(no subject)
Hey guys...first time poster in the community, coming to share a fic with you. Granted, I posted this on /coq/ a while back, so if anyone frequents there, you might find this familiar. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy.
Title: The Hand You're Dealt.
Author: nera_fiore
Pairing: Remy LeBeau/John Wraith
Summary: John reveals his hand, and Remy cashes in his chips.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: It's pretty much Origins movie!verse, and I'm a sucker for rarepairs, so yeah. You read correctly. It's Gambit/Kestrel or Remy/John, whichever you prefer.
The city’s air is thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of cheap booze and bad choices, sticking thick and heavily in his lungs. Around him, lights flashed and blended together so that he couldn’t precisely tell whether the neon was coming from the inside or the outside of the dingy bar. The sound of cabaret music, flirtatious laughter, and shuffling cards echoed both in the halls and alleys. The temperature is always hot and humid. Still, this is home, Gambit thinks, taking a long drag on his hand rolled cigarette. This is more than just familiar territory. The French Quarter is where he’s learned everything he knows, where he was born and where he was raised. It’s taught him well, he thinks, as a faint grin spreads across his lips and he reveals his hand to be a full house. Groans rise from around the table. Everything about The Big Easy, is exotic. He’s traveled many places throughout North America, Europe, and the West Indies, and still the city seems to beckon him back.
It’s the promising romance of something foreign and unfamiliar that lures him away in the first place, and yet he can’t find anything else in the world quite as romantic and alluring as New Orleans. The same could be said for the people he’s met in these places. Tons of interesting and beautiful men and women, full of wisdom and culture, and yet something about the sinful nature of the Cajun kings and queens made all the amour and sex so much more desirable.
It was the same exotic nature in the man sitting to his left at the table that caught his attention in the first place. A new comer, Gambit could sense, familiar only with the game and little else about the workings of the city. He spoke very little, but when he did, it was quick but confident. What intrigued Gambit the most about it was the vernacular inflections that seemed to linger on the end of each and every syllable. The man’s African heritage was clear with his dark skin and thick, black hair that poked out from under his cowboy hat. He wore rings on each finger, and tucked a pair of oversized sunglasses in his collar. Gambit was grinning again. The man, who had introduced himself only as John, looked like a natural at the table, but Gambit knew these dives too well to mistake him for an old acquaintance.
“You’re new,” he speaks slowly, “How long will you be sleeping in my city’s arms?”
“Jus’ long enough to get what I need,” comes a cool response as he reveals a pair of Jacks in his pink fingertips. Gambit smirks and then wagers all his profits. John remains unphased. Gambit knows this game, and he knows how to win.
And no more than a half an hour later, he’s cashing in his chips in the bathroom stall, pushing up against that rich skin with both their pants pushed down around their knees. Beside them lay their shirts, jackets, a cowboy hat and a fedora. He lets out a half-gasp, half-chuckle as he rubs himself between the back of John’s exposed thighs. John lets out a small gasp and Gambit is running his tongue down along the nape of his neck before biting down on his collar bone. John’s gasp becomes a low moan and he leans his head back against the other man’s. His hands are up against the wall like a convict, and Gambit can’t help the racist stereotype that crosses his mind. Only in this scenario, he imagines, there is more than just a little strip searching.
This continues for moments longer before John’s rocking his hips back to grind against his own. Gambit narrows his eyes and runs his fingers down shoulders and back, meeting his waist, before carefully brushing against the tip of the man’s cock. It was impressive, really. Gambit had seen plenty before, but nothing was quite like the contrast between the pink head and the espresso-colored shaft. He was potentially larger than all of the other men Gambit had seen. He grasped it firmly with one hand, allowing his other to trace back toward his own length. John let out a small cry.
With one hand, Gambit is stroking him briskly, holding his cock tightly in his fingers, his pre-cum being his only lubricant against the heat and friction they’re creating. He’s running his other hand against John’s backside, gently, teasing a little before slipping two fingers in. John groans loudly and Gambit can’t help but continue to grin. It’s a familiar game, but one that never ceases to excite him.
