Gaz Membrane will destroy you. (gameslave2) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-03-04 21:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, gaz membrane, logan howlett (wolverine) |
Who: Gaz and Logan.
What: Painting.
When: Sunday night.
Where: Abandoned building.
Rating: NC-17 for weird sex and crying.
Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, suicidal ideation, scarification.
Status: Complete!
The dude from the alley and the internet had given her a place to show up, so she’d shown up. She looked up from her bike, leaning back and stretching as she got off of it. Her long blue-purple hair was in a braid to keep it away from her face as she seldom bothered with a helmet.
The unique sound of a Harley rumbled up, and Logan shut the engine down, before getting off and rolling his shoulders. He sniffed, and turned towards Gaz, giving her a considering look as he approached. “Nice bike.” He liked the pants. And he liked the top. She knew how to dress to show herself off.
“Thanks. Where the fuck are we?” She folded her arms under her chest, turning to face him. Her pants were a bit on the ridiculous side of tight, but they made for good riding.
And good looking at. Logan could smell wine and paint on her. Also sex, but that didn't bother him. He didn't smell anyone else, so...well.
He had thought she seemed angry, but he wasn't so sure about that. The anger seemed to be a mask for...nothing.
She wasn't kidding about the feeling thing, and he revised his assessment. He nodded his head towards the building. "I had an idea. You said you felt shit when you painted. An' I know you felt shit when we fucked. Come on."
He headed inside. Inside had been set up a gigantic canvas. There was a lot of paint, as well.
She blinked at him, walking with him. She knew right away what he had in mind, but that wasn’t what struck her. “You did this for me?” She barely knew him. He owed her nothing. “I ... “
Gaz Membrane was at a loss for words.
“Yeah,” Logan said, lighting a cigar as if he had no concern about blowing them up from paint fumes. He hadn’t had a chance to smoke in days, it felt like. He did smile, thinking he’d pegged right.
He had. She reached up to take the cigar from him, putting it between her lips and taking a long inhale. “You’re ... a really good person.” As she exhaled, she tiptoed up to kiss him, wondering if that weird flopping in her stomach was what he meant by feeling something in a good way.
Logan slid a hand down Gaz’s back as he kissed her. “I try, darlin’.” It didn’t seem like he was trying to judge her. Just help. Often, he figured if you showed someone another way, and they were willing to take it, that was what you needed to do. You couldn’t force a person down any path. He nipped a little at her lip, seeming in no hurry to turn right to sex.
Normally Gaz didn’t even like kissing much, but Logan seemed ... invested in it. She ran her fingers through his hair, looking up at him. “Still. Thanks.” She hadn’t said thank you to many people, but that was more because most people hadn’t done many things for her.
“Welcome.” He grinned at her, then jerked his head towards the canvas. “Ready to make a mess?” Logan suspected he was probably going to end up covered in paint too. He didn’t really mind.
She nodded. “Yeah.” Gaz was already taking off her boots, wiggling out of the vinyl pants she’d worn over. Soon she was stripping out of her shirt and bra, taking her hair out of the thick braid it had been in. And true to her word, her scars were gone, having healed while she’d slept. She’d hated it, she’d woken up sobbing, lamenting their absence.
Logan ran a finger down her spine. Her skin was smoother than he remembered. He snorted. Every scar had a story, and now the stories had been erased. His from his time in the army were gone. So was one from Creed, after Mariko had been killed. None had been self-inflicted, though.
“I hate that they’re gone. All the effort.” She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “Especially the one I gave myself after my father died.” She’d injected him in his sleep with insulin between his toes, the needle tiny, the puncture going unnoticed as there was no autopsy. He’d had heart issues, she’d just coaxed them along. Now she couldn’t even get a tattoo to help her remember.
Logan nodded. “I’d say I couldn’t understand the need to feel pain, except I do.” He popped his claws, the metal gleaming in the glaring light over head. “Hurts like a bitch, every time. Worse now. Somethin’ about the metal just makes it burn.” He’d pop them, just to feel the pain to distract him from his worries. Been doing that a lot while Neena was out like a light.
Turning, Gaz saw the claws and immediately felt herself grow damp. “Holy shit,” she murmured. Moving closer to him, she ran her palms over the tops of them, smirking. “Do you feel that?”
