Chere
“Hey, Remy?”
The Cajun spun gracefully on his heel, grinning widely and mischievously at the slightly taller boy. “Ah, Bobby,” he purred. “What can I do for you, chere?”
Bobby winced a little, then sighed, leaning against the wall. “First... thanks. I... yeah. Thanks.”
“Ah, twas a pleasure, mon ami!” Remy grinned, mock bowing. “The little spitfire can use all the ‘elp he can get, non?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Bobby nodded slowly. “But I had a question.”
“Oui?”
“How did you know?” Bobby asked, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
“‘ow did I know?” he hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. ‘Ow did I know?”
“Saint John, mon chere! ‘old up a moment!” Remy hurried down the hall, waving to his retreating friends back. Pleased when St. John paused, he hurried to reach him. “I ‘ad some questions about.... mon dieu!”
St. John winced, turning away so that Remy couldn’t see his bruised and bleeding mouth, his darkened eyes. No luck.
“What the ‘ell ‘appened to you, Saint John?!” Remy demanded, grabbing St. John’s arm, then nearly jumping back when the other let out a hissed breath, eyes squeezed shut. “Mon dieu, I hurt you...”
“No,” St. John shook his head, fiercely. “No you didn’t.”
“Well, then someone else did!” Remy insisted, bending to examine St. John’s battered face. “Who did this, Saint John? I shall torch them for you!”
“No!” the other cried, and St. John reached up to grab Remy’s hands. “No, you can’t. I.... I asked them to.”
“What?” Remy blinked. “Saint John, this is not good, you cannot try to protect this person...”
“I’m not,” the flamethrower insisted. “I really did ask them to. I wanted them to. I... I like it.”
“You like looking like a punching bag?!” Remy cried.
St. John winced. “Look, can we get out of the hallway?”
“Oui,” Remy muttered, letting St. John lead the way to the room he shared with Bobby. “Explain yourself,” he said the moment the door was closed.
St. John sighed, moving to peer in the mirror at the damage. “I’m pretty much invulnerable to flames, right? And flames hurt other people. Not me. In fact, very little does. The only things I actually feel are cold, and force.” St. John poked at his face thoughtfully, frowning. “I discovered a very long time ago that force turns me on like nothing else.”
“So you let others pummel you during sex,” Remy said slowly, understanding. “I ‘ave encountered those with this before.... usually they want to be ‘urting others, not being ‘urt.”
“Have you ever let them hurt you?” St. John asked, peering at Remy’s reflection in the mirror.
The Cajun shifted, a little uncomfortably. “I tried, a time or two. I ended up frying them every time. Self defense, it kicked it on it’s own.”
St. John snorted, and grabbed a girl’s compact off the dresser, carefully beginning to cover the bruises with concealer.
“Somehow I’m not surprised. Maybe you should try again sometime. It’s hot, I like it.”
“Who with?” Remy asked, trying to sound casual.
St. John hesitated, hand over the makeup. “A few people.”
“Hn.” Remy nodded. “I suppose you’re a bit like me, chere. You’ll sleep with anything that offers, but you’ve always got your eye on zat prize, non?”
St. John smiled wistfully. “I suppose.”
“You want the iceboy to pin you down and ‘ave ‘is wicked way with you, is zat it?” Remy smirked, unsurprised when St. John sighed.
“Yeah, a little,” he admitted.
“Keep ‘oping, cherie,” Remy grinned, crossing the room to cup St. John’s half concealed cheeks, kissing him softly and gently on those bruised and cut lips, smiling as the other whimpered. “And remember, chere, if you ever desire a lover that does not want to cut you to ribbons, I will wait.”
“Thanks,” St. John gave him a lop-sided smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Remy paused, shaking himself from his thoughts to look back at Bobby. “Ah, of course... well, obviously, you should know this, at least. I think Saint John has slept with every man in this school, trying to fill the ‘ole you should have been filling.” Remy smirked. “‘ow do you think I knew?”
Bobby frowned, arms crossed. “I don’t want him sleeping with anyone else. At all. Not even you. Spread the word that someone’s claimed him, huh?”
Remy smirked. His plan to make Bobby jealous and by proxy, possessive, had worked like a charm. St. John would love him for this one.
“But of course, mon chere.”
Go back to X-Men.