#cyberno

Kiss Roulette! 14. A kiss to the stomach

It’s rare that they get any time alone. This place - the Institute - is always a hub of activity. Students and staff everywhere. There’s always something to do, classes to teach, chores that need finishing, training to push through, but now? Now it's just them. Only them. And that means Gambit is all his. 

He’s glad the door locks. 

He’s got Remy up against the wall now, hands twisting in his hair as he sinks his fangs into Remy’s neck. Teeth-lips-tongue work to brand his pulse and the noises he makes only spurs Logan on. 

“You care about this?” He asks, plucking at Remy’s shirt. He feels more than sees the shaking head, preoccupied as he is. He grins. 

“Good.” The claws of his left hand extend and swipe up, shredding cotton without touching skin. Remy groans his approval and yanks on Logan’s hair just the way he likes. Fuck. Logan growls, tugging the remains of the shirt off Remy’s shoulders. His mouth abandons the bruise he’d been working on, instead introducing his teeth to Remy’s clavicle, chest, down to his stomach. Lapping at the salt of his skin and drowning in his scent. He’s just gotten comfortable on his knees, hooking his thumbs in the waist of Remy’s pants, when the hand in his hair tightens in a different way. Logan pauses and rocks back on his heels. 

“You alright, Bright Eyes?” He asks. “Want me to stop?” 

“Non.” Remy shook his head and reached down, stroking the back of his fingers along Logan’s cheek. “Gambit just… Wanna be sure you know what you're getting into.” Logan blinked, confused. 

“Gambit, I’m not exactly a v-”

Oh. Logan stopped himself when the actual issue struck him. He tilted his head and studied his partner for a moment. Then he slowly stood up again, pausing only to brush a kiss to the scars on Remy’s chest. 

“Listen here.” He says, pressing his lips to Remy’s ear. “You are the sexiest man I have ever put my eyes on. And I’ve seen a lot of men.” This he purrs. “I want you just like this. You’re not ready, that’s fine, we’ll do something else. But if you are?” He plucks at the waistband of Remy’s pants again. 

A combined verse with @cyberno and @snkts that we have done a helluva a lot of writing for, including three short stories. I thought I'd compile them here for people to read.

Part 1

Mikoto goes on a dangerous mission, alone, into the depths of the Canadian wilderness to rescue Logan from a deranged kidnapper.

Part 2

Two weeks after Part 1, Logan does what he must to protect his family, and to get his revenge. Written by Jay.

Part 3

After learning that her best friend has been kidnapped, Logan and Mikoto travel to Academy City to find her.

"Everything is a game of luck for you? That mixed with your accent, must make you sound pretty exciting to most people."

Outside. They were outside. Not in the lab, they were out. It wasn’t that Logan hadn’t been outside before. He had, he knew he had. For tests, and experiments, and… And what had happened before? WAS there a before? There had to be, didn’t there? There had to be. His name had to come from somewhere. The scientists wouldn’t have given him one. They didn’t care. They’d done this to him. They’d done this. This was their fault. That’s why the weapon is still smeared with gore, streaks of crimson across bare skin that had, up until a moment ago, been steaming in the chilled, fresh air. And it was fresh, because they were outside. The blaring of the alarm from the ruined laboratory mixed with the distant chirping of birds. The faint, ever-present buzzing (grating against his senses) of the sensors embedded in his flesh mixes with the rustling of wind through tree branches. The snow crunches under his feet. It’s cold. He’s cold. The blood mingles with stasis fluid, forming lattices of frost against his skin and tacky, frigid clumps in the long, matted hair that spills down his back. He is every inch a wild thing, with the claws to prove it, long and wicked and shining in the light of- Whatever time this was. 

It was bright. 

So bright, and so clear, without a visor tracking his eye movements and recording visuals and weighing him down. Light bounced off the snow, the metal walls of the prison they were leaving behind, the staff in the stranger (saviour)’s hand, the tags that sat nestled against the weapon’s chest. (A lifeline, a prayer carved into metal. Logan, it said. Your name is Logan. Your name is Logan, and you are the Wolverine.) The weapon - Logan(?) - squints up at the stranger/saviour. He doesn't look anything like the scientists. He wears a long coat, yes, but it's not starched white. His hair isn't pinned or slicked back, either. It’s wild and blows in the wind, but aside from sweat, seems mostly clean. And most importantly, he couldn’t be a researcher, because he helped Logan escape. 

None of the whitecoats would ever let him go. 

So, that begged the question. If he wasn’t from the lab, why was he there? Where had he come from? And… 

Send 💕 and my muse will use The Love Calculator to see how compatible they are. || Accepting

"In and Hour of Need" Injury Prompts

[ FOOD ]: after ensuring the receiver is safe and stable, sender brings them out a plate of food.

Kaz w/ Mikoto @cyberno

He made her rice balls.

Small, fist size mounds of rice, shaped into neat, rounded triangles, and even sealed with a strip of nori. Mikoto had not seen Kaz make them so she could only guess how he had shaped and formed them with only one hand, or maybe she needed to give his prosthetic more credit for its dexterity. Either way, he had placed three rice balls on a tray, alongside a bowl of miso soup, and a salad of seaweed, thin sliced cucumber and carrot, and sesame seed. In terms of food, it was pure comfort. She remembered, vaguely, eating food like this when she was a child. It was the sort of things his mother made him, when he was a child. So, he made it for Mikoto when she was little; and Mikoto guessed, he made it now. Was the gesture borne out of a nostalgia for the past (when she was little and ran to him with open arms, demanding him to carry her), or was it a genuine effort to prepare her something he knew she liked. Even, if it had been ten years since then.

