#rogue x reader

"You don't like it when we're trying to be romantic?"

"Didn't say that, shugah." She chuckles, leaning down to kiss your lips. You press up, meeting her halfway, your hand coming up to cup her cheek as you move in closer. Suddenly you're laying on her, or at least half hovering with intent to lay.

"So, you're saying I have you all to myself for a little while."

"Mmm, ah guess you could say that." She purrs, her hand moving to grip the nape of your neck. Twirling her fingers into your baby hairs as you're pulled in closer by her strong grip.

Your mouth moves to her neck, hands pawing anywhere they can map out. Her head tilts back into her pillow with a satisfied sigh as you suck on the spot that makes her heart pick up under your hands, slithering up to cup her heavy tits. Giving them a gentle squeeze as your thumbs coast around her nipples with care. Her chest heaves into your touch, hand clutching into the edge of the sheets.

"Fuck..." She croaks out, watching your mouth moving across her collarbone and over her sternum. Your eyes meet as your tongue flicks out to run over one of the rosey buds. Her head falls forward with a soft mewl. White and red hairs falling in her blushing face.

"God damn... There really ain't nothin' like a woman's touch." Her fingers feed into your hair as your lips lock around her nipple with a suck and roll of your tongue. Watching her jaw drop with a soft moan, voice hitching with the squeeze of her opposite breast.

"You always look beautiful, but there's just something about how you look when you get all red. I love it." Her cheeks turn a deeper shade, teeth sinking into her bottom lip with a shy giggle.

"You keep teasin' me like that and ah might not be able to control myself." You give a knowing laugh, eyes meeting hers with a slight lean in.

"You know a lot about control, don't you?" She blinks, cheeks getting redder as your smirk grows. Leaning up you kiss her cheek, lips wandering to her ear with a faint breath that makes her tremble.

"Can I have you Marie?" Rogue melts back into her pillow with a nod. You lean back, hands rubbing over her hips in a soothing circular motion.

"I need you to say yes." She stares for a brief moment, collecting herself as she relaxes again.

"Yeah, you can have all of me, shugah." You move backwards, shuffling until you pull her legs apart. Staring down at her puffy folds, slit glistening like morning dew as you push her lips apart. Watching her slick stretch gooey strands over herself.

"You're so fucking wet. Were you just laying here getting yourself all worked up before I woke up?"

"Was just thinkin' about how cute you look. Thought maybe Remy and ah wore you out last night." Her mouth turns into a cheeky little grin, watching your gaze shift up to her like a slight warning.

"Oh yeah?" You ask, your tone daring and so matter of fact.

"Yeah." She purrs back, watching your hand run down her thick thigh, wrapping under her knee as it's lifted up and bent to a comfortable angle as she grabs it for you. Leaving her more open and exposed to your sinful eyes. You glide through her wetness, fingers teasing either side of her clit as her knee buckles in with a soft gasp.

Slowly brushing down your wrist turns, two fingers pushing into her waiting heat. Digits curling up into the perfect spot as her walls tighten around them in a snug attempt at keeping you there. She groans, hips jolting into your hand with a louder moan, trying to create some kind of friction between you two.

"I know baby, I know. I got you." You flatten your palm on her, rocking it against her clit as your fingers fuck knuckle deep into her with a come hither motion. Her eyes roll back into her head with a huff. Slick sounds filling the room as she meets your pace with the roll of her hips.

"Honestly, if I was like Remy I'd be buried in you twenty-four seven... I don't know how that man has that much self control."

"Years of practice, chère." Your head jolts to the side, so lost from feeding Rogue's need neither of you even noticed the bedroom door open. Remy propped up against the door frame in his sleek black boxer briefs as the scent of bacon wafts in from behind him. Rogue whines at your pause, Remy's red eyes glancing at her as he smirks before looking back at you.

"Non, don't stop on my account. That be inconsiderate to Marie." Your palm presses back into her, fingers setting the pace again as you feel her clamp down against your digits with a smirk. "I could leave you two to your moment."

"We're fine. But she's gripping my fingers like she's trying to keep me from pulling out." Your head turns to her, hand gliding up her thigh in a soothing rub.

"You like that he's watching. Captive audience get you going?" Her cheeks dust red again as Remy chuckles, her clit throbbing against your palm in a cry for attention in morse code.

He's on the bed behind you in a moment's notice, arms going around your waist as his lips meet your jaw. His gaze shifts down to the slick building up against your palm on her pussy, a deep chuckle leaving him as it rumbles through his chest.

"Ain't dis a sight. Drownin' in her own mess, and she dares to say we the perverts."

"Ya are." She croaks out, a moan catching in her throat as you press down harsher.

"Says the one getting off right now."

"Oh fffu-" Rogue's curse is cut off by you pulling your hand back. A shiny layer of slick covers your palm, fingers pulling apart to watch ribbons form between them before offering them to him. Remy leans in, mouth engulfing your fingers, tongue curling to suck them clean.

His lips pop off with a steady hum, leaning in to kiss your lips. Remy slides his hands up your sides slowly, hands groping over your breasts as his tongue slips into your mouth. Unhurried and tender while he explores, tangling himself with you. The taste of Rogue on his tongue, head tilting in to deepen the kiss.

"Y'all're the worst." Rogue groans, leg slipping out of her hand as you laugh into the kiss. Pulling back you give him a look that works far more than words, he smirks before moving. Crawling around to Rogue's side, his lips planting firmly against hers in a passionate connection that drew you to them in the first place. Molding together like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Readjusting you pull Rogue's leg back up and onto your shoulder, gaining her attention through a cracked eye. Watching as your spit covered fingers slide in-between your own folds, gathering your wetness before you move into position. Your cunt presses down into hers before you push yourself against her with a slow roll of your hips.

She gasps, head rolling back with her eyes squeezing shut. Remy glances at you, watching your grip tighten on her leg, hips picking up with a wet slapping rut. He hums, looking back at Rogue as he sits up, pulling his boxer briefs down to his knees. Her lips wrap around him before he can even say a word. Jaw slacked as her head bobs down on his cock. He groans low, hips bucking into her with a trained thrust.

It doesn't take long for Rogue to come crashing over the brink from the previous teasing. Orgasm washing over her body. Remy pulls away, eyes locking on you as you lean over to kiss her through the final tremors. Remy's hands find your hips, sliding in behind you, pressing your back into an arch before he slips in.

Cock stretching you open with a press back into him. His thumbs rub circles into your hips, letting you adjust to his size before you give him the usual nod. He starts moving, thrusts starting slow until they turn into brutal pounds, desperately trying to chase both of your highs.

Face contorted in pleasure before you look at Rogue and the shit eating grin on her face. Her eyes fixed back on Remy. And you just know in that moment that you're all definitely far from being done after this.

