So Hold Tight, Hold Tight.
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X-Men: (All Movies) › Slash - Male/Male
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Adult +
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4,633
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Category:
X-Men: (All Movies) › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
4,633
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I don't own X-men or any Marvel Characters, I make no profit; this is for fun only. No copyright infringement intended.
So Hold Tight, Hold Tight.
So Hold Tight, Hold Tight
Disclaimer: I do not own Wolverine, Gambit, or any of the other Marvel characters. Even if I tried to get paid for writing fanfic, I wouldn't be able to turn a profit. Regardless, I intend no copyright infringement, I do not make any money, the characters do not belong to me, even though I strongly believe that this scene was cut from the movie. The title comes from the song "Any Way You Want It" originally performed by Journey, although the song I was listening to while writing this was the cover of that song, by Rise Against. The Lyrics, needless to say, also do not belong to me.
"So," Remy asks, turning to look over his shoulder and perfectly willing to point out the other man's rudeness. "What did you say your name was, stranger?" Of course, he knows as well as anyone that the hulking maniac who had silver blades slide out of his hands hadn't actually introduced himself, but then again, there's no need to be rude just because the man had slapped him around some.
The other man looks at him, contemplative or maybe just expressionless. Remy's used to being looked at like that - usually, it means that the person he's talking to thinks he's an idiot. In this case, he thinks that the stranger may have honestly forgotten to speak.
"It's Logan," he says, finally, and then he pushes Remy aside to walk into the hotel.
Remy smiles, and follows.
-
Logan is pushy, relentless, determined with the kind of one-track mind Remy is used to associating with psychopaths, killers, and gamblers that lose all their money on a wishful thinking all-in poker play. There's something different about this one, though, and he can't quite put his finger on it.
They've taken over the hotel room, and Remy isn't really sure of the legality of the situation (which only gives him a sort of grudging respect for Logan) but he isn't about to object on moral grounds, or anything. Logan wants to tear apart the world, rip it apart with his fucking adamantium claws, and it's all Remy can do to talk him into actually planning his attack on the island. Or even - not showing up at 2 PM ready to tear shit up.
"Once you get me there--" Logan says, looking down at the hastily drawn map.
"And how, may I ask, do you expect me to do that?" He tips his hat at drawls, slow and easy. The interruption is purely to infuriate Logan, it has nothing to do with a real flaw his plan. Transportation is easy, Remy has his plane. But the sudden, shocked look on the other man's face is worth it.
Logan looks up at him, eyes flashing, a dark, furiously dangerous expression on his face. It isn't difficult to see the way his pupils dilate, the way his muscles tense, arms stiffening in sudden pressure. The skin on his knuckles moves, unnaturally, something Remy is already learning to anticipate.
"You ain't the kinda man who knows how to take a joke, are ya?" Remy asks, leaning closer. Logan's nostrils flare angrily, but he doesn't respond. "Don't worry," Remy says, smiling. "I'll get you to the island. Now, is there any else you'll be needing, Mr. Logan, sir?" He tilts his hat away from his eyes, looking up at Logan in a way he knows, deep in his gut, is likely to get him punched in the face - it had worked just that way on several previous occasions. It doesn't much matter, though, something in Remy is set on riling Logan until he explodes, and he really can't resist the smirk playing across his lips.
Logan glowers at him, eyes still dark with anger, and Remy shivers.
"You don't have anything else I need," Logan says, dismissive.
It isn't going to be any fun if Logan doesn't want to play. Remy knows - or at least, he has a suspicion - that he might win in a fight, if it came down to it. The wonderful, exhilarating thing, though, was that it isn't a sure thing at all. Far from it - Logan had all but kicked his sorry ass back in the alleyway, and if he isn't itching for another fight, Remy sure as hell is. He wants it, again, his adrenaline pumping, Logan's anger and rage on his face. He wants to know if it was luck, or if Logan had beaten him, fair and square -
"Is there anythin' you want, then, chér?" Remy asks, leaning back in his seat.
The look Logan gives him is one Remy gets a lot, actually, usually across a poker table before he takes someone's money. It's the look the guards back on the island had given him, sometimes, when he'd done something particularly spectacular. It's one he still gets, often, from women more often than men, and it's a look that means 'I want to fuck your brains out' and sometimes it also means 'I'm going to kill you'.