“If its one thing I’ve learned about this place,” he whispers into the man’s ear, thick, curly hair tickling his nose, “It’s to always play the hand you’re dealt.”
John is panting heavily in front of him. “This your idea’ve a welcomin’ gift?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, mon amour,” he says. “I only play for keeps.” He leans forward and licks the man’s earlobe before enclosing his lips around it and sucking briefly. His hands are still pumping and teasing him in both the front and back, and John squirms, panting more heavily as Gambit runs his teeth from his ear down to his neck and collar bone.
“You may consider this a, could you say, /personal/ gift, from the French Quarter, if you wish,” he stops and whispers again. He isn’t trying to purposely play up his French accent, but he can hear it slip as the words roll of his lips. John is rocking back on his fingers. Gambit removes his other hand from the man’s cock, and grasps his own length now. His other fingers separate, and he slowly guides himself in. John lets out a harsh grunt, followed by a quick moan. Slowly, Gambit pushes into him, his hand returning to stroke the man’s cock.
The slow pace lasts only momentarily. John is pushed back hard against the Cajun man, bucking his hips ferociously. Short, voiced pants escape his lips. The tile in the stall begins to steam, and their bodies become increasingly dampened. Gambit knows this game, too. He stops stroking the man in front of him, and with little effort, pushes his chest completely against the wall.
“Le ralentir!” he speaks from his throat. “Not so fast, garçon! You’re in ma maison, I’m dealing this one.” John leans back against him, and their hips are touching.
“Well get on with it,” he mutters through clenched teeth. And suddenly Gambit is stroking him harder and faster than ever, and in one violent thrust, John is smashed against the wall, and then pulled back again. Their hips are moving rapidly, and Gambit pivots his slightly in the form of an erotic dance. He stays quiet, keeping his eyes open; the complete opposite from John who moans with every thrust, eyes screwed shut in deep concentration.
Bucking hard, Gambit begins to focus the attention to that in his hand once again. He stops stroking to run his fingers gently over the head of John’s cock, tickling and teasing it. John’s brows begin to furrow, “Fuck!” he shouts. It too, turns into a moan. The smirk returns to Gambit’s lips, and he changes pace again, squeezing him tightly in his palm. The tempo of their hips is faster, yet more rhythmic than ever.
And then it’s too much, and John cries out, and his head falls back against Gambit’s shoulders, and a thick, white fluid is spilling on into his hand and on the tiles. He clenches against Gambit’s cock, and he too can feel himself approaching the same ending quickly. A few quicker, harder thrusts and he finally closes his eyes, and slows down, riding out the wave. “Oh /dieu/, mon /dieu/,” he pants, pulling out and gasping himself, before resting up against the other man briefly. He admires the sharp contrasts in skin tone.
John is reaching for a piece of toilet tissue to clean up, and Gambit already has his black pants pulled up, stuffing a handkerchief in his back pocket. Their eyes catch as they both reach for their jackets, standing up straight. John mutters something along the lines of “Day-amn” and Gambit narrows his eyes and grins.
“Bienvenu,” he speaks, fishing around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.
“Bless you,” the man remarks sharply. “I don’t know how long I’ll be staying…” he speaks for no real reason, but Gambit is pretty certain he knows why.
“You’ll be back,” he responds. “Once you visit Bourbon Street, you’ll never really leave.”
“I’m sure,” John says dryly. Hints of annoyance flicker in his words, and his vernacular slur is stronger.
“Trust me on this, Monsieur. You’ll long for it.”
John tips his cowboy hat, exiting the stall and stepping lightly past the sinks. Gambit lets the door swing twice and flicking his lighter before following suit. Outside the dingy bathroom, his pupils dilate, and a woman to his left in nothing more than a bikini top and a miniskirt stumbles into his shoulder, giggling drunkenly. His right hand raises the cigarette to his mouth.
