#D-Walls

[mienar]

at the artist's loft

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[methoughtsphantom]

silly headcannon #2 that Bruce never got the reference that Jason always made of himself being short round (he always thought it was Jason saying he was short) until after he died and Tim, avid Indiana Jones fan made Bruce watch the movies with him, only the man breaks out crying., sobbing, full on breaking down over the two second scene that is Indy ruffling Short Round’s hair as he explains they first met when he caught the kid stealing from him, and then took him under his wing.

[justaz]

magic reveal where arthur doesn't say a word and starts walking away and then merlin is at his heel calling for him, pleading with him to talk, to let him explain everything, begging for him to turn around and look at him, his voice breaking with grief. arthur has never been able to deny merlin anything and turns but he is still hurt and angry and merlin can see it in his eyes before he even opens his mouth to spew accusations. merlin stands, demure, as he shakes his head yet he doesn't say anything - fallen silent under arthur's rage. arthur walks away and around a corner, merlin doesn't follow. merlin breaks down into heartbroken tears and sobs and arthur is just around the corner, leaning on the wall for support, and listening to merlin fall apart.

[15-lizards]

Fun hair stuff bc I’m sad ab what ASOIAF could have given us:

(All these fun posts can be found under #asoiaf hair and clothing) (go from the tag on this post instead of searching it on my page bc not all of them will show up :/)

(Also here’s the sequel with clothing)

(More hair styles) here’s some free cities ones

(All of this was found on Pinterest! I usually search traditional clothings from diff cultures!)

Is this not a fancy Baratheon woman who can’t wear her hair down bc the wind at storms end won’t allow it

Give the Dothraki cool beads and headwear to denote status!! Give them little additions to their culture!!

Let the northern women cover their heads their ears are COLD George

The Braavosi should wear shells and pearls bc they live by the sea god damnit

Targ girl coded and Lannister maiden pilled

[heritageconstruction]

Why Are D-Walls Becoming Extremely Popular With Construction Companies In India?

Diaphragm walls have now become the go-to method for civil engineers in India for deep basement construction projects.

But what is it that makes this methodology of deep basement construction more popular than the traditional methods? Read all about it in our latest blog.

[sun-snatcher]

If you're writing for dp3 then Hiraeth from your prompt list would work SO well since they're all stuck in the void! 🤲🏽😭 We need Gambit fics its a DROUGHT HELP

♧ ⎯ LUCK O’ THE DRAW !

summ. You find the Devil himself at the end of the world. Surprisingly, it isn’t the first time you have. It is, however, the first time it hurts. pairing. Void!Gambit x f!Anomaly!reader (established relationship. Kinda. Multiverse be funky like 'dat.) w.count. 1.8k a/n. Because Channing deserved that Gambit all those years ago, and I've come to (attempt to) deliver what the the people have asked. Masterlist here.

MOST PEOPLE MEET THE DEVIL at a crossroads, but you meet yours in— quite literally— the back end of fuckin’ nowhere.

It hurt more than it should.

Your heart practically stutters. 

“Remy.”  

Then he turns, and you wait for the flash of recognition in his eyes.

Nothing comes.

And then. And then.

Realisation— logic. The cold, hard truth: This isn’t your Remy LeBeau. Your Remy had died long before, in a Universe that was pruned and erased into nothingness by the TVA. Your Universe. The joke? That the Gambit before you is merely a variant amongst a million. The punchline? He looks exactly the same as the day you’d lost your own. 

“Well, this is awkward. You know off-shoot Hawkeye here?” Wade says, astonished, before his eyes widened. “Ah. Tragic exposition time for the readers, I see.”

Your mind is still reeling. It feels like someone’s just jammed a chisel straight into your gut. “I— Knew a version. Variant, I guess,” you manage to correct yourself, distracted by the skirting trenchcoat and the all too familiar sound of shuffling cards. 

Christ, it’s like he’d stepped right out of your memories.

Remy’s eyebrows shoot up as he studies you. Something in your chest pulls taut, threatening to snap as he speaks. “Apologies, mon ami. But as far as I remember, I ain’t never seen you before.”

“Ouch,” Wade winces, looking between you both. “What a classic trope! This is like, me talking to my past Mom in The Adam Project. Funnily enough, my Mom was you!” He snorts, pointing to Elektra. 

You ignore Wade and offer Remy a wan smile. “I figured. It’s okay.”

…It is obviously, in fact, not okay. 

