Chapter Text
They shouldn't be doing this.
Rogue knows it. Gambit knows it. Hell, if anyone else in the mansion were aware of what the two of them are currently up to, they'd know it too.
That doesn't mean it makes what Rogue is feeling right now any less intoxicating.
Gambit's got her on his lap as he sits on the plush leather armchair in his bedroom (how and where he got it, she'd rather not know), hands on her hips, guiding her as she experimentally grinds down against him. How he'd gotten her to agree to something so undeniably dangerous, she can't quite remember –– all Rogue can focus on is the way he hitches his breath under her when she presses down against him a bit harder.
Forget the invulnerable skin and super-strength, eliciting that sound from this man makes her feel like the most powerful woman in the world.
"Jus' like that, mon cherié," Remy's voice is hot and low, rumbling deep in his chest as he looks up at her with those predatory red-on-black eyes that never seem to leave her dreams. "Got nothin' to worry about."
For once, she allows herself to believe his lie.
Even though they're both still fully dressed in their civilian clothes from earlier in the evening, they're still one wrong move from repeating history. The last thing Rogue wants is Gambit in her head, especially with his current state of mind. But the feel of his body between her legs, his erection, shielded from her skin between four layers of clothes, against her core…she's only human after all, and it turns out those devil eyes are her siren's song.
She feels his fingers dig into the covered flesh of her hips as she begins to circle them counter-clockwise and can't conceal the gasp of surprise and pleasure as his own hips buck up from the chair a bit. The friction against her clit sends tiny little shocks up her spine, the hot coil in her stomach twisting tighter.
"Remy," she whimpers, and he leans up to press kisses against her neck. Rogue has never been more grateful that she had absentmindedly thrown on the thin, black turtleneck this morning.
"You don' know how long I've been waitin' to hear you say my name like that," he whispers in her ear, and she can feel how dangerously close his bottom lip is to brushing against her earlobe, "I dream of it almost every night, but turns out those dreams o' mine ain't got nothin' on the real thing."
It's such a nonchalant confession, she wonders if he even realizes the weight of his words.
They're not dating, they can't at her own insistence, but they're also not just friends. Their relationship exists in a grey area, hovering in the space between them that always exists, even tonight. Rogue can't deny that she hasn't thought about Gambit late at night, when the façade of their platonic flirtation becomes too much to bear, her hand trailing down the planes of her stomach as she begins to re-imagine moments that would mean nothing to someone with the freedom to touch.
On those nights the sparring session that had her laying flat on her back, arms pinned above her head as Gambit smirked above her, end with her nails scratching down his back instead of her kneeing him in the crotch. That heated gaze during the elevator ride back up to the mansion from the war room has her pushing the emergency stop button instead of fleeing the moment the doors slid open. She'll join him on his night out on the town instead of holing up in her room, letting jealousy gnaw away at her insides as she pictured the kind of woman who would have the luxury of taking him home.
So yes, she thinks about Gambit, fantasizes about him if you want to get super technical, but she's never allowed herself to wonder if he does the same.
Until right now.
She feels herself squeeze around nothing at his words, and there's no doubt that he can hear how fast her heart begins to beat as a flood of images she's so long denied herself fill her mind.
"Tell me," the words tumble out before her better judgment kicks in, "please," she adds haphazardly, hips stuttering slightly as she begins to grind down harder against him, no longer needing his hands on her hips for guidance. He sucks in a breath before leaning back against the chair so she can see his face –– that annoying, beautifully frustrating face –– and the expression he's wearing is not what she expects. Rogue thought he would be grinning like the proverbial cat and it's loose-lipped, lust-ridden canary, but instead Gambit is looking up at her with eyes so soft and yet so serious she freezes in place.
"Tell you what, Rogue?"
He's letting her backtrack, attempting to redraw the line she'd practically chiseled into the sand beneath them the moment they'd met. The rational part of her brain –– the one she's never allowed herself to shut off since her first kiss –– is screaming to follow his lead, stop her gyrations and go back to her own room where it's safe and comfortable and the armchair she uses as a reading nook definitely isn't stolen.
