Post by Logan on Jun 10, 2012 2:52:08 GMT -5
It is winter in Blackwater, Tennessee. The days grow shorter and the nights grow longer, and as the weeks roll on, the average temperature sees a steady decline. Outside, the environment is sparse. Naked trees and dead grass with haphazard patches of snow surviving in the shade. Blackwater is not a winter wonderland but there is chance for change as December wears on – or so a certain hunter hopes. There is something innately wrong about a drab, grass-yellow Christmas, especially when it will be Nathan and Logan’s first spent together. They have already invested effort and ideas into going all out this holiday (the boxes of lights and ornaments sitting in the garage are testament to as much), and so Logan wills the weather to behave because everything needs to be perfect. They need this reprieve.
November was a lesson in perseverance – difficult days, painful situations, an acknowledgement of how fragile everything can be. Blink, and the most important things in life might be gone, irrevocably tarnished. December has turned into a mediation on that lesson, on enjoying the time they have by not wasting it. Logan is a willing and able student and has fully committed himself to December’s school of thought because they deserve to be happy. The guilt tapping on his shoulder to remind him that others in Blackwater are still hurting, still nursing wounds that may never quite heal, has been silenced. It is selfish, maybe on some level cruel, but Logan refuses to let anything compromise their month of catharsis. He limits his thoughts, keeps them within the circle of a werewolf, a hunter, and their dog.
Today proves to be a lazy day. A day of relaxing and leftovers (because sometimes they have those). A day of being happily useless reading, watching the television, napping. Easy, wonderfully mundane, domestic things that Logan never knew he loved so much until recently. When Nathan decides to run an errand, Logan opts to stay behind and continue his impersonation of a bear preparing for hibernation. The minutes tick by, an hour or two falls into the languid abyss. Daylight fades, the house falls dark, and strangely enough, that is when Logan finally decides to get up.
A yawn breaks over his features and he hold his arms out in a stretch. Logan wanders into the kitchen and flicks the light on – the only illumination within the house. He peers outside of the window near the sink, takes in the eerie, dark silhouettes of the trees that bleed like ink towards the sky. A sky that, Logan notes, is overcast with only a few small gaps open for the stars. He thinks that if they’re lucky, maybe they’ll get some snow tonight. In a bid for fresh air and because he likes the way the cold sits in his lungs, Logan opens the back door and ventures outside.
The air is cold but not Alaska cold and Logan is equally grateful and nostalgic. There is nothing more effective than negative degrees in making a man feel alive. It also helps him realize how goddamned wonderful warmth is. And, at that thought, his eyes settle onto the hot tub. A smirk pulls over his features and he thinks, why the hell not. While Nathan is out handling pack business, Logan will prove he is a contributing member of the household by soaking in hot, bubbling water. At least he cooks and cleans – on most days.
When the werewolf returns, he will find the house dark save for the kitchen light and quiet save for the familiar jingle of Lark’s dog tags. At the first sound of the backdoor opening, Logan looks up from his station in the hot tub and grins cheekily. ”You’re back. Good, I was getting lonely.” A towel sits haphazardly folded on the edge of the tub and Logan tilts his head, smirks slow and roguish. ”It’s cold out. You should hop in and warm yourself up.” That smirk turns near criminal as he takes a lingering sip from a glass bottle (root beer because he is a suave, masculine adult). ”But first --you should get naked.” Welcome home, Nathaniel Hart.
A lazy day is interrupted by responsibilities; by a call to order and duty that Nate would rather ignore, but heeds against his own biased wishes. Having to disentangle himself from the most comfortable nap of his life – possibly the best way to spend a weekend afternoon – only serves to make him surly and bitter for the better part of his time away from Logan. The fact that the whole trip ends up being pointless only frustrates him further; there was no werewolf sighting, only some half-starved stray dog, and though it’s no one’s fault in particular it serves as another jagged reminder of why he’s soured to this whole pack experience. That he is now, so often, the only one available to handle sudden problems; that so many of these supposedly simple issues have recently fallen upon him alone. It is selfish and even illogical, yes, but rationality often has little bearing on Nathan’s emotion when it comes to spending time at home. When it comes to spending time with Logan.
