No hell to discover, I've got it all inside myself, Salvation you have preached is gone
Because epiphanyx7 asked for it, and I love her dearly, I have written Gambit and Logan. Sort of.
Title: The Jacket
Pairing: Gambit/Logan's Jacket
Rating/Warnings: Eh... PG-13, it's not that hardcore. And it's sorta slash.
Words: 880
Logan had left his jacket behind.
Remy LeBeau had run the last of the way, hopped back into his sort-of-his plane, and headed back for the warm south he was used to, the south he loved. After hiding his baby in the dock that also sort-of belonged to him, that was when he realized that there was a leather jacket slung over the back of his passenger seat, a leather jacket that smelled of cheap cigars and the musk of a man that managed to rarely bathe, and yet smell... natural, rather than just bad.
Grumbling to himself about the kind of work it would take to return this to the amnesiac wonder, he grabbed the jacket, and headed for his apartment.
He forgot about the jacket for a couple weeks, where it lay, neglected, in a crumpled heap on the chair in his bedroom. He tossed shirts and pants and used boxers he was too busy to wash on top of the jacket, until finally one day the whole stack slipped off the chair. Grabbing one of the shirts, he sniffed experimentally at it, to see if it was clean enough to wear again - the plight of a serially promiscuous bachelor, sometimes - and was startled to discover that it smelled nothing like him, his cigarettes, or the women he slept with.
It smelled like Logan.
Confused, he glanced back at the pile it had fallen from, and realized that the jacket still lay there, innocently, crumpled, the only thing that stayed on the chair when all its fellows had toppled to the floor.
"Well, son of a bitch."
Scooping up the jacket, he drew in a deep breath from the leather, sighing softly. There was the cigar smoke, there was the leather, there was the musk. Under that was the sweet smell of hay, the bitter tang of motor oil, the coppery scent of blood.
Remy sat slowly on the end of his bed, sniffing at the collar of the jacket. The thought occurred to him that he must look like a loon, but he was alone, and who the fuck cared what he did in his own time, anyway?
Even if it was sniffing at the jacket of a man he barely dared call friend, and with more honesty would call acquaintance, though with more optimism might call ally.
He liked the smell. Liked it a lot, actually.
Standing, sharply, he made a rash decision, and slipped his arms into the silk-lined sleeves, testing the fit. The sleeves were too long, the shoulders too wide. It hung on his lanky frame like a scarecrow, but it was heavy and warm, like a leather embrace, slipping around him, holding him close enough to feel enclosed, but not too tight as to feel smothered.
He went out, wearing that jacket, that night.
Its reception wasn't warm. Men scoffed at it. Women turned up their noses at it.
Remy loved it.
Lying on his bed that night, earlier than he often turned in, distinctly alone, he was still wearing the jacket. He wasn't sure he could remember the last Friday night he'd gone to bed alone. Though, he reasoned, it wasn't really alone. Well, it was, but it didn't feel like it. It still smelled like he had someone with him, the heady musk of another man.
He considered that, fingers stroking the edges of the cuffs, frowning slightly. The scent of Logan suggested a man that was well in touch with his animal side, in touch with the raw side of himself. Lying there in his own bed, nose buried in the collar of James Logan's leather jacket, Remy wondered to himself what the other man would be like in bed.
Well, it wasn't that off of a thing for him to do. After all, he often considered what many people he saw around him would be like in bed. It was fun. Sometimes, he even got to test his theories.
Consider the scent, he sighed softly, picturing Logan.
The man would walk in the door, all glowering and grumbling, like he usually was, maybe stop, and consider him, wearing his jacket, snuggled in it like a blanket. Then he'd smirk, and stalk towards him. Remy shivered at the thought, rolling onto his back, as though watching the imaginary Canadian stalk towards him, predatory glint in his eyes.
Logan would be rough, he thought. But not violent. Just... demanding, sure of himself. Confident. A man who knew how to get the best out of his lovers, for both their pleasure. But definitely rough.
Rough hands, rough tongue, rough stubble on a strong jaw, rough hair, like soft steel wool, on a chest as hard as the adamantine inside.
Rough, calloused hands on sensitive skin, tugging, rough and firm.
Arching his back, gasping, Remy came on his own silk shirt.
Moaning softly, he used the edge of the leather jacket sleeve to wipe it up, frowning slightly.
Now the leather jacket smelled like leather and Logan's sweat, and his own salty cum.
Sighing softly, he closed his eyes, relaxing.
I should find him. Give him his jacket back.
Sniffing at the collar of the jacket, he smiled faintly, pleased.
Wonder if he'll be able to smell me on it.
Also, I really want to do Kink Bingo, when things start next month. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm writing my Masters thesis, but I'll keep working on that, no worries. I just... need something other than just a thesis to keep myself creative. I mean, I'm finally getting back to writing. After over two years! I need to do something to keep myself writing!
