This is humour of the 'Logan, we're not laughing with you, we're laughing at you' variety. It's what happens when I read too much angst. I feel the need to seriously lower the tone :o) Contains far too much swearing :oP And it's Rogue's POV - poor girl!
It all started a month or so ago. He was tired, restless, and I knew he was cage fighting again. I just knew it.
He was trying to hide it from the others, doing a pretty good job as well, but the give away signs were still there. If you knew where to look. The extra cash, the thick bar smoke on his jacket, the stale stink of alcohol, those late nights...
Course, there were never bruises. There wouldn't be. His mutation took care of that.
Take last night for example. He hadn't got home 'til gone three a.m. I couldn't sleep so I'd been listening. No, LISTENING, not spying...I would never... why would you even suggest such a... a ridiculous...? I just still have his heightened senses that's all. It's not like I tried to wait up for him. And heightened senses always work better when you're in close proximity. Like with an ear pressed up against the door. In the hall closet.
So I'd noticed he'd come home late, in his faded sexy-ass jeans, looking shifty (or maybe that was 'cause he'd caught me hiding), smelling strange, and acting all prowly... y'know...in the jeans. And he gave me this look. The go-back-to-bed-kid-before-I-eat-you-alive... and-I-don't-mean-that-in-a-bad-way look. In the aforementioned GodDAMN fine jeans. And they were tight. Oh yes they were. Very tight.
Something, I deduced, was most definitely...up.
No not THAT. What sort of mind do you have anyway?
...Where was I...? So, after thinking about it very carefully for a few hours, weighing up the pros and cons, I decided that as a morally supportive friend... friend... the next time he disappeared, I should follow him. I just wanted to help, that was all. Give him someone to talk too. Make him feel like he didn't have to put himself through the violence and the pain every night. And seriously, there are good therapy groups out there to help these days. You know, to alleviate issues and stuff...
"Hi (stands up and scowls) My name's Wolverine, and I have a lust for violence."
...Then again maybe not.
Still, I was sure I could at least do something. Would you let your friend go through all that? Hmm? I rest my case. Yeah, and the smart ass that answered yes can get to the back of the room and sit there in shame. Learn. Your. Lesson.
So, anyway. That brings us up to date, and hopefully explains why I'm currently here. Tonight. Hovering behind my door, waiting for him to slip out after curfew.
Sure enough, after only a short while, I hear booted feet tread quietly down the hall.
I wait a minute or two, then follow him. Full of good wholesome intentions that have absolutely nothing to do with wanting to letch after his fine hot sweaty self as he kicks the shit outta...well everyone.
He gets on the Harley, and drives off. I wait till he's just out of sight, then I steal Scott's car. No, don't judge me. Anytime I do anything like that it's the Wolverine in my head taking control. Has absolutely nothing to do with me whatsoever.
Heh, and Scott believes that every time, the sucker.
It's surprisingly easy to follow him. Suspiciously easy in fact, but I don't let a little detail like that get to me. Instead I pull up in a lot a few spaces down from the Harley, underneath a big sign that declares 'Rough 'em up' in flashing orange letters. I turn my nose up at its neon gaudiness, I have some class, and I stride towards the dank hole in the wall that passes for an entrance.
Two burly looking guards hulk in my way. I give them my most dazzling smile (and unzip my top a few notches... don't tell Logan, he'll goddamn skewer me for sure) and they let me pass.
It's a dingy goddamn hellhole if ever I saw one. Dark, seedy, heavy with smoke, walls doused in decades of alcohol, large huddles of women knocking back the... wait a minute... Women? Lots of women? Giggling, drunk, make-up-caked-on-with-a-spade women?
Part of me is aware that I'm gawping, but... what the fuck??? I don't get it! Is it ladies night? Is he hoping to pull? Did he just come here to get laid? Did he...
A spotlight hits a lone figure on the stage.
...Apparently not. Oh Fuck.
Blink. Close eyes. Shake head. Try again.
(Peer through fingers.)
The stage is still not a cage. That isn't his standard belt buckle. That is not the recommended use for baby oil. And THEY are most definitely NOT x-men issue leathers.
Then the music kicks in. I try to remember how to close my mouth as catcalls and cheers hit the roof, but all my efforts are ruined as he... he...
I attempt to remain upright in something that vaguely resembles consciousness. Yeah. I fail. Miserably. Groping the nearest table for support.
I try to think, but there's fat chance of that working either. My brain has currently crashed, frozen forever at the moment of eye-widening shock; a blue screen of death that no amount of control-alt-deleting can restore.
What I need right now, other than a really stiff drink... and perhaps a full frontal lobotomy... is someone sensible. Someone like Storm. Someone who I can turn to and say, "why, perchance, does Logan happen to be slowly stripping off each item of clothing whilst grinding his leather clad hips and his (choke) rather well defined tightly muscled...oh FUCK that's just not legal... to sultry grungy music that is so goddamn dirty that I think I just melted and don't even get me started on the thrusting because it's far too hot in here and sometime soon I'm really gonna have to remember how to breathe..."
(gasp for air)
And the sensible person will turn to me, with a nice sensible answer and make all the grindy-sweaty-Loganness go away.
Which would be a good thing... right?
He's popped the claws. He's actually popped the...I can't believe he just did that. I cannot believe... He dipped his head, the arms shot out to the side, fists clenched, snarl present and accounted for, and snikt.
I am gonna need therapy.
Make that expensive therapy.
Ohmygod. Oh. My. God. Oh. Ohhhhh...
...He's down to... He's...there's nothing left except his leather jacket and...a...a... I can't even describe it. Suffice to say, it moves with him, it's tight and it leaves nothing, nothing to the imagination. There is NO way that someone with THAT body, and THAT hair, and...
Did I mention fuck?
He just grinned at me! He just fucking GRINNED at ME!! He Goddamn knows I'm here! Oh shit.
Shit. SHIT. Try to stay calm. Stop cussing. SHIT. It's ok, you were just imagining it...no big deal... He's flung off the jacket. He's got a microphone. Jesus. What the FUCK is he gonna do with the...oh phew, just speak into it.
"These," he growls to an uproar of screaming cheers, "are for my stalker." He quirks the eyebrow, flashes a wolfish leer and leans closer towards the mic. "Hey darlin'."
And then he winks.
And aforementioned last item of clothing is ripped from places it really should remain, swung rodeo around his head, then is suddenly airborne for a few graceful moments, before, to a thunderous applause, it lands crotch first slap in my face.
My last thought before I slip blissfully into unconsciousness is not, 'hothothothotdribbleguh'. It's not, 'I cannot believe that I have actually just been jockstrapslapped.' It's not even, 'holymotherofGOD did I die? Is this a nightmare? The Wolverine appears to be a Goddamn STRIPPER!' But, of all things, it's a rather tame... 'imagine that, he winked at me...'
...And what the fuck is the pole for?