An afternoon spent out in the brisk air playing a game of dog or werewolf? wouldn’t have been fun even without the added drama – and when the heat fails to come on in his car, Nathan considers it the final straw on the back of a day that so quickly turned miserable. He speeds home, heedless of limits, and his teeth are still chattering by the time he pulls into the drive.
That only Lark appears to greet him is unusual; that nearly every light in the house is off even more so. Nathan is not a particularly paranoid man, even given his worries and the vast array of circumstances that would have lead to it, but when a quick search of Logan’s usual hiding places – the bed, the couch, the kitchen – turns up nothing, he grows suspicious. It’s only after he’s deposited his coat and gloves on the coffee table that he considers checking outside; that his ears even bother to interpret the low rumble from the deck.
And in one easy occurrence, whatever annoyances had plagued him throughout the afternoon are eased off his shoulders. Nathan leans up against the side of the house, folding his arms in both a gesture of disbelief and a defense mechanism against the chill; the grin that lights his face is not at all innocent, coupled with an indecent, curious stare to absorb the scene. Laughing eyes catch Logan’s and linger, mischievous.
If he could come home to this every day, it might just be enough incentive for him to bear leaving each morning.
”Logan,” is the first wary reply, but Nathan’s hesitance is little more than a transparent act – his role for the evening, for the next minute, for however long he can bother to play it, ”it’s not cold. It’s freezing.” But that’s probably half the fun – just tonight’s version of their endless game. Nathan’s a southwest man and Logan’s well aware of that; of the fact that the werewolf chills easily, is more comfortable in the dry desert heat than this unnatural Tennessee winter. The surprisingly frigid weather has lead to its fair share of playful, childish sulks – pleas and bargains to skip work and stay warm in bed – and all pouts and complaints at the temperature, the grey skies. He makes off as though this is no exception. ”I think it’s supposed to snow.”
But none of these statements have any force behind them, any sense of conviction. Having only been able to use the hot tub once before injuries and tragedy made the very thought seem offensive simply serves to edge him on; but those times are gone, and Nate enjoys doing his goddamn best to replace them with the little fortress of happiness they’ve built about themselves. Wetting his lips, the werewolf’s hand settles on the buckle of his belt – and he takes the half-second he needs to weigh the pros and cons of getting buck naked in the cold before giving in.
”You’re some devil, Duvall.” And half-numb fingers set to work.
When his shirt first hits the deck, Nate tells himself he can’t feel the chill; by the time he kicks his way out of his pants, the tremble that runs through his arms and down his spine is obvious. He turns dark eyes to Logan and steps to the side of the hot tub with what dignity he can muster – which mostly amounts to not scrambling there in desperation – and slaps a palm down on the rim.
”Fuck it’s cold letmein,” he demands, though his gasping is a far cry from whatever masculine turn of phrase he’d been planning on charming Logan with; and when the hunter finally does, Nathan will sink into that water with a sigh and a shiver, basking in the sensation of finally being warm.
If there is a list of the best purchases Nathan has ever made, he thinks the hot tub is sitting right at the top.
Mischievous eyes narrow at the tone Nathan’s voice carries and it is more than enough to pique the hunter’s interest. The games they play often start at random and that unpredictability is something Logan has learned to crave. A lazy day takes a brilliant turn when Nathan starts to disrobe and Logan is not shy; he drinks the demonstration in, smile growing wider as each article of clothing disappears. The werewolf is scarred because he is a survivor and Logan loves every inch of that skin, imperfections and all. He has dedicated night after night into mapping the man’s contours, memorizing the locations and patterns of those scars but it never gets old, and Logan suspects it never will.