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

Baby, just do the dishes, I'll give you what you, what you want/Considering I have feelings, I'm like, "Why are my clothes still on?":

Scott may have been a busy man but he wasnt under any sort of impression that you'd "pick up" all the housework when the two of you moved in together. As your arms wrapped around his waist he moved to put one hand over yours before remembering he was elbow-deep in suds. Looking over his shoulder to see a love-drunk expression on your face and glazed over eyes. A little insulted that you thought he was that backwards in his thinking and... you were still dating him. He needs to have some sort of conversation about this

Jean loved having with her while doing chores, the domesticity of it warm in her chest, but as you tucked yourself into her side, muttering something about "taking such good care of me". She absolutely doesnt object as you start pressing your face into her neck but she is a bit worried she might've been distant the last few weeks, laying her head on you as she finishes up before

Ororo was fine with doing her part around the household, but she did have a specific distaste for dishes. But with the dishwasher broken and you busy at work, she had started on the dishes from last nights dinner and today's breakfast. She'd gotten into a groove when you got home and saw her doing the thing she dislikes just because you were busy and it had to be done. Ororo prides a bit as you press against her back pressing kisses in thanks. She could get used to this... lets hope maintenence was here tomorrow though.

Anna-Marie huffed and puffed about getting it done but when she finally sauntered over to the sink and started working the look of pure unfiltered attraction from you as you finished cleaning the bookcase was all worth it. She'll make a show out of it too, lifting the plate up slightly so that droplets of water run up her arm as your eyes followed the wet trail. Might try to bargain for a reward (kiss) when she's done.

Remy doesnt shy away from doin what his partner wants, he lives to serve. And if the fastest way to get your hands crawling across his skin is to play house-husband then he is more than willing to comply, he doesnt exactly get how you get hot and bothered from doing the bare minimum but Remy would never turn down an oppurtunity to lavish you in attention (and get some in return)

Assemble a chair from IKEA, I'm like, "AhAhAh"/Offering to do anything, I'm like, "Oh, my god":

Kurt has gotten more handy over the years, keeping his small church in order was a lot of work and outsourcing all the labor just wasnt possible- plus watching your eyes trail over his back and arms while he lifted your new bedframe up the stairs was a pleasure like no other. Shocked that he did it by himself, as he assured you it was his duty as your partner, he doesnt want to ruin the moment though so dont be surprised when he bamfs across the room to receive his payment

Kitty and her endless ability to understand complex (and ridiculous!) instructions was one of the most attractive things about her. Oh her brain was so amazing, it's not your fault her face was in front of it! Which is part of the reason she seems so surprised when she looks up, halfway done fixing your phone to see your eyes glossy and unfocused, flitting across her face and hands. She'll fan her face and tie up her hair for you to have a better view, giggling as you come back to and start praising her.

Logan was buff. He was so, so buff. He knew it, you knew it, and he knew you loved when he showed off- moving your new couch to the other side of the room for the nth time as you keep getting distracted. Muttering out another "no not right" as he laughs and rolls his shoulder, hauling it to another area as you trailed behind, staring at his muscles. At some point he'll forego any sense of 'modesty' and take off his ratty white tank alltogether, enjoying hearing your breath catch in your throat

Warren didn't particularly like this process. He had put something on backwards a bazillion steps ago and was groaning in frustration as he had to redo all his hard work, but oh you loved this process. Watching his face flush in frustration and seeing how he kept doing this one little task for you over and over (accidentally making it harder for himself), he was about to call it quits when he saw your half-lidded eyes and knew there was a very nice end in sight.

your bedsheets were wrinkled, soiled with the stench of someone who’d given up.

someone who used to smile.

someone who used to.

a quiet knock at your door, a repetitive tap in a sequence so familiar it made your heart ache.

jubilee.

why was she here?

you felt her presence against the wards you’d placed in your room, a gentle hand pressed against the invisible barrier. “we miss you,” she whispered, “dinner’s ready…um, let me know if you want anything.”

you stayed still.

tears soaked your pillow. you curled up, arms tightening around the only thing that gave you any sense of safety.

remy’s coat.

it didn’t smell like him anymore. a whisper of bourbon, that stupid cologne he always sprayed on you, a warm undertone of spices and cinnamon.

it drowned you.

the sleeves fell over your hands, the length of the coat covering your curled up body completely.

“okay,” jubilee gently patted the door, “goodnight.”

you heard her leave and pause, hesitant and worried. your fingers twitched, a ripple in your defenses. jubilee stared down at her shoes, feeling the barrier that kept her in place. she smiled, an exasperated laugh leaving her.

“change your mind?”

“how’s an—rogue?”

you didn’t recognize your own voice. hoarse, whispery, painful. jubilee walked back to your door, leaning against it. your barriers served as a gateway for your voice, gentle ripples tickling her spine.

“she’s…she’s good. i mean, she’s smiling.”

which is more than she can say for you.

“she misses you, y’know,” jubilee slid down the door, settling against it, “she always looks at that stupid polaroid of the three of you before she goes anywhere. it’s disgusting.” you barely cracked a smile when she giggled, “the three of you were so lovesick.”

were.

it was quiet, contemplative.

“jubi?”

“uh-huh?” she replied, smile on her lips as she made tiny fireworks in her palms.

“i need help,” you admitted softly, heart in your throat. the hardest part was over, the admission of needing assistance. you felt her hope through the gentle hum of your mutation, the way her heart had begun to race.

“i’m really,” you winced, “gross right now. i understand if—“

“unlock the door,” jubilee stood in an instant, “please, i’d love to help you.”

you sat up from bed, your joints and bones groaning in strain. you held remy’s coat close to you, barely catching a whisper of his scent as you crept to the door. your weak fingers twisted the lock, wood unlatching and creaking open.

you saw jubilee’s bright face, her warm eyes.

your defenses collapsed.

she embraced you in an instant, ignoring the deathly scent that encased you and the grave state of your room and health.

“i got you,” she murmured, “we’re gonna get through this, okay?”

you cried in her arms, pulling away and sniffling. jubilee followed you inside, and you watched her assess the damage. “you wanna go shower? i’ll start on your laundry,” she offered.

“okay,” you agreed, and you saw the way her eyes flicked to his coat. she smiled knowingly, “he would be proud of you for asking for help.”

jubilee stuffed clothes into the laundry basket, lifting it up with ease. she sent you a wink:

“he’d also love seeing you in his coat.”

you laughed wetly when she left to the laundry room, turning to your bathroom.

the shower greeted you with blazing water, a rain of warmth and a purging of grief. you remained in there for an hour, washing off days of neglect and open wounds.

when you emerged from the muggy bathroom, jubilee was folding clothes and packing them into drawers.

“feel better?” she asked, noting that you were still hugging remy’s coat. you nodded silently. you still felt weak, mentally and physically, but now you were clean. towel dried hair, skin dewy with moisturizer, a fresh set of pajamas on.

you looked more alive than you did an hour ago.

“jean saved us a plate,” she said, tucking a pair of sweatpants you remember wearing a month ago into the drawer, “if you don’t want to eat down there, i’ll bring it up here.”

“do you think she wants to see me?”

jubilee paused, careful.

“i think she’d love to,” she answered, walking to you with a sweet smile, “ever since you…y’know, hibernated, she was always the one that brought you stuff. cyke needed her for mission briefing so i went for her.”

“i’m glad you did.”

“yeah, me too.”

you turned around, picking up the framed photograph that you’d knocked onto the ground in a fit of grief. you traced the line of remy’s jaw, the curl of rogue’s hair.

“i wanna see her,” your voice cracked slightly, hands trembling.

