Rigor Mortis
A/N: This fic is a sorry excuse for foofy UST. It’s been sitting on my HD for a loooooong time. I wrote 3/4 of it pretty much in one go, right after getting tickets for Hugh Jackman's show The Boy From Oz, and then I stopped because I didn't know what to do with it. Today, I decided to give it an ending. (Beta by gammameta.)


A high-pitched scream comes from the room next door. Loud enough to wake up the dead. Logan's head perks up, his senses fully alert, and he concentrates on all noise outside of the shower.

That sounded a lot like Marie.

Without rinsing the shampoo from his hair, he pushes the shower door open and rushes off to his room. He doesn’t get very far. A flushed Marie runs into the bathroom and jumps in his arms without noticing he’s naked as a jaybird, and he slips and falls on his butt. Hard.


“Logan!” she yells in all her enthusiasm, smiling brightly. “I’ve got tickets!”

He blinks, a little dazed from the sudden adrenaline rush, and echoes dumbly, “Tickets?”

“Yes! Tickets! You know, for that show I told you about. The Boy From Oz!”

She expectantly looks down at him to see if he remembered their earlier conversation about some guy in some show, but he hadn’t really been listening. What straight, self-respecting man would feel the urge to sing and dance in front of an audience? That Jackass-guy was harmless as far as his Marie was concerned, so he stopped listening to her excited rambling altogether and went on with what he considered more important stuff. Manly stuff. Stuff like changing the tire of Chuck’s Bentley. And since he’s a Manly Man, he couldn’t listen and be the sexy mechanic at the same time. Just like now.

Marie’s talking to him – probably about the Jackass again – but right now, he’s paying more attention to the way she’s straddling his hips while he’s lying naked and wet on the bathroom floor. This crosses his firmly drawn line about not thinking disturbing Marie-thoughts in her presence. Thoughts he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in until he’s alone, preferably in the shower and getting rid of all the bottled-up longing for a girl who’s barely legal.

“Oh my,” she suddenly gasps, widening her eyes and wiggling her ass a little. “Certain parts of you are most definitely just as excited as I am. Didn’t know you liked Hugh Jackman too, sugar.”

Yeah. There you have it. This is *not* good. He knows that look of hers. The way her eyes seem to glow, her cheeks flush, and her full lips part in a bright smile so he can see the gap between her teeth. She has the word ‘mischievous’ written all over her.

Summoning a scowl to accompany his command, he replies gruffly, “I don’t. Get off of me.”

She tilts her head, leaning lazily on the elbows she’s placed on his chest, and asks with feigned innocence, “Shouldn’t that be: ‘get off *on* me’?”

Damnit. No way. Nonono. He’s really trying not to get too happy about her sultry, drawled-out words, but fuck, his body doesn’t seem to listen. It’ll get him in serious trouble if she doesn’t move soon.

“I mean it, kid. Off.”

“Why?” she asks in her sweetest tone, not in the least impressed by his growl, tracing a gloved finger over his collarbone. “I sorta like it here.”

Grunting, he comes up with the lamest excuse ever. “I have soap in my eye.”

Soap in his eye? His badass reputation vanishes into pansy-assness within seconds - very manly, throbbing erection notwithstanding, and to make things worse, he hears that yellow firecrackin’ friend of hers approaching fast.

“Hey, Wolvie, did you hear tha--whoa!”

Yep, there you go. He’s fucking *naked* with a bouncing Marie in his lap, and on top of all that, no pun intended, he’s *really* getting soap in his eyes. It damn well hurts, healing thing or not.

“Jubes!” Marie shrieks, sitting up straight again and making him wince a little. “I was… uh… I was-- ”

“Pole dancing?” the yellow one offers, and he scrubs a hand over his slippery face.

This must be hell. Or his most perverted fantasy ever. Either way, it has to end. Now.

“Actually…” he hears Marie say, “Logan was having a heart attack in the shower, and I was trying to resuscitate him.”

She places her gloved hands on his skin again, and just as he’s about to protest, she’s giving him a few hard thumps, doing all sorts of wonderful things to her cleavage that he wasn’t going to look at, meanwhile making her bounce up and down some more.

