Fic: Desperate Measures - Rogan foof - (1 / several)
Good God, I wrote Rogan fic again. I actually thought I might have broke that part of my brain... actually I still think that *lol*. It was eaten by Reapers while I was distracted by Kaidan. I AM THE HARBINGER OF YOUR... no wait... I need to stop that.
Anyway - this is complete trashy, extremely unoriginal, filthy minded, ooc foof. Write what you're comfortable with they all say... ahahaha!
Logan's POV. Rated NC17 for swearing and dirty thoughts. Loosely based on songs. Probably filled with British-isms, goblins, zombies and other non-beta'd errors, but it's late and it's trash-foof, so I can't quite be bothered to check.
Some chapters are short. Other's are shorter. And if you're looking for something intellectually stimulating? You won't find it here *g*
Two months, eight days, and four hours.
Two *whole* months, eight fuckin’ days, and four godforsaken, tortuously long, cold sweatin’ hours.
That was sixty nine freakin’ days. And sixty nine was a number he did not want to think about right now. He would not think about it, he wouldn't, he… God he wanted to think about it. Fuck, he could think about it all day. Hot and fast and hands everywhere and…NO!
Deep breath.
Calm.
Encourage blood to return to head.
He’d come back from his travels. Which he decided was a good thing. She was all grown up. Which he also decided was good, considering his thoughts of late. She was happy in the Mansion; good things all round, he figured.
…And then there was the minor detail that she was playing tongue wars with the fuckin’ snowman.
Which was... well... even he didn't know enough swear words to do it justice.
So. He’d had all these good resolutions. Spend some time with her. Show her that you care. Take things slow. (Push the Iceprick under a bus.) And don’t go out and get laid. Because apparently that comes under the ‘sending mixed vibes’ category.
So he’d been good.
For two friggin months, eight days, and four godDAMN long hours.
When was she gonna get the FUCKIN’ picture? Did he have to spell it out for her? ‘Cause he would, if it would help. He grabbed a piece of paper, which was technically the back of a label peeled off a beer bottle (sign of sexual frustration, Scott had said far too smugly). Not exactly romantic, but hell, needs must. What? You think the Wolverine does stationary? Yeah right, Bub.
Further hunting revealed an old pencil. Hardly the stuff of epic love letters, but at least it was individual. Had character so to speak.
He frowned.
‘Marie,’ he began, chewing the end of the pencil thoughtfully. Somehow he didn’t think ‘ten seconds after I post this through your door I’m gonna explode into your room and take you up against your bedpost with or without your pansy assed boyfriend present’ would go down to well. Apparently, according to Cosmo, that was classed as ‘coming on too strong.’
See, that was what he had been reduced to. Reading fuckin’ Cosmo. Well, technically, it was less of a read, and more of a leer at the half-naked pictures and a five knuckle shuffle - but…no. Probably shouldn’t mention that in his letter either. That might come under the category of ‘pervy’.
He huffed an angry sigh to himself. ‘Marie,’ he tried again. Then stared blankly at the beer label for a moment. Was that all he could come up with? Was it so goddamned hard? Well something was goddamn hard because he was running out of fuckin’ patience. He took a deep breath. Then another. Then with a roar, he scrunched up the stupid thing in his fist and lobbed it into his bin.
There now. That felt better. He sure taught it a lesson.
But he still had no letter.
He needed help. But who? Scott? Yeah right. Chuck? ‘Hi, I like you to help me lure one of your students into bed, where I plan to fuck her all the way to Christmas.’ Nope, Chuck was not a good option... But there was always ‘Ro. Yes! …No. That would mean talkin’ to a girl. And talkin’ to a girl at this moment without screwin’ her would be impossible. It wouldn’t be his fault, of course, but they’d proposition him, and he just wasn’t in a place where he could turn them down. He’d been avoiding ‘Ro for weeks. Hell, he’d even started to avoid Scott.
He’d just have to lump it, and do the damn job himself.
Decision made, he figured there was no use beating around the bush. Else he was gonna have to beat something else and healin’ factor or no healin’ factor, he was sure he was comin’ down with a case of tennis fuckin’ elbow.
Another label.
‘We need to talk.’ Yeah, that was good start. Much better than ‘Marie’. And girls liked to talk didn’t they? Of course, by talk he meant ‘rut like rampant bunnies on Viagra,’ but there was no need to go into the specifics. Not just yet.
‘I’ve seen your teasin’ glances. Stop playin’ and come and find me. Logan.’