“then let’s go,” jubilee set the frame aside before you dropped it, scooping your hands into hers as she guided you out. you winced at the brightness of the halls, keeping your eyes low as the doors slid open.

you frowned when the alarms began to blare.

your hands covered your ears, and you saw the solemn look on jubilee’s face.

“what’s happening?” you asked her, and she shook her head. she knew something, something she knew would ruin all the progress she’d just made.

jubilee turned to redirect your attention, to bring you up to the helipad, where she knew cable was landing.

you were gone.

queen of hearts.

you watched jubilee pull the burnt card from her pocket, handing it to rogue with worry in her eyes.

you shifted your gaze to apocalypse, his mangled corpse on full display. burnt skin, exposed bones. you faintly heard them discussing the lack of control over his horseman of death—

but all you could hear was ringing.

“…whatever’s been brought back,” rogue started slowly, “might not really be remy?”

she still held the card in her hands.

you wondered if she was thinking about the same moment you were. the three of you in the game room, you mindlessly throwing darts as remy did card tricks for rogue.

“look at ‘dat, chère,” he mused, accent thick, “‘s missin’.”

“you took it out the deck and hid it!”

“mm, not quite,” remy pointed at you, a soft brush of kinetic energy making you flinch and jerk towards them. “check our lady’s sleeve.”

rogue reached over, gloved fingers pulling you into her lap. you sat there, pliant and flustered as she pulled up your sleeve. two copies of the queen of hearts fell from the fabric, and remy grinned arrogantly.

“two cards for my two queens.”

you followed behind rogue and nightcrawler, frowning at the way she was pacing in distress.

“remy’s alive and he’s killed apocalypse,” she ran her hands through her hair, “what am i ‘pposed to do? what if this plan ain’t work?”

kurt reached for her, gently holding her shoulders, “it will work, sister. if it does not, then all will still be okay.” you watched as they hugged, peering down at your translucent hands. “i’m just worried sick about her,” rogue said, her voice watery and pitched, “she’s up there alone, tryin’ to get through somethin’ so heavy by herself.”

you parted your lips, closing them shortly after.

you quietly sat on the nearby wall, one that overlooked the sand and the waters. your figure became visible beneath the moonlight. it was always easier to show up silently than it was to announce your arrival.

remy always did that part.

“sugar?” you heard her barely say, her voice awed and shaky. a few hushed words and you felt the soft puff of kurt disappearing, the gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she neared you.

you couldn’t look at her.

she sat next to you, warmth radiating off her. it was tempting, the urge to just fall into her body and let her hold you a while.

“i’m not mad at you, honey,” she whispered, fingers pressing gently against your jaw to turn your head to her.

“i left you,” you wept, “i’m sorry.”

“you didn’t leave me,” rogue brought you into her loving embrace, “you didn’t do anythin’ wrong, ‘kay? ‘cept not take care of yourself, that you did wrong.” you curled into her chest, arms wrapping around her waist. her hands caressed you, comforting and so so warm.

rogue really didn’t want to acknowledge it, but she knew she had to.

“do you know?”

you nodded, shaky and sad.

“he’s comin’, sugar,” she cradled your face, lips gently pressing against your skin. she barely felt the chilly hum of your shield, grateful that she could touch you like this. “we gotta go,” rogue pulled back, eyes dipping to your lips.

“will you kiss me, annie? please?” you whispered, hands greedily gripping the front of her shirt. you didn’t feel worthy enough to ask, but you’d spill blood for the sweetness of her laughter if it gave you the chance to feel her kiss you again.

she smiled, devastating and smitten.

“‘course i will, sugar. never gotta ask.”

your lips met in a sweet and solemn dance, a release of emotions you hadn’t quite had since he died.

“let’s go get our remy, yeah?” she swept you up, effortlessly carrying you and flying up to the helipad. she landed softly, placing you down. you saw them all staring at you, and you felt the thrum of your mutation coat your skin. rogue still held your hand, and you knew neither her nor you would want to let go.

scott nodded once, pleased.

the aircraft was boarded, the plan was set.

remy lebeau was alive.

alive and on a mission.

his gray skin shifted where his lips curled into a grin, wind blowing his pale hair as he and his warped comrades neared the aircraft.

you stared down at the yellow scanner, watching the line swirl in repetitive circles.

“rogue, is null here?” cyclops asked, spine straight as he examined the space next to her. she nodded, feeling the way you squeezed her hand. “the two of you need to separate.”

you saw rogue’s eyes narrow in clear disdain.

“it is logical,” psylocke said calmly, “you will become distracted in your task if you are concerned about her.”

“or worse, if he sees her,” jean averted her eyes.

before rogue could protest, you appeared.

you did your best to ignore the pitiful stares, the eyes that widened in awe. you kissed her cheek and stepped away, disappearing before she could grab you again. she glared at scott, who simply looked away. he didn’t like it either.

the sensor began to beep rapidly.

“i sense no mech sentinel pilots outside,” psylocke’s hands neared her head, the reflection of a purple butterfly emerging, “but i do sense—“

“a swarm of black holes where minds and souls should be,” jean paled, and a sudden explosion racked the aircraft. you instinctively wanted to run to rogue, to grab her and stay with her, but you couldn’t.

she had a job, and you couldn’t get in the way.

lightning crackled outside as purple blasts of kinetic energy tore apart the ship’s defenses. you peeked outside the windows, spotting familiar faces on glowing motorcycles.

“okay, that’s cool,” you muttered, flinching when a nearby air vent was kicked open. bella donna and robert crawled inside, their faces blank and eyes bright red.

“find gambit, now!”

you ran from the main room, ducking into the cargo space. the end of the area was blown off, leaving a window for an open, black sky. you tensed when the door hissed open, revealing rogue in a frantic state. you sighed, so much for staying separate.

“remy? it’s me,” she shouted, her voice echoing over the whipping winds, “it’s rogue!”

you hid near the wall, a translucent barrier preventing you from flying into the night. you caught a glimpse of his coat, a barely noticeable shadow running along the boxes. “apocalypse poisoned y’mind—i can help you,” she pleaded, and you watched her glove get carried away by the wind.

“trust me.”

you felt tears well in your eyes when you seen his form behind her. the shape of his coat—the same coat that laid safely on your bed at home—the lines of his side profile, the heaviness of his footsteps.

“y’know,” he drawled, deep and utterly familiar, “life does flash before our eyes when we die.”

you crept closer.

you froze in your spot when he came into the light, red irises glowing in the shadows. white hair emerged from the darkness, a grayscale of the man who used to be so colorful.

“and when i died…”

tears fell down rogue’s cheeks.

“all i saw…was you,” he paused, eyes flicking to where you were crouched, “and her.” you felt your heart race, how did he know? he stood directly in front of a seemingly enchanted rogue, head still turned in your direction. you bit your lip when her hand pressed against his face, pushing his body against the crate.

nothing.

your eyes widened when his hand reached up to touch hers, “what’s wrong?”

“that ain’t…possible,” rogue tensed when his hand slid to her wrist, gently yanking her towards him. he smiled serenely:

“warned ya, chère. some things? they be deeper than skin.”

his index lifted, a puff of purple energy coiled at the tip of it. your hand lifted, and he frowned at the sudden resistance.

