prompt ! : x-men boys react to the porn hub intro playing from your phone .
⋆｡° ✮ : SCOTT SUMMERS / CYCLOPS .
It doesn’t click at first. The gears in his head barely turning as he stacks papers. Once he realizes, his head snaps to you with confusion. His lips tight in a pout, “What’s going on..?” he asks, as you hold back laughter.
“Sorry! Didn’t know my volume was up.”
He’s frowning now, “Why are you watching porn in the middle of the day?” “Scott!” you shout, and he chuckles in response.
“How do you know it’s porn?” you ask, crossing your arms and he lets out another laugh, leaning his head back. He goes back to stacking papers, completely ignoring your question in the process.
“Well?” you push, stepping closer and leaning your face in front of his work, watching the blush build up his cheeks. He presses his hand against your face, pushing, “I think everyone has gone there at least once..”
“Just once?”
“Ooookay, enough questions, I have work to do, like a normal–”
“Non-porn loving—”
“I said!-- Normal, person.”
⋆｡° ✮ : WOLVERINE / LOGAN HOWLETT .
“So, you’re crazy.”
“Huh?”
He’s sitting on the other side of the couch, beer in hand as he shakes his head at you like a disappointed father. You frown, like you don’t understand, “I didn’t know my volume was up..” you whisper, and he just laughs. “Suuureee. Watchin’ porn like some sorta freak when I’m right ‘ere.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
He takes a big gulp of his beer, before setting it down on the table in front of him, crossing his arms.
“Why watch dicks n shit like that when I’m sittin’ right ‘ere?”
You should’ve expected this, from a guy like him especially. “So, what? Am I supposed to watch you?” you ask, setting your phone down, and scooting a bit closer to him now, watching his lips curl into a smile.
“Sure, why not.”
⋆｡° ✮ : GAMBIT / REMY LEBEAU .
His eyes widen before he just grins, his shoulder bumping against yours as he peeks at your phone, “Ohhh, is it any good?” he simply asks, like this was a normal event. You seem more shocked than him, “Are you crazy?”
“Ah?” he says, confused– pointing at himself, “Me?” he laughs out. You nod, “Yes you!”
“Gambit ain’t crazy, Cher, just curious what my love is into. I think that’s pretty normal, no?”
You stare, “I mean, well, yes. But you’re not shocked that I’m just, watching porn…?”
“Gambit watch porn all the time.” he replies, “What!?” you shout, “Now you’re just hurtin’ my feelings, Cher…” he says, pouting.
“Sorry! I just, do you… like, actually..?”
He crosses his arms, thinking for a second, “Yeah, I do. Gambit like porn, it ain’t like I jerk it to it all, it’s like a challenge to find which one look like you.”
“That’s.. Actually sweet,”
“See? Gambit ain’t no weirdo! I just like to see porn that remind me of you, Cher.” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, and grabbing your phone as he does so, “But.. Gambit don’t want you watching porn ‘bout no other guys.. Y’here?”
You giggle in response to his antics.
⋆｡° ✮ : DEADPOOL / WADE WILSON .
“Well, well, well, we got Ms. Goonette over here. Let me guess, backshots? Creampies? …Jacking off videos…?” he says, awfully loud as well.
You hold in your laughter as you attempt to stay to the script, “I didn’t know it was turned up!” the eyes on his mask gets bigger, “Oh I’m sure, princess. Next time make it louder so I can hear the cheeks getting clapped– Seriously, this shit is crazy.” he laughs out.
You push him a little, just tossing your phone onto the couch. “Throwing evidence?” he says, sucking his teeth, “Yikes,” you slap his arm, “Shut up.”
He holds his hands up, as if surrendering, “Look, we all watch porn! No shame, no gain they say,” “That’s not what they say–” “I don’t care! What I do care about is what were you watching! I’m really curious.”
You pout, “I’m not showing you any of MY porn,”
“YOUR porn? Fine, fuck it, I won’t show any of MY porn–”
“Your dick is hard.”
“I’m a simple guy.”
“Okay, freak.”
“Damn, tryna make me cum already?”
a / n : miss thang wrote this at 1 am — sorry if this is SHYT !!!!!! but i love it :3c
your suit was torn in several spots, the symbolic webbing ripped open to reveal bloodied skin. the window sill of the mansion was slick, the rain doing little to help your case. thunder struck in time with your soft bang against the edge, knocking the window open. you slid inside, quietly latching the lock behind you.
lightning flashed, illuminating the room. you pried the mask off your head, hair bouncing free as you breathed deeply. your wounds ached, and you grimaced when a particularly harsh throb wracked your ribs. you leaned against the wall, grateful for the dark that encased the room.
remy was out for the night, you were certain. he’d left you a note, saying he and the guys went to a gaming hall. you’d smiled fondly at the tiny heart he left next to his name.
you stumbled into the bathroom, blood smearing along the walls and the counter. the toothbrush cup fell over, spilling onto the floor. you went down next, your shaking arms barely able to hold yourself up.
before you could even think of picking them up, lights flicked on as the floors creaked.
“chère?”
you reached for the door, throwing your limp body against it. remy’s shadow appeared from under the door, his knuckles tapping against the wood, “did i wake ya up? y’alright?”
“m’fine, remy,” you shakily spoke, biting back a wince as your fingers dipped into the wound. you felt the hard casing of the bullet. “can’t lie t’remy, mon ami. let him in, please.” your nails grazed the bullet, a quiet grunt leaving your lips at the ache.
your brows knit together when the door you rested on began to rattle. it warmed, and you quickly scooted away when you saw the purple flecks of kinetic energy swirling around the doorknob. “remy—!”
it opened.
and there he was.
dressed casually—in one of those crop tops he adored and jeans—like he didn’t bankrupt other gamblers and win every game of poker. his crimson hair was fluffy.
“where’s your coat?” you asked with a gentle frown. it was cold outside, didn’t he wear one?
“you bleedin’ on our floor ‘n askin’ about some coat?” he knelt next to you, necklaces clinking as he tore his gloves off. you watched him tug the first aid kit from the cabinet, flicking it open and getting to work. remy was uncharacteristically quiet, which worried you deeply. he hadn’t acknowledged the suit you wore, nor gloated about the sheer amount he’d won tonight.
you grimaced when the bullet clinked on the tile, feeling your enhanced regeneration tingle through your cells. “i knew,” remy spoke, resting a comforting hand on your thigh, “‘bout de…spider thing. did’ya think i wouldn’t notice?”
you looked away, silent and ashamed.
“m’not mad at ya, chère. not even a lil,” he soothed, clasping a firm hand under your jaw and guiding your face back to his, “just wish ya told remy sooner. he didn’t wanna see ya like t’is before ya told him.”
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling the skin of the wound close. remy stared down at it, dual-colored eyes swirled with confusion. “i heal over time,” you explained, “gunshots take longer, usually.” he shook his head with a fond grin, as if the thought of your wounds taking longer to heal would quell his worries.
remy’s eyes were molten, swirling with sparks of purple and admiration. it was quiet, his thumb simply sweeping over your cheek as your healing tingled your cells. “how much did you win?” you asked after a while, allowing him to scoop you up and carry you to the bedroom. “i’m offended, chère. ‘course i won lots,” he smirked lazily, “wan’ somethin’? remy’ll get it for ya.”
“my suit kinda needs repairs,” you sheepishly admitted, and he laughed. “mm. dunno ‘bout supportin’ such…dangerous endeavors..” he got you comfortably in bed, joining you quickly, and tucked you close. remy was always warm. you buried your face in his chest, hiding from his blazing eyes upon your next words, “and i wanted to go shopping for a dress for emma’s event..”
“ooh, now dat—remy’s got plenty,” his lips pressed against your head, “oughta let me see ev’ryone of ‘em. touch, too. tha’s requirement. needa see if the…quality is worth de price.”
you smiled and giggled, keeping your warm face hidden from him, “required, huh? you sure it’s just to test the fabric quality?”
