Title: "And So He Plays His Part"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, a little sexual reference, Logan/Lilly and Logan/Hannah-ish but gen.
Disclaimer: Rob Thomas owns all and I'm making no profit. Also…? Props to NyQuil for inspiring this.
Summary: Everybody has a niche. Set after 2.13, "Ain't No Magic Mountain High Enough."
Logan has a fan club. He knows this. How could he not? A cult of girls that swoons and sighs every time he walks past. Giggly freshmen that want to clasp him to their tragically lacking bosoms and save him. Sophomores that write 'I heart Logan' in their margins and pick out china patterns during study hall fantasies. Maybe even some juniors that dedicate songs to him on the radio when they're not writing love letters to Richard Ramirez, Scott Peterson, and, of course, the pathologically unforgettable Aaron Echolls.
Everybody has a niche. Everybody has a market.
He finds it strangely amusing that his and his dad's is the exact same one. Only he's managed to corner it without showcasing his sweaty, manly, chest all over the screens of every multiplex in the country. Actually, that's a plus since his chest isn't that manly and he's kind of averse to physical exertion. About the only regular exercise he gets is when he jerks off. So, at least he has killer wrists. If there's ever a call for manly, sweaty *wrists* in a Hollywood blockbuster, he's got it made.
They think he doesn't hear the high-pitched giggles or see the way they swarm together behind his back to coo over his new haircut or how his highlights are growing out. They think he's a rock star, a movie star, and that he walks on fucking water…and he doesn't even have to be nice. That Jesus fella, he had it all wrong. Set fires, get arrested, scuttle the occasional tabs of X around, and you're a god amongst women. Who needs 12 guys with questionable personal hygiene following you around -- besides, he's got one, Dick, and that's plenty -- when you can charm nearly the entire female population of Neptune High simply by existing?
That's why Hannah is so easy.
All he has to do is smile and she's his. Hell, he didn't even have to smile. She probably would've been his anyway, with all her awkward angles and shining eyes and apple-cheeked blushes, ripe for the picking.
But sometimes it's nice to keep the skills sharp, to pretend with argyle and manners and an ice blue tongue. Again, his dad would probably be proud. Who says he didn't pass on the acting gene after all?
And, anyway, there's probably not that much difference between actors and psychopaths. Delusions of grandeur, specialized talents, and adoring women play into both. The line is thin. Practically transparent. Look how easily Daddy Dearest crossed it. Look how he's inched over it himself.
Maybe Lilly saw that in him all along.
She never swooned. She never sighed. She never scribbled his name in her margins. She just dug her nails into his shoulders, marked him…and marked his father, too.
"You're boring me, Logan," she'd trilled toward the end there. "You're so fucking predictable," she'd whispered, sliding down to her knees and closing her lips around his cock.
"Who's predictable now, Sweetheart?" he murmurs, strolling past a gaggle of freshmeat gigglers to find Hannah opening her locker.
He pulls her flush against his chest even as she hits at him and cries out, "Logan! People are watching!"
"I know. They're always watching," he laughs, tugging on her earlobe with his teeth, almost hard enough to draw blood. "All the world's a stage, Princess."
He has a fan club. He knows this.
And who is he to disappoint them?
--end--
February 25, 2006.