He had no idea what she liked now. He had no idea who she was or what she was like. He had no idea what she'd been through. What she'd been made into.

Mikoto sat at a kitchen table. The house wasn't lavish, it wasn't a mansion, but it was expensive. A beautiful, historic home, in a historic district, with a price tag probably close to seven figures, in addition to cost of renovation and remodeling. Hard wood floors, marble counter tops, slate kitchen tiles, a glass bay window that overlooked a tended garden, and furniture that had been hand made by a craftsman, not a machine. There were probably antiques in here that were older than Kaz himself. She sat at a kitchen table, her arms crossed along the edge, looking at a plate of food. It was so bizarre and foreign, it felt like a dream. Then again, everything these past few days had felt like that. The start of the revolt, all that violence and hell only ending with the death of her brother, and escaping; all just two days ago, her ribs still hurt from the car wreck.

David had excused himself to wander in the back garden. Wander and probably smoke, while leaving Mikoto to awkwardly interact with her father. Her father who she had barely seen in ten years, who left her in the hands of Big Boss and Foxhound. He had made her rice balls and miso soup. Was this an apology? She kept speculating because Mikoto really, really could not imagine the meaning behind this gesture. It wasn't meaningless. It was just... it felt like too little, too late, and yet, too much. All at once.

He stood, breathing hard. Dust clouded the air around them, stirred up through impacts and explosions and combat. Everything reeked of blood and sweat and fear and rage. It reeked off victory. They won. 

They fucking won. 

Of course they did. They’re the X-Men. They’re the best. But still, it's hard to deny the rush. Adrenaline courses through him like a damn river and it's exactly what he needed to feel alive. He straightens, rolls his shoulders, and retracts his claws. His grin is wicked and wild, fangs bared and flashing. His joy is infectious, it seems - or perhaps it's relief that sends Gambit towards him. He approaches fast, and Logan turns to greet him. He expects a kiss. Maybe a hug. Maybe a friendly scuffle. The usual fare. That’s not what he gets. Instead– 

“Whoa! What the-!” He yelped. His feet leave the ground and he finds himself swung around. Strong arms around his waist and a bright grin on Gambit’s face. There's a second where Logan is acutely aware of Gambit holding him up, where victory and romance are going to blend together in a perfect moment– Then Gambit staggers. His expression shifts. 

“Oh, shit-” Logan says, and Gambit echoes the statement in French. They barely have time to get the words out before they collapse, hard, to the ground. Logan groans; Gambit coughs. 

“Was supposed t’ be romantic.” He sputters, and Logan doesn't bother hiding how he laughs. 

“You’re a regular Cassanova, Gumbo.” He says through his snickers. … But he does prop up on his elbows enough to kiss the top of Gambit’s head. 

Kiss Roulette || send 🎲 to generate a kiss!

43. A clumsy kiss

They had had, perhaps, just one too many.

But it had been Magnus' idea to go bar hopping through Berlin, tasting the various lagers, ales, ciders, stouts, and pilsners, which the city's magnificent and masterful brewers had to offer. It had been a wonderful evening of alcohol, sight seeing, and conversation, and they were drunk, exceptionally drunk. Drunk with Magnus' hand fisted in the back of Charles' shirt which had been untucked an hour ago and Charles' shoulder bumping against Magnus' shoulder as the walked. They sauntered down a boulevard, somehow successfully navigating the twisted streets of the city to the lovely upstairs apartment they had rented for their trip. Charles told Magnus a terribly stupid joke and Charles could tell that Magnus was stupid drunk because he actually laughed at it. And he had a beautiful laugh, the sort that was like champagne bubbles, a bell toiling in a major key, and a spring wind, light and gratifying. Magnus, warmed by the taste of wheat bear and lit by the golden street lamps, was the most beautiful creature that Charles had ever seen. He thought he could not love him more.

The stairs to their apartment were wedged into a narrow alley, behind the home of the sweet old woman they rented from. They stumbled into the narrow crevice between two stone walls, laughing and hushing one another. In the darkness, out of the view of the street, Charles' felt bolder, secretive, and daring. Magnus mounted the first steps of the iron staircase leading to their apartment and Charles' grasped him by the shoulder. With more strength than a blindly drunk man should posses he tugged Magnus off the stairs and into the opposite wall. It was rough, maybe too rough (he'd apologize in the morning when sober and hungover), and he heard the air escape Magnus' lungs from the impact.

For a fraction of a moment, Charles' admired his lover. His white hair, curling into wild ends around his beautiful, shocked face, his lips parted in quiet exclamation, and Charles was in love, stupid in love. Pushing forward, seeking Magnus' mouth to kiss but he was also piss drunk. So, he slipped and stumbled, losing his balance so their teeth clashed, heads knocking together. Charles' groaned, a short exclamation of pain before Magnus' hand fisted in his untucked shirt, rucking the fabric, pulling him in. He tasted of beer and wheat, his lips desperate and quick against Charles. Charles' pressed himself into Magnus' firm body, feeling every line of powerful muscle beneath his hands. They were messy and needy, Magnus' tongue exploring the inside of Charles' mouth, and Charles' trying, failing to get Magnus' belt off with his unsteady hands. Charles' cussed and Magnus' laughed.

"Inside?" Charles asked.

The reply was affirmative. Somehow they made it up the stairs, giggling like school girls, without falling to an early grave. Inside the cramped, dark corners of their apartments, the two men undressed, shedding clothes, socks, shoes, left in the most random place with no semblance of order. They collapsed upon the bed in a heap of passion that, sweat soaked and mostly naked, only succeeded in passing out asleep almost immediately.