Anyone else got a specific request for fic? I can give it a shot. I'll write anything, if I know the fandom well enough. (Or if I can fake it, lol).
Title: The Jacket
Pairing: Gambit/Logan's Jacket
Rating/Warnings: Eh... PG-13, it's not that hardcore. And it's sorta slash.
Words: 880
Logan had left his jacket behind.
Remy LeBeau had run the last of the way, hopped back into his sort-of-his plane, and headed back for the warm south he was used to, the south he loved. After hiding his baby in the dock that also sort-of belonged to him, that was when he realized that there was a leather jacket slung over the back of his passenger seat, a leather jacket that smelled of cheap cigars and the musk of a man that managed to rarely bathe, and yet smell... natural, rather than just bad.
Grumbling to himself about the kind of work it would take to return this to the amnesiac wonder, he grabbed the jacket, and headed for his apartment.
He forgot about the jacket for a couple weeks, where it lay, neglected, in a crumpled heap on the chair in his bedroom. He tossed shirts and pants and used boxers he was too busy to wash on top of the jacket, until finally one day the whole stack slipped off the chair. Grabbing one of the shirts, he sniffed experimentally at it, to see if it was clean enough to wear again - the plight of a serially promiscuous bachelor, sometimes - and was startled to discover that it smelled nothing like him, his cigarettes, or the women he slept with.
It smelled like Logan.
Confused, he glanced back at the pile it had fallen from, and realized that the jacket still lay there, innocently, crumpled, the only thing that stayed on the chair when all its fellows had toppled to the floor.
"Well, son of a bitch."
Scooping up the jacket, he drew in a deep breath from the leather, sighing softly. There was the cigar smoke, there was the leather, there was the musk. Under that was the sweet smell of hay, the bitter tang of motor oil, the coppery scent of blood.
Remy sat slowly on the end of his bed, sniffing at the collar of the jacket. The thought occurred to him that he must look like a loon, but he was alone, and who the fuck cared what he did in his own time, anyway?
Even if it was sniffing at the jacket of a man he barely dared call friend, and with more honesty would call acquaintance, though with more optimism might call ally.
He liked the smell. Liked it a lot, actually.
Standing, sharply, he made a rash decision, and slipped his arms into the silk-lined sleeves, testing the fit. The sleeves were too long, the shoulders too wide. It hung on his lanky frame like a scarecrow, but it was heavy and warm, like a leather embrace, slipping around him, holding him close enough to feel enclosed, but not too tight as to feel smothered.
He went out, wearing that jacket, that night.
Its reception wasn't warm. Men scoffed at it. Women turned up their noses at it.
Remy loved it.
Lying on his bed that night, earlier than he often turned in, distinctly alone, he was still wearing the jacket. He wasn't sure he could remember the last Friday night he'd gone to bed alone. Though, he reasoned, it wasn't really alone. Well, it was, but it didn't feel like it. It still smelled like he had someone with him, the heady musk of another man.
He considered that, fingers stroking the edges of the cuffs, frowning slightly. The scent of Logan suggested a man that was well in touch with his animal side, in touch with the raw side of himself. Lying there in his own bed, nose buried in the collar of James Logan's leather jacket, Remy wondered to himself what the other man would be like in bed.
Well, it wasn't that off of a thing for him to do. After all, he often considered what many people he saw around him would be like in bed. It was fun. Sometimes, he even got to test his theories.
Consider the scent, he sighed softly, picturing Logan.
The man would walk in the door, all glowering and grumbling, like he usually was, maybe stop, and consider him, wearing his jacket, snuggled in it like a blanket. Then he'd smirk, and stalk towards him. Remy shivered at the thought, rolling onto his back, as though watching the imaginary Canadian stalk towards him, predatory glint in his eyes.
Logan would be rough, he thought. But not violent. Just... demanding, sure of himself. Confident. A man who knew how to get the best out of his lovers, for both their pleasure. But definitely rough.
Rough hands, rough tongue, rough stubble on a strong jaw, rough hair, like soft steel wool, on a chest as hard as the adamantine inside.
Rough, calloused hands on sensitive skin, tugging, rough and firm.
Arching his back, gasping, Remy came on his own silk shirt.
Moaning softly, he used the edge of the leather jacket sleeve to wipe it up, frowning slightly.
Now the leather jacket smelled like leather and Logan's sweat, and his own salty cum.
Sighing softly, he closed his eyes, relaxing.
I should find him. Give him his jacket back.
Sniffing at the collar of the jacket, he smiled faintly, pleased.
Wonder if he'll be able to smell me on it.
Also, I really want to do Kink Bingo, when things start next month. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm writing my Masters thesis, but I'll keep working on that, no worries. I just... need something other than just a thesis to keep myself creative. I mean, I'm finally getting back to writing. After over two years! I need to do something to keep myself writing!
Anyone else got a specific request for fic? I can give it a shot. I'll write anything, if I know the fandom well enough. (Or if I can fake it, lol).