Logan says nothing though, just looks at him, intense and dark and brooding enough that Remy can't dismiss it, can't forget about it. And then, without responding, Logan just looks down, back at the map, and says, "How long will it take you to get me there?"
The rest of the conversation is surreal, almost, Remy answering on automatic and wondering to himself if he had actually been considering it - Logan is - well, aside from the part where he's male (that was hard to miss), and the part where he's a complete and utter ass -
Well.
-
"I ain't - I mean, I don't like--" Remy tries to explain.
Logan interrupts him, shoves him hard against the wall, and Remy tries very hard (but fails) to suppress the shiver of excitement that runs through him. "You'll like it with me," Logan says, dead serious.
-
And fuck, if he isn't right. There's almost no prep, just Logan shoving him down over the table, two fingers slicked with what might be sunscreen slipping into him, thick and a little bit rough. Remy's not really ready for it, the overwhelming sensation and Logan's hand broad on his back, pinning him down. He breathes a bit, tries to relax, and Logan's thumb strokes the base of his neck in a way that's almost tender or affectionate, but isn't at all because it's Logan.
"Ready?" Logan asks, and doesn't wait for a reply before he shoves in, hard, bottoming out and holding still while Remy tries to pretend that didn't just fucking hurt.
And it does hurt, a lot, but he ain't whining, not from the pain at least. If anything, he's more'n half hard from just that, nothing but Logan's hand on his back and his voice, low and gravely, in his ear. His hands are fisted tightly on the tabletop, not holding on to anything at all, and he's gasping for breath. What the fuck, Remy wants to say, and he would if he could find his voice.
Logan doesn't try and ease him into it, just fucks him, slow and rough, one hand on Remy's hip, pulling him back hard in time with every thrust.
Remy's breath is coming in harsh, panting gasps. He rocks back into Logan's thrusts, partly because Logan's hand on his hip doesn't give him a choice, partly because he really can't stop himself, doesn't even want to. It's good, really, unbelievably good, warm breath puffing over the back of his neck as Logan leans into him, heavy and hot. He bites down on his lip, hard, but nowhere near enough to stop the soft, gasping moans Logan's tearing out of him. Somewhere everything had gotten all twisted up inside his mind, thoughts running together until Remy can only think more, more, and harder, so he grunts and shoves backwards, one hand grasping blindly until he's got Logan's hand underneath his own, digging into his skin and driving him deeper.
"Fuck," Remy whispers, and even that one small word is a concession. Logan's fucking him slowly, too slowly - he wants more than this, harder and faster, wants to lose himself and fall apart. Instead, he's almost shaking with the effort it takes to prop himself up on the table, eyes shut tight and biting back his moans.
"Come on, then," Logan says behind him, sex-rough voice low and kind of amused in his ear. The sound curls around him like a sick, forbidden pleasure, and Remy tries not to arch back into it but fails miserably. The sound he makes is embarrassingly high, needy. "Come on then," Logan says again, hips rolling in a circle that is almost - almost - enough to send him over the edge.
His arm gives out, then, and he falls forward, chest pressed against the table and not really caring. The angle is different this way, Logan's thrusts hitting hard and sweet every single time. Remy arches backwards, feeling the tingle in the base of his spine -
Logan's hand twists into his hair, snapping his head back and lifting him, the angle changing once more and not nearly enough, not by far. "Come on, Gambit," the other man growls, fucking him even slower, maddeningly, like he's trying to drive him insane.
His response is nothing but a low, broken sob, words left him a little while ago, so Remy just slips his free hand down and jacks himself, slowly, letting Logan hold him upright and fuck him too slowly to make him come. He's a fucking bastard, Logan, an infuriating sonofabitch and oh, god, yes, Remy thinks drunkenly. Logan is also fucking evil, because he grabs onto Remy's wrist, stopping him from touching himself except for the very lightest of touches.
Logan pushes him back down, flat across the table, and fucks him in earnest, twisting his arm until he's got it pinned to the table over his head. There's really nothing that Remy can do other than bend over and take it, gasping and moaning like the worst kind of slut. "You asked my name," Logan growls into his ear. "Come on, Gambit, use it."
I ain't Gambit, he wants to say, My name is Remy. Remy LeBeau. He does not, however, tell Logan about the guards and the way he'd fleeced them for their money after they'd stripped away his pride and dignity and most of his energy, too. He does not mention the way he hates the nickname, hates the way it gives away half of who he is, hates the way people look when their mouths forms the words. He doesn't say any of it, because in Logan's gravelly, sex-slurred voice, the moniker is sexy as all hell.