“don’t move,” he whispered to rogue, releasing her wrist before turning your direction, “our girl’s rearin’ for me t’catch her.” he may not have been able to touch her face, but his energy locked her place via her legs. “sugar, get out!” she yelled, doing her best to get free.

you remained invisible as you aimed for the door, but it was too late. he had you.

“hard not t’hear a heart ‘dat beats f’me,” he mused, hands sliding around your waist, “hm, mon ami?” remy admired the teary look in your eyes when your body became visible. he lifted a hand, and you tried to fight against him when his finger pressed against your forehead.

“sleep.”

rogue watched helplessly as you fell into his arms. normally, the sight would make butterflies bloom in her stomach, but all she felt right now was fear.

he approached her, tilting his head down at you in a quick motion, “ain’t she sweet?”

he gently shifted your weight, his now free hand lifting to rogue’s face. he caressed her cheek before whispering the same command he gave you, a dot of kinetic energy infiltrating her mind.

he caught her, easily tossing her sleeping form over his shoulder.

remy placed the two of you on the bike with the care of a man who wasn’t death himself, smiling fondly:

“two of a kind.”

it was warm when you stirred awake.

you pushed yourself up, the plush mattress dipping beneath your weight. rogue laid next to you, a blanket draped over the two of you.

“annie,” you whispered, gently shaking her, “annie, wake up—“

“let her rest, chère.”

you flinched, head jerking towards the entry of the room. remy stood there, leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t just kidnapped two x-men.

“remy…”

“mhm,” he hummed, like he’d just tasted something delicious, “missed ‘dat.” he walked inside, nearing you. he smiled playfully when you cloaked, watching the indentation of your body on the mattress shift.

he stood still.

you were directly in front of him, eyes examining him so closely. he could feel the shift in the air, hear the thrum of the shields you kept up.

his head tilted when you tried to sneak by.

he followed you out the door, smiling when your footsteps began to pick up. he quietly closed the door behind him, getting one last fond look at rogue’s sleeping face before heading after you.

remy walked through the corridors, unhurried and unbothered.

you dipped inside one of the rooms after doubling back, knees tucking into your chest and covering your mouth as he whistled lowly, “y’know, coulda swore y’missed me.”

i did.

you stared with horror as his red irises peered inside the room you were hiding in, the outside light bleeding in as he pushed the door open.

“gambit ain’t feelin’ real loved, chère.”

remy knelt in front of you, his hands landing firmly on your knees.

“let me see ‘dat pretty face o’yours.”

you uncloaked, gradual and slow. he smiled warmly, thumbs brushing over your pajama pants. you hadn’t changed earlier, not having the time to throw on any battle appropriate clothes.

“tu es belle,” he whispered, awed and enchanted, “gambit missed you, mon coeur.”

you tentatively raised your hands, fingertips barely grazing his face before you got nervous. you tried to pull them back to you, but he caught your wrists before you could.

he raised your hands, eager yet still giving you the chance to say no.

“are you our remy?”

“‘course i am,” he mused, “always been your remy.” you pressed your trembling lips together, and his eyes softened at the sight of your emotions. you launched into his arms, sobbing as he held you.

“shh, shh,” he soothed, “it okay, chère. gambit okay.”

he pressed his lips to your hair, his hand lifting to run through the strands, “not lettin’ you go again. neither of ya.” he smiled as he slowly moved to stand, you in his arms.

“wanna help me make dinner? y’favorite?”

you nodded.

you knew in your mind that this wasn’t gambit, that this wasn’t the remy you laid to rest.

but he smelled like him, he felt like him—

he held you like him.

remy kissed your forehead, carrying you down to the kitchen. your eyes widened when you seen kurt, his usually golden eyes pure crimson.

“kurt—?”

“ignore him,” remy easily smiled, “focus on me.”

you watched over his shoulder as kurt went upstairs, and remy sat you on the counter. he stood between your knees, hand lifting to brush fondly against your cheek, “sois sage.”

you observed as remy cooked and set the table, porcelain plates floating into the next room. your meek offer to help made him give you a look. as the stove clicked and the spice bottles returned to the cabinet, you thought about rogue.

“annie will wonder where i’m at,” you whispered as he scooped a golden crusted batch of fried chicken from the oil. “ya wanna go get her? dinner’s bout done,” he asked, toweling off his hands. as you went to get down, you felt the soft buzz of his kinetic energy circle your waist and lower you off the counter.

“careful on ‘dem stairs.”

you nodded once, rushing off to get her.

kurt stood next to the bedroom door, and you could only smile weakly as you pushed inside. rogue was in the process sitting up, her eyes frantic as she scanned the bed.

“annie?” you called, closing the door behind you as you went to her. you crawled on the bed with her, and she easily recepted you. she held you on her lap, worriedly examining you.

“are ya alright? where’d you go?”

“i woke up before you, remy…um, he came and got me,” you explained, “told me not to wake you up. i hid for a little…”

“but he found ya,” she finished, frowning as she kissed your cheek, “where’s he at now?”

the door creaked open on cue, kurt stepping inside cradling a candle, “time to rise, sister. dinner is served, and you are the guests of honor.” he smiled, hollow and blank. you hugged rogue’s neck as she stared at him with sadness, “kurt? what’s he done to you?”

he didn’t answer, simply gesturing to the dark corridor.

you slid off rogue’s lap, cloaking and holding her hand as she followed kurt to the dining room. “don’t let go o’me if i can’t see ya,” she murmured, and you squeezed her hand in response. she peeked around the doorframe to the dining room, spotting remy pouring out flutes of champagne. an eerie record of old music spun under the needle, the fireplace casting a warm glow over the room.

it would be romantic if remy wasn’t a living corpse.

“evenin’, chère,” he cautiously tilted the glass of champagne as greeting. his name left your lips, “did she get lost?” you uncloaked briefly, barely visible from where rogue had tucked you behind her.

“mm, shy thing,” he mused, devastatingly adoring and loving. remy rounded the table, pulling out one chair first. you nudged rogue forward, and she hesitantly let go of you to go sit. once rogue was settled, remy moved to the seat across from her.

you quietly moved to the seat, sitting down as he pushed your chair in. his hands draped over your shoulders for a moment, leaving a loving squeeze as he took his own seat.

“siccing your brainwashed ex on your ladies is a mighty bold way of asking us out to dinner,” rogue muttered, concealing the joy in her eyes at the fried chicken revealed on the platter.

remy chuckled, “two a’ya always did like my unorthodox flair.”

he lifted his flute of champagne. rogue lifted hers to his, and you raised yours. the three glasses clinked together, but only remy drank right away. the silence lingered, the only sound the soft crackle of the fireplace and the whoosh of the candle flames.

you hadn’t touched your plate.

“eat, chère,” remy reached over, gently pushing your plate closer, “y’love fried chicken ‘n collard greens.”

rogue watched as you uncloaked, lifting your fork to tear open the meat and collect the greens.

remy’s lips quirked into a smirk:

“you’ll need the energy for later.”

when you’d started to eat enough for his satisfaction, he lowered his fork as he finished a bite, “gambit never would’ve dreamed you’d be workin’ the merc huntin’ me down.”

“cable?” your brows knit together, his eyes barely shifting to you before locking on rogue. “no, remy, we were tryin’ to save you,” she turned away, ashamed, “i…i thought i could.” you watched her sadly, and your mind could only think of how pretty she looked. highlighted by the fire burning behind her, the sparkle in her eyes.

you went to lower your fork, but a flick of remy’s fingers made you stop. he shook his head, nodding to your plate.