Too bad Rogue isn't listening.
"Everythin'."
She can see the way his brain short-circuits for a split second, the flash of shock on his face before he recomposes himself, waits with baited breath as the energy in the room shifts into something so electric she worries Storm might be right outside the door.
"You're all I think about,"
There's a rawness in his voice that hits her like a semi-truck speeding down I-90. She feels Gambit's hands begin to guide her hips again, the slow build she'd been experiencing moments before reigniting, but all Rogue can focus on right now is his words.
"And it ain't always 'bout sex," he shoots her a sly smile, "but I think right now you'd rather hear 'bout the times when it is." One of his hands leaves her hips and snakes up to cup her breast, thumb grazing against her nipple at the same time his hips thrust against her covered cunt. Rogue gasps, lolling her head back as the sweet symphony of his words continue to fill her ears.
"There ain't a position I haven't thought 'bout takin' you in, not a surface of the mansion or the Blackbird I haven't pictured us ruinin'. Couldn't ride my own bike for a week after I imagined what it'd be like to bend you over it,"
She remembers that week, the one where he'd hitched rides from everyone but her whenever he needed to go out. She also remembers how he had refused to look her in the eyes after Jubilee called him out on his odd behavior after a few days.
"I jus' wanna worship you, Rogue," he's almost panting now, and so is she, "show you how fuckin' good it can be, I can be. I'd do whatever you'd ask me to, let you ride my face, use my cock,"
Fuck, she's close. The images he's conjuring in her head are downright pornographic, damn near evil how vividly she can picture herself in these positions above him. She also pictures him alone in his bed, the one just a few feet away, palming at his cock as he stares up at the ceiling and thinks of her the same way she secretly thinks of him.
"Or maybe you'd wanna let me be in control at first, show you the ropes. I'd still find a way to taste that pretty lil pussy o' yours, 'cause if you think my tongue is silver only when I'm talkin', cherié, you got another thing comin'."
Rogue wants to let go, throw all caution to the wind and let him prove himself right then and there. She wants, and wants, and wants.
But she can't.
So instead she grinds down harder, gloved fingers digging into Gambit's shoulders a bit too hard as she wildly rubs against his groin, desperately chasing that release they both crave so much. She's a whimpering, desperate mess, the walls that she has so carefully built around herself since her mutation first appeared crumbling with each motion of her hips.
"C'mon Rogue," Gambit's close, she can tell by the way his cock is twitching against his jeans below her, how his voice trembles as he continues to whisper in her ear, "help make this poor ol' Cajun's dreams come true 'nd show me how a good fille like yo'self falls apart."
She feels a hand snake between their bodies and suddenly there's an almost intolerable amount of pressure against her crotch, rolling right up against her clit, and her vision goes white. With what little sanity she still has, Rogue leans down and bites Gambit's shoulder to muffle her voice as she cries out his name, orgasm crashing over her nervous system like a tidal wave.
She shudders above him as she rides it out, skin buzzing and cunt fluttering and mind completely blank for once. Gambit groans something she can't quite make out but she feels him tense beneath her body and knows he's reached his peak as well. They sit there for a moment, or perhaps an hour, Rogue can't quite tell, listening as their breathing begins to even and their heartbeats begin to slow.
Not for the first time does Rogue wish she could freeze time and live in this moment of peace forever.
Wordlessly, Gambit begins to reposition her in his lap, and in her post-orgasm haze she lets him, eventually finding herself being lifted up and carried bridal style over towards his bed. He lays her down carefully, as if she were a porcelain doll and not a woman with the strength to move mountains, before turning on his heel and going to rummage through his dresser.
"Put these on," he tells her in a voice that's almost too soft as he hands her a pile of clothes, "I'll be right back."
Rogue doesn't watch as he walks around the bed and towards his bathroom. She hears him flick the light on, close the door behind him, and the eventual rush of water from his shower, but her gaze remains locked on the clothes in her hands. His clothes.
