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Rogue isn’t a detail oriented girl. She’s a big picture, fist first problem solver. So when small things change, she either lets them breeze by without investment or doesn’t notice at all.
Over the years of knowing Remy, for example, physical change comes so gradually she never really notices a shift. The way he grooms his stubble, the way he plucks his brow– even a new tattoo sometimes slips by unnoticed for more than a week if she’s particularly busy.
This though, she sees right away. His hair is goddamn blue.
She was away on a mission for three days. When she left him he was a redhead- not a natural one, sure. She’d known him long enough to see his roots, longer still to see him a full brunette. But the man in front of her now is different enough to make her do a double take.
“Oh my stars, Remy… What did you do?”
Gambit, who had his arms spread in welcome to her when she walked through the door, drops his arms to his sides.
“Bienvenue to you. What’d I do?”
She grabs the strap of her duffle bag on her shoulder, clutching it like it could ground her. “I dunno but it’s definitely different…” Rogue says, staring at the top of his head. His hair has a slight curl to it, damp from a shower not that long ago. It doesn’t look damaged or anything, and he didn’t cut it, so it's not a bad thing. It’s just…
“It’s so bright,” Rogue gawks.
“I wanted to try something different,” Gambit says. His smile is strained with his brow twitching. “You like?” She feels like he’s pulling a mandatory compliment out of her with pliers.
She bares her teeth in a tense smile. “Oh suga’, of course… You can pull off anything once.”
They stand there staring at each other.
Remy whispers, “Quoi? What does that mean-”
Rogue stretches her arms over her head suddenly and lets out a loud yawn. “God, that jet ride was awful long. Those seats really know how ta put a crick in ya back. ‘Think I’m gonna unpack then lay down.”
She closes the gap between them, hugging him quickly and oh-so tightly. His arms get pinned to his sides as his hands bend awkwardly to try and hold her back. Before he can get a word in she’s trotting up the stairs and disappearing into their shared suite.
The room is… Perfect for her to come home to. There’s lines on the carpet grain and the smell of the vacuum having just been used. The laundry is empty, her body care items are stacked on her dresser in a neat row and the bed is made tight and fresh with the comforter over the pillows. He must have done this right before he heard she was landing.
She feels a little bad.
She was just teasing him downstairs, she swears. Surprise didn’t do much to help come up with long, flattering sentences. And he didn’t look bad. He doesn’t. Couldn’t. He just didn’t warn her.
The air she’s been holding in since she took in the state of the room leaves her in a sigh. Maybe, after she splashes some water on her face, she’ll think of what to say to him. If anything he’s got himself burned into her radar right now.
Rogue tosses her duffel bag next to the bed and goes into their ensuite bathroom. She flicks on the tap in the light of the window, looking in the mirror. Maybe she just didn’t understand since she doesn’t dye her hair. Her white bangs explode from her head in wavy curls, au natural and enough to give her any character she could ask for.
She peels off her gloves and tosses them on the vanity. Then, bending over she splashes her face with cold water, once, twice, then wets down some of the frizz in her hair. Something nice to say, something nice to say…
All she can think of is a blueberry.
She reaches blindly to the side to grab the towel by the sink, unfolding it to pat her face dry. There’s not a gentle thing about the action, like it will help wake her up.
When she pulls back and opens her eyes she sees it. A giant, dark blue stain in the middle of their old, olive color towels. She blinks, like it will go away when she shuts her eyes. But it's still there.
Rogue looks over to the other towel on the rack and it too is stained brilliantly. She grips the side of the sink, scrunching up her nose and hanging her head.
There’s dots of dye on the mat under the sink too.
“Remy Etienne LeBeau!” Rogue shouts.
She can hear his quiet footsteps climbing the stairs quickly- but not too quickly. When she returns to the bedroom, she can see his shadow in the doorway, but not him.
“Get in here,” she growls.
“I need your word I’ll be able to walk after, first, cher.”
“I’m going to have a lot of words for you if you don’t get in here.”
His blue hair is the first thing that comes into view when he pops his head in the door.
“Now,” Rogue says lowly.
He slowly crosses the threshold, approaching her. When she sees his eyes glance at the bathroom she’s ready to throttle him. “What happened to my nice towels?”
“...Still work perfectly nice fo’ me-”
“Really? Looks like you were usin’ em in the garage to wipe up anti-freeze.”