You avoid him like a plague shortly after the entire commotion; it’s almost comical. Wade had managed to come up with a plan with the rest of the group, albeit a ramshackle, flimsy one, but you’ve hardly been able to pay attention through the bloodrush of shock rocketing in your head, anyway. 

Being around this Remy is stunningly stifling. 

The lilt of his accent, the sharpness in his smile; the flourishing of cards and the faint hum-drum of kinetic charge against his fingertips. 

You’ve seen it all before, once upon a time. You never thought any of it could ever bring you to this bad of a heel. 

It hadn’t taken long before you’d tried drowning yourself at the end of a bottle of brandy Logan had handed you that night. (The whiskey tames his mordance and makes him uncharacteristically civil. He’d said something along the lines of: Y’need this more than I do, bub; look like you’ve just seen a fuckin’ ghost. Shit, I guess you did, huh? )

“Mais la,” comes a huff. “Ain’t that mine?”

A frisson runs through your heart. 

“Sorry,” you say, barely glancing up from the barrel fire tucked outside the team’s hideout. You’re not quite sure you can handle meeting his gaze. “I know I should’ve asked.”

A playful hum. Remy settles on the log adjacent to yours. “S’alright. No harm done, chèr.”

It takes everything in you not to flinch at the endearment. If he’d noticed, well— he’s smart enough not to mention it. He’s curious and it stands to reason; afterall, he’s never quite seen someone look at him as weathered as the way you do. It’s as if the effort itself to do so would be unbearable.

“Y’kno’, I been told I’m easy on the eyes. Not for you, tho’, eh?” Remy shoots you an amicable smile. It’s charming, if a little compelling. “Guessin’ I made bad on you where y’from? You done been boudéin’ since y’first got here.” 

You let out a laugh. It’s the most brittle sound he’s ever heard come from someone. 

“No, no,” you shake your head. “It’s… You just make me a lil’ homesick, is all.”

Remy bristles with his deck of cards. A Charlier cut; a One-handed shuffle. It’s a mindless tic; your variant used to do the exact same with the exact same ease.

(Such a miracle, you remember thinking once, that there could be symmetries in the Multiverse. Now you learn, perhaps, it’s far more a curse. Either way, you can hear Remy’s doting voice in a distant memory, dimpling coyly at you: “S’just the luck o’ your draw, chèr.” )

You tamp down the memory before it could sink its jowls any deeper in you. 

“You’re curious,” you say.

He makes a noise of assent. Revolution cut; One-handed shuffle. Repeat.

“I ain’t gon’ axe if y’ain’t wanna answer.” 

It’s kind of him. 

You forgot he was like this.

Witty, yet gentlemanly. The way Remy always has been.

Underneath the blanket of the night, the crackle of the flames limn the planes of his face in flickering, hazy saffron. The look in his eyes is sincere as they meet your red-rimmed gaze. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen him, and in this light no less: tall, cutting, strong.

Lively.

The last you’d seen Remy, he’d been drawn out and battered by the war. Not that he’d ever admit it; he always insisted on keeping up his sunny disposition despite the constant losing battles happening. (Sometimes you think you resent him for doing that; it’d felt like he’d taken the light of the world with him when—)

You thank your lucky stars the variant Remy doesn’t make a comment on how you must be staring so openly. It’s a feeble attempt to committing every detail to memory, you suppose, in case you don’t get the chance again.

“In my Universe, a war was waging against mutants.” Your nails tinker against the empty bottleneck of the flat whiskey you’d nursed, thinking of how to cut a bloodshed of a story short; to get your point across before you falter and lose your footing.

“There was a mission sanctioned, and during it— a decision had to be made at that moment. So… you chose. Easily.” Your brows pinch tight against your will. The molten burn returns to the back of your eyes. “You saved so many lives the day you died.” 

Something catches in your throat when you realise your mistake, find yourself amending instantly, “He. He died.”

(It had been swift. A small mercy, all things considered. There wasn’t even a need to check for a pulse when you finally managed to reach for him.)

You’re fidgeting, too, with something in your other hand. Remy catches sight of it only now: a card, sitting pinched between your ringed fingers. Nine of Hearts. Its edges are torn and creased across the face, singed an ashen black. 

A proverbial piece of Remy’s heart, carried to the end with you.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a cold rush over his body at the sight. 

“…I’m sorry, chèr,” he offers quietly, inadequate as it is. He hadn’t expected that. 

