post mission! clingy remy who really wants to bend you over the table and fuck you as soon as he gets back
sorry for the three week delay,,,,, clearing out my drafts oops Before you can even make it to your room, you hear a familiar scuffle behind you. You know that tread, the deliberate slowness of it. Boots that have crossed half the rooftops of this city, now tracing a path across your floorboards like a man memorizing the exact geography of getting closer to you.
"Cher."
His voice arrives before his hands do. Low. Gravel-wrapped honey. The single syllable lands on the back of your neck and stays there, warm and insistent.
"You ain't gon' say hello to Remy? After three weeks?"
Still you don't turn. You lower your head.
You hear the whisper of leather—that coat, that ridiculous beautiful coat—sliding from his shoulders. The soft thump of it hitting the armchair. Two more steps. The floorboards groan under his weight, and then his fingers are there, just the tips of them, tracing the curve of your shoulder through your shirt.
"Three weeks," he repeats, and there's something frayed in his voice now, something that's been wound tight for miles and miles of mutant underground tunnels and now it's finally, finally beginning to unspool. "Three weeks of sleeping in safe houses. Three weeks of not touching you."
His palm flattens against your shoulder blade. The heat of it seeps through cotton like a branding iron.
"Remy was going crazy, thinking 'bout you. Thinking 'bout—"
His other hand finds your hip. Squeezes.
"—this."
"Gambit—"
"Non." His chest presses against your back, and his mouth finds the shell of your ear. "No Gambit right now. Just Remy. Just your Remy, who spent nineteen days picturing this exact moment in about forty different ways, and you know what? Every single one of them started exactly like this."
His hips roll against you—once, a slow and devastating promise—and you feel exactly how much he means it.
"Every single one," he breathes, "had you bent over this table."
The kitchen table. Solid oak. Something you'd picked out together at a flea market in the garment district three months ago, back when he was around more, back when the X-Men weren't pulling him in six directions. You remember the way he'd run his hands over the wood grain and said, "Good bones on this one, cher. Good bones."
He'd winked. You'd rolled your eyes. He'd bought it anyway, and now his palm is spreading flat between your shoulder blades, applying just enough pressure to make your spine bow, just enough to make the edge of the table meet your hips at exactly the right angle.
"Look at you." His voice cracks on the second word, and that's when you realize—this isn't just want. This is need. This is a man who's been holding himself together with charm and kinetic energy and now he's home and he's shaking, actually shaking, against you. "Look at how beautiful you are, just like this."
The praise lands somewhere low in your belly and spreads outward, honey-thick and golden.
"Remy thought about you in the tunnels," he murmurs, and his fingers are working the button of your jeans now, quick and clever—thief's fingers, always so quick, so clever. "Thought about the sounds you make. Thought about—" The button pops. The zipper descends with a whisper of metal teeth. "—the way you taste."
Your jeans hit the floor. His palm cups you through the thin cotton of your underwear and his groan is a thing with weight and texture, a sound that seems dragged up from somewhere cavernous in his chest.
"Already wet for me, ain't you? Already ready."
Not a question. He knows. He always knows.
"I missed you," you manage, and it comes out reedy, a half-octave higher than your usual voice. "Remy, I—"
"Shh." His thumb finds the damp spot on the cotton and presses. Circles. Owns. "Let Remy take care of you now. Let Remy be good to you."
The underwear follows the jeans. The kitchen air is cool against your bare thighs, against everything else that's bare and aching and wanting.
Behind you, a belt buckle clinks. A zipper—a different zipper this time—descends with almost theatrical slowness.
"You been so patient, waiting for Remy to come home." His voice is pure smoke now, curling into every hollow space inside you. "So good. So good for me. And good things deserve—"
The head of him presses against your entrance, and your whole body tightens in anticipation, fingers gripping the far edge of the table, knuckles going white.
"—rewards."
He doesn't slam in. That's not Gambit's way. Gambit who throws playing cards that explode with the force of small grenades, yes, but Gambit who also touches old books like they're made of butterfly wings, who handles antique jewelry with the reverence of a man who understands exactly how rare beautiful things are.
He pushes in slow.
Inch by devastating inch.
His breath stutters against the back of your neck. His fingers dig into your hips with the kind of pressure that will leave marks tomorrow, little purple crescents you'll press on in the bathroom mirror, remembering.
"Dieu," he chokes. "Every time. Every time it feels like—" He can't finish. His forehead drops to your shoulder and he just breathes for a moment, fully seated inside you, trembling with the effort of not moving.
You clench around him just to hear the sound he makes. The sound is worth it. The sound is half-prayer, half-profanity, and wholly ruined.
"Chére," he warns, but there's no real threat in it. There's only adoration. Only bottomless, desperate adoration.
He starts to move.
The table creaks beneath you. The salt shaker rattles. Somewhere outside, a taxi honks and the city goes about its indifferent evening, but in here—in here, the world has narrowed to the slick heat of him sliding out and pushing back in, the rhythm he sets that's too slow to be punishing and too deep to be anything but devastating.
"This what you needed?" His mouth is at your ear again, his chest draped along your spine, every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. "This what you thought about when Remy was gone?"
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes—"
"There you go. There you go, that's it. Let Remy hear you." His hips snap forward on the last word, sharper now, less controlled. The table shudders. A fork slides off the edge and clatters to the floor, and neither of you care, neither of you could possibly care about anything except the wet rhythm of your bodies, the way he's filling you over and over, the way his whispered praises are starting to fracture into something less coherent.
"So good. So—ah, so tight, so perfect, Remy's perfect—"
His hand snakes around to find your clit, and your vision whites out at the edges.
"Not yet," he breathes, though his own voice is wrecked, though his own rhythm is starting to fray. "Not yet. Want—want you to wait for Remy. Can you do that? Can you be good a little longer?"
You nod against the wood grain. You're not sure you're capable of words anymore.
"Beautiful," he groans. "My beautiful, beautiful—"
The word dissolves into a sound that's barely human, and you feel him swelling inside you, feel his rhythm stuttering toward its inevitable collapse.
"Now," he gasps. "Now, cher, come for Remy now—"
And then he's pulling out.
Your body screams at the sudden emptiness. Before you can protest, before you can even draw breath to speak, he's spinning you around, dropping to his knees on your kitchen floor, his mouth replacing where he'd just been, and oh god, oh god—
The first pulse of his release hits your tongue, hot and salt-bitter, and his hands are cupping your face so gently, so impossibly gently for a man who can level buildings.
"Swallow for me. That's it. That's my good—that's my perfect—"
His thumb strokes your cheekbone. His red-on-black eyes, those impossible eyes, are fixed on your face with something approaching religious awe.
"You did so good, cher. So good for Remy."
He's still whispering it when you pull him up, when you drag him to the bedroom, when you push him back onto the mattress and climb over him.
"Again," you tell him.
And Gambit—Remy—your Remy—just grins that slow, crooked grin.
"Whatever you want," he says. "You're home now. Remy's gonna give you everything."
His hands find your hips.
"How many times you want, cher?"
Tell him. Tell him right now, while his thumbs are tracing circles into your skin and his eyes are already darkening again with fresh wanting.
How many?