Yes, he thinks. This must be why he keeps coming back.
Title: The Hand You're Dealt.
Author: nera_fiore
Pairing: Remy LeBeau/John Wraith
Summary: John reveals his hand, and Remy cashes in his chips.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: It's pretty much Origins movie!verse, and I'm a sucker for rarepairs, so yeah. You read correctly. It's Gambit/Kestrel or Remy/John, whichever you prefer.
The city’s air is thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of cheap booze and bad choices, sticking thick and heavily in his lungs. Around him, lights flashed and blended together so that he couldn’t precisely tell whether the neon was coming from the inside or the outside of the dingy bar. The sound of cabaret music, flirtatious laughter, and shuffling cards echoed both in the halls and alleys. The temperature is always hot and humid. Still, this is home, Gambit thinks, taking a long drag on his hand rolled cigarette. This is more than just familiar territory. The French Quarter is where he’s learned everything he knows, where he was born and where he was raised. It’s taught him well, he thinks, as a faint grin spreads across his lips and he reveals his hand to be a full house. Groans rise from around the table. Everything about The Big Easy, is exotic. He’s traveled many places throughout North America, Europe, and the West Indies, and still the city seems to beckon him back.
It’s the promising romance of something foreign and unfamiliar that lures him away in the first place, and yet he can’t find anything else in the world quite as romantic and alluring as New Orleans. The same could be said for the people he’s met in these places. Tons of interesting and beautiful men and women, full of wisdom and culture, and yet something about the sinful nature of the Cajun kings and queens made all the amour and sex so much more desirable.
It was the same exotic nature in the man sitting to his left at the table that caught his attention in the first place. A new comer, Gambit could sense, familiar only with the game and little else about the workings of the city. He spoke very little, but when he did, it was quick but confident. What intrigued Gambit the most about it was the vernacular inflections that seemed to linger on the end of each and every syllable. The man’s African heritage was clear with his dark skin and thick, black hair that poked out from under his cowboy hat. He wore rings on each finger, and tucked a pair of oversized sunglasses in his collar. Gambit was grinning again. The man, who had introduced himself only as John, looked like a natural at the table, but Gambit knew these dives too well to mistake him for an old acquaintance.
“You’re new,” he speaks slowly, “How long will you be sleeping in my city’s arms?”
“Jus’ long enough to get what I need,” comes a cool response as he reveals a pair of Jacks in his pink fingertips. Gambit smirks and then wagers all his profits. John remains unphased. Gambit knows this game, and he knows how to win.
And no more than a half an hour later, he’s cashing in his chips in the bathroom stall, pushing up against that rich skin with both their pants pushed down around their knees. Beside them lay their shirts, jackets, a cowboy hat and a fedora. He lets out a half-gasp, half-chuckle as he rubs himself between the back of John’s exposed thighs. John lets out a small gasp and Gambit is running his tongue down along the nape of his neck before biting down on his collar bone. John’s gasp becomes a low moan and he leans his head back against the other man’s. His hands are up against the wall like a convict, and Gambit can’t help the racist stereotype that crosses his mind. Only in this scenario, he imagines, there is more than just a little strip searching.
This continues for moments longer before John’s rocking his hips back to grind against his own. Gambit narrows his eyes and runs his fingers down shoulders and back, meeting his waist, before carefully brushing against the tip of the man’s cock. It was impressive, really. Gambit had seen plenty before, but nothing was quite like the contrast between the pink head and the espresso-colored shaft. He was potentially larger than all of the other men Gambit had seen. He grasped it firmly with one hand, allowing his other to trace back toward his own length. John let out a small cry.
With one hand, Gambit is stroking him briskly, holding his cock tightly in his fingers, his pre-cum being his only lubricant against the heat and friction they’re creating. He’s running his other hand against John’s backside, gently, teasing a little before slipping two fingers in. John groans loudly and Gambit can’t help but continue to grin. It’s a familiar game, but one that never ceases to excite him.