"I can feel the pressure. The bone is still underneath. Sort of." It was really hard to describe. The metal didn't just coat his bones. It was fused throughout them, hardening them, filling the hollows even at a molecular level.
Leaning forward, she licked his hands where the claws had come out, licking along the not sharp parts of them, looking up to meet his eyes. Gaz felt her body change temperature. Yeah, she didn’t feel emotion much, but she worked okay with lust.
“Careful,” He warned, voice rough at the rather nice sensation from Gaz’s tongue. A cut from them would be much worse and take much longer to heal. He wasn’t even sure that her healing could completely counteract it, though there was a way to find out.
“Shhh,” Gaz murmured, still moving. She nicked her lip lightly on the underside of one of his claws, groaning when the pain lasted more than a second or so. “Fuck,” she purred, eyelids fluttering shut.
Logan watched her, head tilting to the side. There was something oddly arousing about that, but he wanted to see if she could find other outlets, too. "You gonna paint or are you just gonna cream all over my claws first?"
“Does it matter?” She moved her free hand away from her groin, chuckling and running those fingers along his claws. He’d asked for it.
But she did want to paint. She moved around the canvas first, then looked at Logan. She’d paint him. She thought she could do realism in large scale. It’d be a challenge. Carefully, she started to dip brushes in paint, tiptoeing up so she could reach the top of the canvas. Within moments, she was lost to her art.
Logan couldn't help it. He licked his own claws. He watched her, curious. He'd thought to get her to use her whole body to paint, but inspiration struck where it wanted. He sheathed his claws, and sat down cross-legged, admiring her body as she worked.
Eventually, she stopped using the brushes and used her fingers. Looking back at Logan, she smiled at him. It was a small, lopsided thing, but it was a smile. “You can paint too. If you want.” She’d probably hang it up in her room somewhere.
“I have all the artistic stylings of a monkey,” Logan quipped, but he picked up a brush, and some black paint. He found a small piece of canvas, but he didn’t paint. He did shodo. Japanese calligraphy. Broad, precise strokes of the brush in kanji.
“What’s it mean? I don’t read kanji.” But Sada liked enough anime and gory Japanese horror movies to know what it was. “You’re good at that.”
"Thanks. I've had the practice." Logan finished one kanji and moved on to the other.
"It means don't worry, be happy."
It didn't. Logan smirked to himself as he worked, glancing over to watch her every once in awhile.
“It’d better not or I’ll go get my axe.” She glared at him, smirking lopsidedly while she did so. Yes. Gaz could smirk and glare at the same time. It was a skill.
Logan threw his head back and laughed. He stepped back from what he'd made. It was a little sloppier than he would have otherwise done.
Life
Death
Pain
Pleasure
Honor
Feeling
Radiant
Darkness
Those, she could live with. Soon Logan’s face was recognizable on the canvas, in startling detail. She still worked with her fingers, wiping them on her chest and stomach when she wanted to use a new color. Kneeling down, she started to sketch a pile of skulls for him to stand upon in the painting.
Logan frowned, unsure about that, but he let her paint. It was uncomfortably close to some of his dreams, and forced him to confront that part of him, something he’d generally avoided. He wondered if Gaz had had any idea, at all. Or if she'd just guessed.
It had just felt right. Logan’s face was looking down in the painting, filled with conflict, near-turmoil, and exhaustion. The battle had clearly been hard won.
Or maybe it was like she read right through him. His wrists tensed, the slightest pricks against the inside of his hand, the littlest amount of blood dribbling down his knuckles. Logan watched Gaz paint, feeling like he’d been laid open, raw.
She was good at reading other people. Soon there were mountains and a sunset behind him, which meant she soon had to add shadows. When she thought she was done, she moved backward, cocking her head to make sure the shading was right.
Logan rested his hand on Gaz’s back before she could bump into him. His skin was warm, and an odd texture. The callouses had healed, but it still wasn’t entirely smooth. “Seems like it’s missin’ something.”
“Needs more red,” she murmured. Logan’s body wasn’t finished in the painting. If he’d just killed people, it’d need more gore. Standing back up she leaned down to dip her fingers into the red, but then she added a touch of brown, too. On the floor, she mixed the two together, trying to get the clotted look of real blood after time.
Logan patted her on the bum lightly, then backed away to let her work. He started to pace, wrestling with demons in his head. A hundred lifeless eyes watched him.