“guilty as charged,” he mused, dragging his fingers along your spine, “close ‘dem eyes, chère. sleep f’remy.”
you hummed softly, the ache in your bones fading as remy’s touch soothed them. outside, sirens still blared and criminals still ran rampant—but right now? you were simply remy’s.
daredevil … MATTHEW MURDOCK
you’d learned how to circle matt.
adapted to his schedules, shifted around mishaps, smiled through painful throbs of bruises—you’d perfected it.
until you seen him out.
you were perched on a balcony, fingers barely grazing the iron safety bars. it was 3am, and matt was usually asleep at this time. home from a long day of court, and tonight, he mentioned going out to drink with foggy and karen. he was home at midnight—why was he out now?
you quietly leapt across buildings, pausing every time he paused, moving when he moved. his cane tapped lightly against the concrete, the familiar clicks making your heart rate slow.
then, a hand shot from the darkness.
matt was yanked into an alley, and you launched into action. you watched as the man threw matt to the ground, and before matt could retaliate, you were there. your fist collided with the thug’s face, webs zipping! out. your foot landed on his shoulder, launching yourself and him up as you threw punch after punch and kick after kick. the webs clung to him, pinning his struggling and bruised frame against the brick wall.
your feet touched the pavement, kneeling in front of a winded matt.
“sir, sir, are you alright?”
“i knew it,” he breathed, smiling in that utterly pleased way of his. you tried to subdue your increasing heart rate, handing him his cane, “knew what?” matt’s head tilted knowingly, hands drifting forward to grip your waist.
“i’m not a fool, sweetheart. i know your heartbeat,” matt leaned up, and you had to look away from him, “it got faster. you’re nervous. i know your footsteps—your breaths.” matt pushed himself off the ground, and you slid his cane in his hand. he took a step towards you, lips still pulled into that infuriating smile of his. you tried to pull away quickly, but he caught your wrist, “i know your touch, your hands. even if they’re covered.”
“did you plan this or something?” you embarrassedly asked, keeping your eyes averted as he tugged you closer. his lips curled up further, and you groaned in disdain, “matt!”
“don’t be like that,” he cooed, “i was getting tired of you tiptoeing around it. so, i gave you a reason to tell me.” your head thumped against his chest, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. he swayed you lightly, chin propped atop your head. he smelled like warm sheets and the candle on the nightstand.
“go home, please.”
“come with me,” he countered, bringing both arms around you. his fingers traced the webbing of your suit, trailing around the spider design on your back. “i can’t,” you muttered, tensing when one of his hands dragged up your arm. his fingertips grazed along your mask, and you clasped his wrist tightly, “matt…”
“just for a minute, baby,” he whispered, “please?” you hesitated, nodding briefly. matt lifted your mask over your nose, and you felt his breath tickle your lips.
then, you felt his softness.
matt’s hands held your face, his shoulders dropping in utter bliss. you backed him into the wall, smiling into the kiss. you broke apart, foreheads resting together.
your lips parted to speak—
“hey, can you let me down please? i need to go to the doctor!”
your head jerked up, and matt laughed:
“foggy?!”
SPIDERMAN … peter parker
it was hard being new york’s third spidey.
you usually stayed under the radar, cleaning up when peter or miles couldn’t—but there was one tiny issue.
they had no idea it was you.
peter was at grad school for the majority of the day—miles surely contemplating his existence in high school—so you had opportune time to be spidey during the day. they’d tried to contact you, of course, but you’d made it a point to avoid them at all costs.
right now, you were perched on a rooftop, eyes skimming across the city as you held a large icee in your hand. you sipped casually, flinching when your comms began to ring. your fingers pressed against your ear, a soft hum leaving your lips.
“hi, honey,” you greeted, “what’s up?”
peter didn’t answer.
“peter?”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
“tell you what?” you calmly asked, keeping your voice level despite the panic creeping up your spine. peter sighed, displeased, “delmar’s pickle sub was on sale an hour ago.”
“oh,” you laughed, relieved, “i’m sorry, i didn’t know it was.” peter groaned childishly, and you vaguely heard the bustling sounds of the cafeteria. “are you with miles?”
“yeah. gonna take him to get some actual food for his final week,” you heard him call him over, and then you heard his voice, “hey, pete’s taking me to get actual food. do you wanna go?”
your lips parted to agree, but a loud screech and explosions sounded nearby. you heard the phone rustle, “what was that? baby?”
“nothing—i gotta go, have fun!”
you swiftly hung up, ignoring the way peter called you back instantly. you tugged your mask back on, tossing your empty icee cup in a trashcan as you swung to the scene. you landed atop a streetlight, frowning when you saw a group of men holding women hostage.
their massive guns waved haphazardly, and you teasingly called out, “got a license for those?”
“it’s the spider!”
“which one?!”
you catapulted yourself at them, web bombs flying from your palms. the sticky threads flawlessly coiled around them, pinning them in one webbed up cluster. “huh. that was easy,” you shrugged, walking over to the women.
“hi,” you whispered, “anyone hurt?”
they shook their heads as you gently guided them away. you flinched when a sharp pain pierced your side. you glanced down, spotting an unfamiliar object. the dart’s contents were glowing purple, and your body broke into shivers upon its dispersal into your bloodstream.
“haha! it worked!” the cluster cheered.
you shot a web, barely able to swing properly. you crash landed on a nearby roof, curling up into a ball as your body shook. you were freezing despite the boiling hot weather.
“spidey?” the voice was warbled, but you recognized the familiar red and blue suit, accompanied by the black and red one. you tried to move, to hide from him, but his hand carefully moved you on your back.
“hey, hey, what happened?”
you shook your head, fingers grazing the rooftop’s edge. you were in agony. cold, hot, boiling, freezing, shivering, paralyzed.
“you need fresh air,” miles worriedly said, his hands nearing the hem of your mask. you weakly slapped them away, and he looked at peter for guidance.
“we promise we’ll keep your secret,” peter comfortingly said, “we can help you.”
“i don’t want it,” you heaved, mustering up enough courage to toss yourself off the edge. your body freefell, but your webs missed their landing—
a hand coiled around your wrist, your body dangling against the wall. you tiredly looked up, spotting peter upside down in front of you. he was stuck to the wall, one hand next to your head as the other held you up by your wrist.
“i tried to give you openings, but i seriously can’t take it anymore,” peter reached for your mask, yanking it up and off before you could react, “baby, please. we need to get you to the hospital.”
your mind was rendered to nothing but mush.
you could only hum and grumble, and you grimaced when he swept you up. your vision went dark, all you felt was his arms.
when you woke, he was staring at you with an intensity and a sadness you hadn’t seen since aunt may.
“pete?” you tiredly whispered. he didn’t speak, his knee bouncing rapidly, “are you mad?”
“i’d be a hypocrite if i were mad,” he sighed, shifting from his seat and sitting next to you on the bed. his fingers traced along your cheek, a weak smile on his lips.
“you could’ve told me.”
you didn’t answer to that, lifting your hand to cup his. his warmth permeated the cold of your skin. you shrugged softly, and he laughed as he pressed his lips to yours. “mm. i guess i didn’t tell you either, huh?”
“no, you didn’t,” you mused, “i found out because you left your mask in—“
“you promised not to talk about that!”
wolverine … LOGAN HOWLETT
“she’s not herself—logan!” charles shouted, turning in his wheelchair in an attempt to stop him.
“i don’t give a damn,” he snarled, spinning on his heel, “she’s mine. some fish-bowl headed lunatic ain’t takin’ her from me.” ororo stood instantly, grabbing her jacket and following him out. he briefly shot her a look of gratitude and utter respect, to which she nodded once.
storm always had his back.
the jet rumbled as it zipped through the air, and its screens displayed you in the city. mysterio hovered near you, the sky dim as the people’s symbol of hope ebbed away. “get me as close as you can,” logan grumbled to scott, who didn’t respond with one of his usual remarks.
he understood the gravity of the situation.
you, the girl who swung with webs through new york city, hands outstretched to whoever needed help—a child who fell off their bike, a man kicking a vending machine that took his money, the elderly woman who needs help crossing the hectic street—you were there.
now, you were suspended midair, body lifeless as mysterio’s control seeped into your mind. citizens cried and begged, their fingertips barely able to reach you.
“ah, the x-men,” mysterio cooed, “come to save a fellow hero?”
the jet landed harshly, and logan leapt out. he stormed closer, feeling the soft breeze of ororo’s aura behind him. jean and scott joined them, their eyes blazing with rage.
“where did you take them?” scott shouted. mysterio’s arms stretched wide, “allow me to show you.”
the city faded to black.
bodies were thrown and tossed about, and logan seen you. your suit was shredded to pieces, your mask completely gone. your eyes were black, tears staining your cheeks. blood coated your skin as you stood atop a pile of bodies.
how long had you been here?
what were you seeing?
he turned around, tensing when he realized that he was the only one here. logan sprinted toward you, and your eyes jerked to him. you jumped, webs slinging out to stop him. webs cocooned him in seconds.
your fingertips dug into his face, “sick joke, mysterio. using him against me.”