He almost can’t believe this. *Two* barely legal girls in his bathroom, and one, huge, throbbing cock. Yeah, that heart attack is looking pretty-welcome now, but actually, his heart is situated higher. Marie’s sorta squeezing his dinner out of his stomach, making him nauseous with each firm thump.

The other kid watches them, obviously amused, casually leaning against the doorway and cracking her gum. “Cool. Can I help? Mouth to mouth, maybe?”

“No!” he almost shouts, making both girls jump a little. He clears his throat, refuses to look at either of them, and mutters, “I’m fine again.”

“Really?” Marie asks, keeping up her attempts to try and push his dinner back up. “Because you *do* look a little pale, sugar.”

“That’s because his blood is probably traveling south,” yellow replies, snickering and craning her neck to watch Marie dry hump him in a nice steady rhythm.

He can’t stop a groan escaping the back of his throat. His hands grab Marie’s hips quite firmly, and no, he’s not going to think about how soft and curvy she feels. “I’m *fine*,” he manages to choke out. “Thank you.”

From the corner of his soap-burning eye, he sees that little bubble-gum-chewing punk smirk.

“I bet you are,” she teases. “Want me to get Jean? A heart attack with your healing is a little off, right? But then again, you *are* very old.”

“I. Am. *Fine*,” he repeats with a low, menacing growl. “Get the hell out, both of you, before I show you how *fine* I actually am.”

He raises one hand and forces the claws to come out. He welcomes the familiar pain. It instantly cools his desire. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. He does *not* want to get caught by Jean, or ‘Ro, or – Jesus fucking Christ! – Scooter, right now. They would throw him out for sure, and he’s too fond of the kid on top of him to let it happen. Besides, he kinda likes it here in general. Cyke’s analness aside, he’s got cool stuff to tinker with.

Much to his relief, the little firecracker slowly backs out of the bathroom, her hands up in immediate surrender. “Hey, terminator, keep your cool, okay? I don’t want you to get another coronary when my homey here just brought you back to life. Quite a *lot* of life from what I can see, but dude, I’m *so* not complaining.”

She winks at Marie, turns around, and then wisely makes a run for it, already screaming for that other kid she’s usually with - Kitty.

Fuck, it’s just a matter of time before the whole goddamn school knows what’s going on in here. He needs to do something. Anything. And why is Marie looking at him like that? A bit feverish, and her scent has changed, too. Oh, right, He still hasn’t retracted the claws. No wonder she’s paralyzed. He should be more careful with those.

Flexing his muscles, the blades disappear under his skin, and he’s about to apologize when he figures out her new scent isn’t a stench of fear. What the fuck? He stares up, and he really is about to get palpitations, because he likes that scent too damn much.


Suddenly startled, she meets his eyes. “Huh?”

“Are you gonna get up or what?”

“I thought you were still dying because I’m sensing a severe case of muscle stiffness.”

Smartass. A very kinky smartass, it seems, but let’s not go there. Both his eyes feel like they’re burning out of their sockets. Concentrate on the pain.

“That ain’t a muscle, darlin’, and corpses only get stiff between two and eight hours after death.”

“Ah, but I paid attention in Biology class, and so I figured it might be a cadaveric spasm. You know, instant stiffness and all.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “Do I look dead to you?”

Smiling, she grinds his almost-obscenely hard cock, making him groan again. “Nope. Quite the opposite, actually.”

Again he grabs her hips. “Stop that, damnit. Get off.”

Now Marie’s the one who quirks an eyebrow. “Is that an order?”

Sighing, Logan closes his eyes and rests his head back onto the tiles. Trying to wipe the shampoo from his face, he forces himself to stay calm and handle this rationally.

“Marie,” he starts with carefully controlled patience. “I’m glad you got your tickets, and I understand you want to celebrate, but in case you hadn’t noticed – I’m naked, I’m wet, and I really have soap in my eyes. Can you – please – get off of me?”

“On one condition.”

Suspiciously cracking one eyelid, he asks, “What?”

She leans on his chest, presses her breasts against his stomach, her full lips less than two inches from his. “You go with me.”