“You okay?” Gaz lightly flecked Logan’s chest - the painting of him - with blood, then did the same with the skulls.
"Hittin' pretty close to home, darlin'." Logan watched her paint again, exhaling slowly out of his nose. Paint fumes could make him a little dizzy, but he’d learned to tune that sort of thing out. “I was an embodiment of Death for a time.”
“Huh. I drew you as sort of the demonic aspect of Kali here, but aware enough of the maternal side to feel guilty. Sorry.” Gaz turned to face him, her skin streaked red and black and blue with paint. It was everywhere - flecked in her hair, streaked on her body - but she seemed as unaware of it as the painting of Logan was about the blood on him.
"Yeah, I think you got it right," he said, eyes flicking over her body and the effect the paint had on her. "How was it? For you?"
“I like painting.” Gaz shrugged. “I’ll work on it more with small brushes when I take it home. You can have it if you want it.”
“Maybe when it’s done,” Logan said, looking at it again. He thought that Gaz might want to add to it, for awhile. He kind of hoped she would. “Mine ain’t as pretty, but I tried to go for feeling.” He pointed at each kanji and finally told her what they meant.
She reached out to offer him a consoling pat, which she wasn’t really good at, but managed to at least pat him on the shoulder. “They’re prettier. Kanji and calligraphy have thousands of years of art and tradition.”
“They do,” Logan nodded his head. “I think yours has more emotion.” He trailed a finger along Gaz’s collar bone, mixing up some paint there, and making a pattern around one breast.
“Its yours. I just borrowed it. That’s what I do. I ... steal them for a while.’ It was what had drawn her to art to begin with; it had allowed her to have emotions for a short time, even if they weren’t hers.
“It ain’t stealin’ if I’m still feelin’ it,” Logan pointed out. His face was mostly calm, but there was turmoil in his eyes. Gaz had captured it perfectly in the painting.
“Why are you feeling this way?” She pointed at the painting. “The man I drew did that to protect the people he loved. Sometimes he fucked that up, but everyone fucks up sometimes, nobody’s perfect. But he tried. The fact he tried means ... everything. Nobody’s ever tried to save me but me. Even my parents didn’t care about me. But that man ... he’s done more for people he barely knows than anyone and he’s awesome.” Gaz folded her arms. She saw how upset he was, reaching up to pull him down for a kiss. Sure, paint ended up in his hair, but that happened. It’d come out.
"Everyone deserves to be saved. The ones that think they don't need it even more," Logan said, before Gaz was kissing him. He'd forgotten who had told him that once. If it was this world, or the other, but the words came back to him in the space left between Gaz's voice and her lips on his.
“I don’t need it. And I don’t want it. I’ll do it myself.” But she liked that he tried. Gaz pulled away, beeping a little extra paint onto his nose.
Logan slid his hands down Gaz's sides. His claws popped out, teasing, before retracting. “Just saying there are more paths open than you think. I ain’t goin’ to push you down any. I’m more of a nudger, in this case.”
Gaz snorted. “Paths for what? Is this some huge dick metaphor?”
He guffawed. “Nevermind. If I was makin’ a dick metaphor it would be more obvious.” He smudged some paint on Gaz’s cheek, and then wiped his finger down her back.
“I was going to say, you’re obviously getting laid tonight, stop making weird metaphors.” She closed her eyes and leaned against him. “Thank you.”
"You're welcome," Logan replied. He thought she didn't hear that. Ever. He looked at another piece of blank canvas, and started to get an idea. He smirked. "Want to make some art together?"
She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” And it might have been the second time she’d heard “you’re welcome” in her life.
“Yeah, why not?” He jerked his head towards the blank canvas. “You never been a paintbrush an’ fucked at the same time before?”
“Nope. I wonder what it’ll look like when we’re done.” Because as much as Gaz liked sex - and Logan - she liked painting more.
“No idea. If we’re lucky it won’t just be a brown mess.” He started to strip, since he was sure he was going to get covered in paint, too. “But It’ll be fun to find out." He pushed her against the canvas, kissing her.
“Well, we’ll have to use compli - “ She was going to let him know what colors they’d have to use, but he was kissing her roughly, and she was fine with that. Pushing back against him just as hard, she bit his lower lip, smirking, smearing red down his side with her free hand.
