#caprinewriting

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

"Finally awake, chère?"

"...Remy?"

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

"Take your time doing what, exactly?"

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

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

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

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

"Remy—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Remy, please—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Too much—"

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

"Please, Remy, I can't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it. Tell me what you want."

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Merde,” he hissed. “Please.”

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

“Touch me. For real.”

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

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

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

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

“Oui,” he gasped. “Feel too good.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” he spat. “You gonna kill me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion.

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

And then he broke.

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Remy knows when he’s bein’ watched. And you,” he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your ear, “you been starin’ at my hands for de last five minutes.”

Your throat went dry. “I wasn’t—I was just—thinking.”

“Oui? T’inkin’ about what?” His hand came up, his index finger tapping your lower lip. “Remy wadn' talkn bout no s'curity system...”

You tried to pull back, but his hand was already there, cupping your jaw, his thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth. “Open,” he murmured, looking down to you expectantly.

You don't know how he surpassed your resistances, but you obeyed. Your lips parted, and he slid his gloved thumb inside. The taste of leather and salt hit your tongue. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you sucked. It was instinct, but you couldn’t help it. Your tongue deftly wrapped around his thumb, drawing it deeper.

Remy’s breath caught. “Mon Dieu...” He pulled his thumb out slowly, a string of saliva stretching between you. His eyes were dark, hungry. “You like dat, don’t you, bebe? You like havin’ t’ings in your mouth.”

You looked away, mortified. “It’s nothing. Just a—a habit.”

“A habit,” he repeated, his accent curling around the word. He set his deck aside, turning fully to face you. His knees brushed yours. “Remy t’inks it’s more dan a habit. Remy t’inks you got a real hunger, mon ami. An’ he wants to see just how deep dat hunger goes.”

Before you could protest, his mouth was on yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips, thick and demanding, and you moaned against him. Your hands clenched in his shirt, your head spinning. He was dizzying, so intoxicating. He tasted like bourbon and cinnamon, and you sucked on his tongue like it was the only thing keeping you alive. He groaned, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

“Oui, dat’s it,” he breathed against your mouth. “Fuck, Let Remy feel how much you enjoy havin’ somet’ing in dat pretty mouth.”

He broke the kiss just long enough to shift, pulling you onto his lap. You straddled him, the denim of his jeans pressing against your thighs. His hands found your hips, guiding you forward until your crotches met. Even through the layers, the heat was electric.

“You shy?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Dat’s alright. Remy likes a little shy. But Remy also likes seein’ dat shyness melt away when you get what you really want.”

He brought his hand to his mouth, pulling off the glove with his teeth. The bare skin of his fingers gleamed in the low light. “Remy’s got somethin’ else for dat hungry mouth of yours.”

He pressed two fingers to your lips, and you opened instantly, eager. The taste of him—clean, warm, faintly electric from his charged energy—flooded your senses. He pushed them in slowly, letting you suck, letting your tongue work between the digits. You moaned, your hips grinding down against him instinctively.

“Mmph, bebe... take ’em deep. Show Remy how much you love havin’ t’ings in your mouth.”

He slid deeper, his knuckles brushing your lips, and you gagged slightly, tears pricking your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. You breathed through your nose, relaxed your throat, and took them. He watched you, his own breathing ragged, his free hand gripping your hip, guiding your grinding rhythm.

“Dat’s it,” he whispered. “Now let Remy have a taste of you.”

He leaned in, kissing you again, but this time his tongue tangled with yours around his own fingers. The sensation was overwhelming—the taste of his skin, the pressure of his mouth, the friction of your bodies moving together. Your hands roamed his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until you could feel the heat of his bare skin.

He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, then reached between you, palming the bulge in your jeans through the fabric. You gasped, bucking into his hand. “Remy...”

“Shh, mon ami. Remy’s got you.”

He worked your zipper down, but instead of exposing you, he pressed his palm flat against your cloth-covered erection, grinding his own hardness against you at the same time. The dry friction was maddening—the layers of denim and cotton creating a teasing barrier that heightened every sensation.

“Let’s both feel good,” he murmured. “Take care of yourself for Remy. Show me what you like.”

He pulled back just enough to free his own cock, but he didn’t guide you toward it. Instead, he wrapped his hand around himself, stroking slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on yours. “Your turn, bebe. Touch yourself. Right here. Let Remy watch.”

Your shyness flared again, a blush creeping up your neck. But the hunger in his gaze, the way his hand moved against himself—it emboldened you. You pushed your jeans and boxers down just enough to free yourself, your fingers wrapping around your own erection. The first stroke made you shudder.

“Oui... just like dat,” he breathed, his hand moving faster. “Look at you. Not so shy now, are you?”

You began to work yourself in time with him, your hips rocking together, your cocks never quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off each other. He leaned in, kissing you again, his tongue sliding into your mouth while his hand never stopped stroking.

The pace grew urgent. Your breathing turned ragged, the wet sounds of your hands on your own flesh filling the room. Remy’s hand moved faster, his hips thrusting into his own grip. “Remy’s close, bebe... you close?”

You nodded, your strokes frantic, your eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “Watch Remy cum."

His hand blurred, his muscles tensing, and then he came—thick ropes of white spilling over his fingers, his stomach, his knuckles. The sight shattered you. Your own orgasm ripped through you, hot and sudden, your cum splashing across your hand, your stomach, the fabric of your shirt.

For a moment, there was only the sound of panting, the smell of sex and sweat. Remy caught his breath first, reaching out to gather some of his own release on his finger. He brought it to your lips.

“Open,” he whispered.

You did, and he fed you his own taste. Then he licked a stripe of your cum from your stomach, his tongue warm and possessive.

He sat back, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “Not so shy anymore. Huh, bebe?”

....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips brush your ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when you felt it.

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

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

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

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

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

He drove inside in one brutal, perfect thrust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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