whatever-the-fucky-i-reads

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

I haven't seen dancing pumpkin guy ONCE this year, are you guys okay?

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

1. And If I Get Burned, At Least We Were Electrified.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

A deep yawn slipped from your lips as you descended the creaky wooden stairs, each step bringing you closer to the dimly lit bar area below. The comforting warmth of the takeaway coffee in your hand did little to fully shake the lingering sleep that clung to you. With your crossbody bag pressed tightly against your chest and your phone occupying your other hand, you navigated the sudden shift from the bright, sunlit morning outside to the bar’s shadowy interior. The contrast was jarring, momentarily disorienting, and you found yourself squinting, blinking a few times as your eyes adjusted to the low light.

The faint smell of stale beer and cleaning products hit your senses, and you paused briefly, the familiar atmosphere slowly wrapping itself around you. Just another day, you thought, taking a slow sip of your coffee to wake up a little more. Your footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as you made your way further inside.

“You’re late,” came a voice from behind the bar, breaking the silence. You glanced up to see James, your friend, leaning casually against the counter. His signature smirk was plastered across his face, his arms crossed in front of him. A white cloth was carelessly slung over his shoulder, a familiar sight after years of friendship and shared shifts.

Without missing a beat, you held up your coffee cup as if it were a shield against his teasing, “There was a line,” you replied defensively, trying to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. You could already tell this was going to be one of those days. You slipped your phone into your bag and moved to the side office, the small room barely big enough to hold the essentials. The bag hit the floor with a soft thud, a sigh escaping your lips.

As you stepped back into the bar area, you noticed one of your colleagues struggling to maneuver a trolley full of alcohol bottles into the storage area. You made a mental note to help them later, but for now, your attention was fixed on James, who was watching you with an amused expression, his arms still crossed.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Well, in the spirit of full disclosure,” he began, “we just had Remy Lebeau’s crew here.”

You froze mid-sip, the coffee catching in your throat as you swallowed too quickly. You coughed, eyes widening as his words sank in. “Why?” you rasped, narrowing your eyes suspiciously as you glanced around the bar. “Who owes him here?”

James straightened up, unfolding his arms but keeping that smirk on his lips. “No one, apparently. They’re looking for a—quote—neutral spot for a meeting—unquote.” He paused for emphasis, eyeing you as if to gauge your reaction. “So they gave the boss lady a shit ton of money to close the bar down for the night. They’ll be here for some kind of meeting.”

You blinked, the implications hitting you immediately. “Thank fuck I wasn’t here,” you muttered under your breath, relief washing over you. “And thank fuck I won’t be here! It’s Friday, I’m off at 3.”

James’ laugh was genuine this time, the deep, rumbling sound filling the quiet bar. But there was something in that laugh that made you wary. He leaned back on his heels, arms once again crossing over his chest in that way that told you bad news was coming.

“And that’s where I rain on your little parade.” His grin widened, almost gleeful now. “Kate called in sick.”

Your heart sank, the coffee now feeling like a lead weight in your stomach. “No...”

“You’re replacing her, 10 to 10,” he said, the words like a hammer to your carefully laid plans.

Your face fell as the reality of your situation settled in. “I had plans,” you mumbled, the words barely audible even to yourself. Visions of a quiet evening at home, maybe catching up on that show or finally finishing that book, all crumbled before you like a house of cards.

“Not anymore, you don’t.” James’ laughter followed you as you stared at him in disbelief. He didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Instead, he turned back to the dishwasher that had just beeped, signaling the end of a cycle. He reached in to pull out the dozens of hot, steaming glasses crammed inside with the same casual ease, while your mood plummeted further.

You stood there in the middle of the bar, still holding your now lukewarm coffee, mentally kicking yourself for not calling in sick yourself this morning.

As you and James cleaned up the bar, the sound of heels echoed from around the corner, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the silence like a knife. Abigail emerged, a folder in her hands, her expression as unreadable as ever. She came to a stop in front of you, her gaze flicking briefly to the takeaway coffee cup still in your hand. Abigail Norman was not a woman you forgot easily. Even before she spoke, her presence commanded attention with a force that could quiet a room. She was older, though you could never quite pinpoint her age—somewhere in her mid-fifties, perhaps—but the years had done nothing to soften her sharp edges. Her dark brown hair, carefully styled into loose curls, framed her face in a way that might have made someone else look approachable, even warm. But for Abigail, it only sharpened her already severe appearance. Her features were angular and precise: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and hooded eyes that always seemed to be calculating something just out of your reach.

Her makeup was meticulously applied, but not overdone. The crimson lipstick she wore was a signature of hers—bold, unapologetic, and a signal that she was not to be trifled with. A soft brown eyeshadow and a thin line of eyeliner emphasized her dark eyes, which, despite their cosmetic enhancement, remained cold and distant, like two polished stones. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.

She dressed in business attire that was both elegant and intimidating. Today, it was a tailored gray suit, the pants perfectly hemmed to reveal the iconic red soles of her Louboutin heels. The suit accentuated her slim frame, adding to the impression that she was not just a businesswoman, but a force of nature. Every step she took echoed through the bar, the sound of her heels against the floor an almost ominous reminder of the authority she wielded.

Abigail was not known for small talk or pleasantries, and she had little patience for anything she deemed frivolous. You’d once cracked a joke about money laundering, given the sheer number of businesses she owned—bars, restaurants, and even a high-end boutique or two. But one sharp glance from those cold, steely eyes had shut that down fast. It wasn’t just that she didn’t find it funny; it was as though the mere suggestion that she could be anything but above board was an insult she wouldn’t tolerate.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” she commented, her tone clipped, not bothering to hide her irritation.

You forced a smile, already bracing for the lecture. “Traffic. You know how it is in New Orleans,” you lied smoothly, though you knew it wouldn’t land.

Her eyes shifted to the cup in your hand, and a small, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. “I’m sure it was.”

Abigail’s gaze lingered for just a moment before she moved on, her sharp eyes scanning the bar. As usual, she missed nothing. Her presence alone was enough to make you and James fall into line, though you both tried to keep things light with your usual banter.

“I suppose you’ve heard about tonight then?” she asked, not really waiting for an answer.

You nodded. “I have.”

“And that you’re working 10-10 now. Kate’s called out,” she said, barely looking up from the checklist in her hands.

Feigning concern, you put on your best sympathetic face. “Oh, that’s a shame. Is she okay?” you asked, handing your cup to James, who silently tossed it into the bin behind you.

Abigail didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You know what Kate’s like. She cries about wanting the shifts, so I give them to her, and she never shows up.”

Her eyes flicked up from the checklist, pinning you with that steely gaze. “I know how much you two enjoy making running commentary about our guests,” she said, motioning to you and James, who was now trying to suppress a grin. “So for tonight, I suggest you both shut the hell up. Make Mr. Lebeau and his friends comfortable, or I’ll make sure neither of you work in this city again.”

You and James both nodded, the threat as real as the woman standing before you. It wasn’t the first time Abigail had reminded you of the precarious position you held, and it wouldn’t be the last.

As she turned to leave, she paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Also, neither one of you are very subtle,” she added, her eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement, though her face remained perfectly neutral.

Once she was out of earshot, you and James exchanged a grin, the tension lifting slightly. You both knew better than to push too far, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun in the meantime.

“Think she’s planning on making herself the queen of New Orleans?” you asked, grabbing a bottle of cleaner and spraying down the benches.

“Oof,” James scoffed. “If she is, she’ll be making the mad dash to her hairdresser in about thirty minutes.”

You chuckled, as if this was a conversation you’d had before. “Maybe we should be protecting Remy Lebeau from her,” you commented lightly, reaching for a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and pouring three shots in quick succession.

“Here’s to 11 a.m. shots and Remy Lebeau possibly becoming our new boss daddy,” you laughed, raising your glass. James and your other colleague snorted in response as they grabbed their own glasses.

You all knocked back the shots, the burn of the alcohol barely registering, before a voice called out from the back room.

“You’re paying for those.”

You winced, but couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. <><><><><><><><><>

The clock on the wall ticked over to 8 PM, and the bar was eerily quiet. You and James had been killing time for the past hour, throwing crumpled paper into a small recycling bin behind the bar. It was a poor substitute for the bustling Friday night crowd that should’ve been filling the place with noise, laughter, and chaos. Normally at this time, the bar would be packed, with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the hum of conversation and clinking of glasses filling the space. But tonight, it was dead. The absence of life felt unnatural, and after a while, the silence started to crawl under your skin.

“So, what were your plans for tonight?” you asked James, taking another shot at the bin and missing by a mile.

He lazily handed you another crumpled paper ball, shrugging as he took a long sip from his water bottle. “I was gonna take Nat out to that new Italian place by the river, but, well... as you can see, that all went to shit.”

You winced slightly, knowing how hard it was to get a reservation at that place. “Is she at least understanding about it?”

James chuckled, retrieving the paper you’d missed and making the shot himself in one smooth motion. “Yeah, when I told her the reason, she said it was fine. She’ll just hang with her sister tonight.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “It helps when you’ve got someone understanding.”

James raised an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “What about you? Any hot date I need to know about?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you tossed another paper ball. “Not even close. Honestly, I think I’m done with dating until the men of New Orleans decide to pick up their game.”

James laughed, a low, amused chuckle. “Ouch. That’s rough.”

You grinned, pointing at him. “Oh, you’re definitely included in that Barnes.”

Before he could respond, both of you froze at the sound of Abigail’s voice echoing from the hallway. You exchanged quick glances, panic flashing in your eyes, and immediately scrambled to clean up the mess of paper and empty cups you’d left behind. It was a mad dash to make the bar look like a professional establishment again, both of you trying to act like you hadn’t just spent the last few hours goofing off.

Abigail entered the bar, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, followed by a man in a white suit and four others trailing behind him. The man in the white suit was large, with a thick neck and broad shoulders, clearly someone used to commanding respect. Abigail stopped in front of you and James, her cold eyes flicking over you both with an air of disapproval.

“And this is our bar staff,” she said, her voice dripping with an almost forced politeness. “If you need anything, feel free to ask them, and they will be happy to provide it.”

You and James forced smiles, but yours felt more like a grimace, especially when Abigail shot you a brief but pointed glare. The men nodded silently, then moved toward the large circular table for twelve that had been set up in the far corner of the bar. The man in the white suit took his seat at the head of the table, while the others flanked him, standing like silent sentinels.

Abigail leaned in close to you, her voice a low, icy whisper. “Try to be a bit more pleasant when Mr. Lebeau arrives.” Her tone left no room for argument—it was a warning, and a familiar one at that.

You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you tensing slightly. The red-haired waitress was already at the table, nodding furiously as the man in white pointed to various items on the menu. You could tell by her expression that she was nervous, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to keep up with his rapid questions.

And then, as if on cue, you heard it—the loud, fake laugh that Abigail reserved for only the most important guests. It echoed through the quiet bar, signaling the arrival of the man you’d been nervously anticipating all night. You were midway through complaining to James about how hungry you were when the door swung open, and your head automatically turned.

Remy Lebeau walked in, and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It was as if all the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of his presence. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to announce himself—his mere existence did that for him. He wore a dark blue suit, perfectly tailored to his lean, muscular frame, with the top button of his white shirt left undone, giving him an air of casual confidence. His hair was dark and not overly styled, it fell slightly on his forehead. His face was sharp, angular, with a jawline that could probably cut glass. Five men walked in after him, each dressed in a type of calm and casual neatness that if you didn’t know any better, you would say it was a group of friends having dinner after a day in the office. But of course you knew better.

If New Orleans had a king, his name was Remy Lebeau. In the underworld, he was a legend, a figure whispered about in dark corners and back alleys, where people knew better than to speak his name too loudly. He was the kind of man that everyone respected—whether that respect was born out of admiration or fear depended entirely on which side of his temper you’d found yourself. Few dared to cross him, and those who did rarely lived to tell the tale.

Lebeau wasn’t just any mobster. He had clawed his way to the top with a combination of sheer cunning, brute strength, and a ruthless disregard for anyone who stood in his way. His nickname, "The King of New Orleans," wasn’t just a title; it was a statement of fact. Every racket, every scheme, every underhanded deal that went down in the Crescent City had his fingerprints on it. And if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before it did.

Behind his suave, charming exterior—and he was charming, that much was undeniable—was a man with an iron will and a heart as cold as the Mississippi in winter. His reputation for cruelty was well-earned. A hard hand and an unforgiving nature defined him. If you owed him money, you paid. If you crossed him, you disappeared. And if you made the mistake of underestimating him, well, you didn’t get the chance to make that mistake again.

Lebeau was a master of contradiction. He was known for his impeccable manners, his smooth Cajun drawl, and his love of fine things—tailored suits, expensive bourbon, and even finer women. But beneath that polished exterior was a man capable of terrifying violence. He could be laughing with you over cigars one minute and have you dragged to the bayou the next, never to be seen again. His crew was fiercely loyal, but not because they loved him—because they feared him. And in Remy Lebeau’s world, fear was the currency that bought loyalty.

He was also a man who understood the value of appearances. He kept his hands clean, at least on the surface. His legitimate businesses—clubs, restaurants, even a few high-end hotels—were fronts, a way to launder the dirty money that flowed through his empire. But everyone knew the truth. No one got that rich, that powerful, in New Orleans without getting blood on their hands. And Lebeau’s hands were soaked.

In moments of generosity, he could be magnanimous, even charming. He’d be the first to buy a round of drinks for the house, to shake hands with the mayor, to slip a generous donation to the church. But that charm was as much a weapon as the gun tucked beneath his tailored jacket. It disarmed people, lulled them into a false sense of security, right before he made his move.

But it wasn’t his appearance that struck you the most—it was the way he carried himself. There was an undeniable magnetism about him, an aura of control and danger that radiated from every step he took. His movements were smooth, deliberate, like a predator who knew exactly where he stood in the food chain. His smile was charming, almost disarming, but his eyes told a different story. They were dark, calculating, like he was constantly sizing up everyone around him, deciding who was useful and who was expendable. He had the kind of eyes that could flip from warmth to ice in an instant.

When those eyes finally met yours, you felt a chill run down your spine. Though he was smiling, you could see the darkness beneath it—this was a man who didn’t get where he was by being nice. He was dangerous, and you knew it. Every instinct in your body told you to be cautious around him. This wasn’t someone you wanted to cross; this was someone who could ruin you with a single word, and you wouldn’t even know it was coming until it was too late.

As Remy walked further into the room, the men at the table all stood, their posture stiffening as if his presence alone demanded respect. He gave them a nod, his smile never faltering, but you noticed the way his eyes flicked back to you and James for just a second longer than necessary. It was a glance that made your stomach tighten.

Abigail greeted him with her usual over-the-top enthusiasm, her laugh grating on your nerves even more than usual, but you were too focused on Remy to pay much attention. The way he commanded the room without even trying was unsettling, to say the least. You’d heard the stories about him—the King of New Orleans, the mobster with the iron grip on the city’s underworld—but seeing him in person was something else entirely. He was more than just a rumor, more than just a name whispered in hushed tones. He was real, and he was right in front of you.

James nudged you lightly, pulling you out of your thoughts. You quickly tore your gaze away from Remy and focused on the task at hand, your heart still pounding in your chest. The night had just begun, and already it felt like it was going to be a long one.

As you moved behind the bar, you couldn’t help but glance back at Remy one more time. He was talking to Abigail now, his voice low and smooth, though you couldn’t make out the words. The way he stood, the way he moved—it all screamed power. And for the first time in a long while, you felt completely out of your depth. This wasn’t just another high roller or VIP. This was someone far more dangerous.

And tonight, you were in his world. <><><><><><><><><> Laughter rippled through the large table, catching your attention as you and James busied yourselves tidying up the bar. Remy clapped one of his men on the shoulder, saying something that sent the whole table into another round of chuckles. So far, the evening had remained friendly, the mood around the room still light. But beneath the surface, you could feel something else—something tense, something electric.

You’d been working overtime all evening, and the exhaustion was starting to creep into your limbs. The idea of the weekend, of not having to come back here for two full days, was practically the only thing keeping you going. You’d lost count of how many times Abigail had swanned in, fluttering her lashes at Remy, each time asking with exaggerated sweetness if he and his entourage were enjoying themselves. You and James had exchanged plenty of glances, barely holding back your amusement every time she left the room.

You kept your voices low, but it didn’t seem to matter. Every time the two of you snorted in laughter or made a quick quip at Abigail’s expense, Remy would glance up from the table. His eyes would lock onto yours, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he could hear every word you were saying. His gaze pierced through the dim lighting of the bar, and each time, it felt like he was looking right into you, like he could read your thoughts. The intensity of his attention was unnerving, and yet… there was something magnetic about it. You couldn’t help but feel drawn in, as if some invisible current connected the two of you across the room.

“We’re so getting fired by the end of the night,” James muttered, crouching down to grab a few bottles from the drink cupboard. His voice was light, but there was an edge of real anxiety behind it. “Might need to learn how to make our feet look real pretty, ‘cause that’s the only way we’ll be paying rent this month.”

You laughed, but the tension in your gut didn’t dissipate. “Speak for yourself. I’m more worried about getting killed before the night’s over. If not by the guys in here, then by Abigail herself. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.”

James stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “You think Abigail sleeps?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You didn’t notice the subtle shift in the atmosphere as you continued stocking the shelves. “Yeah, upside down on the rafters, like a bat,” you joked, letting out a laugh just as you felt a slight nudge at the back of your feet.

The laugh died in your throat as you turned and locked eyes with Remy Lebeau, leaning casually against the bar. That smirk—the one that had been haunting you all night—was wider now, more pronounced. His presence sent a jolt through you, and you immediately looked down at the floor, your heart racing. You knew you were in trouble. A man like Remy didn’t sneak up on people without a reason.

“Abigail’s y’ boss, right?” Remy’s voice was smooth, with that thick drawl that rolled off his tongue like honeyed whiskey. He wasn’t even acknowledging James, his eyes fixed solely on you, that grin never leaving his face. There was a playfulness in his tone, but underneath it, you could sense the weight of his power—a reminder that playful or not, he was not a man to be taken lightly.

You swallowed hard, trying to salvage the situation. “She’s a great boss,” you managed to say, though your voice sounded a little too high-pitched for your liking. “Really,” you added, though the word trailed off awkwardly as Remy raised an eyebrow, his amusement deepening.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the silence stretch between you, making you feel more and more like a deer caught in headlights. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he handed James a large bill, his eyes still locked on you. “Grab me ‘nother bottle of wha’ we been drinkin’,” he said, though it was less of a request and more of a command.

James took the money, but you were already moving, grabbing the bottle from the shelf with shaky hands. As you passed it to James, Remy gave you a small wink. “Keep th’ change,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. Then, without another word, he pushed off the bar and strode back to the table, leaving you standing there, breathless.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest. James, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally let out a snort of laughter. “Well, that was something. Should I start looking for job openings now, or wait until morning?”

You shot him a look, though the humor in his eyes made it hard to stay irritated. “Oh, we’re definitely screwed. I’ll let you know if I find a job that’ll take us both.”

Before you could say anything else, the red-haired waitress wandered over, her eyes following Remy as he walked back to the table. She glanced between the two of you, curiosity written all over her face. “What was that all about?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

You shook your head, trying to shake the lingering tension that clung to you like a second skin. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending my weekend job hunting after tonight,” you muttered, finally tearing your gaze away from Remy and focusing on the waitress. “What about you? What brings you into the lion’s den?”

She glanced toward the kitchen, then back at you, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Abigail wants me to cover you while you take your break. Vis has made something for dinner in the back.”

“Oh, thank god,” James groaned, handing over the white cloth he’d been using to clean the bar. “I was starting to think I’d have to start nibbling on the bar snacks.”

The waitress listened as he gave her a small list of tasks that needed handling, but you were only half-listening. You couldn’t shake the feeling of Remy’s eyes still on you, even from across the room. Every time you let your guard down, every time you let yourself slip into the rhythm of the evening, there he was—watching. Observing. Every smile he flashed at his men, every laugh he shared at the table, felt like it was tinged with something else. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but there was a dangerous edge to his presence, something that made your skin prickle with nervous energy.

As you and James made your way toward the kitchen, you cast one last glance over your shoulder. Remy was leaned back in his chair, his arm draped casually over the backrest, and his eyes were still locked on you. That smirk was back, curling at the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the room disappeared—just you and him, caught in that charged silence, where everything seemed to hang on the edge of a knife. His gaze was intense, like he could see right through the bravado you wore like armor, right down to the nerves fraying underneath.

You turned away quickly, your pulse kicking up as you tried to steady your breathing. Vis, the older cook, handed you a large burger with fries on the side. The comforting smell of sizzling food and the clatter of pans usually made the kitchen feel like a safe haven, but right now, it was a sanctuary from the tension simmering in the bar.

“How’s it going out there?” He asked, his voice low and gruff, as if he knew exactly who was still on your mind.

James grabbed his food and shook some salt over the fries, leaning casually against the counter. “Well, in the space of several hours, we’ve watched Abigail try and find herself husband number—what is it again?” He glanced at you with a knowing grin.

“Four,” you mumbled around a mouthful of fries.

“Four,” James repeated, drawing out the word with exaggerated exasperation. “We’ve been dying of hunger all night, and our lovely head barmaid here has been making bedroom eyes with a certain mobster.”

You choked, spluttering and coughing as you struggled to catch your breath. “I’ve been what now?”

James waited patiently as you recovered, his expression not unlike that of a cat who caught a canary. He turned back to Vis, who watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement. “Anyway, Remy overheard us talking smack about Abigail, and now we’re pretty sure we’ll be fired by tomorrow. He’s definitely gonna tell her.”

You nodded, your expression grim as you took another bite. “He’s absolutely gonna tell her,” you agreed, though the thought of Remy tattling on you seemed oddly out of character, “Anyway, I’m going to go eat this out the back. Its getting a bit too stuffy in here for my liking.” “It’s cold out there,” Vis pointed out, “Don’t forget a jacket.”

You gave the chef a warm smile as you told him you’ll be fine, you just need a bit of a breather. But all you could feel was the weight of the evening pressing down on you. The kitchen was too warm, too stifling, and the thought of Remy’s lingering gaze still made your skin tingle uncomfortably. Grabbing your plate, you pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night, the clamor of the bar fading as you settled onto an old crate against the wall. The night air was a welcome relief, crisp and biting against your heated skin.

You were midway through your burger when the door creaked open again, and Remy stepped out, his presence as effortless as ever. He gave you a nod of acknowledgment before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, he lit it, the glow briefly illuminating his face in the dark. He took a long drag, then held the pack out to you.

You shook your head, feeling awkward now that the bustling bar was behind you. Out here in the cool night air, the streetlights casting long shadows, there was nowhere to hide from Remy’s sharp, knowing eyes. The way they seemed to take in everything about you—every nervous glance, every fidget—it made you feel exposed. Vulnerable, even. You were used to fading into the background when things got too intense, blending into the noise and activity of the bar. But now, with just the two of you standing outside, there was no escaping his attention.

Remy shrugged casually, slipping his cigarette pack back into his jacket pocket and leaning against the brick wall beside you. He exhaled a plume of smoke, the scent of tobacco mixing with the crisp night air. “Should really quit, I know,” he said, his voice carrying that lazy, Southern drawl that somehow made everything sound like a suggestion rather than a command. “These things gonna kill me ‘fore I even see my next birthday.”

You smirked despite the tension crawling up your spine, popping another fry into your mouth as you tried to keep things light. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, and when you glanced over, his eyes were still on you, unwavering. “So, it’s no’ jus’ reserved fo’ the staff, huh?” he teased, his voice warm but edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “This is jus’ who y’ are.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, your heart picking up pace. His gaze had that effect on you—like he could see past the words you were saying, right into the truth of you. Unsettled, you looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the few remaining fries. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I’m overtired and not really thinking straight.”

Remy tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, intense way of his, like he was weighing your words carefully. “Then why y’s till here, if y’ wasn’t suppos’ t’ be?”

You shrugged, your fingers nervously picking at the edges of your half-eaten burger bun. The question hit a little too close to home. “One of the other bartenders called in sick, and…well, rent’s due.” The words came out casually, but there was a weight behind them, a kind of resignation you hadn’t meant to let slip. You quickly looked down, embarrassed by how vulnerable that admission felt.

There was a beat of silence, and when you dared to glance up, Remy was nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful, as if he understood more than you had said. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. “That’s fair. Gotta keep the lights on somehow.” His eyes flicked back to you, assessing, but not unkind. “You like workin’ here?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. No one ever really asked you things like that. You paused, really thinking about it for the first time in a while. “Yeah, I do. It’s not so bad, you know? Except for the occasional rowdy customer or—”

“—or Abigail,” Remy finished for you, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His laugh was soft, but it caught you off guard, and despite yourself, you found your own lips curling into a smile.

You rolled your eyes with a half-laugh, the tension beginning to ease from your shoulders. “She’s not always that bad. Just… selectively intolerable.”

Remy’s smirk deepened as he flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the pavement, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Selective’s one way t’ put i’,” he said with a chuckle, his tone light but carrying that ever-present edge of danger. “Y’ got some guts talkin’ about her like that when she’s just inside, though.”

You laughed, but it was a nervous sound, the kind of laugh you let out when you’re caught off guard but still trying to play it cool. “Yeah, well… I’m learning to live dangerously,” you teased, though the irony wasn’t lost on you. You were standing next to the most dangerous man in the city, and yet somehow you felt more at ease with him than you did with your own boss.

Remy’s eyes softened, just a fraction, but enough for you to notice. “Danger, huh? Don’t seem like th’ type t’ go lookin’ fo’ it.”

You shrugged, your fingers still toying with the edge of the burger wrapper, trying to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t betray just how on edge you felt. “I’m not, usually. But tonight’s been…not my normal clientele.”

He didn’t ask what you meant by that, but the way his gaze lingered told you that he understood more than you  were saying. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled you in even though every rational part of your brain was screaming at you to keep your distance. He was dangerous, yes, but there was something else there—something that made you want to know more.

Remy took a final drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. “Different ain’t always a bad thing,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. He pushed off the wall, standing a little closer to you now, the space between you growing smaller, more intimate.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his presence. The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth noticing in that moment—made your skin tingle with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. You weren’t sure if you should say something, or if the silence between you was enough. The air felt charged, thick with unspoken words and possibilities you weren’t sure you wanted to explore.

But Remy didn’t push, didn’t rush. He simply stood there, the smirk on his lips fading into something softer, something more genuine. “Y’ got more goin’ on than people give ya credit for, don’tcha?” he asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged, but his eyes never left yours. “I can tell. Not jus’ anyone can handle a place like this. Or people like me.” His words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

You felt your heart skip a beat. The way he said it—so casually, so matter-of-factly—made you realize that he wasn’t just talking about the bar, or the job, or even Abigail. He was talking about you. About what he saw in you. James poked his head out, eyes flicking between you and Remy, noting the flushed cheeks and the lingering grins. “Duty calls,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze curious.

You nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape the intensity of the moment. But as you turned to head inside, you felt Remy’s gaze on you once again, and when you glanced back, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.

“See ya ‘round, chérie,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. And as you walked back into the bar, your heart still pounding in your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly that smile meant—and what it might mean for you.

As you walked back into the bar, the door swinging shut behind you, your heart was still racing. The cool night air clung to your skin, but inside, you felt flushed, like you were carrying the heat from that encounter with you. You could feel the remnants of adrenaline, the way your pulse hadn’t quite settled, the way your mind kept replaying his words, his smile, the way his eyes had looked at you like he saw more than just a bartender.

You slid behind the bar, grateful for the familiar rhythm of your work, hoping it would ground you. But even as you wiped down the counter, as your hands moved through the motions of stocking bottles and refilling glasses, your mind kept drifting back to him. To the way his presence had a gravity all its own, pulling you in despite every logical part of your brain telling you to be careful.

James sidled up next to you, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp. He wasn’t going to let this slide, not without at least poking at it a bit. “What was that about?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips, his voice light but his curiosity palpable.

You shrugged, trying to play it off like it was nothing, even though you felt like you were still vibrating with the leftover tension from that moment. “Just talking to the customer,” you said, feigning indifference as you wiped down the already clean counter. Your heart was still beating a little too fast, and you weren’t sure if it was from the adrenaline or something else. “Same as any other night.”

But it wasn’t the same as any other night, and you both knew it. This felt different—charged, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the usual rowdy patrons who came in and out. This wasn’t just about serving a drink, or even dealing with a VIP customer. This was about you and Remy, the way he looked at you, the way his words seemed to carry more weight than they should have.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying your attempt at nonchalance. He didn’t say anything, though, just gave you that knowing look, the one that said he had seen plenty and understood more than you were letting on. But to your relief, he didn’t push. He just turned his attention back to the bar, though you could tell his ears were still perked, waiting for whatever was going to unfold next.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the task at hand—anything to distract yourself from the way your mind kept circling back to Remy. But it was hard to push it away. Every time you closed your eyes, you could still see his smirk, could still hear that low, teasing tone in his voice. You couldn’t help but wonder what that smile meant—what he had seen in you that had made him linger, that had made him stay out there with you just a little longer than necessary.

And what did it mean for you?

This wasn’t just a flirtation, a passing glance with a handsome stranger. This was Remy Lebeau—the man who held the city in his hands, the man whose name alone made people straighten up and walk a little faster when they heard it whispered in the streets. He wasn’t someone you could afford to get involved with, not in any way. But the way he had looked at you, the way he had spoken to you, made it feel like maybe you already were involved, whether you liked it or not.

The truth was, you had felt something in that moment. Something more than just the usual anxiety that came from dealing with someone dangerous. There had been a spark there, something electric, something that made you want to know more, even though every instinct in your body told you to be careful.

And that terrified you.

Because Remy wasn’t just a man. He was a force. He was the kind of person who could change your life in an instant, for better or worse. And right now, you didn’t know which way that scale was going to tip.

You glanced back toward the table where Remy had returned, his posture relaxed, his attention seemingly back on his men. But even from across the room, you could feel that pull—the magnetic tension that seemed to hum between you, even when you weren’t speaking, even when you weren’t looking at each other.

James was saying something, probably making a joke to lighten the mood, but you barely heard him. Your mind was still on Remy, on that smile, on the way he had said your name like he knew you, like he was already planning the next time you’d cross paths.

And deep down, you knew that wouldn’t be the last time.

“Hey,” James nudged you lightly with his elbow, bringing you back to the present. “You okay? You’re zoning out.”

You blinked, forcing a smile as you nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… tired.”

But you weren’t good. Not really. Because now that you had felt that spark, you weren’t sure you’d be able to ignore it. And as you glanced back at Remy once more, you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen the next time you found yourself standing alone with him.

And whether you’d be able to walk away as easily.

The steady hum of conversation and bursts of laughter from the table in front of you kept pulling your attention. You glanced up again, eyes instinctively seeking Remy in the crowd. But this time, he wasn’t looking at you. Instead, his head was turned slightly, focused on the man beside him. They sat close, their postures loose and comfortable, like old friends sharing stories over drinks.

Remy’s mouth curled into a small, easy smile as the man spoke, his hand moving to gesture lazily at something across the room. Whatever it was, Remy let out a low chuckle, a deep, gravelly sound that sent a ripple of warmth through the air. His usually sharp, predatory gaze had softened—just for a moment—as if he had let his guard down in this pocket of calm.

It was almost unsettling, seeing him like that. You had grown used to the intensity that clung to Remy like a shadow, the way his presence always demanded attention. Even when he wasn’t looking directly at you, you could feel him, like a storm brewing on the horizon. But now, in this moment, it was like watching a different man altogether. He seemed... normal. Like he could be anyone sitting at that table, sharing an inside joke with an old friend, without the weight of everything else he carried.

Your fingers drummed lightly on the bar as you watched them, an unexpected knot forming in your stomach. It was easier when he kept his distance, when there was that invisible line between you—barmaid and mobster. Simple. Clear. But the way he laughed now, the way he seemed so at ease, chipped away at that separation. It made him feel closer. More real.

James nudged you with his elbow, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You staring again?”

You blinked, heat rising to your face. “I’m not staring,” you muttered, shifting your focus back to the glass in your hand, though you couldn’t resist sneaking one more glance.

“He’s off duty,” James teased, his voice laced with amusement. “You don’t have to be so on edge. You know, the guy probably eats breakfast just like the rest of us. Maybe reads the paper in the morning. Hell, I bet he even feeds the pigeons.”

You snorted, the mental image of Remy LeBeau sitting on a park bench, casually tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons, almost making you laugh out loud. “Yeah, sure. Right after he settles some ‘business’ with those same pigeons.”

James shrugged, grinning. “I’m just saying. Maybe he’s not as dangerous as he looks.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts lingered on what James said. There was truth to it, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. Remy had a way of shifting between worlds—one minute he was the dangerous, unflinching mobster who could snap a man’s neck without blinking, and the next he was... this. Calm. Collected. Human.

A sudden bout of laughter from Remy’s table broke your train of thought. You glanced up again, almost instinctively, and this time, your gaze collided with his. It was brief, but unmistakable—his eyes locking onto yours for just a heartbeat before he turned back to the conversation at his table. It sent a spark of electricity down your spine, and you quickly looked away, feeling foolish for even thinking it meant anything. But then, like a needle scratching across a record, a low comment from one of the men at Remy’s table cut through the noise. The words were muffled, too quiet for you to catch, but the effect was immediate and unmistakable.

The entire table went silent.

The tension in the room thickened, settling like a storm cloud about to break. You could feel it in the air—everyone could. It was the kind of silence that pulled everyone’s attention, even the staff at the far end of the bar who hadn’t heard the comment. All eyes flicked to Remy.

He sat perfectly still, his body unnaturally calm. But his jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck flexing as he stared up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowing as though he was silently counting down, trying to rein in whatever fire had been lit inside him. For a moment, you dared to believe he might let it pass.

But you were wrong.

In slow-motion clarity, you watched as Remy stood up, the chair scraping against the floor in a sound that made your skin crawl. His calm was terrifying—more menacing than any shout or slam of fists could have been. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as if every action had been calculated long before the man had even opened his mouth.

Without a word, Remy reached across the table, his hand moving with deadly precision. In one swift motion, he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of his seat like he weighed nothing. The man barely had time to react before Remy slammed him against the wall, the sound of the impact echoing through the bar with a sickening thud. The force was so great that even the picture frames on the wall rattled, one of them dropping to the floor with a sharp crack . Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the heat rising to your face as you tried to process what you were seeing.

Beside you, James shifted nervously, his voice barely above a whisper. “Should we… step in or something?”

But you both knew better. This wasn’t a situation where stepping in would make any difference. This wasn’t a bar fight you could break up with a few words or a polite request to “take it outside” like you usually did. No, this was something else entirely. This was a warning. A lesson. A reminder of who had the power in the room.

Remy held the man pinned against the wall with one hand, his grip firm and unyielding. The man tried to muster some semblance of defiance, but his bravado crumbled under the weight of Remy’s gaze. You could see it—the transition from anger to fear, from cocky to desperate. His eyes widened, darting around the room as if searching for someone to save him, but there was no escape.

You couldn’t hear what Remy was saying, but you could see his lips moving, his face inches from the man’s. His words were quiet, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of a death sentence. Whatever Remy was telling him, it was enough to drain the color from the man’s face. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he tried to stammer out an apology or explanation, but the words sounded hollow, useless against the force that was Remy’s quiet fury.

For a moment, it looked like Remy might go further—that he might actually snap the man in two, right there in front of everyone. His knuckles were white, his muscles tense, and you could feel the room collectively hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Remy released him.

The man stumbled, his feet awkwardly finding the ground as Remy let go. He nearly collapsed, his legs shaky, his breathing ragged. But before anyone could fully process the shift, Remy’s demeanor changed—like flipping a switch. His cold, calculated anger melted away, replaced by a smile that sent a chill down your spine. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator toying with its prey.

Remy wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, pulling him close in what would have looked like a friendly gesture to anyone who hadn’t just witnessed the violence a moment earlier. The man flinched at the contact, but he didn’t dare pull away.

“After this, mes amis,” Remy announced to the table, his voice loud enough for the entire bar to hear, “we’re gonna take a little drive.” His tone was light, almost jovial, but the menace was still there, just beneath the surface. The kind of menace that didn’t need to be shouted to be understood. He guided the man back to his seat with a firm, almost fatherly pat on the back, forcing him to sit beside him like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just slammed him into the wall with the force of a hurricane.

The other men at the table nodded stiffly, their expressions tense, eyes flicking between each other but not daring to meet Remy’s. They knew better. They understood. Whatever unspoken rule had just been broken, Remy had laid it down again, and none of them were going to challenge it.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, your hands trembling slightly as you grasped the edge of the bar for support. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Part of you wanted to look away, to pretend you hadn’t seen it, to go back to the safety of serving drinks and keeping your head down. But another part of you—some darker, more curious part—couldn’t stop watching.

Remy’s control was absolute. He didn’t need to raise his voice or make a scene to remind everyone who he was and what he was capable of. He had made his point in a way that was far more effective than any outburst could have been.

Beside you, James let out a shaky breath, his voice barely a whisper. “What the hell just happened?”

You shook your head, still trying to process it yourself. But deep down, you knew exactly what had happened. Remy had sent a message—a reminder that he wasn’t someone to be crossed. And the man he had just tossed around like a rag doll had been lucky, if you could even call it that. Because whatever was waiting for him on that “drive” Remy had promised, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

You glanced over at the table again, your eyes catching Remy’s for a brief moment. He was seated now, his posture relaxed, his arm draped casually over the back of his chair. But his eyes were still sharp, still watchful. He caught your gaze, and for a split second, that smirk returned, the one that made you feel like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

And in that moment, you realized Remy hadn’t just sent a message to his men.

He had sent it to everyone in the bar—even you.

From your vantage point behind the bar, you watched the scene unfold, your heart pounding as you tried to process what you’d just seen. Remy’s easy laughter and casual arm draped around the man were a stark contrast to the tension that still clung to the air. It was a performance, you realized—a carefully crafted show of dominance that ensured everyone in the bar knew exactly who was in control.

James nudged you again, his voice a nervous whisper. “What do you think he said to him?”

You shook your head, unable to tear your eyes away from the table. “I don’t know. But whatever it was…it wasn’t good.” You could see it in the way the man sat rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead as if afraid to move, afraid to breathe wrong in Remy’s presence. Remy, meanwhile, carried on like nothing had happened, taking a swig of his drink and engaging in light conversation with the others.

But the atmosphere was different now, the easy camaraderie that had existed before was replaced by something darker, something that hinted at the dangerous undercurrents that ran just beneath the surface. You watched Remy, the way he settled back into his chair, his arm once again draped casually over the backrest, that same smirk playing at his lips as he caught your eye from across the room.

It was a reminder, you realized—a stark, unmissable reminder of who he was and the world he navigated with such ease. And as you returned to your work, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of intrigue and caution pull at you. Because for all the light-hearted banter and stolen moments, Remy LeBeau was still a mobster, and the line between charm and danger was thinner than you’d ever imagined. <><><><> As the night drew to a close, the clock ticked past 1 a.m., and the once-boisterous group began to quiet down. Abigail, her smile as wide as ever, finally made her way over to Remy. They exchanged words in hushed tones, their conversation a murmur that contrasted sharply with the occasional clinking of glasses and the fading laughter of the last few patrons. Abigail’s eyes kept darting toward you and James, her gaze narrowing slightly as if she was calculating something behind that carefully maintained facade.

You shook your head slowly, dreading the inevitable fallout. You could feel the tension in the air like a charged current, waiting to discharge. The bar had mostly emptied, with only a few lingering stragglers remaining—those who seemed to follow Remy wherever he went. The man Remy had thrown against the wall was still around, standing with one of the stragglers, but you knew better than to think Remy would let him leave just yet with the rest of them.