There. Nothin’ wrong with that. Straight to the point. From the heart. Possibly a bit lower.
Now. To post it. He peered out into the corridor, making sure no one else was around before sneaking out, prowling the distance to her room, eyes on full alert…oh god there was a female comin’. He mustn’t cave, mustn’t cave… Panting with the effort it cost him, he pinned himself back against the wall, the breaths coming hard and fast through his nose as Kitty came round the corner.
“Stay back,” he warned with a growl. “You have to resist me! Don’t come any closer!”
“I…what…?”
“I said DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!”
Kitty gave a yelp and leapt back a few paces, half disappearing through the wall on the other side. “Ok,” she squeaked, giving him a weird look before walking off a lot faster than she had approached.
He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Strange kid, he thought to himself. But strong will power. Good. That could’ve been messy.
A few more steps, and he was at Marie’s door. The letter and/or beer label was easily slipped underneath, and then it was a case of legging it back to his room where he could hide until she came to him.
He waited.
Quarter of an hour went by, there was no sign.
Half an hour, and nothin’.
He paced.
Three quarters of an hour, and-…wait… A knock! About goddamn time!
He ruffled his shirt a bit, ran a hand through his hair, then opened the door to….to…
Iceprick?
Fuck. And the kid was smiling.
The smug bastard.
The smooth talkin’, pansy assed-
“Logan,” he said with an air of deliberate casualness. “You appeared to have dropped something.”
Back came the note, the hand that passed it icy cold.
Logan’s glare shot daggers at his retreating back. Of all the jumped up little pricks. Of all the fucked up little boyband wannabe’s.
That was it. That did it. He’d had enough.
Door slamming behind him, he stalked out down the corridor. Not sulking. He didn’t do sulking. Far too girlish an emotion.
But it was close.
What he needed was to go out, to get completely hammered, to beat the shit outta some guy in a cage, then to fuck the brains out of a… a… fuck there she was.
His heart did not jump around in his chest. It would never dare to do something so…so… un-manly. And when he swallowed his throat did not feel dry. He just needed a drink, that was all.
“Hey Logan.” That came with a southern shy half smile, and he had to refrain from the urge to hump her leg. “You going out?”
He looked into those soft brown eyes. Big mistake. “No,” he said, resigning himself to the fact. “Not going anywhere.”
“I’ll see you around later then.”
Yep. She would. Because he was so hooked that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Damn it.
Two months, eight days, and five hours.
Anyway - this is complete trashy, extremely unoriginal, filthy minded, ooc foof. Write what you're comfortable with they all say... ahahaha!
Logan's POV. Rated NC17 for swearing and dirty thoughts. Loosely based on songs. Probably filled with British-isms, goblins, zombies and other non-beta'd errors, but it's late and it's trash-foof, so I can't quite be bothered to check.
Some chapters are short. Other's are shorter. And if you're looking for something intellectually stimulating? You won't find it here *g*
Two months, eight days, and four hours.
Two *whole* months, eight fuckin’ days, and four godforsaken, tortuously long, cold sweatin’ hours.
That was sixty nine freakin’ days. And sixty nine was a number he did not want to think about right now. He would not think about it, he wouldn't, he… God he wanted to think about it. Fuck, he could think about it all day. Hot and fast and hands everywhere and…NO!
Deep breath.
Calm.
Encourage blood to return to head.
He’d come back from his travels. Which he decided was a good thing. She was all grown up. Which he also decided was good, considering his thoughts of late. She was happy in the Mansion; good things all round, he figured.
…And then there was the minor detail that she was playing tongue wars with the fuckin’ snowman.
Which was... well... even he didn't know enough swear words to do it justice.
So. He’d had all these good resolutions. Spend some time with her. Show her that you care. Take things slow. (Push the Iceprick under a bus.) And don’t go out and get laid. Because apparently that comes under the ‘sending mixed vibes’ category.
So he’d been good.
For two friggin months, eight days, and four godDAMN long hours.
When was she gonna get the FUCKIN’ picture? Did he have to spell it out for her? ‘Cause he would, if it would help. He grabbed a piece of paper, which was technically the back of a label peeled off a beer bottle (sign of sexual frustration, Scott had said far too smugly). Not exactly romantic, but hell, needs must. What? You think the Wolverine does stationary? Yeah right, Bub.
Further hunting revealed an old pencil. Hardly the stuff of epic love letters, but at least it was individual. Had character so to speak.
He frowned.
