#Remy Lebeau MFA

[apalewhorse]

Remy LeBeau...

[SFW]

Rated: M English Gambit M4A

It's an overcast, temperate Spring afternoon and the air smells like wet grass and dirt. There's the tiniest hint of a chill in the air from the soothing humidity. The sky rumbles and the clouds churn and twist in slow motion. His arms gently squeeze your waist, and you can hear his breathing. He's wearing that little crop top you love so much and some jeans. The belt buckle presses into the back of your bare thigh, the denim of the jeans is just the right kind of rough, and you can feel his breath on your neck. Thunderstorms were a blessing, he was sure of it. Had you crawling for his lap like a kitty to cream.

His hair is a disheveled mess, barely tied back, his slight stubble is scratchy against your soft skin. He presses lazy, sleepy kisses to your throat and shoulder, trying to ground you here, in this room, with him. He smells like palo santo and cinnamon, his hair is still a little damp from the shower you both took after baking some cookies together. He wanted to make beignets, but he already made enough of a mess with the flour earlier for the two of you. Something about him grabbing you about the waist and hips and attacking you with tickles when he didn't know you were holding the bag.

His breath smelled like coffee and cigarettes...you catch a faint whiff of aftershave on him.

And here you were now, quiet and snuggled up in his arms, like a cat melting into a puddle on some tile from a spot of sunlight. The oversized, baggy black tee shirt you were swimming in fell around your frame like you were some model. He cherished these moments, held onto them desperately.

When a mission was getting tough, when he'd be exhausted with a throat run ragged, muscles aching and body nothing but tenderized sinew, he'd think of you, and the peaceful pout of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, and your soft breath mingling with his. That's when he remembered how to live again.

He murmurs in a slur thick with his Cajun accent, lids heavy as the idea of falling asleep lingers, " Could get used to this, ma petite..."