You let out a loud yawn, the exhaustion of the night weighing down on your shoulders like a heavy cloak. It had been a long shift—longer than usual, or at least it felt that way. The hum of the bar had finally quieted, and the last few patrons had trickled out, leaving behind the faint smell of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke. You placed the final glasses into the washer, the repetitive clink of glass on metal soothing in its predictability.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a familiar figure moving toward you with that easy, confident stride. Remy.

You straightened instinctively, your muscles tensing in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the strange, magnetic pull that seemed to exist between the two of you. His presence had a way of making the air around you feel heavier, charged with a kind of energy that made your skin tingle. It was a subtle thing, but undeniable. You could feel it in the way your pulse quickened whenever he was near, in the way you were hyper-aware of his every movement.

He noticed Abigail’s hawk-like gaze following the two of you, her suspicion palpable even from across the room. Remy, ever perceptive, gave you a reassuring nod, a silent message that said more than words could. His demeanor had shifted again—gone was the edge, the danger that had simmered beneath the surface earlier in the night. Now, his voice was softer, almost kind, as he stopped in front of you.

“Ge’ some sleep, chérie,” he said, his accent curling around the words in that warm, lazy way that made them sound like a personal invitation. “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

Your lips curved into a tired smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The exhaustion was hard to mask now, and you could feel the weight of the night settling into your bones. “It was lovely meeting you,” you replied, your voice polite but lacking the energy to match his charm. The words felt mechanical, like something you were supposed to say in a situation like this, but they didn’t quite capture the knot of emotions tangled inside you.

Remy’s smirk widened just slightly, the kind of smile that made you feel like he could see right through the veneer of formality you were clinging to. There was something almost predatory in the way his eyes lingered on you, but not in a way that made you feel unsafe. No, it was different. It was like he was waiting, biding his time, knowing that whatever tension simmered between you hadn’t been fully explored yet. And maybe, just maybe, he was as curious as you were about where it might lead.

He slapped the top of the bar twice in a casual farewell, the sound sharp in the silence of the now-empty room. It was a gesture that felt oddly intimate, like a private joke shared between the two of you, even though nothing had been said. Then, with one final glance, he turned and walked away, his movements unhurried, as if he knew he’d be back.

As he strolled toward the door, you felt the strange pull of chemistry hanging in the air—an invisible thread connecting you, even as he put distance between you. There was something unspoken between you, something that hummed quietly beneath the surface. It wasn’t just attraction, though that was certainly part of it. It was more than that—a kind of recognition, maybe. Like he saw something in you that you hadn’t fully acknowledged in yourself yet.

Abigail’s eyes followed Remy until he disappeared out the door, her expression unreadable. You braced yourself for whatever sharp remark she was about to throw your way, her usual cutting tone still echoing in the back of your mind. But instead, she surprised you.

“Go home,” she said curtly, her voice devoid of the malice you had come to expect from her. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t cruel either. More like… resigned. “Have the weekend off. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

You blinked, taken aback. That was unexpected. You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Abigail to say something that would tear the moment apart. But she didn’t. She just turned and walked away, her silhouette disappearing into the night with the same cold efficiency she always carried. Her departure left a strange silence in the bar, like the calm after a storm.

James let out a low whistle, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Looks like your flirting saved our asses tonight,” he said, though his words were more playful than accusatory.

You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow, though you couldn’t help but smile at his ridiculous conclusion. “How does Nat put up with you?” you asked, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. The sarcastic remark was half-hearted, more reflex than anything, but it was enough to cut through the lingering tension that had wrapped itself around the night.

James chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed his own things. “You know, I ask myself that question every day,” he replied with a grin that softened the mood.

But even as James’s lighthearted banter faded into the background, your mind kept drifting back to Remy. The way he had looked at you, the way his presence seemed to linger in the space long after he had left. There had been something between you tonight—something more than just polite conversation or casual flirtation. It was like a spark had been struck, and now you couldn’t help but wonder if it would catch fire the next time you crossed paths.

And deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

As you and James locked up the bar and headed out into the cool night air, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation swirling in your chest. The night was over, but it didn’t feel like the end. Not really. There was something unfinished, something unresolved between you and Remy.

You could still hear his voice in your head, soft and teasing: “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

The question wasn’t if he would come back—it was when.

And when he did, you weren’t sure if you’d be ready for whatever was going to happen next.

But you couldn’t deny it anymore. There was chemistry between you, that much was obvious. And the more you thought about it, the more you realized how much you wanted to see where it would lead. <><><><><><>

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your small apartment, a sharp contrast to the dim, muted atmosphere of the bar from the night before. Your home was modest—cozy, even—with mismatched furniture that you’d accumulated over the years. A secondhand couch, a coffee table you’d found at a flea market, and a few pictures on the walls that gave the space a touch of warmth. It wasn’t much, but it was yours, and after nights like last night, it was a refuge.

You barely had time to adjust to the daylight before your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. Squinting, you glanced at the screen. Abigail. The clock read exactly 11 a.m., and you groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you answered.

“Get your ass to the bar now,” Abigail’s voice was sharp, no prelude or explanation.

Still groggy, you sat up, the weight of the previous night settling in your chest. The encounter with Remy had left you rattled, though you hadn’t fully processed why. There had been a strange tension between the two of you, something unspoken but potent. And now, with Abigail calling so early, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were about to find out exactly what that something was.

You fumbled out of bed, grabbing the nearest comfortable clothes you could find—a well-worn hoodie and sweatpants. It wasn’t the kind of outfit you’d be proud of in public, but right now, you were barely awake enough to care. After a quick rinse of your face, a splash of coffee into a travel mug, and a hasty brush of your teeth, you grabbed your keys and headed out the door.

The drive to the bar felt like a strange déjà vu of the night before. The streets were quieter now, the sun casting long shadows as you passed by familiar landmarks. When you arrived, the bar looked different in the daylight—less of a shadowy haven and more of a place that had seen its fair share of stories. The kind of place where, if the walls could talk, you might not want to hear what they had to say.

You pushed through the door, the familiar ding of the bell echoing through the empty space. The bar was eerily quiet, devoid of the usual clatter and hum of conversation. You made your way upstairs to Abigail’s office, your unease growing with each step.

Her office was a stark contrast to the dim and worn bar below. Sleek, modern, and cold. The minimalist artwork lining the walls and the polished chrome furniture gave it the feel of a high-end corporate boardroom rather than a place where bar brawls were settled on a nightly basis. Abigail sat behind a large, imposing desk, her posture perfectly composed as always, her gaze assessing you from the moment you walked in.

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite her. You obeyed, sinking into the chair, though its stiff, uncomfortable leather only added to the tension coiling in your gut.

Abigail wasted no time. She reached into a locked drawer, pulling out a large envelope and sliding it across the desk toward you. “I don’t know what the fuck you did last night with Remy LeBeau,” she began, her tone clipped, “but one of his men dropped this off for you early this morning. Of course, you weren’t here, so I said I’d make sure you got it. They called it a ‘tip.’ Just for you.”

Your eyes flicked down to the envelope. It was bulky, the edges slightly crumpled, and your name was scrawled across the front in messy handwriting. You hesitated, the weight of Abigail’s gaze heavy on you, before gingerly opening it. The soft crinkle of paper filled the silence as you pulled out its contents.

Bundles of hundred-dollar bills all wrapped with a security seal.

Your heart raced as you counted the bundles—four of them. Four thousand dollars. More money than you had ever seen in one place, let alone held in your hands. But it wasn’t just the money that left you reeling. Tucked between the bills was a hastily scrawled note, the handwriting jagged and hurried: Now you won’t need the hours for a while.

Your stomach twisted. The note was simple, but the implications were anything but. Why had Remy given you this? What exactly had you done to deserve such a generous “tip”? And more importantly, what did he want in return?

You looked up at Abigail, who was watching you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something else—something darker, more knowing. She tapped her pen rhythmically against the desk, a small, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

“He’s even booked a table for him and some friends for lunch next Wednesday,” she said, her voice light but tinged with sarcasm. “So call us even for your constant shit-talking about me.”

Your eyes narrowed at her, but the knot of anxiety in your chest tightened. “So, he told you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure of what you were even asking. Did Remy say something about what you said about her?

Abigail’s smirk widened. “No, he didn’t have to. But when I spoke with him after you left, he had nothing but good things to say about you. And James, too, though,” she paused, her eyes flicking to yours with a hint of something like approval, “especially you.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. The way she said it, the way Remy had apparently spoken about you—it left you feeling off-balance. What exactly had he said? And why did it feel like there was something more behind his compliments?

“He really enjoyed your company,” Abigail continued, leaning back in her chair, her tone almost casual now. “He said you handled yourself well—better than most. And that’s not something he says lightly.”

You bit your bottom lip, your mind swirling with questions. Was this all just a game to him? Some kind of test that you didn’t even know you were taking? And what did it mean for you that you had somehow passed it?

Abigail’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Have a good weekend,” she said, her tone signaling that the conversation was over. She leaned forward, turning her attention to the paperwork on her desk as if you were already dismissed.

You stood, the envelope clutched tightly in your hand, the weight of the money feeling both like a gift and a burden. As you walked out of her office, the door closing with a soft click behind you, the sense of foreboding that had settled in your chest deepened.

The drive home was a blur. By the time you unlocked the door to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You tossed your bag onto the couch and sank down next to it, the envelope still in your lap, staring at it like it might explode. Four thousand dollars. It was a lifeline, no doubt about it. That money could cover rent for months, give you breathing room you hadn’t had in years. But it was also a tether. A thread that tied you to Remy in a way that you hadn’t asked for, but now couldn’t escape.

You looked around your apartment—the small kitchen with its chipped countertops, the worn rug that had seen better days, the cozy couch that you’d collapsed onto after countless late shifts. This place had always been your sanctuary, your escape from the chaos of the bar. But now, even here, the weight of last night lingered.

As you sat there, the events of the previous night played over and over in your mind. The way Remy had looked at you—like he saw something beneath your surface, something deeper. The chemistry between you had been undeniable, even though you’d tried to ignore it. And now, with this money in your lap and his voice still echoing in your head, you couldn’t shake the feeling that last night had set something in motion. Something that you weren’t sure you were ready for.

The envelope felt heavy in your hands, but not as heavy as the unspoken question that hung in the air:

What would Remy want from you next?

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

So, I saw that you write Gambit, and I fell in LOVE with your style and portrayal. I also saw your smut list? Could I maybe request Gambit with a female S/O? I can't decide between 100, 117, 127, 144. So uh.... You pick? I'm honestly a sucker for first times/possessive/protective/ would burn the world down to protect troupes. If it's too much though, feel free to ignore me. I don't mean to bother you about my hyper fixation crush xD

warnings: smut (female receiving), fingering, remy being selfless and concerned with your pleasure only, uhhhhh I think that's it. I'm sorry my smut drabbles have been kinda mild lately, I haven't got the braincell during the work week lmao.

The sound of the world outside your window fades away as he touches you. Your back arches against the mattress, pushing your chest up into the air and as it does, Remy’s hands trail over your ample cleavage, admiring it as his fingertips ghost over the flesh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

Every ragged breath has your tits bouncing, jiggling underneath his touch, and Remy gobbles up the visual like it’s dinner. Everything he does seems to elicit lewd reactions from your body, actually – not that you’re complaining. At all. In fact, you’re just about blissed out with the way he’s touching you. A shiver erupts down your spine, shaking your entire body. He smiles a half-smile as he watches your reactions.

He has you whining at the attentive way his hands move over your body, tracing every inch of it like he’s trying to remember it in case he never gets to touch it again. One hand traces the curve of your stomach, while the other is slotted between your legs, fingering you masterfully. You swallow, laboriously lifting your head to look down at his hands. He’s been going at you for God knows how long, you’ve lost track. You can feel the outline of his erection on your leg, yet he oddly hasn’t insisted upon anything. 

“You feel so good… but…”  He looks at you with concern in his eyes, as if he’s suddenly realized that you’re unhappy. Remy’s fingers slow their pace, ready for whatever comes next. He’d do anything to please you, even if that meant stopping. 

“B-But what about you?” you continue, worried.

Relieved, he chuckles low, and slides his finger down to your entrance, ready to resume. “We can worry about Remy later. It’s alla’ ‘bout you right now.”

His selfless response floors you… or maybe it’s the way that his middle finger breaches your dripping slit, and crooks up inside to find your G-spot with ease, while the wide pad of thumb continues swiping at your clit. Maybe it’s both. You’re going with both. 

You’re used to being pleasured. You’ve felt all this before – well, not this, specifically, because no man has ever pleasured you the way that Remy Lebeau is pleasuring you currently. From the way his finger encircles your clit, applying just enough pressure to drive you crazy, but not enough to make you orgasm yet to the way that he leans down every so often, kissing along your collarbone.

“Remy,” you plead. “I want you to feel good, too…” 

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout ‘dat, chere… I feel just fine right now.”

Serving as punctuation, Remy thrusts his hips into the meat of your thigh, bumping his swollen, aching cock against your leg. You can feel the heat of it through your pants, and long to touch it, to stroke it, to taste it… but he has you whipped underneath his grasp, he’s in control and you’re certainly not about to test his strength.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

“mon dieu...”

remy’s voice sounds drunk, awe resting on his vocal chords, his lips parting at the delectable sight of you writhing beneath him against the wall. his eyes sparkle with a perpetually lurking mischief seemingly embedded in them, greedily shifting his gaze down where his middle and ring fingers stretch you repeatedly, the heel of his palm applying pressure over your clit.

“soakin’ my hand, chère. i’ma slide right in, ain’t i?” he whispers near your jawline, pecking it softly a few times. his other hand lies flat on the surface you’re whining on, just above the right side of your head where he cages you in.

he groans whenever you clench around his digits in response. in turn, he crooks them, petting that special spot with practiced accuracy, a smirk curving his lips at the sound of your pleasured hiccup. it fascinates him how you arch, how your hips chase more and more despite the wicked nature of this, squeezing his bicep to help ground yourself as his fingers take you elsewhere. somewhere warm and erupting at the same time. he’s your hermes, delivering a delicate and needy package up to the peak where a golden gate awaits.

“there. there it is,” he husks, leaning his palm back and replacing it with his thumb. he gnaws on his bottom lip feeling how slippery your clit is under the pad of it. “let it go, mon ange, je veux le goûter.”

with remy’s encouragement and permission, you yelp his name, clutching his arm tighter as you release. your pussy tightens up, the grip deathly on his digits. his cock twitches in pulsing, ridiculous envy, longing to sheath itself inside. but he waits like a gentleman, pumping his fingers in a gradually slowing rhythm as you ride out your high. still, he wonders what your throbbing clit will feel like against his pelvis once he’s lodged himself deep in your warmth.

remy trails kisses over your features once his hand comes to a halt, comforting you in the aftermath. his lips eventually find yours, each kiss robbing the remnants of your breath you were attempting to catch beforehand.

“another?” he asks sweetly, tongue draping itself into your mouth, a silent sign of what he could give you, what he promised. the slide of it against yours has you intoxicated.

“or d’you wan’ m’cock now?”

french decoding:

mon dieu - my god

mon ange - my angel

je veux le goûter - i want to taste it

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

dinner and a show

pairing: void!gambit/remy lebeau x fem!reader

warnings: 🔞!!!, established relationship, does this count as public sex & exhibitionism if it’s in an abandoned diner in the middle of the void lmao, cunnilingus, fingering, multiple orgasms (f!rec), unprotected sex, clothed sex

w/c: 3.4k

a/n: heyyy 😝 back again bc i can’t stop myself. literally one person asked for me to expand on the diner sex that i mentioned in my first remy fic here, and my brain was like ok say less lollll. reblogs and comments are much appreciated! i hope u all enjoy <3

“you sure know how to wine and dine a girl, huh?” 

he really does have the wine part down. that, he brought straight from the hideout. a couple of liquor bottles you both like tucked safely in his deep pockets. the dine part could surely use some work, but you take what you can get here in the void. you know he’d cook you something nice if he had the means; he raves about the gumbo and beignets he used to make frequently enough to have you craving something you’ve never even tasted before. 

remy’s eyes glint as he crunches on a piece of cracker jack popcorn, jutting his hand out to share the box with you as you place your own box of teddy grahams down to pluck out a handful. 

“only de best for you, chère.” 

you know he’s serious, but he’s messing around too, at least a little bit. you meet his eyes playfully before your own cut to the garbage that litters the floor of the abandoned diner, the dusty countertops and booth seats, the broken tables. it’s a fucking dump, much like everything else in the void, but your gambit still somehow manages to make it oddly charming. he’s a sweetheart, the biggest loverboy you’ve ever met. all he wanted to do was take you on a date, get you both out of the hideout for something that isn’t a recon mission or scavenging. 

you have no clue how he managed to get the old, rundown jukebox working, but he did. etta james croons quietly from across the room, and your boots tap against the ankle of his where you’ve got his foot trapped between both of yours. 

“y’know,” you say, “in another world, this was probably a really nice place for dates.” 

home-y breakfast dates, brunches on the weekends after having a little too much fun the night before. you’d sit across the table from him and take his features in as he nurses his cup of coffee and people watches out the window. his shirt collar would be low enough that you could see the freckles that adorn his strong chest, maybe even the smattering of half-uncovered lovemarks you left on him earlier. you’d trail the toe of your shoe up his leg until he catches your ankle in his hand, until he levels you with a gaze that has your stomach clenching with wantwantwant. 

when you come back to yourself, remy’s silently eyeing you over the rim of his bottle while he takes a sip. his eyebrow is quirked though, and you know you’ve been caught dreaming about him. 

“got lost up dere for a minute,” he notes, reaching for your fingers when he sets his bottle down. a smirk tugs on the corner of his pink lips. “you was thinkin’ somethin’ nasty, huh?” 

“no, i- i was not,” you argue half heartedly. you were; you’re a big, fat liar and you both know it. he’s too perceptive for you to try and lie your way out of it anyway. you’ve been with him for so long now, but having remy’s undivided attention on you still manages to get your cheeks heating up. 

remy lifts your hand and places a slow kiss on the knuckles. “y’ain’t gotta be shy wit’ me, belle. gambit has dese type’a thoughts too.” 

you know he does. he whispers them in your ear before biting down on the lobe, kisses them into your skin. 

“oh, so you’re a pervert?” your eyebrows raise, and a smile splits your cheeks before you can stop it. “you only want me for my body, is that what you’re sayi- remy!” 

a piece of caramel popcorn hits you square in the forehead. 

he chuckles when you sputter, deep and handsome, but he takes your waving hands in his own gloved ones and cups them gently. “gambit just want you, chère. body, mind, and soul.” 

it’s so easy for him to get you melting, for him to carefully herd your deflecting and lower your hackles with the earnest tone of his voice. he watches it happen, watches your grin soften into something small and your head duck in happiness. when you look at him again, his smile is just as soft. 

“i want you too, remy,” you say. nothing has ever been truer. “and really, thank you for doing this. you’re sweet to me.” 

“de rien. it ain’t much, but we make do, don’t we?” 

you always do. 

your eyebrows furrow when he unexpectedly slides from the booth, but the heat in your cheeks flares up again when you realize what it is that he’s doing. remy bows slightly at the waist and presses another kiss to your knuckles. 

“may i have dis dance, chère?” 

it’s an easy answer, and he grins that handsome, dimpled grin of his when you slide from the booth to stand in front of him. his chest plate is cool against your cheek as remy guides you slowly around the floor of the diner to the soothing tunes of etta james, thick fingers pressed lightly against the dip of your back while the fingers of his other hand hold yours out to the side. you’ve never danced with anyone like this before, not where it feels like the world has fallen into place. it’s more like swaying than dancing at this point, but you’re keen to let remy sway you back and forth like this until he lifts your entwined hands to twirl you in a circle. 

it brings a giggle to your lips, and you’re giddy when he tucks you right back against his chest where you belong. you feel his chin rest against the top of your head when you settle. remy blankets you like this; he embraces you wholly. 

he only lifts his chin when you start to raise your head to look at him. his gaze meets yours in the middle, soft and warm, and you’re kissing before you know it. both of his gloved hands come up to cup your cheeks and pull you closer, causing you to melt into him all over again. your own slip under his leather coat to grip at the back of his chest plate. 

the kiss deepens as remy’s fingers curl into the hair at the nape of your neck. he holds you in place, essentially scruffing you like a needy kitten while he takes charge of the kiss. his tongue teases at your bottom lip until you’re opening your mouth wider to let him inside, and remy licks between your lips as if he’s trying to commit your taste to memory, like he’s trying to learn you anew. you taste caramel and liquor on his tongue, along with that special hint of just pure remy that you love so much. 

his empty bottle clatters to the floor when he backs you against the table you sat at earlier. it startles you enough to have you jolting in his grasp, but it brings a sneaky smile to your face as you climb onto the table and swipe your hand behind you, sweeping your own bottle, empty boxes of snacks, and the old menus to the ground to give you more room. 

remy’s grin is smug. heat swirls in your stomach when he looms over you like this, tall and oh, so sure of himself. 

“you eager for somethin’?” he asks. what a silly question, you’re eager for anything and everything he could possibly give you. 

remy’s got you so keyed up that you hardly notice him unzipping your suit and pulling the sleeves down your arms, all too focused on the burning kisses he leaves up and down your neck. the fabric pools around your waist, and remy helps you from the edge of the table so he can pull it down the rest of the way to finally get you bare for him. 

getting your pants over the platform of your boot is a feat in itself, but there’s broken glass on the floor now. neither of you want to risk that when you’re supposed to be romancing each other. 

he takes you in where you stand before him, emerald eyes roaming the curves and angles of your naked body. remy’s on you again before you can blink; he kisses you like he wants to make a home for himself inside you, carve a place for himself between your ribs to nestle beside your heart, and little does he know that you’d let him with no hesitation - you would carve it yourself. your hands scramble up the leather of his coat to grip at his silky hair, but they can’t stay still. you’re all over him, carding your fingers through his hair, clutching his coat to pull him closer, rubbing your hands against his chest plate. 

your frantic movements have the shoulders of his coat slipping slightly down his arms, and that’s when the idea strikes. 

remy shrugs the coat from his shoulders when you start tugging at it and backs up willingly with an easy push to his chest. your lips smack noisily as he pulls away, and he licks at his for one last taste. remy sees the satisfied gleam in your eye, the playful quirk to the corner of your lips as you slip your own arms into the warm sleeves of his brown, leather coat. 

it’s big on you, no doubt, but remy looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in his sky. 

you back yourself to the table again and lift up on the balls of your feet to settle on the edge. remy comes to you when you crook your finger at him, meeting your lips once more with a smile and easing between your bare legs. 

“look better den gambit does in his own coat, chère, woo. don’ even know what you do ta me, do ya?” 

you tuck his coat tighter around you, batting your eyelashes at him in a way you know he loves. “whatever do you mean? i’m just a little chilly.” 

“caught a chill up in here, huh?” he places his palms on either side of you and noses up your neck. “i got somethin’ in mind t’at could warm you right up.” 

you’re not expecting him to drop to his knees, but god, is it a welcome sight. his hands are warm on your thighs when he spreads them wide, even the fabric of his gloves run hot with the constant contact against your skin. if anyone else were to stare at you like this, you might get shy, but there’s something reverent in remy’s gaze, something devout and awed as he watches the puffy lips of your cunt part for him. 

remy’s eyes slide to your face when he leans in, and the first press of his lips to your aching clit has your back bowing. he just kisses you there, a chaste little thing, but the pressure of his mouth is enough to have you twitching. 

“please,” you whimper. “remy, please? please.” 

a deep inhale, a warm exhale. 

“pauvre bete…” a slick swipe of tongue that has your hands scrambling against the dusty table. 

it has you trembling, legs twitching in the air as remy sucks the swell of your sensitive clit into his mouth. his tongue bats against it until you’re gripping at his hair and clenching around nothing. you can hardly bear to watch, the sight of his tongue lapping away at your sopping cunt, his hands keeping your legs open, the deep, yearning green of his eyes, it’s all too much. your hips roll before you can think twice, and remy groans his approval into you. you grind up against his face so roughly that it rattles the table, but you don’t have it in mind to be worried. with remy here, you’re not going anywhere. 

”your f-fucking mouth, oh my god,” you keen, craning your neck to watch him work. a slow swirl of his tongue around your clit has your eyes rolling pitifully and your lashes fluttering. one of his hands travels from your thigh to the heat of your pussy - he spreads you with his thick fingers, pulling away for a moment to watch the way that sweet little button pulses between the vee of his digits. 

“mon dieu,” remy breathes. his mouth is on you again in an instant, sucking your clit between his spit-slick lips and bobbing his head lightly. the pressure of his fingers works wonders too, and you’re grabbing yourself underneath one of your knees to give him more room. you’re so focused on that devilish mouth that you nearly miss his fingers moving to prod at your hole. you nod so hard that your head thunks against the table, mouth falling open in a silent cry as two breach inside to rub against your spongy walls. “t’at what you gonna do on my dick?”

your fuzzy brain has no clue what he’s talking about until you feel yourself tighten around his fingers. you’re clenching on him, squeezing him tight until his tongue on your clit has you relaxing again. 

remy curls his fingers and massages them in steady circles until you’re squealing. you crane your neck again to look at him, and it’s then that you hazily notice that the fingers bullying themselves inside of you are covered by the fabric of his gloves. you’re soaking the sleek black fabric; it shines with your sticky wetness. you’re probably soaking the inside of his coat by now as well, you’ll surely soak his handsome face when he makes you— 

he lifts up higher on his knees when you jolt, his other hand that’s unoccupied with your cunt moves to hold you down by your stomach. 

“f-f-fuck, fuck, please make me cum!” you cry. “remy, remy. it’s s-so good, baby, so good. please?” 

he groans again, something gritty and deep from his chest, but he pulls away slightly to kiss the plush of your thigh. “y’ain’t ever gotta beg for t’at, you kno’? gambit always give his girl what she need…” 

he does. he does; he’s so good to you in every way. you nod your head, and remy nods back before bringing his mouth to you once more, thick fingers never halting their movements. 

you can feel it in your stomach, feel that sweet warmth building in your gut until your legs are trembling with the need to lock around his head. 

“say it,” he mumbles, lips not straying far from where you’re aching for him. 

it takes everything in you to speak, but you’d do anything for remy. 

“always g- give me what i need, my remy always- always gives me… what i… oh, god, there! there, remy, i’m-” you can’t even finish your sentence before he has you seeing stars. it makes your back arch, your toes curl in your boots, and your fingers scramble for his hair; you’re squealing again before you know it. remy lifts himself to his feet so that he can hold you while you come down. his arm slips underneath the back of his coat that you wear to wrap around your waist, and the fingers of his other hand slip slowly from the pulsing clutch of your body. 

he tastes like you when he kisses you breathless. you’re already breathless enough from the pleasure he so willingly gave, but he steals the air from your lungs and breathes new life into you, molding your shattered pieces together again. 

his chest plate clatters to the ground in your shared haste to feel each other closer. the pants don’t make it far; you thoroughly enjoy their tightness usually, but it would take too long to get them down his thick thighs now and you’re too desperate for him to try. you help push them down far enough to free his cock - remy adjusts his stance at the end of the table and pulls you closer to the edge to rut against you.

“sweet girl. remy got hisself de sweetest girl…” 

it’s mumbled against your lips, and you nod your head again, clutching the shirt that covers his strong shoulders with shaky, clammy hands. 

“do whatever you want with me.” your eyes are frantic as they bore into his, but they lose focus for what feels like the hundredth time when remy sheaths his heavy cock inside the warmth of your still-sensitive pussy. he rolls his hips gently, leans over slightly to press you further against the table and cups the back of your head so it doesn’t hit the wood. 

“dass’a loaded statement, chère,” he jokes, but you meant it. you meant every word. remy can take you apart and piece you together again as he always does. he’s the only one who knows how, the only one you’ve let learn. 

if you were in bed, he’d be shunting your body up the mattress with the force of his thrusts. here though, here, the leather of his coat sticks to the table and keeps you more or less in place. his hands do a good job of that as well; it feels like they’re everywhere. gripping your hips, pressing your thighs to your chest, cupping underneath your head and making you look at him. you’re not going to last long, not with remy all over you like this. 

“that feels so good, remy, shit! you- you fuck me so good. can you- harder?” 

he doesn’t hesitate at all before he’s fucking you the way you asked. hard, deep. he fucks the thoughts from your head, the words from your mouth. the only thing you have the wherewithal to say is his name. 

so you chant it, repeat it like a prayer. 

“remy! remyremyremy, my remy…” 

“keep sayin’ my name like t’at, chère, you hear me?” it’s grit through his teeth; his jaw flexes so hard that the dimple in his cheek pops. you couldn’t stop if you tried. he pulls you up until you’re flush against him, and you raise a hand to brush against his cheek, thumbing at the stubble there. your arms fly around his neck before long to pull him into a messy, uncoordinated kiss. he tugs you closer by your thighs, and they wrap around his waist to hold him close. the change in position has you fluttering around him again. “merde, can’t get enough’a dis perfect body…” 

you’re going to cum again. you can’t last, not with remy fucking you the way he is and holding you just the way you need to be held. you wish he was as naked as you were though, so you could feel the warmth of his skin, the energy that buzzes underneath it. 

“please make me cum,” you breathe. ”please, i- remy, i’m so-!” so close, so desperate, so in love. so many things. 

you don’t have to tell him because he already knows. he’s already one step ahead, so typical of your gambit. 

“listen to your body, chère.” he holds the sides of your head with both hands, making sure that you’re looking into his eyes as he talks you to your orgasm. “remy gon’ get you there, you kno’ he will. again and again, ‘til you’re done.” 

your chin quivers, and remy’s quick to bring a gloved hand between you to rub rough circles against your swollen clit. you fall apart on him, on his fingers, his cock, legs locking around him like your body wants to keep him where he is until time stands still. 

“dass’it,” he grunts. remy noses at your temple and presses a kiss to your cheek. “woo, y’grippin’ me tight.” 

he gets his too, you feel when he does. remy shudders against you and fucks in hard, stilling balls deep inside. you milk him dry, take everything he has to give you and then some, and you’d never have it any other way. 

you pluck at his hair when he sags against your chest. it’s a mess, strands sticking up straight and mussed from your greedy, desperate fingers. his own fingers pluck something from the pocket of his coat. 

a bag of chex mix, rumpled and crinkly from your frantic fucking. his smile is sly when he opens the bag and brings a broken piece of pretzel to your lips, and you nip at the tip of his thumb when you take it in your mouth. remy tugs at the collar of his coat, fixes it around your neck. 

“you like when i wear it?” you ask. you know he does. his cock twitching inside of you is enough of an answer, but you’d love to hear him say it anyway. 

“gambit like it a little too much. you drivin’ me crazy here, chère.” 

if he fucks you this good again, you’ll wear it every damn day.

dictionary!

chère - term of endearment, “dear" or "sweetheart"

de rien - it’s nothing

pauvre bete - poor thing

mon dieu - my god

merde - shit

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Love Me Dead

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by Anon

Warnings: AU, Fluff, Mentions of Killing, Suggestive Themes, Mentions of Alcohol and Smoke

Word Count: 1,256

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: There are two words that start with f, and end with -ing that come to mind when he looks at her. And he certainly doesn’t want to fight her.

Consider Donating: Here

New Orleans, Louisiana. A dirty, crime infested, hellscape that made it the perfect background for this story. It was never supposed to be this way, but that is what happens when the hunter becomes the hunted. Of course, he never said it aloud, but there was a reason to his madness. They tried to kill him, so why should he not do the same? Except, he actually succeeds.

Remy LeBeau was stalking down a dark alleyway, towards a club that he was a regular at. It was dark and seedy, but that meant that it was easy pickings for him. He knew the bouncer that was at the door; an old childhood friend that let him in with no hassle. Smoke blurred the vision of a lot of people, before it rose to the top of the room. His eyes scanned the room, and saw his target. A friend of humanity was sitting at the bar, already far too gone to be in complete control.

He saddled up to the bar, and began to butter him up. At that point, Gambit knew that this man was really gone, because his eyes were not bothering him. So he just kept it up. In the middle of his work, he felt someone brush against his back. It was not enough to break him from his spell, but the voice he could hear through the crowd was intoxicating.

But Gambit was so close to sinking this target. He had the man right where he wanted him.

“Why don’ we go outside so you can clear your head, mon ami?” Remy helped the man off of his barstool, and began to walk them outside.

Out there, the cold air made Gambit perk up some more. Watching the man next to him, he just waited for a bit. This was the fun part, but also the most tedious; waiting for the right time to strike. Vaguely, he heard the door to the bar open and shut, but he paid it no mind. He withdrew a playing card, and was poised and ready to hit him with it when he heard it again. That voice.

“Hey, y’all alright over there?” Remy cursed whatever higher power was out there. He could see her getting closer, making him quickly extinguish his card and hoist the other man’s arm over his shoulder.

“Oh, no need t’ worry about us gentlemen, chere. Jus’ takin’ my buddy home. Had a bit too much, ya know?” He lied smoothly off of his silver tongue. But she just came closer.

“Do you need any help? He looks pretty out of it.” She offered, and it was the that Remy noticed just how sweet the appearance of the voice was. Her hair nicely done, and a cute little skirt on her body. He had to physically shake the thoughts out of his head to refocus.

“We’ll be alrigh’, chere.” However, she still did not look convinced. So Gambit doubled down.

“My apartment is jus’ a few blocks from here. He can sleep it off der. No need t’ worry, chere.”

She chewed her bottom lip, but eventually relented. As Gambit passed, he took a deep breath of her perfume and immediately found himself to be in love with her. The part about his apartment being just a couple blocks away was true. But the fact that they were going to be staying in the alleyway behind it was omitted. That evening, Remy found less joy in his kill. He would have much rather spent his evening talking with that woman that ensnared his senses so quickly, but he had already put a lot of effort into this target. It would be a shame for it to go away.

The following evening, the lively city came back in full force. Headlines read everywhere that there was a serial killer loose on New Orleans, targeting anti-mutant humans specifically and women that had a very specific physical description. They theorized that a mad man was loose on the city, but that just made Remy laugh as he read his newspaper. He found himself back at that same bar, but this time not for a new target. Rather, he hoped to get a glimpse of that woman again.

He had spent an hour there already, and there was no sign of her. Gambit was becoming grumpier by the second. Nursing his glass of whiskey, he kept his eyes trained on the door. So far, no mystery woman. Another half hour went by and he was contemplating throwing in the towel. There were plenty of women ready to throw themselves at him; so why was he so fascinated by this one? Someone tapped him on the shoulder, causing the mutant to turn around. Holding in a growl, Gambit was pleasantly surprised as to who he saw.

“Chere, you’re here again. What are de odds o’ dat?” His smooth accent was being his own personal wingman this time around.

“I was hoping to run into you. I didn’t catch your name last night.”

“Remy LeBeau. They call me da Gambit. Enchanté, mon chere.” Holding his hand out, he was gifted with her own name. Taking her hand in his, Remy pressed a kiss to her knuckles while looking her in the eyes. The dark lights in the bar did wonders to hide a lot from untrained eyes, but they did not fully hide her blush as he came up.

“Whatcha doin’ here tonight?” Gambit asked, watching her intensely under the dim lights.

“Well, I was hoping to run into you again. What are you doing here?” She returned, seemingly as infatuated with him as he was with her.

“You found me, chere. I’m jus’ here lookin’ for a lil’ bit o’ fun. Maybe you’d wanna go somewhere a lil’ bit more quiet, no?” Nodding his head to the back door, he watched to see what she might want to do next. After a moment of careful consideration, she placed her hand in his and let him lead her out of the bar.

Outside was just like last night. A brisk breeze that would sober up those that might be a little tipsy. The chill felt good on his skin, but it made her begin to shiver underneath her cute outfit. Without thinking about it, Gambit took his jacket off and placed it around her shoulders. When he turned away from her, she breathed in his scent in the warm leather.

“Really quick, Remy,” she started, looking at him through her lashes, “you’re not a serial killer, are you?” He chuckled for a moment before leveling her with a stare.

“How do I know you ain’t one either, chere?” He teased, but her face was serious.

“I mean, the probability of two serial killers being in the same vicinity is remarkably low. But one, not so much.”

A smirk overtook his face. He was liking this woman more and more. Gambit could not tell if she was joking or not either, which made him feel all giddy inside.

“I guess we’ll have to see, chere. Say, you wouldn’t wanna grab a bite t’ eat? There’s a cafe open 24 hours just a block away. Care for a beignet?” Walking out of the alley, he turned and extended his hand once more. But this time she needed much less time to consider her decision.

Hand in hand, the two set out against the dark backdrop of the city in search of companionship in a such an unusual person.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Voided

You don’t even remember how this infatuation with Remy LeBeau started, if you’re being honest with yourself. It’s like a slow burn that sneaked up on you—a flame that steadily grew until you could no longer ignore its warmth. Maybe it was bound to happen, living in a wasteland where hope was a scarce commodity, and comfort even rarer. When you’re stuck in a place made for misfits and people who don’t belong anywhere else, you start clinging to whatever fragments of humanity you can find. And Remy, with his charm and his secrets, was one of those fragments.

The days in the wasteland stretched on endlessly, a relentless cycle of survival. You’d leave the makeshift home you’d found with the others, setting out with Remy to scavenge for supplies, to find something—anything—that would make life a little more bearable. Those days were brutal, the kind that wore down your spirit until you felt like there was nothing left but the dust in your lungs and the ache in your bones. But it was in those long, drawn-out hours where the sun seemed to hang forever in a dead sky that you started to see Remy differently.

At first, it was the little things. The way he always seemed to know when to crack a joke, pulling you out of whatever dark thoughts had taken hold. The way he’d notice when you were tired, and without a word, offer to carry the heavier pack or suggest taking a break. It was the way he listened—really listened—when you talked. And you did talk. You talked because the silence was unbearable, a yawning void that threatened to swallow you whole if you let it. If you were left alone with the silence, then you would begin to think. And once you started thinking you weren’t sure if you were able to dig yourself out of where it would lead you.

The silence was your enemy in those moments. It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was the absence of everything that made you feel alive. It was a reminder of all the things that had been ripped away from you, all the things you couldn’t afford to dwell on for too long. The silence made the wasteland feel even more desolate, more hopeless. It was a void that echoed with your own fears, your own loneliness. So you filled it with words—endless streams of conversation that helped you keep the darkness at bay.

You’d talk about anything and everything, just to keep the silence at arm’s length. Sometimes you’d ramble about the past, about the world before it all went to hell. Other times, you’d speculate about the future, about what might be waiting for you if you ever made it out of this nightmare. And Remy would listen, his red-on-black eyes watching you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t judge. He just let you speak, as if your words were the only thing keeping the world from crumbling around you.

Blade had made comments about your constant talking. He’d tease you about it, saying you could fill a library with the stories you told. But even he would admit that when you weren’t there, the world seemed too loud, too empty. Without your voice to fill the gaps, the silence became oppressive, a weight that pressed down on all of you. In a way, your words were a lifeline, a thread that kept the group tethered to some semblance of normalcy.

But it was different with Remy. With him, your words felt less like a defense mechanism and more like a connection—a fragile, tentative connection that you were scared to acknowledge, let alone embrace. Because acknowledging it meant admitting that you were vulnerable, that you cared more than you should in a place like this. And caring was dangerous. Caring was a weakness you couldn’t afford. But as much as you tried to push those feelings down, they kept bubbling up, impossible to ignore. You were scared of the ‘what ifs’. The ‘what ifs’ are what got you pruned to the void to begin with.

At first, it was just the small things—how his voice carried a hint of warmth, even on the coldest of nights when the wind cut through your layers like a knife. It was the way he always seemed to know exactly when to crack a joke, the kind that could slice through the oppressive atmosphere that clung to your group like a shroud. His humor was a balm, a brief escape from the grim reality that surrounded you. And then there were those crimson eyes, always watching, always knowing, like he could see right through you. It was as if those eyes peeled back every layer you’d so carefully built, stripping you down to your raw, exposed soul.

And it scared the shit out of you.