"You figure out the colors," Logan growled, a hand roughly stroking Gaz's throat, down over firm breasts and smooth stomach, then around to her back again, leaving a blue streak.
She guided his hand back up to her throat. “Right here. Just a little bit of pressure.” She tried to get him to press into her, no preamble, no foreplay, just his hand on her throat and the other one holding her up.
Logan looked at her a moment, then squeezed. He exerted an incredible amount of control, not trusting her healing ability. He gave some more pressure, holding her eyes with his.
“Fucking go,” she growled, her blue eyes meeting his. She couldn’t help but move her hips, trying to coax him to go faster. She liked the idea of him hurting her, of pressing her into the wall.
Logan groaned, pressing her hips up the canvas as he pushed his thumbs in a little harder. Their hips met and he was in her. His claws popped on either side of Gaz's head, the lowest ones leaving thin cuts on her shoulders.
And they didn’t close right away. She whimpered as the cuts didn’t close right away, feeling blood finally rushing, feeling a near high. Dear god. If she could’ve picked someone to do this with on the regular, it’d be him. Growling a little, she arched her back and tried to get him to cut her a bit more.
Logan was careful. He could see the cuts begin to close, though the process would be slow, and it would likely burn. He relaxed a bit, knowing he didn't have to worry as much about actually killing her. Logan kissed, hard and rough, rocking his hips hard. He let go of Gaz's throat with one hand, rubbing it down her side before adding more paint.
His claws added slashes to the canvas, with splatters of blood as they left marks just below her ribs.
She would probably hang this up in her house. Groaning, she wrapped her legs around him tightly, using all of her strength to flip him over onto his back, rolling with him and then pressing hard against his chest, moving faster than he was. “You were doing it wrong,” she snarled.
Logan groaned, bucking up against her. "The fuck was I doing wrong?" He grabbed her breasts, twisting her nipples hard. His fist went up to her throat. Two claws popped on either side of her neck and the third was like a needle pricking into her throat.
“Not fast enough,” she whimpered, moving faster, deeper than he had. But the third claw on her throat made her yowl in pleasure. Logan would’ve been able to feel the difference - she was wetter, her skin hotter - and see her blush. “Fucking goddamn just like that,” she growled.
Logan laughed. Her reaction was interesting, and turned him on even more. He pulled his claws in, and his fist away, then rolled them over again. He pinned her down, caging her wrists with his claws, twin needle pricks into them with the middle ones.
"How hard?" He asked, before he lifted her hips up with the sheer power behind his own. The extra weight of the metal only added force to it.
She struggled underneath him, only to see if she could unseat him from her. Satisfied that she couldn’t, she arched her back, hoping he’d go through her wrists with the metal. “How hard can you go?” Idly, Gaz wondered if she remembered his name. She turned her head to watch her wrists, grinning and actually laughing to herself for a moment. “I owe you.”
“Owe me, huh?” Logan grunted, as he started to jackhammer Gaz. Each rapid thrust forced the claws to cut into her wrists, keeping the wounds from even trying to close. He growled, animalistic and hungry, eyes glazing over slightly.
“This is the best thing ... ever.” She eventually couldn’t even talk, just whimper and moan. Leaning her head to the side, she bit his wrist, gentle at first, but eventually drawing a bit of blood herself, lapping at it gently.
Logan moved harder, and faster and needier. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of impaling her on his claws. He was worried she’d bleed out before it healed over. He also didn’t want her entirely associating him with pain and claws. He moved his hands to her hips, the claws leaving a set of three slashed from her ass down to her outer thigh.
She liked that, reaching a hand up to stroke his cheek. It was an odd, rare moment of fondness from a girl who had experienced little and given less in her lifetime. It even met her eyes.
Logan kissed her, as he abused her with his body. His way of being fond back, and his way of giving her an out on the fondness if she chose.
She didn’t. She kissed him back lightly, almost delicately, riding out the fondness to see where it would carry her. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt much. She knew he wasn’t hers, not even a little - hell, she barely remembered his first name and she sure as shit didn’t know his last name - but for the moment, it was okay.
The kiss was tender and light, with a hint of passion, and completely in contrast to how hard the rest of their bodies were moving together. Like he could be hers, just for now, as long as this might last.
Gaz closed her eyes, not liking the tenderness, not liking that it might lead to loneliness later. Instead, she moved harder into his claws, picking pain over softness, picking her solitude over his companionship.
