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ludi-ling · 2 months

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Maison Romy

So last summer I was hanging out with @narwhallove in Seattle, and she challenged me to write something that married my love of Romy with my love of historical fashion. She seemed to be really into it, and I was like, nah, it's not possible, but then she started throwing ideas -ahemdemandsahem - at me, and somehow something took hold and started sprouting.

This is as far as I got.

Will it ever be finished? I don't know. It's such a niche interest, I might continue writing it just for me. 😉

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Maison Hoareau was in decline.

For more than fifty years it had dressed queens and princesses and duchesses and debutantes, and they had done so with flair and panache. Now, in 1910, they still dressed the wealthy and the famous; but their clientele had grown as old and distinguished as they had. Very rarely did a pretty and winsome young lady cross their threshold.

Across the busy New York city street that separated them was the House of Burford. The House of Burford was only five years old, and had no distinguished lineage at all; but it was there that the pretty and winsome young ladies entered, and left with dainty parcels and smiles on their faces.

“What do they have that we do not?” Monsieur Hoareau asked from the head of his boardroom table. “We have beauty and taste and the finest fabrics from across the world; and what’s more, we have pedigree! Three generations at the forefront of fashion! How could they possibly compete?”

There were murmurings of assent around the table.

Remy LeBeau, however, stood at the window, and looked silently across the street to their rival.

A pretty young redhead was alighting from a motorcar, dressed in a startingly avantgarde concoction of furs and elegantly-arranged silk drapery. A returning customer – he had seen her before. With the exuberant stride of every fashionable young woman about to shop, she stepped past the very officious doorman and into the as-yet uncharted stronghold of the House of Burford.

“Young women do not care for pedigree,” he muttered to himself. “They only care to look beautiful, and more beautiful than anyone else around them.”

“What do you say, LeBeau?” Monsieur Hoareau demanded waspishly. “Speak louder, man!”

LeBeau turned away from the window.

“I say that if we want to appeal to young women, we must move with the times.”

He walked back over to the table, opened his portfolio, and pulled out his latest designs.

“If we want to expand our clientele again,” he said, handing out the drawings around the table, “we need to be bold, innovative, forward-thinking. But most of all, we need to be unique.”

There were hmm-ings and hah-ings as they took in his designs; but Monsieur Hoareau was shaking his head, saying:

“Monsieur LeBeau, this will not do!” He looked at one drawing, then another. “No, indeed, it will not! These are… why, they are tubes! Women do not like to wear tubes! They like tiny waists! And the drape of this one is quite ugly! Women like to show how slender they are! This coat swathes the figure, and does not show it off to advantage at all!”

LeBeau was used to this. He merely raised an eyebrow.

“I thought it quite fetching,” he noted. “And modern.”

Monsieur Hoareau drew his eyebrows together disapprovingly.

“Monsieur LeBeau,” he began testily, “can you imagine Lady Carruthers wearing such a garment? Or our dear First Lady?”

LeBeau said nothing. Far better to say nothing, than to confess he could not.

“Of course, our most esteemed clientele could not bear to be seen in such clothing,” M. Hoareau declared as if to put an end to the matter. “We would lose their custom, and that would be insupportable to Le Maison Hoareau! And so, Monsieur LeBeau, you will go back to the drawing board, and re-design these veritable monstrosities!”

LeBeau did as he was told, picked up the drawings, and walked back to his studio.

He sat at his desk, and laid out his designs. He stared at them a very long time.

Monsieur Hoareau, you see, was a businessman, and not a fashion designer.

Unlike his father and grandfather before him, he had no interest in the creative aspects of Maison Hoareau. He left that to LeBeau; and LeBeau had willingly and enthusiastically taken on the thankless task of being the creative lead of the world’s foremost fashion house. Thankless, as Monsieur Hoareau the Third had made it his life’s work to thwart every idea LeBeau had to turn the waning fortunes of his employer. Indeed, some of his best work had seen rejection after rejection. Today was no exception.

With a sigh, he ripped up his designs, one by one, screwed them up into a ball, and pitched them into the nearby wastepaper basket.

He lounged in his swing chair for a bit and stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the graceful Victorian plasterwork, intricate whorls and loops that were now thoroughly out of fashion.

An idea was forming in his head.

He got up and walked over to the window.

Across the road he saw the pretty redhead leaving the House of Burford, a pile of parcels precariously positioned in the arms of her driver, a broad smile on her pink lips. This was rarely a scene one saw at the Maison Hoareau.

What was their secret, he wondered? What was their magic? It had scarcely been a year since the House of Burford had set up shop across the way, yet the beached whale called Mr. Burford (which was what M. Hoareau insisted on calling him) had managed to exert some sort of magnetic pull on any young woman worth her salt throughout the neighbourhood. And, LeBeau thought with a lop-sided grimace, Mr. Burford was as much a businessman as his dear M. Hoareau was. There was not a creative bone in the man’s body, none at all.

He was out on the steps now, waving off his latest customer with an avuncular officiousness.

No – there was certainly no mysterious magic about Mr. Burford. Whatever the source of his house’s mystique, it did not lie in him.

A little smile crossed LeBeau’s face.

He walked back to his chair and began to grin.

Yes.

A little idea was forming in his head.

-oOo-

Sometime over the past hundred years or so men’s fashion had become dull, almost utilitarian. Rich fabrics, scintillating colours, and any flamboyance of form, had died under the mighty shadow Beau Brummel had cast. Taste could no longer compel a man to wear frills or ruffles, nor any shade of pink.

No – female dress had continued to hold the torch of glorious ostentation. Sometimes it seemed that no outrageous look was off limits – from crinolines to bustles, from panniers to the now thoroughly modish hobble skirt – women could indulge without abandon, and men like LeBeau were quite happy to do the service of indulging. Others, like M. Hoareau and his rival, Mr. Burford, were quite happy to make money out of said impulse to indulge. Women played; and men felt fortunate to referee. They could admire, but never wear.

They were not, however, immune to the desire to look good; and Remy LeBeau was no exception. Unlike most, he had the power to design and tailor his own personal clothing to best effect, and he did not skimp on this fact. Of course, Mr. LeBeau had been known to turn a head or two in his time.

The motorcar stopped outside Maison Hoareau; and LeBeau, dressed in his sharp grey suit and double-breasted overcoat, clattered down the front steps to meet its occupant. Out stepped a beautiful blonde wearing a vertically striped hobble skirt, and an impossibly wide-brimmed hat festooned with feathers. She, of course, did not shop at Maison Hoareau.

“Monsieur LeBeau,” she greeted him as he greeted her – with a kiss; one planted, featherlight, on each cheek.

“Mam’selle Boudreaux,” he replied, with a sparkle in his eye. He offered her his arm and she took it.

“I got your call. You said you wanted my acting skills,” she said in French, as the car pulled away.

“That I do,” he responded, also in French, “but only if you don’t mind a little improvisation.”

Contrary to expectation, he was leading her away from the building, and towards the street. She stopped before they could cross.

“Well, you do know how I like to hone my skills, mon cher,” she replied, “but you must at least give me something to work with.”

“Oh, well, that is quite easy,” he smiled complacently. “You are my wife; and I am buying you a suitable gift.”

He cast his eye at the House of Burford across the road; and, following his gaze, she instantly got an idea of what he had in mind.

“Monsieur LeBeau, am I to be an accomplice in your corporate espionage?”

“Ma chere,” he answered breezily, “scruples are not quite your style.”

“No indeed!” she half-laughed. “But I thought this kind of perfidy rather below you!”

“Mam’selle,” he said, serious now, “will you play at being my wife? You almost were once, if you remember.”

“Good grief!” She pushed him slightly away with affectionate ire. “You only say such things because you know I hate arranged marriages as much as you do! Otherwise, your words would have severely wounded me.”

“Ma chere, Belle,” he murmured gallantly. “You were always my friend before all else. If it doesn’t pain you to pretend at something we almost were, please would you humour me, at least for the hour?”

She scoffed and pushed him away again – but she was fonder of him than she was bitter at the impromptu dissolution of their betrothal – and so she said:

“Well, all right. But only for the hour!”

It was half-past five, and far too late for any shop to be anything but closed; but Mr. Burford could hardly ignore a visit from the beautiful and freshly-feted young actress named Belladonna Boudreaux. The portly fashion designer was thrilled to have such an eminent guest enter his establishment, and took every pain to be exuberantly officious.

“This is quite the surprise!” he greeted them in the hallway. “If I had known you were coming, I would have arranged a private viewing for you, Mademoiselle Boudreaux. Alas, all but myself and a few of my staff have already gone home for the day.”

“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Burford,” she waved him off imperiously. “I had only just heard of your glittering reputation from a friend of mine, and I was curious to see for myself what all the fuss is about. But no matter – I can come again another day.”

LeBeau knew what working with Maison Hoareau had long taught him, and that was that a customer in your doors during inconvenient hours was better than a customer who might never come back – especially one as eminent as a newly-famous actress. It was generally advisable that a man in the business of fashion kept a lady preoccupied with silks and satins and velvets for as long as it took for their spell to be cast upon her, if at all possible.

“Oh no, no, no,” Mr. Burford insisted firmly. “It is no trouble to give you a quick little tour of our workrooms, Mademoiselle! Your friend is quite in the right – and I would be honoured to prove it to you, if I may. Perhaps there is a bolt of fabric, a fragment of lace, a pretty button that you might fancy for your next ensemble?”

Belle pretended to think about it a moment.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. We do have an hour before we must arrive at the Goodwin’s; and it would never do to be on time anyhow!” She tugged at LeBeau’s arm. “Come, dearest, let us see whether Mercy is right!”

For the first time Mr. Burford cast Remy a look – the kind of bemused yet comradely look only a man can pass to another man in the presence of a powerful woman. LeBeau smiled back, faintly, pleased that his former-fiancée’s force of character had bypassed any need for introduction on his part.

He let himself be led hither and thither throughout the building’s salons, where this or that garment, or bolt of fabric, had been left out for previous clients, and were in the process of being packed away. Where Maison Hoareau’s interior decorations were staid and sedate and imminently dignified, the House of Burford’s were light and fresh and bright – and mirrors were everywhere, mirrors that women of a certain age preferred not to see.

