Kat's blog

Logan (Wolverine):

You’re in the kitchen, mindlessly going about your business, while Logan’s at the counter slicing through a loaf of bread. He’s focused, as usual, with that familiar scowl on his face that never quite leaves. The kitchen is quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the faint sounds of his knife slicing through the bread. You can’t help yourself—you watch him for a moment, admiring the way his muscles move under his tight shirt, the raw strength in every little motion. He looks so serious, so in his own world.

As you pass behind him, you smirk to yourself. It’s too tempting. Without thinking twice, you let your hand drift out, and with a sharp flick of your wrist, you smack his ass, enjoying the solid *thwack* that follows. You don’t stop, just continue walking like nothing happened, a satisfied smile curling on your lips.

Logan freezes mid-slice. For a beat, he doesn’t say a word. Then you hear the low rumble of a growl deep in his chest. “Really, darlin’?” His voice is thick, a little rough around the edges, and you can hear the amusement creeping in. He turns his head, one eyebrow raised, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You glance back at him, feigning innocence, but you can see the way his eyes darken just a bit. He drops the knife, turning slowly, taking a step toward you. His movements are deliberate, almost predatory. “You think you can just walk by like that and not face the consequences?” His voice is a low, gravelly whisper, sending shivers down your spine.

Before you can respond, Logan’s hand is on your waist, pulling you back against him. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, “If you’re gonna start somethin’, sweetheart, you better be ready to finish it.” There’s a playful challenge in his voice, a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s not about to let you off the hook that easily.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit):

Remy is leaning against the couch, casually flipping through a deck of cards, as he often does when he’s bored. The two of you have been lounging around the living room all afternoon, and there’s an easy, comfortable silence between you. He’s dressed in that effortless way he always is—dark jeans that hug him in all the right places and a shirt that’s just tight enough to show off his lean muscles. He catches you looking at him, flashing you that mischievous smile, the one that makes your heart skip a beat.

You roll your eyes at him, but you’re already plotting something in your head. You stroll past him, heading toward the kitchen, but as you do, you let your hand dip down and smack his ass, hard enough to make him jump a little. You don’t stop, just keep walking like nothing happened, a satisfied smirk on your face.

“Mon dieu, cherie,” Remy’s voice comes out in a playful drawl, full of that Southern charm he’s famous for. He’s immediately on his feet, tossing the cards onto the couch and following you into the kitchen. “You really gonna hit an innocent man like dat and walk away?” You glance over your shoulder, and he’s grinning, his red-on-black eyes glowing with amusement.

Before you can get far, he’s behind you, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you back against him. “Y’know, cher, dat’s gonna cost you somethin’,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. There’s a heat to his words, and you can feel the playful threat behind them. “You know what happens when you mess with de Ragin’ Cajun, right?”

He spins you around, pressing you up against the counter with that wicked grin still plastered on his face. His hands slide down your sides, landing right where you’d smacked him. “Might have t’ return de favor,” he purrs, leaning in to press a teasing kiss to your lips. “You know Remy always collects his dues, mon amour.”

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler):

You’re in the middle of tidying up the bedroom when you spot Kurt near the door, his back to you as he’s sorting through some papers. He’s muttering to himself in that soft, lilting German accent that you love so much, completely unaware of your eyes on him. His tail sways lazily behind him as he concentrates, and you can’t help but grin to yourself, an idea forming in your head.

You move silently, making your way over to him, and just as you pass by, you raise your hand and give his firm ass a playful smack. The sound is sharp in the quiet room, and you immediately keep walking, acting as if nothing had happened. But the reaction is instantaneous.

Kurt yelps in surprise, his tail flicking up and curling in the air as he turns to face you, a mix of shock and amusement on his face. “Liebling!” he exclaims, his yellow eyes wide with playful disbelief. “Did you just…?” His voice trails off as he stares at you, his mouth hanging open in mock offense.

You glance over your shoulder at him, feigning innocence. “What? I didn’t do anything,” you say with a smirk, knowing full well he doesn’t believe a word of it.

Before you can blink, there’s a familiar "bamf", and in an instant, Kurt’s teleported right in front of you, his arms wrapping around your waist as his tail curls mischievously around your leg. “Oh, so you think you can get away with that, meine Liebe?” he teases, his voice low and filled with amusement. “You know I won’t let that slide.”

His lips brush against your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he continues, “Perhaps you need a reminder of what happens when you provoke a demon.” The way he says it is both playful and sultry, sending a thrill down your spine. His tail tightens its grip on your leg, holding you in place as his hands move to your hips.

Kurt’s mischievous smile is contagious, and you can’t help but laugh as he presses a light kiss to your lips. “Next time, I might just have to teleport you somewhere… private,” he adds with a wink, his tail flicking playfully as he pulls you closer, the two of you lost in your little game.

Scott Summers (Cyclops):

You’re sitting at the dining room table, flipping through some documents when Scott walks by with his usual purposeful stride. His posture is perfect, as always, and that stern expression he wears doesn’t falter. He’s got a natural air of authority, but you’ve seen the softer side of him that few others get to witness. As he walks past you, that teasing side of you sparks to life, and without warning, you reach out and give his ass a firm smack.

The sound echoes in the quiet room, and Scott stops dead in his tracks. For a moment, you think maybe you’ve startled him too much, but then he turns slowly, adjusting his visor in that way he does when he’s trying to keep control. “Really?” he asks, his voice calm but with a hint of amusement. “You’re feeling bold today, huh?”

You grin, leaning back in your chair as if daring him to react. “What? You can’t handle a little fun?” you tease, enjoying the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly.

Scott doesn’t let himself smile, but you can see the ghost of one tugging at his lips. He strides back toward you, placing his hands on either side of your chair, leaning down until his face is mere inches from yours. His eyes are hidden behind that visor, but you know that intense gaze is focused solely on you. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and authoritative, “I could make this a teaching moment if you keep testing me.”

There’s a flicker of challenge in his tone, and you can’t help but shiver at the way he’s so controlled yet playful all at once. “Maybe I want to be taught a lesson,” you reply cheekily, smirking up at him.

Scott’s lips quirk into a small smile at that, and he leans in even closer, his breath brushing your skin. “Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish,” he warns softly, his tone filled with promise. You know Scott is all about discipline and control, but with you, there’s always an undercurrent of heat simmering just beneath the surface. And right now, you’re enjoying pushing all his buttons.

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto):

You’ve just finished straightening up a few things around the living room when you notice Erik standing by the window, his arms crossed and his expression distant. He’s always deep in thought, his mind constantly working through plans, strategies, and the weight of his responsibilities. But in moments like these, you love pulling him out of that serious headspace, even if just for a second.

As you walk past him, you let your hand trail along his lower back before delivering a quick, playful smack to his ass. You know it’ll catch him off guard, and sure enough, Erik’s head turns sharply toward you, a mixture of surprise and amusement flashing in his steely gaze. “Liebling,” he says slowly, his deep voice laced with a dark chuckle, “I hope you realize what you’ve just done.”

You meet his gaze with a mischievous smile, shrugging casually. “What? Can’t a person have a little fun?”

Erik narrows his eyes, though you can see the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He steps toward you, his movements smooth and deliberate, until he’s standing directly in front of you, his towering presence almost intimidating. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warns, his voice low and dripping with intent.

His fingers reach out, brushing against your arm with a feather-light touch before sliding to your waist. “You should know better than to provoke me,” he continues, his tone growing softer, more menacing in a way that sends a thrill down your spine. There’s always something about Erik’s raw power that makes moments like these feel electric, like you’re on the verge of something intense.

You raise an eyebrow at him, refusing to back down. “Maybe I like living dangerously.”

Erik’s smirk widens, and without warning, he pulls you closer, his hand firm on your waist. “Careful, Liebling,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Next time, I might not be so gentle.” His eyes gleam with the promise of something more, and you can’t help but smile, knowing that with Erik, every moment is charged with tension and passion.

Warren Worthington III (Angel):

Warren is pacing around the room, his wings fluttering slightly as he moves. He always gets restless like this, especially after long missions, and you can see the tension in his shoulders. His wings, magnificent as ever, brush against the walls with each step, and you can’t help but admire the effortless grace he carries with him.