You weren’t used to being seen like that, to being understood with just a glance. You had always been the one to deflect, to joke, to talk and talk until there was nothing left to say. Words had always been your armor, your way of creating distance between yourself and the world outside. But Remy didn’t need words. He didn’t need the noise. He was content to exist in the spaces between, in the quiet moments that seemed to stretch out forever when it was just the two of you. Those moments were where he thrived, where he seemed to understand you in ways you didn’t even understand yourself. There were moments when you’d catch yourself staring at him, wondering what it would be like if things were different. If the world hadn’t fallen apart, if you were just two people getting to know each other under normal circumstances. You’d wonder if he ever thought about you the way you thought about him, if he noticed the way your breath hitched when he stood too close, or the way your heart raced whenever he smiled that mischievous grin of his.

But then the reality of it all would crash back down on you, reminding you that this was no place for fantasies or daydreams. This was a place where every day was a fight for survival, where attachments could get you killed. And so you’d bury those feelings deep, hiding them behind the endless stream of words that spilled from your lips, hoping that maybe, one day, you’d find the courage to let them out.

But Remy, he never complained. Not once. It didn’t seem to matter how much you rambled, how often you let your thoughts spill out in a desperate attempt to drown out the crushing weight of the world. He’d just flash that trademark grin of his, the one that could disarm even the most guarded heart, and let you keep going. That grin—God, that grin—was like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge every time the darkness threatened to close in. It was a smile that promised safety, even when safety was nothing more than a fleeting illusion in this desolate place.

Sometimes, in the middle of your rambling, he’d throw in a sly comment, something quick and clever that would catch you off guard and make you laugh—a real laugh, the kind that felt foreign and strange in your throat, almost like you’d forgotten how. And for a moment, just a brief, precious moment, the heaviness of the world would lift, and you’d feel lighter than you had in months. It was like he had this uncanny ability to find the one shred of joy left in the rubble of your life and hand it to you, wrapped in a bow of charm and wit.

Other times, he wouldn’t say much at all. He’d just listen, his red-on-black eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. Those eyes—they were so different, so otherworldly, yet there was something in them that was deeply human. Something that flickered and glimmered in the dim light, something you couldn’t quite name but felt drawn to like a moth to a flame. When he looked at you like that, it was as if he could see straight through the walls you’d built around yourself, straight to the parts of you that you tried so hard to keep hidden.

On those days, when the air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, it was easy to forget where you were, easy to imagine that you were somewhere else—somewhere safe, somewhere normal. You’d walk side by side, your shoulders occasionally brushing, and it felt more like a partnership than a necessity. There was something about those moments that made the world seem a little less broken, like maybe, just maybe, there was still something worth holding onto.

But deep down, you knew better. You knew this world didn’t allow for things like normalcy or comfort, not really. It was a world built on the bones of the past, where survival was the only currency that mattered, and hope was a dangerous thing to carry. And yet, despite all of that, there was something about Remy that made you want to believe, even if only for a fleeting moment, that things could be different. That maybe, just maybe, the two of you could carve out a small piece of happiness in the midst of all this chaos—a tiny oasis in a desert of despair.

But then, inevitably, the silence would creep back in, like an unwelcome guest that refused to leave. It would settle over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and cold, and you’d feel the reality of your situation pressing down on you from all sides. The silence wasn’t just empty; it was a void, a gaping maw that threatened to swallow you whole if you let it. It was a reminder of all the things you’d lost, all the things you couldn’t afford to think about for too long—the people who were gone, the life you’d never get back, the future that had been stolen from you.

So you’d talk—about anything, everything—because the alternative was too unbearable to consider. You’d fill the air with words, with stories and questions and idle musings, anything to keep the silence at bay. And Remy would let you, because he seemed to understand, in a way that no one else did, that the silence wasn’t something you could face alone. He’d let you talk until your voice was hoarse and your mind was too tired to think, and then he’d flash that grin of his again, that infuriatingly charming grin, and you’d realize that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

In those moments, when the silence was held at bay by the sound of your own voice and the steady presence of the man beside you, you almost believed that you could survive this. That there was something more to fight for than just survival. That maybe, in the ruins of this shattered world, you could find something resembling happiness. And as long as Remy kept flashing that grin, as long as he kept listening, you’d keep talking, because talking was the only way you knew how to keep the darkness at bay. <><><><><><><>

It was on one of those long supply runs that it happened. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the barren landscape, turning the world into a canvas of deep reds and purples. The two of you had wandered further than usual, driven by the desperate need to find anything that could keep your ragtag group going for just one more day. You had been talking—filling the space with your usual chatter, anything to keep the silence at bay. But then, in your distraction, you stumbled over a loose rock, and before you could even register what was happening, his hand shot out, steadying you with a firm, yet gentle grip.

You looked up at him, a laugh already bubbling to your lips, ready to make some offhand comment about how clumsy you were, how you’d trip over your own shadow if given the chance. But the words died in your throat the moment you met his eyes. There was something in his gaze, something that made your breath catch in your chest. It wasn’t just concern or the usual teasing glint you’d come to expect. No, this was different.

In that moment, it was as though the world had shrunk down to just the two of you. The distant sounds of the wasteland faded away, the colors of the dying sun dimmed, leaving only the intensity of his gaze, locking you in place. There was something in his eyes, something deep and unspoken, that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time—really seeing you. And it left you feeling exposed in a way you weren’t prepared for, like every defense you’d ever put up had been stripped away in an instant.

You could feel the sudden closeness between you, the warmth of his hand still on your arm, grounding you in a way that was both comforting and terrifying. Time seemed to stretch, each second drawing out as you stood there, caught in the weight of the moment. You could see the flicker of something in his eyes, a vulnerability that mirrored your own, and it shook you to your core.

For what felt like an eternity, neither of you moved. You were too afraid that if you did, the spell would break, and the moment would shatter into a million pieces. You wanted to say something, anything, but your mind was blank, every word you knew suddenly feeling inadequate. All you could do was stare up at him, your heart pounding in your chest, as if it were trying to break free from the cage of your ribs.

And then, finally, Remy broke the silence, his voice low and rough, like he was struggling to find the right words. “Cher,” he murmured, the endearment slipping from his lips like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. You felt it like a physical touch, soft and warm, wrapping around your heart. “Y’alright?”

It wasn’t the words that got to you, but the way he said them. It was as if he was asking more than just whether you were physically okay. He was asking if you were okay in a way that went deeper, in a way that touched on everything you’d been holding back, everything you’d been too afraid to admit, even to yourself.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, but when you finally spoke, it came out as little more than a whisper. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

But you weren’t fine. Not really. And you knew he could see it.

The tension between you was palpable, a live wire crackling with unspoken emotions. His hand lingered on your arm for a moment longer, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. And then, just as suddenly as it had happened, he let go, stepping back to give you space. The loss of his touch was almost painful, a cold emptiness settling in where his warmth had been.

You both stood there, awkward and unsure, the weight of what had just passed between you hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Neither of you knew what to say, how to acknowledge what had just happened without breaking whatever fragile thing had begun to take shape between you.

Finally, Remy cleared his throat, his usual grin returning, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Better watch your step, cher,” he said lightly, trying to ease the tension with humor. “Can’t have you fallin’ all over the place now, can we?”

You forced a smile, nodding as you tried to push down the swirling emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to give you any more work,” you replied, your voice too bright, too forced. The moment passed, but it left a scar, an invisible line drawn in the sand between what was and what could be. As you both continued walking, the quiet settling in around you, it was impossible to ignore the shift in the air, the way your thoughts kept circling back to the feel of his hand on your arm, the intensity in his gaze. You replayed it in your mind, over and over, trying to decipher the meaning behind it, trying to understand what it was that had passed between you in that brief second when the world had seemed to stop.

You tried to pretend like nothing had changed, like you could just go back to the way things were before. But the truth was, it had changed. The dynamic between you and Remy had shifted, and there was no going back to the comfortable rhythm you’d shared before. There was a tension now, a charged current that hummed between you, making every glance, every accidental touch, feel like a spark that could ignite something neither of you were ready to acknowledge.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky bleeding into a deep, bruised purple, you found yourself hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. The usual banter that flowed so easily between you felt stilted, forced, like you were both trying too hard to pretend there hadn’t been a crack in the armor you’d both so carefully constructed.

You couldn’t help but steal glances at him out of the corner of your eye, searching for any sign that he felt it too—that same nervous energy buzzing under your skin, the same questions spinning through your mind. But Remy was as hard to read as ever, his expression carefully neutral, betraying nothing of the storm that might be raging beneath the surface.

When he did catch your gaze, just for a moment, there was something there—something fleeting, like a shadow passing over his features before it was gone, replaced by that easy, familiar grin you’d come to rely on. It was almost as if he was waiting for you to make the first move, to say something, to break the silence that had settled between you like a fragile truce.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The words caught in your throat, tangled in fear and uncertainty. What if you were wrong? What if you’d misread everything, and all you’d end up doing was shattering whatever fragile thing had begun to grow between you? The thought of losing him, of losing the one bright spot in the darkness you lived in, was enough to keep you silent, to keep you from taking that leap.

So instead, you both just kept walking, the distance between you both physical and emotional, growing with every step. The temperature dropped as night fully claimed the sky, the cold seeping into your bones, but it wasn’t the chill that made you shiver. It was the weight of the unspoken, the words you were too afraid to say, the feelings you were too scared to admit, even to yourself.

The landscape around you was a wasteland of crumbling buildings and twisted metal, a graveyard of what had once been, but as you walked beside Remy, it was hard not to feel like you were in a different kind of wasteland, one of your own making. A barren place where fear and doubt had taken root, choking out the possibility of anything more.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Remy broke the silence. “We should head back,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. “Ain’t nothin’ out here worth gettin’ caught in the dark for.” There was a note in his voice, something that hinted at more than just the physical darkness that surrounded you. It was as if he was acknowledging the darkness that had crept into the space between you, the unspoken tension that neither of you seemed willing to confront.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, afraid that if you did, your voice would betray everything you were trying so hard to keep hidden. You turned, retracing your steps back toward the makeshift home you’d made with the others, the silence between you now thicker, more oppressive than before.

The walk back was quiet, the only sounds the crunch of your boots against the gravel and the distant, eerie howls of the wind as it whipped through the ruins around you. You kept your eyes trained on the ground, focusing on each step, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling out of control. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop the questions from gnawing at you.

What if you were missing something? What if this was your chance, your one chance, to reach out, to grab hold of the one thing that made this world bearable? The thought of letting it slip through your fingers was almost unbearable, but the fear of what could happen if you took that step, if you laid yourself bare, was paralyzing.

By the time you reached the edge of your makeshift camp, the others were already gathered around the fire, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. You could see the weariness etched into their features, the toll this life had taken on all of you, but there was also something else—a flicker of hope, a sense of camaraderie that had kept you all going, even in the darkest of times.

Remy hung back as you approached the group, his presence a steady, comforting weight at your side. But even as you sat down by the fire, feeling the warmth seep into your chilled skin, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been left unfinished, something vital that you couldn’t afford to ignore much longer.

As the conversation around the fire picked up, the usual banter and stories filling the air, you found yourself stealing glances at Remy, who had taken a seat across from you, his eyes focused on the fire, the flames reflecting in his crimson irises. There was a sadness there, a weariness that you hadn’t noticed before, and it made your heart ache.

You wondered what he was thinking, if he was as lost in his thoughts as you were, if he was wrestling with the same questions, the same fears. You wanted to reach out, to say something, anything, that would bridge the gap between you, but the words still wouldn’t come. So, instead, you just sat there, the fire crackling between you, the silence heavy with everything you were too afraid to say.

The night dragged on, the others eventually drifting off to their makeshift beds, until it was just you and Remy left by the dying embers of the fire. The darkness pressed in around you, the only light coming from the faint glow of the coals, casting long shadows that danced across the ground.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Remy spoke, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “Y’ ever think about what it’d be like… if things were different?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t just talking about the world, you realized. He was talking about you, about the two of you.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to find the right words, the courage to answer him honestly. “All the time,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t change anything, does it?”

Remy looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment, the mask he wore slipped, revealing the vulnerability beneath. “Maybe not,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours, “but it don’t mean we can’t try to make somethin’ outta what we got.”

It was a simple statement, but it hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of your lungs. Because he was right. The world was broken, shattered beyond repair, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t try to find some piece of happiness, some small corner of peace, in the midst of it all.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to see what had been there all along—the way he cared, the way he watched out for you, the way he listened when no one else did. And in that moment, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to face this world alone.

Taking a deep breath, you reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and placed it on top of his. The contact sent a jolt through you, but it was grounding, reassuring, and you felt something inside you shift, something that had been locked away for too long.

“Maybe we can,” you said, your voice steady now, filled with a quiet determination. “Maybe we can make something good out of all this.”

Remy’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing softly against your skin, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a glimmer of hope, a tiny spark in the darkness.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

You're My Girl

Title: You’re My Girl

Word Count: 2450

Warning: Smut, Swearing, reader wears a dress, PIV sex, Oral (F receiving), orgasm denial (female), multiple orgasms, no cuddling or aftercare., a bit of a praise kink,

Fandom: X-Men/Marvel/X-men 97

Pairing: Remy LeBeau/Gambit X Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature

Request: hi hello I am SO here to provide Remy smut requests. reader gets jealous of Bella Donna flirting with Remy so he has to remind her who his girl REALLY is (also she totally hears them)

Summary: Remy has eyes for Y/N but when the League of Assassins and Guild of Thieves have other plans for him, things don’t go well. Bella Donna has been flirting with Remy all day at their engagement “party” which makes Y/N jealous. When she starts giving him the cold shoulder, he takes her into his room and fucks her within earshot of his fiancé. Remy gets off on the fact that she can hear you two.

A/N: Ah! I love this idea! I will say I have yet to read all of the Gambit comics, but I have watched x-men TAS/97 and have read some of the comics with gambit and belladonna. I’m so stoked to be writing this!!! I squealed when I read this request. My dear ANON, if you have any more requests for any character, please reach out. I might even do a part two to this is you all like it.

Work:

When you were thirteen, you were banished from home after showing the mutant ability to create portals that teleported you and others anywhere you could think of. Jean-Luc LeBeau of the Thieves’ Guild took you in off the streets after witnessing you steal some food from a stand in New Orleans’ French Quarter. He introduced you to his adoptive son and mutant, Remy, a handsome fourteen-year-old. Jean-Luc and Remy taught you the ways of their world, turning you into a master thief.

You had always been attracted to Remy from the moment you met him. Remy was always there for you no matter what. He had a soft spot for you as he too was abandoned for being a mutant. The day you turned eighteen, Remy asked you out on a date. You, being in love with him already, said yes.

Things were going great until Bella Donna Bordeaux entered the scene. Bella Donna was the daughter of a high-ranking member of the Assassin’s Guild, the Thieves’ Guild sworn enemy. She also couldn’t resist Remy’s charm and good looks.

Behind your back, Jean-Luc and Bella Donna’s father arranged a peacemaking marriage between Remy and Bella Donna. When Jean-Luc announced it a few months after you turned twenty-one, you were heartbroken.

A few weeks later they held an engagement party for Remy and Bella Donna which you were forced to attend. This is where you were now. Sitting in the corner near where Remy stood in a suit and tie, you watched as Bella Donna came over and linked her arm with Remy’s. A huge smile was plastered on her face. Remy smirked up at her.

“Oh, Remy, mon amour, would you come meet my friend, she has been just dyin’ to meet you?” She said.

“Uh,” Remy paused for a moment as if unsure to go with her, “Sure. Why not, Cher.”

You rolled your eyes and watched as Bella Donna guided him over to a dark-haired woman almost as beautiful as she was. He extended a hand in greeting which she accepted and shook. You couldn’t hear their whole conversation, just bits and pieces as it was loud in the ballroom of the Thieves’ Guild compound. You were supposed to be socializing but just sat there in the corner by the bar and watched Remy.

Bella Donna was giggling at something Remy said and took her hand and pressed it to his chest in a flirtatious gesture. You heard her say the phrase “be a doll” and then the word “drink”.

He turned to her and said something you couldn’t hear and she replied to him. Remy started to walk to the back of the room towards you and the mini bar. He smiled at you as you sipped your drink.

“Hi Cher,” he greeted you.

“Remy” you said flatly.

Seeing the bartender was busy with someone else, he reached over the counter and poured himself a bourbon. He placed the bottle back over the counter, The bartender came over and asked how she could help.

“An expresso martini for miss Bella Donna, please,” he turned to the bartender and then back to you when she turned to make the martini.

“She looks like she’s having fun.” You nodded in Bella Donna’s direction. Her back was turned and she was having an animated conversation with her friend.

“Yeah she is.” He said wistfully and stared at you for a moment with an undeterminable look on his face for a moment. You shied away from his look and found yourself staring at the ground.

“Sir, the drink,” the bartender pushed out the glass to Remy.

“Yes, thank you, mon ami.” He grabbed the drink from the bar. You watched him as he walked back to Bella Donna and hand her the drink. She smiled at him in thanks.

She sipped the drink slowly and glanced up to see you staring. You overt your eyes for a moment as she set her drink down on the table in front of her. You looked back up as she whispered something in Remy’s ear and held out her hand to him. You can’t help but roll your eyes. He looked up at her and took her hand. He led her over to the dance floor.

A slower song started to play as she held onto his shoulder with one had and his hand with the other. He led her in a slow dance. Bella Donna looked back over to where you were sitting to find you staring at the two of them yet again. She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Remy’s cheek, making your blood boil.

You shot out of your chair and over to the entryway where Jean-Luc stood.

“I’m not feeling that great, Jean-Luc,” you lied, “I have a migraine, is it okay if I lie down for a bit?”

Concerned, Jean-Luc places a hand on your shoulder, “Are you alright, darlin’?”

“I will be,” you said forcing a smile onto your face, “I would just like to lie down in my room for a bit.”

“Yes, go. Go. I will get you when food is being served.” He patted you on the back.

You take one last glance over to Remy and catch his eye. He raises his brow in question. You roll your eyes and portal to the next room over, your bedroom.

Once in your room you let out a sigh and kicked your shoes off. How could he do this to you? How could he just let her flirt with him all evening without even so much as a look at you to see if you were okay? How could he be –

A knock at your door interrupted your thoughts. You open and see Remy standing there sheepishly. You looked past his shoulder and could see Bella Donna waiting by the entrance to the ballroom.

“What,” you said coldly but let him in. He closed the door behind himself.

“Pa said you weren’t feelin’ good. I came to check on you.” He said lightly.

“Shouldn’t you be out there with your fiancé?” you asked harshly.

Remy sighed and then chuckled, “That’s what this is about, cher?”

You clench your jaw and look away from the man you loved, “Not like you even care.”

“Come on, dats not fair.” He reached out to touch your arm but you backed away.

“She’s been flirting with you all night at the party for your engagement and you don’t even have the balls to ask me how I’m doing,” you spat.

“Cher-” he starts.

“Don’t ‘cher’ me, Remy. We were dating for almost three years before she found a way to get you away from me. And then you pretend that we never were together. That we never even mattered.”

“Y/N,” he said, “We do matter.”

“That’s not how you’re acting. You never even objected to the marriage. You chose her over me.” Frustrated tears brimmed at your eyes.

“Y/N, dat’s not true. Not true at all. I begged Jean-Luc to let me have you. To find a ‘nother way to unite the guilds. He said I will either marry her or get banished without you. And I couldn’t stand the tought of loosin’ ya. It was Sophie’s choice, cher.” He found your eyes with his own and didn’t let them go. “Don’t ya tink for one second that I chose her over you.”

He moved to touch your arm again and you let him this time. You look up at him with watery eyes, “I miss you already”

“I’m right here, cher. Right here.” He pulled you into a hug.

“Don’t leave me Remy. Please.” You said into his chest, “Run away with me.”

“Dey will hunt us down, cher, you know dat.” He said into your hair.

“Let them,” you pulled back and looked at his face.

“Y/N,” he said sadly.

“Remy, I love you. I always have and I always will. Nothing will change that. I want you. No one else. You”

You could see something go off in Remy’s brain the moment you said you loved him. When you finished talking he leaned forward and kissed you hard on the lips. You kiss him back and wrap your arms around his body. He broke the kiss, “I want you too, mon amour.”

Remy shrugged off his suit jacket, placed it on your dresser, and kicked his shoes off. He then walked you back to the bed and you sat down on it. He knelt on either side of your legs and kissed you. His tongue parted your mouth and danced with yours. His fingers danced at the hem of your short dress. It was flowy so the skirt was around you instead of under you.

“You’re so beautiful in this dress cher,” he said between kisses, “but right now I want it off you and on the floor.”

He pulled up the dress up over your head and tossed it to the ground

“You’re my girl, my only girl,” He growled and loosened his tie before sliding it over his head.

He went back to kissing you. As his hand roamed your body you started to undo the buttons to his dress shirt. You pushed the shirt off his body and let it fall to the floor in a heap. He held you to him, stroking up and down your back and then around to your front, grazing your breasts before stopping at your shoulders. He gently pushed you back so that you were lying down and hovered over you.

“I’m gonna want you to scream my name loud enough so she can hear that you’re my girl. So they all can hear that you’re my girl.” He whispered into your ear. He trailed kisses down your neck and stomach and to the waistband of your panties. He replaced his mouth with his hands and slowly slid your panties off. He tossed them aside all while maintaining eye contact with you.

He scooched back so that his head was hovering over your midsection. He lowered his mouth to your core and started to lick at your clit. His hands holding onto your thighs. Your hands moved to his head, removing his hair from his pony tail, and running your fingers through it.

“Oh god your mouth feels so good,” you moaned. He licked long and slow circles down your clit. When he put more pressure on it, your hips bucked and you let out a moan. He grabbed your thighs harder and let out a soft giggle that vibrated against your throbbing bud.

He introduced a finger into your pussy and you arched your back off the bed. He inserted another finger and you groaned out his name.

“Cher, I’m gonna need you to be a bit louder for me. I know you can do that for Remy.” He began pumping his fingers in and out all while lapping at your clit. He introduced one last finger and began a harsh and fast come-hither motion on your g-spot.

“Oh Fuck, Remy!” You shouted.

“Now dats better, mon amour.”

Your breathing hitched and you felt a coil deep in your stomach start to unravel. Your walls started to spasm and contract around his fingers.

“I’m close, baby.” You cried out. But before you could climax he removed his fingers and mouth. You whined in protest.

“Ain’t no way I’m just gonna let you cum on my fingers. I want you to cum on my fucking cock so you remember that you’re my girl.” He pushed himself up off the bed and removed his belt in one fell swoop. He unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down with his boxers revealing a long hard cock glistening with precum.

You sat up and reached for his cock. You opened your mouth but he stopped you with his words, “No cher, tonight’s all about you and your pleasure. Lay back and enjoy.”

He bent down to kiss you as you laid back down on the bed. He teased your wet pussy with his hard cock and then pushed in in one quick thrust.

“Oh, Remy! Yes!” you couldn’t contain your moans.

He began a slow and agonizing pace to let you get adjusted. You wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Ça c’est une bonne fille” he panted. That’s a good girl.

You clenched around his cock at his praise, “Oh, God. I love you Remy.”

“I’m gonna need ya’ to be a bit louder, Y/N,” He grunted, picking up the pace.

He soon began a merciless rhythm with frenzied thrusts and grunts. That familiar feeling of tension came back to your stomach and you hungrily kissed him.

“I’m close, Remy! Please,” You begged loudly.

Please what, cher?” He urged, “use ya’ voice.”

“Please let me come!” you pleaded. The coil tightened, threatening to push you over the edge.

“Go ahead, Y/N,” he howled, “come for me.”

The coil in your stomach shattered, flooding you with pure ecstasy. Your walls clenched around his cock and he swore loudly.

“Merde! Y/N, I’m gonna cum,” he moaned.

“Come for me baby,” You kissed his neck.

He let out a grunt and frantically shoved into you before allowing himself to release his seed into you. He pumped his cum into your pussy with his cock and slowly pulled out of you.

He grabbed some tissues from your nightstand and cleaned your pussy gently. He grabbed more and cleaned himself off.

“Woo, cher, Remy loves ya’ so much!” he exclaimed. He took in the sight of you completely undone on the bed from his doing and smiled, “Whaddya say we go back out there? I wanna see the look on ‘er face.”

You knew who exactly she was. It was Bella Donna. So you smirked and nodded your head. Remy helped you up and dressed you before dressing himself in his now wrinkled suit.

He gave you one last kiss before opening your door and leading you out. Jean-Luc was in the corner with Bella Donna and her father. The moment she saw the two of you she raced over as fast as she could while wearing high heels.

“You fucking man-stealing whore!” Bella Donna yelled at you. She raised a hand to slap you but before she could Remy caught her wrist and tutted in disapproval.

“Uh-uh Bella, you don’t touch her. She’s mine.” Remmy growled and released her hand. She stood flabbergasted as Remy turned to you, “Can I have this dance?” He held out a hand to you and without any hesitation, you took it and he led you onto the dance floor leaving a sputtering Bella Donna at the entrance.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Nosy Neighbours ; Gambit x Reader

summary: PART TWO TO TACO TUESDAY! Reader wakes up after a night of debauchery.... and continues it. Post-Void, everyone got out alive and everything is fine.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5.2K | smut with very little plot, French and typing out accents/dialects, pet names (chere, mon ami, mon coeur, etc.), dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, blowjobs, eating out, no use of y/n, a sprinkling of angst at the end because things are developing for reader.

a/n: Listen, listen. I am blown away by the love on my first Remy fic, and the fact that you guys wanted a part two made my day. Thank you so much for all the praise and I hope this one lives up to the hype as well! part 3....? peut être... - banner by @/strangergraphics, and Remy gif by @atomicfoxx!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Sunlight filters in through the crack in your curtains, warming a stripe across your thigh and stomach. You squeeze your lids shut tighter and turn your head away from the window, trying to get away from the glaring brightness. A grogginess lingers heavy in your system, but despite that, your body is giving you all the internal signals that it's time to wake up. You stretch deeply, muscles quivering as you flay your limbs out on the bed.

You hadn't gotten that drunk. At least, you didn't think you had. You don't remember falling asleep, but you definitely remember the dreams you had. They were lusty, lewd and lascivious, and every other adjective to describe naughty; your brain had conjured up the filthiest dreams you'd had since... well, ever. And they were all with the Cajun guy you'd met at Wade's. Remy. You remembered his name because you'd said it at least a dozen times in your dream. 

Still half asleep, you flop over, throwing your arm and leg over onto the mattress. Your sheets are pulled down on one side, oddly, but you assume you just tried kicking them off or burritoing yourself in the night. Nothing out of the ordinary. You sniff and an unexpected sweet, warm fragrance fills your nostrils. Breakfast? You roll over again, and sit bolt upright to look down the hall. You suck in a breath and hold it, listening intently to the sounds coming from your kitchen; the scrape of metal against cast iron and a distinct sizzling sound. 

“What the hell?” You whisper, scooting yourself to the edge of the mattress. 

As you get up off the bed, you pull the sheet with you, wrapping it around your naked body, which honestly, was odd - you never slept nude – always in an oversized shirt. Your muscles seem to shake as you walk, and ache pings somewhere in the area of your hip flexors as you pad down the hall, barefoot. When you get to the kitchen, there’s a visual in front of you that causes you to come to a screeching halt.

Had it really not been a dream? 

You nearly have to pick your jaw up off of the floor. He – Remy – stands in your kitchen, over your stove, in nothing but his purple briefs and your polka dotted apron, which hasn't been tied and hangs from his muscular neck.

As he tends to the bacon sizzling in the pan, he sees you in his peripheral, and turns his head slightly, a bright but relaxed smile on his face — the look of it tickles something in your core. You hum quietly.

"Mornin', cher." 

What you want to say is holy shit but you instead mutter out an inquisitive and unsure: "Uhhh, morning...?" 

Even though you’ve seen him naked before, you’re still flabbergasted by the visual. You swallow, and let your eyes fall down the length of his body; tan skin pulled taut over sculpted muscles. He's just as delicious now as he was in your dreams. Maybe even moreso, with the lingering cuddle of sleep, his hair mussed, and the sunlight beaming in from the small window over the sink, kissing his skin in a yellow haze. 

"Hungry, mon ami?"

"Starved, actually." You blink away from his half-naked form and up to his face. "I'm so sorry, am I still asleep or did we....?" 

Remy chuckles and flips the bacon. "We sho’ did. I ain’t remember the last time I had it like ‘dat." 

You take a breath, and think back. It doesn’t take long to differentiate between dreams and reality as it all comes rushing back, playing out in your mind like a dirty movie. 

The way he held you close to his chest, the way his hands explored your body, fingertips kissing your flesh... the way his thick cock felt as it filled you, pleasure coursing through your body in ways that you’d never experienced before. The way he spoke, the way you said — moaned — his name. The way you nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder after you both had cum, the way he’d stroked your hair as you fell asleep… 

You swallow and blink again, bringing yourself back to reality. Remy is plating the bacon and walks it over to your small kitchen table. He gestures with a nod of his head and you walk over, plopping down into the seat, which squeaks as you do. Tucking the sheets underneath your armpits, you reach forward and pluck a single piece from the plate; it's warm and sticky, and tastes like maple syrup. You hum happily as you chew, and Remy takes a piece for himself as he sits down in the chair across from you. 

"Remy," you coo. It sounds far more wanton than you intend, almost a moan. Judging by his reaction, it sounds familiar — like the way you were whining his name last night as he hammered into you. 

"Hoo, don't start 'dat again or we gon' be havin' a repeat of last night." 

You swallow the mouthful of bacon and reach for another strip. He’s a good cook on top of everything, and made the bacon just the way you liked it. Great. 

“Listen, I… I’m not usually like… that. I don’t hook up with random guys or anything.” 

“Is ‘dat what ‘dat was?” He asks, a taunting tone in his voice. There’s something behind it, something warm and inviting, but you shake the thought off. 

“Wasn’t it? Isn’t that what that’s… classified as? I’m…”

He interjected, pushing the plate towards you. “Well, I dunno’, cher. You fell asleep in my arms… and I’m still here.”

You munch on another slice of bacon as you grapple with the fact that maybe it wasn’t just a one-night stand. Your eyes glaze over, staring at nothing in particular as you consider a couple of things. 

First, was the fact that you’d never been one for one night stands. They were frivolous, and usually ended in embarrassment or heartbreak. Neither of which had happened here. He had a glaring point; he had stayed, and apparently, you were comfortable enough to fall asleep in his arms. Another something that you never did. 

Second, was the fact that you’d also never really been one for the whole fate, destiny, or soulmate thing. That was cringy, and not something you’d ever entertained, because why would you? Save for a few meaningless relationships in college, you’d been alone and liked it that way. Less to deal with, less to have to clean up at the end of the day. You weren’t actively looking for a relationship, but Remy had just been there. Wasn’t that how fate worked? You furrowed your brows.

Third, was the undeniable fact that something – and you didn’t know what – but something about Remy had been written deep within the confines of your heart. The magnetic pull that you’d felt towards him last night still lingered heavily, and you wanted nothing more than to push yourself against him and feel his body against yours. 

Lust at first sight. That’s got to be what it is, you decide. You’re in lust with him.

But why not test it again…. Just to be sure. Your cunt clenches in anticipation, having been sent the signals that you plan to pursue him. Again. 

The wanton voice returns as you push yourself up out of your seat, leaning over the kitchen table. “Maybe we should… do it again… for good measure. Remy…”

"Chere, what did Remy say about usin' ‘dat voice...?"

"What if that's what I want?"

Remy's chewing slows and his eyes lift to yours. The legs of the chair scrape against the tile as he stands up, stretching forward to meet your mouth. Your lips barely graze each other, before – 

As if on cue, someone knocks at the door, the sound echoing in your ears. Shit. You hesitate for a moment, eyes darting towards the door. 

“I’ll get it.” 

Begrudgingly, you move away from him, kick the sheet out behind you so you don’t trip on it, and hurry to the door, unlatching it.

"Wade," you breathe as you throw open the door, almost exasperated. 

Wade pauses for a beat, assessing your appearance. "Oooh, good morning, sunshine. Looks like someone celebrated Taco Tuesday with some extra Cajun seasoning."

You heave a sigh; half out of annoyance and half out of embarrassment, because the reality was, you hadn't looked in the mirror this morning, so your appearance was a mystery. You look down at your sheet-clad body, and pull it tighter around you, as if that's giving back any of your modesty.

Wade leans on the doorframe, grinning like an absolute idiot. Lips pursed, he wiggles his eyebrows (or lack thereof) at you and waits for you to say something. Confess something. He's waiting for the juicy details, and you aren't delivering. 

"Speak, Lassie! Tell us what happened!" 

You huff. "What do you want, Wade?" 

"So hostile. Actually, like State Farm, I was just being a good neighbour. Checking on you and the Cajun Sensation since you two never came ba - oh fuck me is he in his underwear? What in the Magic Mike is happening here?" He peeks over your shoulder, spotting the half-naked Gambit behind you. 

"Wade!" You try to lean into his line of sight, preventing him from looking any further. "Look, I hardly know you, I'm not about to divulge my sex life to you-" 

"Woah, TMI, princess. But thanks for the confirmation!"

"What!? No, that's not what I meant! I'm just..." 

"Sure, pumpkin. It's okay, Disney gave it an R-rating for a reason."

"What are you talking about?" 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Nothing." You snap, obviously frustrated. "Look, I'm fine. Everything is fine, we just --" 

Remy's voice comes from behind you, fast approaching. "Cher? Everythin' alright?" 

You cast your glance behind you briefly – he’s ditched the apron, and is now in nothing but those tight fitting briefs that leave little to the imagination. God, he's so attentive. He’s already acting like a boyfriend, a thought that turns your guts to butterflies. 

Wade preens, clearly amused. "Oohh, well fuck me sideways. It was that kind of night, huh? Real x reader type plot. Cute. Have you said I love you yet? Or is that chapter three?" 

You bristle, absolutely appalled at the question. Behind you, Remy opens the door further and  raises one arm over his head, leaning it on the wood of the interior frame. He sees Wade and grins brightly, a twist to his lips, almost like he knows what’s happening.

“Mornin’, mon petit rouge.” (My little red)

“Oooh, I felt a tingle with that one.” 

Remy chuckles, shaking his head lightly. Starting with his bare bicep, which was now on full display, Wade's eyes trail down the length of Remy's body, lingering far too long at his groin before snapping back up to his face. 

"Jesus fuck, someone needs to put Agent Tequila on ice again. I thought it was Texas where everything is bigger–"

You feel your cheeks get hot and your eyes widen. “CHRIST, Wade!" 

“Oh please, drop the Sandra Dee act, pookie. You two fucked nasty and everyone knows it. At least the whole floor.” 

Behind you, Remy laughs low. You can feel his gaze on you, tunneling into you, almost as if he’s waiting for you to confirm or deny. The decision weighs heavy on your shoulders, and finally, you blurt out an answer.

“Okay, so we did. Happy now?” 

Wade’s shoulders drop and he heaves an over dramatic sigh. “Hallelujah. There, doesn’t honesty feel good?” 

Remy leans forward, his voice barely a whisper. “Not as good as what I did to you last night, huh cher?” 

“Heard that.” Wade barks. 

Your entire face feels hot, and the blush is spreading down your neck the longer this goes on. 

Remy’s hand comes forward to take a fistful of your ass, squeezing firmly before giving it a determinate smack and heading back to the table. He’s apparently ascertained that the situation is safe; Wade may be a character but he means no harm. You stiffen at the feeling, fighting against the betrayal of your body. Wade arches a brow, his eyes darting to the very subtle way that your hips pitch forward stiffly. 

“Anyway, this isn’t a threesome — could be, but isn’t — so I’m going back home. I have a big… wet… chimichanga waiting for me. Toodles.”

You’re relieved he ends the conversation before you have to; you aren’t quite sure what might’ve come out of your mouth had he stayed any longer and as an afterthought, you don’t want to create hostility with your next door neighbour. You shut your door, throwing the deadbolt into place. 

You march back to the table with an apparent chip on your shoulder over the interaction with Wade – which all things considered, wasn’t that bad, but you’re still worked up. Your muscles are tense with frustration, which you don't notice until Remy's large hands are sliding up the sides of your arms. He eventually gets to your shoulders, which he pinches and massages between his fingers, forcing them back into a more relaxed state. You let out a sigh, and buck your hips back slightly. His groin is pressed up against the ample curve of your ass, your bodies fitting together like a erotic puzzle piece.

“What’re you all mad  for, cher? C’mon now…” 

“Who does he think he is? Making me confess that… and I’m a grown wo—“

“You was pretty loud last night.” He interjects, that mischievous smirk on his lips. 

You spin around in his grasp and cross your arms, shooting him a disapproving look. “Whose side are you on here?”  

He's unphased by your anger, and instead, brings his hands up to your cheeks, pulling them forward until your head gives way, and your lips smash against his.

At this, you let out a mewl of faux discomfort, and Remy smirks against your lips. He shakes his head softly, and pulls you closer at the waist. After a moment, he breaks the kiss and looks down at your sheet-clad figure. While it is a tantalizing sight -- the way the sheet drapes over your figure, conforming to the curve of your breasts, peaking over your semi-hard nipples -- he wants to see your body again. It's been hours, and he's craving it again.

“Yours.” His voice is so sure, so low and so close. 

Well… his hands are definitely on your sides. They roam between your waist and your hips for a few moments before he makes a fist with one of them, the gray fabric bunching between his fingers. 

“Who you bein’ modest for, huh? You don’t need ‘dis. Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” 

“I… I don’t know…” you whisper, falling into the trap of his eyes again. When he looks at you, really looks at you, you feel like you’re standing at the edge of a building, but going nowhere, because his big, brawny arms are wrapped around you tight. You’ve never felt safer. Uh-oh. That’s not good. 

As he drags his fist down the front of your body, the sheet pulls free of your arms, the fabric grazing your nipples. The sensation has them hardening, and Remy’s hand replaces the sheet, running his thumb over one of them, while cupping the fullness of your breast with the rest of his hand.

He leans forward, kissing from your hairline, over your ear and down the curve of your shoulder, sending convulsive shivers down your spine. The feeling of his lips, pressing into your soft, warm skin… your lids flutter. Your hand reaches down, sliding over his taut muscles, until you find the bulge between his legs. The fabric is warm, heated by the fire of his cock. Your fingers curl around the length of it, giving it a gentle squeeze. Unconsciously, his hips pitch forward, forcing more pressure on your palm.

"Remy," you breathe, looking down between your bodies. His briefs are tenting now, his cock straining against the fabric. You swallow back the saliva that's gathering in your mouth, literally on the verge of drooling. 'I wanna'... I have to -- need to taste you."

"In Louisiana, 'dey call 'dat having an envie for somethin'."

"Yeah, well I have an envie for your cock right now, so..." 

The surprise is apparent on his face, his brows lifting on his forehead, but it quickly morphs into something more lusty, something more pleased. His dick jumps at your words and he reaches up to grip your chin firmly, looking hard at your mouth. 

Aroused, his accent thickens. "Hoo, you a naughty girl with 'dat mouth. Why don't you show me what else it can do, huh?" 

You nod and sink to your knees, slowly. Once you're situated in front of his groin, you reach up and hook your fingers around the elastic of his waistband, peeling it away from his skin. You lean forward to trace the tip of your tongue along the lines of muscle, that tantalizing V cut. Remy chokes on his breath, as your tongue flattens against the skin. 

You continue baring him, pulling the fabric down his thighs in one quick motion. He helps you by kicking them off to the side, and now stands, completely bare in front of you. His cock bounces heavy in front of your face and you immediately take him into your hand, wasting no time. You wrap one hand around the thick shaft, towards the base, and slide it slowly up towards the tip.  

