#caprinewriting

[da-caprinox]

we do smut, right? fuck had an ask i can't remember... one sec. gonna just list a bunch of things till it comes to me. breeding, over stim? denial. fuck it was so specific ugh. i think it was remy and his abilities, maybe. like during sex. i wanna write something, but i don't even wanna play with how his powers work. i asked several people for remy doing card tricks and showing off to reader, and no responded, lol. kinda in the same vain i've been thinking of remy charging cards and flicking them against your... whatever genitalia ew i don't like that word? i'm sure there's a question somewhere in there. no pressure. whatever format idc, if ya wanna tackle it. also this pic does something to me.

Ooo ok so I wrote a fic with this, and it's content is most of things you listed, little bit of this, little of that. I really couldn't figure out the powers, but I hope you like it...

The heat of his body pressed against yours was the first thing you registered when you woke. That, and the unmistakable weight of Remy LeBeau's hips pinning yours to the mattress.

"Finally awake, chère?"

"...Remy?"

"Been patient, me. Waited so long for you t' see what's been right in front of you. Now that I go'tchu, tsss..." A low chuckle vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Now that I got you, I'm gonna take my time."

"Take your time doing what, exactly?"

His grin was all wicked promise as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light of whatever room you'd gotten to after last night, his room, you realized, with its rumpled sheets and the faint smell of his Marlboro Reds and some expesive french cologne—his face held an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Remy's gonna make you feel things you didn't know you could feel, mon coeur. Gonna make you beg." His hips rolled, slow and deliberate, and you felt the length of him press against your core through the thin barrier of your clothes.

He released one of your wrists to reach beside him, and when his hand returned, he was holding a playing card between two fingers. The queen of hearts. How fitting. "Been t'inkin about this for a long time, chérie. T'inkin about all the things I could do to you. With you."

The card began to glow between his fingers, that familiar magenta light that meant he was charging it with kinetic energy. Your eyes widened.

"Remy—"

"Trust me." His voice softened, just for a moment. "You know I'd never hurt you."

You did know. That was part of the problem. You trusted this man more than you'd ever trusted anyone, and the look in his eyes right now told you he knew it too.

"Wh- What are you going to do with that?"

Staying silent, He traced the edge of the card down the side of your neck. The charged energy buzzed against your skin—not painful, but overwhelming in its intensity. Every nerve ending lit up in response as the glow transfered through your skin, and you couldn't stop the gasp that escaped your lips.

"Felt that, didn't you?" His smile sharpened. "And that was barely a whisper of what I can do."

The card continued its journey, trailing down your collarbone, along the swell of your breast through your shirt. Your breathing grew ragged as he circled your nipple, the kinetic charge making the sensitive flesh tighten and ache even through the fabric.

"Remy, please—"

"Please what?" He pinched your nipple through your shirt, the card sandwiched between his finger and your skin. The charge intensified, and you arched off the bed with a moan. "Please stop? Please more?" He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "You gotta use your words, chérie. Tell me what you want."

"I want—" You struggled to think through the haze of sensation. "I want you to touch me."

He made a sound of approval, low in his throat. "Now dat, I can do."

He released your other wrist and sat back on his heels, his eyes raking over your body with hunger. "Take off your shirt."

Your hands moved before your brain could catch up, fingers fumbling with the hem. You pulled the fabric over your head and tossed it aside, leaving your upper body bare to his gaze. His pupils blew wide, the red in his irises flaring brighter.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Been imagining this for years, and you still exceed every picture in my head."

His hands replaced the card, rough palms sliding over your ribs, up your stomach, to cup your breasts. He kneaded the flesh with deft hands and skill, his thumbs dragging across your nipples until you were squirming beneath him.

"So responsive," he praised. "Gonna see just how responsive you can be."

He reached for another card, still glowing faintly in his other hand. "Ever wonder what it would feel like? Having me charge something... sensitive?"

Your eyes went wide. "Remy, you wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" He grinned, all teeth and mischief. "Trust me, chérie. You're gonna thank me."

His free hand hooked into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your hips along with your underwear. The cool air hit your exposed skin, and you felt impossibly vulnerable, and impossibly turned on.

When his fingers found your clit, you were already soaked. He groaned at the evidence of your arousal.

"So wet for Remy already. And I've barely even started."

He began to stroke you, slow circles that made your hips buck against his hand. You could feel the pleasure building, coiling tight in your core, and you chased it desperately.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Feel good, doesn't it? My fingers on you, inside you—"

Two fingers slid into your entrance, curling to find that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You moaned, loud and unrestrained, and his grin widened.

"Found it." He began to pump his fingers in earnest, his thumb working your clit in tandem. The pressure built higher, higher—

And then he stopped.

You cried out in frustration, your body clenching around nothing. "Remy, why—"

"Because I can." He withdrew his hand entirely, leaving you empty and aching. "Because I want to. Because you look so pretty when you're desperate."