“S’not that bad, mon am-”
“Don’t you call me that right now,” she says, jabbing a finger up at his jaw. “You even got the mat, Remy!”
“Gambit was doin’ t’ings when the rinse timer wen’ off. I had to get back out!”
Rogue crosses her arms and throws her weight down on the edge of the bed, steaming. The blankets bunch up under her when she does so, pulling them down the bed a bit.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees it. He got the pillowcases too. When she looks back to grab him by the waist band of his pants in death grip he’s halfway out the door. He playfully resists, but not even enough to make the band taut.
“You’re dead friggin’ meat, cajun!”
“Non. Non, non, non,” he’s repeating and there’s the hint of a nervous laugh to his voice. So he thinks this is funny? She’d just love to show him how funny she thought this all was.
By the time she’s yanked him back onto her lap his bottoms are below his ass, and he’s squirming to get comfortable in a sitting position, not get away. Like she’s invited him to perch on her like a prized canary.
She bends him over so he’s across her strong thigh, ass up and arms scrabbling to support himself. He doesn’t try to escape once he’s gripping the side of the bed and her calf though.
“You better start countin’ ‘cause if you miss one I ain’t accepting returns, suga,” she snaps.
“Don’cha think you’re bein’ a bit-”
No, she’s not letting him charm her out of this. She brings down her open palm across the right side of his ass firmly. The crack echoes off the walls of their bedroom, and Rogue notes Remy’s ass starts to redden almost instantly. He lets out a sharp chuckle, but goes quiet after that. Breathing.
Rogue pauses to draw her hand back again, waiting for him to say something. When he doesn’t, she brings her hand down again, this time on the left. “Why so quiet all of a sudden, baby? You ain’t countin’?”
“One.” Remy ducks his head. His hair makes it all the more obvious that his ears are bright red.
She continues, measured as she hits him twice more, ignoring the sting to the inside of her hand. It’s rare she hits something without her knuckles taking the hit. But regardless the stings of punching an enemy and slapping Remy around are different.
She can feel the bite of his nails in her calf through her suit. “Trois.” When Remy continues she can hear– not just hear but feel he’s breathing heavier. The muscle of his chest rising and falling against her thigh is becoming more obvious. It’s amusing to her; it seems like it’s moments like these where she notices little things the most.
“You know Remy,” she starts, bringing her hand down again. He counts up one. Then she leaves her hand on his cheek, letting her nails sink into the pink skin a bit. His breath hitches. “You got me thinkin’.”
“Do I?”
Then she slowly raises her hand and this time the connection to his ass is a bit gentler. “You did such a good job takin’ care of the house for me while I was away…”
“Merci-”
She spanks him again, and the end of his word is cut short with a grunt. “Cinq,” he amends.
“But when I was pokin’ around Remy… You were worse at hidin’ it than a toddler drawin’ on the wall behind the couch.”
She hits him three more times, all on the same cheek. He follows, cutting himself off as the next blow comes to continue. His knees shake against the side of her leg, feet digging into the carpet for purchase. Rogue shakes her head as he whines into the crook of his arm.
“You didn’t change the towels but you changed the comforter. You vacuumed but left the pillowcases,” she muses.
The next hit is a tap in comparison. The next number comes out in a relieved sigh.
“Sloppy Remy, very sloppy. Somethin’s tellin’ me,”
Another tap and he’s wiggling his hips in anticipation.
“You wanted to be exactly where you are.”
And she hits him one last time, harder than any other. Remy takes it happily as he moans rocking forward on her lap and counting a final time. Eleven, what a shitty number to stop on, she hears him whisper under his breath but she thinks he’s had enough. His toes are curling in the carpet and the blush on his ears is creeping down the back of his neck past his now blue baby hairs.
She grabs onto the back of Remy’s shirt and tugs him to get on his knees. It’s easy for her, super strength making him easier to drag around than a ragdoll. Then she puts an arm around his hips and tugs him between her powerful thighs so he can kneel next to the bed.
“Gonna have rug burn with the way you’re tossin’ me aroun’, mon petite.”
“Sounds like hopeful thinkin’, baby,” she replies. With the same hand that was delivering punishment just a moment ago, she carefully smooths back his bangs. Softer than a kitten, she thinks. And he’s turning his head to lay a tender kiss on her wrist. It’s gratitude; she knows him well enough to feel it through her skin. Because she takes care of him in ways he doesn’t even need to ask for.