The heat coming off his cock radiates into your palm and the contrast of the velvet, soft skin, and the aching, rigid center has your mouth (and cunt) drooling. You can't help it, and the way Remy's muscles flex every time you move your hand eggs you on. You begin stroking his cock, slowly, but tightly and his breath hitches in his throat. Tightening his abdominal muscles as he does, Remy bucks his hips, forcing his dick through the circle of your fingers. The precum is spreading now, making the action easy. His head is down, watching you intently. 

“‘Dat’s it, babygirl, just like ‘dat…”

As you drag the head over your bottom lip, glossing it with precum, it twitches in your grip. Extending your tongue, you slap the heavy, fat tip against it a few times, teasing him. Your lips wrap around the head, tongue massaging the underside with a flattened tongue.

Remy braces his hands on the counter top above you, his breath rushing out. 

“Hoo, you don’t need no help from Remy, you know what you’re doin’.”

You nod and tighten your grip around the base, leaning your mouth forward to press a single kiss against the tip. Your tongue peeks out, licking a long stripe from the base to the head, and you hear Remy make a sound that can only be described as a growl. You moan against his cock, the sound buzzing against his skin. He bucks again, forcing his cock further into your mouth.

Remy’s grip tightens on the counter top. He’s doing his best to keep it together but the way that your warm, wet mouth has enveloped him, the way that you’re gently sucking as your head bobs, the way your fingers wrap around his cock, gripping him firmly and jerking him off at the base has him in pieces. Aside from last night, he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this good – certainly not in the Void, and try as he might, no memories are coming forward from before the Void. All he feels – and sees – is you. You. You, in your naked, morning messy glory. His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, his gaze heavy and half-lidded.

You have to open wide to take him all the way in, but you don’t care. The weight of his cock on your tongue has your cunt weeping profusely between your legs, and the head nudges the back of your throat, teasing at your gag reflex. You steady yourself and get back to it. Your nose prods the thatch of coarse hair above his cock as you deep throat him, over and over again. The salty pre-cum glides over your tongue, saturating it with the taste that you’re craving.

“Mon coeur,” He exhales a low, raspy breath, and backs his hips away from your mouth, his dick leaving your lips with a wet shlick. You stare up at him with wide, unknowing eyes, chin covered in saliva. His cock twitches in your grip; the visual is erotic. 

“Believe me when I say ‘dis, cher. I wanna’ make a mess on your face, but Remy ain’t ready for it to be ova’. C’mere.” 

With a gentle tap, he urges you up off your knees, helping you to get to your feet. Just like before, he’s hoisting you up into his arms and you’re ready to be carried off again, but this time your ass comes down atop the counter, and Remy slots himself between your legs.

“Wait-wait…. What are you doing?” 

“Eatin’, mon ami.” He says it so nonchalantly and throws in the ever casual mon ami as though this is something done between friends. His hands cup your kneecaps, urging them apart with careful urgency. He looks at your cunt, and his brows lift slowly, a smirk crawling across his lips. 

“Hoo…” He chuckles, running a single finger along the slit of your cunt. As he pulls back, his finger is coated in your arousal, thick strands of clear stringing from your cunt to the tip of his finger. “You get yourself all worked up while you were down ‘dere? She is glistenin’, cher.”

You’re almost embarrassed. Almost. You hadn’t told him, but giving head was a massive turn-on. Besides that, the mere sight of his massive cock was enough to get your engines running. Something about admitting that to him sounds a little too whorish, so you keep your mouth shut. You whine, leaning your head against the cabinets and buck your hips forward, closer to the edge. 

It’s as though he can tell you’re withholding something from him. 

“Ah-ah, cher…” He brings his face close to yours, licking at your mouth. “Tell Remy what’s on your mind.”

“I… I like giving head… I like giving you head…. I like…”

He nods, encouraging you further. Embarrassment flushes your cheeks, and you roll your eyes to the ceiling. 

“Ugh, okay. You have an amazing cock, and I like having it in every part of me.” You curse yourself for being so honest. 

Now it’s Remy that’s on his knees, and he dives at your cunt like a man starved. His tongue is strong and warm against your clit, flicking upwards against the bundle of nerves. He’s burying his mouth in your folds, lapping at it. Every time his tongue nears your opening, you let out a long, whining moan. 

Pause. Let’s just recap. Just to make sure we’re on the same god damn page. You met this guy at Wade’s…. Fucked him all night long, he made you breakfast and now he’s giving you the most toe-curling head you’ve ever had. And you think, just maybe, you might be falling in love with him. Cool. Okay. 

Your hand snaps to the crown of his head, fingers lacing amongst his hair to hold him to the spot he’s working. His tongue is drilling into your clit, and that’s when you feel the pressure of two fingers, prodding your slick slit. 

“Sweeter ‘den ‘dat maple syrup up on your counter,” he says, practically into your cunt. You look down; his gaze is lust-blown, and lips are glossy, spit-slick and reddened. He presses a few gentle kisses to your clit before his tongue starts swiping at it again, and plunging his fingers deep within your core. Just like before, he knows just how to curl his fingers up into the sensitive spot inside you. You let out a moan, and bump your head against the cabinets again. 

A shudder rips through your body, overwhelmed at the dual stimulation. His mouth closes around your clit, sucking gently and you can feel the slippery puddle forming on the countertop beneath you. Briefly, you wonder if you’ll just slide off the counter, but really… the only place to go is further into Remy and his mouth. 

Abruptly, you feel the flash of heat between your legs and arch your back, readying yourself for the drop. Your cunt aches, throbs and – Remy suddenly pulls away, his chin shimmering with your arousal. 

“Huh, I didn’t hear anyone say you could be doin’ ‘dat yet, ah?” 

Holy shit. You clench her tight, holding back the wave of an orgasm. Your teeth grind together, legs quivering at the feeling of denial. You were right on the edge, right on the edge of white, hot bliss. 

“Ffffuck,” you whisper. “Fuck. Please….” 

“I said no, cher. Not yet.” There’s a playful lilt in Remy’s voice and it drives you crazy.

“Fuck me then, please…. I need to feel you.”  

He chuckles, and presses a deep kiss to your folds. “You ain’t gonna’ have to ask me twice, ma bichette.” (my little doe)

He slips his fingers out, and inserts them into his mouth, sucking the taste of you off of them. Your jaw drops. It’s such a casual, but erotic action, and your cunt responds feverishly. She’s got a heartbeat of her own at this point, thrumming between your legs. Leaving you leaking on the countertop, Remy gets to his feet and turns around to the kitchen table. He shoves the plates out of the way, somehow not knocking them onto the floor. 

“C’mere…”

You’re in his arms again, and he’s swinging you around, plopping you down on the kitchen table. Your hands go back behind you, pressing down into the wood apprehensively. 

“I don’t know if this table can support me…. ” 

“Don’t you worry ‘bout ‘dat, cher. It might not, but Remy’s gonna’ be holdin’ you tight. This is just givin’ me a betta’ angle, ‘das all.” 

He wasn’t lying; most of your weight was in his grasp. One arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you up. You scoot yourself closer to the edge, closer to him, and inhale a deep breath. Remy shuffles forward, his cock leading the way. The red, leaking tip nudges your entrance and he lifts your head to place a kiss against your lips, nibbling softly on the bottom one. He’s so passionate, even amidst the burden of his fiery, seemingly untameable lust. A lover. Fuck… you think. You’re falling into a deep, dark hole that you don’t think you can climb your way out of. 

Remy reaches between your bodies, pushing his cock down slightly, until he feels the sopping wet opening of your cunt. Groaning deeply, he stuffs himself inside, inch by inch until your bodies are flush. He finds a rhythm quickly, bucking his hips against you. As he splits you open, you can’t help but moan loud, louder than last night, his cock filling you, throbbing veins rubbing against your inner walls.

“God, yeah… yeah, fuck me hard…!” You chant, sounding more and more like a porn star with every passing moment.

“Only if you give it t’ me, cher… the way you takin’ this dick, I ain’t gonna’ last long.”

You nod hurriedly, looking deep into his eyes. He growls and pulls his hips all the way back before slamming them back into you – hard. Your jaw drops again, and you find yourself staring at the cabinets, vision going hazy with lust as your orgasm rushes to the surface, claiming your body wholly. The plates that previously hung on now go clattering to the floor, but the sound does little to interrupt you two. Remy’s got his dick so deep inside of you that you’re seeing stars, and the sounds that are tumbling from your lips are far louder than the sound of porcelain on tile. 

With a smooth, guttural sound, Remy loses it, too. He fills you, deeply, and what leaks out the sides, he hurriedly pumps it back inside of you until his cock starts to soften, his thrusts languid and spent. 

“I could do this with you all day…” You whisper into his neck, rubbing your nose against the warm, sweaty flesh there. 

“Me too, cher, me too.” He nods, blinking slowly. “But I can’t be doin’ ‘dat… not today.” 

You rear back suddenly, looking him in the eyes. They’ve still got that mischievous glimmer that he seems to always possess, but there’s something behind them. A sort of… coldness, that has your arms falling away from him. 

“You have to leave…” you say softly, suddenly understanding. 

Remy nods, and slips out of you, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. He pushes your hair out of your face, and rubs his thumb along the fullness of your cheek. He disappears then, and your shoulders sink slightly. You stay on the table for a few minutes, your legs hanging limply off the table, just listening to the sounds of him getting dressed; the gentle rustle of clothing, the snap of his elastic waistband as it hugs him.

Finally, you hop off the table, and bend down to retrieve the rumpled pile of sheet. You hold it against your body, not worrying about what’s showing. Like he said before, he’s seen everything. You turn, and spot him – standing tall behind your couch. He reaches for his leather jacket.

He’s attractive, so the sight of him dressed is to be appreciated as much as him undressed, but there’s a pang of sadness in your chest. Your lungs feel tight, and you wring the sheets around your fingers as he smoothes a hand through his hair, tousling it lightly. Again, as though he’s in tune to your emotions, he seems to notice that you’re staring sullenly. 

“Remy be needin’ to deal with some things, cher…” he says, adjusting himself in his jacket. You wonder what it is he has to deal with, where he has to go. It’s none of your business, you’re sure. You want to ask him if he’ll be back, but your gut warns that that sounds too desperate, so instead, you nod once. 

“Thanks,” you start, trying to find the strength in your voice. “I had a really good time. My door is uh, always open.” 

“Good t’ know, cher.” He says. He sounds genuine, but he’s still leaving. Every bone in your body is screaming for him to stay. He makes his way over to you, wordlessly, and wraps his arm around your waist. His lips find yours, and he tips you backwards slightly as he kisses you. The way he tastes you feels like he’s trying to stain his own mouth with your essence, to remember it later. When he breaks off and straightens you back up, you let out a pathetic little cry that you know he hears. You bring your fingers to your mouth, stroking your bottom lip softly. 

And with that, he opens your door, slips out and shuts it behind him, but not before casting one last look at you, standing there in a sheet that he fucked your brains out on. 

To the closed door, you whisper: “I… think I love you.” 

He doesn’t hear it and maybe that’s for the best. 

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Chapter 1: Drinks, a lapdance and whatever the fuck that was.

Summary: Remy LeBeau, a headlining male stripper who travels around the country performing, and you, his best friend who's been in love with him for years, share an unspoken attraction to each other that leads you to cross a boundary that you swore you never would. The next morning, you both agree to a friends-with-benefits arrangement with seven strict rules: no PDA, no jealousy, no kissing, no talking about it to others, either can end it without questions, it ends if either gets serious with someone else, and no falling in love. However, as their connection deepens, they realize that sometimes, rules are meant to be broken. Warnings: Smut (18+), swearing, angst, hurt/comfort.

If Jean Grey were to pinpoint the exact moment she recognized that Remy LeBeau was in love with you, it would have been in that small, dimly-lit garage where your group often gathered after long weeks filled with the familiar motions of work and exhaustion. The space itself was cluttered and worn, a constant hum of machinery from the nearby workbench, the familiar scent of engine oil and old leather lingering in the air. It was a sanctuary of sorts, where the team could shed their burdens and find comfort in each other's presence.

It was a warm, late summer evening when Remy had just returned from Miami. He and his crew had been performing at a sleek, newly opened club as the headline act, the lights and music intoxicating, the nights filled with excitement and adrenaline. But despite the allure of the stage, the bright flashes of neon, and the wild parties that Miami offered, all Remy had wanted was to be back in this garage—back with his friends, back with you.

Jean had sensed the shift in Remy's energy the moment he walked in that night. He was always smooth, effortlessly charming, like a cat that could slide through any door unnoticed, but tonight there was an almost imperceptible edge to him. He moved with an anxious restlessness, shuffling a deck of cards in his hands like they were an extension of himself, the sound of the cards flicking and snapping through his fingers a steady rhythm in the background. He’d laugh and banter with anyone who caught his attention, but Jean saw where his focus truly lay—he was waiting for you.

And then you arrived. You walked through the creaky garage door with the same confidence you always had, a teasing comment about Remy’s escapades ready on your lips, something about him "sleeping his way down the entire eastern seaboard." It was meant to poke fun, to rattle him, but there was that glint in your eye—half challenge, half affection—that always made your teasing feel different. The room erupted into laughter, but Jean, ever observant, didn’t miss the way Remy’s entire demeanor shifted when he saw you. His laugh was immediate, genuine, and deep, but his eyes softened in a way they didn’t for anyone else.

Without a word, Remy scooted over on that old, lumpy sofa, making room for you like he always did, like it was second nature—because, in a way, it was. You dropped down next to him without hesitation. It was a familiar dance, the way your body moved instinctively toward his, your leg casually draping over his thigh as you settled in. His arm, as always, slid behind you on the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder, a gesture so subtle and natural most wouldn’t give it a second thought. But Jean noticed. She noticed everything.

From her seat across the room, Jean watched the way Remy’s gaze lingered on you when he thought no one was looking, the way his eyes flickered over your face, not in the usual flirtatious way that was so typical of him, but with something deeper, something more intense. It was a look of longing, of admiration, and perhaps even a little bit of fear—fear that you might not feel the same way, fear that he might lose you if he let too much of his heart show.

But it wasn’t just Remy who had changed. Jean saw it in you too. The way your teasing remarks, though still sharp and biting, always seemed to carry a softness when they were directed at him. The way your eyes would meet his more often than they used to, fleeting glances that lingered just a second too long. When the two of you spoke, there was a rhythm to it, an unspoken language that only the two of you seemed to understand. Your words danced around each other, playful on the surface but with an undercurrent of something more—something unsaid, something both of you were too afraid to acknowledge.

Jean had seen this before. She had seen it in the way Scott used to look at her, before either of them had the courage to admit what they meant to each other. It was the look of someone who had already given their heart away, even if they didn’t realize it yet. The subtle touches, the shared glances, the way your bodies unconsciously leaned into each other as if drawn together by an invisible force—it was all there, plain as day to anyone who cared to look.

The room buzzed with conversation, the clinking of glasses, the hum of the night settling in around you all. But for Remy, there was only one thing that mattered in that moment: you. And for you, it was the same, even if you hadn’t fully admitted it to yourself yet. There was a comfort between you, an ease that came from years of friendship, but also a new tension, a spark that hadn’t been there before, or at least, not in the same way.

Jean could see it—the way Remy’s playful demeanor would falter for just a heartbeat when you laughed, as if he was trying to memorize the moment, to lock it away in some hidden part of himself. And she saw the way you would lean just a little closer to him when you spoke, your body unconsciously seeking his warmth, his presence.

It was a delicate thing, this love that had grown between you. It wasn’t the fiery passion of a sudden romance, but something slower, more enduring. It had built itself in quiet moments, in shared laughter, in the way you fit together so seamlessly on that old, worn-out sofa. And though neither of you had spoken the words, though neither of you had dared to cross that line, Jean knew. She knew because she had been there before. She knew because she had once felt that same fear, that same hope, that same overwhelming sense of what could be.

Remy LeBeau was in love with you, utterly and irrevocably. And whether you realized it or not, you were in love with him too. Jean watched as the banter between you and Remy continued, each remark a playful jab that felt like second nature, your rhythms perfectly in sync. You picked up one of Remy’s cards from the table, twirling it between your fingers with a practiced ease that made him arch a brow.

“Look at that,” you said, tossing the card back into his lap. “Guess I’ve been paying attention after all. Maybe I should start charging for lessons—bet I could teach you a thing or two.”

Remy caught the card effortlessly, his smirk never fading. “Now that’d be somethin’,” he drawled, slipping the card back into the deck with a smooth flick. “But I’m thinkin’ there ain’t much I could learn from y’, except how to dodge a good time. Miami was great by th’ way, shoulda taken me up on th’ offer to come.”

“We have very different opinions of a good time,” you shot back, your smile daring him to argue. “Or maybe your version of fun’s just overrated? You getting down to the bare minimum clothing and griding against a middle-aged woman while you’re all gross and sweaty is not my idea of a good time,” You brought the bottle to your lips, taking a long sip with a smile on your face.

“Overrated? Chérie, you know you’d be front row to watch me if I ever gave you the chance,” Remy teased, his voice low and teasing, meant only for you. His gaze lingered, the playful banter giving way to something heavier, something that sent a jolt of electricity between you both. “But you keep playin’ hard to get, and that’s fine by me. I’m a patient man.”

You leaned in closer, your knee brushing against his other thigh, eyes locked with his. “Patience isn’t really your strong suit, LeBeau. Not when it comes to me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound sending a warm shiver down your spine. “You got me there,” he murmured, voice just above a whisper. “But y’know, if it’s you, I’d wait forever.”

The room seemed to shrink around you, the chatter of your friends fading into the background as you and Remy shared a moment that felt too intimate for the crowded garage. Jean watched as your expression shifted, a fleeting vulnerability crossing your face before you covered it up with another teasing grin.

“Forever’s a long time,” you said, pulling back just enough to keep that playful distance. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

Remy’s gaze didn’t waver, his smile softening in a way that made your heart skip a beat. “For you? Always.”

Jean couldn’t help but smile as she watched, a quiet understanding settling over her. She knew Remy was serious, even if the two of you continued to hide behind your jokes and playful remarks. It was all there, in the way you fit together so effortlessly, like you’d known each other in a thousand past lives. Remy’s eyes lingered on you like you were the only person in the room, his usual bravado melting into something softer, something he reserved only for you.

You leaned back, a contented sigh escaping you as you settled against the sofa. Remy’s arm remained draped behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder every now and then, a quiet comfort that you didn’t even question. The two of you fell into an easy silence, the kind that spoke volumes without needing words. It was in the way your leg remained over his, your body leaning into his warmth, as if you couldn’t help but be drawn closer.

Jean shook her head, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. It was only a matter of time before one of you broke the unspoken pact to keep things as they were. She could see it in the way you glanced at Remy when you thought no one was looking, in the way his gaze softened whenever you laughed, in the way you instinctively gravitated toward each other in a room full of people.

It was the kind of love that couldn’t be ignored, no matter how much you both tried to pretend otherwise. And as Jean watched the two of you, comfortably tangled up in each other’s presence, she knew that when the time came, the shift from friends to something more wouldn’t be some grand, dramatic moment. It would be quiet and simple, a seamless transition as natural as breathing, because for you and Remy, it always had been.

Anna leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with an amused smile. “It still blows my mind, Remy,” she said, shaking her head. “From poker hustler to the Magic Mike of the South. And headlining, no less. Y’know, some of us gotta hustle in real jobs while you’re out there flexin’ and shakin’ for tips.”

Remy laughed, leaning back with a relaxed grin, unfazed by the teasing. “What can I say, Anna? Some of us are just born with the goods. And trust me, the ladies know a good thing when they see it.”

Scott, sitting next to Jean, snorted into his drink. “Yeah, it’s a real public service you’re doing, Remy. All those bachelorette parties and ladies’ nights—it’s practically charity work.”

Jean nodded along, her smile wide. “It’s true, though. You really are good at what you do, Remy. I mean, I’ve seen people go wild over you. But I gotta admit, it’s impressive. Takes a certain kind of confidence to pull off what you do.”

Anna shot you a sly look, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “It’s funny, you know—everyone around here melts like butter when Remy turns on the charm. But you? You’re like the one immune person. What’s your secret?”

All eyes turned toward you as you took a slow, deliberate sip of your beer, savoring the moment and the anticipation. Setting the bottle down, you gave Remy a knowing grin. “Secret? It’s easy,” you said, leaning back with an air of nonchalance. “I’ve seen him practice. After watching him bungle it a hundred times and fall flat on his face, seeing him try to pull it off in public is just... entertaining. He might look smooth up there, but I know how many times he’s crashed and burned before he finally nailed it.”

Remy chuckled and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed a playing card at you. You caught it effortlessly, twirling it between your fingers. “Hey now,” he said in his signature Cajun drawl, “those were all part o’ the process, chérie. Can’t be perfect all th’ time.”

“Process?” you laughed, pointing at him with the card like it was a dagger. “Remy, you’ve nearly concussed yourself trying to swing off these very rafters! I’ve seen you wipe out more times than I can count. And don’t even get me started on the time you misjudged your landing and flipped right off the stage.”

Scott, who had been taking a sip of his drink, nearly choked, laughing. “Wait—hold up. You actually fell off the stage?”

Remy rolled his eyes, though the grin on his face never faltered. “One time! And I stuck th’ landin’, mostly. But y’know, things happen. Besides, th’ ladies thought it was all part o’ th’ act.”

“Oh sure, they did,” Anna snorted, wiping a tear from her eye as she tried to stifle her laughter. “But seriously, it’s kinda cute how you just roll with it. And I guess that’s why your little flirty tricks don’t work on our friend here.”

Jean, perched on the arm of the sofa, nudged Scott playfully. “I think it’s sweet. You’ve got a front-row seat to all his disasters and still manage to cheer him on. That’s real dedication.”

You shrugged, flashing Remy a smirk. “Someone’s gotta keep him humble. Besides, it’s way more entertaining watching him on stage, knowing that at any second, he’s probably two moves away from eating it. It adds suspense to the show.”

Remy leaned in closer, his charm dialed up to maximum as he held your gaze with that trademark smile that could make just about anyone else swoon. “You love it, admit it. I put on a good show, and you’re always there, front and center, cheerin’ for me.”

You met his gaze without missing a beat, your grin matching his. “Oh, I’m cheering alright, from the bar. But it’s for the moment you trip over your own feet, LeBeau. I’m not there because of you—I’m there to laugh at you on the way home.”

Scott slapped Remy on the shoulder, still chuckling. “Sounds like you’ve got the perfect critic. You might want to start running your routines by them before you head out on stage.”

Anna nodded, still giggling. “Yeah, seriously. It’s like you’ve got your own personal quality control. They keep you grounded, even when you’re trying to fly.”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” you added, leaning back in your chair. “Otherwise, his head might get too big to fit through the door.”

Remy leaned back as well, a playful glint in his eye. “Guess that’s why we make such a good team, huh? You keep me grounded, and I make sure you never have a dull moment.”

Jean smiled, shaking her head. “Honestly, it’s kind of perfect. You keep each other balanced. Someone to laugh with—and laugh at—when things go wrong.”

You shrugged again, shooting Remy a look that was equal parts teasing and genuine. “It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”

Remy gave you a wink, his grin widening. “Well, chérie, I’ll keep fallin’ on my ass if it means you’ll always be there to catch me—figuratively, of course.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Don’t count on it, LeBeau. I’ll be too busy laughing.”

Scott raised his glass, still grinning. “To Remy, and his personal disaster critic.”

Anna lifted her drink in solidarity. “And to keeping him humble!”

Remy gave a mock bow in your direction, still smiling. “I’ll take what I can get, mes amis. It’s all part o’ th’ charm.”

You raised your bottle, your grin never fading. “And I’ll keep laughing, because someone’s gotta keep this show interesting.”

And with that, the room erupted in laughter once again, the camaraderie and light-hearted teasing filling the air, as Remy gave you one last playful wink, knowing full well that no matter how many times he fell, you’d always be there, ready with a snarky comment and a grin that kept him on his toes. The garage buzzed with an easy camaraderie that only years of friendship could create, but tonight, it was charged with something more. All it took was some friendly banter, a few beers, and Remy’s relentless love of competition for the tension in the room to hit a breaking point. It crackled in the air, thick and undeniable, so much so that even Logan—usually stoic and uninterested in the theatrics—raised an eyebrow at the two of you. He might’ve been a man of few words, but even he couldn’t ignore the way the atmosphere shifted, electrified by whatever was simmering between you and Remy.

It started out simple enough, the usual banter and teasing about how you were seemingly immune to Remy’s so-called allure. He could charm the pants off anyone with a wink and a grin, but you? You always just rolled your eyes and called him on his bullshit, much to everyone’s amusement. Jean had been the one to poke fun first, pointing out that everyone else seemed to swoon when Remy turned on the charm, but you remained as cool as ever.

“Maybe you’re just built different,” Anna had joked, nudging you with her elbow. “Or maybe Remy’s finally losing his touch.”

Remy’s eyes had sparkled with mischief, his pride far too strong to let a comment like that slide. A few more playful jabs later, and it escalated, as things always did with him. Suddenly, Remy was on his feet, swagger in every step as he grabbed a creaky old chair from his workbench and pulled you up by the hand, guiding you to sit. The laughter bubbled up in your chest, masking the nerves that threatened to spill over, but you went along with it, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the beers you’d nursed throughout the night.

“C’mon, chérie,” Remy said, voice low and dripping with challenge. “Let’s see how long that poker face lasts.”

“Remy, I’m begging you,” you laughed, trying to hide the way your palms were suddenly clammy. “When I prove my point, it’s gonna be so embarrassing for you.”

The chair creaked under you as you settled in, eyes darting to the rest of the group, half-expecting someone to call it off or crack a joke to diffuse the tension. But no one did, while Anna and Jean exchanged knowing looks, like they’d been waiting for this exact moment to happen. Even Scott, usually the voice of reason, watched with amused curiosity, as if he, too, couldn’t look away from the unfolding scene. Logan merely grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that almost resembled a smile.

And then Remy stripped off his shirt with that effortless grace he always had, tossing it aside like it was nothing. You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry as you tried to keep your composure. You’d seen Remy shirtless more times than you could count, each time more casual than the last. But now, under the garage lights, with all eyes on the two of you, it felt different. The heat coiled low in your stomach, spreading warmth through your veins, and you couldn’t decide if it was the alcohol making your head spin or something else entirely.

Remy caught the shift in your expression and grinned, that damnable smirk that always made your pulse quicken despite your best efforts. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, the air between you buzzing with anticipation.

You tilted your head, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I feel like I’m about to get an exclusive look at how utterly humiliating this is for your usual audience,” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you.

“You can get up anytime, chérie,” Remy murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl. “Ain’t no one makin’ you stay.”

You met his gaze, defiance flaring in your chest as you leaned back in the chair, crossing your arms with feigned nonchalance. “Not a chance. I’m not gonna pass up the opportunity to finally put your ego to bed, LeBeau. Let’s get this over with.”

Remy’s grin widened, but there was something else in his eyes now—a flicker of something deeper, something that made your breath hitch. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly how to command a room, but this time, his focus was entirely on you. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world faded away, the playful banter and laughter of your friends turning into white noise as Remy leaned in closer, the heat of his skin radiating between you.

The tension thickened, every beat of your heart thrumming in your ears. Jean’s gaze flitted between you two, her expression softening as if she was piecing together a puzzle only she could see. Anna’s teasing smile took on a more knowing edge, like she was privy to a secret you hadn’t quite admitted to yourself. Scott observed with his arms crossed, amusement and curiosity mingling as he watched his friend tread into dangerous territory.

But it was Logan’s subtle shift, the slight raise of his eyebrow and the barely-there nod of acknowledgment, that spoke the loudest. Even he could sense that this wasn’t just another playful challenge. There was something real here, something raw and unspoken simmering just beneath the surface.

As Remy leaned over you, his eyes dark and intent, you could feel the weight of everyone’s stares, but more than that, you could feel the weight of his. The vulnerability of the moment hung between you like a held breath, daring either of you to break the tension or dive headfirst into whatever this was.

“Don’t worry, chère,” Remy said softly, his voice for your ears only. “This ain’t about provin’ nothin’. Just you and me, havin’ a little fun.”

You swallowed again, your bravado wavering as you glanced up at him. For all your defiance, all your teasing, there was a part of you that wondered if maybe this time, he was right. That maybe, this wasn’t just another game of one-upmanship, but something that had been building for far longer than either of you cared to admit.

You took a steadying breath, pushing back the uncertainty with a smirk of your own. “You better bring your A-game, LeBeau,” you said, leaning back with as much confidence as you could muster. “I have zero attraction to you, and this is going to prove it, and everyone can finally shut the fuck up about it.” “Y’ sure ’bout that, chérie?” he drawled, his Cajun accent thick and smooth, a playful challenge twinkling in his eyes. He took a step closer, his movements slow and deliberate, every bit the performer who knew exactly how to work his audience.

You rolled your eyes, uncrossing your arms and giving him a smirk. “Absolutely. Unshakable. Untouchable. Whatever you guys are doing to the women out there has zero effect on me. Hence why I’m usually at the bar drinking and laughing at you.”

Remy chuckled, his laugh a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. He positioned himself in front of you, placing his hands over your shoulders and on the back of your chair, leaning in close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Lemme test that, then,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

With a smooth, fluid motion, he swung his leg over you until he was straddling your lap. Then with a smirk, Remy started moving to the beat of the music on the stereo. His hips rolled slowly, the muscles in his torso flexing with each rhythmic shift. His fingers brushed over your shoulders, down your arms, before trailing back up, grazing just enough to send a shiver down your spine. He kept his gaze locked on yours, eyes smoldering with a heat that made the air around you sizzle.

You tried to keep your composure, maintaining the facade of indifference you had so boldly claimed, but your heartbeat was betraying you. Remy moved closer, his body brushing yours, his hands skimming along the curve of your neck, his thumb just barely grazing your jawline. His lips hovered dangerously close to yours, close enough that you could almost taste him. The tension between you was electric, every breath charged with anticipation.

Remy’s hands slid down your arms, fingers wrapping around your wrists gently. He paused, feeling for your pulse, his fingertips pressing lightly against your skin. “Well now,” he murmured, his voice a rich, teasing whisper. “I don’t think y’ as immune as y’ thought, non?” He cocked an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling up in a knowing smile, “‘N I didn’ even have t’ try”.

You hesitated for a moment, caught between the undeniable pull of his magnetism and your own stubborn pride. But then you smirked, raising an eyebrow as you leaned back just slightly, creating the smallest sliver of space between you. “It’s just the anxiety,” you said with a playful scoff, meeting his gaze head-on. “This is so uncomfortable.”

Remy chuckled softly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “That’s what y’ callin’ it, huh?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement. He didn’t move away, though. He stayed right where he was, his proximity a constant reminder of how easily he had gotten under your skin, his presence a challenge you weren’t quite ready to back down from.

But in that moment, as the teasing banter hung between you, there was an unspoken understanding—a silent acknowledgment that the game you were playing was far from over. Remy’s eyes softened just a touch, and for a fleeting second, it felt like you were both waiting to see who would break first.

The garage seemed to shrink around you, the buzz of your friends’ laughter fading into a distant hum as the air between you and Remy grew impossibly taut. His fingers lingered on your wrists, light and steady, and you swore you could feel the faint beat of his own pulse beneath the surface of his skin. It was one of those rare moments where time seemed to slow, the seconds stretching into something tangible, almost like they could be felt on the air. You were aware of everything—his scent, warm and heady, mingled with the lingering cologne of the night; the heat of his breath so close to your cheek; the intensity in his eyes that seemed to pierce right through the playful façade you’d both built up so carefully.

Remy’s smirk softened, his teasing edge blurring into something else, something more sincere as he leaned in just enough that the tips of your noses almost brushed. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it searched your face like he was trying to read the thoughts you were so carefully guarding behind your playful banter. He tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, you were certain he might close the gap entirely, his lips dangerously close to brushing yours. But he didn’t, instead hovering there, just on the precipice of something neither of you seemed quite brave enough to step into.

“Y’ can call it anxiety all y’ want,” Remy whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “But I know when someone’s nervous ‘cause they scared, ‘n when they nervous ‘cause they feelin’ somethin’ real.” He loosened his grip on your wrists, his touch sliding up your forearms in a slow, deliberate caress. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent, and it made your breath hitch despite your best efforts to keep your composure.

You wanted to respond with something sharp, something witty that would put the power back in your hands, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, all you could muster was a quiet laugh, a shaky sound that did little to mask the rush of adrenaline thrumming through your veins. You shifted in your seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but every movement only seemed to draw you closer to him, the magnetic pull between you growing stronger with every passing second.

The others in the room had quieted now, their laughter giving way to a curious silence. Logan watched with a careful, guarded expression, as if assessing a standoff that could go either way. Jean and Anna exchanged subtle glances, a shared look that spoke volumes without saying a word. Scott, ever the observer, kept his distance, though his eyes never strayed far from the two of you.

The weight of their stares should have been enough to snap you out of it, to remind you that this was all a game—a silly, over-the-top challenge that had gone just a bit too far. But with Remy so close, the familiar press of his thigh against yours, his warm breath fanning across your cheek, it was hard to remember anything beyond the here and now.

“Y’ know,” Remy said softly, his voice dropping even lower, his words meant only for you. “I think y’ enjoyin’ this more than y’ lettin’ on. Admit it, chère, I got y’ feelin’ a little somethin’, non?”

You raised your chin defiantly, the stubborn streak in you flaring to life. “I’d tell you if that were true,” you replied, though the firmness in your voice wavered, just slightly. “I’m not that easy, LeBeau.”

He laughed quietly, a sound that rumbled low in his chest and sent a shiver down your spine. “Ain’t about bein’ easy,” he countered, his tone playful but with an underlying sincerity that caught you off guard. “It’s ‘bout knowin’ what y’ want ‘n not bein’ afraid to take it.”

For a moment, you let yourself get lost in the dark, unreadable depths of his eyes, the tension between you thick and electric. It would be so easy, you thought, to lean in, to close that last bit of space and see if the sparks flying between you were as real as they felt. But you held back, caught in the push and pull of wanting and resisting, the familiar dance that had always defined whatever this was between you.

“Nice try,” you said, managing a smirk as you finally broke eye contact, leaning back against the chair with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m still here, still unimpressed.”

Remy’s smile didn’t falter; if anything, it grew, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned back, finally releasing your wrists. He held his hands up in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t conceding anything. “Fair enough, chère,” he said, his voice light but his gaze still locked onto you. “But I got all night.”

The tension in the room didn’t dissipate; it hung there, like a charged wire ready to spark again at the slightest provocation. Your friends resumed their chatter, albeit more subdued, the undercurrent of what had just happened still lingering in the air. Jean shot you a knowing smile, and Anna nudged you with her foot, her eyes dancing with amusement. Even Logan seemed to soften, his usual aloof demeanor cracking just enough to show a glimmer of interest in the unfolding dynamic.

But it was Remy who kept his focus on you, his posture relaxed but his attention unwavering. As the night went on, the laughter and conversation ebbing and flowing around you, that unspoken understanding remained—a silent promise that this game was far from over, and that whatever lines you were toeing, you’d keep dancing along them until one of you finally took the leap.

You grabbed your beer, taking a long, steadying sip, the cool liquid doing little to quell the heat that still simmered beneath your skin. When you set it down, Remy’s eyes met yours once more, and the corner of his mouth twitched up in a small, knowing smile. It was a look that said he knew you better than you were willing to admit, that he could see right through the bravado to the part of you that was still buzzing from his touch.

“Guess we’ll see who’s really immune, huh?” you murmured, your voice steady but your heart pounding just a little too fast.

Remy just grinned, tipping his beer towards you in a silent toast, his eyes never leaving yours. “Guess we will, chère,” he said, and though the night carried on, the tension never fully faded, leaving you both acutely aware that the real challenge between you was only just beginning. Logan and Scott strolled over to Remy, each delivering a friendly slap on the arm. Logan, ever the man of few words, held out a cigarette between two fingers and jerked his head toward the garage door in a silent invitation to step outside. Remy’s eyes lingered on you for a split second longer than usual, as if he were waiting for some unspoken signal, before he gave a quick nod, grabbed his shirt and followed the two men out into the night. As soon as the door swung shut behind Remy, Anna wasted no time moving closer to you on the worn-out couch, her expression a blend of amusement and incredulity. “What the hell was that?” she asked, her voice low but laced with a sharp curiosity that demanded answers.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain a facade of casual indifference even as your pulse quickened. “What was what?” you replied, feigning ignorance despite knowing exactly what she meant.

Anna rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by your attempt at nonchalance. “Oh, don’t play dumb. Whatever just happened between you and Remy was palpable. The entire atmosphere shifted. Hell, if you don’t go for him, I might just have to,” she said, her tone a mix of teasing and, perhaps, a hint of seriousness.

You laughed, though it came out more awkwardly than you intended, betraying the calm you were trying to project. “You’re more than welcome to,” you said, forcing a casual tone. “But honestly, that was just Remy being Remy. He’d had a few too many drinks, and you know how he gets when there’s a little competition.”

Anna wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, right,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That wasn’t just Remy being competitive. That was something else entirely.”

Jean, who had been quietly observing from the corner, finally spoke up, her voice soft but firm. “Anna’s right,” she said, her gaze steady and penetrating. “That wasn’t just playful banter. There’s something more between you two. The entire vibe changed.”

Anna glanced between you and Jean, her mouth twitching into a knowing smirk. “Jean’s got a point,” she said, her voice growing more insistent. “Come on, you’re not fooling anyone. Remy’s got that effect on nearly everyone—well, almost everyone—and you’re no exception. So, what’s the deal?”

You felt a flush rising up your neck, the heat spreading to your cheeks despite your best efforts to stay composed. “I wouldn’t say that,” you responded quickly, your voice lacking its usual confidence. “We’ve known each other for a while, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily mean…”

Anna cut you off with a knowing look. “Doesn’t necessarily mean what? That you’re immune to him? Please. Half the time you’re around him, you’re practically glowing. We all see it, even if you’re trying to pretend it’s nothing.”

Jean nodded in agreement, her expression softening as she watched you squirm under their scrutiny. “You and him, there’s definitely something there,” she said gently. “Whether it’s just attraction or something deeper, it’s clear to everyone but you. You don’t have to deny it with us.”

You sighed, feeling trapped by their gazes and your own conflicted emotions. “There’s nothing there. We are two best friends who had a few two many drinks and because of that it’s probably going to be my home time soon,” you stated simply, grappling with the idea that maybe it could have been more.

Anna and Jean exchanged knowing looks, the kind that made it clear they were on the same page without needing to say a word. Anna leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come on, you can’t seriously expect us to believe there’s nothing between you and Remy,” she said, her voice dripping with playful insistence. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. It’s like the air shifts whenever you’re in the same room.”

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “We’re just friends,” you insisted, keeping your tone as even as possible. “It’s not that deep. We’ve always been like this—just two idiots having a good time.”

Jean tilted her head, studying you with that unnervingly calm expression she always wore when she was reading into things. “Except it’s different now,” she said quietly. “It’s not just about the flirting or the banter. There’s something more there, and I think you know it, even if you won’t admit it.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Remy and I, we’re close, sure. But it doesn’t mean anything beyond that.”

Anna rolled her eyes, clearly not buying your denial. “Right, because you’re totally just friends who happen to get all touchy-feely after a few drinks. Look, it’s fine if you’re not ready to admit it, but don’t lie to yourself. You like him, and he likes you. We all see it.”

You clenched your jaw, feeling your patience start to wear thin. “Seriously, Anna, drop it. There’s nothing there,” you repeated, your voice sharper now. “We’re just two best friends who had a few too many. That’s all.”

Jean tried to soften the mood, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “We’re not trying to push you,” she said softly. “We just don’t want you to miss out on something good because you’re too scared to acknowledge what’s right in front of you.”

Anna nodded, her expression losing some of its teasing edge. “Look, we care about you,” she added. “And if this thing with Remy makes you happy, then why not just go for it?”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, your annoyance bubbling over. “Enough,” you snapped, pulling away from Jean’s touch. “There’s nothing to admit because there’s nothing going on. We’re just having fun. That’s it.”