You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to grab his hand and force it back where you needed it. But he had your wrists pinned again before you could move, his grip firm and unyielding.

"Ah, ah, ah." He tutted. "Patience, mon coeur. We're just getting started."

He reached for another card, the ace of spades—and you watched it begin to glow. The charge built slowly, the light intensifying until it cast strange shadows across his face.

"What are you—"

Your question turned into a shriek as he pressed the charged card directly against you.

The sensation was unlike anything you'd ever experienced. Not pain—not exactly—but an overwhelming surge of energy that made every nerve ending fire at once. Your vision went white, your body arched completely off the bed, and you came down on his hand with your jw clenching so hard it felt like you were going to see god.

Or maybe that was just Remy's face above you, watching you fall apart with dark satisfaction.

"There it is," he murmured. "Knew you could come harder than that."

Before you could recover, before the aftershocks had even faded, his fingers were inside you again. He fucked you through the orgasm and into overstimulation, and you whimpered at the intensity of it.

"Too much—"

"It's not too much." His voice was gentler now, but his fingers didn't stop. "You can take it. I know you can."

"Please, Remy, I can't—"

"You can." He pulled his fingers free, and you nearly sobbed at the loss. "One more. You can give me one more."

He shed his clothes with quick, efficient movements, and you finally saw all of him. He was magnificent—lean muscle and golden skin and sinew and that smug smile that made you want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

"Look at you," he said, positioning himself between your thighs. "All messed up and crying, and we haven't even gotten to the main event yet."

The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and you held your breath.

"This what you want, chérie? Want me inside you?"

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every bit of the stretch. Your body opened for him like it was made to, and when he bottomed out, you both groaned.

" Merde ," he breathed. "Feel like heaven. So tight, so perfect—"

He began to move, and you forgot how to think,,

His hips snapped forward, each thrust driving you further into the mattress. The headboard knocked against the wall in a rhythm that matched your racing heartbeat. Hope he didnt have neighbors. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, and you knew you'd wear his fingerprints tomorrow.

"Gonna fill you up," he growled against your neck. "Gonna put a baby in you. You want that? Want me to breed you like this?"

The words sent a fresh wave of heat through your body. "Yes—"

"Say it. Tell me what you want."

"I want you to—ah—I want you to come inside me. Want you to—"

Another orgasm hit you before you could finish, and your walls clenched around him like a vice. He groaned, his rhythm faltering for the first time.

"That's it. Milk me dry. Gonna give you everything, chère."

He finally slowed as you felt him buck and twitch inside you, as a creeping warm sensation, began to flood you.

He laid there for while, eventually sliding out while peppering you with kisses. "Ya did so good for Remy, Chére." You were too dazed to respond.

.

.

.

SORRY FOR THE ASS ENDING I didn't know how to tie off remy basically impregnating reader,,, but yk

If you really want an ending i can do if for you but fresh (me) is sleepy

[da-caprinox]

You laying in remys lap as he plays with your hair, running his cool hands across your face until they slide lower. One of his index fingers tests the entrance of your mouth as the other grips down your torso; suddenly you're trying not to gag as he pulls you closer oh fuck

[da-caprinox]

Hmmm maybe Remy talking dirty about putting a baby in you

You get no formatting because I am DROWING in wips but i still love you so here you go. Baby making with the cajun.

Remy’s hands are everywhere, clumsy with want, his usual feline grace shattered by the bottle of booze he downed and the desperate need clawing through his chest.

“You’re mine,” he slurs against your neck, teeth grazing. “Had too much to drink, chere… cain’t think straight. Only thing in my head is puttin’ a baby n' you.”

He pushes you back onto the bed, his body covering yours before you can breathe. The weight of him pins you down—mating press before you even realize what he’s doing. His knees hook under your thighs, forcing them up toward your chest, opening you wide. He looks down at where his cock is already pressed against your wet cunt, and he groans.

“Gotta fill you up. Gotta get you round with my seed. Look at me, baby—look at what you do to me.”

His hips slam forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect stroke. You gasp, but he doesn’t stop—can’t stop. He fucks you deep and slow, then faster, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. Sweat drips from his hair onto your face, and he’s babbling now.

“Gonna breed you, chere. Gonna fuck you until you’re dripping with me, until my cum takes root in that sweet little womb. You want that, don’t you? Want Remy to put his baby inside you?”

His hand slides down to press against your lower belly, feeling himself move inside you. His eyes are glassy, drunk not just on liquor but on the sensation of being buried so deep he can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

He flips you over without warning, pulling out just long enough to drag you onto your hands and knees. He grabs your hips, fingers bruising, and slams back in. The angle is devastating, hitting that spot that makes you see stars.

“Yeah… yeah, like that. Take it all. Take every drop. I’m gonna pump you so full you’ll be leakin’ for days.”

He reaches around to rub your clit while he fucks you, his rhythm sloppy but relentless. His words tumble out between grunts and kisses pressed to your shoulder blades.