You decide to lighten the mood, and as you walk by, you reach out and give his ass a playful smack. It’s quick, unexpected, and you’re already a few steps ahead by the time Warren stops and turns to look at you, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really, Y/N?” he says, a soft laugh escaping his lips. There’s a twinkle in his blue eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting into that charming smile you know so well.

“What?” you reply innocently, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Just wanted to see if you’d notice.”

Warren chuckles, shaking his head as he folds his wings neatly behind him and strides over to you. “Oh, I noticed,” he says, his voice smooth and playful, like silk brushing against your skin. He steps closer, his hand slipping around your waist, pulling you back toward him. “You’re lucky I find it cute when you get cheeky.”

You grin up at him, but before you can say anything, Warren’s lips are by your ear, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “But you should know… you’ve got my full attention now.” There’s a teasing edge to his words, and you can feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, his wings subtly enclosing around you, as if shielding the two of you from the world.

His fingers glide down your back, lingering just above where your hand had landed on him. “You know,” he whispers, his breath hot against your neck, “if you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask.” His lips brush the shell of your ear, and you can feel the playful energy between you shift into something deeper, more intimate. Warren always knows how to turn a simple moment into something unforgettable, and as his wings wrap around you, you know you’re in for more than just playful teasing tonight.

Bobby Drake (Iceman):

You’re standing by the counter, organizing some groceries while Bobby flips through a magazine at the kitchen table. His legs are kicked up, as casual as ever, when you pass by. Feeling playful, you give his ass a swift smack as you move past him. The sound echoes in the small space, and it’s enough to catch his attention immediately.

Bobby jerks, almost spilling his drink in surprise, before whipping around to face you, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed from both the slap and embarrassment. “Woah! Y/N, what was that for?” he asks, though there’s no hiding the grin pulling at his lips.

You shrug, flashing him an innocent look. “Just making sure you’re awake.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he stands up, crossing the room to stand next to you. “Oh, I’m awake now, alright,” he teases, sliding his arms around your waist, his touch cool against your skin. “I didn’t know you had it in you to get so… bold.”

His playful tone matches the mischievous glint in his eyes, and you can’t help but laugh along with him. “What? You can’t handle a little fun?” you challenge, enjoying the light banter between you two.

Bobby leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “I can handle anything you throw at me, but don’t think I’ll let you get away with that.” His voice is laced with a teasing edge, and you feel a cool breeze sweep through the room, a subtle reminder of the icy powers he wields. You know he’s up to something, but before you can react, he presses a quick kiss to your neck and steps back with a wink. “You’re gonna pay for that, you know.”

Alex Summers (Havok):

Alex is sprawled out on the couch, looking through some reports when you walk by. His feet are up, and there’s a focused look on his face, the kind he always wears when he’s trying to deal with the endless responsibilities of being an X-Man. You take the opportunity as you pass, leaning over to give his ass a firm smack, catching him completely off guard.

Alex sits up instantly, his eyes narrowing playfully as he turns to you. “Did you just…?” he starts, not quite believing what just happened. He’s still processing it, a mix of amusement and shock spreading across his face.

You grin, crossing your arms as you raise an eyebrow. “What? Just thought I’d remind you who’s boss around here,” you tease, knowing it’ll get a rise out of him.

Alex chuckles, shaking his head as he stands up, his presence commanding yet relaxed. “Oh, is that right?” he asks, his voice low, a hint of mischief lacing his words. He walks toward you, closing the space between you quickly. “Well, I think you’re about to find out that I don’t take orders so easily.”

His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, his energy always simmering just beneath the surface. “You like playing with fire, huh?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Careful, Y/N… you might just get burned.”

The tension between you sizzles, and there’s a playful challenge in his eyes as he leans in closer. Alex has always had that perfect balance of power and charm, and moments like this remind you just how intoxicating he can be.

Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver):

Pietro is a blur of motion, zipping around the room as he organizes everything at lightning speed. You’ve gotten used to his constant fast-paced movements, but that doesn’t stop you from messing with him whenever you get the chance. As he darts past you, you reach out, timing it perfectly to give his ass a swift smack.

In a flash, Pietro skids to a halt, spinning around to face you, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and excitement. “Did you just smack me?” he asks, his voice incredulous but laced with laughter. “I didn’t even see that coming!”

You grin, leaning against the counter as you shrug casually. “Maybe you’re losing your touch, Speedy.”

Pietro narrows his eyes playfully, zipping right in front of you in the blink of an eye. He’s so close, you can feel the rush of air from his speed. “Losing my touch? Oh, you’re in for it now,” he teases, his lips curling into that trademark smirk that always makes your heart race.

Before you can respond, he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re lucky I find this little game of yours amusing,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr. “But don’t think for a second I won’t get you back. Faster than you can blink.”

Pietro’s hand slides down your side, and you can feel the energy buzzing off him, the tension between you electric. His eyes gleam with mischief as he tilts his head slightly. “Next time you try that, you better be ready to run,” he warns, but there’s no real danger in his tone—only the promise of more playful banter to come.

Jean Grey:

Jean is standing at the stove, her mind likely a million miles away as she stirs something in the pot. You’ve always loved watching her in these quiet moments, the way her hair seems to glow in the soft light, her expression so calm and serene. As you walk by, you decide to playfully break the stillness and give her a quick, teasing smack on the ass.

Jean gasps in surprise, her stirring hand freezing mid-motion as she looks over her shoulder at you, eyes wide with a mix of shock and amusement. “Y/N!” she exclaims, her voice half-laughing, half-scolding. You can see the blush rising on her cheeks, and it only makes your grin widen.

“What?” you reply innocently, trying your best to look like you didn’t just commit the playful act. “I couldn’t resist.”

Jean sets the spoon down and turns fully toward you, hands on her hips, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes. “You’re trouble, you know that?” she says, though the smile tugging at her lips betrays any attempt at a stern tone.

Before you can respond, you feel a subtle tug in your mind—Jean’s way of playfully reminding you she’s always got the upper hand when it comes to your little games. She steps closer, her fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “You know I could have you pinned with a single thought,” she teases, her voice soft yet teasing. “But I think I’ll let you off the hook this time… unless you want me to show you what happens when you mess with a telepath.”

Ah. The joys of dating a civilian. Not that Oliver could really relate, but he’d witnessed the tumultuous relationship woes of various League members over the years. 

“This is why I stick to people like us. No offence, Barry.” Hal quickly amends, already turning his attention to the uncharacteristically silent Oliver, “Speaking of, Ollie, buddy, you’re friends with Karma, right? You know if she’s single?”

Oliver startles a little at that, eyes narrowing as he mentally tries to dissuade Hal from the topic, “Why?”

Hal shrugs, though his smug grin doesn’t dissipate, and Oliver gets the distinct feeling that not for the first time, he’s going to want to hit the other man. “She’s fun, sexy, and I can’t help but feel she was giving me the look, you know? Not that I blame her, who wouldn’t want a taste of this?” Hal motioned to his body as Barry rolled his eyes. 

“She’s single.” Oliver concedes, “But you’re not her type. At all.” The derision in his voice surprises even him, not that he’ll let it show. There’s a beat of silence, Barry perking up with a considering look in his gaze, Oliver’s not sure he trusts. 

“So, what is her type then, you? Or maybe it’s the other way around.” Barry hums, and Oliver’s not sure how this has suddenly been turned around on him when Hal’s grin turns mocking, predatory even, his palms up in a gesture of peace. 

“Hey, man, that’s all you had to say.”

“That’s not it.” Oliver denies, frustrated with the annoyance bubbling beneath his skin, at the teasing look on Hal’s face, like the Lantern had any insight into your relationship with Oliver, like he had a right to even speak about you. 

“Why so defensive then?”

“Maybe it’s just that she’s my friend, and I know what you’re like with women, Hal.”

“You know, you still haven’t answered the question.”

“What?” Oliver hissed.