”Maybe, but you like it.” Far be it for the hunter to be egotistical, but there’s a hint of smugness in his expression. Nathan has worked wonders on the older man’s confidence and is due to reap both the benefits and consequences of his efforts – which sometimes go hand in hand. Nathan moves towards the edge of the tub and Logan reaches back to place his bottle into one of the built-in cup holders. Safety first, even –especially—at times of play. ”Say please,” Logan teases but does not make good on the threat, he gives access, pulls Nathan into the blessedly warm bubbling water with a bourbon-rich chuckle.
Water laps around his chest as Logan settles opposite of Nathan. He rests his arms over the rim, lets his legs mingle with Nathan’s underwater. ” This is good for you. The contrast in temperature helps build a man’s hardiness,” he declares in an overdone scholarly manner. ”Or so the Russians claim.” His shoulders roll in a languid shrug and Logan takes a moment to let his eyes wander over Nathan. It is clear by his expression that the cogs of the man’s mind are turning, likely switching gears to full degenerate – if they weren’t there already. Logan meets the blue of Nathan’s gaze and gives a slow, decidedly wicked smile.
” Tebe uzhe luchshe?” The shape of the words, the way they greet the ears is unmistakably Russian. Logan grins and follows the gesture with a quiet chuckle. ”My accent used to be better,” he admits. Nathan has gradually uncovered Logan piece by piece but there remain a few items yet to be discovered. This old dog still has some tricks and he’s looking to try them out and what better time than now, on a cold December night. ”I’m a bit out of practice.” He plays it coy, affecting the cool disposition most of Blackwater knows him for. The hunter is in his element; he is comfortable, at ease, and it shows in the relaxed line of his shoulders, in his amused, assessing eyes.
This is a side of the man reserved for Nathan only and there is satisfaction taken from that. A secret shared with the one person Logan trusts without hesitation. Freedom in its purest form and Logan feels no shame in using that freedom for selfish, salacious purposes.
He draws in a breath, sighs it out nice and slow, continues to wear that damnable clever smile. ” Vam horoso vygladet.” Spoken as a statement while exaggeratedly looking Nathan over. ”Better?” The hunter is not fishing for compliments, his goal is entirely different and hopelessly obvious.
But that’s all part of the fun.
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Tebe uzhe luchshe? = feel better?
Vam horoso vygladet. = you look good
”Fuck you and your please—“ and then Logan’s moving, and Nathan is enveloped in the warmth of the water; he spends a few moments in relaxing silence, head tilted back, content to simply soak. Once the contrast of temperatures becomes too great, Nate reclines further, dips his shoulders in and runs a wet hand through the damp mess of his hair. It’s Logan’s voice that finally draws Nathan unhurriedly out of his reverie, away from the simple pleasure of the heat soothing all the taut and tired tension from his muscles, and he shifts his way back up into a sit with a lazy effort and slow, waking blinks.
Blue eyes rise to meet the hunter’s from across the span of frothing water, and that matching, impish smile makes a slow return to his lips. ”Are you saying I’m not hardy enough?” Nate’s obvious in his advances: in his hungry stare that displays how much he enjoys the way Logan’s tattoo just breaches the waterline; how their legs only occasionally, accidentally meet in a collision of skin; the way the older man seems utterly relaxed and confident in his own control. Nathan's gaze consumes every inch of skin the water unveils, and the werewolf makes no attempt to hide that fact; his grin, if anything, grows wider, all teeth and indecency. ”I can do hardy, if you want hardy.”
And at that, Nathan slips across what little distance lies between them. The werewolf encourages Logan to move over with an insistent palm before sliding in next to him, nestling up under his arm. He sinks low, leaning up against the side of man’s chest, and lets the water lap up near his shoulders. Somewhere along the way, Nathan decides he likes the fact that it’s dark and overcast, that the bubbles and black water hide any indication of what might lie beneath; a hand settles on Logan’s thigh, an entirely innocent gesture that couldn't possibly be taken for anything else – and the gentle sweeping of his thumb is never quite stilled.