“Love you… love you so damn much it hurts. Gotta make you mine forever. Gotta put a piece of me inside you that can’t never leave.”

When he feels himself about to come, he pulls out and flips you onto your back again. Missionary. He needs to see your face, needs to watch your eyes roll back as he pours himself into you. He lifts your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and drives home.

“Cum with me, chere. Cum on my cock and let me feel you milk me dry. I’m gonna fill you up so good… gonna make you a mama…”

His rhythm breaks. He shoves as deep as he can, hips grinding, and comes with a guttural moan. Hot ropes of cum flood you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, pushing it deeper, making sure none escapes.

He collapses on top of you, still buried, still trembling. His lips find yours—sloppy, drunk, tender.

“One more round,” he whispers, already hardening again inside you. “Gotta make sure it takes, baby. Gotta keep breedin’ you ‘til I’m sure.”

Hahh,, hope you liked because I sure did

[da-caprinox]

Hello, it's me again ✨️

Idea for you: Sensory play with Gambit during one of his (many) bouts of blindness?

Ooo ok so originally I was writing down ideas but then it got too long so i ficified it...

I hope this is what you were looking for ... I've never worked directly with sensory, but I've done associated things so I hope it's not all crap :/

Also also sorry for the poor formatting my computer is six feet under now may he rest in piss for dying on me

NSFW BELOW

The scent of a wonderful meal still clung to the air as you pushed back from the small table in Remy’s borrowed quarters. Looking at Remy, who'd had a small accident, a miscalculation in a training simulation that had left him with a bandage wrapped around his eyes and a doctor’s promise that his sight would return in a week. For a man whose life depended on split-second visuals and the glint of a card, the darkness was a cage.

“Chère,” he drawled, his voice a low rasp of New Orleans charm. “I hate to ask, but… could you point a blind man toward his bed? Dis place ain’t my usual haunt, an’ my feet ain’t found the door yet.”

You stood, the wooden floorboards creaking under your step. “Of course, Remy.” Your voice was silk, innocent. “Let me help you.”

You took his hand. His fingers were warm, calloused from a lifetime of shuffling aces and eights. He let you guide him, his steps hesitant but trusting. But you didn’t lead him straight. Instead, you paused a few feet from his door, your hand slipping from his grip.

“Almost there,” you murmured, stepping behind him. “Just a little further.”

He turned his head, trying to follow your voice. “Ami, what you doin’ back there?”

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath to trace the hard ridges of his abdomen. His breath hitched. “Just making sure you’re not walking into anything,” you whispered, your lips close to his ear. “You’re a little tense, Remy. All that darkness getting to you?”

“Non,” he breathed, but his body betrayed him, a shiver running through his muscles as your nails dragged lightly across his skin. “I ain’t tense.”

“Liar.” You pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, feeling him shudder. “You’re wound so tight, I can feel it.”

Your other hand came around to palm his chest, feeling his heart hammer under your touch.You slid your hands lower, fingers finding the button of his jeans.

“Chère…” His voice was a warning, but it was thin, desperate.

“Shh.” You popped the button, dragged the zipper down with a slow, metallic grind. “Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

You pushed his jeans and boxers down his hips, letting them pool around his ankles. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, the tip glistening in the dim light. You didn’t touch it. Not yet. Instead, you knelt behind him, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his spine, feeling each vertebra under your lips.

He groaned, fists clenching at his sides. “You playin’ a dangerous game, darlin’.”

“I know.” You smiled against his skin. “That’s the point.”

You reached around, your fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He jolted, a sharp intake of breath. You traced the line of his hip, the dip of his groin, coming within a hair’s breadth of his erection before pulling away.

“Merde,” he hissed. “Please.”

“Please what?” you'd asked, your voice a sinister purr.

“Touch me. For real.”

“Mmm. Not yet.” You stood, pressing your chest against his back, your breath hot on his ear. “First, I want to see how long you can last with just this.”

You brought your hands to his chest, flicking his nipples with your thumbs. He

bucked into the air, a strangled moan catching in his throat. You pinched and rolled, feeling them pebble under your touch. His breathing became ragged, erratic.

“You’re so sensitive,” you murmured. “Every little touch, every brush… you’re eating it up.”

“Oui,” he gasped. “Feel too good.”

You dragged your fingernails down his stomach, leaving red trails in their wake. He whimpered—a sound of pure, raw need. You reached his groin, your palm hovering over his cock, letting him feel the heat of your hand without the contact.

“Please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Darlin’, I need… I need you to touch me. Please.”

“Well,” you swooned. “since you asked so nicely.”

When you finally took him in your hand, a low, guttural groan tore from his throat as you gave him a slow, deliberate stroke. He was hot, heavy, leaking pre-cum that slicked your palm. His hips thrust forward, chasing the friction, but you stopped.

“Ah-ah,” you chided, releasing him. “Not yet.”