“bub—“
“stop talking,” you seethed, fresh tears filling your eyes, “i will break your neck.” logan’s claws slid free, slicing through the webs and shoving you against the ground. his hand pressed against your throat—a warning. “listen to me,” his tone was firm, eyes dark with anger, “yer stuck in an illusion. he threw me in here w’you.”
“you’re—lying!” your knee dug harshly into his stomach, but he didn’t move. logan’s claws dug into the asphalt, solidifying his posture, “i ain’t lyin’, stubborn thing. it’s logan,” he stressed, eyes flicking all over your injuries, “look.”
he cautiously raised a hand, reaching for the neck of his white shirt and tugging the collar down. a thin chain with a ring looped onto it—the stupid matching rings you’d bought as a peace treaty after a big argument. you faltered in your fight, hand lifting to further pull the shirt down—
“now yer just pushin’ it.”
then he felt your fingertips brush along a scar.
one that very little knew was there.
the scar that you’d given him for moments like these, moments that needed proof and grounding. logan relaxed, leaning back and pulling you up with him. you traced the tiny X with care, and he frowned when tears filled your eyes. “c’mon, sweets. don’t cry.”
your palms roughly swiped at your eyes, your breaths growing scarce, and his hands easily found your wrists, “stop. breathe.”
you cried apologies, falling into his arms. logan sighed, standing up with you secure in his hold. he rubbed your back as he walked through the domain, ears tuned into finding his comrades.
when he reconnected with the group, ororo greeted you with a soft smile. you stayed in his arms, eyes forcefully averted from the carnage you’d unleashed in here. logan wasn’t worried about getting stuck in the domain, he knew they’d find their way out eventually.
but right now, he had you—his darling spider—in his arms, and you needed him.
HUMAN TORCH … johnny storm
you’d broken your arm in an intense fight with sandman. you remembered the sick crack, the way your forearm was angled incorrectly as you sheepishly showed it to the emergency room workers. you hadn’t been able to reset the bone, so it had begun to heal like that. the doctors, pitifully, had to re-break the bone just to fix it.
it healed a week ago.
johnny still hadn’t stopped pampering you.
he refused to “hand you over” to peter when the city called, he refused to let you do literally anything. tonight, peter had messaged you, desperate for help on an intel-related task. johnny was sleeping, and so, you’d taken the opportunity.
you quietly snuck out of the bedroom, suit zipped up and ready to go. herbie appeared at the end of the hallway, his little head tilting curiously. you knelt in front of him, gently rubbing his head, “i’ll be back soon, herbie. don’t worry.”
“johnny?” he beeped quietly.
“sleeping. if he’s up before i leave, tell him i went shopping. wait, no don’t tell him that, he’ll be upset,” you considered a proper response, sighing as you shook your head and came up empty, “just tell him i’m helping pete.”
herbie beeped, nodding. he nuzzled into your hand, and you smiled warmly. “bye, be good.”
he followed you to the balcony, watching you closely as you leapt off it. the sky was blanketed with stars as you zipped through the city, landing calmly on the appointed building. peter appeared from around the corner, waving as he landed. “hey, thanks for coming. did johnny let you go easy?”
“i didn’t wake him up,” you admitted, “didn’t feel like arguing and wasting time.” peter hummed knowingly, perching next to you and pointing at the condemned factory.
“kraven’s got stuff in there. need to know all about it.”
“easy,” you mused.
it was in fact, not easy.
you and peter breathed heavily behind cover, bullet wounds coating the two of you. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, wincing at a throb of pain. “uh-huh,” you mockingly replied, flinching when a bullet embedded the wall next to you.
you silently contemplated what to do—
you were cornered, blood dripping from nearly every part of your body. peter was in a similar shape, wounded and exhausted. you groaned, your head thumping against the wood crate, “use the signal.”
“seriously? johnny’s gonna kill us…”
“i’d rather die to him than these guys, pete. just do it.”
peter visibly accepted his fate, thumb pressing against the line of webbing that alerted the fantastic four. within seconds, your comms rang. you pressed your ear against your shoulder, too tired to raise your hands.
“that better not have anything to do with you.”
“i don’t know how to tell you this,” you laughed weakly, “but it kind of has everything to do with me.”
johnny didn’t speak, comms shutting off. peter met your masked eyes, “how bad?”
“he’s dead silent,” you solemnly said.
“shit.”
the glass erupted into shards, and you flinched when rapid gunshots fired. a bright orange glow encased the room, and you vaguely heard the soft thrumming of sue’s barrier.
loud footsteps sounded to your left, and you saw ben standing over the two of you.
“hey,” you and peter greeted casually, as if the two of you weren’t staining the floor red. johnny landed next to ben, expression utterly displeased and furious. he knelt next to you, sending a nasty stare towards peter as he scooped you up.
“i’m sorry, man!” peter shouted as johnny walked away. he didn’t say a word as he ignited into flames and shot off towards the hospital.
“stupid, stupid,” he muttered, “i’m gonna sell out everything he loves.”
“johnny—“
“you scared me, baby,” he admitted, “woke up to the signal going off, you not in my arms.”
you murmured an apology, doing your best to withstand the heat he emitted. your suit was fireproof, courtesy of reed, but some places were torn. “do you wanna know how long i’m keeping you to myself now?”
you sighed, eyes closing as you accepted the inevitable.
“how long, johnny?”
“three months.”
generous, you thought amusedly.
“you’re also prohibited from communicating with peter for a good year.”
the doctors made quick work of you, and you assured them your healing would take care of what they couldn’t quickly fix. they had other people to help, people that couldn’t self-sustain.
now, you were in bed with johnny.
he had you wrapped in his arms, tightly. “are you gonna hold me like this the whole three months?” you softly asked, tapping your fingers on his back to the rhythm of the song he’d chosen.
“if i have to. i’ll hold you in the shower, at dinnertime, while you get ready,” he listed off, eyes sparkling with mischief. you smiled, cuddling closer to him. he kissed your head, gently pulling you away so he can reach the rest of your face. he peppered kisses on your skin, pausing before he reached your lips.
his blue eyes swirled with worry and love, and you nodded.
he kissed you sweetly, embers flickering in his hair. you separated with a shy laugh, and he embraced you again.
“seriously, don’t scare me like that again. especially don’t just…leave.”
Notes: some Remy as requested! I love him sm, this is my first time writing for him so forgive any mistakes. Also, I don't speak french, I researched the bits of it that I used, and I apologize if any mistakes were made. <3
The first thing you felt as you were coaxed into wakefulness was your lover's arms, snugly wrapped around your waist, paired with his soft puffs of breath steady against your forehead. You cracked your eyes open blearily, peeking up at him through your lashes. Remy was still asleep, the expression of peace blanketing his features. You adjusted yourself carefully to better be able to look at him, mindful not to wake him.
"Pâs aller, chérie..." Remy mumbled under his breath, the soft french hardly intelligible through his sleepy state.
"Shh, I'm not," you whispered back, stilling your movement once more. You were untroubled to watch him in slumber a while longer, seeing as you had no obligations until later in the day. Remy's unconscious mind settled under your words, arms tightening around you with a deep sigh as he lost himself in the realm of sleep once again.
You were content watching him, all soft and restful in contrast to his wakeful self. You watched his brows usually quirked in flirtation relaxed in peace. His lips, often raised in smirks and smooth talking quips, were parted and neutral, soft breaths escaping. His eyes, gorgeous and captivating, hidden behind their lids, completely calm, completely safe. You loved that. Loved the way Remy relaxed with you. Loved being the one to see him like this. Your thoughts remained like that, loving and adoration filled, as you drifted off beside him once more.
· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·
You were brought back to conscious a few hours later, unpleasantly this time, by the screeching buzz of your alarm clock next to the bed, reminding you once again that you needed to replace it. Remy's arms were still around you, his own sleep hardly disturbed. With a little bit of guilt, you turned away from his embrace, lazily reaching to shut off the alarm.
"Where you goin' chér?" Remy's voice sounded from behind you, slightly raspy in the morning and helplessly endearing.