But Logan’s new, unexpected twist on their game distracts Nathan from whatever goal he’d had in mind – and the werewolf leans forward with a laugh, bright eyes lifted to latch upon grey in surprise and a wicked amusement.
”Mister Duvall,” he misquotes, ”are you trying to seduce me?” And much like his source material, there is little objection to that fact. ”I wasn’t aware my graceful strip tease,” his frozen, half-naked stumbling, ”had been so… trying. Is that Russian?” A tongue runs over his lips, so suddenly dry despite the moist air. ”Since when do you speak Russian?” He settles back, leans his head over to let his mouth linger near Logan’s neck.
”I have no idea what you’re saying," he whispers, voice low and still echoing with good humor – a jab at the overt and ridiculous nature of their ongoing games, "–but I think I like it.” The kiss Nathan plants is gentle, cloying in its very innocence, and he lets the feel of his smile press into Logan’s skin. ”What else have you been hiding from me?”
And then teasing lips are replaced with worrying teeth, and his breath is hot even against the water’s steam.
Logan ducks his head with an airy laugh. He is caught red handed, completely found out, and that is expected because the man isn’t exactly being subtle. ”So graceful.” Humor edges the murmur of his voice and Logan is watching Nathan in that curious way of his, like the werewolf simultaneously poses all of the questions while holding all of the answers. His smile is fleeting but telling, and it never quite leaves the lines of Logan’s face, even after he schools his expression into a smug mask. ”Since you started giving strip teases,” he returns because now is not the time for winding, factual explanations.
There is a hand on his thigh, the persistent sweep of a thumb, and hot breath tingling at his neck. Logan’s mind is not on the past, but the present for all of the best reasons. Nathan tends to have that effect; he is the wicked magician with a clever touch and a killer smile, who Logan happens to be in love with. The world can offer nothing else because Logan has what he wants and he can’t see beyond it, wouldn’t want to anyway, because nothing could compare. A little yellow house in a backwater town, two, adult men engaging in wordplay while groping in a hot tub. This is his life and Logan knows he is the most fortunate bastard out there; and he is going to enjoy every blissful, selfish moment without guilt, without trepidation.
”Hiding…hmm, no.” The statement comes in a sigh, in a content rumble. He leans his head to the side, grants Nathan full access to his neck and smiles all pleased and satisfied. Teeth press against his skin and Logan feels his heart skip; an instinctual response, one that reminds him that his wolf is still there lurking, and it approves. ”I’m not hiding anything.” Logan shifts, settles a hand high on Nathan’s thigh and reciprocates with a kiss, then with a set of teeth drawing feather-light over his throat. Their exposed skin is subjected to the wintery chill but Logan radiates heat; a living, breathing radiator perfectly at home in the dark of the December night. Lips brush over the werewolf’s jaw, rise up to bump and press a kiss against his ear.
His mouth parts, draws in a breath, and he smirks. ”Just waiting for you to find them.” The water sloshes when Logan suddenly moves. His hands find Nathan’s hips and he pulls the man towards him, with him, as he backs into the other side of the tub. The werewolf is effectively perched in the hunter’s lap with Logan’s arms braced against his back. He grins because he knows more of the werewolf is exposed to the elements, but soon relents by sliding down lower through Nathan’s spread legs, pulling him deeper into the swirling heat.
Logan cranes his neck upwards to cover Nathan’s mouth with his own. It is a hungry show of lips and teeth, of a forceful and seeking tongue. Heat that has nothing to do with the water blossoms in his gut and travels lower, and it is enough to elicit a quiet groan. Work-calloused hands smooth down the werewolf’s spine, settle on his ass and squeeze.
” Klossnaya popka.” A guttural, breathless phrase and Logan gives a second, rough squeeze for emphasis. He draws back enough to meet Nathan’s gaze, runs a tongue over his lips and swallows. ”Nice ass.” His following grin is crooked and indecent and not at all Eagle Scout material.
He was a good boy, once, really.
But that was never any fun.