“world’s been conspirin’ to keep us apart for so long, chère,” remy sounded contemplative, almost angry, “we both learned to expect the worst.” you wanted to contribute, to be involved somehow—but this was beyond you.

these were things you’d missed because you’d locked yourself away instead of facing them.

remy slid from his seat, kneeling next to rogue’s seat. he took her hand, peering up at her with those haunting eyes of his, “but now? now, we’ve been dealt a whole new hand.” you stared at your plate, eyes glossing over.

“the gap between the man i was and the one you want is finally gone.”

his thumb traced over her cheek, shifting to the opposite side to direct her gaze to him. he guided her eyes to you, his own staring at you as well, “the man you want me to be for her.”

“or,” he said, amused and encouraging, “atleast, it can be.”

you cloaked out of sheer discomfort due to the suffocating tension, noting the way remy frowned and how rogue’s eyes immediately flicked to you. you were so unsure how to feel. this wasn’t remy, but it was. this remy wanted to be better for the two of you, he wanted to be the man rogue wanted him to be.

“this is just…so strange,” she muttered, standing from her chair and nearing the fireplace, “gettin’ you back is all we ever dreamed of. but now, you’re here—and i don’t know if i should be relieved or scared.”

remy tracked her movements with his eyes, standing and facing where you sat. he crooked a finger, smiling faintly when your chair squeaked. he felt you pass him, and rogue didn’t flinch when your arms curled around her.

“i ain’t crawled outta my grave to repeat regrets,” remy’s eyes stared into your soul, “this is our second chance.” your power flickered, and rogue felt your grip loosen, “no more holdin’ my cards close to my chest. so, here they are, belles.”

remy leaned over the fireplace, unbothered by the ashes that sparked near him. you, however, were irritated with how close the hem of his coat was coming to the fire.

he smiled mid story upon feeling the chill of your shield emerge between him and the fire—

“…locals know her as the x-ternal.”

remy turned, his easy going smile gone and his eyes serious. you tried to back up, to retreat around the table, but with a casual shift of his knuckles, you were pinned. rogue watched warily as he neared:

“her relic will make you immortal like me.”

he walked towards you—his loves, his queens.

“it’ll bind us together forever…husband and wives.”

rogue looked down at you, and in a blink, remy was right next to her. his crimson irises scanned the two of you, hands lifting to hover on either side of your waists.

“and then nothin’—not even death—ever keep us apart again.”

your teary eyes, exhausted and nearly dull, met his excited ones, “nothing? you promise?” remy smiled comfortingly, hand rising to cradle your face. he swept a thumb over your tears, leaning forward to kiss your forehead, “i promise, mon coeur.”

“how do we know we can trust you?”

“cause i’m offerin’ us a second chance,” remy reached for rogue, lovingly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “you gotta believe in me—believe in us, chère.” his hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing along her bottom lip.

you watched rogue’s face shift with acceptance, and she closed her eyes as remy lowered his lips to hers. you tried to step back, to give them their moment, but they both tightened their hold on you.

“want some sugar, too?” remy asked teasingly, “ought not to stay too long. bad luck seein’ mes dames before our weddin’, non?”

he kissed you sweetly, and you could faintly taste rogue’s lip balm as he pulled away. his tongue barely ran along his lips, savoring the flavor of the two of you before winking.

“get dolled up f’me, yeah? gots us a weddin’ to be had,” his eyes fell to your pajamas, a playful grin on his lips, “though, i ain’t mind ‘dem jammies.”

as you and rogue returned upstairs in hope of finding something to wear—fret not, remy already knew his ladies would need beautiful fabrics to don—remy sat down at the head of the table.

he reached in his pocket, tugging out three rings.

kurt appeared in the room, taking the rings to the makeshift venue.

remy could only grin, crimson irises sparking with something sinister, desperate, obsessive, and something that looked awfully like love.

To say these two take care of you well is the understatement of the century. Both Anne and Remy are strong willed, and determined to make sure you are comfortable at all times.

Anne usually takes care of anything physical. If you have trouble getting up or down stairs for whatever reason, she'll gently pick you up and walk them for you. There's been a few embarrassing times where she's found you sitting in the middle of the stairs, totally dejected because you overestimated yourself for the day- but she's nothing but comforting, letting you know she thought it was great you got as far as you did, and that she's happy to help the rest of the way. If you don't want to be carried, she'll let you lean on her and guide you instead, going at your pace the entire time.

Remy handles other things like chores. He's more than happy to cook a warm meal for you, and even more happy to sit in bed and eat with you. If your hands shake, don't worry, he's got scarily steady ones that will help you. He helps with chores that take it out of you, happy to sit on the floor side by side as the two of you fold laundry and probably watch a TV show- something like real housewives. If you can't get around to doing something he's on the job, no need to apologize for it, what's an extra load of dishes anyways?

Both of them carry around any medication you might take, be that an injection or pills, they are READY.

Every step of the way they are nothing but encouraging. They are pillars of support ready to catch you at all if you fall, to hold you up as you regain balance and stand high once more.

They coddle, but not as much. Well, Susan doesn't coddle as much, Reed definitely does.

Reed is someone who feels like if he isn't helping every second of the day then he isn't useful, so to say he's a bit of a helicopter is laughable. Of course, he doesn't ever want you to feel as though you're incapable of doing things on your own, it's just that why bother doing something and possibly hurting yourself when he can easily do it. He doesn't realize how bad of an ideology that is, and has been scolded on multiple occasions by basically everyone in his life that has common sense.

Susan is always there for you, but she's more there for encouragement. She'll sit in bed and rub her hands against your back, encouraging you to get up and giving you any medications you take. She's always got her hand in yours, but she doesn't let you know it's because she's worried all the time.

Both of them enjoy seeing you be independent, getting up and working on your own. It gives them a sense of pride that you're pushing through, that you're brave enough to try things that might be physically taxing and push through even when your bones start to hurt like hell.

Of course, the Baxter building is completely formatted to accommodate you. Elevators, ramps, hell even one of those wall chairs that move up and down stairs that Johnny probably uses more than you is there. All of it was meticulously done by Reed, even when Susan told him to tone it down a little, he just can't help it.

On rough days, they both wrap their arms around you and squeeze you tight, pressing kisses against your face. They claim they're squeezing the bad day out of you, wringing you dry like a towel, except instead of water it's the bad vibes from the day. Whether it's scientifically real or not is questionable, but if Reed says it's scientifically proven to work who are you to question?

Both of them are worry warts. Big, fat, worriers. They try and be nonchalant but it's hard to hide how much they care for you, how much they want to be there and help.

Scott is the more hands on one. He'll let you grab his arm and lean on him like a life support as you do stuff, helps you do chores like drying the dishes after you hand wash them and changing out the laundry- because it's such a tedious task. It's never a burden to him to help you, and he always jokes that if he had it his way your feet would never have to touch the ground again, that he'd carry you everywhere you want to go without a single complaint. Take advantage of that, and make him do just that, please he wants to be helpful so bad.