"Fuck you," he says, instead, giving up on trying to stay quiet. "Harder, damn you, you c'n do better--" Logan can, in fact, do better, but he's determined to make Remy beg and Remy is just as determined not to. "Is that the best you can do?" He pants, desperate and oh-so-close, biting his lips to suppress a moan. "Come on, fuck me, just fuck me--"
It's just short of perfect, Logan's rhythm stuttering into something brutal and savage, his hand slipping from Remy's hip, wrapping around his cock and squeezing just once. "You're going to beg," Logan tells him. "You're going to moan my name and beg me to let you come--"
Well, yes, obviously, it's only a matter of time, Remy thinks, but he grits his teeth and doesn't let his lips form Logan's name.
He's going to have bruises all over, skin purpling over where Logan's hand had held his hips, where Logan had thrown him into the wall, where Logan had pinned him. Remy can feel the calluses on Logan's hand, Logan's breath warm on the back of his neck, Logan's cock inside him, devastating and amazing all at once - he bites down on his lip hard, tastes blood.
And then it's too much, he's too desperate, too far gone, so his mouth opens and every single horribly embarrassing moan he'd been trying to suppress comes spilling out. "God, Logan," Remy cries, wrist still pinned down over the table, unable to move more than half an inch. "Logan - please," and his voice breaks, and he dies a little bit on the inside but really, really can't stop himself. "Logan, I need - please - let me--" and then Logan's hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking this time, almost too gently. Once - twice - three times and he's done, coming all over himself and the table and Logan's hand.
Logan lets go of his cock, pushes him back down on the table, and fucks him hard and rough, so fucking good it almost hurts, until he finally comes and Remy's hard again.
They stay there, like that, bent over the table, for a long minute before Remy shoves the heavier man off of him, dumping him brusquely onto the ground. Logan, indecent and wearing only half a shirt, looks godly and unrepentant, his muscles glistening with sweat and his expression hardened into something like a challenge.
Remy hates him.
He's hard already, god-fuck-it.
"Come on," He says, sliding a finger underneath the chain on Logan's dog tags, pulling him up off of the floor. "It appears we're gonna be needing a bed for round two."
-
"Well, If it makes you feel any better," Logan says, grinning at him. "This is going to hurt."
"You know, it does, actually." Remy drawls, smirking. "Good luck."
-
Disclaimer: I do not own Wolverine, Gambit, or any of the other Marvel characters. Even if I tried to get paid for writing fanfic, I wouldn't be able to turn a profit. Regardless, I intend no copyright infringement, I do not make any money, the characters do not belong to me, even though I strongly believe that this scene was cut from the movie. The title comes from the song "Any Way You Want It" originally performed by Journey, although the song I was listening to while writing this was the cover of that song, by Rise Against. The Lyrics, needless to say, also do not belong to me.
"So," Remy asks, turning to look over his shoulder and perfectly willing to point out the other man's rudeness. "What did you say your name was, stranger?" Of course, he knows as well as anyone that the hulking maniac who had silver blades slide out of his hands hadn't actually introduced himself, but then again, there's no need to be rude just because the man had slapped him around some.
The other man looks at him, contemplative or maybe just expressionless. Remy's used to being looked at like that - usually, it means that the person he's talking to thinks he's an idiot. In this case, he thinks that the stranger may have honestly forgotten to speak.
"It's Logan," he says, finally, and then he pushes Remy aside to walk into the hotel.
Remy smiles, and follows.
-
Logan is pushy, relentless, determined with the kind of one-track mind Remy is used to associating with psychopaths, killers, and gamblers that lose all their money on a wishful thinking all-in poker play. There's something different about this one, though, and he can't quite put his finger on it.
They've taken over the hotel room, and Remy isn't really sure of the legality of the situation (which only gives him a sort of grudging respect for Logan) but he isn't about to object on moral grounds, or anything. Logan wants to tear apart the world, rip it apart with his fucking adamantium claws, and it's all Remy can do to talk him into actually planning his attack on the island. Or even - not showing up at 2 PM ready to tear shit up.
"Once you get me there--" Logan says, looking down at the hastily drawn map.
"And how, may I ask, do you expect me to do that?" He tips his hat at drawls, slow and easy. The interruption is purely to infuriate Logan, it has nothing to do with a real flaw his plan. Transportation is easy, Remy has his plane. But the sudden, shocked look on the other man's face is worth it.