Even though he’s pissing her off today, he manages to find a way to do the same for her.
Rogue lets her fingers tangle in the soft waves of his curls, nails skimming his scalp as she stares down at him. He’s looking back at her with complete patience, red eyes searching her green. Waiting. Wanting.
Then she grips tight and tugs, pulling his head back and baring his throat for her. His adams apple bobs and his eyes shut, fingers tensely gripping the fat and muscle of her hips for purchase.
“You’re gonna make it up to me, arn’cha?” She says, leaning down to whisper against where the angle of his jaw and windpipe connect. He pulls against the hold in his hair to nod, mouth agape as she drags her teeth down the column of his throat. “Good. That’s what mama likes to hear.”
When she gets done tonguing at the red line her teeth leave behind on Remy’s throat, she leans back on her elbows. As she leans back, it tugs Remy by his hair closer to her core. He seems happy about it, the way he leans into her pelvis. She can feel him panting on her through her suit and it reminds her of when that was all he could do; when all he could be was a mouth working on her through a layer of tight, damp fabric.
But she’s in better control now, thank the stars in heaven. Otherwise this would be a lot more tricky. Her jacket comes off in an instant. Then she uses her free hand to slip the invisible zipper of her suit down, peeling it open. Her skin sticks to the armor of it, breasts wobbling in her bra as she shimmies the sleeves off her arms. Then, when Remy thinks ahead and reaches up to undo her utility belt, her suit is free to pool around her thighs.
He’s so helpful. And eager. Rogue wasn’t away for long but you’d think her mission went on for months the way he rubs the stubble of his cheek longingly against her sensitive inner thigh. “You good down there, suga?” She asks.
And Remy nods. He looks up at her silently, kissing her leg as he waits for permission. Rogue’s still feeling a bit feisty though, and his stubble is driving her crazy. So her permission comes in the form of her squeezing her thighs, pressing him into the heat of her center.
She did call him sloppy earlier, didn’t she? Because that’s exactly how she’d describe his mouth on her. His nose presses into her clit deliciously hard as his tongue laves at her folds. She tries not to crush his poor head much more, but the more he presses the flat of his tongue against her, gathering her wetness on his pallet, the harder it becomes. His spit drenches her entrance, making what’s hers and what’s his blend together until it's just them.
“Remy,” she moans, and in the back of her mind she tries to remind herself not to lose the plot. She has the reins right now, not him. Then his nose pulls back as he pants against her clit. His tongue points from his mouth to spread her open and slip inside her cunt, flicking it in and out to fuck her finally.
The sensation is heavenly relief. Rogue’s head drops back, hair flowing across the duvet as she lets herself stop staring and feel. Her teeth grind together in her tight jaw as she moans shakily, a hoarse sound that trails into an astonished laugh. He knows exactly how to push her buttons, and it makes her surprised every time. She can feel his lips curl as her back arches; it's like he could read her thoughts through her taste alone.
Her feet are flexed so she’s balancing on the tips of her toes, every muscle gradually tying itself into the perfect knot that will be undone with her climax. The softness of her lower belly tenses under her abs, and Remy brings a hand up to properly press firmly- relentlessly against her clit as he pulls back just a fraction. The feeling of him panting and even groaning just from watching her is surprisingly good and almost makes her not miss his tongue against her. Almost.
Then he’s rolling her most sensitive spot between his fingers and she can’t take it. He keeps rubbing, slipping a finger inside of her just as she comes so he can feel her around him. The thought he had to be inside her, to know how hard she needed this, makes her finish all the better. She can hear him swearing- then saying something, probably filthy, in that Louisiana French she loves to hear but rarely understands and it has her chuckling breathlessly.
Once she’s out of the fuzzy fog of diving over the edge, she gets her senses back. Pointing her foot, she swings her leg inward. Nudging her knee between Remy and the bed so her calf can press against his torso, she lets her ankle press into his hard-on. And he sighs.
“Hmm… All this punishment I’ve been dealing… I wonder if I made you wait long enough,” she says, caressing the side of his need with her sole. She smirks devilishly when she feels him rub back against her and he scowls. “Down boy, use your words.”