“Fuck,” he spat. “You gonna kill me.”

“Hush.” You wrapped your arms around his chest, pulling him back against you. Your lips found his shoulder, biting down gently. “You’ll come when I say you can. And not a second before.”

You started a rhythm—slow, languishing. A few strokes, then a pause. A kiss, a lick, a bite. His skin was slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with restraint. He was so hard he was aching, his cock red and angry, begging for release.

“I’m close,” he panted. “Chère, I can’t-- I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.” You tightened your grip around the base of his shaft, stopping the surge. He cried out, a broken, desperate sound. “Not yet.”

You brought him to the brink again and again, only to pull him back with a cruel laugh and a softer touch. You explored every inch of his body—the sensitive spot behind his knees, the dip of his lower back, the curve of his ass. He was a landscape of nerve endings, and you mapped every one.

His legs shook. He was leaning heavily against you, his head thrown back, his mouth open. Tears of frustration and pleasure leaked from under the bandage. He was a wreck, and he was beautiful.

“Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’ll do anythin’. Just let me come.”

“One more time,” you said, your hand closing around him. “This time, you’ll come on my touch alone. No words, no sounds. Just your body feeling mine. Can you do that?”

He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion.

You started stroking him—slow, firm, unrelenting. You didn’t stop. You didn’t tease. You gave him a steady, building rhythm that sent waves of pleasure crashing through his broken senses. His breath hitched, his hips bucked, his fingers clawed at the air.

And then he broke.

A long, shuddering moan escaped his lips as his cock pulsed in your hand, hot cum spilling over your fingers in thick, white ropes. He shook, he trembled, he sobbed with relief. You milked him through every last drop, your touch gentle and soothing as he came down.

He slumped against you, boneless and gasping. You held him, pressing a soft kiss to his damp temple.

“That,” you whispered, “is what you get for being such a good boy.”

He laughed, a weak, breathless sound. “Darlin’, you gonna be the death of me.”

“Maybe.” You smiled, licking a stripe of his cum from your fingers. “But what a way to go.”

[da-caprinox]

Remy + Magic Mike= possibilities 👁️🫦👁️. Maybe he’s doing a dance or giving a lap dance, especially with his new hellfire gala fit. this idea has not been talked about yet and I am fuming

Had to do an unreasonable amount of research for this and it's not even that good. Also watched the other magic Mike's. Eh. I digress. Hope you enjoyyyyy

Cw: uhh stripping? Nothing really bad tbh.

If you want better stripper!Remy, check out @gobymama69 , who has some pretty good heacannons

Anyways here we goooooo

The lights in the private room are low, gold and amber washing over the leather couch where you’re perched. A rhythm thrums from hidden speakers—something with a heavy bassline that you feel in your chest. Then a shushing of curtains, and he’s there.

Remy Lebeau. Even in the dim, he glows. Bare-chested, that tan, skin painted with a sheen of sweat under the club lights, black leather pants riding low on his hips. A smirk curves his lips as he steps toward you, one hand working a deck of cards in a fluid, hypnotic shuffle. The sound is a soft, air-cushioned shhhick, shhhick that cuts through the music.

“So, chère,” he purrs, the drawl dripping like warm honey, “you asked for de private show, oui? Remy’s gonna make sure you remember dis night.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as he fans the cards between his fingers—red and black, backs swirling with intricate patterns. He flicks his wrist, and a single card snaps out, spinning through the air before he catches it between his teeth. He plucks it free, holds it up. It’s the ace of spades.

“For luck,” he murmurs, tucking it into the waistband of his pants, right above the bulge that’s already straining the leather.

He moves. His body rolls into the first slow, deliberate grind, hips swaying as he steps between your legs. The heat of him hits you first—radiating off his skin, the faint scent of bourbon and nicotine. He drops into a squat in front of you, knees wide, palms sliding up his own thighs as he stares up at you from under that fall of auburn hair. It looks like he hasn't cut it in a while.

“You like what you see, non?” His voice is a low rumble, almost lost under the bass. But his eyes—those crimson irises—hold you a silent prisoner.

He rises, slow, letting his chest brush your knees. Then he turns, giving you his back as he bends forward, ass swaying inches from your face. He glances over his shoulder, that smirk still in place.

“Hold on tight, chère. Remy’s about to take you for a ride.”

He drops backward onto your lap, the weight of him settling against your thighs, his ass pressing into your crotch through the fabric of your clothes. You feel the heat of him, the solid muscle flexing as he starts to move—a slow, circular grind that rocks your whole body. His hands find your knees, pressing them wider apart as he pushes his back against your chest, letting his head fall back to your shoulder.

The cards appear again. He flips them in a cascade over his own shoulder, the paper edges brushing your cheek, your neck. One lands in your lap, face-up—the queen of hearts. He laughs, low and dirty.