As for Mr. Burford – well, he was impressive, though not out of the common way for a businessman. The more LeBeau listened to him, the more he felt certain that this was not a man of great creative taste or impulses.

He picked up a piece of finely-wrought lace from a side table and examined it for a moment or two. Fine work, indeed! Fastidious in execution, if not at all in style. He put it back where he had found it, and noticed that Belle and Mr. Burford had moved on to the next room without him, their animated conversation already trailing behind them.

Taking this as his cue, LeBeau turned and went back into the hallway. From experience he knew exactly where the workrooms were likely to be, and that was where he went.

The embroiderer’s workroom was quiet, empty apart from the glow of a single electric light. LeBeau stepped up between the frames, peering down now and then to see what was being worked on. There were no floral sprays or pretty little bows. Arabesque spirals and orientalist clouds unfolded across the fabric with seemingly effortless grace. Here was a little Hokusai; and here a little Greek Geometric; and there a little Alhambra.

His innate eye for beauty could only appreciate such artistry.

He turned when he reached the end of the row; and that was when he saw her.

She was sitting quietly in a corner, engrossed in her embroidery; and as soon as he had become aware of her presence, it seemed that she had become aware of his; and both started and stared, one at the other.

“Apologies, mam’selle,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Her eyes were green. They were greener than any woman’s he’d yet seen, than any emerald he’d had the pleasure of handling.

“No offence taken, sir,” she replied, after a moment. Her accent was at some intersection between New York and the deep South. She dipped her head and turned back to her work.

He’d often done this – wandered through the workrooms, watching the girls go about the business of bringing his creations to life. It was this force of routine that allowed him to walk so freely to her side, to look over her shoulder to see what she was doing.

He was unconsciously certain this was a position she had encountered a thousand times before in her daily life; so he was a little surprised when she stiffened slightly, as if acutely aware of his proximity to her, and her to him. Defensiveness oozed from her pores.

He stared at her a moment, then at her work. She was putting the finishing touches to a cascading border of peacock feathers, her fingers moving deftly back and forth, leaving sparkling gold flourishes in their wake. Her movements held an almost careless rhythm that belied the talent inherent in them.

“That is very fine work,” he praised her, pitching his tone low and inoffensive, knowing instinctively that she would not tolerate anything more enthusiastic.

“Thank you,” she said. The words were standoffish.

She would offer nothing more; and so, he turned away.

He stopped.

He was standing before a dress form, on which was mounted a nearly-finished evening dress. Almost translucent white silk shimmered under the lamplight, shot through with tiny beads of teal and turquoise and gold which, by some almost magical sleight of hand, had come together to coalesce into peacock feathers. He held his breath a little at the mastery of it; and he knew this was the work of the little seamstress behind him.

“Do you like it?” he heard her ask behind him.

He turned and saw her swivelled in her chair to face him, her fingers now still in her lap.

“This is all your work?” he asked her, pointing to the embroidery.

She nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

He looked back at her work, then at her.

“It’s some of the best work I’ve ever seen.”

It was no lie.

The girl gave a modest though pleased little smile. She had the complexion of a redhead, with pale skin and a sprinkling of very unfashionable freckles; and of course, there were those brilliant green eyes of hers. But she was a brunette, her long, wavy locks tied up in a silk kerchief that was chicer than her simple white shirtwaist and plaid skirt implied. A single lock of pure white hair had come free of the kerchief and had fallen to her shoulder.

“I didn’t do it all myself,” she admitted, her smile becoming a little more genuine. She picked up the piece she had been working on, and stood. When she moved to join him at the dress form, he was surprised to see that what he had first thought she was wearing was a skirt was actually trousers.

“This section is for the sleeves,” she explained to him. “Here.” She held up the piece of embroidery to the appropriate place. “I wanted to have it done for tomorrow – it was so close to being finished.”

She admired her handiwork for a moment, a self-satisfied smile on her face.

“The cut is very simple,” he noted, half to himself. The waistline was high, and the lines were almost Grecian. He was used to nipped-in waists and structured bodices, the kind of look that was Maison Hoareau’s bread and butter.

She looked at him a moment, perhaps surprised that a man should know anything about the cut of a woman’s dress.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Very simple. And liberating.”

“Such a cut promotes freedom of movement,” he agreed.

“And no need for a corset,” she finished. She smiled a little slyly at him. “Do you generally approve of the woman’s right to free and untrammelled movement, sir?”

There was something a little impish in the question, something that he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of encountering from a woman so below his current social standing. He smiled.

“Miss, I have a keen eye for things of beauty. If free and untrammelled movement can promote beauty, I can only approve of it.”

She screwed up her freckled nose, half-amused, half-offended.

“That is a thought only a man could express!” she declared in a strange blend of Southern and New York. He laughed.

“Alas! I am but a man. But if you will permit me, Miss? This piece you have embroidered for the sleeves? I think it would also do very well here – coming up from the skirt’s hem, up towards the waist, to draw one’s attention back up the dress.”

She looked startled at the suggestion, and he realised, stupidly, how much he had given away. He cleared his throat added.

“But of course, Mr. Burford would not agree to having his design altered, especially not at the suggestion of a stranger whose only qualification is as a connoisseur of beauty.”

He did not know what she would have said, for at that very moment they were interrupted by Belle and Mr. Burford stepping into the room.

“There you are, darling,” Belle declared in that flippant way she did so well. “Mr. Burford was worried you’d gotten lost!”

Burford looked none too pleased that one of his private workshops had been invaded. With an eagle eye he glanced over the place, as if to make certain that nothing was stolen or had been left out of place.

“My apologies,” LeBeau said with a polite smile. “I became distracted and lost you. I found myself here somehow.” He turned a little, intending to indicate that he had been left in the capable hands of Burford’s seamstress; but she had gone back to her table, and was once again busying herself with her work as if nothing had happened.

“I am afraid,” Burford was saying in a rather harassed tone, “that it is getting rather late Miss. Boudreaux. My staff should really be leaving. Perhaps, with all the little samples I have given you, you will be tempted to return in the coming days?”

“But of course,” Belle was all smiles. “Perhaps at the end of the week, when I am not engaged.”

LeBeau knew when to retreat. He let Belle do the business of thanking their host, and of taking their leave; and when he looked back at the seamstress, he saw her eyeing his beautiful companion out of the corner of her eye; though her fingers were busily working as she did so.

#Romy fic #Romy #Rogue #Gambit #Rogue and Gambit #Remy LeBeau #Anna Marie LeBeau #writing process

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captainswanandclintasha · 8 days

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if it makes you feel any better read this fanfic

https://www.tumblr.com/cookiesandcosplay/750951710515691520/untitled

I read it and it did not, in fact, made me feel better 🥹🥹🥹

But @cookiesandcosplay is a genius for writing it! 🫶

#captainswanandclintasha #Romy fic #Rogue #Gambit #anna marie lebeau #remy lebeau

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roturo · 5 months

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↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ I FOUND MY BEST FRIEND LITTLE SISTER FINISHING IN HIS BATHROOM WHILE MOANING MY NAME. So... I fucked her.

tags: smut, unprotected sex, dumbification, breeding, overstimulation, a lot of cum, age-gap, gojo is SO obsessed with you, tummy bulge, sadism, breeding, dacryphilia, cunnilingus, reader gets caught masturbating, objectification if you squint, possesive gojo...

A/N: wasn't my last writing of the year lol, wrote this while watching sinjin drowing so npr, happy holidays!!

You’ve known Gojo Satoru almost for your entire life. It was one day your brother Suguru introduced the both of you just so he could enter the house and have dinner to continue playing with Satoru.

Ever since Gojo has been a daily presence in your house. He was known as “Y/N’s big brother hot best friend” well, mostly to the ones who liked Gojo, because that didn’t stop the other girls from crushing into your brother.

You told your friends you didn’t like Gojo in that way, since he was off limits for you- Not only because he was your brother's best friend but because it also ruined your hopes thanks to the age difference you had between.

Being a freshman in college wasn’t easy. Not only you had the weird seniors going for the new girls, but being known as the Geto’s Suguru’s hot little sister didn’t feel like a compliment either. At least Gojo treated you as your own person, not like Geto’s other friends.

Geto invited you over at his dorm, having some of his close friends present, which included Gojo. It turned into an usual occurrence ever since you entered college, your brother making it easier for you to adapt into this new environment.

All of you decided to take it easy tonight and just watch a movie. Nothing wrong with it, right? Well, there's nothing wrong. While watching, Gojo would try to make small talk with you, most likely because he’s just clingy and Geto is hanging with his girlfriend on the other sofa. Nothing wrong with what’s happening. During scary moments he would lean and hug you. Keeping his right hand on your left thigh, playing with the strings of your tiny small pajama shorts.

That comment is his, obviously. Keeping the blanket covering both of your bodies and his totally not wrong act. And you’re pretty sure if he just moved his hand a little higher he would feel your wetness coating your shorts.

Gojo was trying to gain your attention. It’s pretty obvious he’s been crushing you for years now, and he’s pretty sure Suguru has commented about it. Taking it as a go to continue flirting with you and adorning your pretty face with reddish colors.

But ever since he entered college, he kinda forgot about his crush and got his head (and dick) into other girls. The first time he saw you again, he couldn’t believe it. You looked so beautiful and.. different in a good way. It’s like his caged feelings escaped and flew all across the room.

And he’s sure that happened to you too, because your pretty face didn’t hide those loving reddish colors he adored.

Coming back to the present, it was kinda weird everytime he hugged you or leaned into you. You seemed uncomfortable… Your thighs caging his hand, making his blood run straight into his cock. But he didn’t think anything about it, and assumed it was normal.

While he was leaning into you, it became difficult and you decided to go to the bathroom to at least fix the problem going on between your legs and left. After a while, Gojo noticed that you were taking a long time, and he really needed to use the bathroom too to also fix his problem between his legs. He got up, commenting about going to the bathroom too. His friends clearly are not caring about it– too busy in their make out session.