“What’s her type? You know, it’s almost like you don’t know, and that’s why you’re so defensive. You don’t know her as well as you thought.” Anger curls low in his gut, a swelling fury that burns in his throat as he opens his mouth to spit retaliatory fire until—he pictures your disapproving frown, the furrow in your brow as you’d shake your head at him. 

His mouth snaps shut, teeth grinding in irritation as he swivels on his heels and marches away, leaving behind two stunned teammates. 

“Oliver? What are you—” Hurriedly, you help pull him through your bedroom window, poking your head outside to swiftly look for any onlookers before slamming the glass shut and yanking the curtains closed. “What is wrong with you? What if someone saw—”

“What’s your type?” The sudden, unexpected question throws you completely off guard, leaving you floundering. Even with the mask still obscuring his eyes, Oliver’s gaze is intense; none of the lackadaisical persona he so often hammed up is present. 

“I—what?”

“Your type. What you look for in a partner.” He steps closer, and you subtly try to retreat, only to be thwarted when your knees hit the edge of your mattress, skin warming as you realise the heat prickling off his skin. 

“Did you seriously crawl through my window just to ask that?” You try to maintain hold of your rapidly slipping composure. 

“Is there a reason you’re refusing to answer?” He hums, stepping even closer until you’re practically nose to nose. 

“Oliver.” You whisper, half warning, half longing as unbidden, your gaze flickers down to his lips, which stretch into a wide grin. 

“You saying, I’m your type, kitten?” If it were any other man, you’d have grimaced, maybe thrown up in your mouth a little, but it’s such an Oliver thing to say that it’s just charming, makes your stomach swoop and flutter. 

Attempting to appear unaffected, though you’re certain he can see straight through you, you roll your eyes, fingers gripping the front of his costume with a huff, “Just shut up and kiss me already, Queen.”

“As the lady commands.” He grins, well pleased with himself, and you get all of one second to be annoyed before he’s closing the short distance, one gloved hand cupping your cheek as the other slides down to your waist. 

He’s gentle, tender even, taking nothing more than what you’re willing to give. It’s a far cry from the party boy performance he so often puts on as Oliver Queen. This is private, just for you, and it makes you fall just that little bit more. 

“Looks like you’re here for a little more than that, Pantheress,” he says. 

You finally turn to face him, shamelessly drinking him in. The black and blue suit clings to him like a second skin and you bite the corner of your lip, meeting his eyes with a cheeky grin. “You’re more than welcome to join me on my walk,” you tell him.

Nightwing smiles back at you. “Sure thing,” he says. “I’ll just need to take that, though.” He motions to the jewelry in hand. 

“If that’s your condition, I guess we’ll have to take a rain check.” 

“I still can’t let you leave.”

“Aww, you like me that much, birdy?”

He gives you an exasperated look. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

You hum, pretending to think as you stalk toward him. His eyes follow your moves and he doesn’t move, even as your chest brushes against him. You glance at him. What color are his eyes under that mask, you wonder. You imagine that they’re electric blue, just as pretty as the rest of him. “How about this?” You move your arm behind your back, tightening your grip on the necklace. “We do this my way.”

And in a flash, you take off. You leap from building to building, Nightwing not too far off. You slow just a little bit to glance back when the sound of footsteps disappear behind you. You smirk to yourself, but as you jump for another rooftop, a body intercepts you. 

Nightwing twists his body to take the brunt of the force and you tumble on top of him. You hastily try to regain footing but he flips, pinning you beneath him. You realized belatedly that the necklace is no longer in your hand, your head lifting to look around. Then, you see his Nightwing’s hand. You make one, quick grab at it but he’s faster, jerking his arm away, prompting you to sigh, “Thought we were having fun, Wing.”

“There’s nothing fun about theft, Pantheress.”

“You and I both know that rich assholes won’t be hurting too much from the loss,” you hiss at him.

“Stealing isn’t right,” he says firmly, “no matter what.” 

You roll your eyes. “But I don’t see you locking up any millionaires who are pushing people out of their neighborhoods and building luxury properties on top of them.”

“That’s because it’s within the confines of the law, and even if I don’t agree with it, it’s still legal.”

You scowl and swipe at him, the retractable claws in your gloves unsheathing. He dodges but the way he shifts his weight gives you just enough time to shove him off you and put some distance between the two of you. 

“You never go down without a fight,” he says, pocketing the necklace — you’re not even sure how it’s possible in that skin-tight suit — and reaching for the two escrima sticks strapped to his back. 

“I thought that’s what you like about me.” 

He lunges for your first and you leap away, bobbing and weaving underneath the swing of his escrima sticks. You claws graze the fabric of his suit, tearing a hole in the sleeve. You aim a kick at his chest but he drops one of his batons, using his free hand to grab your ankle and spin you off balance. Before you fall, you manage to grab him, pulling him down with you. You land on your chest, a strangled grunt leaving your lips as Nightwing lands on top of you. “We need to stop meeting like this,” you pant.

He snorts in amusement on top of you, sitting up. You scoff when you hear the clink of handcuffs. “Is that really necessary?”

“You know theft is a crime. I have to take you in.” As he tries to fasten one cuff around your left wrist, you start squirming, hoping your movements would throw him off guard. Instead, he holds a firm's hand on the center of your back. “Stop moving,” he hisses. It takes you a beat to realize there’s something hardening against your back.

You snicker, “Guess you really are happy to see me, birdy.”

For once, there’s no clever quip to come out of his mouth. You squirm more, delighting in the way he struggles to deal with you and stopping any sound from escaping. Then, Nightwing’s weight is thrown off you suddenly and the sounds of a small scuffle reach your ears. You take the chance to see Selina standing behind you. She tilts her head at you, smirking. “I’ve never had to bail you out like this, kitten.”

“My hero.” You peer over his shoulder. “Is the Bat following you?”

“Should be here shortly,” she says. “So we should take our leave.”

Before Nightwing has a chance to stop you again, Selina ushers you to the edge of the building and you two leap, disappearing into the night. 

Dick curses as he watches you fade into the darkness below. Bruce lands beside him, and Dick resheaths his escrima sticks. “They got away,” Bruce says, though he doesn’t sound too unhappy. 

“Yeah,” Dick replies. Next time, he’ll catch you. The thought excites him, makes him antsy for the next encounter. “At least we got the necklace back.” When he reaches into his pocket, he finds empty space. “Shit.”

“No, it’s not early. I have work in two hours. So could you please get off me? I need to get ready.”

“Don’t go, stay with me.” He finally pulls away and looks up at you with those hypnotizing green eyes.

They’re dim and half-lidded from sleep, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.

You smile at the sight. He always made it hard to get out of bed.

“I can’t, you know that.” You lean down to kiss his forehead.

He seems to take that as an invitation because he immediately props himself up with his arms and moves to loom over you, before peppering your face, jaw and neck with lazy, sloppy kisses.

“Jason—“ you click your tongue in annoyance.

“Yes?” He asks in between pecks.

“We’re not doing this again— get off me!”

He pulls back to stare down at you with a serious expression, as if this were life or death to him.

“Just gimme a minute,” he mutters before leaning down again, this time meeting your lips with his, effectively stealing the air right out of your lungs.

He breaks the kiss for just a second to stare at you, before diving back in.

You turn your head to the side, making him miss his target, but he instead just resorts to pressing a tender kiss to your cheek.

“I’m gonna be late!”

“Jus’ one more, please.” He mumbles, chasing your lips and splitting them apart with his tongue. He swallows the little gasp that escapes you.

You kiss him back, letting him have this one. When he's finally done, you speak again.

“Satisfied? Can I go now?”

He looks down at you, eyes foggy and face blank. “... fine." he releases you, and you take the opportunity to quickly get up before he can change his mind.

He slumps against the mattress again, face smooshed against the pillow.

You make your way to the bathroom to shower and get ready.

Once you come back out, you rummage through the dresser and find your clothes.

Finally done, you make your way back to his side of the bed. He's still half asleep.

"Jay," you whisper.

He lets out a small hum, his eyebrows lifting, as he opens one of his eyes to look at you.