“Dat one’s you, belle. Pretty. Untouched.” He rolls his hips harder, grinding in a figure-eight, the pressure building where you need it most. “But not for long.”

He lifts one of your hands, guiding it to his stomach. The muscles there jump under your touch, slick with sweat. He takes your other hand and wraps it around his waist, pulling you tighter against his back as he rides you faster, the leather of his pants rubbing against your jeans your skirt, whatever you’re wearing it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the friction, the rhythm, the way his breath hitches as he grinds down.

“You can feel what you do to me, oui?” He reaches back, grabs your hip, and shifts the angle so his ass presses directly against your mound. “Remy’s gettin’ hard just thinkin’ about turnin’ you over dat couch and—”

He doesn’t finish. Instead, he spins in your lap, straddling you now, face-to-face. His cock strains against the zipper of his pants, a thick ridge that drags against your stomach as he leans in, his forehead touching yours. The card trick starts again—this time he’s pulling cards from behind your ear, from between his lips, tucking them into your collar, your bra strap, sliding one down the front of your shirt so it grazes your nipple.

“You want more?” he breathes, the words hot against your mouth. “Want Remy to show you what dese cards can really do?”

He grinds forward, his pelvis locking with yours, the motion deliberate, obscene. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist, lifting you slightly so he can angle himself harder against you. The cards scatter around you both—a waterfall of red and black on the leather.

His lips brush your ear.

“Let me hear you say it, chère. Tell Remy what you want.”

And he doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop grinding, the heat of him seeping through every layer of fabric, the slick sound of sweat and leather filling the space between your bodies, melting you together.

“I got all night, cherie. All night to make you forget your own name.”

[da-caprinox]

Gambit: "You brush yo' teeth, cher?"

You nod.

"Then you won't mind If I check, sha"

you've been caught, you try and fail to evade as his hands come up to invade your mouth. You find yourself leaning in to the touch, biting down as his fingers slide down your tongue, throat..

So yeah is it obvious I have an oral fixation yet?

[da-caprinox]

Shibaremy - Bondage w/ Remy x m!Reader

IB: @stuffedbellpeppers

CW: bondage, sex

WC: you already know I don't know

The rope was silk—black, glossy, wrapped tight around Remy’s wrists, looped through the eyehooks you’d screwed into the headboard earlier that afternoon. You’d spent an hour on the knots, studying diagrams from an old shibari book you’d picked up at a secondhand shop. The diamond patterns across his chest were perfection; the way the rope bit into his biceps, cinched his thighs apart, anchored his ankles to the spreader bar—that was art. The Cajun’s lean, muscled body was on full display, pale, sinewy, skin glistening under the dim lamplight, red-and-brown hair tumbled across the pillow. His eyes were wild already, that trademark smirk nowhere to be found.

“Remy don’t think dis is funny, mon ami,” he said, voice low, strained. He tugged against the ropes. The bedframe creaked. “Dis some kinda test?”

You didn’t answer. You just straddled his shins, seated between his spread legs, and let your hand drift down to your own lap. The sound of your palm sliding over the heat in your crotch was obscene in the quiet room. Remy’s breath hitched. His hips bucked instinctively, seeking friction, but the rope held him fast.

“Non,” he breathed. “Non, non, non. What you doin’, cher?”

You wrapped your fingers around your shaft and gave a slow, deliberate stroke, gripping firm enough to drive a bead of precum to well at the tip, glistening. Remy’s eyes locked onto it like a starving man caught by a pies scent through a window. His throat worked. The muscles in his arms corded as he pulled against the bindings again.

“Please,” he said, and the word cracked. “Please, let Gambit touch you. Let Gambit take care of dat.”

You kept stroking, slow and steady, matching your rhythm to the frantic pulse in his gaze. Your other hand came up to cup your balls, thumb rubbing the sensitive spot behind them. A soft moan escaped your lips.

“Cher,” Remy whispered, and now his voice was trembling. “S’il vous plaît. Don’t do dis. Not while Remy right here. Remy got hands. Remy got a mouth. Please—let Gambit touch you, let Remy taste you, please.”

His eyes were wet. Actual tears, catching the light, tracing silver lines down his cheeks. The sight made your stomach clench with heat and power. You quickened your pace, breath hitching.

“Non!” The word was a desperate cry. “Please, mon ami, please don’t finish without me. Don’t—Remy can’t—fuck—”

His whole body strained. The ropes groaned. You watched his cock, hard and leaking, twitching uselessly against his belly. Precum pooled in the dip of his navel. His hips jerked in frantic, futile thrusts.

You were close. Your hand was a blur, your thighs tensing. Your gaze locked with his.

“Remy gonna break,” he snarled suddenly, voice raw. “Remy gonna break free, and when he do, cher, he gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name. You hear me? You stop now, right now, and Remy will be good. Remy will be sweet. But if you keep goin’—if you make Remy watch you cum alone—Remy ain’t responsible for what he do.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The edge was right there, cresting.