He can’t imagine how haunting it must be to look at someone you’d shared a lifetime with and be met with a complete stranger instead. 

A living, breathing, ghost.

That unbiddable feeling of longing had always seemed to accompany the sight of him; but now it’s different. Now, there’s a blistering, brutal pain to come with; All-encompassing grief, thick as molasses in your lungs, overturning itself like a phantom from wherever you thought you’d buried it a long time ago. 

The only way to smother it would be to reach out, to hold him like you had once before, and isn’t that an ironic inconvenience? 

“No, no. I’m sorry,” you tell him, sigh coming out as an awkward laugh. A breeze passes and you inhale deep to ground yourself. Press your eyes shut momentarily to will away useless tears. “It must be so weird to hear all of this from me about— well, you, technically.”

“Mais, can’t ‘ave all been a bad memory, tho’, right?”

Right. No. It hadn’t been. There’s something else too. An undercurrent. Beyond the grief, the deep ache in your marrows— you think it’s nostalgia. Hiraeth. More bittersweet than it is painful.

It’s… It’s watching mutant schoolkids teaching him UNO for the first time. It’s the bickering over the beignets for breakfast, or your feet on his lap at the couch in the lounge after dinners with the rest of the X-Men. Lazy banter. Conversations that go everywhere and nowhere.

“Yeah,” you agree, feeling something bloom in your chest you thought long lost. “You taught me everything about your home, too. Down South. Told me about the bayou, the cypress trees. Your Cajun, your ways. We used to play Bourré.”

Talk of home has him ducking into a laugh. Remy had been in the Void far longer than the rest (he figures, at least)— he’s very nearly lost most of his fragmented memories to time by now. “Did I? Oughta’ play a game or two wit’ you.”

You buckle at that. “Ah. You were always the better player.”

Then:

He makes the leap before he runs out of steam. “Was we…?”

His finger darts between the space you two share.

“Oh, no,” you override, sheepishly. “No, we, we were good friends and stayed good friends. I was—” Your breath scurries; a reconsideration. “I was glad with that. You had a Southern belle named Anna Marie. A powerful mutant called Rogue. You two were good for each other.”

You must have given yourself away somewhere, though, the way Remy is reading you with a pinned gaze. It’s the same, levelled look you’ve seen before— the kind he gets in a game of cards. 

Something discerning eclipses in his eyes.

He’d gotten the measure of you in an instant. 

“Gambit musta’ been blind blind not t’see you.”

Ah.

You smile. It’s windswept. Resigned. “Well. Doesn’t matter now, does it? My Gambit’s gone. No matter how much I wish I can see him again.”

Remy’s eyes dart to your hands.

“Y’kno’, chèr,” he begins, something spirited in his tone. “In the world of cards, each a’ these and they suits hold a meanin’.”

He flourishes his deck, hypnotisingly smooth with every elegant cut, fan and spring. Every shuffle cascades as smooth as liquid in the sleight of his hands.

“Some of my folks back in New Orleans I remember, they learned me to read ‘em. Now, outta the whole deck? What you got there; the Nine of Hearts is also called the Wish card.”

The small laugh that punches out of you is bell-like. “Really?” 

It’s warm. Bright. Musical to his ears. It washes over him, and he can’t help but hang on to the peal. He wanted to hear it again. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Remy clicks his tongue as he shoots you a sunny look. “Would never lie t’you, chèr.”

The cracks in your soul don’t disappear, but they surely lighten as you look gently at him. “Huh. Well, I guess I got my wish, didn’t I?” 

He chuckles. 

“Mais, I ain’t your Gambit but—” 

He leans. Reaches out behind your ear with an empty palm, playfully revealing a gilded card from seemingly thin air with a sharp flick of his wrist:

Another Nine of Hearts. His. He hands it over to you, by way of meaning—  I’m here, now.

New beginnings.

You take the card with a smile.

[duncanor]

Gonna say, my absolute favorite Wolfwood moment in Stampede is that one scene where he gets grumpy at Vash softly calling him “Wolfwood..” and spits “I’m Nicholas the Punisher” to hide his humanity behind the role of monster he was forcibly attributed.

And-

And then, this fucking show immediatly follows it with the title card “Wolfwood” which instantly shatters the indifferent mask he desperatly tries to hide behind.

If this isn't peak cinema, I don't know what it is.