He got out and decided to wait for you to get out of the bathroom. He stood in front of the bathroom door for a while until he realized the door was unlocked so he assumed that you already finished and just went somewhere else.

He opened the door and then, he saw you.

Never in his entire life did he expect to see such a pretty sight. Your pretty fucking face could make him cum alone. Your mouth making an ‘o’ form with your eyebrows scrunched up, just whimpering his name. Legs opened up trying to find balance sitting down in the toilet.

And you might have an exhibitionism kink or maybe you were just at your limit. Because once you realized Gojo was standing there watching you, it brought you to climax. Taking you an embarrassing amount of time to recover from it.

He couldn’t believe his eyes and shut the door in front of you face and went back to the living room with a raging erection, and never mentioned the incident with you from the remaining time.

As soon as he left, you went up running towards him, begging to not tell anyone about it. And Gojo Satoru, being the asshole he is, saw this as an opportunity.

“Okay.”

“Okay?! Oh my god Gojo, thank you so much- I swear I can explain it was-”

“But,”

Fuck. There has to be a ‘but’

“You have to go out with me and do it on my face.”

Silence…

“I- I’ve never done it before…”

Oh fuck. You’re going to be the cause of the death of Gojo Satoru.

He wasted no time taking you to his dorm, stealing small pecks from you which helped you with the anxiety in your tummy turn into desire for him. Feeling confident enough, once the both of you entered his dorm he closed the door and you attacked his lips with no warning. Earning a groan from him, your hole clenching at the feeling of his clear erection making its presence between the both of you.

He picked you up, a moan leaving his lips once he realized the big difference of size between your bodies, thinking how you would be capable of taking his cock. He had to prepare you enough to fit him.

Your back arched from the bed as Satoru's tongue laps up the slick of your soaking hole, his lips around your clit, sucking like his life depended on it. It's been so long since he felt like this for somebody, the feeling that he just wants to bend you over anything and just... shove his cock in your tight little pussy.

It's like, you're created for the sole purpose of pleasuring him. You just have to be, that's what he thinks as he plays with your body. Fat tears fall out of your pretty doe eyes, your hands finding their way onto his scalp and tugging at his hair.

Why can't you just take it? Look at you now, whimpering and crying, but on the inside you know you love it, being a little whore for your brother’s best friend– you sob as he continues his assault on your poor pussy.

Why do you keep screaming at him to stop? You were just screaming his name some hours again. Is it the overstimulation? But you weren’t prepared enough for his cock!

Gojo knows you better than anyone, he knows you even better than your older brother. Why do you think he’s the one taking care of you this whole time in college? Who do you think has been scaring off the guys waiting in line to have a taste of this pussy? It’s so weird you don’t know about it because everyone thinks you’re off limits right now. Is it because you’re really that naive? Maybe he loved that of you, how you’re so clueless of how crazy you make him. Being known as “Gojo’s Satoru’s hot next and official last real girl” instead of “Geto’s hot little sister”

Like- That’s why he's giving your sweet little cunt a lot of attention right now.

“Ssatoru! Please, stop! baby… ‘s too much..” All your whines fall into deaf ears as he continues without a care. Your pussy felt so stimulated as he sucked on your hole, his tongue licking and his throat groaning at the mere taste of your slick.You can barely lift your hands in exhaustion.

For hours, he didn't stop, continuously dragging orgasms out of you without fail.

“Aww, are you tired? But I finally have the girl of my dreams" You nodded, your tummy full of butterflies, making a mental note to talk about your feelings with Satoru tomorrow- your eyes droopy from all the cumming you've been doing for the past hours.

"But, princess, I'm not done yet~ I have to show you how much I desired you this whole time, how much I have waited for you to finally give and and realize." Gojo purred as unclasped the button of his pants, taking off his own clothing. “ But I guess you were just so dumb to get it all those years ago, at least you kept this cute cunt for me. We still have much time left. Fill you up and break you apart baby” You were faced by his raging cock, hard and full- he sits back down between your legs, lifting them up to his shoulders again, he then rests his hand against your clit. And after that, he slapped your pussy so hard that it made you jump and cry of his name. Never in your life did you expect your dream to become true and have your first time with him. Nor Gojo being a sadist and a have an obsession with your pretty little cunt compared to him

"I'm gonna pump your pussy with all the cum I have, girlie. You made a promise after all."

It's like Gojo doesn’t have a stamina limit in his body- able to go round after round in position after position - but at this point it’s been god knows how many times. He’s addicted to the way you feel around him, the sounds you make when he fucks into you a certain way, or just the look of your fucked-out, dazed face that has him needing more of you.

“hah- made a big mess down there, huh?” Gojo sneers brashly, heavy hips rocking into you faster at just the lewd sight of his cum from previous rounds smothering your skin. the aching twitch in his cock won’t fade, pleasure burgeoning with every press of his cock into the hilt of your pussy. “I think there’s room for some more, yeah? just one more…”

Your little play doll for him to change, shape, and form. A clear bump showing and leaving your tummy, making Gojo’s eyes go crazier and more full of desire than before. He programs you to do things he wants, and you just nod your head at his words though you don't understand them, just giving him a smile on your lips- your delicate fingers already spreading your pussylips for him, ready to take his cock inside of you. Biting your lip, rolling your eyes as he plunges into you.

You couldn’t count how many times Gojo’s said ‘just one more round’, but from the fatigue glimmering in his eyes and the raggedness lacing his breath - you can tell this is the last one. So naturally, he’ll make sure it’s the best one of the night.

“g’na fill you up like you deserve, yeah? lemme fuck this pussy full,” Gojo grunts pantingly between a grin, fingers digging into your waist taut as the heavy smacks of his hips against yours get sloppy and quick. it’s with rasped groans and his hips fully bottomed out that he finally cums for the last time, ropes of white seeping out around his shaft and spilling onto the sheets. he can’t help but bargain and promise to clean the bed if you let him do it all over again tomorrow.

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schrodingers-romy · 6 months

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Choso carries toddler Yuuji on his shoulders... Yuuji holds on to his pigtails and pulls them to 'steer' his big brother where he wants to go and Choso just goes along with it because what baby brother wants baby brother gets

#jjk #choso #itadori yuuji #yuuji itadori #romy can talk #honestly thought of doing a fic but couldnt think of much besides the basic idea so. textpost!!

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dominimoonbeam · 7 months

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...the Milo/Darlin fic that might turn into a Milo/Darlin/Asher/David fic NO ONE ASKED FOR, just hit 4k.

My other 5+ fics are all glaring at me.

#redactedverse #fanfic #the heart fics what it wants #milo/darlin #it's beautiful #<3 #Romi don't look #dominimoonbeam

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inxamista · 29 days

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X-men '97 threw me right back into the very first fandom of my life - and to which I've never ever did anything fandom-related, believe me or not. And after *that* episode of the show, I decided to live in the land of Comic-Verse X-men because I don't pay streaming to get my feelings hurt.

The only one allowed to hurt my feels is ME.

So, after binge-reading all sorts of stories Gambit-related and catching up to some of the comics, my brain decided that it would no longer function properly unless I wrote this thing.

Trompe L'oeil on AO3

Y'all fans of our good ol' cajun and angst, enjoy.

(Is it romy, you ask? Welllll... sorta.)

#remy lebeau #gambit #x men #romy #my fics #rogue #YES i'm living in Denial Land #Denial is a river in egypt and I'm OKAY with that #Come live in denial with me y'all

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jehilew · 3 months

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ROMY FANS!!

I know, yes, I promised y’all a Valentine’s Day fic. That’s coming. Soon. I hope.

But this post ain’t about that!

This is about a project I’m suuuuuper excited about, and have been positively itching to tease about. Well, I’m finally allowed to post a snippet!

So, without further ado, if I may wet your Romy palate with this appeteaser of my fic to be featured in ‘Home and Harbor’, the coming-to-you-soon Romy fanzine!

I’m also including the gorgeous art teaser by the delightful @theredtrails! She and I paired up for our contributions in the ‘zine, and I feel like we created a banger of a collaboration for y’all’s enjoyment 😁

Seriously though, this is turning out so perfect, and I can’t wait til it’s finished, and we get to see what everyone else cooked up too!

#gambit #rogue #remy lebeau #anna marie lebeau #romy #rogue and gambit #Home and Harbor #Romy fanzine #art+fic collab #roguegambitfanzine

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avengersfan6 · 3 months

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Help I lost a fic! X-Men evolution

I've been looking for 3 fanfics all from X-Men evolution. Tow of the fics were 'Giddy' and 'Love of my life' by seven sunningdale. They were originally posted on Fanfiction.net but were removed. I don't know where or how to find them and if anyone has a copy please let me know.

As for the third fic I don't know the name or the author but I know it's from ff.net as well. In the fic Rogue is raised by the assassin's guild leader Marius and becomes Julian and Belladonna's sister. She and Remy become friends as kids which leads the two guilds to start making peace negotiations. They plan an arranged marriage but with Remy and Belladonna because they thought that if they married Remy and Rogue it would ruin their friendship, but they were already falling in love and Remy's engagement to Belle hurt them both. Belle was also very jealous of Rogue and had a crush on Remy. I remember Remy leaving because he didn't want to marry Belle. I don't know if Rogue's powers went out of contro, but the X-Men do show up. It's revealed that Logan is Rogue's father and Bell said something along the lines of 'now that she knows who her father is she can go with him to her real family' they all knew Rogue was adopted but Marius and Julian didn't care she was their daughter/sister regardless of blood. I don't think the fic was completed.

So if anyone knows anything about it please let me know.

#xmen #x men #rogue x gambit #romy #rogue #remy lebeau #gambit #lost fic #lost fanfiction #lost fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #xmen evolution #x men evolution #x-men evolution

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starlitangels · 10 months

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I struggle with making requests, but I'm going to share some fun words with you anyway!!

-Gargantuan

-Flutter

-Indomitable

-Erinaceous

I love the fun words! I'm going to give you a little gen Wolf Boys with a tiny sprinkling of Milo/Sweetheart! 💜💚

Flutter, Gargantuan, and Indomitable

—

Your mate's watching, Asher teases playfully. Do you feel the pressure of impressing them weighing down on your shoulders?