Anna raised her hands in mock surrender, though the smirk on her face told you she wasn’t convinced. “Alright, alright. We’ll back off,” she said, though her tone still carried a hint of amusement. “But if things change, don’t say we didn’t tell you so.”

Jean gave you a sympathetic smile, but she didn’t push further. “We’re here for you, no matter what,” she said. “Just... be honest with yourself, okay?”

You nodded curtly, more to get them off your back than out of agreement. “Yeah, I get it. Thanks,” you muttered, feeling a mix of irritation and unease settle in your chest.

As the conversation wound down, you couldn’t help but glance toward the garage door again, where Remy had disappeared with Logan and Scott. The flickering light spilling from the party felt like a reminder of the tension you were trying so hard to deny, a silent acknowledgment of the feelings you weren’t ready to face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Maybe there was something there—maybe not. But for now, you just wanted to enjoy the moment without dissecting every little interaction. You were just two best friends having a good time. And that was enough. As the night stretched on, the easy camaraderie between your group of friends returned, the tension that had electrified the room slowly melting into the comfortable, familiar banter that always defined your gatherings. Logan leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he observed the playful jabs being exchanged. Jean and Anna occasionally shot you knowing glances, their expressions a blend of amusement and quiet encouragement, as if silently urging you to acknowledge what was so glaringly obvious to everyone but you and Remy.

You caught Remy watching you a few times, his gaze lingering just a second too long, his smile softening into something more genuine when he thought you weren’t looking. But each time you met his eyes, he’d quickly throw in a teasing remark or challenge, refusing to let the moment settle into anything too serious. It was the same game you’d been playing for months now—a delicate balance of pushing and pulling, of keeping things just on the edge of something more without ever fully crossing that line.

Eventually, the beer bottles emptied, and the conversation began to wind down. Scott, always the first to call it a night, stood up with a stretch, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced around the room. “Alright, I’m heading out,” he said, giving Remy a knowing pat on the shoulder. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

Anna grinned, standing up beside him and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Good luck with that,” she joked, nudging you with her elbow. “And you—maybe try to behave yourself, okay?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “No promises,” you replied, your tone light but your mind still preoccupied with the earlier events. Jean offered you a quick hug, her expression laced with that ever-present knowing look that made you wonder if she could really see into your thoughts.

One by one, the rest of your friends said their goodbyes, Logan giving a nonchalant wave as he slipped out the door. And then, finally, it was just you and Remy left in the garage, the quiet hum of the city outside seeping into the silence that had settled between you.

Remy leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched you with a lazy, relaxed posture. But there was a sharpness in his gaze, a focused intensity that belied the casual stance. You busied yourself with cleaning up the scattered bottles and discarded takeout containers, your movements slow and deliberate as you tried to ignore the way his eyes followed you.

“You ain’t gotta do all that right now, y’ know,” Remy said after a moment, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the quiet. “Ain’t like the mess goin’ anywhere.”

You shrugged, stacking the empty bottles into a makeshift pyramid on the table. “Gives me something to do,” you replied, your tone a little too breezy. “Besides, someone’s gotta clean up after you.”

Remy chuckled softly, the sound resonating in the enclosed space. “Always playin’ the martyr,” he teased, pushing off the workbench and closing the distance between you in a few easy strides. He stopped just in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the lingering aroma of beer and sweat.

You didn’t step back. If anything, you stood your ground, your eyes meeting his with a stubborn defiance. “And you’re always playing the charmer,” you shot back, though there was no real bite to your words. It was the same dance as always, the push and pull, the endless teasing that never quite seemed to end.

Remy’s smile widened, a slow, lazy curve of his lips that sent a flicker of something dangerous and thrilling through your veins. “Well, y’ make it easy, chère,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that familiar husky timbre that always seemed to get under your skin. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your wrist in that same light, teasing touch he’d used earlier, and you felt your pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.

You hesitated, the banter on the tip of your tongue faltering as you looked up at him, really looked at him, and saw the faint glimmer of something vulnerable just beneath the surface of his easy confidence. It was rare for Remy to let his guard down, even in moments like this, but for once, it felt like you were both standing on equal ground, the usual games and façades falling away to reveal something raw and real.

“Remy,” you started, your voice softer than you intended, your bravado slipping. You weren’t sure what you were going to say, but the words seemed to catch in your throat, tangled up with the sudden, overwhelming realization that maybe—just maybe—this was no longer a game.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to continue. But when the words didn’t come, he took a step closer, closing the final gap between you, his hands lifting to cradle your face. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, and for a split second, it felt like the world around you stilled, the noise of the city and the clutter of the garage fading into nothing but the quiet thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Y’ don’t gotta say nothin’, chère,” Remy whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “Not if y’ don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight as you nodded, the simple movement feeling like the most significant decision you’d ever made. And then, without another word, you leaned up, closing the last bit of distance, your lips meeting his in a kiss that felt like the culmination of every stolen glance, every unspoken thought, every near miss that had defined your relationship up until now.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative and exploring, but it didn’t take long for the heat to build, the simmering tension between you igniting into something fierce and consuming. Remy’s hands slid from your face to your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he pulled you closer, the hard lines of his body pressing against yours. You responded in kind, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly as you deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of unspoken longing into the contact.

He guided you backward with gentle insistence until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the workbench, and then he was lifting you effortlessly, setting you down amidst the scattered tools and remnants of his workshop. You barely registered the cool surface beneath you, too caught up in the feel of his mouth on yours, the way his hands roamed your body with a familiarity that sent sparks dancing across your skin.

Remy pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours as he gazed at you with a mix of adoration and something more—a quiet reverence that made your heart ache in the best possible way. “Y’ sure ‘bout this?” he asked, his voice rough with restraint, the question heavy with unspoken implications.

You nodded, breathless and certain, your hands tightening on his shoulders as you leaned in to capture his lips once more. “Positive,” you murmured against his mouth, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

The rest of the world fell away as Remy’s touch turned more urgent, his kisses deepening into something almost desperate, like he was trying to make up for all the times he’d held back, all the moments he’d let slip by. You matched his intensity, your own hands exploring the familiar terrain of his body with newfound purpose, the feeling of his muscles flexing under your touch sending a thrill through your entire being.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware that this was uncharted territory, a line you were crossing that couldn’t be undone. But in that moment, with Remy’s hands on your skin and his breath mingling with yours, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. There was no more hesitation, no more uncertainty—just the two of you, finally giving in to the pull that had been drawing you together from the start.

Remy’s hands roamed your body, his touch electrifying every inch of skin it came into contact with. He pressed you against the workbench, his body aligning perfectly with yours as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as you kissed him with everything you had. The rough surface of the workbench dug into your back, but you barely noticed, too consumed by the feel of Remy’s body against yours, the way his hands explored every curve, every contour, with a familiarity that made your skin tingle.

“God, y’ taste so good,” he murmured against your neck, his lips trailing hot kisses along the sensitive skin there.

You arched into him, your hips grinding against his as you moaned softly, the sound vibrating through your chest and into his. Remy’s hands moved lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to caress the bare skin of your sides, his touch sending sparks dancing across your skin.

“Remy, please,” you begged, your voice hoarse with need.

He didn’t need to be told twice. With one swift motion, he lifted your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought. Your bra followed soon after, his nimble fingers unhooking it with ease as he tossed it aside, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of your bare breasts.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he leaned in to capture one nipple between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue until you were panting, your nails digging into his shoulders.

You writhed beneath him, your body aching with need as his hands continued their exploration, sliding down to cup your ass as he ground himself against you. The friction between your bodies was electric, each movement sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Remy,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as you clutched at him, desperate for more. “Please, I need…”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes burning with intensity. “What do y’ need, chère? Tell me.”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat as you looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. But then you remembered the vulnerability in his eyes earlier, the raw honesty that had drawn you in, and you knew that this was no longer a game. This was real.

“You,” You breathed, “I want you.” "Y’ have me," he assured you, his voice low and husky. He gently pushed you back, and you rested on your elbows, your breasts heaving with excitement. His lips descended, kissing and nibbling the skin just above your lace underwear.

You felt his breath hot against your skin as his fingers hooked into the elastic, and he pulled your underwear down your legs, never breaking eye contact. His lips followed the path his fingers had taken, and he pressed gentle kisses to the insides of your thighs, making you shudder.

He positioned himself between your legs, his face level with your core, and you felt the lightest touch of his fingers on your most sensitive spots. A moan escaped your lips as he traced the outline of your desire, his eyes never leaving yours. "Does tha’ feel good?" he breathed, his voice thick with anticipation.

You nodded, unable to form words, and he increased the pressure slightly, his thumb drawing slow, torturous circles. You gripped the edge of the bench for support as his lips returned to your thighs, his hot breath making you shiver. "Yeah," you admitted, your voice strained with need.

Remy's smirk grew wider, and he applied more pressure, his thumb massaging your clitoris as his lips continued their exploration of your thighs. "Y’ need t’ tell me if it feels good," he instructed, his eyes glinting with a mixture of desire and focus. "It feels so good," you gasped, now sitting upright on the edge of the bench, your hands now grasping his shoulders for balance.

He rewarded you with a deep, satisfying kiss on your most intimate area, and you felt his finger press gently against your entrance. He teased you, moving it up and down, side to side, before slipping it inside you. A loud moan escaped your lips as he hit the spot he had been aiming for.

He curled his finger inside you, caressing the sensitive spot, while his mouth replaced his thumb on your clitoris. You felt his tongue lap at your flesh, and his hand held your hip steady as you instinctively moved your body. Harder and faster, you could feel the way his tongue moved as if this was something he had done a hundred times before, the way his fingers moved inside you. "Remy," you breathed, your voice thick with desire, "I—,” You closed your eyes tightly, “You-“ You swallowed deep “You need to stop.” As soon as the word stop left your mouth everything stopped, he withdrew his touch.

You looked down at him, questioningly, and he asked, "Everything okay?" with genuine concern in his eyes. You nodded, “I was gonna cum,” you pointed out.   Remy shook his head, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "That's the point of all this, remember?" he reminded you, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You wanted to protest, but he cut you off, "Let me take care of you. Just relax and enjoy yourself for once."

You lay back, trusting in his expertise, and felt his finger resume its place inside you. This time, the sensation was richer, fuller—almost overwhelming. He continued stretching and teasing you, his other hand joining the dance, and you felt yourself growing wetter by the second.

"Do y’ like the feelin’ of being stretched out?" he purred, his voice rough with lust. You nodded fervently, unable to speak, and his grin widened. "Say it," he prompted, his fingers never stopping their rhythmic motion. "I—I do," you managed, your breath catching. "Louder," he encouraged, his lips once again capturing your clitoris.

"I love it," you moaned, and he rewarded you with a deep kiss on your pulsating center. You could feel the coils of pleasure tightening in your stomach, and your hips moved of their own accord, seeking more. "I need you inside me," you whispered, your voice trembling with unshed tears.

His breath hitched at your words, his eyes darkening with desire as he nodded, his hands moving to undo his belt with practiced ease. In moments, he was free of his jeans, his erection straining against the fabric of his briefs as he positioned himself between your legs.

“Are y’ sure?” he asked, his voice gruff with restraint as he looked down at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as you reached down to guide him to your entrance. “I’m sure.”

With a growl of approval, he thrust into you, the sensation of being filled by him so intense that you cried out, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him. He paused for a moment, giving you time to adjust to his size, his eyes locked on yours as he waited for your signal.

When you nodded, he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on as you met his rhythm, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

“Faster,” you begged, your voice breaking as the pleasure built inside you, threatening to consume you whole, “Fuck.”

He complied, picking up the pace as he drove into you with increasing urgency, his grunts of exertion mingling with your cries of pleasure as the intensity of the moment overwhelmed you. You could feel the pressure building in your core, the familiar coil tightening with each thrust as you teetered on the edge of release. You could feel him everywhere—his breath hot against your ear, the soft French he was whispering sending shivers down your spine. His words, though barely audible, were laced with a tenderness that made your heart race. His hands gripped your hips with a firm possessiveness, fingers pressing into your skin with a force that promised bruises by morning, but you welcomed it. The sting was real, grounding, and yet none of it mattered because this was Remy. Your Remy.

This was the same Remy who you'd sit next to on lazy afternoons, devouring a whole pizza together while making snarky comments about whatever trash TV show was playing in the background. The same Remy who had held you close, tight and unyielding, as you cried over yet another heartbreak, his soothing words and comforting presence the only thing that could put you back together.

But this was different. This wasn’t just Remy, the best friend who always knew how to make you laugh when you needed it most. This wasn’t just the smooth-talking charmer who could make any woman feel like she was the only one in the world, who you’d watched time and time again pull strangers up on stage, holding them with that same easy confidence he was showing you now. This was something far more intimate, more raw, and infinitely more complicated.

This was your best friend, the person who knew you inside and out, who had seen you at your best and your absolute worst. This was your Remy, who you’d kept at arm’s length for so long, protecting the fragile boundary of your friendship even when your heart ached with longing every time his hand brushed yours a second too long. This was your Remy, who you were so deeply, maddeningly in love with that it sometimes felt like a physical ache, a longing you could never quite name aloud.

And now, you were here, both of you crossing a boundary that had always felt unspoken, but impenetrable—a line you’d never dared to even consider. The room felt charged, the air thick with a tension that neither of you could ignore anymore. There was no going back, no pretending this hadn’t happened. The way his lips traced your skin, the way your body moved against his, it was all so familiar yet so painfully new. It was a dance you'd both been performing for years, only this time, there was no script, no safety

“Fuck, chère,” Remy panted, his voice strained as he fought to hold on, his eyes locked on yours as he pushed you closer and closer to the brink. “I-I’m not-“ He cut himself off as he rested his forehead in the crook of your neck, feeling your nails scratch down his shoulders.

And then, with one final, powerful thrust, you shattered, your orgasm washing over you in waves of pure ecstasy. You screamed his name, your body convulsing around him as the pleasure tore through you, leaving you gasping for breath.

Remy followed you over the edge moments later, his own release hitting him with the force of a freight train as he buried himself deep inside you, his body shuddering with the intensity of it. He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the workbench as he held you close, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The silence echoed around you as you both fought to regain your composure.  You just stood there for a moment, his head still on your shoulder as he swallowed deep, trying to slow down his breathing, or figure out what the hell to do now you’ve both finally crossed this line.

Remy was the first to move, pulling up his jeans that had fallen around his ankles without meeting your gaze. You noticed that he left his belt unbuckled as he moved around, picking up items of your clothing. He handed your clothes over with an awkwardness that was unlike him, the action so careful it almost hurt to watch. It was as if he was handling something fragile, something that could shatter if he wasn’t careful, and you wondered if he felt the same fear of breaking whatever it was that had always been between you. “You can crash in the spare room if you want,” he offered, his voice quiet, tinged with an awkwardness that didn’t suit him. “The bed’s still made from last time you were here. It’s no trouble at all.”

You hesitated, as you pulled your shirt over your head, feeling like a stranger in a space that had always felt like home. His offer was kind, but it felt like a bandaid on a wound that neither of you were ready to address. You wanted to say something—anything—to break the tension, to find some way to return to the ease you’d always had with him, but the words stuck in your throat. What could you even say? That you were sorry? That you didn’t regret it? That you were terrified of what this meant?

Remy ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture somehow more desperate than usual. His eyes darted around the room, looking at anything but you, and the silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice low, almost apologetic, and that cut deeper than anything. Sorry for what? For what happened? For the way things felt so fragile now? For complicating something that had once been so simple?

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper as you nodded, trying to muster a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Me too.” You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for—maybe for the confusion, for the fear of losing him, for the mess of emotions that you both seemed ill-equipped to handle.

The room felt colder now, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had shifted. This was Remy—your Remy—and yet it felt like you were standing on opposite sides of an invisible line that neither of you knew how to cross. You couldn’t even look at him without feeling that strange mix of affection and fear, the realization that things might never be the same again gnawing at your insides.

The warmth of his offer to stay contrasted sharply with the emotional distance you were trying to create. “I think it might be better if I head home tonight,” you said, your voice betraying the uncertainty you felt. “I need some space to process everything.”

Remy’s face fell slightly, the casual facade he wore cracking just enough to reveal the hurt behind his eyes. He searched your face for a hint of reassurance, finally asking, “Are we still good?”

You met his gaze, feeling a mix of sympathy and resolve. “Of course we are,” you replied softly, your tone attempting to convey the sincerity you felt. “How about we just look at this as... a way to get some things out of our systems. It doesn’t change us.”

The words felt inadequate, and you could see the brief flicker of disappointment in Remy’s eyes. He nodded, his expression remaining guarded as he absorbed your words. The silence that followed was filled with the weight of unspoken feelings, a tension that neither of you seemed quite ready to address.

To break the heaviness, you tried to steer the conversation towards something lighter. “So, are we still on for brunch tomorrow at that alleyway café?” you asked, your voice carrying a hint of playful optimism. “The one with the raspberry éclairs we discovered on our little adventure?”

A tired smile softened Remy’s features, his eyes reflecting a genuine warmth that contrasted with the earlier hurt. “Absolutely,” he said, his voice warming with a touch of amusement. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the last of those again. I’ll save you a spot.”

You chuckled softly, the familiarity of the banter providing a brief respite from the emotional turmoil. “Good to know I have a personal éclair savior,” you said, teasing him. “Just don’t eat them all before I get there.”

Remy’s grin widened, a fleeting glimpse of the easy-going camaraderie you both shared. “No promises,” he said with a wink. “But I’ll do my best to leave a few for you.”

As you approached the door, the complexity of the night’s events still clung to the edges of your emotions. Remy’s presence beside you was a bittersweet reminder of the connection you both had, tinged with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. You felt a mixture of sadness and hope, the remnants of the nights intimacy still echoing in your mind.

You paused at the door, turning to look at Remy one last time. “See you tomorrow, then,” you said, your voice soft but resolute, trying to convey a sense of normalcy and continuity despite the lingering emotional complexities.

“See you tomorrow,” Remy replied, his tone steady but carrying a hint of the same uncertain resolve. The promise of brunch seemed to offer a glimmer of hope, a way to reconnect and find some semblance of normalcy after the tumult of the previous night.

As you stepped out into the cool night air, the world outside seemed to offer a stark contrast to the emotional storm you left behind. The prospect of sharing a simple meal together provided a comforting anchor amid the swirl of feelings that still lingered from the night. The path ahead was unclear, but the shared promise of a casual outing gave both of you a small measure of comfort as you navigated the complex terrain of your evolving relationship.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Masterlist.

Summary: Remy LeBeau, a headlining male stripper who travels around the country performing, and you, his best friend who's been in love with him for years, share an unspoken attraction to each other that leads you to cross a boundary that you swore you never would. The next morning, you both agree to a friends-with-benefits arrangement with seven strict rules: no PDA, no jealousy, no kissing, no talking about it to others, either can end it without questions, it ends if either gets serious with someone else, and no falling in love. However, as your connection deepens, you realize that sometimes, rules are meant to be broken. Warnings: Smut (18+), swearing, angst, hurt/comfort. Chapter 1: Drinks, a lapdance and whatever the fuck that was. Chapter 2: The morning after and maybe we need some rules. Chapter 3: Terrible ideas and the idea that it can't be as hard as it looks (Newsflash, you were wrong). Chapter 4: One week without Remy and the knowledge that he's probably fucking someone else. Chapter 5: Roadtrips, sing-a-longs and skinnydipping. Chapter 6: The lines are blurring and you're getting jealous (Knew this would happen). Chapter 7: You never knew Remy was so good at avoiding you when he wanted too. Chapter 8: Confrontation, confessions and this hurts a little too much. Chapter 9: Interventions, engagements and slow-dancing (You have two left feet so of course your best friend will bully you). Chapter 10: You won't tell him you love him unless he says it first. But of course you're both competitive and stubborn but this is one competition between you Remy is happy to lose.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Worth Fighting For Masterlist

Author Masterlist

A Girl Worth Fighting For

Summary: When your brother is drafted into WWII, you do the unthinkable to save him and your family: you take his place, in secret. 40s!Bucky x Reader, based on Disney’s Mulan.

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4    Part 5    Part 6    

Part 7    Part 8    Part 9   Part 10   Part 11   Part 12   

Part 13    Part 14    Part 15   Part 16   Part 17   Part 18   Part 19

A Man Worth Fighting For

Summary: Seventy years has passed and the world has changed. You thought you were moving on until Steve Rogers asks you for a favor which leads to a discovery that will change everything. So much for retirement. 

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4    Part 5    Part 6    

Part 7    Part 8    Part 9    Part 10    Part 11    Part 12   

Part 13    Part 14   Part 15    Part 16     Part 17    Part 18    

Part 19    Part 20

Something Worth Fighting For

Summary: You’ve just begun to settle into life as an Avenger when a mission gone awry divides the team in half, and a familiar face shows up just in time to make you second guess your every choice.

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3     Part 4   Part 5   Part 6

Part 7     Part 8    Part 9    Part 10  Part 11  Part 12

Part 13    Part 14     Part 15     Part 16 Part 17

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Something Worth Fighting For-17

Summary: You’ve just begun to settle into life as an Avenger when a mission gone awry divides the team in half, and a familiar face shows up just in time to make you second guess your every choice. Third installment of the Worth Fighting For Series.

Words: 1292

Author’s Note: Hello. Hi. Yes, it’s me. It has been…. 3 years. Three. Years. Since I wrote this story. Yes, I know. You might be thinking, “Kris! We thought this story was over. We thought you had abandoned us!” The truth is, life got in the way. Covid happened. A new job. Another new job. Moving. You know, life. But I never ever forgot about this story or about you guys. This is my gift to all of you, for my 5k and some odd followers. For those of you who were here when this story began, for those of you discovering it for the first time.

And, yes. Because I know someone will surely ask, the answer is yes. There will be another installment in this series.

Now, without further ado. The final part of “Something Worth Fighting For.”

“Are you ready?”

The steady thrum of the monitors filled the open, empty space of the laboratory. Shuri dragged her hand across the front of the holographic projections, her focus sharp as she took in the details of each graph as it appeared before her. She was double, triple, quadruple checking every heartbeat, every brainwave, checking his blood pressure, glucose levels, pH balance— every minutiae of what made a person a person, Shuri’s eyes darted over each bit of data with precise detail, looking for any imperfections that would halt the process about to unfold it the laboratory.

T’challa rested his hand on your upper back, leaning close when you did not respond to his inquiry. Your focus was entirely on the cryogenic chamber in front of you. You reached out, your hand trembling as your fingertips touched the thick, frozen glass. “Can he hear us yet?”

“Not yet,” Shuri said, swiping the holographic screen away. She turned towards you and T’challa, plucking her tablet off the table next to the chamber. “Vitals are good. Everything’s reading normal.”

You drop your hand from the glass, looking at the tablet in her hands. “And you’re sure it worked?”

Shuri’s eyes flicker between you and T’challa. “It was difficult,” she said. “It isn’t as simple as hitting a delete button. I had to run an algorithm to flush the influence of the trigger words while retaining the core context and content of the original memories, and keeping the things that make him… him.”

“But did it work?”

Shuri scoffed, as though offended you felt the need to ask. Months of your life was spent in this very lab, the only thing separating you and her being the chamber that housed Bucky. You knew her well, and trusted that if she said he was ready, she meant it.

That didn’t stop the anxiety that had made itself a home in your gut for the past six months.

“Believe me,” she said, tapping at her table. “No one will be more disappointed than I if it doesn’t work.”

You flash her a half-hearted smile. “Somehow I sincerely doubt that,” you said. She smiled back at you, moving towards the consol that would slowly- as not to send his body into shock- wake Bucky from his six month slumber. “Do you think- Should we have woken him up sooner? When we found out-“

“You did what you thought was right,” T’challa said, nodding at Shuri. She pressed buttons on the consol, and the chamber began emitting a low hum. “What’s done is done. You cannot change it now.”

You nod, stepping away from the chamber. The ice under the glass was clearing away, the blurry image of Bucky beneath it slowly coming into focus. Your stomach churned as the anxiety started to crawl higher in your body, worming its way up your chest and creeping into your throat. Nausea rolled over you in waves, and without a moment to spare, you darted through the door into the laboratory bathroom. The door slid closed behind you automatically as you gripped the edges of the toilet, emptying the contents of your stomach. The anxiety did not go with it, instead clinging to you with newborn ferocity.

Even once the vomiting had passed, you remained in the toilet, eyes pinched shut, trying to get a grip on yourself before you exited.

You heard movement beyond the closed door, then speaking. Bucky’s voice was low and course from disuse, but distinct. Hearing him speak, you became ill again, and then everything was quiet and still.

You wiped off your mouth, rinsing it with water from the sink. You flushed the toilet, and paused for just a moment as your wedding ring glinted in the fluorescent light.

We can still have a life when I wake up.

You steel yourself, and pass through the door.

He can’t remember if he dreamed or not. He doesn’t think so- he never dreamed before, when it was Hydra on the other side of the glass. At least, if he did, he never remembered. When his eyes flutter open, awake for the first time in- however long it’s been- he almost panics, the memory of waking up a clean slate in a dirty room clear in his mind. But this room is white and open and smells like chemical cleaner, nothing like the places he used to wake up. The fear subsides, quickly, and he’s still just Bucky. For now.

It’s disorienting, waking up and trying to remember where you are, how you got there, who you are. But it comes back slowly, like trudging out of deep water. His body comes back like his memory, the feeling slowly creeping through his fingers and hands, his feet, legs, and finally, he raises his hands and grips the edge of the chamber to pull himself out.

Shuri is right next to him, looking between him and her tablet. T’challa is on the other side, offering him a hand. He takes it, his feet still unsure. “Hey there, doc.”

Shuri offers him a smile. “Welcome back, Barnes. Try not to move too quickly just yet.”

Bucky nods, still holding onto T’challa’s hand and the edge of the chamber. The world seems to tilt and slide, and his eyes squeeze closed to ward the dizziness away. He lets go of T’challa’s hand, pinching the bridge of his nose.

A violent, muffled retching sound echoes from another room. Bucky furrowed his brows, trying to pinpoint the sound, but everything was still fuzzy. Something heavy is hanging around his throat, and he grabs at it, squinting against the too-bright light of the laboratory to get a better look.

A pair of dog tags hang on a long chain, jingling against a heavy ring of metal.

His wedding ring.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, voice cracking from disuse. “Where’s Y/N?”

Shuri and T’challa exchanged glances, their lips pressed into fine lines. A mechanical whir sounded through the open air as the bathroom door slid open.

And there you were. Standing in the doorway, only steps away, a halo of fluorescent light behind you. The haze of waking and heaviness in his body seemed all the lighter for seeing you. You were as beautiful as the day he went under, as though not a moment had gone by. He could almost believe that he’d laid down and barely closed his eyes at all before waking again.

And yet, all the same, he became instantly aware that time had passed; more than weeks, less than a year. He knew this because of the swell in your stomach, your hand resting gently over your belly button.

The space between you was a long pause. Bucky’s lips parted, struck with dumbfoundedness, an utterly perplexed expression on his face. You stood, silently, heart hammering against your rib cage as you waited for him to say something, anything at all.

“You’re pregnant?”

You nod, holding your breath.

His first few steps are slow and heavy. Like a newborn foal, his legs shake under him, and then his strides are long and quick and with purpose, and when he throws his arm around you and buries his nose in the crook of your neck, you breathe again. His whole body shakes and he squeezes you tightly, his embrace swallowing you.

He’s crying when you put your hands on the sides of his face, prying him away just enough to find his lips with yours. His mouth is dry and his beard ragged, but he tastes sweet and warm and his kiss takes the breath from your lungs. You had been waiting for this moment for six months.

And now that you finally had him, you were never letting go.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Chapter 9- Oh Finally, the cavalierly are here.

Taglist: blazingheartsblog littlekidsteve aisling1985 wraith-queen-todd infintyfandoms lightan117 poplottie morishitoshi maroonpalt cookieshakr starfishfaerie b-bradshaw bravelittlebastard bren-lee-bear0404 thatoneitaliangirl taintandviolent the-glasses-are-my-disguise maplesyrizzup paintmekala shannababyy gxrextxgaidk sora-o-kaku kenzimae67 shinysam29 nevermorekisses imagine-all-the-imagines lowkeyhottho raythecomputerart cannibalcoyote Warnings: Swearing, violence, gore, smut, angst.

Summary: You did your time when it came to timelines and the multiverse when Wanda Maximoff entered your life. So when Deadpool and Logan need to rescue their friends from a the Void, they turn to you, someone with the power to bounce between timelines and realities. But when you finally arrive, the only person left standing is Gambit. Together, you all return to the current timeline, but your life takes an unexpected turn when Gambit decides to stay with you, offering his protection against the TVA as a thank you for rescuing him. You can't ignore the way your heart races when he’s near, or how his touch lingers just a moment longer than necessary. The fear of the TVA dragging you back is real, but so is the comfort you find in his presence. As the days pass, your emotions grow more intense, leaving you torn between your heart wanting what it knows it can't have and the terrifying reality that time itself is your enemy.

Authors Note: Almost 21k worth of writing. You have been warned.

Remy’s footsteps echoed through the corridor, his boots striking the floor with a sharp intensity that matched the storm brewing inside him. Each step was driven by a mix of frustration, guilt, and a desperate need to fix the mess he’d created. His heart pounded in his chest, not just from the quick pace, but from the overwhelming emotions swirling in his mind.

As he rounded the corner, he spotted them: Jean, Scott, Anna, Logan, and Wade standing together, their conversation abruptly stopping as they took in the look on his face. His usually relaxed demeanor was gone, replaced by an expression of raw intensity.

"Who told?" Remy demanded, his voice cutting through the air, laced with tension and an urgency that made everyone in the group straighten.

Jean stepped forward, her face a portrait of regret. "It was me," she admitted, her voice soft, almost apologetic. "I didn’t think... I’m so sorry."

Remy’s eyes flickered with a mix of anger and frustration, but he shook his head, exhaling a long, shaky breath. "I ain’t mad at you, Jean. This is on me. I should’ve been the one to tell her."

Scott let out a low chuckle, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere. "Yeah, well, she’s got a mouth on her, doesn’t she? The kids definitely learned some new words today."

Anna joined in with a soft laugh, nudging Scott in the ribs. "I think it’s about time we had another girl around here who puts you boys in your place. She’s got some fire."

Despite the turmoil within him, Remy managed a small, fleeting smile at their banter. But it quickly faded as the weight of his actions pressed down on him, suffocating the small moment of levity. He ran a hand over his face, his fingers dragging across his stubbled jaw as if trying to clear the chaotic thoughts in his head.

Scott’s smile softened as he noticed the deep conflict in Remy’s eyes. He stepped closer, placing a firm, reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. "Go find her, talk to her. You’ve never had trouble chasing after women before, Remy. Maybe she’s cooled off by now."

Remy nodded, but the doubt gnawing at him was undeniable. "Maybe... but this ain’t just some spat, Scott. I messed up. Bad. And this isn’t somethin’ that just goes away with time."

Anna’s voice was gentle as she spoke, her eyes full of compassion. "You love her, Remy. And she cares about you. You’ve got to be honest with her. It’s the only way to make things right."

Remy sighed deeply, the weight of her words sinking in. His hand fell to his side as he looked at his friends, the people who had been through thick and thin with him. They were right, and he knew it. He had to find you, had to try and explain himself, even if it meant facing the possibility that he’d damaged something precious beyond repair.

"I’ll go find her," he said quietly, his voice tinged with a resolve that barely masked his fear. He turned to leave, but before walking away, he glanced back at them, his eyes reflecting a deep gratitude for their support. "Thanks."

As he walked away, the knot in his stomach tightened. He couldn’t shake the image of your hurt expression, the way you’d stormed off, the way he had let you down. The thought of losing you because of his own failure to be upfront gnawed at him, making every step feel heavier than the last. But despite the fear, there was a determination in his stride—a determination to make things right, no matter how hard the conversation might be. Remy found you sitting alone in the courtyard, your silhouette outlined by the fading light of dusk. The soft glow of the water fountain caught your gaze, its gentle stream flowing in a steady rhythm that starkly contrasted with the storm of emotions raging inside him. The cool evening air carried the faint rustle of leaves, a sound that seemed to echo the uncertainty hanging between you. He hesitated, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind, unsure of how to bridge the gap he had created. But then he forced himself to move, his footsteps heavy as he approached.

"Never thought I’d see the day when you’d be so captivated by a fountain," he remarked with a forced casualness, trying to cut through the tension that wrapped around you both like a vice.

When you spoke, your voice was quiet, almost resigned, and the words you uttered pierced him deeper than any wound ever had. "I might not be here this time tomorrow night, Remy."

The simple statement made his chest tighten painfully, a cold dread seeping into his bones. It was as if the ground beneath him had shifted, leaving him off-balance and disoriented. He had faced countless dangers, stared death in the face more times than he could count, but nothing had ever terrified him like the thought of losing you. The finality in your tone, the way you spoke as if the possibility of not making it through to tomorrow night was something you had already accepted—it shattered something inside him.

He had always been able to rely on his charm, his wit, his ability to talk his way out of almost any situation, but now, standing before you, he felt utterly helpless. The realization that his actions—or lack of them—had driven you to this point, that his failure to be honest had brought you to the brink of despair, was a bitter pill to swallow. It was a regret that settled deep in his gut, gnawing at him with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

In that moment, Remy understood the full weight of his mistake. He had been so focused on protecting you, on shielding you from the harsh realities he feared would break you, that he hadn’t considered the damage his silence could cause. And now, hearing those words come from your lips, he was confronted with the devastating consequences of his actions. The pain in your eyes, the resignation in your voice—it was all because of him. And it hurt more than he could have ever imagined.

Remy’s heart ached with a deep, soul-crushing sorrow as he stood there, staring at you, wishing he could take back every misstep, every lie of omission. But the damage was done, and now he was left to pick up the pieces of the trust he had shattered. The thought that you might not be there tomorrow, that he could lose you before he even had a chance to make things right, was unbearable. It was a fear that gripped him with a ferocity that left him reeling, unsure of how to move forward, but certain of one thing—he couldn’t let you slip away.

"I just thought—" You bit your lip, your gaze falling to the ground as you struggled to find the right words. Exhaustion weighed heavily on you, making it difficult to even begin to articulate the storm of emotions swirling inside. Remy was the last person in this whole multiverse that you wanted to argue with, the last person you wanted to feel any animosity toward. The thought of a rift forming between you, of all people, was unbearable.

Remy waited, his expression patient but tinged with worry as he sensed your hesitation. When you remained silent, unable to continue, he gently prompted, "What?"

"I thought we were closer than that," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. You turned away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. "That you wouldn’t be scared of telling me things." A small, weary sigh escaped you as you tried to steady your emotions, but the hurt in your heart was too deep. "I don’t know if I’m ready for this whole thing." You took in a shaky breath, tears welling up in your eyes. "I don’t know if I’m ready to accept that you would be the one to do it."

Remy felt a sharp pang in his chest, the weight of your words pressing down on him like a lead blanket. He looked down at his hands, struggling to find the right response. "We don’t know if it’ll come to that," he said quietly, though his voice lacked conviction. He wanted to believe it, needed to believe it, but the uncertainty hung between you like a dark cloud.

You let out a bitter scoff, the sound filled with frustration and despair. "You saw me back at the TVA, Remy. You saw what I can do." Your voice trembled as you recalled the events that had shaken you to your core. "I can’t even control jumping from one universe to another anymore, and that used to be the easiest thing in the world for me." Your face crumpled as the tears you had been holding back finally began to fall. "You and I both know the outcome of tomorrow."

Remy couldn’t bear to see you like this. The pain in your eyes, the fear in your voice—it tore him apart. Without a second thought, he stepped forward, pulling you up by the hands and pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you tightly as if he could shield you from the harsh reality that lay ahead. "No. We don’t," he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head, as if the simple gesture could ward off the impending doom.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to melt into his embrace, finding solace in the warmth of his arms. But the fear gnawing at your insides wouldn’t be quieted. You pulled back slightly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand as you looked up at him with a desperate plea. "I want you to promise me something, though," you said, your voice trembling with the weight of what you were about to ask.

Remy frowned, sensing the gravity of your request. "Stop talking like this is what’s happening," he scolded, his voice laced with a mix of fear and frustration. He didn’t want to entertain the possibility of losing you, not now, not ever.

But you persisted, your gaze unwavering as you made your request. "Don’t hesitate," you stated, the words heavy with meaning.

Remy’s face fell, his stomach sinking as the full implication of what you were asking hit him like a punch to the gut. He felt sick, his mind reeling at the thought. "If you have to do it, if you have to kill me... don’t you hesitate, even for a second," you whispered, your voice filled with a quiet, heartbreaking determination. "I don’t want to hurt you. Not you."

Remy’s heart clenched painfully, a mix of anger and despair bubbling up inside him. "And you think it’ll be any easier if I have to hurt you? If I have to-“ His voice rose, the volume a stark contrast to the anguish in his tone. He moved away from you, running a hand through his hair in agitation as he turned his back on you, unable to face the reality of what you were asking. He stared up at the darkened sky, as if searching for answers among the stars.

You watched him, your heart breaking at the sight of his anguish, the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed so lost. "But I know you’re able to," you said softly, your voice trembling. "You’ll make it quick. There’s no guarantee I can do the same for you. Please."

Remy turned back to you, his eyes wide with disbelief and pain. "I can’t hurt you," he said, his voice barely a whisper, as if admitting the truth out loud made it all the more real.

Tears welled up in your eyes again as you shook your head. "You don’t have a choice, Remy. And I would much rather you than anyone else in this world to do it," Your voice was filled with a kind of resigned certainty, but underneath it was a deep, aching love.

"Why?" he asked, his voice breaking as he took a step closer to you. "Why me? There are others in there, others who can do it just as much as I can. Why do you need me to do it?" He needed you to say it, he needed you to tell him. He was silently begging for you to tell him.

You looked up at him, your eyes brimming with tears, trying to convey everything you felt in that moment—how much you loved him, how much you trusted him with every fiber of your being. "Please don’t make me say it. Not right now. I—I can’t do this tomorrow if I do," you pleaded, your voice choked with emotion.

Remy’s face was a mask of anguish as he reached up and gently cupped your cheeks, his touch tender and filled with a desperation to comfort you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper as he uttered words that transcended time and space. "In every universe," he whispered, the depth of his love for you evident in each syllable.

You nodded, your tears silently trailing down your cheeks, as you stood there in his arms, both of you clinging to the fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a universe where you didn’t have to make this choice, where love was enough to conquer the darkness that threatened to consume you both.

Remy shivered slightly under the cool evening breeze, his body instinctively reacting to the chill in the air. You noticed and gently brushed a hand along his arm. “You should probably go inside,” you said softly, concern evident in your voice.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. His thumb moved tenderly over your cheeks, wiping away the last of your tears. "I want to be with you," he murmured, his voice filled with sincerity and a hint of desperation.

You shook your head, a small, tired laugh escaping your lips. “Yeah, but you’re no good to anyone if you’re sick,” you teased, trying to lighten the heavy mood, though your heart still ached.

Remy managed a faint smile, but his eyes remained serious as he rubbed up and down your arms, his touch warm against your skin. “What about you?” he asked, his gaze searching your face. He was worried, and not just about the cold—he was worried about you, about the weight you were carrying alone.

You shrugged, the motion casual, though your words were anything but. “I don’t really feel the cold much these days,” you said simply, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. But the truth of it—the truth of what that meant—was far from normal. It was a testament to how much you had changed, how much power now flowed through you, just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

Remy’s heart sank as the realization hit him. He had always known you were strong, but this… this was something else. He could feel the energy radiating from you, a force so powerful it almost felt like it had a life of its own. The depth of your abilities was staggering, and it frightened him—not because he feared you, but because he feared for you.

“Go,” you said softly, giving him a gentle shove. You forced a smile, trying to reassure him. “I need a bit of peace anyway.”