It's nothing too crazy, some boxers, a pair of grey sweatpants she sometimes sees him lounging around the mansion in, and an old concert tee that he must have cropped himself. She feels her cheeks flush as she thinks about putting them on, somehow feeling far more intimate than what they had just done together.
She peels off her favorite pair of jeans, now sporting a very obvious wet spot at the crotch, the panties she'll most likely have to throw out in the morning, and slowly begins to redress herself with his clothes. They're a bit more baggy than she'd like, she has to triple tie the waistband of the sweats around her waist to keep them from sagging, but due to their height difference the crop top keeps her torso covered, which she appreciates.
By the time she's fully dressed she hears the shower turn off, and moments later Gambit reappears with a towel around his waist and a damp washcloth in his hand.
This man. This goddamn man.
Rogue's seen him shirtless plenty of times before, always around whenever he felt like peacocking. She has the ripples of his abdomen, the light trail of hair she's never seen the end of, burned into her mind. But to see him fresh out of the shower like this, the tiny beads of water trailing down his chest, it sparks something new and dangerous deep inside her. It makes her want to trace the trails of water with her tongue, taste the salt and soap on his skin, rake her fingernails down his his chest and––
"For if you wanna wash up down there." He says, holding out the washcloth to her. Rogue just blinks at him for a moment, wondering how the hell they were ever going to come back from this, before realizing she has to answer him.
"Thanks." She takes the washcloth without another word and disappears into the bathroom as fast as she can.
Rogue refuses to look herself in the mirror as she cleans herself up, too scared of what she might find staring back at her if she does. You've got this girl, she tells herself as she pulls Gambit's boxers and sweatpants back up, all you gotta do is make it outta his room before he can convince you to stay.
Gambit's head whips around as she opens the door, relaxed expression on his face. It takes Rogue a moment to process what he's in the middle of doing, and once she does she can't help but raise a brow and cock her head at him.
"What in the world are you doin', Swamp Rat?"
"Oh, this?" He asks as he throws down two pillows from the bed onto the floor, where it seems he's been building a makeshift sleeping bag out of spare blankets while she was in the bathroom. "Jubilee just got home."
Jubilee, the youngest X-Man, who's room is right across the hall from Gambit's. Jubilee, who despite blasting music through her disc-man during every waking moment, has a sense of hearing that could rival Wolverine's. Jubilee, who if she poked her head out and saw Rogue leaving Gambit's room, wearing Gambit's clothes, would make sure the entire population of New York knew before morning.
Hence, the makeshift sleeping bag.
"Oh."
"Exactly, and you know teenagers, she ain't gettin' no sleep for a while." Rogue watches as he crouches down and snuggles into the blankets. "But that don' mean we can't."
"Remy you don't haveta sleep on the floor…"
"Rogue," the look he's giving her is the same soft yet serious one he'd given her earlier, "jus' get in the bed."
She's too tired to argue, and by the way he doesn't even try to make a quip about getting her into bed she knows he's feeling the same, so she obliges and tucks herself beneath his covers. The very covers he lies under as he thinks of her with his dick in his hand. She stares up at the ceiling as the last few hours begin to hit her, as she realizes that things will never be the same again –– because now that she's had just the tiniest taste of him, she can't help but want more. It's so selfish, all this wanting, knowing it can only end in her getting her heart broken.
Of all the men in the world, Rogue just had to start falling in love with the most handsome snake in the garden, almost sure to slither away if she tries to hold him too tight.
And God, how badly does she want to hold him.
The sound of Gambit's voice, smooth as ever, breaks through the silence of the room and shatters her thoughts. "Next time, cherié, it's gonna be your turn to do the talkin'."
Next time. Next time?
There are so many ways she wants to respond –– most of them involving her wringing his neck until he's blue in the face –– but by the time she settles on one and leans over the edge of the bed she finds nothing but a sleeping Cajun, the faintest trace of that smug little smile still dancing on his lips.