"I'm gonna go now, okay? Leftovers are in the fridge." you brush his hair out of his forehead, and cup his jaw, before landing a soft kiss on his lips.

You try to pull away, but his arm has already snaked itself behind your neck, keeping you close to him. His other hand finds your hip, and he tugs you back down on the bed with him.

You gasp, and try to get out of his hold but it's no use. "Jason, I have to go!—" you mumble against his lips.

"I know, just give me a minute," he breathes out.

You giggle despite being mildly irritated, unable to help yourself.

Maybe you should make him sleep on the couch from now on to avoid having to deal with this.

Bucky Barnes:

“I’m a plenty good flirt,” Steve grins at you as he stares openly across the kitchen island, “You just haven’t seen it yet.”

“Oh, yeah, grandpa?” You ask, fumbling a hand for one of the apples centered in the basket occupying the center. This allows you to miss the way that he carries a subtle wince at the jape. But it’s vanished on the wind by the time that your eyes levy back up to him.

“Hit me with something.” You assert with a grin, only barely aware of Bucky as he lopes languidly into the room. There’s an impartiality occupying the real estate of that stern face as he silently appraises the exhibition, occupying the wide doorframe with the spread of his shoulders.

“Like what?” Steve asks with a grin; you’re already making way to let your arms cross above your chest. Bucky settles the meat of his flesh-and-blood arm against the beam of the door to watch.

“Ask me out.” You grin with a blithe smile. “Pretend for me.”

It’s endearing, the way that his shoulders broaden, the look of courage that he shores up on his face as he poises himself across the meridian of the marble. When he says your name, there’s an almost rigid formality that he never articulates it with.

“—Would you do me the honor—”—And you watch the way that his Adam’s apple bobs, the way that he portrays the very picture of awkward shyness so well—“—Of going out with me?”

You can’t help but let an instinctive smile cross your mouth at the display. At the almost-genuine flush that sinks across his cheeks, the way that his eyes seem riveted upon you as he waits for your pretend reaction. You can’t help but provide him a small smattering of applause which gives no degree of relief.

“Very good, Mr. Rogers,” you grin. “Some people like the old tried-and-true formal touch.”

“Do you?” Steve asks. But before you have the whiling span of a second to answer this, Bucky’s voice drawls in such leisurely manner into the fray of your conversation.

“People these days like a more direct approach, Stevie,” Bucky says with a ghost of a grin that sneaks over his face. All you can do is watch as he saunters over to an unoccupied side of the marble island, ignorant to the slow-simmering indignation that burns in Steve’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask with no lack of dubious quality to your voice, directing your disbelief to thing two rapidly approaching. “And what experience do you have in the modern-day love scene to back that up, Barnes?”

And then he leans an elbow—the metallic one, so that it settles with a hollow thunk on the embossed stone—and it feels as though something shifts. Bucky himself doesn’t change, doesn’t undergo drastic transformation. But there’s something about the way that he holds himself with intense gravity, the rivet of his eyes that seem to smolder through you, draw tight within the hollow of your stomach.

“Been thinkin’ you and me oughta go get some drinks tomorrow, doll,” He says—no, husks is more accurate descriptor. There’s something in rugged intonation that sends a frisson of heat up the length of your spine. “Lot of stuff on my mind I been wantin’ to tell you.”

And the way that he appraises you, the cant of his gaze, the tilt of his body towards you—masculine, broad-shouldered, devoted your way—something about it feels oddly surreal, yet grounded in reality. It strings tightly round your neck, in the pulse of your legs as the two of you share the heat of an exchanged gaze.

You let a blustering chuckle escape you. It seems oddly important to redirect conversation to greener pastures, than to focus on the way that the room seems to spinning in intoxicating fashion.

“Wow,” You finally confess to Bucky, who has drawn back, allowed the moment and the indecipherable gravity with it to dissipate—“—Maybe you do know what you’re talking about.”

“Years of practice,” He responds in coarse, unaffected manner. “Me and Steve’ll practice for the next time he asks you.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you respond—the two of them are such kidders. But the odd, implicative glance between each other escapes your attention as you search for the proper apple to enjoy. And the silent discussion of forbidden fruit that they exchange between each other falls beneath your notice.

Remy LeBeau:

“People want the strong, silent type.” Logan returns in response to your question levied across the tacky bar counter. To better emphasize the point that he makes, he punctuates it with a deep swallow of his beer. The neck of the neck of the bottle is swallowed in his great mitt, allowing you to see the flex of his knuckles, the draw of those wide fingers.

“Not everyone wants the strong, silent type,” You dispute with cavalier ease, buoyed by the drink. He sends you a dark, near-inquisitive look with such immediacy that sober you would have sensed something was up. You angle your old fashioned against your lips, savoring the acrid burn, the faint zest of the orange peel.

“No?” He asks, a rough, low inquiry. “You’re tellin’ me—”

And he props an elbow into your space, drawing into closer proximity so that the conversation becomes confidential between the two of you. You can't help but be drawn in, magnetized by curiosity as to how he will proceed with his example.

It's this, your gravitational pull, that draws the attention of a pair of eyes from across the room.

“—That if I told you right now,” Logan growls in corrugated whisper through his teeth, “Just how I felt about you, and what I’d do if I got the chance—”

Your eyes draw up in amused curiosity, a corner of your mouth turning up at this hypothetical that he offers your way. How very illustrative of Logan to approach with an example of the two of you.

“Yeah?” You ask with a grin that exhibits the inhibition drink has brought to you.

“—You’re tellin’ me that you wouldn’t want to see where it took you?” Logan asks. There’s something stark in the way that his eyes are searching for your reaction. Almost as if he’s not asking from an anthropological point of view. Almost as if he has a vested interest.

“Not every person likes the roguish approach,” You chuckle, pulling back—how silly, how charming, how funny your friend is. “Some people like other methods of attack.”

“Like what?” He asks. There’s something in the crook of his brow as they knit together, still watching. He doesn’t pull away, still maintaining the space that he’s forded into of yours.

“Maybe some people like the romantic approach, no?” A voice takes intrusion into the conversation. You turn with more curiosity than Logan, who seems to be stolid and unappreciative of the newcomer strolling in.

“What d’you know ‘bout it, Cajun?” Logan asks as he regards Remy, who looks the proverbial cat that ate the canary. As though he bears secrets, sacred knowledge that Logan doesn’t. His eyes are fixated upon you.

“Some people got refined taste, Logan,” Remy takes swaggering step towards you, eating up distance so that the two of you are far closer than you and your other counterpart, “They like to be wine and dined.”

“And how many people have you wined and dined, LeBeau?” You ask with a cheeky smirk that he reciprocates in wider manner. Besides you, Logan chafes with the heat of his glare, but you’re only looking up to Remy.

“Enough to know you like a nice sit-down dinner,” Remy says, his eyes dancing with such hypnotic allure, “That you want music, a nice view—”

He leans down so that it’s a confidential whisper intended for the two of you, but his voice is audible enough to Logan—“—Maybe swept off your feet with a little dancin’, no?”

You laugh with a healthy degree of skepticism. “You know how to dance?”

“Remy be real light on his feet when he want to, minou,” Remy smirks at you, “For the right person.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” You grin as Remy seems to bear a smug satisfaction you’re unsure of the source, “For later.”

“You do,” Remy grins, “Maybe I take you up on it soon.”

And you’re far too occupied with picking the peel from your drink to take in the way that Remy grins at Logan. And how he willingly, happily wades further into playing in dangerous waters.

Jason Todd:

“There’s a difference between between flirting and being a flirt, Grayson.” You inform him as the three of you return back from the dire exhaustion of patrol. You make an interesting sight in triad, covered in a sheen of effort and exertion earned together.

“And what am I?” Dick asks as he turns to regard you from the right. On your left, though you are ignorant to this, Jason tenses in quiet, monolithic airs.

“You’re a flirt, of course,” you return; Dick has the good graces to pretend mock-offense as he splays his fingers over the plateau of his chest.

“I resent that observation,” Dick returns staunchly. “I just happen to have a charming personality.”