Jean is more on the silent side, sort of off to the side work you don't even realize needed to happen. She's helping make the x-mansion more accommodating, preparing things you don't even realize would be tedious to do like pre-chopping ingredients for meals. She's the type to always cut your apple slices for you, to peel your orange without you ever having to ask, and she does it without a single word. You don't even have to ask, she's already there and ready to help.

Neither are very vocal in their worry of offers to help, they're just... There. Hands resting encouragingly on your back and waiting for you to ask for anything. They would give you the world, should you ask.

The moment the blackbird’s engines faded into a distant, barely-perceptible hum somewhere over the Westchester county line, Remy Lebeau knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t a logical thing. There was no psychic alarm bell, no precognitive flash. It was just… a feeling. A father’s instinct, though he’d never use that word out loud. He was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee that was more chicory than bean, when he realized the house was too quiet.

Not the good quiet. Not the “everyone’s in the Danger Room” quiet, or the “teenagers are actually doing their homework” quiet. This was the quiet of a missing presence. The absence of a certain soft humming. The lack of footsteps padding down the hallway. The missing warmth of a light-generating mutant who usually greeted him in the mornings with a sleepy smile and a request for “the good creamer, please, Remy, the one you hide from Bobby.”

He looked at the clock. 9:47 AM. You usually came down for breakfast around nine. You were a creature of habit, your internal clock more reliable than atomic time. You liked your morning routine: a glass of water, a bowl of cereal that was probably too sugary, and fifteen minutes of reading whatever thick, tragic novel had captured your heart that week before you started your training.

You weren’t at the table. Your usual spot, the one with the best view of the garden, was empty.

Remy’s brow furrowed. He took a sip of his coffee, his crimson eyes scanning the kitchen as if expecting you to materialize out of thin air. When you didn’t, he set his mug down and made his way toward the residential wing.

He passed Logan in the hallway. The shorter, hairier man was coming from the direction of the garage, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that had seen better decades. He grunted in lieu of a greeting, the way he always did when it was just the two of them and no one else was around to witness even a shred of civility between them.

“Seen de kid?” Remy asked, not breaking stride.

“Which one?” Logan grunted. “We got about twenty of ‘em runnin’ around this place.”

“De kid,” Remy repeated, as if that clarified everything. And it did, because there was only one teenager in this house who had both Remy and Rogue wrapped so thoroughly around her little finger that they didn’t even notice the string. “She ain’t at breakfast.”

Logan paused, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. The faintest flicker of concern crossed his weathered features before he smoothed it away. “She’s probably just sleepin’ in. Kid was up late last night in the library with Kurt, readin’ that bible of hers.”

Remy shook his head. “She don’t sleep in. Not past nine. Somethin’s wrong.”

He picked up his pace, Logan falling into step beside him despite the fact that he was muttering something about “overreactin’ Cajuns” and “not every little thing is a crisis.” But he was there. And he was moving just as quickly.

Your room was at the end of the hall, a corner room with two windows that caught the morning sun. Rogue had helped you decorate it when you first arrived, insisting that every girl deserved a space that felt like her own. There were fairy lights strung along the ceiling, a small bookshelf overflowing with worn paperbacks, and a framed picture of the two of you with Remy at some county fair, your face split in a wide, genuine smile.

The door was closed. That was your first mistake, because you never closed your door. Not all the way. You’d told Rogue once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that you liked knowing people were out there. That the hallway noise was comforting. That a closed door felt too much like the one your father had slammed behind you.

Remy knocked softly. “Chère? You awake?”

Silence. Then, a small, muffled sound that might have been a word or might have been a whimper.

He didn’t wait for permission. He pushed the door open, Logan crowding in behind him, and the sight that greeted them made both men freeze.

You were still in bed, which wasn’t unusual in itself. What was unusual was the mountain of blankets you’d piled on top of yourself. You were buried beneath at least three comforters, Rogue’s oversized cardigan that you’d claimed as your own, and what looked like every hoodie you owned. Only a tuft of your hair was visible, sticking up at an awkward angle, and even from the doorway, Remy could see the fine tremors running through the blanket pile.

“Petite?” Remy crossed the room in three long strides, his earlier coffee forgotten. He reached out, carefully peeling back the top layer of blankets, and the heat that hit him was immediate and alarming. It was like opening an oven door.

You blinked up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused. Your face was flushed, your cheeks an unnatural, mottled red, and there was a sheen of sweat on your forehead despite the fact that you were shivering violently. Your lips were pale, cracked, and when you tried to smile at him, it came out more like a grimace.

“Remy,” you croaked. Your voice was raw, scraped clean of its usual warmth. “M’okay. Just… cold.”

“You ain’t cold, chère,” he said softly, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. The heat that met his skin made him hiss through his teeth. “You’re burnin’ up.”

Logan appeared at his shoulder, his gruff demeanor evaporating the instant he got a look at you. “When’d this start?” he asked, his voice low and serious.

You shook your head weakly, the movement clearly costing you. “Last night. After Kurt and I… after the library. I was reading and I got really cold and I couldn’t get warm and…” A violent shiver wracked your small frame, cutting off your words.

“Why didn’t you call someone?” Remy asked, and there was something raw in his voice. Something that sounded almost like fear.

Your eyes, usually so bright and full of light, were dull with exhaustion. “Didn’t want to bother anyone. The girls are gone. You were up late. I thought… I thought I’d just sleep it off.”

Logan made a sound in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. He’d already pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I’m callin’ the Professor. Or Jean. One of ‘em can turn this thing around.”

“Non,” Remy said sharply, the word cutting through the room.

Logan looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You got a better idea, Gumbo? Kid’s got a fever that could fry an egg.”

“I got it,” Remy said, already moving. He was peeling blankets away, not all of them, just enough to get to you. “She don’t need de whole team comin’ back. She needs rest, fluids, medicine. We can handle dis.”

“Handle it?” Logan’s voice was incredulous. “She’s sick, Remy. This ain’t a card game you can charm your way out of.”

“I know what it is,” Remy shot back, gently scooping you up despite your weak protests. You weighed practically nothing in his arms, a fact that made something in his chest tighten painfully. “And I ain’t gonna be de one to call Rogue in de middle of a mission to tell her de kid got a fever. She’d be back here faster dan you can say ‘Southern Comfort’ and den de whole operation is compromised. We got dis.”

He was already carrying you out of the room, your head lolling against his shoulder, the borrowed cardigan wrapped around you like a cocoon. You made a small, pitiful sound, your fingers weakly clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and Remy’s heart clenched.

Logan stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the Cajun disappear down the hallway with his bundle of feverish teenager. He was already pulling up his mental list of things to do: temperature, medicine, fluids, something light to eat. He was already cataloging the contents of the medicine cabinet, the fridge, the pantry.

He was also, despite his grumbling, already moving.

The next three hours were, in Remy’s words, “a goddamn disaster.”

They’d set you up in the main living room, on the large sectional couch that faced the fireplace. Remy had declared that your room was “too isolated” and that you needed to be somewhere they could keep an eye on you. Logan had grumbled but hadn’t argued, mostly because he’d been too busy building a fire that would actually stay lit and not fill the room with smoke.