That’s when you felt it.

A low thrum, a vibration that started in the air around Remy’s wrists. His kinetic energy. The ropes began to smoke. The silk fibers frayed, snapped, popped like firecrackers. In a single, violent motion, Remy tore his hands free—rope fragments flying across the room. He ripped the spreader bar apart with a roar, splinters of wood scattering. Then he was on you, a blur of heat and muscle, flipping you onto your back before you could even draw breath.

His body pinned you. His face was inches from yours, wet with tears and fury and desperate hunger. His cock slid against yours, slick with precum.

“You shoulda listened,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Shoulda let Remy be sweet.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. One hand grabbed your jaw, forcing your head back. The other reached down, found your hole, and pushed in two fingers without ceremony. You gasped—a mix of shock and pleasure—as he scissored you open, working you roughly, impatiently.

“Remy gonna take what his,” he hissed, pulling his fingers out. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, thick and hot. “You gonna take every inch. You gonna feel Remy for days.”

He drove inside in one brutal, perfect thrust.

The air left your lungs. Your body arched, every nerve firing. He was so deep, so full, stretching you wide. Remy didn’t pause. He began to fuck you with desperate, punishing strokes, his hips slamming against yours, the bedframe banging against the wall. His hand clamped over your throat, not choking—just holding, possessive, grounding.

“Dis what you wanted?” he panted, voice breaking. “Wanted Remy desperate? Wanted Remy beggin’ and cryin’? Well you got it. You got all of it. Now take it. Take every drop.”

His rhythm was relentless. Skin slapping, sweat slick, the room filled with the sounds of wet flesh and groans. He leaned down, bit your shoulder hard enough to bruise, then licked the mark as you cried out.

“Remy gonna fill you up,” he whispered against your ear, his pace growing frantic. “Gonna pump you full, cher, and you gonna lay dere and leak for hours. And next time you get a idea to tie Remy up…” A particularly deep thrust made your vision white. “…you better be ready for the consequences.”

You were close again, so close, coiling tighter with every slam of his hips. His hand left your throat and wrapped around your cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“Cum with me,” he demanded, eyes locked on yours, fresh tears spilling. “Cum with me, mon cher. Let go. Let Remy have it all.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you, hot and violent, spattering across your own stomach and his chest. The sensation sent Remy over the edge—he drove deep, buried himself, and released with a guttural cry that was half-sob, half-roar. You felt each pulse of his cum, thick and warm, filling you completely. He kept thrusting through it, milking every last shudder, until finally he collapsed on top of you, shaking.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the tick-tock of the clock on the nightstand.

Remy pressed his lips to your neck, soft and apologetic.

“Remy sorry,” he murmured against your skin. “Remy didn’t mean to be rough. But you push a man too far.”

You laughed weakly, running your fingers through his tangled hair. “Worth it.”

He lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed, a ghost of his usual smirk returning. “Next time, cher, just let Remy fuck you from the start. Skip the rope.”

You pulled him down for a kiss, tasting salt and sweat.

Maybe. But then again, you were already planning the next pattern in your head.

[da-caprinox]

"Seriously?" Puppy boy!Remy x M!Reader

Cw:sex, uhh puppyplay thats it

Wc: wouldn't you like to know weather boy

The front door clicks shut behind you, and something is immediately wrong.

A sock. Your favorite wool sock, the gray one with the reinforced heel, lying in the middle of the hallway like it needs a forensics marker

Then another. Then a t-shirt crumpled near the kitchen doorway. Your good button-down, the blue one, draped over a plant you've been trying to keep alive for three months.

"Remy...", you call out in a drawl.

No response.

You follow the trail deeper into your apartment, stepping over a pair of boxer briefs that looks thoroughly wrecked—stretched out, damp with something that makes your face heat. Saliva, you realize. And something else, pearlescent in colour.

A sound drifts from your bedroom. A whimper. Then a sharp, high whine that makes your chest tight with complicated feelings.

The bedroom door is cracked open. Through the gap, you can see movement—a shadow shifting on your bed, the frantic rhythm of motion. The wet sound of something that shouldn't be hard to identify.

You push the door open, the whine of the hinges louder than you expected.

Remy freezes.

He's sprawled across your duvet, your sweater pressed to his face, inhaling deeply with eyes half-lidded and hazy. His hand is wrapped around himself, still moving in distracted little pulses even as he registers your presence. Those distinctive black-on-red eyes widen, the gold sclera catching afternoon light. His ears—soft and folded, the same reddish brown as his hair—flatten against his skull. His tail, long and sleek, curls between his legs.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, mon dieu."

You take in the scene. The nest he's made of your clothes. The evidence of what he's been doing, scattered across your bed in a constellation of want. The way his chest heaves, ribs visible beneath smooth skin, still caught in the throes of something he clearly didn't expect to be interrupted.

"Master," he says, and the word drips from his lips like honey, thick with that Cajun drawl. "You home early, non?"