Milo huffs out of his snout, shaking his head. Not a chance, he retorts confidently. I don't need to impress my mate against you.

Ohhhhh—to be so skilled, Asher taunts, a smile in his voice. But you're not practicing against me.

Wait, what?

Shaking out pitch-black fur, David's huge wolf form emerges from the shadows. Milo hadn't even—how had he not noticed—

Downwind. David was downwind and his pelt was so dark he'd blended right into the shadows.

A pit squeezed in Milo's stomach. It had been years since he actually faced David one-on-one. They'd been... God, they'd been teenagers. David had mopped the floor with Milo. He could still remember his Ma's lecture when they both shifted back to human form bloody and bruised ringing in his ears. He didn't even have to strain to bring the memory up.

It took all of Milo's considerable self-confidence not to flatten his ears and drop his tail, yielding immediately. No, he thinks to himself, keeping it off the mental link. No. I can do this. He'll beat me, but I'll take it with dignity—and no way in hell am I makin' it easy on him.

He bares his teeth and raises his hackles in challenge. Cool and confident. Maybe even a little cocky.

David says nothing. Just braces his front paws into the dirt and bends to lunge.

Milo's ears twitch backward as he hears your whistle and clapping. "You got this, Milo!"

Your voice warms the blood in his veins, making his chest swell.

Milo copies David's pose.

They both take a moment to glance at their mates. Milo's grey eyes in his rust-colored pelt meet your gaze. You can't help but smile, trying to make it encouraging and loving at the same time. Just that gaze, no matter if it's in a wolf's face or the man's you love, makes your heart flutter.

He huffs out his nose again.

He and David nod at each other—

And leap.

They crash together in a tangle of teeth, claws, limbs, and tails. Asher's mate gasps quietly beside you, their hand reaching for your arm. You set your other hand on top of their reassuringly.

Milo and David hit the ground.

David recovers first, shoving to his feet.

Milo doesn't scramble back up onto all fours. No. He stands in one fluid movement. Directly between you and his alpha.

Compared to Milo—who is already big in wolf form—David is absolutely gargantuan. Bearing down on Milo with the confidence of a fight already won when it's only just begun.

But anyone could say what they would about Milo—he's not a quitter. You've never known him to back down from a challenge.

You can even see he's smiling. Well, the wolf-snout equivalent, anyway.

David's also "smiling."

"It's all good fun," you reassure Asher's mate as Milo lunges at David. "They've done this before."

"But I've never seen Milo against David."

You haven't either. David rarely sparred against anyone other than Asher or Tank. They were nearly his size and he tried his best to make sparring matches fair.

Not that something so silly would ever stop Milo.

You smirk. "Don't worry about Milo," you decide.

He's currently in the process of attempting to wrangle David onto the ground. Toppling an alpha his size is a nigh impossible task when it comes to weight difference alone, but Milo's densely muscled, despite his size.

Not bad, Asher says, sounding impressed, from the sidelines where he's acting as referee.

Shut up, Milo and David both gripe at the same time. Milo can hear the strain in David's thoughts as he withstands the weight of Milo's attacks dragging him toward the ground.

Havin' a hard time, big guy? Milo asks.

Not a chance, David replies.

Milo growls in satisfaction. Always the best kind of play-fight. David would never dream of going easy on Milo—and he likes it that way. Milo figures the rest of the pack can mock his size as much as they wanted, they will never be able to say his will is anything less than indomitable. He's proved that over and over, and he'll never stop.

Even as David's shoulder slams into his gut and knocks him several yards away from the power behind the swing.

Milo digs his claws into the ground to stop sliding and huffs.

Ready for the fun to begin, big guy?

I thought it had already started, David deadpans. But there's excitement hidden in that tone. Milo knows what to listen for.

Hope you're ready. He lowers his head and charges forward.

#romi sweetheart #Star does Micro Fics #Redacted ASMR #Redacted Audio #Redacted Asher #Redacted Milo #Redacted Sweetheart #Redacted David #Asher Talbot #David Shaw #Milo Greer

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dayenurose · 3 months

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Alas, I am almost a month late for Valentine's Day. But, the story is finished and meant to be shared. I hope you enjoy a bit of (belated) Valentine fun. <3

written for 'A Very Romy Valentine' @roguegambitweek

A Year With Romy: February - (He)Arts and Crafts by DayenuRose

Summary: When Remy comes home to find Rogue has turned the dining room into a craft room. He has a few questions. Written for 'A Very Romy Valentine' – mon cœur/hearts

Excerpt:

“Mon cœur, I’m home.” Nothing but silence greeted Remy as he announced his arrival. The silence was odd, but nothing to be worried about. Though both her car and her motorcycle were parked in the garage, it wasn’t like they were her only means of transportation. She could fly, for crying out loud. Still, her favorite boots were left in a half-hazard pile beside the door. Perhaps she was upstairs taking a bath or reading in one of the far corners of the house. He unlaced his boots and placed them beside Roguey’s. “Oh, Roguey, ma Roguey…” While it wasn’t that he expected his wife to greet him at the door, she usually hollered back in response to his greeting. Her honeyed southern drawl had the power to draw him to her like a bee to honey. It just meant he’d need to seek her out and let her know he was home. Since things had been quiet around the X-Mansion, he decided to come home early and surprise Rogue with a particularly southern home cooked meal. The need to find his wife itched at him in a way it didn’t usually haunt him.

Read the rest on [ao3] or [ff.net]

#romyvalentine2024 #rogue/gambitweek2024 #rogue #gambit #romy #anna marie lebeau #remy lebeau #fanfic #my fic #otp: home and harbor #otp: mon coeur

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spaceorphan18 · 5 days

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men (Comicverse) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Remy LeBeau/Rogue Characters: Rogue (X-Men), Remy LeBeau, And quick cameos of..., Bobby Drake, Jubilation Lee, Hank McCoy, Warren Worthington III, Ororo Munroe, Charles Xavier, Logan (X-Men), Scott Summers, Jean Grey Additional Tags: Angst, Introspection, Romance Summary:

Set between X-Factor #70 and X-Men #1. Rogue adjusts to life in the mansion after returning back from Muir Island. Gambit doesn't make it easy to keep her head clear.

This is the first fic in a series I’d like to do chronologizing Rogue and Gambit’s romance throughout the comics.

#xmen #x men #rogue #gambit #anna marie lebeau #remy lebeau #romy #rogue and gambit #romy fic #s.o. writes things

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ludi-ling · 1 year

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Sunday Morning

Rogue and Gambit Week 2023, Day 6. Prompt: Valle Soleada

*A little treat for all you guys. My brain is firmly stuck on my longer form fics at the moment, but here is something I wrote back in 2004 and has never seen the light of day. No one, apart from angyxoxo almost 20 years ago, has ever read this saucy little (long?) drabble. Have fun!*

“Remy, darlin’…”

Her hand slides across my chest, stopping midway over my heart, fingers spreading out, one, two, three, four, five, as if to relish the simple sensation of skin upon skin. Her face is nuzzled against my side, but her eyes are closed – I have no idea whether the words she has just spoken have been uttered while awake or asleep.

“Oui, ma chere?”

She doesn’t answer for a long while. But her fingers contract, then open again, rubbing me gently, a familiar exercise in substantiating that what she touches is, in fact, real.

“…Dontcha evah leave me, y’hear?” she finishes off, in a voice less hoarse and sleep-bound than it had been before.

I chuckle briefly, taking her hand in mine, knitting our fingers together, holding them tight.

“Now why’d I want t’ do dat?” I ask her. She shifts, ever so slightly, so that one green eye pokes out sleepily from the behind a strand of white hair.

“Ah’ve lost yah too many times before t’ take moments like this for granted, swamp snake,” she drawls huskily. Hmm, morning conversation, you gotta love it. There’s nothing sexier than waking up to that lazy Southern drawl of hers.

“I don’t t’ink neither of us is likely t’ be goin’ anywhere fast de way t’ings stand now, chere,” I answer, running my free hand through her auburn locks. Funny, this. We’ve known one another for too long, but we’ve never known one another enough, or as much as we would’ve liked to; or at least as much as we would’ve liked in certain, shall we say, aspects. How many years was it that this was a fantasy of mine, to wake up beside her in the morning, in a bed we called our own, lying flesh to warm, naked flesh? And here we are now, and we’ve been waking up like this every morning for the past five months and the novelty of the fantasy-become-reality still hasn’t worn off. I wake up beside her and it’s still the most goddamn exhilarating, whimsical, cozy, sexy and passionate thing I’ve ever experienced. And let me tell you, this Cajun’s experienced a hell of a lot of things in his life.

“‘Bout time,” she remarks between a yawn. “Been runnin’ away from each other enough t’ put an escapee convict t’ shame.”

“Y’ still tired?” I ask her, brushing the tousled white strands of hair from her forehead.

“Hmm. Didn’ get much sleep last night.”

Neither of us did. There was a good reason for that. The previous night had been Valentine’s, and we’d naturally indulged ourselves with a three course meal at a fancy restaurant, some –ah– energetic dancing to live acid jazz, naturally fuelled by rather too many bottles of vintage wine; not to mention three hours worth of gourmet lovemaking afterward... Nope – life doesn’t get much better than that. Or this. And I thought I’d experienced all that Valentine’s had to offer.

“Heh. I hear that.”

“Lucky it’s Sunday,” she comments, eyes closed.

“Yeah. We get t’ lie in an’ sleep off our hangovers.”

“An’ have some time for other things,” she returns, rather cheekily. And not a little suggestively.

“Are you proposin’…?”

“Ah ain’t proposin’ nothin’,” she retorts petulantly. Women. ‘When they say no they mean yes’ and all that. But she’d already given herself away. I let go of her hand and stroke the length of her arm with a cajoling air.

“O’ course you weren’t, mon coeur,” I reply slyly. Slowly my fingers creep up her arm towards her shoulder. By the time I’ve got far enough to tickle her armpit she’s already left it too late. With a gasp she swivels away from my grasp, pounding her fists playfully into my chest. If there’s one thing she hates it’s being tickled under the arm. The past few months I’ve learnt through bitter experience that if you want to make her angry, that’s the fastest way to do it. Unfortunately for her, I happen to find her peevish expression endlessly appealing.