[salamispots]

drew some creatures at the amnh :0

[strawberri-draws]

OTGW studies to prepare for a possible animatic :]

[kirain]

Wall of the faithless isn't canon in bg3. They changed alot of things actually. So no Gale isn't "scared" he's just an obsessed asshole who doesn't learn from his mistakes.

Oof...

There's really nothing I can say except: you're wrong. The City of Judgement and the Wall of the Faithless are canon to BG3. If you don't like Gale, that's fine, but you don't have to make things up or completely disregard the lore to do it. Larian Studios literally hired people from Wizards of the Coast—the company responsible for all the canon lore, characters, and campaigns in D&D—to help them with the story. It took them five years, I believe, to fully study and understand the lore. They constantly conferred with the team to double, triple, and quadruple check every slice of content they added to the game, and parts of the game are now considered canon to D&D 5E.

As for Gale "not learning" from his mistakes ... when you first meet him, he literally admits he made a mistake with Mystra. Though personally I don't see it as the "power-hungry" move people seem to think it is. Gale simply wanted to be considered an equal to his partner (really his groomer), which is a perfectly healthy and normal desire for anyone in a relationship. Your partner should treat you like an equal, but Mystra very clearly saw Gale as a pet. A trophy. A worshipper. Subservient. Beneath her. A silly mortal with delusions of grandeur (which she cultivated), which is really rich when you learn she was once mortal herself. Mystra is a hypocrite.

Gale tried to prove himself worthy of equality by trying to bring Mystra what he thought was a piece of her missing Weave. For anyone who doesn't know, the current Mystra was torn to pieces by Cyric and Shar, then put back together by her Chosen. Though back to full power by the events of BG3, she's still technically missing pieces of herself, and Gale mistook the Karsite Weave for one of those pieces. Instead of simply telling Gale it was corrupted Weave, she let him go on believing it was hers. Personally I think that's because she was tired of him (maybe he got too old for her 😒) and was hoping he would do something that, in her mind, would justify abandoning him—but I admit that's full conjecture on my part. What is true is that she knew the orb wasn't hers, but for some reason she let Gale think it was. Even after she abandoned him and left him to die, she never told him. Not until she realised she could use him.

In Act 3, while the argument can certainty be made that he's thirsty for power, Gale ultimately becomes fed up with the gods because, as he knows better than anyone, they treat people like commodities. While I have no intention of ever ascending him myself, it looks like he actually makes good on his word. He doesn't threaten or toy with his followers, he inspires people to walk their own path, he only asks for prayers as payment (as without some form of devotion, gods in D&D cease to be), and if you romance him ... he ascends you into godhood as his equal. Mystra could have done this for him, she just didn't want to. And if you don't want him to ascend, it's genuinely so easy. I don't understand what people are complaining about. It takes one conversation with zero checks to convince him to completely abandon his ambitions. One. If he was truly "power hungry", it wouldn't be that easy.

Again, I would argue that Gale's true goal isn't really power, it's freedom, and divinity gives him that freedom. He has many conversations where he makes it clear he doesn't want to live under the gods' thumbs anymore; which, in a world like Faerûn, is extremely understandable. As I said in my Wall of the Faithless post, he's scared. Eternal torment for a simple mistake, one of which could've been avoided if Mystra told him the truth or treated him like an equal? When your partner is a goddess, how can you not feel inadequate? And if you convince him to give up the crown, he's perfectly content with Mystra's forgiveness. Even in the Early Access, that's all he really wanted.

Gale's far from perfect. He's arrogant and overconfident and insecure and he can be prone to emotional outbursts (most of which he apologises for, however), but he's nowhere near the heartless, power-hungry monster the haters seem to think he is. He is, in fact, one of the most compassionate companions in the entire camp, to the point that he accepts everyone, including Minthara. He votes for Astarion to stay when you find out he's a vampire. He gets mad at you if you surrender him to the Gur. He's one of the only companions who will openly marry/stay with you if you become a mindflayer. He's willing to sacrifice himself to save the world, and willing to damn himself to be with you. He loves every act of kindness, while hating every act of cruelty. I understand that the bugs from launch ruined a lot of people's perception of him ... and unfortunately some of those glitches are still present even now, but he is a good man.