You cross your arms.

"Remy."

He pulls the sweater away from his face, clutching it to his chest like a shield. His ears twitch. That tail curls tighter. But there's something calculating in those strange, beautiful eyes—something that knows exactly what he's doing even as he puts on the performance.

"I can explain," he starts. Then his nose wrinkles, and he diverts. "Actually, no. No, Remy cannot explain. Remy been bad."

"You've been very bad."

A shudder runs through him at the words. His cock, still hard and flushed, twitches against his stomach. He doesn't try to hide it. He never does.

"I wait for you," he whines, and the accent thickens, words going soft and molten. "Wait all day—too long. Your smell everywhere, and Remy, he cannot help himself."

"So you made a mess."

" Ouais." His ears droop further. "A big mess."

You step closer. Remy's breath hitches, his whole body going taut with anticipation. You can see the pulse hammering in his throat, the way his fingers twitch against the ruined sweater.

"And what do you think I should do about that?"

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. Those eyes flick up to meet yours, then away—submissive, contrite, but with an edge of something hungrier beneath.

"Remy make it up to you," he offers. " S'il vous plaît, Master. Let him make it right."

You consider him. The broad shoulders and narrow hips. The wild tumble of brown hair, longer now than when you first brought him home. Those ears, perking up slightly despite his best efforts to look repentant. The tail that's starting to sway, just a little, with cautious hope.

He's beautiful. He knows he's beautiful. And he knows, more importantly, that you think so.

"Sit up."

He moves fast, scrambling onto his knees in the center of your bed. The sweater tumbles from his grip. His hands settle on his thighs, palms up—the position you've trained into him, the one that means ready and waiting. His tail curls around his leg again, the tip twitching.

"Good boy."

The sound that escapes him is involuntary. A small, punched-out moan that he tries to swallow. His cock jerks, leaking at the tip.

"You like that?"

" Ouais," he whispers. " Ouais, Remy like that. Like being good for you."

"Then show me." You let your voice drop into the register that makes him shiver. "Show me how sorry you are."

His hands come up, hovering in the air. Then he moves—a fluid motion, too graceful for something so desperate. He drops to all fours, then lower, forehead pressing to the mattress. His tail lifts, exposing the cleft of his ass.

"Remy sorry," he breathes into the sheets. "So sorry, Master. Been such a bad puppy."

"Uh-uh." You click your tongue, and he goes still. "Not like that. You want forgiveness? You earn it."

His head lifts, ears perked. Waiting.

"Sit pretty for me."

The command registers. He rearranges himself, sitting back on his heels, chest thrust out and hands on his thighs again. The position makes his cock stand out, obscenely hard and leaking. A thin string of precum connects to his stomach. His ears angle toward you, alert and focused.

"Good." You circle the bed slowly, letting him track your movement. His head turns, eyes following, desperate not to lose sight of you. "Now—shake."

His right hand lifts, trembling slightly. You take it, feeling the warmth of his palm, the way his fingers twitch against yours. You raise it to your lips and press a kiss to his knuckles.

"Good boy."

A whine builds in his throat. His tail beats against the bed now, thump-thump-thump, a steady rhythm of need.

"Other hand."

He switches immediately, practically vibrating. You repeat the gesture—the kiss, the praise—and watch him come undone at the seams. His thighs spread wider. His cock bobs with every rapid breath.

"Master," he gasps. " S'il vous plaît—"

" Chut." You release his hand. "Not done yet."

You reach out and cup his chin, tilting his face up. Those strange eyes meet yours, liquid and desperate. This close, you can see the faint freckles across his nose, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his pupils have blown wide, swallowing the black.

You run your thumb along his lower lip. He opens immediately, tongue lolling out—another trained response. Another thing you've made him into.

"Such a good puppy," you murmur, and watch him shake with it. "My good puppy. Mine."

" Yours," he echoes. The word comes out slurred, drunk on endorphins. "Always yours, Master. Only yours."

You release his chin and step back. His whole body sways, following you, reluctant to lose contact.

"Stay."

He freezes. You can see the effort it takes—every muscle locked, every instinct screaming to move. His tail goes rigid. His breath comes in short, sharp pants. But he stays.

You take your time undressing. First your jacket, draped over the chair by your desk. Then your belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the charged silence. You can feel Remy's eyes on you, hungry and wanting, tracking every inch of newly revealed skin.

When you're down to your underwear, you turn back to him.

"Come here."

He's off the bed in an instant, crossing the floor on his hands and knees. You don't tell him to stand—you never have to. He prefers this, the animal closeness of it, the way it makes him feel owned. His knees scrape against the hardwood but he doesn't slow, doesn't care.

He stops at your feet, pressing his face against your leg. His tongue drags a hot wet stripe across your knee. Then your thigh. Higher, higher, until his breath ghosts over the tent in your boxers.