“If its one thing I’ve learned about this place,” he whispers into the man’s ear, thick, curly hair tickling his nose, “It’s to always play the hand you’re dealt.”
John is panting heavily in front of him. “This your idea’ve a welcomin’ gift?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, mon amour,” he says. “I only play for keeps.” He leans forward and licks the man’s earlobe before enclosing his lips around it and sucking briefly. His hands are still pumping and teasing him in both the front and back, and John squirms, panting more heavily as Gambit runs his teeth from his ear down to his neck and collar bone.
“You may consider this a, could you say, /personal/ gift, from the French Quarter, if you wish,” he stops and whispers again. He isn’t trying to purposely play up his French accent, but he can hear it slip as the words roll of his lips. John is rocking back on his fingers. Gambit removes his other hand from the man’s cock, and grasps his own length now. His other fingers separate, and he slowly guides himself in. John lets out a harsh grunt, followed by a quick moan. Slowly, Gambit pushes into him, his hand returning to stroke the man’s cock.
The slow pace lasts only momentarily. John is pushed back hard against the Cajun man, bucking his hips ferociously. Short, voiced pants escape his lips. The tile in the stall begins to steam, and their bodies become increasingly dampened. Gambit knows this game, too. He stops stroking the man in front of him, and with little effort, pushes his chest completely against the wall.
“Le ralentir!” he speaks from his throat. “Not so fast, garçon! You’re in ma maison, I’m dealing this one.” John leans back against him, and their hips are touching.
“Well get on with it,” he mutters through clenched teeth. And suddenly Gambit is stroking him harder and faster than ever, and in one violent thrust, John is smashed against the wall, and then pulled back again. Their hips are moving rapidly, and Gambit pivots his slightly in the form of an erotic dance. He stays quiet, keeping his eyes open; the complete opposite from John who moans with every thrust, eyes screwed shut in deep concentration.
Bucking hard, Gambit begins to focus the attention to that in his hand once again. He stops stroking to run his fingers gently over the head of John’s cock, tickling and teasing it. John’s brows begin to furrow, “Fuck!” he shouts. It too, turns into a moan. The smirk returns to Gambit’s lips, and he changes pace again, squeezing him tightly in his palm. The tempo of their hips is faster, yet more rhythmic than ever.
And then it’s too much, and John cries out, and his head falls back against Gambit’s shoulders, and a thick, white fluid is spilling on into his hand and on the tiles. He clenches against Gambit’s cock, and he too can feel himself approaching the same ending quickly. A few quicker, harder thrusts and he finally closes his eyes, and slows down, riding out the wave. “Oh /dieu/, mon /dieu/,” he pants, pulling out and gasping himself, before resting up against the other man briefly. He admires the sharp contrasts in skin tone.
John is reaching for a piece of toilet tissue to clean up, and Gambit already has his black pants pulled up, stuffing a handkerchief in his back pocket. Their eyes catch as they both reach for their jackets, standing up straight. John mutters something along the lines of “Day-amn” and Gambit narrows his eyes and grins.
“Bienvenu,” he speaks, fishing around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.
“Bless you,” the man remarks sharply. “I don’t know how long I’ll be staying…” he speaks for no real reason, but Gambit is pretty certain he knows why.
“You’ll be back,” he responds. “Once you visit Bourbon Street, you’ll never really leave.”
“I’m sure,” John says dryly. Hints of annoyance flicker in his words, and his vernacular slur is stronger.
“Trust me on this, Monsieur. You’ll long for it.”
John tips his cowboy hat, exiting the stall and stepping lightly past the sinks. Gambit lets the door swing twice and flicking his lighter before following suit. Outside the dingy bathroom, his pupils dilate, and a woman to his left in nothing more than a bikini top and a miniskirt stumbles into his shoulder, giggling drunkenly. His right hand raises the cigarette to his mouth.
Yes, he thinks. This must be why he keeps coming back.