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Pietro couldn’t sleep.
This was an inconvenience, but not a new one. Pietro hadn’t slept in years. Ninety-nine percent of the time, his mutation was convenient, fun, cool. It usually didn’t bother him that he didn’t need to sleep — couldn’t sleep. Or at least, he didn’t think about it enough to let it bother him. There was food to eat, music to listen to, movies to watch. He found ways to entertain himself.
But tonight he couldn’t get his thoughts to shut up.
Which was how he found himself in the kitchen in the middle of the night when Remy LeBeau walked in.
“Why, look what the cat dragged in,” Remy said around a crooked smirk. Pietro was pretty sure that’s just how his face was set. “How ya’ been, ange?”
Pietro’s eyes focused on Remy. In the span of a few days, the mutant had barged into the mansion, flirted with him, been kinda gross, and made Pietro feel seen when he asked for his real name. And he was really hot. Pietro didn’t think for a single second before blurting out, “Do you wanna have sex?”
It occurred to him, watching Remy’s mouth gape and his eyes go wide, that he could stand to shut up sometimes.
“Sorry,” Pietro rushed to add, almost shouting. He winced at his own voice, brought the volume down a bit. “Sorry, I’m being totally not cool right now. But my brain won’t shut up and I can’t sleep — I mean literally cannot sleep, it’s part of my mutation and it sucks right now — and I kind of just want to shut my brain off and, y’know.” Pietro was aware that he was rambling. Hell, he was barely speaking slowly enough to be understood. Sadly, being aware of his faults had never made them go away. “Sometimes being fucked outta my head helps. So. If you want.”
Pietro was the least smooth person ever. He fully expected Remy to retract his flirtations from before and duck out of the room, never to speak to him again. Maybe the humiliation would distract Pietro from everything else he had wrong with him.
But Remy LeBeau was a different breed of man. In the best and worst possible ways. His response to the verbal diarrhea Pietro had just unleashed was to look him up and down, smirk, and say, “Your room or mine?”
Oh thank God. “Is yours on the first floor?”
The look of intense confusion he’d had when Pietro started speaking was replaced by a cat-that-got-the-canary grin. “Oui, mon ange.”
There was probably something wrong with Pietro that he found Remy’s habit of peppering his sentences with random French words endearing. “Okay, cool. ‘Cus my leg still kinda hurts like a bitch sometimes, so not going upstairs sounds great right now.”
Remy took a step in his direction, stretching all slow and sensual. His eyes lingered on Pietro’s mouth before glancing at his recently-healed leg. He was close enough for Pietro to feel his body heat. That was good. Pietro ran cold.
Pietro’s cheeks turned hot and red and probably, fuck, splotchy as Remy wrapped an arm around his waist and settled another on his back, between his shoulder blades—
“Remy!” Pietro yelped, suddenly lifted into the air as Remy took him into his arms, carrying him like a bride. He scrambled to throw his arms around Remy’s neck, unable to take the humiliation of being dropped on the floor. “Dude!”
Remy was chuckling at him, eyes beaming, mouth wide in a grin. “Mon chéri, Remy LeBeau is a proper gentleman. Ya’ can’t tell me your leg’s hurtin’ an’ expect me not ta’ carry you.”
It had been a while since someone had pampered him. As in. Never. Pietro was sure he looked ridiculous and his face felt like it was on fire — but he also wasn’t entirely against it? Remy was kind of tall. And broad. And at least a few years older than him. Those things combined did something to Pietro’s brain. Something that would take a therapist to work through. But like fuck he was going to therapy, so he was just gonna lay back and enjoy it.
Remy took to carrying an over-hyper speedster in stride. He was steady, he moved easily. He didn’t seem to mind the frantic energy that Pietro gave off. And he was actually pretty good at carrying him in a way that didn’t jostle his aching arm or leg. They made it to his room quickly. Pietro twisted around just enough to get the door open. As soon as Remy heard it fall shut behind them, he lowered Pietro to the bed, attaching his mouth to the other mutant’s throat. Pietro’s pulse jumped (it was never slow). He felt Remy’s smile on his skin. “What do you like, mercure?”