You snort through your nose at the generous description he’s provided himself. The three of you conclude your journey into the cave, settling the weapons and defenses of the night on the ground, the floor. Wherever acreage is available to hold the aspects of your vigilante identity for civilian facade soon becomes occupied.

“Charming personality doesn’t mean that you throw yourself at everyone that’s available.” You reply back as you unclip your cape, the protective armor you bear over your torso. If Dick’s gaze lingers over the vulnerable skin underneath, you don’t take regard—nor of the way that Jason’s eyes raze over you as well.

“I don’t throw myself at everyone,” Dick’s voice lilts in good-humored glibness, “Just you.”

“Well, you’re doing a fantastic job of proviing that you’re a flirt,” You return back primly with a haughty sniff as you remove your mask. “You ought to be more like Jason.”

“Oh stiff-upper lipped lieutenant?” Dick asks with demeanor convincing enough to persuade you he is not nettled by you involving Jason in the discussion. “How so?”

“With Jason, I know he’s not laying it on thick,” You say, turning to look at Jason relinquishing the heft of his mask to the table, “I know that Jason speaks with the truth in every single syllable.”

“Doin’ me a lot of credit, sweetheart.” He returns in that gruff delivery. You smile knowingly and press the heel of your palms against the table to support yourself.

“It’s true—watch—” You reply, giving Dick a 'better pay attention' glower he returns with ambling grin; you turn back to Jason, who watches you silently—“—Jason, who do you like?”

“You, honey.” Jason says in such sincere delivery that you wouldn’t doubt the cadence of his delivery, the means of his posture that attests to his want, the desire that rings clear in his eyes. And this is what causes the cave to draw into heavy silence.

But it’s interrupted with your impressed chuckle. “Wow. That was pretty good.”

Before Jason can formulate proper retort, you round on your heel back to Dick. “See? You need to be able to speak things with honesty like Jason. Then people would believe you a lot more.”

“I don’t know,” Dick returns in sly bearings—another aimed barb from eldest brother to younger, you think, “I think ol’ Jason speaks from the heart.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” You reassert as you stride past the two of them to the world concealed by winding staircase, “Try to sound genuine and maybe it’ll work for a change.”

The two of them remain in deliberate silence until you have departed—then Dick turns with slow, menacing grin to his brother.

“Yeah, Jason,” Dick beams, “Maybe you should sound more genuine and they’ll believe you.”

“Cold place in hell for you, brother,” Jason returns back with a tone that indicates it’s no skin off his nose. And as he looks up to the heavenly ascent that you’ve taken, past their visual reckoning—Dick knows that Jason isn’t out for the count. Not for long, anyways.

Where you’re concerned, Jason can only operate in the most dedicated of truths. There’ll just come a time when you actually believe it.

dividers and banner made by me :)

request:

feel like i changed it a lil bit but i think i stayed true to the theme hehe

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ALL WORKS :

Neighbor!Roy who feels like such a perv when he ends up jerking himself off in the shower later, mind filled with images of your tight leggings and charming smile and gorgeous eyes. Who can barely look at you the next day because he feels so dirty, but it doesn't stop him from thinking about you the next time he fucks into his own hand. Or the time after that. Or the time after that.

Neighbor!Roy always fixes things in your apartment. A busted kitchen cabinet door? Handled. A new dresser you need help putting together? Absolutely. Any excuse to see that soft little smile of gratitude on your lips. And yeah, maybe he brings Lian sometimes, so he has an excuse to not make you lift a finger while he works, content to listen to you and Lian laughing and playing in the other room. But maybe he likes it best when it ends up being just you and him in your apartment, talking and laughing while he fixes whatever needs fixing as he tries to convince himself there's no way you're looking at him the same way he looks at you.

Neighbor!Roy who's fixing that one shaky leg on your kitchen table when you emerge from your shower, having left Roy to work so you could shower off the gym sweat. Who can't tear his eyes away from you when you look like that, hair still damp while you wear nothing but an old t-shirt that barely hides the panties beneath. No pants. No shorts. Jesus Christ. He tells himself to get a grip, that you're probably just really comfortable around him and he doesn't want to ruin that. But then your hand trails over his shoulder while he tries to focus on what he's doing and all restraint goes out the fucking window at your soft, tempting words:

“Wanna take a break, Roy?”

Neighbor!Roy who eats you out right there on your couch until you're squirming and crying, his lips and chin soaked with your slick as your hands tug at his hair, your back arched so prettily off the couch. Who drags his tongue over your soaked cunt and flicks it over your clit just to feel the way your hips jolt in his hold and your thighs shake around his head. Who doesn't hold back his own groans as he tastes you, as he licks you through your first orgasm only to press two fingers inside your needy pussy.

Neighbor!Roy who can't look away as he fingers fucks you. Who kisses at your neck and your chest and any part of you he can reach as his fingers curl against that spot inside of you that makes you gasp and whimper, his own cock so fucking hard in his jeans. He can't get enough of the slick, lewd sounds of his fingers fucking into you, can't get enough of your already sensitive clit beneath his thumb as he works you through a second orgasm.

Neighbor!Roy who fucks you like it's all he knows how to do. Hands tight on your hips as his hips roll, cock slamming into you again and again. His own breaths coming in soft, ragged gasps as your lips press against his neck, as your nails drag down his back and your thighs lock around his hips. He's almost drunk off the feeling of your cunt around his cock, off the sight of your tits bouncing with every sharp thrust of his hips. Soft praise leaving his lips, breathless and needy and hot.

“So fuckin’ good, baby.”

“Takin’ me so deep. Can't get enough of you.”

“Pussy feels so good, fuck. Never gonna get tired of this.”

Neighbor!Roy who's absolutely obsessed with you. Every fucking inch of you, every part of you. Who fucks you like you're his filthiest fantasy. Who kisses you so sweetly any other time. Who looks at you like you're everything he's been needing in his life as you slot so easily into it.

dividers by: @/cursed-carmine and @/anitalenia

And yet, his lips tipped into that knowing little smile.

Because it wasn’t for gold. Not really.

The break-in was almost insulting.

A flick of the wrist—lock undone. A shadow slipping through shadow. A guard distracted just long enough by a very convincing noise down the alley. By the time anyone noticed something was wrong, Remy was already inside, boots silent against polished floors.

Then he saw it.

Velvet-lined cases. Rows of them.

Diamonds catching the light like captured stars. Gold chains coiled like sleeping serpents. Rings, bracelets, earrings—some delicate, some bold, all gleaming with the kind of wealth men crossed oceans for.

Remy exhaled, low and amused.

“Yeah… she gonna like this.”

He didn’t rush. That was the thing about him—everything he did felt unhurried, like the world moved around him. He picked pieces carefully, not just the most expensive, but the most you. A necklace that would rest just right against your collarbone. Rings he could already imagine sliding onto your fingers. Something soft, something dangerous, something that would catch the light when you laughed.

The bag filled quick.

And just like that, he was gone again.

The ship rocked gently under moonlight when he returned, the crew either asleep or pretending not to notice their captain slipping back aboard with a very suspiciously full bag.

Remy didn’t head below deck right away.

Instead, he leaned there for a second—just outside your shared quarters—like he needed that pause. That quiet.

Because this part?

This was the part that mattered.

You were half-asleep when the door creaked open.

“Remy…?” your voice was soft, thick with sleep.

“Shh, cher,” he murmured, already moving toward you. “Don’t gotta wake up all the way.”

But there was that tone in his voice. The one that meant trouble. The one that meant him.

You pushed yourself up anyway, blinking at him through dim lantern light—and then you noticed the bag.

“…what did you do?”

He grinned.

“Somethin’ nice.”

You didn’t even have time to protest.

Because suddenly he was at the edge of the bed, undoing the bag with a flick of his fingers—and then—

Gold spilled out.

Not tossed carelessly, no—poured. Slow. Intentional. Jewelry catching the light as it cascaded over your lap, your hands, the sheets. Chains slipping through his fingers, rings clinking softly as they gathered around you like you were something to be adorned, something to be worshipped.

Your breath caught.

“Remy—”

“Mm,” he hummed, like he wasn’t listening and was listening to everything at once. “Hold still, chère.”