As soon as she sees me laughing she knows what that ruse had been all about.

“Damn you, Remy LeBeau, if you do that again, you are so dead!” she scowls, teeth bared.

“You wouldn’ hurt me, an’ you know it,” I counter brazenly, looking back up at her insolently. She glares at me, emerald eyes blazing. Honest to God, I don’t know which version of her looks more arousing:- sleepy, angry, bed-head Rogue; or jazzed up, femme fatale Rogue, complete with lacy black underwear, stockings and suspenders, evidence of which lies about the bedroom floor from last night’s little –ahem– adventure.

“Oh? An’ what makes you think that Ah wouldn’t?”

“Because, mon bijou, you love me too much to lay a finger on me.”

“Ah’ll lay a finger on you all right,” she levels fiercely at me, although she can’t stop me from noticing the decidedly naughty sparkle that’s suddenly entered her eyes.

“Oh, an’ now I’m so scared,” I return smoothly, goading her.

“Forget it, Remy,” she seethes, eyes narrowed. “You ain’t gonna have your way wit’ me, not this mornin’. Your stupid tricks don’t fool me!”

“Maybe not by usin’ stupid tricks, chere,” I reply. “But dis t’ief always has other methods hidden up his sleeves.”

“Oh yeah?” she half-grins. “Like what?”

“Like bein’ the irresistible, lovable rogue that he is,” I answer with an outrageous wink. She laughs, all trace of her anger gone.

“Dontcha evah get tired of bein’ so full o’ yourself, Cajun?” she asks.

“Not when I can have my fill o’ you, chere.” Technically, any man would be pushing his luck by now, but not me. Not with my in-built charm. It’s come in infinitely handy in the past, and now is no exception. The thing with Rogue is, she knows when I’m using it on her. She could just as easily turn it all round back at me. What she doesn't admit is that she loves it when I try to seduce her. The more suggestive I get the less she can resist. I can see the conflict in her eyes right now. Those gorgeous eyes… Mon Dieu, I want her right now.

“After last night,” she begins, leaning in playfully, finally giving in to what, in the end, we both want, “Ah woulda thought you’d already had yah fill o’ me and then some, swamp rat.”

“Chere,” I begin, chancing the risky maneuver of slipping an arm round her waist and gently rubbing the small of her back, “this Cajun ain’t never gonna get tired o’ you, no matter how many times he has his fill of you. Or how many times he fills you, for that matter.” Another gamble and we both know it, but I ain’t called Gambit for nothing. She doesn’t give in grudgingly. What would be the use in that? She’s loved me for too long, she’s been without me for too long. Now she can have me all she wants, and Rogue’s greedy for love just as much as she’s greedy for touch. She’ll take all she can, but she’ll never buy or sell herself cheap. If she won’t put out, I sure as hell will. Don’t forget, it takes two to tango, and she’s not the only one who’s been starved.

“Remy,” she purrs, half in reaction to my innuendoes, half in reaction to my tender ministrations, at the current moment concentrated solely on her back though admittedly creeping rather dangerously low, “you are a very naughty boy.”

“O’ course,” I murmur in agreement. It isn’t lost upon me just how close her lips now are to mine. And the way her breath tickles my cheek as she enunciates every little word drives me crazy. Steady, Remy, steady. Connoisseur of the seductive arts I may be, but Rogue has an annoying way of beating me at my own game. “And whatcha you gonna do about it, hmm?”

“Hmm,” she pretends to think about it, tracing an intricate pattern along my cheekbone and my chin and across my lips. “It’s like they always say - one day yah have t’ make good on your innuendoes. An’ Ah do believe you’ve made several years worth of un-acted-upon innuendoes.”

“So how long before I work dem all off, sweet?”

“Well, Ah think after last night, we’re probably about…hm, halfway there, shall we say?”

“Only halfway? Still a long ways t’ go, chere. Might as well work off a few more while we’re here.” I bolster the suggestion by placing a tender kiss on the tip of her finger while rather adventurously groping that cute li’l butt of hers under the covers. Goddammit I want her right now, and she knows it, she has that funny little gleam in her eyes that tells me that, once again, it’s me that’s fallen victim to her charms and not the other way round.

“Ah don’t know, sugah, maybe we should string it out some, y’know…make it last.”

Merde! She definitely knows she’s killing me here! Suggestive banter is never so goddamn fun as it is with her, but for some reason, today, this morning…I haven’t felt this horny in a good long while, and that’s saying something. And for some reason, she’s never looked so indescribably gorgeous as she does right now.

“Mon Dieu, you’re beautiful,” I murmur, brushing away the perpetually falling locks of that white skunk stripe from her cheek. “What’d I ever do t’ deserve you?”

“Remy,” she murmurs back, leaning in closer. “Shuddup an’ kiss meh.”

Me shut up? She was the one doing all the talking. But, in such situations, the best thing to do is not to argue. So I shut up and let her do the rest.

I could go on forever about what it’s like to kiss Rogue. There’s two types of kisses that she’ll give you – the one that steals your powers, and the one that steals your soul. Both so similar, both so different. The first is a kiss of life and death, the second is a kiss of passion. I’ve tasted both – I’ve tasted both mingled, so that I couldn’t even tell where love and life and death begins. I’d never tasted anything so wonderful and sweet and deathly as the kiss she gave to me in Israel, so many years back. I’ve danced with death before, but never in the way I danced with it when she first put her lips, her mouth, on mine. For that one moment, I would gladly have died. Just as, whenever I make love to her, I feel the love-death, and I can’t explain it, the feeling’s too intense, too incandescent, and yet so subtle I can hardly distinguish it from the shuddering starbursts that are our shared climaxes.

Now she puts her mouth on mine. Now we kiss, and it isn’t like the first time, but it’s like our first time should have been. She has a kiss so charged it could set Antarctica ablaze – and let me tell you, I’m one of only a few who could tell you just how cold it is out there. But it’s best not to think about that, not here, not now… It’s only so much water under the bridge, and to be honest, mentioning Rogue and Antarctica in the same sentence usually conjures up images of a less than arousing nature…

The kiss pushes all further thoughts of anything out of my head, let alone thoughts of Antarctica – save for the irresistible, primeval urge she always unfailingly seems to invoke in me. Both of us are caught up in the stupid notion that somehow we can make this moment last, that it doesn't have to end, that if we kiss one another hard enough somehow we’ll stay that way forever. I run my fingers through her hair, brush her cheek – the tactile never feels so special, so novel as it does when I touch her. The fifth sense, so underrated, so taken for granted, is nothing short of a godsend to the two of us.

She breaks away slowly, nipping my lower lip playfully as she does so. She’s goading me, and I know it; she sees the understanding and lust in my eyes, smiles, nuzzles her face against my cheek, presses light kisses to the corner of my mouth. In response to her invitation I grasp her by the waist, swivel round; she gasps as I capture her beneath me and bury my face into that soft, succulent dip between her neck and shoulder. God, she smells good – traces of last night’s perfume still cling to her, but it’s more than that, a mingling of that lavender scent with her shampoo and that unique aroma that she continually carries around with her regardless… I think of the fine sheen of sweat on her as we danced last night, the heaving of her chest as she pants for breath and laughs in pure delight, in unadulterated elation… The memory of her scent is tied to this recollection, this fleeting instant in time photographed so neatly in a three-dimensional imprint of touch and smell and sight and sound.

And now taste:- I taste the memory, I lathe my tongue over her soft, warm, scented skin, I suck in the flavour of her, the flavour that’s so familiar and yet so indescribably elusive, so that every time I taste it, it seems new, it seems inspired.

“Remy…” she begins, she wants to make it sound like a warning, but she fails – instead it comes out as a plea and a concession, a note both of supplication and permission, a giving and a taking. Her voice is soft, wistful, whimsical; her arms encircle me, her hands rub my shoulder blades, surrendering herself yet ensnaring me in her trap, the delicious trap that is her body.

“I want y’, chere, I want y’ so much…”

The words come out incoherent to my own ears, an unnecessary articulation of a train of thought that involves actions, not slow and ineloquent speech. She has already yielded to me anyhow; her thighs rub coyly against my own, she surrenders her lips to mine eagerly: we kiss, we fall.

I thought I knew all there was to know about love. Of all the women I ever shared my bed with, none of them were ever playthings to me – I will not lie and say I loved them, but, during those moments, those long, fervent, passionate nights that I spent with them, I cared for them, each and every one. Maybe I even made believe I loved them. Maybe I thought I did, or maybe I pretended I did, or maybe it seemed like love at the time. Sex is, after all, sex, wherever or however you do it, or whoever you do it with. How then, can I hope to convince you that with her it’s different? That with her, it’s not just about desire, or the gratification of a sexual pleasure that one or both of us share? That it is not even simply just a giving or a taking of one another, or that it is a mutual and intimate sharing that only we, lovers, lovemakers, can understand? There’s nothing so safe, so secure, so warm, so personal as holding her in my arms, as relishing her flavour and her fragrance, of feeling her tender limbs against mine, the subtle delicacy of her fingers in my hair, of the warmth of her smooth skin against my flesh. Sometimes, the quietest, most torpid of encounters are the best; they are the moments I can savour what we share in manifest form, moments when I can measure the sum and strength of our love, and I could lie there in her arms forever and try to analyse it, and the answer would never come to me. Morning sex, sleepy sex, the languid exchange of our bodies, is the subtle equation of our love, an enactment of this strange bond we share in slow motion, a thing which opens itself as a book yet cannot be read. I will never be able to grasp the meaning of this act – its significance eludes me – but I catch a glimpse of it, during this one precious, passionate act.

One thing I learnt was, I never knew what love was until I met her, until I waited for her, until I touched her, until I tasted her.