Logan looks up at him, eyes flashing, a dark, furiously dangerous expression on his face. It isn't difficult to see the way his pupils dilate, the way his muscles tense, arms stiffening in sudden pressure. The skin on his knuckles moves, unnaturally, something Remy is already learning to anticipate.
"You ain't the kinda man who knows how to take a joke, are ya?" Remy asks, leaning closer. Logan's nostrils flare angrily, but he doesn't respond. "Don't worry," Remy says, smiling. "I'll get you to the island. Now, is there any else you'll be needing, Mr. Logan, sir?" He tilts his hat away from his eyes, looking up at Logan in a way he knows, deep in his gut, is likely to get him punched in the face - it had worked just that way on several previous occasions. It doesn't much matter, though, something in Remy is set on riling Logan until he explodes, and he really can't resist the smirk playing across his lips.
Logan glowers at him, eyes still dark with anger, and Remy shivers.
"You don't have anything else I need," Logan says, dismissive.
It isn't going to be any fun if Logan doesn't want to play. Remy knows - or at least, he has a suspicion - that he might win in a fight, if it came down to it. The wonderful, exhilarating thing, though, was that it isn't a sure thing at all. Far from it - Logan had all but kicked his sorry ass back in the alleyway, and if he isn't itching for another fight, Remy sure as hell is. He wants it, again, his adrenaline pumping, Logan's anger and rage on his face. He wants to know if it was luck, or if Logan had beaten him, fair and square -
"Is there anythin' you want, then, chér?" Remy asks, leaning back in his seat.
The look Logan gives him is one Remy gets a lot, actually, usually across a poker table before he takes someone's money. It's the look the guards back on the island had given him, sometimes, when he'd done something particularly spectacular. It's one he still gets, often, from women more often than men, and it's a look that means 'I want to fuck your brains out' and sometimes it also means 'I'm going to kill you'.
Logan says nothing though, just looks at him, intense and dark and brooding enough that Remy can't dismiss it, can't forget about it. And then, without responding, Logan just looks down, back at the map, and says, "How long will it take you to get me there?"
The rest of the conversation is surreal, almost, Remy answering on automatic and wondering to himself if he had actually been considering it - Logan is - well, aside from the part where he's male (that was hard to miss), and the part where he's a complete and utter ass -
Well.
-
"I ain't - I mean, I don't like--" Remy tries to explain.
Logan interrupts him, shoves him hard against the wall, and Remy tries very hard (but fails) to suppress the shiver of excitement that runs through him. "You'll like it with me," Logan says, dead serious.
-
And fuck, if he isn't right. There's almost no prep, just Logan shoving him down over the table, two fingers slicked with what might be sunscreen slipping into him, thick and a little bit rough. Remy's not really ready for it, the overwhelming sensation and Logan's hand broad on his back, pinning him down. He breathes a bit, tries to relax, and Logan's thumb strokes the base of his neck in a way that's almost tender or affectionate, but isn't at all because it's Logan.
"Ready?" Logan asks, and doesn't wait for a reply before he shoves in, hard, bottoming out and holding still while Remy tries to pretend that didn't just fucking hurt.
And it does hurt, a lot, but he ain't whining, not from the pain at least. If anything, he's more'n half hard from just that, nothing but Logan's hand on his back and his voice, low and gravely, in his ear. His hands are fisted tightly on the tabletop, not holding on to anything at all, and he's gasping for breath. What the fuck, Remy wants to say, and he would if he could find his voice.
Logan doesn't try and ease him into it, just fucks him, slow and rough, one hand on Remy's hip, pulling him back hard in time with every thrust.
Remy's breath is coming in harsh, panting gasps. He rocks back into Logan's thrusts, partly because Logan's hand on his hip doesn't give him a choice, partly because he really can't stop himself, doesn't even want to. It's good, really, unbelievably good, warm breath puffing over the back of his neck as Logan leans into him, heavy and hot. He bites down on his lip, hard, but nowhere near enough to stop the soft, gasping moans Logan's tearing out of him. Somewhere everything had gotten all twisted up inside his mind, thoughts running together until Remy can only think more, more, and harder, so he grunts and shoves backwards, one hand grasping blindly until he's got Logan's hand underneath his own, digging into his skin and driving him deeper.