His hands were warm as he picked up a necklace, brushing your hair aside with surprising gentleness. The metal was cool against your skin as he fastened it, his fingers lingering just a second longer than needed.

Then another.

And another.

Rings slid onto your fingers—one, two, three—his thumb grazing your knuckles like he couldn’t help himself. Bracelets stacked along your wrists. Something delicate hooked at your ear.

You were laughing now, a little breathless, a little overwhelmed.

“This is ridiculous—”

“Non,” he cut in softly.

That was different.

You stilled.

Remy’s gaze lifted to yours, red eyes glowing faint in the low light, something deeper sitting behind the usual charm.

“Not ridiculous,” he said, quieter now. “Right.”

His hand came up, brushing a stray piece of jewelry into place—really just an excuse to touch you again.

“All this?” he gestured vaguely to the scattered gold, the glittering mess surrounding you. “Ain’t nothin’ compared to you.”

There it was.

That sincerity he didn’t show the world.

Only you.

You tilted your head, studying him—really studying him—and then reached out, catching his wrist before he could pull away.

“You stole a whole shipment,” you said slowly, “just to… dress me up?”

His grin came back, softer this time.

“‘Dress you up’ sound a lot less romantic than what I had in mind, but—yeah.”

You huffed out a laugh.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm,” he leaned closer, voice dropping, “but you love me anyway.”

You rolled your eyes—but didn’t let go of him.

“Maybe a little.”

He laughed under his breath, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours, careful not to tangle the jewelry.

“Careful, chère,” he murmured. “Say that too sweet, I might have to steal you somethin’ bigger next time.”

“…bigger than this?”

“Oh, I got ideas.”

And honestly?

You flicked the stove off and set the kettle down onto a different burner, grabbing the honey out of the cabinet and dutifully stirring in a spoonful and making sure that it was fully dissolved before placing the tea bag into the lightly sweetened water, giving it a lackluster stir.

“There you are, been lookin’ for you. Welcome back, cher.” Gambit’s cheerful voice rang out right as he wrapped his arms around your waist, the man wasting no time burying his nose against the back of your neck in order to breathe in the scent of your shampoo for a moment before giving a sigh of contentment and peppering little kisses across your shoulders. 

You let go of your cup, letting it sit on the counter to steep, and placed your hands over Gambit’s, which were resting on your midsection as he gently rocked the two of you. His clinginess wasn’t anything new –Gambit was naturally a very tactile person after all, especially with people he liked– but his needy behavior always seemed to escalate whenever you two were separated for more than a day.

This time, it was you that had been sent out on a mission –one that ended up lasting a total of three days– which meant that it’d been four days total since you’d seen Gambit, and that was reflected in the borderline desperate way he held onto you, like you’d suddenly disappear if he let go.

“I'm okay.” You said, only to immediately wince when your voice came out noticeably hoarse, like you hadn’t used it in awhile. You tried to clear your throat, but the attempt immediately devolved into a coughing fit –your lungs crackling in a concerning manner– and you shoved Gambit away from you so that you could rush over to the sink, leaning over the edge as you hacked up some phlegm and spit it into the metal basin with a look of disgust.

“Tu te sens bien? Somethin’ wrong, mon cœur? You bein’ real quiet.” Gambit murmured against your shoulder  and you braced yourself for him to implement his usual tried and true method of needling at you until you gave in and told him what was bothering you.

“Alright, fine, you caught me. I'm sick.” You admitted defeatedly once you realized that there was no hiding it anymore, your shoulders slumping as you miserably shuffled back over to where you had left your tea, pulling the bag out and throwing it away.

“Sick? Why didn' you say somethin' earlier?” Gambit repeated as he stared at you with visible concern, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and take you back into his arms, but he didn’t. Whether it was because he didn’t want to catch whatever you had or because he was upset with you, you weren’t sure. “Have you seen the doc, uh, Jean?” He continued as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the counter as he waited for your response.

“Um… no?” You replied slowly, a nauseating mix of guilt and defensiveness bubbling up your throat as you watched Gambit’s expression instantly morph into one of mild disappointment. “It's not like I planned on taking a dip into freezing cold water, but Logan fell in and needs must.” You snapped, frowning at the memory of watching Logan sink beneath the waves after being tackled into the water, the panic you’d felt when you realized that he was falling fast and you might not reach him in time.

Who knew that having a metal-coated skeleton made it a bit difficult to swim. If you hadn't gone in after him like you did, Logan would have most likely drowned, unable to get back to the surface by himself.

“Mon dieu, you stubborn idiot.” He muttered under his breath as he shook his head, reaching up to briefly pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers before finally letting his hand brush against your back, rubbing up and down your spine soothingly until the tension in your body –which you hadn’t even noticed– eased.

“Yeah, well, you’re not any better.” You said petulantly, though most of the righteous anger you’d felt had already dissipated since you knew rationally that Gambit was right… as he usually was when it came to your recklessness and inability to properly take care of yourself, the man having had first hand experience with your self-destructive tendencies.

You swallowed hard, your lips pressing into a thin line as you tried to ignore how talking so much agitated your raw, scratchy throat as you picked up your mug and took a slow sip of your tea, hoping to help ease the discomfort since it didn’t seem like Gambit would be willing to drop the subject anytime soon, being the overprotective boyfriend that he was.

“But we not talking ‘bout Gambit right now, cher. We talkin’ bout you.” Gambit stated and, despite his words, there was no real bite to them. If anything, he sounded more affectionate than anything else as he spoke, his hand never faltering as it continued to idly glide over your back. “You and Wolvie should’ve been more careful.” Gambit added on as an afterthought as he pulled away, making his way over to the fridge and pulling it open in order to look at the contents.

Gambit said something else as he rummaged around the shelves, but it fell on deaf ears, your focus turned inward as the wording brutally reminded you of the fact that the last time you spoke with Gambit, it was during a pretty intense argument about how you needed to be more careful. An argument that luckily just ended in you promising to not put yourself in needless danger –if not for your own sake, than for Gambit’s continued peace of mind– before you left on the mission with Storm and Wolverine. 

A promise that you hadn’t hesitated to break the moment that someone’s life was on the line.

“Cher?” You heard Gambit call out to you and you blinked as you came out of the dark place your thoughts had led you to, glancing up to meet Gambit’s worried gaze. And whatever he saw in your face had his expression softening as he reached out to gently cup your cheek, brushing a calloused thumb under your eye.

“Sorry.” You mumbled quietly while sniffling miserably, your fingers twitching where they were wrapped around warm porcelain as remorse made your already congested, aching chest feel tight. 

“Don' do that. You got nothin’ to apologize for.” Gambit reassured, his tone light as he set the labeled container he’d been in the middle of scrutinizing back into the fridge in order to give you his full attention, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that never failed to make you feel like prey.

“But I broke my promise? To be more careful? You must be mad at me.” You said nervously, your eyes welling up with frustrated tears as you stared down at your cooling cup of tea in order to avoid meeting Gambit's gaze, terrified of the disappointment that you might see there since you weren’t in a good enough headspace to emotionally handle Gambit being upset with you.

The air in the kitchen shifted and an involuntary shiver rolled down your spine at the tension that had abruptly filled the room, looking up to find Gambit suddenly standing right in front of you without having made a sound.

You waited for the inevitable fallout now that you’d pointed out that he had every reason to be furious with you, but he remained silent. He didn’t scold. Didn’t sigh or roll his eyes or crack a joke to deflect like he normally would have when the conversation became too heavy. Instead, he gently pried the mug from your hands in order to set it aside and then cupped both of your cheeks with warm palms until you had no choice but to hold his gaze.

“Listen here, mon amour,” He murmured, pausing for a moment to make sure that you were paying close attention before continuing. “You jumped into arctic water to save Logan’s thick skull from sinkin’ to kingdom come… after promisin’ me you’d take care? Yeah, that stings a little.” He admitted with a little laugh, a half-smile tugging at his mouth that somehow looked sad and proud all at once as he stared into your eyes, his thumbs dutifully sweeping away the occasional tear that slipped past your waterline.