What do you like? Pietro felt the anxious heat in his face spread through his neck, edging towards his arms. “I—” His voice caught when Remy sat back to tear his own shirt away, leaving a broad expanse of tanned skin and ruggedly-attractive chest hair in plain view. “Uh.” NOW I can’t talk? Come on, Maximoff! “When it’s— like this, when I need—” Pietro rapidly shut his mouth, forcing himself to take a second to think. “I like to be pushed down,” Pietro admitted, sounding ridiculous to his own ears. “I like it when someone is rough. Fast. Just— it turns my brain off, makes everything quiet.” Pietro had the absurd urge to thank him for this. Like he was somehow asking for some insurmountable favor. Remy wasn’t exactly getting nothing out of this, he reminded himself. He was in fact getting a pretty good deal. He walked into a room and Pietro immediately offered free sex up on a silver platter. There were no losers in this situation.
“Happy to oblige,” Remy drawled. He reached to the floor for his leather trench coat, digging around in a pocket and emerging victorious with a bottle of lube and a condom. It didn’t surprise Pietro that Remy kept lube in his coat. The guy had about a thousand pockets and seemed perpetually horny. Pietro would be more surprised if he didn’t have lube and condoms on him at all times. “You done this a lot?”
A lot felt like an exaggeration. “I’m not completely inexperienced,” Pietro said, immediately on the defensive. “I’m an adult, remember? You don’t have to treat me like glass.” Pietro wasn’t lying. Even if he’d just recently lived in his mom’s basement, he didn’t spend all his time there. There’d been days and weeks and months when he disappeared with only a quick note and a scribbled phone number to explain himself. He always felt bad about it afterwards. Well. Actually he felt bad as he was doing it. But sometimes his thoughts got too loud and his foot wouldn’t stop jittering and Wanda wasn’t there and he needed to run. It wasn’t always enough to walk it off. Sometimes he needed to be someone else. To go off and pretend to be the cool, adventurous guy he wanted to be. The kind of guy that took men like Remy LeBeau to bed and didn’t spend the whole time wondering if he was doing something wrong.
He needed to forget.
“You thinkin’ too much,” Remy muttered, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the sharp line of Pietro’s collarbone. Nimble fingers peeled Pietro’s Queen t-shirt off him, tossing it to the floor. “Don’ think, cher.” Broad hands squeezed Pietro’s hips before roughly pulling his jeans down and off. “Jus’ let ol’ Remy take care of you.”
Pietro shivered. He started to relax. (Or at least tried. Relaxation wasn’t exactly something that came naturally to him.) “Yeah. That’s— that’s exactly what I need.”
Remy’s eyes glinted pink. “Mon ange . . . did I dream you up?” Then Remy flipped him onto his stomach and Pietro felt his brain switch off.
Pietro knew he was decently attractive. The constant running had made his legs muscular. He’d gotten compliments on his puppy-dog eyes. And, not to brag, but he thought he had a pretty nice ass. Above average at the least. But he was only human— or mutant, whatever. He had childhood scars from picking at scabs and he had not left his face alone when he got acne as a teen. His body hair was faintly silver like the rest, and he hated the way it looked on his legs, his arms, hated that he couldn’t reach every inch of his skin to get rid of it.
But when Remy pulled Pietro’s boxers away and leaned back to look at him, breathing out harshly, he said, “Fuck, you’re perfect.” And yeah. That felt pretty good.
Bless slutty Cajuns, Pietro thought as Remy went to work, strong hands roaming across his shoulder blades, down his spine, cupping his ass. He seemed beyond happy to do all the work while Pietro reaped the rewards. Slowly, Pietro felt his brain start to switch off. He heard the shuffle of denim as Remy undressed, and thought of nothing but how nice the sound was. Remy pressed two slick fingers to his hole, and he didn’t even have the presence of mind to feel awkward about it. Everything just felt . . . nice. Nice seemed like too small a word. But he didn’t know how else to put it. The world was so soft like this.