He hesitated, not wanting to leave you alone, but he knew you needed space, needed time to process everything that had happened. “I’ll go to the common room,” he said, reluctantly stepping back. “I’ll wait for you there. We’ll meet up when you’re ready.”

You nodded, promising quietly, “I’ll be in soon.” The words felt heavier than they should, like a promise you weren’t entirely sure you could keep.

Remy started to turn away, but then stopped, looking back at you with an expression full of regret. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice filled with genuine remorse. It wasn’t just an apology for tonight, but for everything—for the things he couldn’t control, for the things he should have done differently, for the pain he had inadvertently caused.

You gave him a soft smile, your eyes filled with understanding and sadness. “Me too,” you whispered. The words hung between you, a quiet acknowledgment of the complicated mess you were both entangled in. It was a shared sorrow, a shared burden, and in that moment, you both knew there was no simple way out.

As Remy walked away, heading back toward the mansion, you watched him go, feeling the distance between you both in more ways than one. The courtyard felt emptier without him, the silence more profound. You looked up at the darkened sky, the stars barely visible through the thickening clouds, and took a deep breath, trying to gather the strength you knew you would need for whatever came next.

The promise of tomorrow loomed over you like a shadow, but for now, all you could do was take it one moment at a time, even if the moments felt like they were slipping away faster than you could hold on to them. Wade emerged from the mansion long after Remy had left, his usual swagger evident even in the low light of the evening. He approached you with a grin that could only mean one thing—trouble, or at least something close to it. “Hey, just wanted to let you know everyone’s in the common room, having a bit of a wind-down,” he said, his voice light but laced with an unspoken invitation.

You shook your head, offering him a tired smile. “I appreciate it, Wade, but I was just planning on going to bed, to be honest. It’s been a long day.”

Wade scoffed, his expression turning mockingly disappointed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Bed? Seriously? That’s what you’re choosing over hanging out with your favorite people in the whole multiverse?” He leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. “Don’t tell sling blade I said that—he’ll get all jealous thinking I’m trying to steal his girlfriend.”

You chuckled softly, the sound surprising even yourself. “Sorry, but I’m just not feeling it tonight.”

“Not feeling it?” Wade echoed, his tone incredulous. He gave you a look that was half-teasing, half-serious. “Come on, since when did you get so boring? This isn’t you. What happened to the person who used to be the life of the party?”

You looked at him, the memories he mentioned coming back in a rush. Nights out with Wade and Clint, drinks flowing, laughter echoing through whatever dive bar you’d decided to conquer that night. You remembered how it felt to be carefree, to be the center of attention with Wade cracking jokes that were only funny after a few shots of tequila, and Clint giving his signature deadpan commentary on everything.

Wade wasn’t about to let you off that easy. “Remember that one time with Clint? We were three rounds in, and you were up on that table, singing karaoke like you were headlining at Madison Square Garden. Clint was your backup dancer, and I was... well, I was probably doing something awesome, but that’s beside the point.” He grinned, clearly enjoying the memory. “You were always the one who got the party started, the one who made sure everyone had a good time. What happened to that part of you?”

You smiled a little at the memory, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Things change, Wade. People change.”

Wade’s grin faltered for a moment, and his expression softened as he saw through your attempt to brush off the conversation. “Yeah, I get that,” he said, his voice more serious now. “But it doesn’t mean you have to let the weight of the world crush you. You’ve still got that spark in you—I know it. And so does everyone else in there.”

You sighed, feeling the weight of his words. He wasn’t wrong, but he also didn’t know the full extent of what you were dealing with. “I know you’re trying to help, Wade, but I just don’t have it in me tonight. I’m exhausted.”

Wade studied you for a moment, his usual bravado giving way to something more genuine. “Look, I won’t push you. But just know, if you ever need to let loose, we’re all here. You don’t have to carry everything alone, alright?”

You nodded, appreciating the sentiment. “Thanks, Wade. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He gave you a quick nod, his playful demeanor returning as he winked. “Alright, but if you change your mind, you know where to find us. I’ll even save you a seat next to yours truly.”

You laughed lightly. “I’ll think about it.”

Wade paused mid-stride back to the mansion, sensing that you weren't entirely convinced by your own words. He turned back to you, eyes narrowing playfully as if he was onto something. “You know, I’ve never been good at taking no for an answer, especially when it comes to getting my friends to have a little fun.”

You gave him a look, somewhere between amused and resigned. “Wade, I really don’t—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupted, wagging a finger in your direction. “Before you say anything else, just hear me out.” He took a step closer, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “Remember that time at Clint’s place when we turned his living room into a makeshift bowling alley and his wife pretty much banned us from their house? Or when we crashed that fancy gala and turned it into our personal dance floor? You and me, we’re a team. And tonight, the team needs you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the memories, the corners of your mouth twitching despite your exhaustion. “Yeah his kids loved that,” You gave another smile, “Wade, those were different times.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, nodding. “But the girl who is one half of my crazy ass ideas, the one who if the shoe was on the other foot would be out here trying to convince me to come back inside and enjoy himself—she’s still there. And I’m not about to let her miss out on making a few more memories tonight just because you’re feeling a little down.”

You sighed, feeling your resolve weakening under his relentless optimism. “Wade, I’m just so tired…”

“And that’s exactly why you need this,” he countered, his tone suddenly earnest. “Come on, just for a little while. No pressure, no expectations. Just... be with your friends. Let us take your mind off things, even if it’s just for an hour.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the sincerity in his eyes. Wade might have been a goofball most of the time, but beneath all that bravado was someone who cared deeply, especially about his friends. He wasn’t asking for much, just a little bit of your time, a chance to remind you that life wasn’t all about the weight you carried.

“Fine,” you relented, a small smile creeping onto your face. “But if I’m coming in, you better not start any karaoke battles. I’m way too tired for that.”

Wade’s eyes lit up with triumph, his grin spreading wide. “Deal! No karaoke battles... unless, of course, you start it first.” He winked, clearly pleased with himself for winning you over. “Come on, you won’t regret it.”

He held out his arm for you to take, and with a roll of your eyes and a sigh that was more amused than annoyed, you looped your arm through his. “Alright, lead the way, Wilson.”

As the two of you made your way back inside, you could already hear the laughter and chatter from the common room, the sound oddly comforting. Wade kept up a steady stream of light-hearted banter, recounting some ridiculous story from his past that had you chuckling despite yourself.

As you stepped into the common room, the warm, inviting atmosphere contrasted sharply with the lingering tension you carried. The X-Men were scattered around, their usual serious demeanor relaxed into something far more casual. Logan, Jean, and Scott were sprawled across the sofa, deeply engrossed in conversation, their laughter punctuating the air. Across the room, Ororo and Remy occupied the armchairs, caught up in a story that had them both laughing.

You paused in the doorway, a wave of hesitation washing over you. Part of you wanted to retreat, to avoid the weight of their. But before you could act on that impulse, Wade gave you a firm push from behind, propelling you fully into the room.

"Now we can actually start having fun!" Wade announced loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.

The room quieted slightly as eyes turned to you, but the shift in mood wasn’t awkward—more like a collective acknowledgment of your presence. Wade, never one to miss an opportunity, continued with a grin. "Speaking of fun, you should’ve seen the way she used to party back in the day. I’m telling you, we were lucky to survive some of those nights”.

You turned to Wade, “You literally cannot die,” you pointed out, “So you were free game my dude,”

Remy, seated beside Storm, caught your eye and offered a small, genuine smile. There was a hint of something in his eyes—relief that you’re making a solid effort to relax for a night, or maybe something deeper.

You gave a faint smile in return, trying to push aside the conflict still simmering beneath the surface. It was easier said than done, but you found yourself moving deeper into the room, pulled by the warmth of the group and the familiarity of their camaraderie. Ororo’s perceptive gaze shifted from Remy to you, her smile gentle and reassuring. "Come on, join us. I was just sharing with Remy about the time this universe’s Logan and I got caught in a sudden storm during a mission. We ended up stranded for hours, and he’s been teasing me about it ever since."

Remy’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he chimed in, "Because it was your storm," his smirk wide and playful.

Storm, maintaining a mock-serious expression, retorted, "I maintain it was just an unfortunate coincidence," which prompted a ripple of laughter among the group.

You made your way into the room, easing into a nearby spot, feeling the warmth and comfort of the space. The laughter and easy chatter provided a soothing balm, but the shadows of the past few days lingered in your mind, too raw to fully embrace the moment. Still, being among friends—people who had become your chosen family—brought a small comfort, a reprieve from the weight of recent events.

Wade, always ready to shift the mood, plopped down next to you with his usual flair. “So, who’s up for a drinking game? Or are we all too mature for that now?” His tone was light, almost challenging, as if daring the group to embrace the absurdity of the suggestion.

Scott, though he rolled his eyes, couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at his lips. “You do realize that’s a terrible idea, right?”

Jean’s laughter rang out softly as she shook her head. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”

Wade’s grin grew wider, and he shot you a playful, conspiratorial wink. “Come on, what do you say? A little fun before tomorrow? Just in case it’s your last night on Earth.”

The jest was meant to lift the spirits, to remind everyone of the importance of living in the moment despite the uncertainties ahead. And while the words carried the sharp edge of truth, you found yourself smiling despite the heaviness in your heart. The reminder of what was to come was always lurking in the back of your mind, but you decided to put that aside, if only for tonight.

“Why not?” you said with a faint smile, feeling the weight of your fear and anxiety momentarily lift. “Just don’t complain if you can’t keep up with me.”

Wade’s face lit up with a satisfied grin. “Deal!” He grabbed your arm, pulling you into the lively conversation and laughter that filled the room.

The room seemed to come alive with a renewed energy as the group settled into a more relaxed rhythm. Stories and jokes flowed freely, and even though your mind was still clouded with the worries of tomorrow, you felt a small but significant shift in your mood. Being here, surrounded by the warmth of camaraderie and the genuine affection of your friends, gave you a fleeting sense of peace.

The laughter, the shared memories, and the easy banter provided a momentary escape, allowing you to savor this fragment of normalcy and joy amidst the uncertainty. The pain and fear might still be there, but for tonight, you were among friends who cared, and that was enough to make this night feel a little brighter.

The room erupted in a mixture of cheers and groans, and Wade immediately began laying out the rules for whatever chaotic game he had in mind. As the night wore on, you let yourself get swept up in the laughter, the teasing, and the camaraderie. And though the uncertainty of tomorrow still loomed large, for this moment, you allowed yourself to feel a little less alone. As the laughter and conversation flowed around you, you found yourself drifting closer to Scott, who was still seated on the sofa, his attention momentarily drawn away from the rest of the group. You hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath and cleared your throat, catching his attention.

"Hey, Scott," you began, your voice quieter than usual. He looked up at you, his expression neutral but attentive. "I just wanted to apologize for earlier—for swearing at you in front of the kids. It was out of line."

Scott studied you for a moment before his features softened, and he offered a small smile. "It’s okay. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. Just... maybe try to tone it down next time, yeah?"

You nodded, feeling a bit lighter after the exchange. "Yeah, I will. Thanks."

Before you could say more, Wade materialized beside you, a bottle of hard liquor in one hand and a shot glass in the other. His grin was as wide as ever as he thrust the glass toward you. "Alright, enough of the mushy stuff. You’re falling behind, and we can’t have that. Time to catch up."

You eyed the bottle with a mix of amusement and trepidation. "Wade, this is a terrible idea."

Wade’s grin only widened, and he leaned in closer, lowering his voice just enough for you to hear. "Come on, sweetheart. You could nuke yourself to kingdom come tomorrow, so why not enjoy yourself for once?"

His words hit harder than he probably intended, a grim reminder of what lay ahead. As the reality of the situation settled over you, you noticed Remy across the room, his expression suddenly somber. He took a long sip of his drink, his gaze distant, clearly affected by Wade’s bluntness. Anna, always attuned to his mood, gently placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention away from you and back to her.

A pang of jealousy shot through you, sharp and sudden, as you watched the small, intimate exchange between them. The feeling was irrational, you knew that, but it didn’t stop the ache in your chest from intensifying. You swallowed deeply, trying to push the emotion down, to keep it from consuming you. But it was no use.

"Fuck it," you whispered under your breath, your voice barely audible above the chatter in the room. You looked up at Wade, determination in your eyes. "Hit me up, buttercup."

Wade’s grin was almost feral, a mix of excitement and approval. "Fuck yes, just like the good old days!"

He wasted no time in pouring you a shot, the amber liquid shimmering under the room’s warm lights. You took the glass from him, feeling the weight of the moment as you held it in your hand. It wasn’t just a shot—it was a decision, a defiant choice to seize whatever moments of joy you could, despite the uncertainty that loomed over you.

"To the good old days," you said, raising the glass to Wade.

He clinked his bottle against your shot glass with a nod. "And to whatever comes next."

You downed the shot in one go, the burn of the liquor familiar and comforting in its own way. As the warmth spread through your chest, you felt a bit of the tension ease, replaced by a sense of reckless abandon that you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time.

The room buzzed with renewed energy as the night continued, and you found yourself laughing more freely, joining in on the jokes and stories as if you weren’t facing what could be your last day tomorrow. For a little while, at least, you could pretend that everything was okay—that you were just another member of this strange, dysfunctional family, trying to make the most of the time you had left.

And if the occasional glance at Remy and Anna caused your heart to ache, you pushed it down, letting the alcohol and the company of friends dull the pain, if only for a little while. The room buzzed with laughter and conversation, the atmosphere lightening with each passing moment. The tension that had gripped you earlier began to ease as the alcohol worked its way through your system, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts. Wade, ever the instigator, made sure to keep your glass full, and you found yourself slipping into the easy rhythm of the night, letting go of the worries that had weighed so heavily on you.

As the group continued to banter, Wade leaned back into the sofa, eyes narrowed with a mix of amusement and skepticism. "I remember when you couldn’t handle more than a couple of shots before you were out cold," he teased, smirking at you.

You shot him a mock glare, raising your glass in challenge. "That was a long time ago, old man. I’m made of stronger stuff now."

"Is that so?" Logan stated from that seat, his smirk deepened, and he exchanged a look with Jean and Scott, who were both grinning. "Let’s see if you can still hang with the big kids, then."

Storm, who had been listening quietly with Remy beside her, chuckled softly. "Be careful, or she’ll probably drink you all under the table."

Remy smiled faintly, but there was a shadow in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. The weight of the situation—your powers, the uncertainty of tomorrow, and the role he’d been asked to play—seemed to be pulling at him, his usual easygoing demeanor faltering under the strain. Despite the laughter and camaraderie around him, he looked like he was carrying a heavy burden, one that you knew all too well.

You couldn’t help but notice how Anna stayed close to him, her hand occasionally brushing against his arm, her presence a quiet but constant reassurance. The sight of it gnawed at you, the jealousy from earlier flaring up once more, mingling with the alcohol-fueled warmth in your chest. But you pushed it down, unwilling to let it spoil what little peace you had found tonight. You recognized it was an irrational jealousy—after all, you were grateful for the other woman in Remy's life. She grounded him, offering stability and preventing him from drifting away when you couldn’t be there for him. You understood that Remy’s love for you, though often unspoken, was profound and unwavering. In that sense, you had no reason to feel insecure.

Yet, despite your rational understanding, the unsettling thoughts persisted.

"Come on," Wade said, breaking through your thoughts as he sidled up next to you, refilling your glass with a grin. "Don’t let them talk down to you like that. Show these dinosaurs what you’re made of."

"Yeah, let’s see what you’ve got," Scott chimed in, his competitive side clearly coming out.

You laughed, the sound a bit more carefree than it had been earlier, and downed the shot Wade handed you. The burn was familiar now, almost comforting, and you felt a heady mix of defiance and camaraderie as you placed the empty glass back on the table with a smirk.

"Your turn, Summers," you challenged, feeling the edges of your stress soften, the room tilting ever so slightly as the alcohol began to take full effect.

Scott didn’t back down, pouring himself a shot and downing it with ease, earning a round of cheers from the group. The mood in the room shifted, becoming more animated, more alive, as everyone joined in on the game, laughing and joking as the night wore on.

Remy, though still quiet, finally let a smile slip through, watching the group with a mix of fondness and resignation. But every now and then, his gaze would drift to you, his eyes shadowed with something unspoken, something heavy. It was as if he wanted to say something, to reach out, but the words stayed trapped behind his stoic mask. You noticed each time, and despite the tension between you, there was a part of you that longed to bridge that gap, to just tell him and hope for the best.

Wade, sensing your thoughts drifting, nudged you with his elbow, pulling you back into the moment. "You’re not gonna let them beat you, right? I remember you being the life of every party back in the day. Show these stiffs how it’s done."

You couldn’t help but smile at his persistence. Wade had always been the one to push you out of your comfort zone, to remind you that there was more to life than just the battles and the missions. And tonight, with the weight of tomorrow looming so heavily over you, maybe that was exactly what you needed—a chance to forget, if only for a little while, and just be yourself, surrounded by the people who had become like family.

"Alright, alright," you said, raising your glass once more, this time with a little more enthusiasm. "One more round, then."

The group cheered, and you could feel the tension easing even further, the weight of the impending tests, the secrets, and the fears slipping away under the influence of the liquor and the laughter.

For the rest of the night, you let yourself be swept up in the moment. You laughed until your sides hurt, joined in on the ridiculous drinking games Wade came up with, and even traded a few more lighthearted barbs with Logan and Scott. The warmth of the alcohol and the comfort of being surrounded by friends dulled the edges of your anxiety, making everything feel a little more bearable. The night had taken on a hazy, dreamlike quality, the room spinning slightly as you leaned back in your seat, trying to focus on Wade’s latest outlandish story. The alcohol had done its job, dulling your senses and wrapping you in a warm, fuzzy cocoon that made everything seem distant and unimportant.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Anna and Remy. They were sitting close together, their heads tilted toward one another as they exchanged whispers. You couldn’t hear what she said, but whatever it was, it made Remy smile—a genuine, warm smile that you hadn’t seen on his face all night. He leaned in, murmuring something back, and the sight of it made your chest tighten with a sharp, painful pang of jealousy. As you and Wade continue drinking, you notice Anna lean in and whisper something into Remy’s ear. His face lights up with a smile, and he responds with a playful remark that makes Anna laugh softly. She gives him a quick, affectionate squeeze on the shoulder before standing up and leaving the room.

Remy turns to you with a smile, his eyes softening as he takes in your slightly tipsy demeanor. “Move over,” he says, gently nudging Wade to make room. He squeezes in between you and Wade, his presence warm and comforting as he settles close.

The conversation around you flows easily, punctuated by laughter and shared stories. You continue drinking, and as the night goes on, you find yourself resting your head on Remy’s shoulder. His arm drapes lazily around your lower back, pulling you closer to him. To anyone watching, it would seem like you two were a couple deeply in love, and maybe, in some way, you were.

But the words I love you were not necessary right now. The feelings were there, but they were unspoken, lingering beneath the surface of your interactions.

As the evening wore on, Remy helped you to your feet, grabbing both of your hands to steady you. He gently guided you away from the group, a slight smile on his face as he teased you about being cut off from more drinks after you began sharing wild plans for when you returned to your universe with Wade.

You say your goodbyes to the others, your words slightly slurred from a few too many drinks but full of warmth. You’re met with smiles and playful waves, everyone still buzzing from the night’s laughter and camaraderie. Remy’s arm stays securely around your shoulders, his touch a steady anchor as he guides you through the hallways back to your room. His presence is comforting, and despite the alcohol dulling your senses, you feel safe with him. His smile never wavers as he listens to you ramble on about the night, your thoughts drifting from one topic to another.

“They’re good people,” you say, a soft laugh escaping you. “All of them. I get why you stick around, even with all the chaos.”

Remy chuckles, his grip on you tightening slightly as you stumble over a step. “They ain’t so bad, huh?” he teases, his accent a soothing lilt in the quiet corridor. “Might be a lil’ crazy, but they’re family.”

You nod, letting your head rest briefly against his shoulder as you walk. “Yeah…family,” you echo, your voice softening as your thoughts take a turn. A quiet moment passes, and you feel the weight of something unsaid settle between you. It’s that gnawing feeling that’s been lurking in the back of your mind all night, bubbling up to the surface with the courage—or foolishness—that only alcohol can provide.

“Anna’s great,” you say suddenly, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I can see why…why you love her. It’s hard not to feel a bit jealous, you know?”

Remy’s step falters slightly, and his smile dims, replaced by a look of quiet contemplation. He glances at you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to read the layers of emotion behind your words. For a moment, he’s silent, the levity of the evening slipping away.

“Chère…” he begins, his voice gentler, more serious than before. He stops walking, turning to face you fully. “There was a time, a whole other lifetime, where I did love Anna. But not this one. Not anymore.”

His words hang in the air, soft but deliberate, and you feel the sincerity in his gaze as it meets yours. There’s no hint of regret, just a quiet resolve that speaks of lessons learned and paths diverged. You blink, the sting of jealousy still lingering but softened by the earnestness in his expression.

“I guess it’s hard to let go of those kinds of feelings,” you say, your voice tinged with a touch of vulnerability. “Even when you know it’s not right anymore.”

Remy nods, his hand slipping down from your shoulders to rest lightly on your arm. His thumb traces gentle circles against your sleeve, a subtle comfort. “Ain’t always easy,” he admits, his eyes softening as they linger on you. “But when ya find somethin’ new, somethin’ real, it’s worth lettin’ go of the past.”

You manage a small smile, a warmth spreading in your chest at his words. The jealousy isn’t entirely gone, but it feels less like a burden and more like a stepping stone—something to move past rather than dwell on. Remy’s hand squeezes yours gently, a silent promise that what he’s saying is more than just words.

“Come on, let’s get ya to bed,” he says, his tone lightening as he resumes walking. “Ya can keep tellin’ me how wonderful I am all the way there.”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes but letting him guide you onward. As you make your way down the hall, you can’t help but feel a little lighter, the quiet reassurance of Remy’s presence making the shadows of doubt seem far less daunting. His arm stays firmly around you, a reminder that, in this lifetime, you’re the one he’s choosing to be with. Remy guides you carefully into your room, his arm steady as he helps you sit down on the edge of the bed. He crouches down, easing off your shoes with gentle hands, his movements unhurried and considerate. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, your head heavy from the alcohol but your thoughts still spinning. As he stands to pull back the blankets, you can't help but speak what's on your mind, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

“It’s hard to find love twice in a lifetime,” you murmur, your voice thick with the weight of your thoughts. “True love, anyway.”

Remy pauses, glancing at you with a soft smile that reaches his eyes, filled with warmth and understanding. He listens as you continue, rambling about how rare and precious love is, how it feels like lightning striking the same place twice. He tucks the blankets around you, the action tender and comforting, like wrapping you in a cocoon of quiet reassurance. He sits on the edge of the bed, his gaze growing thoughtful as he watches you struggle with the concept of love, each word tinged with the vulnerability that only comes with being slightly inebriated.

“Have you?” you ask suddenly, your voice tinged with curiosity and something deeper. “Have you found love twice?”

Remy chuckles softly, the sound low and tinged with a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. He shakes his head, his expression a mix of honesty and resignation. “Maybe,” he admits, his eyes flickering with memories he doesn’t fully share. “Guess it jus’ depends.”

He points to the bottle of water on your bedside table, his way of nudging you towards some semblance of sobriety. But as he starts to rise, intending to give you space to rest, your hand darts out, grabbing his with surprising firmness. The stubborn streak you wear like armor flares up, even in your tipsy state, and you refuse to let him leave just yet.

“Stay,” you say, your voice edged with a soft but undeniable determination. You pull him back down, your grip strong despite the alcohol fogging your senses. Remy hesitates, caught between the need to protect you from yourself and the pull of the closeness you’re seeking. He lets himself be guided back to your side, feeling the heat of your body radiate as you scoot closer.

You lean in, the whisky on your breath mingling with the warmth of the room, and your intent is clear. You move to kiss him, your lips ghosting near his, your eyes half-closed in anticipation. But Remy pulls back, the movement gentle but firm, and the look of hurt that flashes across your face cuts him deeply. His heart aches at the sight of it, the rejection painting your features with a vulnerability that twists something inside him.

His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin in a tender gesture meant to soothe the sting of his refusal. He holds your gaze, his expression soft but resolute, his touch a silent apology.

“Not now,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not like this.”

The words are kind but firm, a boundary drawn not out of rejection but respect—for you, for the moment, for what it could mean if done right. He stays close, his forehead resting against yours as he sighs quietly, the scent of whisky lingering between you. You feel the comfort in his presence, the safety in his touch, even as your heart protests the denial.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours, filled with unspoken promises and unvoiced fears. “Just…not tonight, chère. Not when you’re not yourself.”

You nod slowly, the disappointment still there but tempered by the warmth in his gaze. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into his touch. He stays with you for a while longer, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your cheek until your breathing evens out and the tension melts from your body.

As sleep starts to pull you under, you feel his hand gently slipping away, his presence retreating but never fully gone. He rises quietly, making sure the water is within your reach and the blankets are snug around you.

"Goodnight, chère," he whispers softly, knowing that there will be another chance, another time when the stars align just right. Remy stands by the door, his shoulders tense and his expression heavy with a pain that he can’t quite mask. As he turns to leave, the weight of his decision feels like a physical pull, dragging at every step he takes. Your voice cuts through the quiet, laced with a mix of tipsy sincerity and a touch of stubbornness that he’s grown so fond of.

“You look really, really good in that shirt,” you say, your voice slightly slurred but genuine.

Remy glances down at himself, his open button-down shirt revealing the darker fabric underneath. A small smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a smile filled with affection, tinged with a sadness that speaks of longing and unspoken fears. For a moment, he lets himself take in your words, the simplicity of the compliment a reminder of the connection you share, but also of the complexities that keep you apart.

“Bonne nuit, mon amour,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His accent wraps around the words with a tenderness that lingers even as he closes the door behind him. The click of the latch sounds final, like the closing of a chapter that’s not yet ready to be written.

From the other side, you call out once more, your voice tinged with frustration. “Again, I’m not up to that part of Duolingo. I’m trying to hurry through it!”

Remy pauses just outside your room, leaning against the wall as the muffled sound of your voice fades into the quiet of the night. He chuckles softly, but the sound is hollow, edged with a bittersweetness that he can’t shake. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, staring at the ceiling with a troubled expression that refuses to ease. His heart is a tangled mess of guilt and frustration, a war between wanting to give in to the moment and knowing that it would only complicate things further.

He runs a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture doing little to soothe the storm raging inside him. He can feel the dull ache of longing that’s settled deep in his chest, a constant reminder of the connection that pulls him towards you. But tonight, there’s a line he can’t cross, a boundary that he’s determined to respect, even if it tears at him.

Remy knows he’s done the right thing. He’s certain that letting anything happen between you tonight, with the alcohol dulling your judgment and your emotions running high, would have been a mistake. But that certainty doesn’t make it any easier to walk away. He’s caught between the pull of his feelings and the need to protect you, to make sure that when and if something happens between you, it’s on the right terms—not clouded by a night of drunken vulnerability.

His mind replays the look of hurt on your face when he pulled back, the way your eyes had flickered with confusion and disappointment. It twists at something deep inside him, a pang of regret that he tries to push away. He tells himself that it’s for the best, that there will be another time, a better time. But right now, it feels like a hollow consolation, a promise that’s too uncertain to cling to.

Leaning against the wall, Remy closes his eyes for a moment, letting the quiet of the mansion wash over him. He can hear the distant hum of conversation, the soft murmur of laughter from the common room, and it all feels so far removed from the turmoil inside him. He opens his eyes and stares at your door, his heart heavy with the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled hopes.

He knows he’s not just protecting you—he’s protecting himself, too. From the fear of moving too fast, from the possibility of ruining something that’s still in its fragile, unformed state. He pushes off the wall and takes a deep breath, the resolve settling in his bones. One step at a time, he tells himself. He can wait. He will wait, for the right moment, when everything aligns just right.

But as he walks away, the echo of your words and the look in your eyes haunt him, a constant reminder of the thin line he walks between doing what’s right and wanting what feels right. And tonight, that line feels sharper than ever, cutting into him with every step he takes away from your door. <><><><><> You find yourself standing in the middle of the mansion’s grand hallway, but it’s not as you remember it. The air is thick, heavy with the metallic stench of blood and decay, and the walls seem to shudder, crumbling away like brittle bones. The familiar warmth of the school is gone, replaced by an unsettling chill that claws at your skin. The lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows that dance along the walls, like specters mocking the living. You take a step forward, and the ground beneath you groans in protest, as if the mansion itself is in pain.

There’s a pulse running through you, a raw power that thrums in your veins like a live wire, electric and terrifying. It crackles at your fingertips, a vicious energy that feels too strong, too wild to control. It whispers to you, a voice that slithers into your mind, sweet and seductive. You did the right thing, it coos, the words dripping like honey, but tasting of poison. They were going to destroy you. You know the timeline. You saw what they would become. You saved them from themselves.

The whispering grows louder, wrapping around your thoughts like a vice, squeezing until it’s hard to breathe. Your heart races, every beat echoing the relentless chant in your ears. You try to shake it off, but the voices are insistent, gnawing at your resolve, feeding off the fear that sits like a stone in your gut. You move forward, your steps echoing hollowly in the desolate mansion, each one heavier than the last.

As you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat. The sight before you makes your stomach lurch, the bile rising as your eyes take in the carnage. The X-Men lie scattered like discarded dolls, their bodies twisted and broken, the vibrant colors of their uniforms smeared with dark stains. Familiar faces now rendered lifeless—friends, mentors, all gone in the blink of an eye. Your chest tightens, the crushing weight of what’s happened pressing down on you, suffocating in its finality.

You force yourself to keep moving, your legs shaky beneath you, the cold dread clawing up your spine. The hall feels endless, a nightmarish corridor that stretches on, filled with the echoes of screams that never fade. The power inside you surges, a sick satisfaction bubbling up, mingling with the horror. You’re not just a spectator—you’re the architect of this devastation, the hand that wielded the power. They had it coming, the voices hiss, needling at your conscience. They were always going to betray you.

Your gaze falls on Wade, dangling from a bannister, his body limp and lifeless. His eyes, usually filled with a mischievous glint, are wide and vacant, staring at nothing. The sight sends a jolt of revulsion through you, a visceral reaction that makes your vision blur. The voices in your head falter for a moment, but then they double down, louder, more insistent. This is justice, they tell you, this is freedom.

You turn another corner, each step a battle against the growing sense of dread that gnaws at your resolve. Your breath hitches as you come face to face with Remy. He stands before you, but his eyes—those vibrant, playful eyes that always held a spark of something untamed—are dull, unseeing. He’s still, his body unnaturally rigid, as if frozen in the last moment of life. A red stain blooms on his chest, vivid against the dark fabric of his shirt, and your knees nearly buckle at the sight.

Remy’s expression is hauntingly familiar, caught somewhere between shock and sorrow, a reflection of the moments before the light left his eyes. The power that once surged through you now feels like poison, burning hot and acrid in your veins. Your hand reaches out instinctively, as if touching him might undo the nightmare, but you pull back, fingers trembling as the realization crashes over you.

This isn’t what you wanted. This can’t be what you wanted.

The whispers grow frantic, a cacophony of twisted encouragement, but they’re drowned out by the deafening roar of your heartbeat. Panic seizes you, a cold, relentless grip that squeezes tighter and tighter until—

You wake up with a gasp, your body jolting upright in bed. The room is dark, the air still heavy with the remnants of your dream. You can feel your pulse racing, the sweat beading on your skin as you struggle to catch your breath. The images are still vivid, seared into your mind—Wade hanging, Remy’s lifeless eyes—and you can’t shake the feeling of dread that lingers like a shadow, lurking at the edges of your consciousness.

Your hands are shaking, and you clutch the sheets, grounding yourself in the reality of your room, the familiar walls, the quiet hum of life beyond the door. It was just a dream, you tell yourself, but the pounding of your heart and the tremble in your hands make it feel all too real. The echoes of the nightmare linger, and you can’t help but wonder if it was a warning—or a glimpse of something darker within. When morning arrives, you wake with a sense of grogginess and emotional exhaustion that weighs heavily on you. You sit up in bed, your mind a tangled mess of thoughts and feelings, struggling to pull yourself together. The events of the previous night feel like a dark cloud lingering overhead, but you know you can't avoid the day that's ahead.

As you force yourself out of bed and dress, the heaviness of your decisions feels almost physical, like a weight pressing down on your shoulders. Each movement feels labored, as though your body is reluctant to engage with the reality of what’s to come. The mirror reflects a face marked by sleeplessness and anxiety, a stark reminder of the emotional toll this situation has taken on you.

Heading out of your room, you find yourself crossing paths with Wade in the hallway. His usual irreverence is replaced with a sympathetic look that acknowledges the turmoil you're enduring. "Morning," he says softly, his voice holding a note of genuine concern as he assesses your state.

"Morning," you reply, offering a smile that feels more like a grimace. "I guess it’s time to face the music."

Wade nods, his gaze steady and serious. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

You nod in appreciation, though you're not entirely sure what kind of support you need right now. The uncertainty about your own needs adds to your sense of disorientation. As you make your way to the kitchen, the familiar routine of preparing for the day feels almost alien, as if you're moving through a fog of emotional haze.

In the kitchen, you see Anna, Scott and Jean engaged in a quiet conversation. Their eyes meet yours as you enter, their expressions reflecting a mixture of concern and silent encouragement. The atmosphere in the room feels charged with unspoken tension, as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting for the next moment to unfold.

Taking a deep breath, you try to muster up a sense of normalcy, pushing aside the lingering ache in your chest. “Morning,” you say again, this time with an effort to sound more upbeat, even though your voice betrays the underlying strain.

Scott offers you a reassuring smile, though there’s a hint of worry in his eyes. “Ready for today?”

You nod, though the gesture feels hollow, and your heart isn’t fully engaged. “Yeah, let’s get it over with.” The words come out with a resigned finality, reflecting the weariness and apprehension that have settled in your core.

Anna sets down a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, the aroma wafting through the air, but it does little to lift your spirits. “You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. “Might help with things”.

“Or make me throw up” you reply, forcing a smile as you take a seat. The knot in your stomach tightens as you push the food around on your plate. “I just... I can’t shake this feeling.”

Jean leans forward, her brow furrowed with empathy. “It’s normal to be anxious. But everything’s going to be fine; you’ve got all of us backing you”.

“Yeah, but what if I can’t control it?” you say, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want-” you swallowed deeply, but everyone knew what you were going to say. You don’t want to put Remy in an impossible position.

Scott’s expression turns serious. “You’re stronger than you think. We’ve all trained for this. We’ve all been prepped on what to do if things go south.  And if things get tough, we’re here. One step at a time.”

Feeling the warmth of their encouragement, you nod slowly. “One step at a time.” You take a bite of the eggs, the flavors grounding you for a moment. The tension in the room eases slightly, replaced by a shared understanding of the challenge ahead.

As you finish your breakfast, the conversation shifts to lighter topics, laughter bubbling up and filling the space. For a brief moment, you feel your fears disappear, any doubt you had about your capabilities were on hold. Jean stands up as you finish your breakfast, “Come on, I’ll walk you down there,” She offered, waiting for Scott to put the last piece of toast in his mouth before following along. Jean catches sight of you, her sharp gaze quickly picking up on the distracted look in your eyes. She approaches, her footsteps light and deliberate, and offers you a gentle, knowing smile. “Looking for Remy?” she asks, her voice soft, yet probing.

You nod, struggling to keep your expression neutral, but the concern slips through despite your best efforts. “Yeah, I haven’t seen him since last night,” you admit, your voice tinged with a slight quiver. “Do you know where he is?”

Jean’s smile widens, a warm understanding reflected in her eyes. “He went to the lab with Charles and the others early this morning. They’ve been working on the tests and preparations for today,” she explains, her tone calm and reassuring.

Relief washes over you in a rush, but it’s quickly tempered by a lingering anxiety that refuses to let go. “The lab,” you repeat, as if saying it might somehow close the distance between you and the unsettling images that haunt your mind. “I guess he must be busy.”

Jean nods, her expression empathetic. “He is. They’re making final adjustments and reviewing everything. It’s a lot of work, and I think he wanted to be there just to make sure everything goes smoothly.” Her words are meant to comfort, to provide reassurance that Remy is exactly where he needs to be, doing what he does best.

You appreciate her efforts, but the knot in your chest remains stubbornly tight. “Thanks, Jean,” you murmur, managing a small smile. “I just wanted to know he was okay.”

Jean squeezes your arm gently, a gesture of support that grounds you, even if just a little. “Try to take it easy today,” she advises, her tone laced with quiet encouragement. “Everyone else is okay, but you need to focus on yourself, too.”

You nod, but as you watch her walk away, the urge to see Remy, to lay eyes on him and confirm for yourself that he’s alright, pulls at you like a tide you can’t resist. The logical part of you knows he’s safe, buried in work with Charles and the others, but the emotional part, the part still reeling from the nightmare, won’t be satisfied until you see him, until you hear his voice and feel the warmth of his presence.

You make your way toward the lab, your footsteps quickening with every step, driven by the need to erase the horrible images from your mind. The closer you get, the louder the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears, the anticipation mingling with the remnants of fear that cling stubbornly to your thoughts.

When you finally reach the lab, you pause outside the door, hesitating for just a moment. You can hear faint voices from within, the familiar cadence of Charles speaking, the low hum of machines, and—after a brief stretch of silence—Remy’s voice, smooth and confident. You close your eyes, allowing the sound of his voice to wash over you, the tension in your body easing slightly as you breathe in and out, grounding yourself in the present.

The nightmare’s grip loosens, and for the first time since you woke, you feel a glimmer of calm. You don’t push the door open—you don’t need to. Just hearing him, knowing he’s there, is enough for now. You take a step back, letting the sounds of the lab fade behind you as you turn and walk away, the worry that once felt like a vice around your heart slowly beginning to release its hold. You slipped into the lab, the hum of machinery and low murmur of voices filling the air. There was a tension in the room, a palpable undercurrent of focus and urgency that everyone seemed to carry. As you looked around, your eyes scanned the faces of those working, your mind racing with the last remnants of your nightmare. The anxiety that had been simmering all morning threatened to boil over, but then, across the room, your gaze finally landed on Remy.

He was leaning against the far wall, his usual relaxed posture a deceptive facade. His fingers moved with practiced precision, shuffling a deck of cards with deliberate, almost mechanical motions. To anyone else, it might have seemed like his usual, carefree habit, but you could see the truth in the tightness of his jaw, the way his eyes were narrowed in a sharp, calculating focus. Today, he wasn’t Remy LeBeau—the playful, easy-going flirt who always had a smirk ready and a joke on his lips.

Today, he was Gambit.

You knew that look all too well—the one that said he was ready for anything, prepared to face whatever threat might come, even if it meant doing something neither of you wanted to confront. He was in full mission mode, every ounce of his attention locked on the task ahead, detached and guarded. Seeing him like this, a figure of steely resolve, made your heart ache. It reminded you of just how deeply his burdens ran, the weight of his past, and the lengths he’d go to protect those he cared about. It pained you to see him so distanced, so entrenched in the persona of Gambit, and not the Remy who you had come to care for so deeply. But you couldn’t let that show—not now, not when he needed to stay focused.

But as your eyes lingered on him, the initial rush of anxiety and fear began to dissolve, replaced by a wave of overwhelming relief. He was alive. He was here, not lying cold and lifeless on the mansion floor like in your nightmare. Your breath hitched, and a sudden lightness filled your chest, pushing against the weight of the nightmare that had clung to you all morning. Just seeing him, upright and breathing, was enough to ground you, to pull you from the dark place your mind had wandered to in the middle of the night.

Without thinking, you moved closer, your steps quickening as you closed the distance between you. Remy glanced up, sensing your approach, and for a split second, the hard lines of his face softened. The guarded look in his eyes wavered as he took you in, your presence a reminder that not everything needed to be about missions or battles, that some things were worth letting his guard down for.