“But mad? Non, cher. Never.” Gambit whispered like a confession as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against yours with a gentleness that felt like forgiveness. Your eyes drifted closed and you reached up to cling to his wrists, not because you wanted him to let go or because you wanted to get away, but to simply ground yourself as you matched his steady breathing. “You slipped on one promise while on the job. Shit happens, mon amour. I know dat as well as you do… don't mean it don't scare me near stupid.”

You let out a weak chuckle when he pulled away just far enough to plant a light kiss on the tip of your red nose, his own quiet huff of laughter blowing out across your face. You opened your eyes and your heart did something funny in your chest when you were met with Gambit’s boyish smile, the one that was reserved for you and only you; raw and real and nothing like the usual charming grin he used to get out of trouble.

You both took a moment to recover from the emotional moment you’d shared before Gambit pressed one last kiss to your forehead before stepping away, returning to the fridge in order to collect the container he’d been looking at earlier and bring it over to the stove before squatting down and searching one of the lower cabinets for a pot.

“Now sit down before you fall over and let me make you somethin'. Might even let you have some sweet potato ice cream if Gambit’s feelin’ generous.” Gambit said with a lopsided grin, and you took his advice and sat down at the breakfast bar, watching his long fingers reach for the various ingredients on the counter with practiced ease. “But you better not shut me out next time, hear? Ain't nothin' you go through I ain't willin' to face beside you, even if it's just a damn head cold.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” You agreed with a small smile, lifting your cup back into your hands so you could breathe in the steam before taking a long sip, watching Gambit begin puttering around the kitchen over the rim of your mug.

Though, it wasn’t long before the tea alone wasn’t enough to keep you warm, your incessant cold rearing its ugly head and making you shiver in your over-sized hoodie, suddenly freezing despite the comfortable –bordering on warm now that Gambit was cooking– temperature of the kitchen. And you silently cursed when you realized that the sudden chill that you couldn’t shake was a surefire sign of a developing fever.

You debated the merits of getting up and making the exhausting trip to the living room in order to take one of the throws from the couch to wrap up in but, before you could even get up, Gambit turned away from the stove, pausing when he noticed that you were shivering. He abandoned the pot bubbling away on the burner and crossed the room in two quick strides, hurrying over to your side in order to press the back of his hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

“Merde, cher, you’re far too warm.” He tutted under his breath when he felt the heat radiating off you, the Cajun brushing a strand of damp hair from your temple. Then, in one smooth motion, he took off his signature trench coat and swung it around your shoulders like a cape, fussing with it like a mother hen until he was satisfied. “Dat should do for now.”

You pulled the coat tighter around yourself as Gambit returned to the stove, waiting until his back was turned to you before caving into the urge to bury your nose into the collar of his coat to inhale the scent of cologne and musk that lingered on the fabric, staying like that until a new scent began to fill the air.

You emerged from Gambit’s coat and perked up with thinly veiled interest as the delicious smell of something smoky filled the kitchen, your stomach giving a grumble of complaint as it reminded you that you had had nothing to eat but some applesauce all day due to your throat being sore. You eagerly leaned forward in your seat in order to try and get a better look at what it was that Gambit was cooking on the stove.

“You best be jokin’…” Gambit said without inflection and you shrugged in response since anything you could say at that point would only succeed in working the other man up further, and you did want to cuddle with Gambit later which would require remaining on his good side.

“Remy–” You began, gearing up to begin handling damage control, but Gambit was quick to cut you off before you could get more than a word out.

“Non,” Gambit snapped as he held up a finger –strict as a schoolteacher now– and you obediently shut your mouth with an audible click. “You said all Gambit need to know.” He said as he stalked over to the fridge like a man on a mission and yanked it open, sending condiments rattling in their slots. 

Then, in what seemed like one blink and the next, he was multitasking between stirring the bubbling pot of stew on one burner, frying up two eggs on another, cutting up an avocado into thin slices and watching the two pieces of sourdough bread he'd popped into the toaster to make sure that they didn't get too brown.

“You unbelievable sometimes, you know dat?” Gambit muttered as he pulled the bread from the toaster and put it on a plate, the Cajun slathering a healthy amount of butter onto both slices with far more aggression than necessary while you brought your shoulders up to your ears, wishing that the ground would just open up beneath you and swallow you whole.

By the time Gambit had taken your lukewarm tea from your grasp and set down the golden toast layered with sliced avocado, a sprinkle of pink Himalayan salt and perfectly runny eggs in front of you, his tone had softened again –just enough to let you know that his ire came from a place of concern– but his eyes were still fierce when they locked onto yours.

“Eat.” He said simply. “All of it.” And, because you knew better than to argue with Remy LeBeau over something like this when he was already worked up, you picked up one of the slices of toast without another word of protest and took a bite.

Your stomach let out a loud growl as you chewed, like a beast waking from its slumber, reminding you that it had been far too long since you last had a proper meal. And, while you were unable to experience the full effect of the flavors all together –since your palate was messed up due to you being sick– you still let Gambit know that you appreciated the meal by letting out little pleased hums every few bites until it was gone.

You frowned down at the crumbs on your plate, your stomach giving another demanding gurgle now that your hunger had come back in full force after getting a taste of good cooking but, before you could act on the growing urge to lick the plate, Gambit was taking it away and placing a bowl of steaming stew in front of you.

You looked up and gave Gambit a toothy smile as you took the utensil that he offered you, impatiently scooping up a spoonful before bringing it up to your lips. Though, you paused with the spoon hovering mid-air somewhere between the bowl and your face when Gambit placed a cool hand over your mouth, keeping you from finishing the motion. You made a questioning noise from behind Gambit's palm, watching him with wide, incredulous eyes as the Cajun leaned down to gently blow on the spoonful of stew.

“Nuh-uh, not so fast, cher. It’s hot.” Gambit murmured as he reached out with his other hand in order to steady the spoon so that you wouldn’t spill while keeping the other over your lips. “You wanna burn that pretty mouth? Huh? After all the trouble Gambit go through cookin’ for you?” Gambit shook his head in mock exasperation as he blew a few more soft puffs of air across the steaming stew –slow, deliberate– his breath ghosting over the spoon like he was cooling it for a child.

Then, once he deemed it safe, he pulled his palm away from your mouth and used the light grip he had around your hand to guide the spoon up to your lips with a mischievous look in those sharp red-on-black eyes.

“Open wide…” He sang with a smug smile when you didn’t immediately take the offering and you narrowed your eyes at him in silent refusal even as he swept the spoon side to side under your nose like that would make the stew more enticing… like the food was what you had a problem with. Idiot.

You held out against his insistence but, once it became apparent that Gambit wasn’t going to let up without you indulging him at least once, you parted your lips and allowed him to guide the spoon into your mouth. Though, once it passed your teeth, you bit down onto the metal to keep him from withdrawing it and snatched the utensil away from him as you bared your teeth at him in warning, hoping to discourage him from trying a second time since your pride wouldn’t allow him to feed you like some dribbling toddler.

Gambit acquiesced to you with a polite little bow before pulling out the chair next to you so he could sit with his arm propped up on the counter top, resting his chin on his palm as he watched you eat with a fond smile, the only sounds filling the kitchen being the clink of metal on ceramic and the disapproving click of Gambit’s tongue every now and then when you didn’t blow on the stew long enough for his liking before shovelling another spoonful into your mouth.

You finished the stew much slower than you did the toast Gambit had made you, savoring each spiced bite of tender meat and soft vegetable, the hearty broth soothing your agitated throat and settling heavy in your finally satiated belly, warming you from the inside.

“So good.” You mumbled as you took the last bite, placing the spoon into the empty bowl before leaning back in your seat with a satisfied sigh, patting at your full stomach that was hidden beneath several thick layers of clothing as you resisted the siren song of a falling asleep right there at the breakfast bar.

Gambit chuckled at your obvious and –admittedly– quite pitiful attempts at staying awake, his dark eyes dancing with mirth as his thumb swiped across the corner of your mouth in order to clean up a spot of thick broth at the corner of your mouth as your vision blurred with the threat of sleep, each blink feeling like a herculean task.