[starwarrior18]

[possiblyreallyme]

Ace wears your thighs like earmuffs

Ace can't help that he wants to suffocate between your thighs. Your thighs are soft and no matter how big, they're tiny in his huge palms, squishy like the pillows he wished he had instead of the normal feathers and silk he was forced to sleep with. The way his black locks fell against your thighs and clung to your skin was motivation enough to make sure his hair was as soft as can be, so your fingers could more easily card through it and, don't even get him started on how hard he got when you tugged deep from the root, the whine high in his throat rolling off his tongue and into your core easily enough to have you gushing. Your taste- Fuck, your taste had him in a chokehold. He dreamt about it too much to be normal, woke up drooling and whining and humping into the mattress like some stupid mut, begging to drown in your slick instead of his own saliva. He can't help but wish to wear your thighs as permanent earmuffs, though he wished that they didn't muffle your noises when they clamped around his ears. Easy fix— just make you louder. Large hands on your plush hips, digging his blunt fingernails into you to leave little crescent marks and small bruises he'd kiss and tend to later. He rolls your bottom quickly, allowing you to stay limp and weak and let him do all the work while he rolls your clit on his tongue and lulls you over like a lollipop he's utterly addicted too.

Your gummy walls just feel so good on his tongue, gripping and clenching down on it the way he wished was his cock, but he can't pull back to follow through with that desire for the life of him. It always amazes him that he even fits in there, because no matter how many times you've been stretched, it's like he's fucking something two sizes to small, but you suck him in anyway and let him rest his face on your soft chest while he blubbers and sobs like a little boy, fucking you so hard you have to stay in bed for a week.

Of course, that's only after he's made you cum so many times on his tongue that he's drenched and panting for an air he forgot existed, pulling back after what you think is the last orgasm before he stuffs you with his cock, but before you know it, his nose is pressing so hard on your clit it's all scrunched up on his freckles, his eyes are crossed in both pleasure and so he can stare at your folds molding against his face while he nuzzles it like a cat, flattening his tongue inside of you to lick along your g-spot and furrowing his brows with the deep rumble of his moan against your heat. The crew will tease him later when his lips are swollen and his jaw is too sore for him to sass them back, but he feels strangely proud of it, despite how pink his cheeks get when Marco asks if Ace would be willing to get thicker walls, because he had to stay up all night listening to the wet slurring, whining and moaning. But he doesn't care, because the next night, he's right back too it. He'll see how many times he can make you squirt, close his eyes and bask in the pleasure of your weight on top of him— feather light no matter how big you think you are, and simply chuckle when you tell him that he'll hurt himself if he works his jaw like this every night and keeps his head pinned down under your body. He's quick to start fucking you with his tongue to cut off your doubt, mumbling something along the lines of "Let me eat, darlin'." He's Fire Fist Ace, after all. He can handle it.

[no1deahow]

A day at Baltigo

[fulgurbugs]

Traffy my beloved traffy

[sad-leon]

(good future) Finding Home Pride edition <3

Trans Leo pride is something I see a lot, but personally, FH Leo wouldn't celebrate his gender. He grew up around Gali, who went through a lot of gender struggles, especially in his younger years, and with the brothers being so accepting, it's just another part of his life

But his lack of romantic attraction? That's something that stands out to him. He sees the brothers with their own attractions and crushes and such and realizes he stands out. He's different. But that's okay because he's still him and he's still valid

anyways~ it's pride month, which means i get to be even more annoying about aro pride ^-^

that final shot without text:

[sun-snatcher]

Wish. If u give me a Part 2 of your Gambit fic with ❛ we'll just have to make do.  ❜ where they both make it out of the Void together I will kiss u on the mouth rn I PROMISE u. Or a hug. Whichever works. PLS I JUST NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO THEM🙏🏼😫

♧ ⎯ ‘LIMBO LOSERS’ CLUB

summ. The TVA extends an olive branch. Wade’s Universe becomes home. Above all, you’re just thankful you’re not alone in this Multiversal mess. pairing. Void!Gambit x f!Anomaly!reader (established in #WELUCKYFEW) w.count. 1.6k a/n. Shirtless Channing + romantic hand tension. That's it. That's the tweet. ( Continuation of this imagine! )

YOU SURVIVE ALIOTH.

That’s the first surprise.

The second? 

The Time Variance Authority want to help, now. 

( Granted, it’d mostly been Wade who did the gruntwork of sending Elektra and Blade back to their Universes, but he had hit a wall when it came to you and Gambit considering you two were— according to him: “A coked up version of being homeless. Universe-less.” )

So here you are, a stray of the Multiverse, standing on the platform of a mid-century aestheticised monitor room somewhere outside the constraints of time, trying not to double over from the vertiginous aftermath of being thrown through Wade’s weird orange warbling door of space. 