You were currently curled up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in what Logan had dubbed “the blanket burrito.” It consisted of the three comforters from your room, two wool blankets from the hall closet, and one incredibly ugly crocheted afghan that had been a gift to the school from a well-meaning local grandmother. Only your face was visible, and it was still that worrying shade of mottled red.

Remy had taken your temperature three times in the last hour, not because he didn’t trust the thermometer but because he didn’t trust the numbers it was giving him. 101.3. 101.8. 102.1. Each reading made his jaw tighten a little more.

“Medicine,” Logan said for the fifth time, coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water and a small white packet. “Kid needs to take somethin’ to bring that fever down.”

Remy took the packet, examining it like it was a bomb he was about to defuse. “Dis de stuff Hank made? De ‘kiddie-friendly’ formula?”

“S’what it says.” Logan pointed to the label. “‘Coke flavor. Easy to take. Suitable for adolescents.’”

You made a small sound of protest from the couch, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Don’ want it,” you mumbled. “Tastes bad.”

“It can’t taste that bad, chère,” Remy said, already moving toward the kitchen to mix it. “It’s supposed to be Coke. You like Coke.”

“It lies,” you said, with the kind of absolute certainty only a feverish teenager could muster. “It’s a liar. It tastes like poison.”

Logan snorted. “Dramatic, ain’t she?”

“She gets it from Rogue,” Remy called from the kitchen, and Logan could hear him rummaging through the cabinets, probably looking for a cup that wasn’t chipped. “You shoulda seen Anna Marie last time she had de flu. Told me she was dyin’ for three days straight. Demanded I read her de will she’d written in her journal.”

“She wrote a will?”

“Four pages. Left me her leather jacket, left de kid her collection of vintage vinyl, and left you a note dat said ‘stop leaving your cigar butts in my potted plants, you absolute animal.’”

Logan’s lip twitched, almost a smile. “That sounds about right.”

He busied himself with the fire, adding another log, adjusting the screen. He was acutely aware of you on the couch, the way your breathing was just a little too fast, the way you kept shivering despite the heat radiating off you. He’d seen you in the field, calm and competent, using your light to shield civilians, to guide them to safety. You were brave. You were strong. But right now, you looked so small.

Remy came back with a small glass. The liquid inside was a murky brown, and even from across the room, Logan could smell it. It was… not Coke. It smelled like artificial cherry, burnt plastic, and something vaguely chemical that made his nose wrinkle.

“Here we go, petite,” Remy said, his voice pitching into something soft and coaxing. He sat on the edge of the couch, gently easing you upright against his side. “Just a little sip. Get dat fever down.”

You looked at the glass like it had personally offended you. Your nose wrinkled. “No.”

“It’s medicine, chère. You gotta take it.”

“It tastes like butts,” you said, and Logan choked on air, a surprised laugh escaping him despite himself. “Like someone melted a tire and poured it into a Coke can.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Remy said, though he was eyeing the glass with considerably less confidence than before. “It’s medicine. Dey make it so kids can take it.”

You shook your head weakly, burrowing back into your blanket pile. “You try it.”

“What?”

“You try it,” you repeated, your voice muffled by fabric. “If it’s not that bad, I’ll drink it.”

Remy looked at Logan. Logan looked at Remy. There was a long, loaded silence.

“She’s got a point,” Logan said finally, crossing his arms. “You wanna make her drink it, you gotta prove it ain’t poison.”

“It ain’t poison,” Remy said, but his voice lacked conviction. He looked at the glass, then at you, then back at the glass. “Fine. Watch dis. Dis is how a grown man handles his medicine.”

He brought the glass to his lips. He took a sip.

The next ten seconds were some of the most satisfying of Logan’s life.

Remy’s face went through approximately seventeen different expressions in the span of a breath. There was confidence, then confusion, then dawning horror, then a full-body shudder that rattled his teeth. His throat worked, visibly struggling to swallow. His eyes watered. His nostrils flared.

He made a sound. It wasn’t quite a gag, but it was close. It was the sound of a man who had just tasted something that should not exist in any civilized society.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que cette merde,” he wheezed, shoving the glass onto the side table like it was radioactive. “What the fuck.”

Logan’s grin was wide and entirely without mercy. “Told you.”

“Dis—dis—” Remy was coughing now, actually coughing, one hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to keep his soul from escaping. “Dis is de worst t’ing I ever put in my mouth. And I once ate a live crawfish on a dare in de Bayou. What de hell, Hank.”

“It tastes like butts,” you said from the couch, your voice small but vindicated.

“It tastes like butts,” Remy agreed fervently. “It tastes like someone set a tire fire in a chemical plant and den bottled de runoff. I’m so sorry, chère. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”

Logan was laughing now, a real laugh, deep and rough. “Goddamn scientists,” he said, shaking his head. “Got all that fancy technology and they can’t make medicine taste like anythin’ but hot garbage.”

“We ain’t givin’ her dat,” Remy declared, pushing the glass as far away from you as possible. “I don’t care if de fever hits 105. She ain’t drinkin’ dat. We’ll find somethin’ else. We’ll call Hank. We’ll—we’ll crush up some Tylenol in apple sauce or somethin’.”

“Already thought of that,” Logan said, and there was a note of genuine regret in his voice. “Checked the cabinet. All we got is this stuff and the adult capsules. Can’t give her those.”

“Den we go to de store.”

“We got a sick kid on the couch and no one else to watch her.”

“Den you go to de store.”

“Why do I gotta go?”

“‘Cause I’m de one takin’ care of her,” Remy said, gesturing to where you were already starting to drift off again, your eyes half-lidded, your breathing evening out. “I’m de one she trusts to hold her. I’m de comfort parent.”

Logan’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re the comfort parent?”

“Oui. I’m de fun one. De one she comes to when she wants to hear stories about de Guild, or when she wants someone to read her poetry in a French accent. You’re de—de other one.”

“The other one.”

“De scary one. De one who growls at people who look at her wrong. De one who’s good for threats and teachin’ her how to throw a punch.”

Logan stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he looked at the couch, where you were now fully asleep, your face pressed into a pillow, one small hand peeking out of the blanket burrito to clutch at the edge of Remy’s sleeve even in unconsciousness.

“…Fine,” he said, and the word came out gruffer than he intended. “I’ll go to the store. But you gotta keep that fever down. Cool cloths. Fluids. Don’t just sit there lookin’ pretty.”

“I never just sit dere lookin’ pretty,” Remy said, with a wounded dignity that was completely undermined by the fact that he was already reaching for the throw blanket to tuck it more securely around your shoulders. “I’m a man of action.”

Logan was already at the door, grabbing his jacket. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Don’t let her get worse.”

He was gone before Remy could reply.

The fifteen minutes became thirty, then forty-five, because the nearest pharmacy was twenty minutes away and Logan had apparently decided to personally test every single brand of children’s fever reducer before making a selection.

In his absence, Remy had settled into his role as “comfort parent” with a dedication that would have been comical if it wasn’t so sincere.

He’d pulled the armchair as close to the couch as physics would allow, close enough that you could keep hold of his sleeve while he ran his free hand through your hair in slow, soothing strokes. He’d found the remote for the television and put on something soft, some black and white movie that was more about the music than the plot. He’d positioned the fire screen to cast the perfect amount of warmth, not too hot, not too cold.

And he’d carried you.