“Bedtime, cher.” Gambit said softly as he helped you out of his seat, practically being forced to hold you upright as he guided the two of you out of the kitchen –leaving the dishes to be dealt with later– and down the hall back to the adult dorms where your room was located when you vehemently refused to stay over at Gambit's while sick as a dog.

Gambit eventually gave up on practically dragging you down the hall when you tripped over your own feet for the third time, the Cajun letting out an exasperated sigh before he swept your legs out from under you and lifted you into his arms in a bridal carry.

You grumbled under your breath but ultimately wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your weary head on his shoulder –since you were practically half asleep as it was– too tired and dizzy to protest against him manhandling you with your usual vitriol. You dozed for a few minutes, lulled by the rhythmic beat of Gambit's heart and measured steps, only coming back to awareness when he would carefully dodge the occasional rambunctious student racing down the halls on their way to class.

You cracked your eyes open when Gambit slowed his steady pace, before stopping entirely, and you pressed closer to him –burying your face against his shoulder– with a low grumble to dissuade him from trying to put you down since you were comfortable. He gently hushed you and readjusted his grip to free one of his hands in order to open the door and push his way into your room.

You heard him kick the door shut behind him and snuggled closer with a low sound of disapproval when Gambit brought you to the bed and –after flicking on the lamp on the nightstand, bathing the room in an unobtrusive golden glow– began to try and pry you off him with very little success.

“C'mon, mon cœur, no need to be difficult.” Gambit murmured as he pressed little kisses to your hair, slowly coaxing you into releasing him so he could gently lower you down onto the mattress before pulling the blankets out from under you and then off the bed entirely so that you were only left with only your top sheet.

“Remy… I'm cold.” You complained, shooting him a look of utter betrayal as he dumped your blankets into the laundry hamper, which was on the other side of the room. You blindly reached up and clumsily pulled your hood over your head and dragged the thin sheet up to your nose to try and ward off the chill in the air, weakly glaring at him when he returned to your side and began fussing over you.

“Nuh-uh, don't you look at Gambit like that, you.” Gambit murmured in a mock-scolding tone as he tucked the sheet in close to your body with firm tenderness, seemingly unsatisfied until you were all but swaddled in it, before briefly making a detour to the adjoining bathroom in order to wet a washcloth and bring it back over to you. “You think Gambit's gonna let you suffocate under ten pounds of fabric while runnin’ a fever? Non. Not happenin’.”

You narrowed your eyes at him as he placed a knee on the bed in order to lean over you and tug your hood up so he could press the damp washcloth against your forehead, batting your hand away without even looking when you shivered and reached up to try and take it off.

He brushed a hand through your damp hair –taking note of the heat still lingering on your skin, but thankfully not as fierce now– and, once he was sure that you wouldn't try and remove the cloth while he wasn't looking, he turned a scrutinizing eye to the mess that was your room.

You blinked against the exhaustion that was threatening to pull you under and watched him raise a brow at the stacks of books you had on your desk, the articles of clothing that were haphazardly strewn about the floor, the half-unzipped duffel bag spilling balled-up socks and toiletries… and the single stuffed animal peeking out from under the bed.

“...I tried to unpack.” You said defensively, frowning as embarrassment flooded you at the state of your room. You had already been in the thick of it –experiencing the peak of the symptoms that came with a head cold– when you got off the jet and, when you went to unpack your things and tidy up a bit after your absence, you only managed to get through maybe a quarter of your bag before you ultimately gave up and crawled into bed to lay down for some much needed rest.

You had ended up sleeping for several hours, which was why you didn't search out Gambit right after getting back in order to reassure your lover that you were alive and well, like you normally did.

“Gambit ain't judging you, cher.” Gambit said softly, sounding fond as he nudged the plush back into view with the toe of his boot before crouching down to grab it. “But dis fella might be. Just look at dem beady lil’ eyes.” Gambit teased with an affectionate grin, wiggling the stuffie at you before laying it on the bed next to you.

You resisted the urge to coo at him when he gave its fuzzy head a few friendly pats before drawing away in favor of checking on the washcloth, which –while still slightly wet– had warmed significantly while it had been in contact with your flushed skin.

“You’re cooler already.” Relief softened his voice and you cracked your bleary eyes open –unsure of when you'd even closed them– when, instead of leaving to the bathroom and running the cloth under the faucet to cool it off again like you had expected him to, you heard the telltale click of Gambit flicking the lamp off before the mattress dipped as he sank down onto the edge of the bed with a soft huff.

He leaned down to deftly untie his boots before swinging his legs up onto the bed and laying down next to you on top of the thin sheet, keeping about an inch of space between the two of you –since he knew that his unnaturally high body temperature wouldn’t help bring your fever down– as he lounged back with one hand behind his head and the other trailing down your arm until he reached your inner wrist.

He pressed two fingers to your pulse, humming in approval and lacing your fingers together after a minute had passed, squeezing gently before drawing your linked hands up to his mouth so he could kiss the back of yours. 

You rolled over onto your side to face Gambit –moving carefully so that you wouldn’t accidentally separate your hands– and your eyes began to drift closed, the fatigue that had been dogging your every move since you’d gotten up that morning finally catching up with you now that you were relaxed, fed and comfortable. You hummed softly, already barely hanging onto consciousness as it was, when Gambit set your interlocked hands onto his chest, which vibrated as he spoke. 

“One day, cher…” He murmured into the dark room, his voice low enough that you almost missed what he said, his hand lightly squeezing yours before he continued. “One day Gambit will get you to take care of yourself properly.”

You didn’t answer –couldn’t have even if you wanted to– not when you were already pretty much gone, your body lax and your mind blank as your chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. But, before you went completely under, you felt him shift around to face you, his nose brushing against yours in an adorable eskimo kiss that made you internally melt. 

Then he spoke again, his smooth Cajun drawl like a lullaby, and the words followed you into your dreams.

"Oh yeah, minou, you look real good like that," Remy husks—his voice seems to fill the cramped space of your room, to stick to the sinew of your body as it rumbles through you. His thumb grazes over your clit and you can't help but shudder at the pulse of pleasure that sinks through you. He's seated partially over the full of your thigh as his fingers curl into you. Your walls are stretched by knuckles that are finding that spot that has a wanton moan taking residence in the space between you.

It's almost enough to make you pause in your ministrations, your hand over his cock that juts out in mouthwatering manner. Your fingers stutter over his impressive length, velvet and firm under your touch—he groans at the way that your hand shifts over him, a hissed exertion sliding through gritted teeth.

Remy's eyes are mercurial and dark as they seek out the way that your body writhes under his touch. As his fingers search for the best way to have you come undone on the flex of them, his teeth displayed in savage, hungry manner.

"Remy—"—Your words hitch on the exhale, punched out by the way that his fingers roll into you, at the way the pads of his fingers nose at the spot that has your toes curling. Has you twisting your brow up in torment at the orgasm pulling in the pit of your abdomen.

"Oh?" He asks, without ceasing the pace, while demonstrating that damnable smirk. "Somethin' wrong, minou?"

"Fuck—"—Is all that you can mouth around the pitched sigh you make as you arc against his touch—"—I won't be able to—"

As amends, you do your best to stroke your hand up his cock, rewarded with a taut groan that slips through his mouth. But still those fingers keep that terrible rhythm, that maddening clutch on you. You find yourself spreading your legs wider to take better access to him, keeping your fingers in careful meter around the head of his cock.

"Ain't no competition, chere," He sighs, panting at the way that you've coaxed a dribble of precum onto the ridge of your knuckles—but his eyes speak a different story. The curve of his wicked, roguish smile tell you all you need to know. And any answer you might give is choked from the way that he sinks his fingers into you—and you wrench your eyes shut.

"With you—"—you buck your hips into his palm, grinding against nothing—"—It always is."

"Then—"—He chuffs a chord of pleasure as you keep your hand in deliberate, torturous stroke—"—May the best one win, no?"

As he maintains that damnable manner of pushing you closer to orgasm—you know that you're well-matched against your opponent. And you can't wait to make him eat his words.

dividers made by me :)

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