeup wakeupwakeup......}}

He didn't want to wake up, because he suddenly knew what he'd see. He tasted earth again, cold, damp earth, autumn earth, and he remembered the blood being spilled, and the sun above, and the rain coming down, and he remembered April showers, and that was *autumn* earth around him --

He hear the words, "Dearly Beloved," and so many others, so like the marriage vow he'd given weeks, months - years? - before, and they were all fading away in importance, because he knew, now. His wife, his pretty red-haired wife, widow, *his* widow, because the sword had come down one last time, and he was dead in battle.

Dead. Dead dead dead, dead as a doornail, dead as the autumn earth, dead.

Sugar-sweet earth on his lips, and he doesn't want to open his eyes. He feels pressure against his eyelids, and is surprised that he *has* eyelids, had thought them seared away by the fire in the rain that lashed him. He wonders if there's rain above, and he realises suddenly that 'above' is above the ground, above him, because he's dead, and he's been buried.

{{Wake up Logan! Wake up! Now! Wake up, Wolverine, you son of a bitch! Don't you dare fucking die on me!}}

Woman's voice, man's voice, a multitude, a screaming, keening, wailing choir, all, whispering, yelling, screaming in his ear, and he's dead, but if he's dead, why is he moving underneath the earth? Why is the earth above him so damned oppressive? Shouldn't he love it?

Claws extend, flex, scratch. Earth crumbles.

Slowly.

Piece by piece.

Panic sets in, at the feel of sharp pincers biting into his skin. Something - some little underground dweller - sees him as a meal. Has been seeing him as a meal for a long while now. Has been trying to eat him, like a good little carrion-eater.

Not dead. Not dead.

Claws extend again, and he struggles against the gauze still around him, the gauze falling to pieces. Too thin, too thin, and thank God they hadn't burnt him, because God knows how long it would have taken him to wake up then - maybe never? But at least then he'd be dead.... - then what is he now? Not dead?

{{Not deadnotdeadnotdead}} Someone chants, and he wonders if it's him. He wonders if this is panic he feels, bubbling through him, making him open his mouth despite the earth pressing down. He tastes earth again, sweet, sickly earth, autumn-dead and rotting meat and fresh grass growing above, and he fancies he tastes his own blood, dried into the gauze broken and spilled above.

And he wasn't. Not dead, not dead, because dead men don't scream. Dead men don't tell tales. Dead men don't extend claws and scratch and claw their way, and God, there's so much earth above him, he hadn't known how deep he was, would he ever get out? Panic set in then, true panic, because it's one thing to be dead. One thing to be gone and roasting in hell or swimming with angels or whatever the hell you call it. One thing to be truly dead, and have your eulogy and everything, and this, this, this wasn't death.

Not life - not up above with the rest of life, the rest of autumn, but down here, buried, still, buried and alive, but still buried.

"I'm alive," he whispered fiercely, trying to make some sort of sound past the earth packed tight above him, and his own damaged voice. Past days - weeks, months, years? - worth of autumn above him, trying to make them listen. Them, with their good intentions, and their sweet smiles and too-sweet-rotting-meat-sweet hands and taste, and they hadn't listened then, they'd thought him dead.

"I'm alive!"

Extend, flex, claw. Scramble, scratch, claw your way past the earth, past the ripped gauze, past all those eager little creatures that had tried to eat you in your sleep, tried to crawl inside your body and eat your insides while you slept, and how did he know that some hadn't succeeded?

The thought made him shudder so much he almost passed out again.

But he didn't pass out. Wasn't the type of man to pass out. He wasn't the type of man to die, either, and he hadn't died. Six feet under, and still alive, and he'd be damned if he'd let himself spend eternity underneath the ground --

And he was awake, damn it! Awake and looking up and *there*, he was there, he could smell air, smell other than sickly sweet air, and cold, acidic rain against his fingertips, down his face, down his claws, stitches around his neck coming undone but it didn't matter because he didn't *need* them anymore --

"I'm alive..." And it was a sob, him trying to open his eyes past days - weeks months years? - worth of sleep, deep inside the earth.

"I'm aliveI'maliveI'malive..."

{{Don't bury me... don't bury me, I'm not dead.... I'm not dead...}}

So painful, so painful when he opened his eyes and saw them scream, smelled the sickly-sweet scent of their terror. Sickly-sweet, he was getting damned tired of that.

"I'm alive..."

"Nosferatu! Vampyr! *Zombie*! Get thee behind me, Satan!"

Laughable. He wasn't Satan. He wasn't a zombie - was he? How would he know if he was? - he wasn't a vampire, because he didn't like the taste of blood, no, not after tasting it so long on his lips. He wasn't dead.

"I'm not dead. I'm *not* *dead*."

More screams, more rain, autumn rain this time, and at last he could open his eyes and look up into the sky, and he wasn't dead, he wasn't dead --

"Monster! Demon!"