Groaning, Logan shifted his hips, changing the angle and deepening until he was hitting a spot that not many people probably have hit. He looked down at her, grey eyes darkening, claws sheathing. He wondered if she'd beg for it.
She’d sooner slit her throat on one of his claws. Gaz could feel her body tensing, could feel every muscle growing tighter and tighter until she closed her eyes and turned her head, trying not to let him see that she was crying quietly to herself on sheer adrenaline, sensation, and emotion.
Emotions sucked, she decided.
When Gaz tightened, it pushed Logan over the edge, and his body tensed, shuddered and then he released, burying his face into her neck. His teeth were at her throat and his claws bit into her sides like razor blades.
The orgasm had worn her out. She closed her eyes, breathing heavily, running her fingers lightly up and down his back. “I should go.”
Logan panted, catching his breath. He nuzzled her neck, then sat back on his haunches, watching her. He took her hands and kissed her fingers, then released them. “Could do some more paintin’.”
Her eyelids squinched shut, and she sat up, still bleeding a little bit. She had never felt more alone in her life. It was almost dizzying, and she bit her lower lip hard to regain some sort of equilibrium, some sort of ground to stand on. “Do you want to? Why are you being so nice to me?”
He held out his hand, and then pulled her up as he stood. He gave her a brief hug, "I want to." He smirked at her. "Ain't like I got much else to do today."
As for why he was being so nice, Logan had no answer for that, except to glance at the painting.
“I don’t need your pity. But ... yeah, okay.” She shivered, suddenly cold, and she wrapped the canvas they’d been fucking on around her shoulders. Something told her that she was his charity case, his pity brigade.
“It ain’t pity,” Logan snapped. His eyes flared, and his anger was clear. “It’s a lot of things, but it ain’t pity.”
“Then what the fuck is it?” She glared right back at him, her own anger nearly palpable.
"I like you." He raised his eyebrows, and growled. "An' I want to help. Fuck, if I pitied you, would I have bothered to do anythin' but fuck you raw? You need a friend.”
She bit her lower lip when he said that he liked her. “Why?” Not why she needed a friend - that much she knew - but why would anyone like her?
“You’re interestin’. An’ I think we have some things in common.” Logan replied. He looked back at the painting. “You might have painted what you saw, but you only saw something because there’s somethin’ in yourself.”
“You’ve killed people in your dreams, I did it when I was awake. You’re alone in the painting, I’m alone when I’m awake.” She was crouching down, still covered by the paint and blood soaked canvas. “Not so different, but I’m glad you ... I don’t know, I hate most things. Nobody’s ever cared about it before.”
Logan had killed as a soldier, but that didn't count. Not really. Not with your hands. There had been those traffickers. That counted a bit more. He didn't bring that up. This wasn't a contest. He didn't offer a hand either, but stood next to her, like a silent protector.
"Can't speak for a lot of people. Just myself. I care."
She scooted closer to him, leaning against his legs, silently crying. Sometimes, only sometimes, did she feel the true gravity of how different she was than most people. She only felt alone when she was around someone who didn’t want her to be. It was comforting, maddening, and exciting all at the same time.
Her shoulders shook and she sniffled hard, scrubbing her hands with her face, smearing blood across her cheeks. “Okay. Done with that now.” Even though she wasn’t, she forced herself to push the feelings aside.
"Sure you are," Logan said, a knowing tone in his voice. He looked down at Gaz. He could feel her loneliness like it was a palpable thing. Something that could be held and examined under the light. He didn't know the cause, and doubted she even really understood herself. He was only sure that she must feel alone right now, precisely because she wasn't. Like it shone a light into the shadows and made her realize there was something missing.
Maybe he really did have a thing for strays.
"Enough of that, darlin'. Don't want me gettin' weepy too."
She nodded. “And I am. Done with crying. It’s stupid.” She felt the wounds on her hips, smiling a little when she felt they weren’t closed up. “Thank you. For everything.” Impulsively she tiptoed up to kiss him lightly, almost sweetly.
Logan kissed her back, his arm around Gaz and squeezing lightly as he did so. “Lets get cleaned up, an’ i’ll help you get these fuckers out of here.” He pulled the cloak/canvas off of her, and spread it out so they could look at it.