"Mm...alarm went off, we've gotta get up now, Remy," you responded begrudgingly, a little upset yourself at having to leave the warmth of his embrace.
Unfortunately, or maybe not, Remy's arms only tightened around you, gently constricting your movements so you were trapped against his chest.
"Remy, really, I don't want to get up either, but we've got stuff to do today," you chided, gently attempting to pry his arms away, to little success.
"That's okay, chérie, gambit don't mind." he mumbled contentedly, disregarding any responsibilities you may have had in mind, prompting an endeared roll of your eyes.
"If we don't get up Scott's gonna-"
"Never mind him, mon cœur, c'est pas pressé." he cut you off with a soft murmur, burying his face against the back of your neck, auburn strands of hair tickling behind your ear.
You huffed out a sigh of defeat, though it came out more as one of contentment, nestling back into him and letting your eyes fall shut once again.
"Remind me why I always give into you.." you mumbled more to yourself than anything, settling into the pillows.
"The cards tend to fall in my favor, no?" Remy responded cheekily, though drowsiness still slipped into his tone. "An' I wouldn't want it any other way, chér."
A/N: incubus!remy, 18+f!reader, friends-to-lovers, when remy quite literally needs to eat pussy🙂↕️
There is a quiet truth within the halls of the X-Mansion, an unspoken affliction that one of their own carries quietly. Something old as time, something older than mutation, that is using Remy LeBeau as a host. Somewhere deep beneath his easy grin and Cajun charm something ancient still feeds.
At first, Remy used to blame exhaustion. Then stress. Then the way the mansion has been too quiet lately — no danger, no distractions, no touch. That deep, quiet ache beneath his ribs, not physical, not exactly, was all too present lately. Remy would dismiss the ache time and time again until the Professor helped him pin point it in his ancestry. The same ache that used to vanish after a night spent tangled in laughter and warmth and whispered promises he never meant to keep.
He hadn’t noticed how long it had been. No stolen glances. No fleeting encounters. No one drawn into his orbit close enough for the quiet exchange that always left both parties breathless and oddly lighter. And now nothing inside him seemed to ignite.
His incubi nature doesn’t replace his mutation. It fuels it. Each charged object, each explosive burst of pink light was backed by vitality. Each impossible feat of kinetic manipulation was drawn from the same well. A well replenished not by rest, but by connection and closeness. By the quiet surrender of vital warmth shared in moments that left hearts racing. This transfer of energy was never stolen as some myths claimed, never forced. Just exchanged.
Now, it’s been months.
Months since Remy last fed and recharged himself. His kinetic energy is dimmer and dimmer by the day, taking more toll from him than when he is at full charge.
Usually he has time between sexual trysts before his kinetic energy begins to deplete. Given that he has been jet-setting around on the Blackbird with little time between missions for a recharge, he feels it more now than ever. His cards fizzle faintly, it takes more effort from him to charge larger objects, he feels drained, and it’s almost humiliating for him to be in such need.
Cursing his incubi bloodlines, Remy rolls out of bed a little after dawn and heads down the staircase to the kitchen hoping to sate his hunger with a snack or a drink. As he pours himself a glass of water, he hears a light yawn behind him and turns to see you. You’re dressed for your pre-class jog, but still very much waking up as you rub your eye.
“Mornin’.” You say, offering him a sleepy smile as you lean into him and greet him with a side hug while grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet.
“Mornin’, petite.” He says, handing you the mug you’re reaching for and you thank him. “Sleep well?”
You look over, noting the tension in his shoulders and the restlessness of his eyes. “Better than you, it seems. You look tired.” You say casually as you pour coffee from the pot into your mug.
“Tired’s too polite for what Gambit is right now.” He smirks tiredly while you grin and offer to make extra of your own breakfast to which he nods appreciatively as he watches you move with cat-like enthusiasm around the kitchen.
The friendship the two of you share has always been comfortable, uncomplicated, and honest. There is a mutual attraction, of course, biology wouldn’t be doing its job without a little sexual tension. But now with you standing in front of him while his main source of energy is drained, Remy realizes something unsettling. Your presence doesn’t just feel pleasant, right now it feels steady and charged. He chalks it up to his current state of being, he only feels like this because he knows he needs to feed and you just happen to smell really nice and look so pretty with your hair tied up and your tight leggings.
Is nothin’, surely, Remy tells himself as he takes the plate you hand him and sits across from you at the island.
Being good friends, you noticed how dim he seemed lately, however. You noticed how he had started looking at you — almost like he wanted to ask you something constantly, but just didn’t know how. Or couldn’t bring himself to ask.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Rem?” You ask one evening when he’s in the greenhouse with you helping you pick out herbs for dinner.
Remy gives you that charming grin, but you can tell it’s a little forced. “You worryin’ ‘bout Gambit, cherie?” He asks with a smirk. “Mighty sweet of you.”
“I’m serious,” You laugh softly, turning to him and crossing your arms over your chest. “You don’t seem like yourself. I just want to make sure you’re good.”
He hesitates just a moment. “Is jus’ biology,” He says with a deflecting wink. “Nothin’ for you to worry ‘bout.”
At that you scoff a little. “Of course I’m going to worry, Remy. You’re my friend, and it’s clear you haven’t been yourself.” You pause, not wanting to come off pushy and take a step closer to him. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”
Remy says your name with a small, nearly defeated laugh and shakes his head. “Is too complicated.”
“Rem, we’re actual mutants. Complicated is wired in us, come on.”
After a moment, he lets out a small sigh and nods like he’s convinced himself it’s better to have this conversation than to keep you in the dark. “I ain’t fed in a lil while, cherie,” He says with a small shrug as he hands you a small bushel of fresh rosemary. “Gambit’s energy gettin’ too low to charge.”
“Fed?” You ask curiously and then it clicks. Right, you think, He’s part incubi. “Oh.”
“Oh.” Remy smirks.
You know, everyone knows, everyone just has enough decency and respect towards Remy to not bring it up in everyday conversation. But now your friend is slowly dimming and it’s because he hasn’t had the sexual encounter required to keep himself charged. And if the Gambit can’t charge anything, that’s dangerous for himself and others in the field.
“Well,” You begin, busying yourself with the parsley and trying to sound more casual than you feel about this topic. “Have you made some calls? You know, find yourself a hot date.”
“Shoulda few weeks back,” Remy sighs, rubbing a gloved hand over his face with mild relief now that everything is out in the open between the two of you. “‘Fraid Gambit might take too much now.”
And then, just because you’re the kind of person — helpful and empathic — you ask. “What if I helped?”
Dinner that night is normal. Jean and Scott wrangle the younger students into the dining room, Logan barks at Bobby and Pietro for goofing around in the kitchen while he’s trying to hand out bowls of his hearty soup. Ororo is easily guiding the teens in from the rec room for mealtime.
You and Remy, however, are both quiet. Quieter than usual for either of you. Not in a bad way, just pensive. Your face is warm and your hands anxiously tremble whenever you pick up your spoon. While Remy can’t stop trailing you with his dimly glowing eyes, his mind wondering curiously about tonight. All through dinner, the conversation in the greenhouse plays on repeat in your mind.
“You ain’t gotta help Remy, cherie.” He had said, though his eyes didn’t shift off of you not one fraction.
“I hate seeing you walking around so dull, Rem, it can’t possibly end well.” You rationalize, more for yourself than him. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, let me just…help a friend out.”
Remy had chuckled. “Mighty kind friend you are, petite.”
And you had rolled your eyes before saying, “Tonight, yeah? Meet in my room after dinner.”
Your room is familiar to him in the way that most of the mansion is familiar — he’s been in and out of it enough times over the years to know the layout without thinking. The stack of books and small gathering of coffee mugs on your nightstand. The window you leave cracked regardless of season. The way it smells like you, something warm and faintly herbal that he’s never examined too closely until now. You close the door behind him and turn to face him with that expression you get when you’ve decided something and aren’t second-guessing it.
“So…” You say, a bashful tint on your cheeks as you watch him take us space in your bedroom with a very different energy than usual.
“So,” Remy agrees, extending a hand out to you in a very gentlemanly fashion. You laugh a little, which breaks whatever formality was threatening to form, and then you close the distance as he tugs you into him for a kiss. It’s easy the way things between the two of you have always been easy. He threads a hand into your hair and you make a small sound against his mouth that sharpens his attention considerably. He can feel you smile against his lips. “Something funny, cherie?”