Now we are locked together. Our kiss is slow, soft, as if the world could wait for us, as if it had already ended and no longer mattered and no longer owned us. As I kiss her I slide into her, softly, softly: this is a pivotal moment in lovemaking, any man would tell you that; the pleasure of penetration involves no sacrifice: we infringe, we take, always. But for her there is pain-pleasure, the beginning of love-death… I feel myself enter her, I feel her receiving me; I watch that reception on her face, in the dim pallor of her eyes drawn back; but I feel it too, on her mouth, the way she imbues our kiss with the lowest, softest of moans; it excites me, to feel the echo of her pleasure on our conjoined lips, our embracing tongues… There is nothing so sweet.

We barely kiss now, the kiss is broken and yet continues; our lips touch, but it is our cries that own our mouths, not one another. We make love slowly, finding more pleasure in the analysis and synthesis of each other, in the lazy journey of mutual discovery. My hands travel her body, her breasts, her stomach, her hips…It is always the same ritual, I never tire of it. Sometimes, she’ll be on top; but Rogue’s an old-fashioned girl, and when it comes down to it, she prefers the good old missionary position. Whether on top or not, I never fail in this ritual, this exploration of her body – in either instance it gives me equal pleasure (although admittedly, to see the way she arches her back when she straddles me, when I touch her there, has always been something of a personal turn-on). The number, the equation, the perusal of her amounts to this and yet so much more. On mornings such as this, I will take the lead, I will be on top of her in order to understand why it is that I love her the way I do.

My hands grip her hips. I draw back, I look into her face; I try to see in her eyes what I do to her, what she does to me, what we do to and for one another. She looks back at me, wordless, but not voiceless – what I look for I see, but it always remains elusive and just outside my grasp. Her expression changes. Her eyes roll back, her pupils dilate, her breath comes short, ragged; our ministrations become more fevered now; we push, I groan, she sighs; I remember my pleasure, my lust, where I had forgotten it: and yet I exacerbate it in gazing at her beautiful, agonized face. I bury my head into her bosom, smell the lavender scent, smell the sweat, smell her fragrance, smell our mingled fragrance… I feel her hips beneath mine, grinding… Desperation… The quiet wonder of our exploration has been shattered; now the journey finds itself disrupted; our movements are hurried, urgent; we have lost the importance of meaning, only the destination matters for us and we strive for it, we strive so goddamn hard…

She laces her fingers in my hair, I hear her call my name, in a voice so far-away, so delicate it hardly seems real. Why does she do that, why does she make it sound so beautiful? I grunt with the exertion of my effort to take us both there, but she eases me, she holds onto me and eases me, balancing out the rhythm of our bodies, slowing me, guiding me, trusting me. My breath shallow, regular, I lick the sweat from my upper lip, I raise my head and look into her eyes; she half smiles, encouraging. Her legs wind about my waist, pulling me deeper into her; I gasp, but her cry is long drawn out, half wail, half moan; her hands grip my hips, my shoulders, my hair… And as for me, I keep her rhythm, I follow the soft melody of her cries, I match the rise and fall of her hips… Slower, more focused, in perfect harmony the pleasure increases tenfold. I’m nearly there, I can feel it. I’m nearly at the sum of that simple equation, that one and one makes two.

I tell her so, or think I do.

“Wait,” she tells me. “Oh, wait…”

I renew my efforts, gritting my teeth, giving myself into the torture of loving and waiting for her; ten seconds seem to last forever during this one key moment when we end the equation, and, if we can, we end it together. She presses against me hungrily, her cries as laboured as her breath – I know when she approaches the moment, when she pauses, when she clasps me to her, when she arches back; I allow her to hit the climax first because, inevitably, she draws me in; we orgasm together, bodies straining so that it is not only our very existences that seem to shatter, but everything else, the moment, the time, the space, our beings, the only things that exist inside and out of that one jangling, earth-rending instant. I hear her voice, the triumph, the ecstasy, the bittersweetness of it all; I cannot recall what I sound like – what is important to me at that moment is the thought that, if I could die, it would be here, now, with our bodies joined… That here, now, with our bodies joined, it feels like death, it feels like love and it feels like death, and it feels like dying and being reborn all over again.

The moment itself is shattered, splintered – it is cut short, in the earliest seconds of its earliest stages; yet, strangely, it lasts a lifetime. We barely know when it is over. For a long time after, we lie there, still somewhat entwined, each privately experiencing the last vestiges of the orgasm we have gifted to one another – the present, first shared, now savoured. Meanwhile we comfort ourselves with the security that is the cradle of our naked bodies; we nestle into one another, like birds come home and settling in for the night. The peace, the unreality is only broken when the sound of our voices brings us home.

“Ah love you,” she murmurs into the side of my chest, and somehow the words seem painfully inadequate; they don’t even go halfway to describing what love is, not after the both of us have seen it and felt it somewhere in the maelstrom of our fervid lovemaking. We both know that. But I know what she refers to when she says, ‘I love you’. And she knows what I mean when I say ‘I love you too’ in return.

“I love you too,” I say.

We don’t need to prove it. But vocalising it into these simple words, that simple sentence, somehow gravitises it; it is no longer simply something imperceptible and inexplicable, a mood, a passion, a whim that floats freely in the air and blesses whoever it may chance upon. It is as solid and real as our bodies, it is as tangible as our flesh-to-flesh embrace. This is how I first knew that I loved her, and that I’d never truly loved another woman before her. In vocalising it, what I feel becomes the ultimate in expressed reality.

She smiles. Her expression is sleepy, full of wonder; her cheeks are still flushed. She looks so beautiful, so radiant, so earth-bound…

“Why do you love meh?” she drawls. It is less a question than an expression of wonder. Her accent tends to get stronger in the mornings. It’s undeniably sexy.

“Does there haveta be a reason?” I whisper back. We do this often. Whisper. Murmur. Maybe it’s because we don’t want to lose a hold of the moment, because we don’t want to shatter it any more than we have to with unwieldy words.

“There’s always a reason,” she replies seriously. She pauses, goes into another line of questioning. “What makes me so different from all those other women?”

I can tell she’s not going to let this one slip by. She can be vain like that. She loves to hear the compliments I have to give her. I could tease her badly if I wanted. But she’s giving me that look. The one that could disarm a whole platoon of heavily-armed soldiers quicker than her fists could.

“I dunno,” I answer at last, perusing her face thoughtfully. “Your eyes. Your smile. Your laugh. De way you sass me. De way you make coffee. De way you always put de toothpaste on my brush b’fore you come out de bathroom. De way your accent gets heavier in de mornin’s. De way you leave de toilet seat up for me…”

“Only ‘cos you leave it down for me, sugah,” she interrupts, grinning and stroking the dip between my chin and lower lip with an index finger.

“…Not to mention dat gorgeous bod o’ yours. You want me t’ go on?”

“Ah could just listen t’ your compliments all day long, sugah,” she smiles, disengaging herself from my arms and propping her cheek up with the palm of her hand, drawing lazy circles on my chest with the other. “But Ah think we should save some up for another time, jus’ so’s you don’t run outta things t’ say.”

I stare at her, grinning inanely. Why do I let her toy with me so much? If Lapin and Theoren and all those others back the Guilds heard about this, they wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.

“You know what Ah’ve been thinkin’?” she asks whimsically.

“What?” I’m trying to concentrate on the patterns she’s drawing on my chest. Right now they appear to be figure eights.

“Do y’ reckon, if we were t’ go an’ see the different versions of ourselves in all those alternate realities out there… In how many d’you think we’d be t’ogther? Or d’you think that this is the only reality in which we’re t’gether, an’ that us, here an’ now, in this world… that we’re just an anomaly?”

I stare at her. This is Rogue being unusually and overly philosophical.

“You t’ink dat’s possible?” I begin, running a hand through her hair pensively, “Funny dat. I always thought it was de rest of dem realities dat were de anomalies, not ours.” I pause momentarily, start again. “I don’t believe we could be an anomaly, chere.”

“Why not?” she asks, with the peremptoriness of a child.

“B’cause this jus’ feels too right, p’tit,” I reply. “B’cause nothin’s ever felt so right, ‘cept for us. We made for each other, Roguey. I can feel it in my bones.”

“An’ it’s that simple, huh?” she asks, a humorous smile on her face.

“Yes, it’s dat simple,” I reply, a wry grin on my face as stroke her bare thigh playfully. She laughs, husky, free, easy. I love her laugh. She never used to laugh like this. But then, she’s never had a lot of things to laugh about until a few months ago. Before then, simply laying a bare finger on her skin would have been impossible, nothing short of a death-wish. It’s a miracle then, that we are both able to do this, to have a relationship in the fullest sense of the word, to be lying here, face to face, talking, laughing, being ordinary…

“Well, if it’s so simple, then Ah guess there’s no point in me hangin’ around an’ talkin’ ‘bout it,” she replies, sitting up, but I quickly put out a hand and grasp her wrist, stopping her.

“Aw, Rogue, y’know they say afterplay’s as important as foreplay, chere,” I whine plaintively. “Stay a few more minutes.”

“Ah need a shower,” she pouts at me. “An’ you’re not invited. We been goin’ at it like rabbits the past twelve hours, an’ if Ah put out anymore, it ain’t gonna be healthy.”

“Au contraire,” I remind her suggestively. “Sex is just about one of de healthiest activities out there.”

“In moderation,” she counters heatedly.

“Ain’t no limit, chere, as long as it’s wit’ only one partner.” Dieu, am I sounding desperate yet or what?

“Ah can’t believe we’re havin’ this conversation,” she sighs in irritation, getting up. I should’ve known that last remark would only make her more mad. I sigh. Pushed your luck there, LeBeau. She’s right anyhow. We should quit while we’re ahead. Too much of a good thing can get bad. And we have had fun the past twelve hours…

I watch her sashay into the bathroom. She’s doing it on purpose to punish me, showing off that cute butt and that sexy walk of hers. I groan as the door slams behind her and I hear her lock it. Usually, I’d be the one carrying her into the shower; I’d tenderly wash her clean of our mingled juices; inevitably we’d become excited once more and end up making love all over again right there in the shower. We both know that if we step into that bathroom together that’s eventually what’s going to happen. And I don’t blame her for putting her foot down, to be honest. After last night… Well, like I said, too much of a good thing can get tedious after a while. Right?

So why am I not convincing myself? The truth is, I could be with Rogue whenever, wherever, and however, and I still would never get bored.