“Tu vas finir par me tuer,” he growls under his breath.
“Didn’t catch that.”
“I’m ready for it to be my turn,” he says with a forced level. Though the way his pupils are blown wide with need is an uncontrollable contrasting feature. Oh, the little things.
Rogue just croons condescending at his attempt to not beg. “Oh, I’m sure you are sug’.”
She reaches down, past his wet chin covered in her slick and to the collar of his shirt, pulling him up the bed. He crawls over her, shucking his pants and underwear off the side of the bed as he does so. She looks at his shirt in her grip for a moment, at the thin white material, and notes the parts that brush his hair are tinged just slightly with his stupid blue stain.
“If my nails turn green by the end of this, Remy,” she mumbles, yanking his shirt off over his head to toss somewhere else.
“Thought green was yo’ color,” Remy replies, his cock hanging heavy over her hips as he tries to banter light-heartedly with her. It’s amusing to her, the way he tries to keep face like this. Rogue rolls her eyes. She can do the same. Looking at him unamused, she reaches between them, grabbing his length with her fist and giving it an experimental pump. The way he purses his lips, teeth pulling in the skin shows he’s not nearly as composed as his words would lead her to believe. As usual, she’s known him long enough to know better.
“You’re practically begging me to go put my gloves back on to deal with you,” Rogue says, rubbing her thumb against a thick vein just underneath his shaft.
“Non, merci, but I’ve had enough leather clad encounters with ya’ ta last me,” Remy says, shifting his hips. “Ya can move, I won’t bite unless ya ask,” he mentions impatiently.
“Hm.” She hums. Then she thinks for a moment. “I don’t think I will. You can go ahead though.”
The look he fixes her with is like a kicked puppy. She can’t help but grin wickedly when she sees it. “Oh, poor baby. Here I can still help ya.” He clears his throat when she lets go of him completely– he looks like he’s getting legitimately frustrated for a moment. Then she comes back, wrapping her long fingers covered in her own slick around his cock and he bucks without thinking.
“That better, hon?”
He pauses. Then he begins to thrust into her fist experimentally. Her grip is just the right amount tight and loose, letting him glide wetly across the ridges of her digits. “See, I always take care of you. Keep going.” She whispers, and he drops his head to her shoulder, moaning.
He smells like fruit and her soap this close against her. She takes a deep breath of him in where he’s tucked under her chin as he begins to rut into her needily. Occasionally she lets her thumb reach up and help him, swiping the head of his cock that is dribbling precum pathetically over her knuckles. But other than that, it’s just him, humping her fist with desperation as he gets closer and closer to the edge.
“Are you close, baby?” she asks, when she feels his hips stutter in their rhythm. She can hear him in the echoes of the room, the sound of wetness and decadent friction. Then he nods against her shoulder, breathing heavy through his nose, and she coos.
“ ‘Course you are. Go on then, you can come.”
And with the permission, he does. Remy groans, deep and blissfully as he finishes across her stomach. Her abs and ribs are painted with thick ropes of his climax as he twitches in her grip. She lets him milk himself through his finish, her hand unmoving as he drops to his elbows, barely holding himself up above her.
“Glad to have you home, ma moitié,” he says breathlessly.
“I’m still mad at you.” Rogue slaps his shoulder, pushing him off her and to the side before crossing her arms under her bust. “Keep your head off the comforter, I don’t want you touchin’ nothin’ until you take another shower.”
“As long as I don’t have to alone.”
—
Somehow, and she isn’t sure how it got to this point, Rogue’s white bangs are slicked back against her head in dark indigo paste by the time the two of them leave the bathroom. She’s in an old t-shirt of Remy’s with a ruined towel around her neck when he sits with her on the couch downstairs.
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” she says. Her hair is- was virgin- somehow up until now. Even in her rebellious years she never dyed it. It’s just another of a long list of her firsts that Remy can tuck into his belt.
“Always wished we could’a matched better. Gambit can’t pull off the green like ya do though,” he says. Rogue sits in his lap, dense as a brick to crush his legs into the cushions. He doesn’t seem to mind. He never does. Instead he’s wiping away some stray dye that has smeared past her hairline with his thumb.
“When your dye starts fadin’ you might have to.”
“Non, this is goin’ out lavender. Match my ass after you got done with me,” he quips, rolling his eyes.