“Mm-mm,” You hum, still smiling smugly, and you kiss him again before he can respond to that. “No.”
Remy walks you back toward the bed with his hands at your waist and you go without resistance, pulling him down with you when the backs of your knees meet the mattress. He carefully settles his weight over you and you look up at him in the low light from your bedside lamp, your hair fanned out beneath you, a bright and curious glint in your wide eyes. His eyes, dim for weeks, are already beginning to warm at the edges, you notice.
“There you are.” You say quietly, your fingers brushing along his sharp jaw as you smile affectionately up at him. Remy kisses you before he can think too hard about how that landed.
There is no rushing, no desperation to reach the fun part. You both take your time with it, unhurried in the way that familiarity allows, trading kisses that grow progressively less casual while your fingers work at the collar of his shirt and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, the soft place beneath your ear that makes your breath hitch and your chin tip back. Remy takes his gloves off because bare hands matter here in a way they don’t always and he feels your breath catch slightly at the deliberateness of it.
“Remy.” You moan softly.
“Cherie.” He praises reverently. He works your jeans and underwear down your legs with patience that seems to genuinely surprise you. He slowly presses his mouth to your hip, kissing the inside of your knee, and you watch him the entire time with that particular feline attention — sharp and a little amused and underneath it something that is neither of those things.
“You don’t have to make a whole production of it.” You tease in an attempt to remind yourself this isn’t a big deal, even if it’s starting to feel like it is, even though your voice has lost some of its usual certainty.
“Non,” He agrees, and looks up at you from between your thighs, thumbs brushing gently over your soft lips and parting them gently, “but Gambit gonna anyway.”
You laugh softly, and then his mouth finds your warm center and the laugh dissolves into a shaky inhale. The sound you make goes through him like a current finding ground, his kinetic charge pulses in waves within his bones. He knows immediately that this is different, that you are different. He can sense it the way he senses latent energy in objects, that particular aliveness and willingness to charge.
And what you’re feeling is genuine and warm and directed entirely at him. Your arousal is tricking through your folds as his tongue flattens against you, it feeds him differently than anyone he can recall. Richer and more specifically tailored to him definitely having to do with the bond you share.
Remy’s already charging back up and he could stop here if he wanted to, if you asked him to, but he doesn’t stop. You try to muffle yourself with the back of your hand and he pulls it away from your mouth with a firm patience, pressing it flat against the mattress instead.
“Non,” He says against your mound, his tongue flicking teasingly at your sensitive bud. “Let Gambit hear you.”
“You’re terrible.” You breathe, your back arching as he passes his tongue over your slit, searching a little deeper for that sweetness that fuels him.
“Oui.” He agrees, and gets back to work.
You give up on quiet after that. Your free hand finds his hair, your thighs bracket his shoulders, and he can feel the tension building in your loins, the small involuntary tremors of your legs, the way your breathing changes register with him in a way he doesn’t usually pay attention with someone else.
When your first orgasm crescendos to its peak, you says his name in a way you’ve never said it before, drawn out and unguarded, and your nails catch against his shoulder with an unconscious sharpness that he doesn’t think you notice, but he notices. His tongue burrows deeper, circling slowly as he drinks you in and feels his energy refilling slowly. A soft groan escapes him and he keeps going.
“Tu es parfait, si bon pour moi.” He murmurs, his hands subtly sending a charge through your skin as he refuels.
He takes you through the second release with more deliberate attention, learning what undoes you specifically and applying it with focused patience. You whine he focuses on your clit, sucking softly on the bud until your legs threaten to close out the sensation. You’re warm and restless and completely present and he is — for perhaps the first time in longer than he’d like to admit — entirely present too. Not performing, not managing the encounter from a careful distance…just here.
By your third orgasm, he’s lapping like a man no longer dying of thirst, but rather possessed by hunger, holding your thighs wide open to fight against your impulse to close them. You’re laughing breathlessly, helplessly, between the moans you can’t quiet, one arm flung over your eyes, your whole body flushed and trembling.
“Remy - okay, Remy, I’m - can’t, please - mercy!” He chuckles and presses one last unhurried kiss to the inside of your thigh before letting up. He looks back up to find you staring at the ceiling with the expression of a person who has been completely taken apart and is taking stock of the damage.
Remy’s been fully recharged for a little while now, but he doesn’t regret going overboard when you look this soft and happy. He settles beside you on the bed and you turn your head to look at him, your hair a disaster, your expression open in a way you probably aren’t aware of. His eyes are fully warm again, properly his, the dullness entirely gone.
“Merci, cherie,” He says, and means it in more ways than he’ll name. “Owe you my life.”
You exhale a breath that’s almost a laugh and look back up at the ceiling, loose and wrung out and completely unbothered. “Any time.” You say offhandedly like it costs you nothing.
Remy looks at you for a moment longer than he should, the low light illuminating your dewy skin, the warmth of your vitality still sitting in him like a coal, the careless generosity of those two words, and then he looks away. His arm wraps easily around you and you sigh softly as you rest your head on his chest to catch your breath.
Any time.
He’s going to have to think very carefully about that.
This is a little AU I have been working on just because I got really into mythology all of a sudden😂 Let me know what you think, kind readers!
synopsis 𖥧 what were the odds you got sick when all of the responsible adults were out for work.
content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, reader sees Rogue and Gambit as parent figures !!
💬 : this is for my mootie @keneticnight cuz father figures remi and logan got us doin cartwheels. STOP I LOVE WRITING REMY'S SPEECH IT'S SO FUCKING SILLY I LOVE HIM AND HIS STUPID CAJUN ACCENTTTT
The moment the blackbird’s engines faded into a distant, barely-perceptible hum somewhere over the Westchester county line, Remy Lebeau knew something was wrong.
It wasn’t a logical thing. There was no psychic alarm bell, no precognitive flash. It was just… a feeling. A father’s instinct, though he’d never use that word out loud. He was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee that was more chicory than bean, when he realized the house was too quiet.
Not the good quiet. Not the “everyone’s in the Danger Room” quiet, or the “teenagers are actually doing their homework” quiet. This was the quiet of a missing presence. The absence of a certain soft humming. The lack of footsteps padding down the hallway. The missing warmth of a light-generating mutant who usually greeted him in the mornings with a sleepy smile and a request for “the good creamer, please, Remy, the one you hide from Bobby.”
He looked at the clock. 9:47 AM. You usually came down for breakfast around nine. You were a creature of habit, your internal clock more reliable than atomic time. You liked your morning routine: a glass of water, a bowl of cereal that was probably too sugary, and fifteen minutes of reading whatever thick, tragic novel had captured your heart that week before you started your training.
You weren’t at the table. Your usual spot, the one with the best view of the garden, was empty.
Remy’s brow furrowed. He took a sip of his coffee, his crimson eyes scanning the kitchen as if expecting you to materialize out of thin air. When you didn’t, he set his mug down and made his way toward the residential wing.
He passed Logan in the hallway. The shorter, hairier man was coming from the direction of the garage, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that had seen better decades. He grunted in lieu of a greeting, the way he always did when it was just the two of them and no one else was around to witness even a shred of civility between them.
“Seen de kid?” Remy asked, not breaking stride.
“Which one?” Logan grunted. “We got about twenty of ‘em runnin’ around this place.”
“De kid,” Remy repeated, as if that clarified everything. And it did, because there was only one teenager in this house who had both Remy and Rogue wrapped so thoroughly around her little finger that they didn’t even notice the string. “She ain’t at breakfast.”
Logan paused, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. The faintest flicker of concern crossed his weathered features before he smoothed it away. “She’s probably just sleepin’ in. Kid was up late last night in the library with Kurt, readin’ that bible of hers.”
Remy shook his head. “She don’t sleep in. Not past nine. Somethin’s wrong.”
He picked up his pace, Logan falling into step beside him despite the fact that he was muttering something about “overreactin’ Cajuns” and “not every little thing is a crisis.” But he was there. And he was moving just as quickly.
Your room was at the end of the hall, a corner room with two windows that caught the morning sun. Rogue had helped you decorate it when you first arrived, insisting that every girl deserved a space that felt like her own. There were fairy lights strung along the ceiling, a small bookshelf overflowing with worn paperbacks, and a framed picture of the two of you with Remy at some county fair, your face split in a wide, genuine smile.
The door was closed. That was your first mistake, because you never closed your door. Not all the way. You’d told Rogue once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that you liked knowing people were out there. That the hallway noise was comforting. That a closed door felt too much like the one your father had slammed behind you.