“I t’ink you misunderstood me, chere,” I shout in the general direction of the bathroom. “Gambit was only anglin’ for a hug an’ a kiss… Chere, are you hearin’ me? Maybe I can join you in dere, non?”

Her only answer is to turn the shower on full blast.

She emerges later, while I’m in the kitchen cooking breakfast. While frying the eggs she steals up behind me with a stealthy silence that would put any ninja to shame. I start only briefly as she wraps her arms round my waist and buries her face against my back. Her embrace is too warm, too delicate to startle me for long. I delight in the thrill that her touch sends across my bare skin. I know then that all traces of our previous quarrel have been forgotten.

“Is this good enough for you, sugah?” she asks, purposefully trailing her warm breath along the line between my shoulder blades. I shudder involuntarily.

“Good enough for what?” I ask, my voice suddenly thick. See what this femme does to me! One touch and I’m crazy for her again. Remy LeBeau ain’t never been in a trap so helplessly reinforced before. Especially not one built and orchestrated by a woman. Not that I’m complaining or anything…

“Y’ said you wanted a hug an’ a kiss, baby,” she murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss with just a hint of teeth against my right shoulder. I get the impression that our little spat has definitely been forgotten.

I pause, setting down the spatula and swivelling round to slide my arms about her waist. She looks great, wet hair tousled, and wearing just a simple white T-shirt I’d left discarded somewhere about the bedroom. And the scent of the shower gel is so soft and light it makes me want to bury by face in her neck and drift away without a care in the world.

“Hm,” I say, passing her one of those broad, suggestive smiles that always works so well on women. “I was t’inkin’ more of me wit’ my arms around you, an’ a kiss on de lips…”

“Ah think it’s a little too late for afterplay, Cajun,” she murmurs seductively, yielding to my embrace and sliding her arms up my shoulders and around my neck.

“Well, howzabout we engage in a little more foreplay den?” I propose a little too optimistically, while leaning forward quickly to kiss her before she has a chance to say no. We lock lips feverishly in a blistering kiss that takes our breaths away, while our hands wander not a little too boldly. By the time we break apart her fresh underwear is already sopping wet, and we would probably have ended up making love again right there on the kitchen table, if not for the fact that the eggs had begun to burn, and had threatened to bring the house down in an inferno almost as heated and passionate as our own.

Unspoken rule of the house: if it can be helped, I’m the one that does the cooking.

Rogue is a terrible cook. The mess I’d made of the eggs due to neglect looked more like something she’d come up with, even with unreserved concentration. Rogue tackles food like it’s her worst enemy – she’ll hack at meat like an axe murderer and chop up potatoes instead of peeling them. Watching such horrors in action is like torture to a culinary master such as myself; so much so that, after the first few days of our living together, I had effectively banned her from the kitchen under pain of death. That had earned me several day’s worth of enforced celibacy as a punishment: yup, she’d actually held her body to ransom on account of that little episode. Four days later, I was on the verge of insanity, wondering how I was ever going to compromise the idea of no sex versus food poisoning for the rest of my life. Women are clever like that. Rogue is no exception. And when she’s mad, let me tell you, she’s mad.

Eventually, we came to a compromise. She could have access to the kitchen, under the condition that I not have to eat anything that was made by her fair hands; and/or her cooking should be a joint venture between the two of us. Because I can tolerate hacked up veggies in my gumbo, as opposed to gumbo that leaves me bed-ridden for a week or so. She had begrudgingly agreed to my terms; ten minutes after agreeing to them, she’d been all over me again as if nothing had happened at all – which had irked me more than just a little, and had convinced me that the best course of action was to beat her at own game and show her what a bit of enforced celibacy felt like. This had, of course, lasted all of half an hour, by which time I had already caved in and we were making up for four days worth of abstinence very vigorously on the living room sofa. She had had a smug smile on her face for days after that, and, being the couyon that I am, I just didn’t have the resolve to snub her, or, perhaps more humiliatingly, to keep my hands off her.

Now she helps me clean up the burnt eggs with a vicious frown on her face that seems to be accusing the poor scorched things of ruining all the recalcitrant little schemes she had had in store for me for the day. And there’s something oddly satisfying in the notion that her continued seduction of me has been thwarted by that most unassuming of her enemies – food.

Yup – forget Joseph, Longshot and Mags – if there’s anything that’ll nail the two of us, it’s burnt eggs.

Having re-cooked breakfast, we snuggle up on the sofa and watch TV. I like to stretch out and take up as much room as I can; she, invariably, will sit in my lap and lean her head against my shoulder, while the breakfast tray teeters precariously in her own lap. Rogue’s a sucker for French toast, and I have a feeling that’s half the reason why she decided to make it up with me. And bad cook she may be, but she makes a mean cup of coffee. So, all things considered, we’re pretty much quits.

Outside the sun is shining with full force – it’s midday, and outside the bright young things are going out to play. This is, after all, California. Rogue, however, has pulled down the blinds – the room has a cozy atmosphere as we settle down in true bohemian fashion in front of the TV. I’m not deceived. She wants to snuggle, and her pulling down the blinds is a way of shutting out the world from our embrace. Rogue’s like that – she can be capable of grandiose gestures when she wants to be, but when it comes down to it, she prefers her displays of affection to be private, secluded things, where she can secretly open them up and gorge herself on them like a box of chocolates. Understandable, for a woman who’s had to sacrifice so many of the things we take for granted.

I let her lower the blinds and snuggle into me without questioning. I understand her need to close us off from the outside world, if only for a little while. After so many years of pushing one another away, and a more or less utter inability to touch her, I am as grateful for her displays of affection as much as I enjoy them. There is so much warmth and passion inside her that I always knew simmered beneath the surface of her Southern Belle facade – to actually experience it, after all this time, physically as well as emotionally, is something that never fails to pleasantly surprise me. In many ways, the notion of us actually being a couple still hasn’t sunk in yet – we are living in a sort of dream period, where nothing exists but us. We live as we please, we take what we please, we love as we please. This is as much a new experience to me as it is to her. I’ve never made this type of commitment to any other woman before Rogue. I never knew that living with the girl I loved could be so fulfilling or rewarding. To both of us, this honeymoon period is one that could never end. We’ve spent too much of our lives running around being superheroes to appreciate the simpler things in life. And goddammit, we ain’t gonna let go of moments like these, moments that so many other, normal couples take for granted.

“So, I take it I’m forgiven,” I decide to blurt out, midway through breakfast, while my loving girlfriend dutifully passes toast over her left shoulder and into my mouth.

“’Bout what?” she asks, changing the channel with the remote. The news disappears only to be replaced by the Powerpuff Girls.

“Y’know, dis mornin’…”

“Oh, that.” Her voice is distracted. “That wasn’t an argument. Ah’d already f’gotten about it.”

Oh, of course, naturally. While I think she’s still sore and making me suffer over it, she’s all but gone and forgotten about it. Typical.

“Mon Dieu, femme, dis Cajun jus’ can’t keep up wit’ you,” I groan.

“How d’you think Ah manage t’ keep you interested?” she states slyly, giving me a wink and a grin over her shoulder.

“No need for dat,” I reply, leaning forward to nibble the lobe of her ear playfully. “You have other assets dat keep dis Cajun more n’ jus’ interested.”

“Like mah dancing skills?” she chuckles, switching the channel over again.

“Dat n’ more,” I answer, more absorbed in her than in what’s on the TV screen. It’s true though – after last night, Rogue proved once again that she is one great dancer. She enjoys teasing me about that, for some unfathomable reason. Okay, well maybe not so unfathomable. Before we came to Valle Soleada, back in one of the Southern states (I forget which – I don’t think we’d reached Texas by that time) we were at this bar where they were having a dancing contest. Now any femme that knows me knows that I dance a mean dance. Unfortunately, I had decided to brag about it that night, and Rogue had insisted that she could beat me in a competition without even having to make any effort at all. Naturally I’d scoffed at that, at which point she had literally dragged me onto the dance floor in order to prove her point.

Now to be honest, I’d never really seen Rogue dance before. Kurt had once told me that she likes to dance when she wants to cut loose, but unfortunately, I’d never been around to witness such an event. Kurt had said she dances like a demon. I hadn’t believed him. Until that night. She beat every other dancer roundly, including my own oh-so-talented self, and had even won a trophy for her troubles – which now stands conspicuously in a shelf facing the window, where it taunts me cruelly every morning when I come downstairs.

Last night her dancing skills had been used much more to my benefit than to my shame; besides which, latin jazz is always so much sexier than country or zydeco. She’d really jazzed (no pun intended) herself up for Valentine’s – I don’t even know how she managed to move inside that slinky green dress, let alone dance. But hell, she did it. It makes my heart flutter just thinking about it. I have the feeling that half the time she enjoys torturing me whenever we find ourselves in such situations. I’ve already had several years worth of such tortures, but she still puts me through them – I guess she knows they keep this Cajun in line. Last night she’d flirted like hell, just enough to drive me crazy with anticipation at the innuendoes she was throwing at me. A look, a wink, a touch, a peck on the cheek, a flick of the hair – that girl uses them all with the subtle refinement of a torturer with his bloody implements. But when she dances – Dieu, when she presses her body against mine and moves those hips the way she does… well, let’s just say that any hot-blooded male would be slavering over her in a matter of seconds.

Yup – my girlfriend gets a helluva lot of attention these days, especially now that she doesn’t have to worry about killing someone if they touch her. She’s knows I’m jealous and likes to tease me about it. But then, I know she’s jealous, although she tries to hide it – and yes, the levels of attention I get puts Rogue on the defensive whenever we go out together, wherever that happens to be. I always tell her jokingly – you wanna keep dis Cajun in line, all you gotta do is dance wit’ him. You dance wit’ him, he’ll be hot for you any time of de day or night.