TemPad, he’d called the device. Or… something. You’re half-sure you have a concussion, to be honest.

Alioth had done a number on you. 

Remy’s concerned.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Wade says, mask rolled up to his nose. (There’s a spoon and plate of key lime pie in his hands. You’re not even sure where he got it from.) “Where did Gambit come from? How come he just spawned into the MCU’s metaphysical Backrooms?”

“Candidly, he is a unique case.” 

Remy pulls his gaze from you to Hunter B-15.

“You, Mr. LeBeau, are the prime example of a Variant that’s borne from a timeline decaying just as quickly as it was formed. A rare type that fades instantly without unnatural interference, because an Anchor failed to develop.”

One of the CRT screens zip to a retro rubber-hose animated diagram: rapidly branching roots, ominous red flashing, and then an immediate blink into nothing. Talk about dramatic effect.

“Your Universe falls in the rare category of those that never managed to come into fruition; but sometimes— incredibly rarely— remnants just like you manage to slip through, and instead of ceasing to exist… Well, you automatically end up getting spit into the Void.”

A pause.

Then, from behind, Wade bursts into a cackle.

“Ha! Wow, she basically called you a discontinued fucking nobody,” he wheezes. “You’re quite literally the equivalent of a failed movie pitch that’s been forgotten on the floor of Feige’s writers’ room.”

Screens flicker. 

Your breath hitches. 

Versions of different Gambit’s play out in the monitor-wall, all alike and yet different in their individual realities. Some have black eyes. Some have top-hats (“Ah, that’s 2009 Origins,” Wade muses. “Do all Variants of you just have a beautiful face? I mean, it’s kinda unfair—”). 

Some look like identical copies.

[EARTH-TRN2922].

It’s… your timeline. 

Your friends in the Mutant war. Your Remy whose cards are scattered on the floor, blood in his hands, with you crumbling as you reach ou—

The Nine of Hearts in your pocket is impossibly heavy. You turn away to steel yourself. 

( “Yeah, okay, enough lore recap. Jesus, you guys are more of a dick than I am; Read the room and turn that shit off,” Wade chides a passing agent. He gets it. He’d lost Vanessa once, too, and he’s not quite sure even he can relive that pain. )

“Mais non, y’not makin’ no sense t’me,” Remy says, confused, “I’ve got memories; means I’ve got history jus’ like my Variants. How y’gon’ explain that?”

“Gaps of memories you have— knowledge of places, people, events— that comes from fixed synchronicities shared in your Temporal Aura across all your Multiversal Variants.” 

She’s met with slow, owlish blinks. Wade waves his hand in lazy dismissal.

“Forgive them. They didn’t watch Loki Season One or Two. Not that it matters, anyway. People barely understood what was going on.”

A sigh. “There’s no way to put this gently, Mr LeBeau,” B-15 concludes, tone dipping into something sympathetic. “But what I’m trying to say is that: you don’t have a Universe to go back to, because it never existed.”

She purses her lips as she catches his torn gaze. “I’m sorry.”

And that— That pisses you off.

“I’m… sorry?” you parrot, stepping forward. “That’s all you can say after everything that’s happened to us? His existence began with the Void, and my Universe was pruned by your agents. Innocent lives gone because your people decided they wanted to play God once upon a damn time—!” 

“Pump the hate breaks, you stray,” Wade calls. "Why'd you think I brought the both of you here?"

You reluctantly withdraw.

“I can’t bring you home,” B-15 supplies, matter-of-fact. “But I can find a compatible timeline for you. For both of you. A safe do-over, if you will.”

Wade’s smile is coy.

The ‘Merc with a mouth’ has a home surprisingly… cozy.

Albeit a little tumbledown and messy with its wallpaper-torn brick walls and creaking hardwood floors— but, it’s charming. Lived in. He has a life here in this rickety two-bedroom apartment; framed photographs of friends and snatches of livelihood sit across dressers and are pasted against his magnet-crowded refrigerator.

Reminds you abit of your home, too.

“Listen,” chirps Wade’s voice, somewhere down the short hall to his room. “My advice? Save yourself the identity crisis and brain aneurysm. All this multiversal horse-crap was created just so that Marvel can write themselves out of any corner. Just sit there and be sexy for the readers, okay, Magic Mike?”

You’re halfway towards them when the doorbell rings. 