Remy knocked softly. “Chère? You awake?”
Silence. Then, a small, muffled sound that might have been a word or might have been a whimper.
He didn’t wait for permission. He pushed the door open, Logan crowding in behind him, and the sight that greeted them made both men freeze.
You were still in bed, which wasn’t unusual in itself. What was unusual was the mountain of blankets you’d piled on top of yourself. You were buried beneath at least three comforters, Rogue’s oversized cardigan that you’d claimed as your own, and what looked like every hoodie you owned. Only a tuft of your hair was visible, sticking up at an awkward angle, and even from the doorway, Remy could see the fine tremors running through the blanket pile.
“Petite?” Remy crossed the room in three long strides, his earlier coffee forgotten. He reached out, carefully peeling back the top layer of blankets, and the heat that hit him was immediate and alarming. It was like opening an oven door.
You blinked up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused. Your face was flushed, your cheeks an unnatural, mottled red, and there was a sheen of sweat on your forehead despite the fact that you were shivering violently. Your lips were pale, cracked, and when you tried to smile at him, it came out more like a grimace.
“Remy,” you croaked. Your voice was raw, scraped clean of its usual warmth. “M’okay. Just… cold.”
“You ain’t cold, chère,” he said softly, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. The heat that met his skin made him hiss through his teeth. “You’re burnin’ up.”
Logan appeared at his shoulder, his gruff demeanor evaporating the instant he got a look at you. “When’d this start?” he asked, his voice low and serious.
You shook your head weakly, the movement clearly costing you. “Last night. After Kurt and I… after the library. I was reading and I got really cold and I couldn’t get warm and…” A violent shiver wracked your small frame, cutting off your words.
“Why didn’t you call someone?” Remy asked, and there was something raw in his voice. Something that sounded almost like fear.
Your eyes, usually so bright and full of light, were dull with exhaustion. “Didn’t want to bother anyone. The girls are gone. You were up late. I thought… I thought I’d just sleep it off.”
Logan made a sound in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. He’d already pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I’m callin’ the Professor. Or Jean. One of ‘em can turn this thing around.”
“Non,” Remy said sharply, the word cutting through the room.
Logan looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You got a better idea, Gumbo? Kid’s got a fever that could fry an egg.”
“I got it,” Remy said, already moving. He was peeling blankets away, not all of them, just enough to get to you. “She don’t need de whole team comin’ back. She needs rest, fluids, medicine. We can handle dis.”
“Handle it?” Logan’s voice was incredulous. “She’s sick, Remy. This ain’t a card game you can charm your way out of.”
“I know what it is,” Remy shot back, gently scooping you up despite your weak protests. You weighed practically nothing in his arms, a fact that made something in his chest tighten painfully. “And I ain’t gonna be de one to call Rogue in de middle of a mission to tell her de kid got a fever. She’d be back here faster dan you can say ‘Southern Comfort’ and den de whole operation is compromised. We got dis.”
He was already carrying you out of the room, your head lolling against his shoulder, the borrowed cardigan wrapped around you like a cocoon. You made a small, pitiful sound, your fingers weakly clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and Remy’s heart clenched.
Logan stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the Cajun disappear down the hallway with his bundle of feverish teenager. He was already pulling up his mental list of things to do: temperature, medicine, fluids, something light to eat. He was already cataloging the contents of the medicine cabinet, the fridge, the pantry.
He was also, despite his grumbling, already moving.
The next three hours were, in Remy’s words, “a goddamn disaster.”
They’d set you up in the main living room, on the large sectional couch that faced the fireplace. Remy had declared that your room was “too isolated” and that you needed to be somewhere they could keep an eye on you. Logan had grumbled but hadn’t argued, mostly because he’d been too busy building a fire that would actually stay lit and not fill the room with smoke.
You were currently curled up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in what Logan had dubbed “the blanket burrito.” It consisted of the three comforters from your room, two wool blankets from the hall closet, and one incredibly ugly crocheted afghan that had been a gift to the school from a well-meaning local grandmother. Only your face was visible, and it was still that worrying shade of mottled red.
Remy had taken your temperature three times in the last hour, not because he didn’t trust the thermometer but because he didn’t trust the numbers it was giving him. 101.3. 101.8. 102.1. Each reading made his jaw tighten a little more.
“Medicine,” Logan said for the fifth time, coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water and a small white packet. “Kid needs to take somethin’ to bring that fever down.”
Remy took the packet, examining it like it was a bomb he was about to defuse. “Dis de stuff Hank made? De ‘kiddie-friendly’ formula?”
“S’what it says.” Logan pointed to the label. “‘Coke flavor. Easy to take. Suitable for adolescents.’”
You made a small sound of protest from the couch, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Don’ want it,” you mumbled. “Tastes bad.”
“It can’t taste that bad, chère,” Remy said, already moving toward the kitchen to mix it. “It’s supposed to be Coke. You like Coke.”
“It lies,” you said, with the kind of absolute certainty only a feverish teenager could muster. “It’s a liar. It tastes like poison.”
Logan snorted. “Dramatic, ain’t she?”
“She gets it from Rogue,” Remy called from the kitchen, and Logan could hear him rummaging through the cabinets, probably looking for a cup that wasn’t chipped. “You shoulda seen Anna Marie last time she had de flu. Told me she was dyin’ for three days straight. Demanded I read her de will she’d written in her journal.”
“She wrote a will?”
“Four pages. Left me her leather jacket, left de kid her collection of vintage vinyl, and left you a note dat said ‘stop leaving your cigar butts in my potted plants, you absolute animal.’”
Logan’s lip twitched, almost a smile. “That sounds about right.”
He busied himself with the fire, adding another log, adjusting the screen. He was acutely aware of you on the couch, the way your breathing was just a little too fast, the way you kept shivering despite the heat radiating off you. He’d seen you in the field, calm and competent, using your light to shield civilians, to guide them to safety. You were brave. You were strong. But right now, you looked so small.
Remy came back with a small glass. The liquid inside was a murky brown, and even from across the room, Logan could smell it. It was… not Coke. It smelled like artificial cherry, burnt plastic, and something vaguely chemical that made his nose wrinkle.
“Here we go, petite,” Remy said, his voice pitching into something soft and coaxing. He sat on the edge of the couch, gently easing you upright against his side. “Just a little sip. Get dat fever down.”
You looked at the glass like it had personally offended you. Your nose wrinkled. “No.”
“It’s medicine, chère. You gotta take it.”
“It tastes like butts,” you said, and Logan choked on air, a surprised laugh escaping him despite himself. “Like someone melted a tire and poured it into a Coke can.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Remy said, though he was eyeing the glass with considerably less confidence than before. “It’s medicine. Dey make it so kids can take it.”
You shook your head weakly, burrowing back into your blanket pile. “You try it.”
“What?”
“You try it,” you repeated, your voice muffled by fabric. “If it’s not that bad, I’ll drink it.”
Remy looked at Logan. Logan looked at Remy. There was a long, loaded silence.
“She’s got a point,” Logan said finally, crossing his arms. “You wanna make her drink it, you gotta prove it ain’t poison.”
“It ain’t poison,” Remy said, but his voice lacked conviction. He looked at the glass, then at you, then back at the glass. “Fine. Watch dis. Dis is how a grown man handles his medicine.”
He brought the glass to his lips. He took a sip.
The next ten seconds were some of the most satisfying of Logan’s life.
Remy’s face went through approximately seventeen different expressions in the span of a breath. There was confidence, then confusion, then dawning horror, then a full-body shudder that rattled his teeth. His throat worked, visibly struggling to swallow. His eyes watered. His nostrils flared.
He made a sound. It wasn’t quite a gag, but it was close. It was the sound of a man who had just tasted something that should not exist in any civilized society.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est que cette merde,” he wheezed, shoving the glass onto the side table like it was radioactive. “What the fuck.”
Logan’s grin was wide and entirely without mercy. “Told you.”
“Dis—dis—” Remy was coughing now, actually coughing, one hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to keep his soul from escaping. “Dis is de worst t’ing I ever put in my mouth. And I once ate a live crawfish on a dare in de Bayou. What de hell, Hank.”
“It tastes like butts,” you said from the couch, your voice small but vindicated.