-- he wasn't dead --

Oh God, they wanted to kill him again, with their faces twisted in fear, and three hours later he was still fighting to climb out of the ground, only this time he was surrounded by screaming, frightened people, and there - there, there was his little redheaded wife, his *widow*, screaming herself hoarse. He took a step towards her, falling to his knees and crawling, "I'm not dead, I'm not dead."

"Demon! Demon!"

"No - no! I'm your husband - your *husband* --"

"My husband is *dead*!"

Not dead. Not dead --

And they were going to kill him again to prove that they were right and he was wrong, they were going to stick more knives in him and yank the careful stitching loose, make him bleed again - and dead men don't bleed, so they'd drain him dry - and then --

then --

then they would bury him again.

In the ground.

Still alive.

"I'M NOT DEAD!!!"

He'd screamed, finally.

Dead men don't scream, right?

He'd screamed, and felt the blood in his throat from his re-torn vocal cords, and hadn't cared. Because it meant he was bleeding, and dead men *don't* *bleed*.

"I'm not dead..... I'm *not* dead....."

The sky tore in two.

Light shone in his eyes for a brief moment, and then all of a sudden, someone was close enough to prove it to him. Someone who smelled different. The dark stench of sickly sweet rotting meat faded in comparison to sweat and musk and dark arousal, and he gasped when he felt it touch him, permeate him, heat him from the inside. Gasped and reached out and grabbed the salty sweat-coated arm, so unlike the sweet bruised skin of his red-haired wife - widow, widow, his brain chanted - and he gasped again as he felt that arm touch him. *Him*. Someone real. Someone not dead. Touching him, yes, touching his arm, and he couldn't react the way he had before. No claws, here, because he wasn't in the ground anymore. He didn't have to fight, because someone alive had found him, and he was alive too, didn't this prove it?

"Shhhh..... it's gonna be all right..."

Male voice, deep voice, deep and alive and harsh with lack of sleep and lust and want and yes, fear was there too. It didn't smell sweet though, not the sickly sweetness of panic-gripping-your-throat-panic. Fear can be salty and tangy and male and filled with anger and lust and the need to prove yourself, just like everything else. He could feel it in the body suddenly close enough to touch in the again-darkness.

Again, again, dark and dead and buried, and --

Strong fingers, unbruised, tracing a path down his back as strong male arms folded around him, over him, underneath him, strong male form surrounding him. Not earth. Not earth. Not sweet-rotting-meat earth.

It wasn't coherent.

That, it could never be. He *needed* too much, and the other - well, who knew what he wanted? The other offered him arms as an alternative to the earth, but that didn't mean that he wanted anyone to die in them. Oh no. Never that.

So when the angry, frantic, frightened rocking began, the other had no choice but to move with the body wrapped around him. No choice but to let the fear sweat itself out. So he didn't object when he felt rough stubble scrape against him, skin on skin on skin on skin.

"I'm not dead," Logan whispered fitfully, and scraped a kiss over heated, salty lips, feeling splinters of fear and rage fight their way through him, cutting deep. "I'm not dead," and again, thrusting his tongue in, finding the heat, the wetness, hot and vicious and painful, so darkly savage and tasting of salt and wine and metal, not like sweet-earth, not at all. Not even when he felt heat and wetness against his cheeks and wondered at it, not even then.

"Oh - Logan, don't --"

And the arms were trying to push him back, suddenly, fear flowing through Logan and into the other, and he knew what the problem was. Knew that the other could smell the stench of too-sweet rotting meat on him, see his bruised and bruising skin. "Please --" And he wasn't above begging anymore, not anymore, because he *needed* this, needed this proof that he wasn't dead, not buried, certainly not buried and not dead all at the same time, and "please," and he felt acquiescence in the returned kiss and in the frantic hands at his waist, stroking memories of scars that suddenly ached, "please," gasped and gasping, "please --"

Hands.

On him.

Around him.

Hot, sweat-slicked hands, male and strong and *alive*, stroking him and holding him and proving to him that he was alive, even as salt was in his mouth through that other mouth. Someone was biting his lip and sucking on his tongue and hurting him but it was okay because he was hurting back, biting back, claws out and ready and tracing delicate patterns over the skin and --

Hands.

On him.

Around him.

Strong fingers stroking over him, urging him on. He felt something build, something strong and angry and vicious, and he felt something hot and hard against his thigh, and claws stroked through the thin fabric, tearing it and touching the hot skin underneath ever so gently --

"God, Logan!"

Hands.

On him.

Around him.

Salt on him, around him, strong and male and alive as he pumped into that steel fist, screamed and came, and bit down harshly to draw blood and mark the other as his own, mark him as alive as he was. Salt on him, on them both, stroked over taut bellies as they wrapped arms around each other, and Logan knew - *knew* that he was alive then. Alive, because the skin around him was hard and taut and unyielding, and tasted of salt. Not soft. Not bruising. And -- "Jesus, Scott...." -- not the least bit sweet.

fin