‘Marie,’ he began, chewing the end of the pencil thoughtfully. Somehow he didn’t think ‘ten seconds after I post this through your door I’m gonna explode into your room and take you up against your bedpost with or without your pansy assed boyfriend present’ would go down to well. Apparently, according to Cosmo, that was classed as ‘coming on too strong.’
See, that was what he had been reduced to. Reading fuckin’ Cosmo. Well, technically, it was less of a read, and more of a leer at the half-naked pictures and a five knuckle shuffle - but…no. Probably shouldn’t mention that in his letter either. That might come under the category of ‘pervy’.
He huffed an angry sigh to himself. ‘Marie,’ he tried again. Then stared blankly at the beer label for a moment. Was that all he could come up with? Was it so goddamned hard? Well something was goddamn hard because he was running out of fuckin’ patience. He took a deep breath. Then another. Then with a roar, he scrunched up the stupid thing in his fist and lobbed it into his bin.
There now. That felt better. He sure taught it a lesson.
But he still had no letter.
He needed help. But who? Scott? Yeah right. Chuck? ‘Hi, I like you to help me lure one of your students into bed, where I plan to fuck her all the way to Christmas.’ Nope, Chuck was not a good option... But there was always ‘Ro. Yes! …No. That would mean talkin’ to a girl. And talkin’ to a girl at this moment without screwin’ her would be impossible. It wouldn’t be his fault, of course, but they’d proposition him, and he just wasn’t in a place where he could turn them down. He’d been avoiding ‘Ro for weeks. Hell, he’d even started to avoid Scott.
He’d just have to lump it, and do the damn job himself.
Decision made, he figured there was no use beating around the bush. Else he was gonna have to beat something else and healin’ factor or no healin’ factor, he was sure he was comin’ down with a case of tennis fuckin’ elbow.
Another label.
‘We need to talk.’ Yeah, that was good start. Much better than ‘Marie’. And girls liked to talk didn’t they? Of course, by talk he meant ‘rut like rampant bunnies on Viagra,’ but there was no need to go into the specifics. Not just yet.
‘I’ve seen your teasin’ glances. Stop playin’ and come and find me. Logan.’
There. Nothin’ wrong with that. Straight to the point. From the heart. Possibly a bit lower.
Now. To post it. He peered out into the corridor, making sure no one else was around before sneaking out, prowling the distance to her room, eyes on full alert…oh god there was a female comin’. He mustn’t cave, mustn’t cave… Panting with the effort it cost him, he pinned himself back against the wall, the breaths coming hard and fast through his nose as Kitty came round the corner.
“Stay back,” he warned with a growl. “You have to resist me! Don’t come any closer!”
“I…what…?”
“I said DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!”
Kitty gave a yelp and leapt back a few paces, half disappearing through the wall on the other side. “Ok,” she squeaked, giving him a weird look before walking off a lot faster than she had approached.
He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Strange kid, he thought to himself. But strong will power. Good. That could’ve been messy.
A few more steps, and he was at Marie’s door. The letter and/or beer label was easily slipped underneath, and then it was a case of legging it back to his room where he could hide until she came to him.
He waited.
Quarter of an hour went by, there was no sign.
Half an hour, and nothin’.
He paced.
Three quarters of an hour, and-…wait… A knock! About goddamn time!
He ruffled his shirt a bit, ran a hand through his hair, then opened the door to….to…
Iceprick?
Fuck. And the kid was smiling.
The smug bastard.
The smooth talkin’, pansy assed-
“Logan,” he said with an air of deliberate casualness. “You appeared to have dropped something.”
Back came the note, the hand that passed it icy cold.
Logan’s glare shot daggers at his retreating back. Of all the jumped up little pricks. Of all the fucked up little boyband wannabe’s.
That was it. That did it. He’d had enough.
Door slamming behind him, he stalked out down the corridor. Not sulking. He didn’t do sulking. Far too girlish an emotion.
But it was close.
What he needed was to go out, to get completely hammered, to beat the shit outta some guy in a cage, then to fuck the brains out of a… a… fuck there she was.
His heart did not jump around in his chest. It would never dare to do something so…so… un-manly. And when he swallowed his throat did not feel dry. He just needed a drink, that was all.
“Hey Logan.” That came with a southern shy half smile, and he had to refrain from the urge to hump her leg. “You going out?”
He looked into those soft brown eyes. Big mistake. “No,” he said, resigning himself to the fact. “Not going anywhere.”
“I’ll see you around later then.”
Yep. She would. Because he was so hooked that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Damn it.
Two months, eight days, and five hours.