“It tastes like butts,” Remy agreed fervently. “It tastes like someone set a tire fire in a chemical plant and den bottled de runoff. I’m so sorry, chère. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”
Logan was laughing now, a real laugh, deep and rough. “Goddamn scientists,” he said, shaking his head. “Got all that fancy technology and they can’t make medicine taste like anythin’ but hot garbage.”
“We ain’t givin’ her dat,” Remy declared, pushing the glass as far away from you as possible. “I don’t care if de fever hits 105. She ain’t drinkin’ dat. We’ll find somethin’ else. We’ll call Hank. We’ll—we’ll crush up some Tylenol in apple sauce or somethin’.”
“Already thought of that,” Logan said, and there was a note of genuine regret in his voice. “Checked the cabinet. All we got is this stuff and the adult capsules. Can’t give her those.”
“Den we go to de store.”
“We got a sick kid on the couch and no one else to watch her.”
“Den you go to de store.”
“Why do I gotta go?”
“‘Cause I’m de one takin’ care of her,” Remy said, gesturing to where you were already starting to drift off again, your eyes half-lidded, your breathing evening out. “I’m de one she trusts to hold her. I’m de comfort parent.”
Logan’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re the comfort parent?”
“Oui. I’m de fun one. De one she comes to when she wants to hear stories about de Guild, or when she wants someone to read her poetry in a French accent. You’re de—de other one.”
“The other one.”
“De scary one. De one who growls at people who look at her wrong. De one who’s good for threats and teachin’ her how to throw a punch.”
Logan stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he looked at the couch, where you were now fully asleep, your face pressed into a pillow, one small hand peeking out of the blanket burrito to clutch at the edge of Remy’s sleeve even in unconsciousness.
“…Fine,” he said, and the word came out gruffer than he intended. “I’ll go to the store. But you gotta keep that fever down. Cool cloths. Fluids. Don’t just sit there lookin’ pretty.”
“I never just sit dere lookin’ pretty,” Remy said, with a wounded dignity that was completely undermined by the fact that he was already reaching for the throw blanket to tuck it more securely around your shoulders. “I’m a man of action.”
Logan was already at the door, grabbing his jacket. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Don’t let her get worse.”
He was gone before Remy could reply.
The fifteen minutes became thirty, then forty-five, because the nearest pharmacy was twenty minutes away and Logan had apparently decided to personally test every single brand of children’s fever reducer before making a selection.
In his absence, Remy had settled into his role as “comfort parent” with a dedication that would have been comical if it wasn’t so sincere.
He’d pulled the armchair as close to the couch as physics would allow, close enough that you could keep hold of his sleeve while he ran his free hand through your hair in slow, soothing strokes. He’d found the remote for the television and put on something soft, some black and white movie that was more about the music than the plot. He’d positioned the fire screen to cast the perfect amount of warmth, not too hot, not too cold.
And he’d carried you.
Not just from your room to the couch. Every time you stirred, every time you made that small, pitiful sound that meant you were uncomfortable or cold or just vaguely unhappy, he was there. He’d scoop you up, blankets and all, and carry you to a new spot. The other end of the couch. The armchair, with you curled in his lap like a kitten. The chaise lounge near the window, where the afternoon sun could warm your face.
You never complained. You never fussed. You just let yourself be carried, your feverish weight negligible in his arms, your face buried against his chest, your breathing slowly evening out each time.
At one point, he’d tried to get you to eat something. Toast. Soup. Even just a few crackers. But you’d looked at the food with the same expression you’d given the medicine, your nose wrinkling, your lips pressing together in a line of absolute refusal.
“Not hungry,” you’d mumbled, and when he’d tried to coax you anyway, you’d turned your face into his shoulder and simply… stopped responding.
So he’d given up. For now. He’d try again later. For now, it was enough that you were resting, that the fever hadn’t spiked, that you were safe.
He was in the middle of adjusting your blanket situation for the seventh time when the front door opened and Logan stomped in, a plastic bag dangling from one hand and a scowl on his face.
“Pharmacy was out of the grape,” he announced, dropping the bag on the coffee table with more force than strictly necessary. “Had to get the berry. And they were out of the liquid, so I got the chewables. Hope the kid doesn’t mind chompin’ her medicine like a grown-up.”
Remy peered into the bag. There were three boxes of chewable tablets, a bottle of electrolyte solution that was supposed to be “watermelon splash,” a box of saltine crackers, a can of chicken noodle soup, and a bag of sour gummy worms that he was almost certain Logan had bought for himself.
“Berry flavor,” Remy said, pulling out one of the boxes. “Is it gonna taste like butts too?”
“Only one way to find out.”
They looked at each other. They looked at the box. They looked at you, still sleeping, your face peaceful for the first time all day.
“You try it,” Remy said.
“The hell I will. You’re the one who made her try the other stuff.”
“I didn’t make her. I offered. Dere’s a difference.”
“You’re the comfort parent,” Logan said, and there was a definite edge of mockery in his voice now. “You be the one to taste-test the kid’s medicine.”
Remy opened his mouth to argue, but a small sound from the couch stopped him. You were stirring, your eyes blinking open, glassy and unfocused. You looked from Remy to Logan to the box in Remy’s hand, and a flicker of understanding crossed your face.
“Is that… medicine?” you asked, your voice still rough.
“It is, chère,” Remy said, his tone gentling immediately. “Chewable dis time. Berry flavor.”
“Does it taste like butts?”
Remy looked at the box. He looked at Logan. He looked at you.
“I’m gonna find out,” he said, and before Logan could stop him, he’d popped one of the tablets out of its foil packet and put it in his mouth.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Remy chewed. His expression was carefully neutral. He chewed some more. His brow furrowed slightly. He chewed again, and then he swallowed.
“Well?” Logan demanded.
Remy took a moment to compose himself. “It ain’t… good,” he said slowly. “It’s… medicinal. But it ain’t… butts.”
“That’s the most qualified non-answer I ever heard.”
“It tastes like de inside of a medicine cabinet,” Remy admitted. “But it ain’t gonna make her gag. I t’ink. Maybe.”
You were watching them both, a small, exhausted smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You guys are weird,” you said.
“We’re weird?” Logan crossed his arms, fixing you with a glare that had been known to make hardened criminals confess. “We’re not the one who decided to get a fever the one day all the responsible adults are out of the house.”
“Didn’t plan it,” you mumbled, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Just happened.”
“Well, un-happen it,” Logan said, but he was already moving toward the couch, his gruff demeanor softening in a way he would deny to his dying day. “Come on. Time for medicine. You take this, then you drink some of that electrolyte stuff, then you try to eat some soup. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“Closest thing you got right now. Open up.”
You made a face, but you let Logan help you sit up, let him press the small purple tablet into your palm. You looked at it with deep suspicion, turning it over in your fingers like it might explode.
“It’s really not that bad,” Remy said, and he was probably lying, but he was lying with such sincerity that you almost believed him. “Just chew it fast and wash it down with de water stuff. You won’t even taste it.”
“That’s a lie,” you said.
“A creative truth,” Remy corrected.
Logan snorted. “Just take the damn medicine, kid.”
You took a deep breath, shoved the tablet in your mouth, and chewed as fast as you could. Your face scrunched up immediately, your nose wrinkling, your eyes squeezing shut. Remy was there with the bottle of electrolyte solution before you could even swallow, pressing it into your hands, helping you take a long drink.
“See?” he said, when you finally lowered the bottle, your face still twisted in disgust. “Wasn’t so bad.”
“It was bad,” you said flatly. “It was really bad.”
“But it wasn’t butts.”
“…It wasn’t butts.”
“Progress,” Remy declared, and Logan actually laughed.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of blankets and bad television and small, quiet moments.
Logan made the soup, opening the can with more violence than necessary and heating it on the stove because he refused to use the microwave for “anything that’s supposed to be nourishing.” He brought it to you in your grandmother’s favorite mug, the one with the faded flowers on the side, because he’d noticed you liked it better than bowls.
You ate three spoonfuls before you started to fade, your eyelids drooping, your head listing to the side. Remy caught you before you could spill, easing you back against the couch cushions, tucking the blankets around you with a gentleness that belied his usual flamboyance.
“She didn’t eat enough,” Logan said, his voice low.
“She ate what she could,” Remy replied, just as quiet. “We’ll try again later. De fever’s comin’ down. It’s workin’.”
Logan grunted, but he couldn’t argue. The flush in your cheeks was fading, the fine tremors that had wracked your body earlier were gone. You were sleeping now, truly sleeping, your breathing deep and even.