"Can I?" The words are barely audible, muffled against cotton. "Please, Master. Let Remy taste you."

"You've been very bad today."

" Je sais." His ears flatten. " Je sais, I been bad. But I be good now. I be so good."

You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling the softness of it, the way his scalp yields beneath your touch. His eyes flutter closed. A rumble builds in his chest—not quite a moan, not quite a purr. Something in between.

"Please," he whines again. " S'il vous plaît, Master. Je t'en supplie."

You tug his head back, forcing him to look at you. "Take what you need, puppy."

He doesn't hesitate.

His fingers hook into your waistband and yank down, freeing you. You spring free, hard and aching already—you have been since you walked in, since you saw him spread out and desperate on your bed. He makes a sound like relief, like coming home, before leaning in to mouth at your shaft.

No hands. He knows better.

His tongue is relentless, mapping every vein and ridge. He works his way from root to tip, lapping at the bead of precum that's gathered at your head.

"Good," you manage. "Good boy."

He redoubles his efforts.

He takes you into his mouth slowly, savoring it. His cheeks hollow. His throat works. Inch by inch, he swallows you down, until his nose is buried in the groomed hair at your base. He holds there, breathing through his nose, eyes watering but desperate not to pull away.

His hands grip your thighs, nails digging into skin. His tail wags frantically behind him, thumping against the floor. When you look down, you see him touching himself—a hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking in time with the bob of his head.

"Did I say you could do that?"

He whines around you, the vibration making your hips stutter. But he releases himself, hands returning to your thighs in apology.

" Désolé," he gasps, pulling off just enough to speak. Spit and precum string between his lips and your cock. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean—"

"Shh." You pet his hair again, soothing. "Just be good. You can finish when I do."

He nods frantically, tears tracking down his cheeks. He's crying—from overwhelm, from want, from the sheer intensity of his own need. You wipe the wetness away with your thumb.

" Mon beau chien," you murmur. "My beautiful dog."

He sobs, then swallows you back down.

This time, he works with purpose. His head bobs faster, cheeks flushed and hollowed. His throat relaxes, opening up, letting you fuck into the wet heat of his mouth. You can feel yourself getting close—that tightening in your core, the way your thighs start to shake.

"Remy." Your voice is wrecked. "Remy, I'm—"

He pulls back suddenly.

Before you can protest, he surges up, catching you off-guard. His hands find your chest and shove, pushing you backward. You stumble, caught in a tangle of clothes on the floor, and land hard on the bed. The mattress bounces beneath you.

Remy follows, pouncing.

He straddles your hips, pressing you into the mattress. His tail curls around your thigh, possessive. His cock juts between you, flushed and angry-red, leaking steadily.

"Remy need it," he pants. "Need you to come inside him. Need to come with you."

"You want to be filled up?"

" Ouais." The word is barely a breath. "Need your knot, Master. Need you to breed me."

You grip his hips, fingers digging into muscle. His skin is sweat-slick, sliding beneath your palms. He reaches back, positioning you at his entrance—stretched and ready, clearly having prepared himself before you got home. The realization makes your cock twitch.

"Desperate thing," you say, and thrust up.

He keens.

He sinks down onto you in one smooth motion, taking you to the hilt. His body shudders, adjusting, clenching around the intrusion. His tail wraps tighter around your leg.

" Mon Dieu," he gasps. "So big. Fill Remy up so good."

You snap your hips up, and his words dissolve into noise. He bounces on your cock, riding with frantic desperation. His own cock slaps against his stomach, smeared with precum. His ears fly back, then forward, then back again—their own separate chaos.

"you can touch yourself," you speak. "Come for me, puppy."

His hand flies to his cock, stripping fast and brutal. His thighs burn with the effort of riding you, muscles flexing and straining. His head tips back, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he gasps for air.

"Master," he moans. "Master, je vais—I'm going to—"

"Come."

His cock erupts, painting your stomach in thick white ribbons. His hole clenches around you, rhythmically pulsing, and that's all it takes. You bury yourself deep and spill, filling him with everything you have. He trembles through it, working his hips in lazy circles, milking every drop.

When it's over, he collapses onto your chest.

His breathing comes in ragged gasps. His ears are soft against your jaw, twitching occasionally. His tail has loosened, falling in a contented drape across your thigh. You can feel your release leaking out around your softened cock, dripping onto the sheets below.

"Remy," you murmur into his hair. "My good boy."

He makes a sound that might be words. Might just be noise. His fingers find your chest, curling into the hair there, holding on like he's afraid you'll disappear.

"Stay," he whispers. "Please. Don't move yet."

You don't.

You stroke his back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the dampness of his skin. He's still twitching—little aftershocks that make his breath hitch. Oversensitive and overwhelmed.

And then you feel it.

His cock, half-hard against your thigh, stirring with renewed interest. His hips grinding, just slightly, against your body. A whine building in his throat.

"Master," he breathes. " Encore une fois?" One more?