“Hey, chérie,” he greeted, his voice low, tinged with a tired warmth that was unmistakably his. The cards stilled in his hands, the precision of his movements faltering as he met your gaze. He was still in that hardened mode, but you saw the flicker of the Remy you knew—the one who cared, who felt deeply, even when he tried to hide it.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you closed the gap between you completely. “I needed to see you,” you confessed quietly, the words spilling out before you could fully process them. “I had… a nightmare. About you. And I just—” You paused, your voice catching as the emotions of the morning rushed up once more.

Remy’s expression softened further, the Gambit mask slipping just a bit more as he took in your words. He reached out, resting a gentle hand on your arm, his touch firm but comforting. “I’m here, chérie,” he murmured, his voice steady. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere. Everythin’ will be fine.”

The simple reassurance was enough to bring you back fully, the last of your fears melting away as you met his eyes. You squeezed his hand, letting the warmth of his presence chase away the lingering chill of your nightmare. For a moment, nothing else mattered—not the looming test, not the weight of the mission, just the relief of knowing he was okay, that he was here, and that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The room was filled with familiar faces—Hank and Charles at the console, Logan and Wade standing nearby, their presence a reminder that this wasn’t just about you. This was about keeping everyone safe. Wade, in his usual style, broke the heavy silence with a grin and a thumbs-up. “Knock ’em dead,” he called out, the casual words completely at odds with the gravity of the situation.

The room’s tension broke for a moment as everyone turned to look at Wade. Even Remy paused in his shuffling, his expression slipping into a familiar what the fuck look before he refocused. It was a brief respite from the intensity, but it wasn’t enough to shake the looming sense of what was about to happen.

As Wade’s words echoed through the room, a hollow feeling settled in your chest. You could almost laugh at the absurdity of it—how he could lighten even this moment with his antics. But the laughter died in your throat before it could begin. There was no space for it here, not with the knowledge of what they expected of you, of him. You moved towards Hank and Charles, Hank meeting you halfway with a gentle smile on his face, “You ready for this?” He asked softly.

Your gaze drifted back to Remy, his hands moving like clockwork, shuffling the cards in a rhythm that was both familiar and foreign. You used to find comfort in that sound, in the way he’d absently play with the deck during quiet moments, the soft flutter of cards a backdrop to your conversations. But now, each snap of the cards felt like a countdown, each shuffle a reminder of the unspoken truth between you.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes, and that hurt more than you cared to admit. Because you knew why. If he looked at you, really looked, he might lose the edge he needed to keep. The edge that might save lives today. Or end one. The air in the lab was thick with anticipation, every beep and click of the equipment amplified in the tense silence. You stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a web of wires and sensors, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you tried to focus on your breathing. This was it, the moment you’d been preparing for, yet the knot in your stomach refused to untangle. You could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on you, each of them carrying a mixture of hope, concern, and uncertainty. But one gaze, in particular, weighed heavier than the rest.

You turned back to Hank, who stood by the control panel, his brow furrowed as he made the final adjustments. “Yeah,” you said, your voice a little steadier than you felt. “Yeah, I think I am.”

Hank gave you a reassuring nod, his blue eyes filled with quiet encouragement. “You’ve got this,” he said, his voice calm but earnest. He led you towards a large glass chamber, pressing a few buttons to open the door, “Just remember. You say stop we stop. Take off your headphones anything and we will shut this down,” He reassured you. You nodded in acknowledgement of his words, not trusting yourself to say anything in response. He stepped back, joining Charles, who sat a few paces away, his eyes fixed on you with a look that was both analytical and contemplative.

Charles Xavier had always been a figure of unshakable confidence—a beacon of calm in the storm of the unknown. But today, as he watched you prepare, there was a flicker of something in his expression that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t doubt exactly, but rather a deep, underlying concern that he couldn’t quite mask. His eyes followed your every move, the faintest crease of worry etched into his otherwise composed features. He could sense it—the raw, untamed power that thrummed just beneath your skin, like a live wire waiting to spark.

He had seen potential in countless students over the years, had nurtured the growth of abilities that defied explanation, but yours was different. Yours was volatile, unpredictable. A double-edged sword with the potential to cut through the very fabric of what you were trying to protect. He knew you were strong, capable of incredible feats that many would only dream of. But that strength came with a dangerous edge, one that you were still learning to control.

As you took another deep breath, trying to center yourself, Charles couldn’t help but wonder if you truly understood the magnitude of what was about to happen. He sensed the undercurrents of your power, the way it coiled tightly within you, straining against the barriers you’d subconsciously placed around it.

Charles folded his hands in front of him, his expression pensive as he exchanged a brief look with Hank. There was an unspoken understanding between them—a shared acknowledgment of the risks you were about to face. Hank’s shoulders were tense, but he remained outwardly calm, a steadying presence amidst the growing unease.

Charles, however, could feel the weight of his responsibility pressing down on him. He had made the decision to bring you here, to put you in this position, because he believed in your potential. But now, watching you steel yourself for the test, he couldn’t shake the nagging doubt at the back of his mind. Was this the right choice? Were you truly ready to face what lay ahead? And more importantly, would you be able to pull back if things went too far?

He watched as you squared your shoulders, your determination palpable despite the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. There was strength in you, yes, but there was also fear—the fear of losing control, of becoming the very thing you were fighting against. Charles could sense it, like a shadow lurking just out of sight, and it gnawed at him.

He gave you a nod, one that was meant to be encouraging, but there was a weight behind it—a silent acknowledgment of the stakes you were up against. “Remember,” Charles said softly, his voice cutting through the low hum of the lab. “You are in control. No one else. Just you.”

You nodded, trying to absorb his words, to let them ground you as you stepped forward, ready to begin. But as the lights dimmed and the equipment around you whirred to life, you couldn’t shake the lingering doubt in Charles’ eyes, the unspoken fear that maybe, just maybe, this was too much.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, as everyone resumed their preparations. Charles and Hank were speaking in low tones, their words lost in the hum of the machines. Logan stood near the door, arms crossed, a silent sentinel. His presence was reassuring in its own way, a reminder that you weren’t alone in this.

Finally, Remy’s gaze flickered to yours, just for a heartbeat. In that brief moment, you saw it—the conflict, the pain, the fear he was trying so hard to bury beneath his Gambit mask. It mirrored your own, and it made your resolve waver, just for a second. But then the moment passed, and he was Gambit again, the man with a mission, the man who might have to do the unthinkable.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look away before the tears you’d been holding back could escape. This wasn’t the time for weakness. You had to be strong, not just for yourself, but for everyone here. For Remy. Even if it meant pushing him away.

“Let’s get this over with,” you muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper, but it carried enough force to draw their attention. Hank walked back over and handed you a pair of headphones, explaining the need for them; “You’re going to hear some sounds. I can’t play them over the speakers because to the other’s it would be offensive. We don’t want to awaken anyone else’s memories but yours,” You put them on, patting them down to make sure they were on. Hank squeezed your shoulder gently, giving you a reassuring nod. He turned to look at Charles who nodded, his expression grave as he signaled for the test to begin. Hank’s fingers flew over the console, and the hum of the machines grew louder, more insistent.

As the equipment whirred to life, you took a deep breath, centering yourself, readying yourself for whatever came next. At first you heard the sound, like the sound of electricity flowing through walls. A high-powered whistle that was really more irritating then anything; but then you felt the power inside, a roiling storm, dangerous and unpredictable, bubbling, screaming to be released. But you couldn’t let it control you. Not today. As the initial surge of energy crackled through the chamber, you stole a final glance at Remy, your heart aching with the hope that he wouldn’t be faced with the agonizing decision you feared he might have to make.

Inside the chamber, the atmosphere was charged with a palpable tension. The air shimmered with a vibrant, crackling energy that danced along the walls, distorting the space with each surge. The chamber itself seemed to react to the energy, its walls bending and warping as if they were alive and trying to escape the chaotic forces at play. The normally solid, unyielding surfaces rippled like water disturbed by a storm, contorting in response to the powerful pulses. You walked over to the wall, your finger tracing along it in curiosity. Your fingers kept going through it, as if you were running your hand under a tap of water. You moved away from it, everything in the air was electrified, like the moments before a lightning storm.

Each wave of energy that coursed through the chamber felt like a physical force, pushing against you and the walls, warping reality itself. The intensity of the power made the space feel unstable, a living thing reacting to the energy’s ferocity. The harsh, crackling sounds of the energy pulses were accompanied by a visual distortion, creating a dizzying effect as if the chamber were on the verge of collapsing into itself.

In the midst of this tumultuous environment, your thoughts raced, a storm of worry and fear clouding your mind. Your heart felt like it was about to beat out of your chest. The relentless waves of energy intensified, making it clear that the chamber was reaching its limits. The volatile pulses seemed to echo your inner turmoil, each jolt a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. The sound got louder and you closed your eyes as the knot in your stomach grew, you shook your head, your hands hovering over your headphones, wondering whether you should take them off. Wondering if you had been in there for hours or mere minutes.

You were suddenly a child again, surrounded by the cold, sterile environment of the TVA. The sterile, oppressive environment pressed down on you as you were dragged from everything you knew, the anger and helplessness overwhelming. The needle’s prick, sharp and invasive, seemed to pierce through time itself, bringing the pain back with such clarity that it felt like it was happening all over again.

You collapsed to your knees, gasping for air as the onslaught of sensations overwhelmed you. The flood of memories hit like a tidal wave, more vivid and relentless than you could have ever anticipated. The sharp sting of needles piercing your skin, the cold, unyielding metal of the restraints binding your limbs, and the emotionless faces of the TVA agents—all these horrors surged back with an intensity that left you breathless.

Each pulse of energy that crackled through the chamber seemed to amplify the trauma, sending jolts of raw, disorienting power through your body. The once-stable surroundings warped and writhed in response to the energy’s force, the air crackling and humming with an unbearable intensity. The chamber felt as though it were collapsing in on itself, the walls twisting and contorting under the pressure.

“I-I can’t,” you managed to choke out, your voice barely rising above the deafening roar of the energy that filled the chamber. Tears streamed down your face, blending with the sweat that drenched your brow and stung your eyes. Each tear seemed to carry the weight of your fear and desperation, a silent testament to the pain you were enduring.

Behind you, the metal block that had once stood as a barrier began to disintegrate. It crumbled into a shower of particles, the metal fragments scattering and drifting away into nothingness. The sight of it falling apart mirrored the unraveling of your composure, as the chamber’s violent pulses made it increasingly difficult to hold on.

The energy surged with every beat of your heart, each pulse tearing away at the remnants of your defenses. You felt as though you were being pulled apart by the sheer force of the energy, your mind caught in a maelstrom of pain and fear. The memory’s intensity was unbearable, and you struggled to remain grounded, knowing that surrendering to the agony would mean losing yourself completely.

Despite the chaos, you could barely focus on the figure of Remy in the distance, his presence a flickering beacon in the storm of sensations. You could only hope that somehow, amidst the turmoil, he would find a way to avert the impending catastrophe, as you fought against the relentless tide of your own memories and the crushing weight of the energy around you. The room beyond the glass was a flurry of activity. Remy’s voice cut through the cacophony, a whisper filled with desperation and raw emotion. “You can do it,” he whispered, his hands pausing as he watched the chamber ripple. “I know you can. Just hold on.”

Scott moved quickly, his face set in grim determination as he approached Hank. “We need to shut it down now. She’s about to blow!”

Hank’s face was a mask of concentration and resolve. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “She needs this chance. We have to let her fight through it. If we stop now, she’ll never learn to control it.”

The urgency in the room crackled like a live wire, each member of the team moving with a frantic energy that matched the escalating crisis. The chamber’s glass walls, once pristine and impenetrable, now showed signs of distress, splintering under the relentless pressure of the energy surges. Cracks spider-webbed across the surface, expanding rapidly like a living organism, sending ominous shards cascading to the floor with a sharp, echoing clatter.

Scott’s eyes widened with alarm, his heart racing as he swore under his breath, the weight of the situation crashing down on him. He slapped Remy’s arm to get his attention, urgency lacing his voice as he pointed at the deteriorating walls. “We need to act now!” he shouted, the intensity of his tone cutting through the chaos like a knife, emphasizing the precariousness of their position.

Charles moved forward, watching as tiny tears in the fabric of reality itself began to take form, his expression a mask of intense concentration and concern. He turned to Hank, his voice steady but urgent. “Turn it off,” he commanded, the authority in his tone slicing through the rising panic. “We can’t let this get any worse.” The gravity of his words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the stakes they faced.

Hank sprang into action, moving swiftly to the control panel. His fingers flew over the buttons and switches with practiced precision, a testament to countless drills and contingency plans. The team had always prepared for the worst; now, that preparation was being put to the test. The hum of machinery filled the room, but it was overshadowed by the ominous creaking of the glass walls, an unsettling reminder of their vulnerability.

Ororo and Jean flanked Hank, their presence steadying in the chaos. Ororo’s hands began to glow with barely restrained energy, ready to shield the room from any further damage, while Jean’s telekinetic field rippled visibly around her, reinforcing the integrity of the chamber’s remaining structure. Their powers were palpable, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and anticipation.

Meanwhile, Wade, ever the pragmatist, rifled through a nearby emergency kit. He began distributing protective gear to the team, his usual humor replaced by a serious tone that only added to the ominous atmosphere. “If this goes sideways, at least we’ll be somewhat prepared,” he muttered, his voice low but firm, a reminder that even in the face of chaos, they needed to stay ready.

The air felt charged, thick with uncertainty and adrenaline. Each member of the team carried their own fears and hopes, unspoken but evident in their expressions. The urgency of the moment heightened every sound—the whir of machinery, the crackle of energy, the occasional clatter of falling glass—all converging into a symphony of impending crisis. Remy, his face a mixture of concern and determination, kept a vigilant eye on the chamber’s glass walls, ready to spring into action if needed. The situation was rapidly deteriorating, and he knew that their ability to contain the energy and protect you hinged on their swift and coordinated response.

The combined efforts of the team were a testament to their preparedness and resilience. Despite the chaos, they operated with a focused intensity, each member playing their part to stabilize the situation and safeguard against further breaches.

The moment you removed the headphones, the energy in the chamber intensified, tearing at the very fabric of reality around you. The sensation was overwhelming, a raw, electrifying force that seemed to bend the world to its will. You watched in horror as the glass walls began to splinter, each pulse of energy causing the cracks to spread like wildfire. The tiny tears in the universe that had been created started to expand, stretching and widening.

“Jean,” Charles called out, his voice tight with urgency. His face was etched with worry as he glanced at the deteriorating chamber. “Get everyone out of the school. Now.”

Jean’s usually composed demeanor turned pale as she processed the gravity of the situation. With a look of grim determination, she bolted towards the exits. Her mind was a whirlwind of frantic thoughts, working to ensure that everyone in the building was evacuated and safe from the impending danger.

Inside the chamber, the storm of emotion and power that raged within you was nearly all-consuming. The intensity of the energy felt like a physical weight pressing down on you, and despite your pleas of “Stop, stop,” the memories and anger surged uncontrollably. The fear gnawed at your insides, a relentless beast that refused to let go, making the situation feel increasingly desperate, “I don’t,” You swallowed the lump in your throat, your mouth suddenly becoming dry, “I don’t know how-“

Hank, ever the analytical mind, watched the heart rate monitor with growing alarm. Each spike on the graph represented a surge of energy, a dangerous release that threatened to tear apart the chamber and everyone inside. His usually calm and calculated expression was now marred by a deep frown of concern.

You were on your hands and knees, panting heavily, droplets of sweat falling from your brow as you fought to regain control of your emotions. The eerie silence that enveloped the room was only broken by the frantic sound of your breathing. Each inhale felt like a battle against the rising tide of fear that threatened to consume you, making your powers surge with a dangerous intensity. Panic clawed at your chest, urging you to lose control, to let the energy explode outward.

Scott’s eyes widened in horror as he witnessed the glass shattering before him, the sound almost surreal in its suddenness. It was as if time had slowed, stretching the moment into an eternity. His instinct was to rush toward the chamber, but the sheer force of the energy radiating from it held him back. The air crackled with electricity, and he could feel the intense power coursing through the space, tingling against his skin and making his heart race.

Then, with a deafening roar, the final shards of glass exploded outward, shattering the silence like a terrible bell tolling. The energy burst free with a violent force, sending a shockwave rippling through the chamber. It was all-encompassing, throwing everyone outside to the ground. The impact was jarring, a brutal reminder of the raw power unleashed in that moment, shaking the very foundations of the building.

Ororo, caught off guard by the sudden blast, scrambled to regain her footing. Her face transformed into a mask of shock and concern as she attempted to shield herself from the debris swirling around her. Her eyes darted frantically, searching for any signs of further danger or damage, the urgency of the situation igniting her instincts.

Wade, ever the pragmatist, was thrown back by the shockwave, landing hard on the ground, the breath knocked out of him. He rolled to his knees, gasping for air, his mind racing as he tried to assess the extent of the damage. Around him, the chaos unfolded like a nightmarish scene, yet beneath the disbelief lay a fierce determination to figure out their next move.

In the midst of this turmoil, Charles stood as a beacon of calm authority. Despite the destruction unfolding around him, his focus remained laser-sharp on the immediate priority: ensuring everyone’s safety and regrouping. His mind raced through strategies and contingencies, but the sight of the chamber’s devastation weighed heavily on him—a stark reminder of the severity of their situation.

The air was thick with tension, the aftermath of the explosion hanging like a fog, blurring the edges of reality. You struggled against the whirlwind of emotion inside you, the fear that losing control would only exacerbate the chaos. Each breath felt like a fight against the tempest brewing within, and you could feel the energy pulsing just beneath the surface, desperate to break free.

The room was a cacophony of confusion and distress as the team struggled to process the sheer scale of what had just happened. The intense, crackling energy that had burst from the chamber left an unsettling silence in its wake, broken only by the sounds of their labored breathing and the distant wail of sirens as emergency protocols were activated.

You were on your hands and knees, panting heavily, sweat dripping down your face as you struggled to regain control over the tempest of emotions swirling within you. The eerie silence hung in the air, broken only by your ragged breaths, amplifying the tension that crackled like electricity. Panic clawed at your chest, threatening to unleash your powers with uncontrollable force.

Remy knelt in front of you, his hands gently cradling your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I’m here,” he said, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared.” His eyes were filled with urgency and a deep, unwavering commitment, but you could only shake your head, the fear overwhelming you.

“I can feel it,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I can feel it in my body.” The energy pulsed just beneath your skin, an insistent reminder of the power that threatened to break free at any moment, “I can’t stop it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” You cried as you looked behind you, seeing the widening gap between this world and the next.

Ororo rushed over, her expression a mixture of concern and authority. “Remy, you need to get back!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the thick air as the floor beneath you began to crack ominously. The sound echoed like a warning, the fissures spider-webbing outwards, threatening to pull you into the chaos below.

But Remy held you tighter, his grip firm yet gentle. “Fight it,” he urged, his voice steady despite the tremors around you. “You’re stronger than this.”

You shook your head vigorously, the weight of your emotions pressing down on you. “Just go!” you pleaded, desperation lacing your words.

He let out a small, bittersweet laugh, his eyes softening for a moment. “In every universe, I’ve got you,” he said, a hint of nostalgia breaking through the tension. But the levity faded quickly as the ground quaked beneath you, reminding you both of the urgency of the situation.

Suddenly, the energy inside you surged violently, and with it came an explosion of power that erupted from your core. The force shattered the air around you, sending a shockwave tearing through the chamber. Remy was thrown back, but his gaze remained locked on you, filled with determination.

As you lost control, the cracks in the floor widened, and the very fabric of the chamber began to warp and twist. You could feel the energy coiling around you, a tempest ready to unleash chaos. The walls trembled, and shards of glass fell like rain, creating a deadly shower.

Scott, recovering from the shock, shouted commands to the team. “We need to contain her!” He rallied the others, forming a protective barrier around you as the energy surged higher. Ororo conjured a gust of wind to push back the debris, while Jean focused her telekinetic abilities to stabilize the chamber’s structure.

In the midst of the swirling chaos, you could see the physical manifestations of your abilities. The way the energy twisted and writhed, taking on menacing shapes, threatening to overwhelm everything in their path. You felt their presence, dark and consuming, and the fear escalated, feeding the energy that was spiraling out of your control.

“Stay with us!” Scott urged, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “You can do this!”

But the voices of your friends became muffled, drowned out by the roar of the energy surging within you. Remy, regaining his footing, stared at you in awe. Taking in the subtle glow of your skin, the way the air around you twisted and turns as the energy slowly began to eat away at what was in it’s path. You stared in horror as the energy emanating from you twisted and coiled like a living thing, slowly disintegrating everything in its path. The walls of the chamber, once strong and protective, began to crumble, the glass shattering into a million sparkling shards that glittered ominously in the air. Each crack that spidered out from your feet felt like a heartbeat, pulsing with the energy that refused to be contained.

The realization hit you like a physical blow: you were the source of this devastation. Panic surged through you, amplifying the chaos. The very essence of your powers was unraveling the world around you, turning solid structures into mere dust and echoes. You could see the fear etched on the faces of your friends, their expressions a mix of shock and desperation as they began to understand the magnitude of the situation.

Anna moved to stand beside Remy, her eyes wide with dread. She exchanged glances with the other team members, each one grappling with the grim realization that they were powerless to intervene in the way they thought you could.

Anna’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent. “Remy, I get that you hate the idea of hurting her because you love her. But you have to see what’s happening! Give your powers to me, and I can do it. I'll stop her so you don’t have to.” Her words were laced with desperation, her eyes pleading as she turned to Remy. She could see the agony etched into his features, the internal battle tearing him apart.

Remy’s gaze flickered to you, his heart pounding in his chest as he took in the sight of you—your body trembling with the effort to contain the power that threatened to consume you whole. His mind raced, grappling with the weight of the promise he had made, a promise that now seemed impossible to keep.

“Non, Anna,” Remy’s voice was low, steady despite the storm raging inside him. “I made her a promise.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, a deep sorrow reflected in their depths. “I told her… that if it ever came to this, it would be me. I won’ let anyone else do this.” His voice faltered, his words heavy with emotion. “Even if it kills me t’ do it.”

Anna’s breath caught in her throat, her resolve wavering as she saw the unwavering determination in Remy’s eyes. She wanted to argue, to push back against the madness of it all, but the look on his face—the raw, unfiltered pain—silenced her. She stepped closer to him, her hand reaching out to grasp his arm, a silent plea for him to reconsider. “Remy, please…” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of sound that filled the room. “There’s no shame in not being able to do this. You love her, and that’s okay, it’s not a weakness to say you can’t do it.”

But Remy shook his head, his jaw set with grim resolve. “No other way,” he said, his voice resolute. “It has t’ be me. I promised her. ”

Anna moved to stand beside him, her eyes wide with dread as she turned to face the unfolding disaster. The scene before them was nothing short of terrifying—the sheer magnitude of your power, the way it bent the very fabric of reality around you. The way it had torn through the fabric of this universe and into the next. The other team members stood frozen, their minds racing to find a solution, but the grim realization was settling in. They were outmatched, out of options, powerless to intervene in the way they had hoped.  Charles and Hank felt their chests sink, both realising that they had all greatly underestimated how strong your abilities truly were. The air felt heavy with dread, a thick fog of impending disaster. They stood at a distance, helpless spectators to the unravelling reality, their hearts racing as they struggled to comprehend the extent of the chaos.

“Stay back!” Anna shouted, her voice cutting through the tension, but it felt futile. The ground beneath your feet continued to crack, fissures spreading like veins across the floor, and the walls trembled as if they were alive, groaning under the strain of your unleashed powers.

Scott’s gaze darted around the room, analyzing the shifting environment. “We can’t let this go on!” he yelled, urgency lacing his words, but even he couldn’t find a way to approach you without risking being swallowed by the chaos.

“Get away from her! We’ll figure this out!” he directed the others, but they were already distancing themselves, instinctively knowing that any attempt to close the gap could lead to disaster.

The energy radiating from you pulsed like a dark heartbeat, a constant reminder of the destruction it was capable of. You felt it inside you—a mix of fear and power, an overwhelming force that threatened to consume everything. The sight of your friends recoiling from the impending doom only amplified your terror.

You knew what was happening, it was almost as if you were a prisoner in your own body, watching the fear on everyone’s faces as you were unable to control what was happening. You closed your eyes, trying to slow down your breathing, trying to do anything that might cut off that fear of what was happening. But it was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. The power surged stronger, as if reacting to your fear, feeding on it, causing the environment around you to disintegrate even faster.

Remy’s expression turned from concern to sheer horror as he watched the walls crumble. “You have to fight it!” he shouted, his voice strained. “You’re stronger than this! You can control it!”

But with each passing second, the reality of your powers’ destructive nature sank deeper into your bones. The ground quaked beneath you, and the air felt electric, tinged with the scent of ozone and something more sinister—a palpable sense of dread. The fear of losing control morphed into the fear of what would happen if you didn’t regain it soon.

Anna, her eyes darting nervously, gripped Remy’s arm tightly. “We’re out of time Remy, it’s now or you’re going to lose not just us but her too!” she urged, glancing around anxiously. The others nodded, their expressions a mix of fear and determination, yet they were paralyzed by the reality that getting too close would only endanger them further.

The chamber felt like it was closing in, a dark, suffocating space that mirrored the turmoil inside you. You could see the panic in their eyes, the realization that they were witnessing not just a powerful display of abilities but a potential catastrophe. The energy pulsed again, and the ground beneath you splintered further, sending a shockwave that knocked everyone off their feet.

“Please!” you cried out, your voice breaking as you fought against the tide of chaos. “I don’t want to hurt anyone! I can’t—”

But the power surged, undeterred by your pleas. The walls began to shimmer and fade, the very fabric of the chamber unraveling. It was a horrifying spectacle, watching everything you knew disintegrate before your eyes, and the knowledge that it was your fault made the horror all the more unbearable.

As the room continued to collapse, you felt the weight of your friends’ fear pressing down on you, pushing you closer to the edge. In that moment, surrounded by the crumbling remnants of what was once a safe space, you realized that the fight wasn’t just against the energy—it was against the fear that threatened to consume you and everything around you. The stakes had never been higher, and the battle for control had only just begun. Remy felt a cold knot tightening in his stomach as he processed the gravity of the situation. The chaotic scene around him blurred, drowning in a wave of emotion. He had always been the protector, the one who stepped in when things spiraled out of control, but now he faced an impossible choice—one that threatened to shatter everything he held dear.

Anna turned to him, her eyes filled with urgency and concern. “You need to stop this,” she insisted, her voice steady but tinged with fear. Remy continued to watch you, his heart aching as he saw the struggle etched across your face. The power within you surged and pulsed, a volatile force threatening to consume not just you, but everyone around you.

“You know you can,” Anna pressed, her voice rising slightly. “You told me once that you would tear the world apart to protect her. So protect her now. From herself.” The words hung heavily in the air, each syllable a reminder of the burden he had to bear.

Remy’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the raw fear in your eyes. You looked up at him, and for a moment, the chaos faded, leaving only the connection between you two. “You promised me,” you said, your voice trembling, but then a sudden wave of pain swept over you, and your expression twisted in agony. “Please!”

The sight of you in torment sent a jolt through him, amplifying the battle raging inside. He had made a promise, one that now felt like a weight pressing down on his chest. He knew what he had to do, but the thought of neutralizing you, of using his abilities against someone he cared for so deeply, was a visceral horror.

As the ground cracked further beneath him, Remy’s mind raced, torn between the instinct to protect you and the dire need to stop the destruction. The chamber itself seemed to echo his turmoil, the walls trembling as if in empathy for the emotional storm he was facing. He could feel the energy pulsing through the air, a living entity that responded to his fear and uncertainty, and it scared him.

The desperation in your tone echoed the frantic pounding of Remy’s heart. Every instinct screamed at him to rush forward, to shield you from the chaos swirling around, to pull you close and keep you safe. But the truth was an unrelenting weight in his chest—if he didn’t act, it wouldn’t just be you that he lost. Everyone else in this room, this entire place, would be swallowed whole by the storm of energy tearing through you. He had to be the one to save you, even if it meant facing the darkest parts of himself.

Remy stood his ground, eyes locked on you as you stood there, enveloped in a swirling mass of volatile power. His hands trembled as he held up a glowing card, its edges flickering with dangerous, pulsating light. His expression was a tangled mess of fear and resolve, desperation bleeding into his voice as he called out to you. “Please, chérie, don’t make me do this,” he begged, the words nearly lost in the deafening roar of power filling the chamber. His voice cracked, revealing the raw terror lurking beneath his calm facade. He didn’t want to hurt you; God, he’d rather take a hundred hits himself than see you suffer for even a second.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, each droplet catching the erratic light, and you gave a shaky nod, your voice breaking. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

The cold, gut-wrenching realization hit Remy like a sledgehammer to the chest—this wasn’t just about neutralizing a threat anymore. It was about pulling you back from the brink, about saving you from the uncontrollable fear that had sunk its claws into your soul. It wasn’t just some powerful force you were struggling with; it was the weight of everything that had ever happened to you. The TVA, your childhood. Everything. Things that he didn’t know how to fix. Memories that he wasn’t able to stop you from fearing. The weight of it pressed down on him, tightening his throat and leaving him gasping for breath.

Remy’s heart pounded like a drum of war as he stepped closer, his eyes never leaving yours. The energy around you crackled, growing more unstable with each passing second, and he could see the torment etched in every line of your face. The pain, the fear, the battle raging inside you—it was all there, raw and unfiltered, tearing at his very core. He leaned in close to you, his voice soft but laced with a desperate urgency. “Je t’aime,” he murmured, the words spilling from his lips like a prayer, broken and fervent. It was a confession, a plea, a final, desperate attempt to reach you through the storm.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, steeling himself for the inevitable. He knew what he had to do, but it tore him apart all the same. The card in his hand charged with a high voltage, his heart slamming in his chest. His hands moved with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times, but each motion felt like a betrayal. He hesitated, his fingers hovering for just a second longer than they should have, before finally pressing the charged card against your chest. The energy buzzed between you, wild and unstable.

“Please, trust me,” he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. “There’s no one I trust more.” You replied.

Then, without another second’s hesitation, he set the card off. The explosion tore through the air, the sound a deafening roar that drowned out everything else. The force of the blast slammed into you, throwing you backward like a ragdoll, the impact sending you crashing into the far wall with a sickening thud. Remy watched, his expression twisting with anguish, as you crumpled to the ground, your body limp and motionless.

The room was finally still, the violent storm of energy that had raged moments before now reduced to a haunting silence. Broken machinery and scattered debris lay in disarray, the aftermath of the struggle evident in every shattered piece and charred wall. The air, once thick with the crackle of uncontrolled power, now felt heavy with the stillness, as if the entire world was exhaling after holding its breath for far too long.

Charles looked up, his gaze drawn to the anomaly hanging in the air—a tear in the very fabric of reality, shimmering with an otherworldly glow. It was a sight both terrifying and mesmerizing, a wound in the universe itself that threatened to unravel everything they knew. But as he watched, something incredible began to happen: the tear, which had pulsed with a relentless, chaotic force, was now slowly beginning to close.

The edges of the rift shimmered and wavered, like the mirage of a heatwave on a distant horizon, pulling inward as though the universe itself was working to heal the damage that had been done. It was awe-inspiring, a cosmic dance of creation and destruction, and Charles could feel the immense power at work, the delicate balance being restored as the tear folded back on itself.

He felt the lingering energy in the air, a faint echo of the storm that had raged within you. It was humbling to witness—this immense, untamed power being drawn back into the ether, the universe mending itself in a way that defied comprehension. The rift continued to close, the jagged edges smoothing over as if it had never been there at all, leaving behind only a faint shimmer, like the last glow of embers before they fade to darkness.

Charles’s gaze shifted back to where you lay unconscious on the ground, your body limp and motionless, yet at peace. The fierce battle within you had subsided, leaving only the quiet rise and fall of your chest as the room settled into an uneasy calm. The danger had passed, but the enormity of what had just occurred hung heavy in the air.

He could see the exhaustion etched into Remy’s face, the toll of what had just transpired weighing on him heavily. His hands were still trembling, his breath uneven, but his eyes were fixed on you with a mixture of relief and something else—a quiet reverence for the incredible, terrible power you had wielded, and the quiet strength it took to rein it back in.

The others stood in stunned silence, absorbing the magnitude of what they had witnessed. They had seen power before—had faced off against gods and monsters—but this was different. This was raw, unchecked potential, capable of tearing apart the very fabric of existence. And yet, as they watched the universe stitch itself back together, there was a sense of hope, a fragile thread of possibility that maybe, just maybe, you could learn to control what lay within.

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the silence and the echoes of your power still thrumming faintly through the air. He knew the battle was far from over, but as he watched the last remnants of the tear finally vanish, he allowed himself a small, fleeting moment of awe. You had faced the brink of destruction and pulled back, even if only by a thread.

The room, once a chaotic battleground, now stood as a solemn testament to that struggle—a quiet reminder of the potential for both ruin and redemption that lay within you. Everyone looked around, their breaths heavy and eyes wide, but it was the sight of your lifeless body that stole the air from the room. It was like a dagger to Remy’s soul, the sharp edge cutting deep and merciless. He walked over to you, pressing his fingers to your neck, feeling the steady thump of your pulse underneath his fingers. It was a small relief, knowing that you were still there, still with him. But the guilt in his chest still lingered.

He had given you the highest charge he could summon, a charge potent enough to obliterate even the most formidable of foes. It was a calculated move, a necessary evil, but the reality of it was a weight he could hardly bear. His chest ached with every beat of his heart, each throb a reminder of the crushing burden of his actions. He had acted with purpose, with resolve, but the cost—the unbearable cost—was right there before him in the form of your still, unmoving body. He felt like the walls were closing in, the chamber that had once echoed with power now suffocating him with its heavy silence.

The moment stretched, heavy with tension, until Hank finally looked up at Remy, his voice steady but soft.

“She’s okay, Remy,” Hank assured him. “She’s unconscious, but she’s going to be okay.”

Relief crashed over Remy like a tidal wave, but it did little to soothe the storm of emotions raging inside him. His gaze lingered on your still form, his heart clenching painfully at the sight of you lying so vulnerable, so fragile. The guilt and regret gnawed at him, relentless and unyielding. He had always been a man who could make the hard choices, who could do what needed to be done, but this… this was different. This was you. And the thought that he might have been the one to harm you, to push you to the edge, was unbearable.

As Hank moved to stand, the sound of Wade and Logan’s voices filtered through the background. They were standing a short distance away, their tones hushed but laced with awe and a hint of unease.

“Did you see that?” Wade muttered, his voice unusually serious. “I’ve seen some crazy stuff, but this… this was something else.”

Logan nodded, his expression grim. “She’s powerful. More powerful than any of us realized. But power like that… it’s dangerous. It can go either way.”

Wade’s eyes flicked to you, lying unconscious on the floor, and he shook his head slowly. “Yeah, but it’s more than that, ain’t it? It was like she was holding back, something bigger. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

Logan grunted in agreement. “We’ll need to be careful. Real careful.”

Charles, who had been watching the exchange silently, finally turned to Remy. The weight of everything that had happened was etched deeply into his face, but there was a softness in his gaze as he looked at Remy. “You did the right thing, Remy,” Charles said quietly. “No, Charles,” Remy said, his voice rough, catching slightly in his throat. “You don’t understand. I froze. I shoulda stopped her sooner, I promised her, but I… I couldn’t do it.”

Charles watched Remy closely, feeling the waves of anguish radiating off him. Remy’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles turning white as he fought to keep his emotions in check.

“She was countin’ on me, and I froze because… because I couldn’t hurt her. I looked at her, and it was like everythin’ I thought I could do just slipped away. I saw her eyes, and all I could think about was what if I hurt her more than I help her? What if I make it worse?” Remy’s voice broke, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. “I ain’t never been afraid to make the hard call, but this… this was different.”

Charles’s gaze softened, his understanding deepening. He could see the torment in Remy’s eyes, the struggle of a man torn between his duty and his heart. “Remy, what you felt is not weakness. It’s proof of how much you care for her. The connection you two share—it’s powerful. It’s human. Freezing in that moment doesn’t mean you failed; it means you were overwhelmed by something beyond your control.”

Remy’s jaw tightened, his frustration bubbling over. “But I made her a promise, Charles. I told her I’d be the one to do it, no matter what. And I almost couldn’t. What if this happens again and I can’t stop her?”

Charles sighed softly, his hand still on Remy’s shoulder, offering a steady presence. “Remy, the fact that you hesitated shows the depth of your bond with her. You’re not a machine; you’re a person who loves deeply. And sometimes, love makes it hard to do what needs to be done. You did what you could, and that’s enough. We all falter, but what matters is how we move forward from here.”

Remy swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. The guilt still clung to him, but Charles’s words were a small balm, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in this. “I just… I just wanted to protect her,” Remy admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And when it came down to it, I didn’t know how.”

Charles nodded, his expression one of deep empathy. “You’re doing it now, Remy. By being here, by caring, by refusing to give up. That’s how we protect those we love. Not always by force, but by standing by them, even when it’s hard.”

Remy’s shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of his emotions still heavy but now accompanied by a renewed sense of purpose. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Charles. I just… I can’t lose her.”

Charles gave a gentle squeeze to Remy’s shoulder. “You won’t. We won’t.We have a better understanding of her triggers, of her abilities. But you’re right—this is your fight as much as it is hers. And with your heart in the right place, I know you’ll do what’s needed.”

Remy nodded, his gaze returning to you. The pain in his chest still throbbed, but now it was tempered by the flicker of hope. He hadn’t been able to act when he should have, but he wasn’t done fighting. Not by a long shot.

Charles gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, considering his words carefully. He could feel the depth of Remy’s pain, the desperate need to make things right. “I might have a way I can help her,” Charles began, his tone measured. “But it won’t be easy, and it will take time. She needs to regain control, to learn how to manage this power within. But to do that she needs to learn how to control her fear.”

Remy’s heart ached at the thought of you facing this battle alone. He nodded slowly, his resolve hardening. “What do we do?”

Charles placed a reassuring hand on Remy’s shoulder. “But I have an idea, something that might help her find her balance, her center. We’ll need to approach this delicately, but I believe it could work. But first we let her heal, let her find her feet. ”

Remy’s gaze remained fixed on you, his heart heavy with the weight of what had happened, but also with a flicker of hope. He would do whatever it took to help you, no matter the cost.

“Whatever it takes,” Remy whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Whatever it takes.”

The pain in his chest was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but now it was joined by something else—determination. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it, no matter how hard the road ahead might be. He would help you find your way back, even if it meant walking through the fire with you. Because this was you. And losing you was something he couldn’t bear.

Charles nodded, understanding the depth of Remy’s resolve. “Then we start now. Together.”

And as the room began to settle into an uneasy calm, the team members exchanged silent glances, each of them realizing that the journey ahead would test them all. But there was one thing they were certain of: they wouldn’t let you face it alone. Remy’s eyes remained fixed on your unconscious form, his thoughts a tangled mess of guilt, fear, and regret. He had never hesitated in battle, never wavered when the stakes were high, but today was different. Today, it had been you on the other side. As Charles’s words of reassurance hung in the air, Remy shook his head, frustration and pain etched deeply into his features. He wouldn’t let himself hesitate to protect you. Never again.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

♧ ⎯ THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

summ.  Something is wrong with Gambit. Deadpool & Wolverine are attacked— but they aren’t the target.  pairing.  Void!Gambit x f!Anomaly!reader , (established in #WELUCKYFEW) w.count.  3.6k a/n.  Kickstarting a potential storyline?! I’m gonna be so honest I don’t know either but. Maybe not. C’est la vie. Warnings for canon-violence & gore!

CURRENTLY, IN DOWNTOWN NEW YORK:

WADE HAS A BLADE EMBEDDED through his throat. 

He hadn’t expected his Friday night to go like this.