They sat in silence for a long while, the fire crackling, the television playing some old western neither of them was watching. Remy had moved back to the armchair, close enough to reach you if you stirred. Logan had taken up residence on the other end of the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the flames.
“We did good,” Remy said eventually, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t quite pride but was close.
Logan didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, gruff. “We did alright.”
“Gonna tell Anna Marie we handled it like pros?”
“Hell no,” Logan said, and this time there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. “You tell her the kid got sick, she’s gonna worry. You tell her the kid got sick and we handled it, she’s gonna ask questions. Next thing you know, she’s gonna want a full report. Temperature readings. Medicine dosages. Soup consumption metrics.”
“She ain’t dat bad.”
“She made you read her will last time she had the flu.”
“She’s… thorough.”
Logan snorted. “She’s a control freak. And she’s gonna know somethin’ was up the minute she walks in and sees the kid’s been moved to the couch.”
Remy considered this. “We tell her de kid wanted to watch movies. Dat we had a… a movie marathon.”
“She’s gonna ask what movies.”
“We tell her we watched… what’s dat one you like? De one with de horses?”
“The Man from Snowy River?”
“Oui. Dat one.”
“You think Rogue’s gonna believe a sixteen-year-old girl who reads poetry about death and hangs out in the chapel with Kurt wanted to watch a thirty-year-old Australian horse movie?”
“We tell her she was sick. Fever made her delirious.”
Logan laughed, a real laugh, deep and warm. “You’re a terrible liar, Gumbo.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I’m just lyin’ to de wrong person.”
Gambit head cannons - how Gambit is as a lover | 𑣲
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Cw: fem!reader-ish, mostly gn though, 18+ at the end, general headcannons
SWF ~
• he’s an exciting lover, there’s never a dull moment with him
• he’s spontaneous, bringing you random gifts he stole bought from his trips with the thieves guild
• he’s extremely soft with you, I feel like his patience is unmatched
• his touch is incredibly gentle, he’s afraid you’ll break. he sees you as fragile, even if you’re bigger or more muscular than him
• if you’re a mutant then he absolutely loves seeing you use your mutation, he’ll compliment it in a way that makes you feel seen for the first time in years
• and if you’re not a mutant then he doesn’t care; he enjoys showing you tricks he can do with his mutation
• he’s incredibly understanding if you’re avoidant, or struggling. he lets you know that he’s here whenever you are ready to talk about it—even if that’s never.
• though he’s patient, he doesn’t have any patience for dishonesty. he can understand small lies (surprises, surprise parties, etc), but I feel like he’d be hurt deeply if anything big was kept from him.
• he looooves showing you off, you’re his darling why wouldn’t he? definitely brags about you when you’re not around
- “dats my girl right over dere. Ain’ she a beauty. such a doll.”
• his favourite nickname for you is either chére, mon amour or doll (idk I just loveee that pet name)
• will dote on you if you get periods, does his absolute best to take care of you
• is definitely a bit avoidant though. will disappear for a few days at a time then return. he’s only with the thieves, and he forgets to leave notes for you.
• not the jealous type, but he can’t help but be curious
- “who was dat, chére? non Remy ain’ jel. Jus’… wondering. Remy wants to know people dat you know. Das all.”
NSWF ~
• an eater, proudly. doesn’t care if you have a bush or not he’s just happy to be there
- “when I tell you to sit on my face, chére I mean put all your weight down it don’ matter if Remy can’ breathe.”
• he’s more of a giver, than a receiver but will happily receive if you’re offering
• enjoys being either top or bottom he doesn’t care—he can do both
• safe words aren’t a joke a to him he takes them veryyy seriously. will not do anything with until you’ve established boundaries, safe words, etc
• extremely freaky, into loads of kinky shit. not literal shit though.
• bondage, free use (on him), sensory deprivation, size difference, lowk breeding but he’d never admit it, he loooves cock warming, masochist but in a biting way, loooves mirror sex, light impact play—he doesn’t want to seriously hurt you
• and that’s to name a few, he’s down for anything really. try it once, typa guy
• would lowk be down for a threesome if that’s something you’re into, but would never ask
• prefers not to talk, opts for whining, moaning, etc
• loves it when you praise him
- “tell me how good I’ve been, chére. Remy make you feel even better if you do”
Or on the other hand,
- “I’ll be soo good mon amour, Remy promises you dat. Jus’ lemme eat it. I behaviour I swear”
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X-tra:
I absolutely love this man and I hope these hc’s will suffice for now. Super busy at work so this will be the only piece I post for a bit. Hope it was okay, not proofread <3
remy lebeau would be an absolute angel to you on your period and i will not hear otherwise. he's already a pretty doting partner, but i think that would elevate during your menstruation. he's the type to fully indulge any cravings you have, late night shopping runs or warm, homey meals he makes from scratch. remy's also the type to be very physically affectionate. wrapping you up in his arms, a heating pad wedged between you to sooth your cramps. rubbing your lower belly when they get too painful, telling you how proud of you he is. if you get emotional he's the type to kiss your tears away while he tells you how much he loves you, how beautiful you are, how strong you're being. lots of soft french murmurs of "ça va bébé, remy's right here," "gambit loves you chéri, you bein' real strong," "respire, douce fille, breathe wit' gambit." he'd also never be opposed to period sex, if you're not either. regardless, remy's an absolute sweetheart when you're on your period. <3
Can I please have 1 more request for my fav man MR!Gambit please?
How would he react to seeing shy gn!reader trying to make beignets or gumbo for him?
Thank youuu (*´∀`)♪
Remy felt like he was teleported back home the second he smelt the familar smell of powdered sugar and deep fried dough filled the air, a smile drew itself upon his lips as he drew closer to the kitchen where the smell was at it's strongest, just to be greeted by you spliting your attention between looking over your phone and at the small pile of powdered sugar pillows that were on the cooling rack
beignets, you were making beignets.
'do they look okay?' he heard you say to yourself as you re-read the recipe on your phone, unaware of the audience you had attracted, furrowing your brows as you read aloud to yourself. 'so they should taste like a soft, airy and slightly sweet fried dough, crispy exterior but a light and fluffy interior.' you sighed as you looked back over at the cooling rack at the stack of beignets, bitting your bottom lip in an anxious habbit.
They looked okay they were golden brown, lightly dusted with sugar, looking like a mound of edible snow under the flourescent lighting everything that made it look appealing to the eye, but how they tasted would be a diffrent thing entirely and all you wanted to do was make Remy something that came from the heart.
'need a taste tester mon cher?' Remy asked as he stepped into the kitchen and towards the stack of beginets, picking one up in his hands and humming at the warmth that still lingered within the dough, making sure to keep eye contact with you as he bit into it when he saw that you wanted to snatch the savory out of his hand. For your first attempt at making beignets Remy had to admit you did great in making sure the crispy texture started and finished on the outside while keeping the inside fluffy and light as sugar melted on his tongue, warming him up and giving him his daily dose of something sweet. besides you of course.
'so,' you began as you watched Remy already reaching for a second beignet barely seconds after finishing his first. 'i take it you like them?'
'like them?' Remy asked, raising his brow, 'i more then like them darling, they're perfect just like you.' he moves to kiss you on the cheek, leaving an almost sugary imprint of his lips there when he pulls back and popping his second beignet into his mouth whole. He was more then ready to reach for a third when you caught his hand, intertwining your fingers together. 'slow down on the beignets,' you laugh at Remy's pout, 'eat any more and you wont have room for what i'm making for dinner.' you told him and Remy's eyes light up as he uses your intertwined hands to pull you in closer to him until you were chest to chest.
'what're you planning my angel?' he asks.
'gumbo maybe? or red beans and rice or jambalaya?' you listed off of the top of your head, having had the recipes saved just in case you wanted to try something new for Remy for special occasions or when he needed a pick me up. Remy only stared at you with a certain look in his eye, it was soft and sweet and warm as he pressed his lips agaisnt yours, allowing you to taste the culmination of your hard work as you hummed in satisfaction. you didn't do too bad of a job with the beignets that's for certain, you'll have to make them again if this is the reaction you get out of your beloved Remy.
'what was that for?' you said once you pulled away, reaching a hand up to swipe some sugar off of his cheek.
'a thank you for being so perfect mon ange.' was all he said, sneaking a third beignet into his hand without you looking.