Remy definitely isn’t soft, Pietro thought with a giggle. Far from it. Remy pressed into him, careful but not exactly gentle. He took just enough time to be sure Pietro wasn’t in pain before thrusting forward, filling him up. Pietro let out a gasp of air. Thoughtless, his legs spread further apart, beckoning Remy closer. Remy obliged.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Remy whispered harshly. Frenzied, uncoordinated kisses made their way down Pietro’s throat, across his shoulders. “Mon ange d’argent. You don’t even know how good you are.”
Pietro tried to say something. It came out as, “Oughhhhh.” (honestly, good enough) Something untwisted in his chest. A knot that had been there loosened. Remy was so warm he almost burned. The rhythmic flexing of his muscles against Pietro’s, the noisy slap of flesh on flesh, the mixing scents of Pietro and Remy and sex and them — all of it was exactly what he needed. Remy was thick and long and hard inside him, making Pietro ache in ways he hardly remembered. It hurt in the best possible way. Like a healing limb that was still stiff, like having a bad tooth pulled and poking at the spot that used to be in constant pain. One hand settled between Pietro’s shoulders, pressing him down and keeping him there. The other found Pietro’s flailing arm and held it in place, lacing their fingers together. That was good. That reminded him where he was, tied him down to reality. Remy pulled him into a kiss and Pietro opened his mouth to him, eager and passive all at once.
Distantly, he was pretty sure Remy was being rough. Rough and harsh, taking what he wanted. But his own need flattened the act in his head. Pietro was warm and slick and willing, taking everything Remy gave him and loving it. And Remy really knew what he was doing. Without instruction, he knew exactly how to angle his thrusts to make everything feel good, to send shockwaves through Pietro’s nerves. Remy’s hips snapped forward, smacking the harsh bones of his hips into Pietro’s ass. Pietro’s eyes rolled back. He was pretty sure he moaned. The hand still holding onto Remy tightened its grip. He felt Remy gasp into his mouth. “Perfect, mon chéri, you bein’ so fuckin’ good for me—”
“Need you,” Pietro gasped out. Tears gathered in his eyes from how sensitive everything felt. “Need you to— ougggh—” Remy did that thing with his hips again, turning everything in the world good and bright and happy. “Fuck. Need it. Need you.” Remy kissed him again. Pietro whimpered. “Need it, Remy, baby, please, please, please, ohhhhh—”
It was Pietro’s words that pushed Remy over the edge. The hand holding Pietro down finally lifted, shoving under his stomach to find Pietro’s cock. Remy gripped him, stroked him, palming the head and spreading slick lube and pre-cum there and— and— ohhhhh—
“Fuck.” Remy grunted, harsh, into Pietro’s ear. His hips jerked, pace breaking. “Tell me. Tell me you love it.”
“I love it,” Pietro whispered, pleasure crashing through his head. The universe had narrowed down to a single room, a bed, and the man above him. Everything was good. Everything was quiet. “Love it, need it, God, fuck, Remy—” Pietro choked on his tears. “Thank you.”
Every inch of Remy’s body was lined up to his when Remy came, eyes screwed shut, blunt nails buried in Pietro’s hip, gripping his hand so tight he thought he felt the bones shift. Heat flooded him. Remy gasped and breathed and kissed him. “Mon ange . . . ” His mouth went slack. Remy was loose and heavy atop him.
Pietro didn’t mind.
Burying his face in a pillow, limp with relief and blind to the ways the morning would wreck him, Pietro shut his eyes and let his mind drift up and away from him. Time passed unevenly. He felt Remy fall into his side, movements slow with exhaustion. A blanket covered his shoulders. He was still gone when Remy asked, “You asleep?”
“Shhhh,” Pietro slurred and didn’t open his eyes. “Close enough.”