Not just from your room to the couch. Every time you stirred, every time you made that small, pitiful sound that meant you were uncomfortable or cold or just vaguely unhappy, he was there. He’d scoop you up, blankets and all, and carry you to a new spot. The other end of the couch. The armchair, with you curled in his lap like a kitten. The chaise lounge near the window, where the afternoon sun could warm your face.

You never complained. You never fussed. You just let yourself be carried, your feverish weight negligible in his arms, your face buried against his chest, your breathing slowly evening out each time.

At one point, he’d tried to get you to eat something. Toast. Soup. Even just a few crackers. But you’d looked at the food with the same expression you’d given the medicine, your nose wrinkling, your lips pressing together in a line of absolute refusal.

“Not hungry,” you’d mumbled, and when he’d tried to coax you anyway, you’d turned your face into his shoulder and simply… stopped responding.

So he’d given up. For now. He’d try again later. For now, it was enough that you were resting, that the fever hadn’t spiked, that you were safe.

He was in the middle of adjusting your blanket situation for the seventh time when the front door opened and Logan stomped in, a plastic bag dangling from one hand and a scowl on his face.

“Pharmacy was out of the grape,” he announced, dropping the bag on the coffee table with more force than strictly necessary. “Had to get the berry. And they were out of the liquid, so I got the chewables. Hope the kid doesn’t mind chompin’ her medicine like a grown-up.”

Remy peered into the bag. There were three boxes of chewable tablets, a bottle of electrolyte solution that was supposed to be “watermelon splash,” a box of saltine crackers, a can of chicken noodle soup, and a bag of sour gummy worms that he was almost certain Logan had bought for himself.

“Berry flavor,” Remy said, pulling out one of the boxes. “Is it gonna taste like butts too?”

“Only one way to find out.”

They looked at each other. They looked at the box. They looked at you, still sleeping, your face peaceful for the first time all day.

“You try it,” Remy said.

“The hell I will. You’re the one who made her try the other stuff.”

“I didn’t make her. I offered. Dere’s a difference.”

“You’re the comfort parent,” Logan said, and there was a definite edge of mockery in his voice now. “You be the one to taste-test the kid’s medicine.”

Remy opened his mouth to argue, but a small sound from the couch stopped him. You were stirring, your eyes blinking open, glassy and unfocused. You looked from Remy to Logan to the box in Remy’s hand, and a flicker of understanding crossed your face.

“Is that… medicine?” you asked, your voice still rough.

“It is, chère,” Remy said, his tone gentling immediately. “Chewable dis time. Berry flavor.”

“Does it taste like butts?”

Remy looked at the box. He looked at Logan. He looked at you.

“I’m gonna find out,” he said, and before Logan could stop him, he’d popped one of the tablets out of its foil packet and put it in his mouth.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Remy chewed. His expression was carefully neutral. He chewed some more. His brow furrowed slightly. He chewed again, and then he swallowed.

“Well?” Logan demanded.

Remy took a moment to compose himself. “It ain’t… good,” he said slowly. “It’s… medicinal. But it ain’t… butts.”

“That’s the most qualified non-answer I ever heard.”

“It tastes like de inside of a medicine cabinet,” Remy admitted. “But it ain’t gonna make her gag. I t’ink. Maybe.”

You were watching them both, a small, exhausted smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You guys are weird,” you said.

“We’re weird?” Logan crossed his arms, fixing you with a glare that had been known to make hardened criminals confess. “We’re not the one who decided to get a fever the one day all the responsible adults are out of the house.”

“Didn’t plan it,” you mumbled, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Just happened.”

“Well, un-happen it,” Logan said, but he was already moving toward the couch, his gruff demeanor softening in a way he would deny to his dying day. “Come on. Time for medicine. You take this, then you drink some of that electrolyte stuff, then you try to eat some soup. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Closest thing you got right now. Open up.”

You made a face, but you let Logan help you sit up, let him press the small purple tablet into your palm. You looked at it with deep suspicion, turning it over in your fingers like it might explode.

“It’s really not that bad,” Remy said, and he was probably lying, but he was lying with such sincerity that you almost believed him. “Just chew it fast and wash it down with de water stuff. You won’t even taste it.”

“That’s a lie,” you said.

“A creative truth,” Remy corrected.

Logan snorted. “Just take the damn medicine, kid.”

You took a deep breath, shoved the tablet in your mouth, and chewed as fast as you could. Your face scrunched up immediately, your nose wrinkling, your eyes squeezing shut. Remy was there with the bottle of electrolyte solution before you could even swallow, pressing it into your hands, helping you take a long drink.

“See?” he said, when you finally lowered the bottle, your face still twisted in disgust. “Wasn’t so bad.”

“It was bad,” you said flatly. “It was really bad.”

“But it wasn’t butts.”

“…It wasn’t butts.”

“Progress,” Remy declared, and Logan actually laughed.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of blankets and bad television and small, quiet moments.

Logan made the soup, opening the can with more violence than necessary and heating it on the stove because he refused to use the microwave for “anything that’s supposed to be nourishing.” He brought it to you in your grandmother’s favorite mug, the one with the faded flowers on the side, because he’d noticed you liked it better than bowls.

You ate three spoonfuls before you started to fade, your eyelids drooping, your head listing to the side. Remy caught you before you could spill, easing you back against the couch cushions, tucking the blankets around you with a gentleness that belied his usual flamboyance.

“She didn’t eat enough,” Logan said, his voice low.

“She ate what she could,” Remy replied, just as quiet. “We’ll try again later. De fever’s comin’ down. It’s workin’.”

Logan grunted, but he couldn’t argue. The flush in your cheeks was fading, the fine tremors that had wracked your body earlier were gone. You were sleeping now, truly sleeping, your breathing deep and even.

They sat in silence for a long while, the fire crackling, the television playing some old western neither of them was watching. Remy had moved back to the armchair, close enough to reach you if you stirred. Logan had taken up residence on the other end of the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the flames.

“We did good,” Remy said eventually, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t quite pride but was close.

Logan didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, gruff. “We did alright.”

“Gonna tell Anna Marie we handled it like pros?”

“Hell no,” Logan said, and this time there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. “You tell her the kid got sick, she’s gonna worry. You tell her the kid got sick and we handled it, she’s gonna ask questions. Next thing you know, she’s gonna want a full report. Temperature readings. Medicine dosages. Soup consumption metrics.”

“She ain’t dat bad.”

“She made you read her will last time she had the flu.”

“She’s… thorough.”

Logan snorted. “She’s a control freak. And she’s gonna know somethin’ was up the minute she walks in and sees the kid’s been moved to the couch.”

Remy considered this. “We tell her de kid wanted to watch movies. Dat we had a… a movie marathon.”

“She’s gonna ask what movies.”

“We tell her we watched… what’s dat one you like? De one with de horses?”

“The Man from Snowy River?”

“Oui. Dat one.”

“You think Rogue’s gonna believe a sixteen-year-old girl who reads poetry about death and hangs out in the chapel with Kurt wanted to watch a thirty-year-old Australian horse movie?”

“We tell her she was sick. Fever made her delirious.”

Logan laughed, a real laugh, deep and warm. “You’re a terrible liar, Gumbo.”

“I’m an excellent liar. I’m just lyin’ to de wrong person.”