Unfortunately, I'm on mobile (laptop died), so this post wont be as formatted as my others. Here's the AO3 link tho.
Also. Catboy gambit is NOT!1!1!1!1!! My idea. I first picked it up from @.marstonrider so yeah.
Summary:
Catboy!Remy Lebeau doesn't like it when you smell like someone else. He's gonna fix that.
Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)
The moment the front door clicks shut, you hear him, a deep growl that echoes across your dim living room. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood, vanilla, and something deeper, something distinctly him. Remy LeBeau emerges from the shadows of the hallway, his fuschia eyes narrowed to slits. His tail lashes behind him, a restless, agitated whip of black-on-red fur.
"Non," he hisses, the word slipping out like a curse. "Non, non, non."
You barely have time to set your bags down before he's on you— His lean, corded body presses against yours, pinning you against the front door. His nose buries into the crook of your neck, inhaling deep, desperate breaths. A rumbling sound starts in his chest, half purr, half growl, as he drags his cheek along your collarbone.
"You stink," he rasps, his voice rougher than usual, gravelly with something primal. A curt "Excuse me?" was all you were able to get out before he was speaking again. "Stink a dem. All them others at work. Their scent is all over you, chère."
His hands slide up your sides with their claws carefully retacted, gripping your waist with possessive urgency. He rubs his entire body against you, from chest to thighs, a full-body motion. The friction is electric, his lithe frame surprisingly strong as he maneuvers you, grinding his pelvis against your thigh.
"Gotta fix this," he mutters, almost to himself. "Gotta make you smell like mine again." The smell in question came just from a hug with your coworkers, but he didn't seem to care.
He's relentless. he dips his head, dragging his damp nose along your throat, then lower, over your chest, leaving a trail of his spiced, intoxicating scent. Each pass of his body replaces the foreign smells with his own, layering it thick and undeniable.
You try to speak, to ask what's gotten into him, but he silences you with a kiss— not sweet or charming, but deep and claiming. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting, marking from the inside out. He bites your lower lip, just enough to sting, and groans at the taste of you.
"Been in rut all day," he confesses, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze is hazy, unfocused, lost in a fog of instinct. "Couldn't think straight. Couldn't work. Just kept thinkin' 'bout you, 'bout all them others touchin' you, breathin' on you..." He shakes his head, a shudder wracking his frame. His hand slides down, cupping himself through his slacks. You see the damp spot already forming at the apex of his thighs, a dark stain spreading as he throbs against his own palm. "Look what you do to me," he murmurs, voice husky with need. "Already leakin', chère. So full for you. Need to be inside you, need to fill you up, make sure everyone knows who you belong to."
His hands find your waist, and with surprising strength for his lean frame, he lifts you, carrying you the few steps to the couch. He deposits you onto the cushions with a possessive urgency that sends a thrill down your spine. He towers over you, his catlike form taught, coiled like a spring. The size difference is stark—not that he's bulky, but his height and angle gives him an almost predatory grace. His body blocks the light, casting you in shadow, and for a moment, he looks more animal than man.
He climbs over you, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of your hips. His weight settles on you, not crushing, but enough to keep you from moving. His tail curls around your calf, a possessive anchor. He leans down, rubbing his cheek against yours, purring now, a deep, resonant vibration that you feel in your bones.
His hips rock against yours, the rigid length of him pressing insistently against your core through the layers of clothing. You can feel the dampness, the heat of him, even through his clothes. His hands roam your body, mapping everywhere, every angle, as if memorizing you anew.
"Tell me you want it," he growls, though his resolve is cracking. "Tell me you want me to claim you, chère. I need to hear it."
His claws unsheath just slightly, catching on the hem of your shirt, ready to tear it away. His pupils are blown wide, his breath coming in ragged pants. The air around you both is thick with his scent, a heady blend of arousal and desperate need.
The moment you utter your affirmations, something inside him snaps.
He descends upon you with a ferocity that steals your breath. His claws literally shred your shirt in one fluid motion, fabric falling away in ribbons. He doesn't bother with your pants—he rips the button off, yanks the zipper down with his teeth, and the denim is torn from your legs in frantic, desperate pulls. His own jeans follow, kicked off with a growl, and then he's on you, skin to skin, the heat of his body searing.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening with a pearl of precum. It's longer than you expected, curved slightly, and the slit leaks a steady thread of slick fluid as he hovers above you. His tail thrashes wildly, nearly knocking a lamp off the side table, but he pays no mind. He's tunnel-visioned on you, you, you.
There's no time for gentleness. He slicks his cock in one rough stroke, and then lines himself up with your entrance. His claws dig into your hips, leaving shallow crescents, as he pushes forward in one hard, unrelenting thrust.
The stretch is immense—burning, filling, overwhelming. You cry out, but the sound is swallowed by his mouth as he crashes his lips against yours, swallowing your moan. He doesn't stop. He begins to move, each thrust deep, punishing. His hips slap against yours, a wet, rhythmic sound that fills the room along with his guttural grunts and the animalistic rumble in his chest.
"Mine," he snarls against your throat, biting down hard enough to bruise. "Mine, mine, mine."
He fucks you like a creature possessed, his rhythm erratic, driven by pure instinct. His claws rake down your chest, not breaking skin but leaving red lines that tingle and burn. He shifts angles, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you, that bundle of nerves that sends lightning up your spine.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans—a long, shuddering sound that vibrates through his entire body.
His pace quickens, becomes frantic. He's lost now, completely feral. His eyes are glazed, and his ears are pinned flat against his skull. He chatters his teeth against your ear, a subvocal sound of pure desire. His tail wraps around your thigh, squeezing, anchoring you to him.
"I'm gonna—fuck—I'm gonna coat you," he hisses, his voice cracking. "Gonna mark you so deep, so deep they'll smell it on you from across the room."
He drives into you harder, faster, a desperate, punishing rhythm. His breath is ragged, his muscles coiled and trembling. You feel him swelling inside you, his cock throbbing with each pulse, and then he pulls out abruptly—a sudden, shocking emptiness.
He scrambles up your body, kneeling over your chest, his cock bobbing inches from your face. His hand wraps around his shaft, stroking furiously, his eyes locked on yours.
"Watch," he commands, voice a low growl. "Watch me mark you."
His hips buck forward, and the first hot rope of cum splashes across your chest, thick and white. Another lands across your neck, your chin. A third stripes your stomach. He keeps going, milking himself, painting your body with his release until every inch of you above the waist is slick and gleaming with his scent. He groans through it, a long, guttural sound that fades into a shuddering purr.
When he's finally spent, he collapses forward, his weight pressing you into the cushions. His face buries into your neck, and he inhales deeply—a long, satisfied breath. His tongue darts out, lapping at himself on your skin, smearing it further, mixing his taste with your sweat.
"Bon," he murmurs, voice hoarse and content. "Now you smell like mine. Only mine."
His body goes limp against you, his purr a deep, resonant hum. His claws retract, his tail curls around your leg, and he nuzzles into you, eyes fluttering closed. The feral edge has dulled, replaced by a drowsy, possessive satisfaction.
He's claimed you. And from the way he's already hardening again against your thigh, you suspect this won't be the last time tonight.
Notes:
Yeahh this one is just dirty. Also it was written on mobile so please forgive the lack of editing
Catbit blows stuff up to get your attention like how regular cats knock stuff over. Drawing? He’s charging up a page. Eating? Fork’s going boom. When you finally turn to him he just leans down and wiggles his ears, the bell on his collar jingling innocently as you scratch between them.
