For @littlestartopaz: Rogue/anyone really, with AN (“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you just crack a smile for me?”) from this post
Remy LaBeau, it’s gonna be Remy La-Fucking-Beau, because I am shipper trash and Rogue/Gambit is my hill to die on, y’all. Also, since Rogue’s life sucks PRETTY BAD, I’m going to try to write actual fluff tonight. This could be almost any continuity—I’m kind of visualizing the potential future of the MacAvoy, Fassbender, et. al. movies, because I saw Apocalypse twice in a week and that’ll do stuff to you. I don’t really like writing out accents, so feel free to mentally sub them in—Rogue’s from Mississippi, Remy’s from New Orleans, in case you didn’t know.
“Oh m’God, who’s cooking, that is amazing,” Rogue called as she swept into the mansion and was hit by a wall of smoky-sweet warmth spilling from the kitchen. “Is that jambalaya? Am I gonna have to do extra Danger Room sessions or somethin’ for that?”
“That depends, ma chérie,” the man at the stove said, turning and shooting her a smirk. “What’re you prepared to do?”