Last night was no exception. In fact, the Valentine’s celebrations were effectively pretty much over the moment we’d got onto the dance floor. As soon as we’d tired ourselves out dancing we ran out the restaurant without another word and straight back home. And once we’d got home, well, it was straight to the bedroom. Now, let it not be said that Remy LeBeau takes his time to wine and dine and romance his woman. Let it not be said that he strings things out and woos a femme in the appropriate way. Remy LeBeau is debonaire, calm, suave. That is, unless he’s been dancing with Rogue in a slinky dress. Then, all sense of propriety is robbed from him completely. As soon as we’d slammed the bedroom door shut we were at it. What can I say, we were hot for each other like a warm day in Hell.

And once I’d unwrapped my Valentine’s present, it turned out I’d been in for a little surprise as well. Yup – underneath that slinky green dress, Rogue – who’s usually the no-nonsense, practical type in her dress-sense – had kitted herself out in the most expensively exquisite French underwear: black lace bra, panties, suspenders, silk stockings, garter, the whole damn works.

“Mon Dieu,” was all I could manage to splutter.

“You like?” she’d replied, doing a coy little twirl and flashing a hint of derriere at me like only the best of those Parisian girls can do.

“Like?” I’d repeated, giving her several eyefuls up and down. “Chere, you look simply…delectable.” So sue me, it was the only word I could find to describe her. She looked so damn fine I could’ve eaten her.

“Great,” she’d grinned, standing straighter again. “Now can you get these damn things offa me? These suspenders are chafin’ like no one’s business.”

I’d only been too happy to oblige her.

An old rerun of Buffy is now on, but I’d be willing to forego a whole season of Buffy for mon amant belle. She chuckles, dodging my lips so that the kiss I’d planned for her neck lands somewhere on her upper arm.

“Lemme guess – it wasn’t the dancin’,” she says, eyes sparkling as she looks over at me slyly. “You’re thinkin’ of the underwear, aren’t yah?”

“How’d you guess?” I answer, before leaning in to make another attempt to kiss her throat.

“Remy, you think Ah don’t know yah? Men are perverts. Y’all like seein’ women dressed up in horrible underwear that makes ‘em feel uncomfortable.”

“You didn’ look uncomfortable to me, chere,” I murmur, finally scoring a bullseye in the kissing department. “You looked like Gambit coulda eaten y’ right up.”

“Hmmm.” She agrees on that point, her eyes suddenly wistful. Probably because Gambit did eat her up once he’d got rid of those lacy black panties, heh heh.

“An’ Gambit’s crazy for silk stockings,” I continue, taking advantage of the distraction to plant more kisses along her neck and shoulder. “Did he ever tell you dat? You should dress up more, Anna, chere, we could make t’ings real fun.”

“What, ain’t spandex good enough for yah?” she replies, her tone half-accusing, half-cajoling. She’s allowing me to kiss her anyways, which is always a good sign.

“Personally, Gambit prefers de leather,” I reply.

“Ah bet he does,” she levels at me, knitting her brows and frowning. On the one hand she’s annoyed that I’m trying it on with her again; on the other hand she’s enjoying it, so she’s having a hard time telling me where to lay off. Speaking of hard…

“Dammit, Cajun!” she swivels round, glaring at me. “What is it with you this mornin’? You on viagra or somethin’??”

I return her scathing look, somewhat offended. “Chere, does dis Cajun look like he needs viagra t’you?”

“Hmph.” She pouts, before biting savagely into her toast. Dieu, I could think of other places where that sweet little mouth of hers could be put to better use, but I know that if I tell her so it’ll be bad news for yours truly.

“What?” I ask innocently, trying to put away the lewd thoughts currently running round my head and not entirely succeeding.

“You may be Valle Soleada’s resident love machine, Remy LeBeau, but Ah ain’t your bitch, an’ Ah ain’t gonna be putting out for yah whenever yah want me to, y’hear?” she answers heatedly.

“But I wasn’ even suggestin’…”

“Yes, you were!”

“No I wasn’!”

“Oh really?! Well that li’l friend o’ yours down south was sayin’ somethin’ else entirely!”

I burst into laughter. I can’t help it. She looks so mad and sexy it’s hilarious. And just what the hell are we arguing for? Trust her to make an issue out of something so harmless.

“Oh, so it’s funny now, is it?” she grumbles, not even allowing herself to join in with me. I sober up quickly and put my arms back round her, sensing that this is more than just a little banter gone wrong.

“I didn’ know I was Valle Soleada’s ‘resident love machine’,” I tease, cuddling into her neutrally, trying to signal to her that the white flag’s been raised.

“You should hear what the gals in this town say about you,” she mutters darkly, still scowling.

“What?” I ask, nuzzling my nose against her perfumy hair, but resisting the tactical error of kissing her. I can’t help but ask. Come on, a guy likes to know when he’s appreciated.

“Just about what every gal thinks ‘bout you,” she replies, punching the remote and switching back to the Powerpuff Girls. It’s on the rolling credits, but she still stares at the TV anyway. That should’ve broadcasted to me loud and clear that she really was mad.

“What, dat I’m an overbearing bastard?”

“No.” She’s trying to sound patient, but the word comes out from between gritted teeth.

“Rogue, are you jealous?” I can’t resist poking at her.

“Hah!” Her voice is heavily lined with sarcasm. “What, like you were jealous when Joseph an’ Ah were together as friends, so much so that yah knocked the livin’ daylights outta him fer no reason whatsoever?”

“No reason?!” I splutter. See what I mean ‘bout femmes being clever? My darling girlfriend’s just gone and turned everything round on me in a single sentence. “De guy was hangin’ outside your bedroom window like de regular peepin’ Tom!”

“It was totally innocent, and you know it!” she seethes.

“Yeah, now I know – I didn’ know den,” I mutter. “An’ besides, I wasn’ about t’ lose ma chere to a long-haired pretty boy. Even if he was one of de only guys dat ever treated you wit’ respect.” I pause. “Not even Remy could do dat proper.” I finish on something of a sigh. I haven’t thought about Joseph in a long time. He was probably the only guy I was ever truly afraid of losing Rogue to. What made the whole thing even worse was that he’d treated her with all the love and respect that she’d deserved, whereas me – who’d told her countless times he loved her like he’d loved no other woman – I couldn’t even bring myself to show her that love. I was a fool. Even when we’d told each other how we felt, I couldn’t stop playing the field. I couldn’t stop hurting her.

She sees the woebegone look on my face, swivels round and places her hands gently on my face.

“Remy darlin’, it’s all in the past,” she murmurs. “Ah’m sorry, Ah shouldn’ have brought it up.”

“I was an idiot back den, chere,” I mutter, not without a hint of a sulk in my features. “He deserved you more n’ I did.”

“Ah loved you,” she says, touching her nose against my own. “An’ besides, Ah didn’t exactly treat you too kindly either.”

We both know what she’s referring to when she says this, the words ever so delicately put. For the moment we let the memories linger between us – painful memories, bittersweet. But we say nothing – everything that has needed to be said about this shared memory has been said. After a moment, she smiles sadly, presses her forehead against mine, kisses my lips chastely. Our past has been nothing if not torrid; and at times, it has been both brutal and hurtful. I suppose the people you love are always the ones that are easiest to hurt. And Rogue and I, having had an inability to commit for so long, whether physically or emotionally, have hurt one another almost as violently as we have loved one another. There were even times when I think we would have killed one another in order to express both the pain and the passion we have put each other through. But it’s over now. At last, we’re the way we always wanted to be – together. It’s a privilege we know we can’t take for granted. And now she kisses me as if to say she understands – it’s her way of saying sorry.

She pulls away, giving me one last little peck for good measure. The mood is still subdued; the room is quiet.

“So,” she begins after a short moment of silence, gently rubbing my chest, her voice nothing more than a notch above a whisper. “Y’all wanna know what the gals round here really say ‘bout you?”

A small grin plays across my face as I wrap my arms snugly round her waist again.

“Gambit t’inks he already knows what you’re gonna say, Roguey,” I reply in the same tone of voice, all quiet and softly-like, thinking we’re going to destroy the closeness we share otherwise. “But you go ahead an’ indulge me anyways, chere.”

“Well,” she begins innocently, “They think you got the most beautiful, gorgeous, cute, sexy…” She pauses momentarily as if to find another adjective, grinning broadly, “…an’ patient girlfriend they’ve evah seen, an’ they all wish they were her, b’cause…”

“Because you got me in the sack,” I finish for her in mock exasperation, sighing theatrically. “I know, I know! Y’know, sometimes it’s real hard playin’ de Casanova part. De ladies don’ give y’ a moment’s peace.”

She giggles, giving me a playful slap on the shoulder. “An’ you’d know all ‘bout that, of course,” she remarks, eyebrows knitting.

“Chere, you know I only have eyes for a certain green-eyed, brown-haired Mississippi river rat wit’ de world’s cutest skunk-stripe in her hair, right?” I reply, brushing a few white strands of her hair back over her ear and letting my fingers linger there a moment. “Y’know, de one wit’ de cutest tush dis side of Mason-Dixie, and dat sexy li’l mole on her…”

“Only Mason-Dixie?!” she echoes in feigned indignation, eyes wide.

“Okay, I take it back – howzabout de galaxy?”

“Sugah, we been a lot further than just this galaxy,” she pouts playfully. “Are you really sayin’ that Lilandra has a cuter butt than Ah do?”

“…De universe…?”

“An’ speakin’ of moles, you’re one t’ talk!”

“Heh heh.” I chuckle at that one. The whole ‘mole issue’ has landed me in some very –uh- interesting situations in the past. “You’re such a tease, p’tit.”

“So are you,” she pouts. It’s such a cute pout that I have to kiss it. She mutters ‘what the hell’ and caves in. I swear, life for us is like some crazy, deranged roller coaster. First we’re at it, then we’re not, then we’re at it again. Damn this girl! She’s only the most irresistible thing I’ve ever seen. Trouble is, she knows it. Like I said – she’s a like torturer with his bloody implements. Lucky for her I have a masochistic streak in me, heh heh.

It was as things were starting to get interesting that ...

*And that's where I stopped writing! Anyone wanna finish it? You're welcome to! 😂*

#rogue/gambitweek2023 #Romy fic #Rogue and Gambit #Rogue #Gambit #Remy LeBeau #Anna Marie LeBeau #Valle Soleada #rogue/remyweek2023

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