He’s struggling. He really is. It’s so very damn tempting to turn them over and make her scream his name – soap-eyes be damned – that he doesn’t really hear her answer. “What?”

Again she trails her gloved fingers over his damp chest. “You go with me.”

“To see the Jackass?”

“Jack*man*. Yes, to see Hugh Jackman.”

“No way,” he growls. “If I wanted to see some pansy-ass show, I’d watch Scooter doing his workout in the Danger room.”

“You want to rinse out the soap, or not?”

He’s getting tired of this. *Really* tired. And frustrated, too. “Kid, I’m giving you one last chance to get up yourself before I throw you off.”

The lusty smile she shows him makes his insides – as well as other body parts – twitch.

“You can also use other skills to get me ‘off’.”

You know what? Fuck it.


For a moment her confident behavior falters. “Fine?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, smirking. She’s obviously not half as tough as she appears to be. “I’m gonna watch the jack*ass* with you.”

“Oh.” She’s not very good at hiding her disappointment. “So… uh… now I have to get up, right?”


“Okay.” Nodding, she sits back up again. “I’m gonna do so now.”


She doesn’t move.


“Don’t get your nonexistent boxers in a twist, Logan. I’m gathering courage.”

“What for?”

The look she throws him wavers somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment. “I’ve never seen you naked before. Well, not in real life.”

“So? Don’t look.”

He honestly can’t see the problem. She’s okay grinding him, teasing him, flirting with him, but she doesn’t want to *see* him? She has him in her head. She *knows* up close and personal what he looks like, and besides, it’s just a dick, for Christ’s sake. No big deal.

Or… wait a second.

He’s selling himself short. Literally. Locker room comparisons tell him that it *is* a big deal. Heh. But... shit… that’s not the point right now.

“Can you reach that towel?” She breaks his frenzied train of thought, and he follows her gaze to the towel rack behind him and to his left.

“No. But maybe…?” He points his fist to the rack, extends one single claw, and… yep, there you go. The tip brushes against the fabric, the dull side slides under it, and with one little yank, he’s got it neatly draped over the blade.

“Ow,” Marie winces, staring at his knuckles again while he plucks the towel from the claw with his other hand. “You shouldn’t have done that. I could’ve easily taken off my shirt to cover you with.”

And that *really* wouldn’t have helped this situation. It’s bad enough to have a clothed Marie straddling his naked self - a shirtless Marie would be disastrous. Cyke would blast him into next year, ’Ro would use him as a lightning rod, and Jean would give him a serious headache for the next five years or so. He doesn’t even want to *think* about Chuck. Nope, he likes his solution much better. Even though that musky scent just went up another notch.

He retracts the blade, allows the pain to take over the other - less appropriate – feelings once again, and holds up the towel. “’Kay. Got it. Now, move.”

She nods. “Okay.” Drawing in a deep breath, she closes her eyes and actually gets up. He quickly drapes the towel over the disobedient body part and curses himself for being such a bastard. It’s obviously time to get laid again. It’s been a while.

“You decent?” she asks, and it just about makes him laugh maniacally as he sits up and leans back on one arm, shielding the bulging erection under the soft, fluffy fabric with his other hand.

Decent? Hell, no. But he’s covered. Does that count?


She carefully opens her eyes and awkwardly shuffles her feet. “Well, that was… interesting. Shall we do that again someday?”

No way. No way in hell. At least… not while she still has a ‘teen’ in her age. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Over my dead body.”

Rolling her eyes, she grins sheepishly before she turns around. “Don’t forget my first aid skills, sugar. I might be able to resurrect you. Again.”

He wisely doesn’t comment on that. Instead, he watches her leave the bathroom and listens to her retreating footsteps. No sign of Cyke or the others yet. Maybe he can get away with this after all.

Just when he thinks she’s about to leave his room, he hears her call out, “About the show… you’re still gonna come, right?”

Fuck. He totally forgot about the Jackass.

“Sure, kid. I’ll come.”


The door closes, and suddenly, he can’t suppress a wolfish grin as he looks down at his very-much-alive lower-half.

Oh, he’s gonna come alright.

Right after rinsing the goddamn soap out of his eyes.
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