"Fuck," Remy whispers, and even that one small word is a concession. Logan's fucking him slowly, too slowly - he wants more than this, harder and faster, wants to lose himself and fall apart. Instead, he's almost shaking with the effort it takes to prop himself up on the table, eyes shut tight and biting back his moans.
"Come on, then," Logan says behind him, sex-rough voice low and kind of amused in his ear. The sound curls around him like a sick, forbidden pleasure, and Remy tries not to arch back into it but fails miserably. The sound he makes is embarrassingly high, needy. "Come on then," Logan says again, hips rolling in a circle that is almost - almost - enough to send him over the edge.
His arm gives out, then, and he falls forward, chest pressed against the table and not really caring. The angle is different this way, Logan's thrusts hitting hard and sweet every single time. Remy arches backwards, feeling the tingle in the base of his spine -
Logan's hand twists into his hair, snapping his head back and lifting him, the angle changing once more and not nearly enough, not by far. "Come on, Gambit," the other man growls, fucking him even slower, maddeningly, like he's trying to drive him insane.
His response is nothing but a low, broken sob, words left him a little while ago, so Remy just slips his free hand down and jacks himself, slowly, letting Logan hold him upright and fuck him too slowly to make him come. He's a fucking bastard, Logan, an infuriating sonofabitch and oh, god, yes, Remy thinks drunkenly. Logan is also fucking evil, because he grabs onto Remy's wrist, stopping him from touching himself except for the very lightest of touches.
Logan pushes him back down, flat across the table, and fucks him in earnest, twisting his arm until he's got it pinned to the table over his head. There's really nothing that Remy can do other than bend over and take it, gasping and moaning like the worst kind of slut. "You asked my name," Logan growls into his ear. "Come on, Gambit, use it."
I ain't Gambit, he wants to say, My name is Remy. Remy LeBeau. He does not, however, tell Logan about the guards and the way he'd fleeced them for their money after they'd stripped away his pride and dignity and most of his energy, too. He does not mention the way he hates the nickname, hates the way it gives away half of who he is, hates the way people look when their mouths forms the words. He doesn't say any of it, because in Logan's gravelly, sex-slurred voice, the moniker is sexy as all hell.
"Fuck you," he says, instead, giving up on trying to stay quiet. "Harder, damn you, you c'n do better--" Logan can, in fact, do better, but he's determined to make Remy beg and Remy is just as determined not to. "Is that the best you can do?" He pants, desperate and oh-so-close, biting his lips to suppress a moan. "Come on, fuck me, just fuck me--"
It's just short of perfect, Logan's rhythm stuttering into something brutal and savage, his hand slipping from Remy's hip, wrapping around his cock and squeezing just once. "You're going to beg," Logan tells him. "You're going to moan my name and beg me to let you come--"
Well, yes, obviously, it's only a matter of time, Remy thinks, but he grits his teeth and doesn't let his lips form Logan's name.
He's going to have bruises all over, skin purpling over where Logan's hand had held his hips, where Logan had thrown him into the wall, where Logan had pinned him. Remy can feel the calluses on Logan's hand, Logan's breath warm on the back of his neck, Logan's cock inside him, devastating and amazing all at once - he bites down on his lip hard, tastes blood.
And then it's too much, he's too desperate, too far gone, so his mouth opens and every single horribly embarrassing moan he'd been trying to suppress comes spilling out. "God, Logan," Remy cries, wrist still pinned down over the table, unable to move more than half an inch. "Logan - please," and his voice breaks, and he dies a little bit on the inside but really, really can't stop himself. "Logan, I need - please - let me--" and then Logan's hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking this time, almost too gently. Once - twice - three times and he's done, coming all over himself and the table and Logan's hand.
Logan lets go of his cock, pushes him back down on the table, and fucks him hard and rough, so fucking good it almost hurts, until he finally comes and Remy's hard again.
They stay there, like that, bent over the table, for a long minute before Remy shoves the heavier man off of him, dumping him brusquely onto the ground. Logan, indecent and wearing only half a shirt, looks godly and unrepentant, his muscles glistening with sweat and his expression hardened into something like a challenge.
Remy hates him.
He's hard already, god-fuck-it.
"Come on," He says, sliding a finger underneath the chain on Logan's dog tags, pulling him up off of the floor. "It appears we're gonna be needing a bed for round two."
-
"Well, If it makes you feel any better," Logan says, grinning at him. "This is going to hurt."
"You know, it does, actually." Remy drawls, smirking. "Good luck."
-