“Ooh! That must be the pizza I ordered. Or Blind Al. Or Logan.” Wade pops out to sidle past you with a wink and a whispered: “Who knows, really? This is just the part of the story where I conveniently disappear so you and Cajun Tatum here can share a moment.”

You don’t quite understand— but you’ve learned to not bother attempting when it comes to him.

Your knock is soft against the doorframe. 

“Hey.”

Beside a lone corner of the bed, Remy turns to look over his shoulder. 

He’s fresh out the shower— faded towel tied around his waist, brown hair still damp and dripping water down his bare chest. His old clothes have been draped over a desk chair. 

You try not to stare, but—

But. 

He’s handsome. Devilishly so, with the bruises sweeping across the flex of all his stupidly lean, corded muscles.

You always had a thing for roguish-looking men.

“Hi,” he says, knowingly. ( It’s a dulcet croon, if anything. Cheeky bastard. ) “Y’okay? Got y’self cleaned up.”

Remy watches you gather yourself with a quick clear of your throat, pull at the sleeves of the scratchy hoodie you’re now wearing that’s practically swallowing you whole. 

You look rested. At ease. 

…Pretty.

“Yeah. Showered. We don’t smell like ass anymore, that’s for sure,” you say, making a face.

And then you’re nodding over to the black-and-blue contusions blooming over his skin. “You know, I’m sure there’s something frozen in the icebox for that.”

“Icebox?” 

You smile. “Yeah, that’s what you guys call it in Louisiana, right?”

“That we do, chèr,” he laughs. But it’s ducked down, quiet. Thin. “ ‘Least, I think so.”

You follow his downcast eyes to a small stack of folders— TVA files he easily thieved (unsurprisingly) from under their noses the moment he stepped foot into the room. 

He’d skimmed the manila dossiers: Absolute Points. Anchor Beings. Variant Anomalies. Some names he’d recognised and some he didn’t, most stamped or blacklisted. 

Pietro Maximoff. Edward Brock. Loki Laufeyson. 

Remy LeBeau.

Some part of you crumples. It’s one thing to not be able to return to a Universe, and another to not have even had one. 

“S’funny,” he chuckles dryly, picking his casefile up with a distant look, “My memories… I thought I’d done gon’ left a whole life behind me the entire time I been stuck in the Void— Friends. Family. An’ turns out the Void’s all I had.”

“Feels like…” he shrugs. Tries to piece his unmoored thoughts into something more cohesive. He’s never felt so horrifically adrift his entire life— whatever ‘entire life’ could mean for him now, anyway— not even when he'd been marooned in the barren wastelands of the Void.

 “Feels like I ain’t real. Hell, I don’t know what is real, anymore, chèr. I don’t— I just don’t know. I don't know anythin'."

You shake your head in disagreement nigh instantly. 

“No, no.” Pushing off the doorway, you cross the threshold with gentle admonishment lanced over your features. “You’re here. You are real.” 

The room is small. The distance you share is… close. Just enough that you catch the scent of peppermint toothpaste and coconut shampoo; Just enough that you can slide the documents out of his hands.

His fingers brush against yours. 

He wonders if you’d felt the kinetic trill of energy run through him at the contact.

“Can I be honest, Remy?”

You look up at him. 

“Mais oui, chèr. Y’can always be honest wit’ Gambit.”

You wave your hand at the TVA files. “I’m scared as shit being in a new Universe,” you blurt, truthfully. “This second chance means… a new life. New path. New everything. I don’t know what that’s like either and frankly, I am not prepared for this at all.”

You pause for a breath. “But for what it’s worth? I’m glad that you’re here. That’s… That’s about the only thing that I know.”

Then, as if dwarfed by the sheer vulnerability in your words, you take an awkward step back as you shrug. “And if you don’t feel the same, well. You and I, we’ll just have to make do, regardless.”

The sudden retreat is painfully endearing. Has him letting out a bright laugh that warms something nestled deep in your ribs.

“I’m glad I got you too, chèr,” he grins. 

“Yeah?” You flash a smile, having found your way back to the door.

Remy’s eyes fall to your face— tarrying. He follows the flutter of your lashes, the slope of your cheek, the curl of your lips. 

“…Yeah.”

Your idling, fond gaze sears him like a low-grade fever. 

The thrum buzzes in hands, again.

Your Gambit really was blind, he thinks, just as you slip away and disappear around the corner.

His palm flexes open, and shut.