This, by way of meaning: getting glass shards straight to the eyes after some asshole decided not to use the front door, and proceeding to wreak absolute havoc throughout the entirety of Wade’s apartment in an attempt to kill him. 

Which brings us to now.

“Can we— eurgh— please ta— ack—!” Wade retches, gargling in his own blood as he slowly unsheathes the sword out his neck. 

He spits the metal-tang-curdle of saliva to the floor with a hiss. His teeth and the house carpet stains an ugly vermillion. Somewhere amidst the long fight, Dogpool has scampered for cover with the roomba.

“Canwepleasetakeatimeout?!” 

A picture frame shatters above him in reply. Wade dives to the living room, booting the coffeetable onto its side for cover. “Fuck me, this’ll all be a pain in the ass to clean up once we’re done h— ooh, what’s this?”

The tipped over IKEA table Blind Al set up two days ago reveals, stunningly: a concealed Glock 47. And knowing the old lady, these— alongside every weapon she’s likely squirrel-stashed around this house— is probably loaded.

(It’s by no means a gold-plated Desert Eagle from Nicepool— God rest his soul— but Wade makes a mental note to kiss Al on the mouth once she’s back from the laundromat.)

He unholsters the pistol; unclips the magazine; gauges— only 5 bullets. (…Does she kill people in her spare time? He’ll have to ask.) “You couldn’t’ve attacked me in my superhero suit? Would be so much more visually appealing for the audience, y’know.”

The assailant lets out an accented snarl beneath the dark of her hood. “D’ya ever shut th’ fuck up?”

“Uh, no? Wow, it’s like you don’t even know who you’re trying to kill here—” 

Wade slides across the floor and fires. With a sharp dodge, the first bullet narrowly misses, bursting brick and drywall instead; The second clips the assassin’s shoulder as she curses.

“You sure you’re not supposed to be after Elektra instead? I mean, the whole hooded ninja-assassin-lady fit is kinda giving edgy early-2000’s era.”

A scowl. Ninja-lady hurtles a dagger just as he stands, slicing a whistle into the air. Wade only just deflects it with a timed swing from the same sword he’d yanked out his neck. 

“Aw, all out of steel? This is why you shouldn’t bring a gun to a knifefight, beautiful.” He narrows his eyes. “Hold on I said that wr—”

“All this fuckin’ chatter!” she groans, brandishing another sword. Dusklight scatters through the drizzling rain and the window curtains, glimmering against her blade— and for a moment Wade catches it reflecting in her eyes: crescent-like; amused. 

She’s smiling. Purposefully. 

“Where did you even—? Did you pull that out your prison-wallet?”  

“We been fightin’ a while now, Wilson,” the assassin ignores, looming like a living shadow in the dim of the kitchen. There’s blood splattered against her plain mask and the edges of her cowl. Most of it belongs to him. “Y’know y’self that this shoulda ended, say, ten minutes ago, now?”

“Well, that’s why I politely asked for a time-out, genius.”

“Makes y’wonder if this whole fight’s really ‘bout you, non?”

Wade stutter-steps.

His gut twists. 

Logan, he thinks, instinctively. Then: Vanessa, Blind Al, Laura, Gambit, and you— Stray.

This has been… a stall. A fucking distraction.

“Hah! See, now you’ve just pissed me off,” the merc sing-songs, tone falling flat. It’s one thing to come after him; another to come after his family. 

He tamps down the worry, rolls his shoulders. “Right, well.”

Deadpool recalls his rounds. 

Three remain; one already chambered. More than enough. 

“Let’s fucking dance, shall we?”

…ALSO CURRENTLY, SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK:

“WHO—” 

Stab. 

“THE FUCK.” 

Stab. 

“SENT—” 

Stab. 

“YOU?”

The mountain of a man— if Logan can even call him that anymore after the absolute carnage he’d dealt to him in this seedy back alleyway— cries out a desperate ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ just as he rears back for another strike.

“God, wish they never assigned me to the fuckin’ Wolverine. Goddamn suicide mission,” he coughs out. His curly beard looks near black from the fountain of blood dribbling out his lips, and pooling down his neck where it stains his torn hood with gore.

Thunder rolls in the distance. The flash in the nightsky swaths Logan into cutting edges; paints him menacingly in every sharp crease and divot of his features. Rainwater mix with the streaks of red on his arms, dripping down, down, down to the blade-edge of his claws.

“Tell me what I wanna know and I might just let your sorry ass live.”

“I wasn’t told who sent us, okay—?” The answer has Logan snarling. “—Dude, I said wait, I said wait! You pointy prick— Jesus. None of this is personal, okay?”

A grunt. It’s nigh animalistic in sound. “Holding a gun to my head when I was mindin’ my own business is pretty fuckin’ personal to me.”

And they were Adamantium bullets too. He’d come prepared.

“Chill,” he laughs. “We’re not here for you. Or Wade Wilson, for that matter.”

Logan’s hairs stand on end. “What the fuck did y’just say, bub?”

“I said,” the man heaves, head lolling under its own weight and eyes heavy from the bloodloss. “This ain’t about you, or your cancer-fucked boyfriend.”

The crunch that resounds from between his jaw and Logan’s fist is monstrous. He’s half-sure he may have unhinged something, or dislodged a row of teeth. 

He snatches the assassin by the collar and slams him against a dumpster, hard enough to leave a dent. “How many else of you are there? Who the fuck are you after?”

“Not enough to be honest,” comes his wheezing answer. It’s a laughter churned in derision and obvious resignation. He knows he won’t survive this. The corners of his vision have already begun to vignette.

“Do you really want to measure your pride against my fucking mercy, bub?”

A huff, akin to the flap of a white flag. The behemoth relents. “Four… of us. Too many… and we’d cause an incursion.”

There’s no time to question what the hell that meant. He’s slipping.

“You didn’t come here to kill me,” Logan repeats, grip loosening. “So why’d you bother trying?”

The assassin grins, teeth shining crimson with fresh blood. 

“To buy ‘im time.”

5-ISH MINUTES AGO:

If war had taught you one thing, it’d be that instinct will save your life.

And something is definitely wrong. 

It needles over your skin and nape, makes your insides pace like a caged animal— you feel it whenever you turn the cornerstone down 5th Avenue, when you pass the pour of newsstands at the end of the street; feel it at the cafe just opposite the X-Men’s Academy grounds where you go to mark papers. 

You tell yourself to shake it off. That it’s just you settling into a new Universe, but—

“Rain caught you?” you ask, between the vinyl-croon in your shared downtown apartment, “Dinner’s ready soon. Allons manger.”  *

“Ooh! Smellin’ mighty fine up in here.” The front door is closed shut. Remy slides his coat off and tosses it lazily to the sofa armrest. Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t comment. “And oui. Rain caught me out a bit.”

“Them brigands give y’any trouble?” he asks, taking the plates from your hand to set once he’d come up to the kitchen island.  *

You make a noise as you shut the fridge door and turn with two beers in hand. Remy laughs. “Mais, y’been dealt a bad hand today, chèr?”

“How could you tell?” you feign a gasp, sliding a bottle his way and leaning back the counter as you sigh. “Students were restless today. And, my phone’s dead too. Drenched in the rain the second I stepped out the school. Stuffed it in rice and praying it’ll live.”

Then, suddenly— your nose wrinkles. You turn sharply towards the stove to check if anything’s burning. “Smell’s like smoke.”

A pop of his beercap. It clatters as he makes a hum of assent. “Probably me. M’sorry, chèr, I’ll change—”

“You smoke—?” 

Remy colours a little. 

“—Since when?”

There’s blatant surprise in your eyes more than there is confusion. Your gaze flickers to his hand. He has a deck in his palm; Charlier cut. One-handed shuffle. 

Anxious tic. You haven’t seen him do it in a while.

“Mais…” 

Needles, you’re reminded. That reflexive needling at the back of your mind is creeping at the margins again. 

“I, I’m not stopping you,” comes your quick answer. Your hands are raised in surrender; you aren’t here to interrogate or stop him from his will. “Just— I didn’t expect it. Is, Is everything okay?”

“Mais oui,” he nods, trying to reassure you. “S’not often. S’just t’help me blow off some steam. Ain’t gotta worry that pretty lil’ head a’ yours, chèr, I promise.”

Your Remy had been a smoker. You’ve told him this before. Perhaps it’s a Multiversal thing, too. “No smoking indoors, though, deal?”

He purses his lips, looking sheepish. “Deal.”

The topic is dropped; A bated silence falls as he watches you dish dinner for the both of you. His intuition has always been precise, however, and it’d only been a matter of time before he spoke up again after he watched you sidle into your high-chair opposite his and push your food around.

“And you?” he presses, carefully, “Can hear the gears in y’head turnin’ from here, chèr. Talk t’me. Quoi ça dit?”  *

It’d be pointless to lie. You glance at the rain pelting like hellfire at the window, then back at him, shaking your head as if in dismissal. “Nothing. I just feel like there’s someone out there, lately. Like we’re being… I don’t know.”

“Watched?” he offers, gauging your reaction.

Yes, you think to say, but you didn’t want to appear paranoid. You’ve had this conversation with Logan before; the thrown looks over your shoulders, the twitchiness, the habit of sitting with your back against the wall; Unending disquiet that simmers to a slow boil in your marrows. 

(The war in your Universe may not have killed you, but it’d broken you beyond repair.)

“...I feel like something bad’s coming. Like someone’s gonna break through the window or—” You shut your mouth with a click before that thought goes off on a nervous tangent. “My, my body keeps preparing for a fight. Like there’s something out to get me all the time.”

Remy’s eyes are curious. Observing. He’s stopped fidgeting as he listens, deck resting in ready position. 

“Chèr,” he begins, gently taking your hand from across the table and—

You almost yelp.

His touch is cold.

(Needle-like.)

You very nearly pull away.

(Instinct.)

Dread crows like a song; a banshee’s cry in your mind’s eye.

“Easy, hey,” he frowns, worry painting across his face when you slide your hand from his. “Chèr.”

“I—” Panic roars in your chest. Your lungs expand. It’s the beer bottle, you reason, that’s why his touch is cold. Maybe even the rain. Hell, this could just be an anxiety attack.  

“I’m fine. I’m fine, sorry, I’m just— tired. Yeah.”

His gaze softens.

“Hey. Look at me, chèr. Y’home. Y’safe. Y’know that.” 

You nod. Press your eyes shut. Take a gulp of beer, focus on the burn; on the distant New Orleanian croons of the record player just under the window. 

“Gambit ain’t gon’ let anythin’ happen t’you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree, smiling tightly. It doesn’t reach your eyes; does little to dispel your razor-edged wariness. 

He notices. He always does.

“How ‘bout a game t’clear y’mind, chèr?” he offers, nudging his plate an inch to make way for his deck of cards. “Go fish?”

You laugh. It’s fragile. “You’re gonna let me win, anyway.”

“There’s that smile,” Remy hums under his breath, just enough that you can catch it. “—An’ no, chèr. Cross my heart, Gambit ain’t gon’ let y’win. Mais, y’know how I get wit’ games.”

He does cross his heart, playful, then shuffles his cards. You try to let yourself sink back into familiarity in his flourishes and its sounds; watch his hands work deft to chase away the anxiety still clawing under your skin. 

He deals.

You adjust your cards. 

…ven of Diamonds, Queen of Hearts, Nine—

Your blood runs cold.

“Is…” 

You try to swallow back the horror as you look at the neat fan in your hand. “…Is this a new deck, Remy?”

The next bit of what he says sounded off to your ears; a record scratch, a jerk of a needle. 

“Mais non, this the same deck Gambit been usin’ since the start.” He shoots you a confused look.

(It’s like a muslin-thin veil has been lifted: 

The nerves and paralysing paranoia, his precious brown leather coat thrown carelessly over the couch instead of being hung reverently on the rack, the grotty scent of cigarette smoke beneath the rain, the anxious shuffling of his cards at the table, the uncanny observation and scrutinising— and perhaps, what should’ve been the most damning of all— his ice-cold touch. 

No warmth. To the touch. In his gaze. In his smile. In energy.)

“Chèr? Y’alright?”

No. No, you’re not fucking alright.

Because this deck has a Nine of Hearts. That card has been with you, since the Void; since the start.

This…

This man is not Remy.

“Yes,” you say, and you internally scream at your reply— too quick. Too quick to hide the obvious lie. “Sorry, I just gotta— I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Chèr—?” he frowns, chair scraping as he stands to try reaching out and steadying you.

Your heartbeat skyrockets. Instinct howls inside you. Everything has been recontextualised, and suddenly every difference about him jumps out: the rough edges, the muss of how his hair falls, the cut at the tip of his ear you never noticed.

“No, stay. Stay, I’m fine—” You teeter your way off the stool. It’s not entirely a lie that you felt like throwing up, but the omission is: there’s a gun you keep under your pillow, and another under the bathroom sink.

Your phone is dead. This will have to be a fight. 

And against a mutant? You have nothing but a slim chance.

“Stray,” he calls. His voice would be soft to anyone else's ears, but you hear it now— the difference, the rasp, the hardness as his heavy footfalls draw close behind you in the hall. Frustration. Not concern. “Talk to me, chèr.”

You slam the bathroom door shut with a resounding click of the lock. You let the sink run and drown out the noise of your hands fumbling underneath the sink, and once the weight of the 9mm pistol is in your palm, there’s faint comfort. 

The rest is muscle memory: confirming a round in the chamber, unclipping to check the remaining 15 in the magazine; recalling the distance to the front door and whether you can even get through this whole thing without firing a single bullet, much less alive.

Remy— or, no, fake Remy? Fake Gambit? —is knocking at the door. His words are muffled. You barely pay attention as you place your pistol by the faucet, and dip your head down to splash water to your face and ready yourself for a scuffle.

“Stray.”

Your head shoots up. 

The door’s unlocked and wide open. Gambit’s loom behind you through the reflection of the mirror is harrowing.

You barely have time to scream.

His hand snarls through your hair— then, like a loaded spring, Remy rams your head against the mirror.

You cry out. Glass shatters in a spray.

“Tell me.” A gruff chirp, right by your ear. “What gave me away, eh? 

“Fuck… you,” you choke out, cringing when a shard cuts into your cheek.

“Baw, why ‘de bobin, Stray?” His accent is heavier now that the guise has been dropped. “Y’know, I ain’t never understood ‘dat nickname. Where’d’ya come from, eh? Y’aint from ‘round here?”  *

“C’mon, Raven,” you rasp, head reeling as red gushes down your face. “Enough games. Drop the skin.”

He laughs. It sounds painfully like the Remy you know. “Mais la, how disappointin’. D’ya really think I’m Mystique? ‘Dat couyon bleue could never nail ‘de Cajun accent even if she trained for it.”  *

You don’t care which Remy this is. The distraction buys enough time. Your hands scramble at the faucet; grasping for your pistol until—

“S’Gambit in ‘de flesh, chèr bébé, jus’ ain’t ‘de one y’used t’cuddlin’ with at ni—”

You fire blindly. A tile bursts. The gunshot booms like a church bell. 

Gambit recoils with a sharp yell, vision searing white from the piercing ring in his ears. You take the chance to book it past him with a gasp, nearly slipping on the floor as he barely misses snagging the hem of your shirt. 

“Son of a bitch,” he grinds out, shaking his head. He springs his collapsible staff, props himself to his feet. “Gotta give it t’you, chèr, y’got bite. Shame ‘de night had t’end ‘dis way. Was hopin’ we coulda’ got on by peacefully.”

Gambit descends like a reaper down the hall. His hand draws a card and you hear the cutting whistle of it in the air.

It’s too quick for you to react. The Ace explodes, and the blast has you rocketing to the floorboards by the record player. The tracks skip from the harsh impact:

 “-- ZZzrt -- I been in the right place! But it must have been the wrong time!” 

Comically perfect. Life sure likes making a joke out of your situations, huh?

You fire two pointed shots as you turn onto your back. One hits the cornice and the other is a near-miss, dodged by Gambit ducking into your room doorway with a curse. It throws him off his rhythm. His growl turns into a sour grimace instead. “Goddammit, woman.” (You’re a sharp shooter, Gambit admits. He had felt the wind on that one.)

Dr. John still croons his ‘70’s Cajun funk in your ransacked home. “---I been in the right world! But it seems like wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!---”

Pain lances up your leg as you stagger to your feet. You can’t pinpoint where, but nothing feels broken; a small mercy.

You make a break to the front door as you continue firing to keep him back. You’re not out of the woods yet. If you can just get out, dart for the stairs, you’d atleast get a better shot at surviving this insane manhunt—

The front door handle is busted. 

Busted, in which: Gambit must’ve charged the handle and melted the lock into nothing from the inside out when he first arrived. Sly bastard.

“---Refried confusion is making itself clear! Wonder which way do I go to get on out of here?---”

Thinking clearly is out of the question, so you think rapidly instead. Fire escape. Right outside your bedroom window. 

It’s too late, though. Gambit deals another card the moment you swivel on your feet— and the charge detonates just as you raise your gun.

The flash of purple is lightning hot against your fingers. The force sends you careening to the door and sliding down with a strangled hiss. 

Your pistol clatters. You scramble for it—

An aside on all the Gambit’s you have had the (un)fortunate opportunity to come across: all versions of him across the Multiverse are surely relentless. Be it in competition, or charm, or, in this case, pure fucking bloodlust amid combat. 

Some of his feats are impressively frightening.

Like charging his staff— and then spearing it straight from across the room and right between your pistol’s trigger guard.

Disarmed in an instant.

Deadly accuracy.

“---I took a right move! But I made it at the wrong time!---”

You really wanted to break that damn player.

“Nice try, chèr,” Gambit says, voice dark as he saunters over to you. The smile that spread across his face is like blood emerging from a quick, precise slit. (In another time, you might’ve considered it attractive.) “But Remy oughta teach you a t’ing or two ‘bout knowin’ when t’fold y’cards.”

That crisp accent of his almost makes the threat sing out sweet. He picks his coat up along the way and shrugs it back on.

“Yeah, well. Not your call,” you snap, scooting to your back with a visceral glare. “What the hell do you want?”

Another aside of Gambit: Like water in a river, Remy LeBeau always takes the path of least resistance. And yet he hadn’t killed you when he had multiple opportunities to do so, and every card he’d dealt throughout the fight was meticulously controlled, just enough to not do any real damage. 

The signs are clear— he needs you alive.

“Wanna put a damn gris-gris on you for ‘dis, first of all.” He gestures to his bleeding temple with a wince. Your first shot must have burst his right eardrum. “Mais la, I need me a cigarette.” *

A deep sigh. He fishes an odd gadget out his pocket, and you narrow your eyes. It looks familiar. 

“Listen, chèr.” Gambit rips his bō staff off with a grunt, wood splintering out the boards from the force. He lazily kicks the gun away, looming over you with a resigned look on his face. “I ain’t here to kill you, alright? ‘Dat’d make ‘dis a hit, and ‘dat ain’t in the nature of what Remy do.”

“---Head is in a good place, and I wonder what it's bad for!---”

You let out a defeated snort. “So? Is that supposed to make me feel any better?”

“So.” He exhales, triggers his device with a button. 

A TVA Time-door warbles open. 

…What the fuck?

“Don’t be harborin’ any bad feelin’s on me for what I’m gon’ do next.”

Remy re-grips his staff. You pale.

“Ah, shit.”

You’re out like a light before you register the blow.

No one’s home by the time Wade and Logan barge in, late by a matter of seconds.

*Cajun Footnotes

Allons manger — Let’s eat Brigands — Troublemakers Quoi ça dit? — What’s up? (Literally: “What that says.”) Bobin — Frown Couyon bleue — Blue fool Gris-Gris — a curse/bad luck

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

Chapter 8- Just making you aware.

Author's note: To anyone who has asked to be tagged recently, I cannot find ANY of your usernames. My brain is on a flop today apparently so if you want to be tagged PLEASE leave a comment below and I'll add you.

Taglist: blazingheartsblog littlekidsteve aisling1985 wraith-queen-todd infintyfandoms lightan117 poplottie morishitoshi maroonpalt cookieshakr starfishfaerie b-bradshaw bravelittlebastard bren-lee-bear0404 thatoneitaliangirl taintandviolent the-glasses-are-my-disguise maplesyrizzup paintmekala shannababyy gxrextxgaidk sora-o-kaku kenzimae67 shinysam29 nevermorekisses imagine-all-the-imagines lowkeyhottho raythecomputerart cannibalcoyote Warnings: Swearing, violence, gore, smut, angst.

Summary: You did your time when it came to timelines and the multiverse when Wanda Maximoff entered your life. So when Deadpool and Logan need to rescue their friends from a the Void, they turn to you, someone with the power to bounce between timelines and realities. But when you finally arrive, the only person left standing is Gambit. Together, you all return to the current timeline, but your life takes an unexpected turn when Gambit decides to stay with you, offering his protection against the TVA as a thank you for rescuing him. You can't ignore the way your heart races when he’s near, or how his touch lingers just a moment longer than necessary. The fear of the TVA dragging you back is real, but so is the comfort you find in his presence. As the days pass, your emotions grow more intense, leaving you torn between your heart wanting what it knows it can't have and the terrifying reality that time itself is your enemy.

The medical bay was quiet except for the soft beeping of the monitoring equipment and the rustle of paper from Wade’s magazine. You were propped up in a bed, a canula in your arm delivering a steady stream of fluids and medication. The soft hum of the machinery and the occasional shuffle of Wade’s movements provide a soothing backdrop, but the pain and exhaustion still lingered in the corners of your mind.

Wade, perched on a chair next to your bed, flips through the glossy pages of a magazine with an absent-minded flick. His usual bravado momentarily softened by the seriousness of the situation. He glanced up, catching the thoughtful look on your face. A smirk tugged at his lips as he flicked to a new page, where an article about celebrity drama caught his eye.

“Did you read about this?” Wade says, his voice breaking the silence. “Look at what he’s wearing?.” He chuckles, the sound a welcome distraction from the heaviness of the moment, “I could pull that off better,” He scoffed as he turned the page.

A small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself, the absurdity of the story providing a brief respite from your worries. “Looks like something you absolutely could pull off,” you respond, your voice soft but carrying a hint of amusement. Wade’s grin stretches wider as he leans back in his chair, casting you a playful sidelong glance. “Oh, come on. I’m far too classy for that. I’d definitely go for something a bit more... outrageous and fun.” He winks, but the glimmer in his eyes reveals a flicker of genuine concern. “But enough about my fashion choices. How are you holding up?”

You take a moment to survey the medical bay, the sterile environment reminding you of the chaotic events that landed you here. “I’m okay, Wade. Just... tired, you know? It’s been a whirlwind.”

Wade nods, his expression shifting between curiosity and amusement. “Well, aren’t you lucky to have three devilishly handsome guys waiting on you hand and foot? Must be nice to be pampered.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, but I’d rather be the one taking care of things. I can’t stand lying around all day. It drives me nuts.”

Wade’s expression softens, and he sets the magazine he was flipping through aside. Leaning in a little closer, he adds, “You know, I wanted to mention something about when you were gone. Your boyfriend—he was, well, we were all a bit lost without you. But he definitely owes you for some household repairs.”

A thoughtful silence settles between you, the weight of his words sinking in as you furrowed your brow. “Oh, that’s nice to hear. How much damage are we talking about?” you ask, your voice quiet but curious. “I assume since you found the jump pad, he didn’t just remove the panel that I stuck down?”

Wade nods, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Yeah, he punched a hole right through it. And let’s not forget your wall—there’s a nice new ‘Remy original’ hole there too.”

You can’t help but snort, laughter bubbling up as the absurdity of the situation hits you, “God I miss home.”

Wade chuckles, the easy camaraderie returning as he leans back, a playful glint in his eye. “And I think home misses you too. I know Vanessa does. Another working bee is probably needed when you get back”.

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through you. “I’d like that. It’ll be good to get back to normal, even if ‘normal’ involves a bit of chaos.”

Wade grins, his carefree attitude infectious. “Normal? With us? Good luck with that! But hey, chaos or not, we’ll make it work. Just you wait!”

The warmth of the moment is interrupted as the door to the medical bay opens, and Remy steps in, his face lighting up with relief when he sees you awake and stable. He walks over, his Cajun accent clear as he speaks. “Hey, chérie. How’re y’ feelin’? I just got done with Charles and the others. They’re gonna be lookin’ for us soon, so you two will have to keep it together. An’ actually behave”.

You meet his gaze, seeing the mixture of concern and affection in his eyes. “I’m getting there,” you reply softly. “Just need a little time to recover.”

Remy’s expression softens further, and he reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “We’ll make sure y’ get all the rest y’ need. Don’t worry. We’ve got everythin’ handled.”

Wade, now sitting more comfortably, chimes in with a grin. “Yep, and if we need any more distractions, I’ve got a whole magazine of weird gossip here.”

As Remy helps you sit up fully, moving your pillows so they’re on your lower back, you catch your breath, still feeling the effects of the recent ordeal. The door opens once more, and the X-Men start to file in. Each one carries a sense of urgency mixed with curiosity, their faces reflecting a mix of concern and hope.

“Alright, chérie,” Remy says softly, his Cajun accent laced with warmth. “I’m gonna introduce y’ to the team. They’re all eager to meet you.”

First to approach is Charles Xavier, his calm demeanour and reassuring presence almost immediately putting you at ease. He extends a hand, his eyes kind and understanding. “It’s good to see you awake and recovering. I’m Charles Xavier. We’ve heard a lot about you, and we’re here to help in any way we can.”

You shake his hand, offering a tired smile. “Thank you, Charles. I appreciate all the help.”

Remy then steps aside, his gaze softening as he introduces you to the next member of the team. “And this is Anna,” he says, his voice steady but his eyes betraying a hint of something deeper.

Anna, with her striking features and a confident stance, steps forward. As she meets your gaze, there’s a brief, unspoken tension in the air. You remember Remy’s stories about her—the love of his life, a connection that transcended time and space.

The moment stretches, and you feel a hesitation, a mixture of awe and uncertainty. The stories you’ve heard about Anna create an expectation, and the reality of meeting her is both daunting and intriguing.

Anna offers a warm smile, her eyes holding a depth that suggests understanding and kindness. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says, her voice gentle yet firm. “Remy’s told us a lot about you. I’m glad you’re here, safe and recovering.”

You take a deep breath, forcing a smile in return. “It’s good to meet you too, Anna. I’ve heard so much about you.” Remy points to Jean Grey, Scott Summers and Ororo Monroe. Each one smiling their greeting to you.

As they all begin talking around you, you couldn’t help but allow your eyes to drift over to Remy and Anna; the way they both stood next to each other. Remy with his arms crossed and Anna animatedly explaining something to him. The ease with which they converse, the shared laughter, and the genuine affection they exhibit toward each other speak volumes about their history. It’s clear that Remy’s shoulders have relaxed, his posture more upright and his demeanor lighter. The sense of belonging and happiness he derives from being with his team is palpable.

You catch moments where Remy’s laughter rings out more freely, where his eyes soften with an emotion you rarely see—a mixture of relief and joy. Anna’s presence seems to anchor him, offering a comfort and familiarity that has been missing for so long. The weight of his past struggles seems to lift when he’s surrounded by the X-Men, and you can see how deeply this environment means to him.

Wade, perched nearby with a new magazine in hand, notices your contemplative gaze. He raises an eyebrow and grins mischievously. “What bullshit have you conjured up in your head now, huh? You look like you’re deep in thought.”

You shrug, a small smile playing on your lips as you shift your gaze back to the scene before you. “I’m just happy to see Remy comfortable. It’s… it’s good to see him so content.”

Wade’s grin widens, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Aww, look at you getting all sentimental. So this seems like its gonna be a great place to tell him everything?”

You glance back at Remy and Anna, who are now laughing animatedly with Scott and Jean. The sight tugs at your heartstrings, but also brings a pang of uncertainty. You shake your head slowly, the smile on your face fading as you wrestle with your thoughts.

“I’m not sure I can anymore.”

Wade’s expression softens slightly, and he watches you with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. “Why not? What’s stopping you?”

You look down at your hands, still trembling slightly despite the IV drip providing you with nourishment. “I’m not sure how to put it into words. There’s so much going on, and seeing him so happy here… I don’t know if I can interrupt that.”

Wade leans back in his chair, his tone becoming more serious. “You need to tell him. You were going to tell him before all this. He cares about you, and he’s been through hell and back to find you. Don’t let doubts keep you from speaking your truth. It might not be easy, but you’ve got to let him know how you feel. Even if it’s complicated.”

You nod slowly, his words resonating with you, you shake your head and turn to him, “Vanessa’s rubbing off on you,” you smile as he rolls his eyes in return. The tumult of emotions swirling inside you is overwhelming, but there’s a growing sense of resolve forming amidst the confusion. You know that sharing your feelings with Remy, despite the complications, might be the step you need to take.

As you watch Remy and Anna continue their conversation, a part of you yearns to be a part of that happiness, to share in the lightness and laughter. With a deep breath, you prepare yourself for the difficult but necessary conversation that lies ahead. <><><><><><><>

A few days had passed since you arrived at Charles Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. The initial shock of being in such a place, surrounded by mutants and the unfamiliar, had started to dull. Though the ache of old wounds and exhaustion still clung to you, a new rhythm began to take shape. The fatigue lingered like a stubborn shadow, your muscles twitching and burning even with the simplest of tasks, a constant reminder of how far you still had to go. No matter how many hours of sleep you managed to snatch, the weariness never truly lifted, settling deep in your bones.

Today, you finally ventured out of the medical bay, wrapped in one of Remy’s old jumpers you had found folded among the clothes he’d brought down for you. It was far too big, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips and the hem almost brushing your knees, but its oversized coziness was a comfort. It smelled faintly of him—like tobacco and the faint, spicy notes of his cologne. A reminder that you weren’t alone in this strange new place, even if he wasn’t beside you right now.

As you walked through the winding corridors, you felt the eyes of students lingering on you, curious but not unkind. They weren’t just glancing at your attire, but at you, with an unspoken recognition of the foreignness you brought with you. You could almost hear the unspoken questions swirling in their minds, wondering who you were and what brought you here. The air buzzed with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the occasional sound of powers being tested or tamed. You kept your gaze forward, focusing on the sense of freedom that came with being up and moving, each step a quiet defiance of the exhaustion that weighed you down.

Turning a corner, you nearly bumped into Logan. His presence was hard to miss—stocky and solid, like a boulder in the stream of students that flowed around him. He looked you up and down, the corners of his mouth twitching into a half-smirk. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, something softened around the edges of his usual gruff demeanor.

“Nice jumper you’ve got there,” he said, his voice gravelly and warm with the hint of teasing. “Looks like you raided Remy’s closet.”

You glanced down at yourself, the sleeves of the jumper flopping as you shrugged. “It’s cozy,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And it smells like him. Figured it was better than the med bay gown.”

Logan chuckled, a low rumble that made a few of the students glance over before quickly averting their eyes. “Can’t argue with that,” he said, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. “Remy’s got enough clothes for the both of ya, anyway.”

There was a pause, a brief but comfortable silence as Logan looked you over, assessing not just your appearance but the weariness that clung to you. He nodded, the amusement still there but tinged with something softer—understanding, maybe.

“If you’re gonna be wandering around, try not to get lost,” he added, his tone almost fatherly. “Place is a damn maze sometimes.” “I’ll try not to. It’s just a bit hard to kinda wonder around when everyone’s staring at you. It’s like high school all over again,” You commented, staring back at a group of students who were looking at you.

Logan chuckles, shaking his head as he steps closer. “You’ve got a point. But don’t let it bother you. We’ve all got our quirks. The students might stare, but they’ll get used to it. Besides, you’ve got more important things to focus on right now.”

You nod, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood. “Thanks, Logan. It’s just… a lot to take in.”

Logan’s expression softens, and he gives you a reassuring nod. “I get it. But you’re tougher than you look. You’ve just been through hell and back, and you’re still standing. You’ll be okay,”

You take a deep breath, feeling a small measure of comfort from his words. As you continue walking, Logan falls into step beside you. His presence is grounding, a reminder that despite the strangeness and the stares, you’re not alone.

The two of you move through the corridors, the chatter and activity of the school fading into the background. Logan shares a few stories about the students and the faculty in his universe, telling you that it’s not really much different, helping to ease some of the tension you’re feeling. His gruff exterior hides a genuine kindness, and his efforts to make you feel more at ease don’t go unnoticed.

As you reach a quieter part of the mansion, Logan stops and looks at you. “You’re doing better. Just keep moving forward, one step at a time. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”

You give him a grateful smile, feeling a bit more at home in this strange new world. “Thanks, Logan. I appreciate it.”

He gives you a curt nod and heads off in the direction of his own duties, leaving you with a sense of determination. The jumble of emotions you’ve been grappling with is slowly starting to settle, replaced by a newfound resolve to make the most of your time here and find your place among the X-Men.

Just as you turned the corner, you found yourself face to face with Jean and Scott, their friendly expressions a welcome sight. “Hey,” Jean calls out, catching up to you. “Hank’s been looking for you. He wants to check on how you’re doing.”

Jean’s gaze falls on the jumper you’re wearing, and she lets out a soft laugh. “And I see you’ve raided Remy’s closet.”

You nod, a hint of gratitude in your eyes. “Yeah, he’s been really great. Brought this down so I wouldn’t have to stay in those hospital clothes.”

Scott and Jean exchange a knowing look, their expressions both showing a smile on their faces. “We can take you to see Hank,” Scott offers. “He’s in Charles’s office with the rest of the team. And if you need a tour guide of the school, Jean’s the expert.”

As they lead you through the mansion, Jean fills you in on a few details. “The school can be a bit overwhelming at first. You’ll get used to it, though. And the students—well, they’re just curious. They’ve seen all kinds of people here.”

You chuckle. “I was just telling Logan it feels like I’m back in high school. Even among a bunch of mutants, I’m still the odd one out.”

Jean laughs. “Yeah, that’s how it feels sometimes. But trust me, you’ll fit in.”

They guide you into Charles Xavier’s office, where Remy, Scott, Ororo and Anna are waiting. As you enter, Remy’s eyes immediately lock onto you, his concern evident. “Wher’ you get off to?” he asks, his voice laced with a hint of worry.

You give him a wry smile. “Big school, zero directions. I was just exploring.”

Hank, who’s been studying some medical reports, looks up and gestures for you to take a seat. His expression is a mix of seriousness and concern. “Glad you’re here. I’ve been reviewing your test results, and there are a few things we need to discuss.”

As Remy joins Scott and Anna by the far wall, the atmosphere in the room feels heavy with anticipation. His concern for you is palpable, and you can see the weight of worry in his eyes. Scott and Anna stand with him, their expressions a blend of curiosity and support, silently offering their solidarity.

Hank’s face is a mix of professionalism and concern as he addresses you. “What they did to you in the TVA was quite brutal. Your brain waves are off the charts, and your pulse is erratic. Everything about you is on a cliffs edge. Can you tell me what happened?”

You hesitate, your eyes drifting to Remy, whose unwavering gaze provides a small measure of comfort. His nod is a silent encouragement, giving you the strength to speak despite the pain of reliving your ordeal. “They injected me with something. It felt like fire inside my veins—every nerve, every muscle was burning. Every fifteen minutes on the dot,” You remembered counting down the seconds.

The memory of that excruciating pain sends a shiver through you. “They put this thing on my head. He said it was to monitor my brainwaves, to see how I was coping,” Your mouth suddenly went dry, you shook your head remembering the pain, “But it shouldn’t hurt like that,” You placed your face in your hands and took in a deep breath. You swallow hard, trying to push past the visceral recollection. “The doctor brought in this orange stuff, said they were putting me in a dream state to transfer me.”

Hank listens intently, his eyes filled with empathy as he absorbs your words. “Do you remember what you dreamed about?” The question hits you like a physical blow, reopening the wound of your memories with brutal intensity. You close your eyes, a deep breath escaping your lips as you brace yourself against the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

Anna’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and insistent. You hear her mention the chair you were sitting in, her words laced with urgency. You open your eyes to see the chair beginning to ripple and distort, the very fabric of reality around it warping in response to the turmoil within you. It’s as if the chair itself is a conduit for the chaos erupting in your mind.

Remy’s reaction is immediate. His eyes lock onto the chair, and without a moment’s hesitation, he strides over, his face a mask of concern and determination. He crouches down in front of you, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he says, his voice carrying a soothing Cajun lilt. “Y’ okay. Everthin’s fine.”

His hands rest firmly on your thighs, the touch both grounding and comforting. The connection between you and him feels like a lifeline, pulling you back from the brink. You blink a few times, struggling to push away the remnants of the painful memories that have clawed their way to the surface.

The rippling in the chair begins to subside, the intensity of the distortion fading as your focus shifts to Remy. His presence is a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and unwavering support. He stays crouched in front of you, his hand gently squeezing your thigh in a silent promise of safety and stability.

For a brief moment, the world outside the chair seems to stabilize. The shimmering distortions wane, the room settling back into its familiar form. The dream was a sanctuary, a place of unimaginable beauty and love, but also a cruel illusion. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to speak through the ache in your chest. “I remember it vividly. I was in a perfect world, with my husband. And our son.  It felt so real. I can still remember what it felt like, I can still smell the house. But waking up and realizing it wasn’t real—it was like losing him all over again. I couldn’t-“You swallowed and looked away, blinking back tears as you took in a deep breath.

As you speak, Remy’s face softens with sadness, his heart aching for you. Scott and Anna exchange looks of sympathy, their concern evident. Hank nods thoughtfully, processing the information. “I think, going by that display, your new abilities might be tied to your emotional stability. When you used your powers, you were in a highly unstable state. You managed to manipulate reality and break down atoms. Your emotional state appears to play a significant role in how your abilities function.”

You try to deflect from the gravity of the situation with a joke, though the attempt feels thin in the face of the reality you’re confronting. “Great, so now I’ve got ‘emotional stability’ on my to-do list. Can’t wait to hear the I told you so from my therapist,” Remy smiles at you before standing back up and joining his friends back by the wall.

Hank chuckles softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sympathetic smile. “Well, it’s true that emotional stability can greatly impact how one’s abilities manifest. It’s something we’ll need to monitor closely. How much of a rush are you to get home?” “Wade has a girlfriend he needs to get home to. And even if I wanted to leave I can’t. My abilities are on the blink. I can’t get back to my universe.” Remy speaks up, “I’ll talk to Wade,” he reassures you, “Jus’ focus on yourself, we’ll fix it.”

Remy, Ororo, Scott, and Anna’s expressions show a mixture of relief and concern. Remy’s gaze is full of gratitude, even as he looks troubled by the implications of what Hank has revealed. Scott and Anna offer quiet nods, their support unwavering.

The conversation shifts to practical matters, but the emotional weight of your experience lingers in the room. You’re grateful for the understanding and support from those around you, even as you grapple with the pain of your recent memories.

Charles, observing the interaction, turns to Jean. “Jean, could you show our guest to the kitchen? I’m sure she could use some refreshments and a break.”

You catch on to the hint and chuckle. “Hint taken.” You stand up to your full height, smiling at the red-haired woman who shakes her head smiling at you.

Remy steps closer, his gaze soft and reassuring. “I’ll meet y’ downstairs when I’m done here,” he says.

Jean leads you out of the office and down the hallway. As you walk, you steal a glance back at the office, catching Remy’s eye one last time before he turns back to the others. Hank watches as Jean closes the office door behind you both, the soft click echoing in the heavy silence of the room. His eyes move to Remy, who stands nearby, his usual confident demeanor replaced by a visible tension that stiffens his posture.

Hank’s voice is careful but serious. “Remy, I need to know how much you care about her.”

Remy shifts uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor. He doesn’t answer right away, the question hitting too close to home. The silence is thick, every second stretching out painfully.

Hank nods slowly, sensing Remy’s inner turmoil. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said she’s on the edge. Her powers—according to these readings—are dangerous, unpredictable. We’ve set up systems to monitor her while she’s here, but if things get too unstable, I need to know if you can make the hard decision.”

Remy’s brow furrows, confusion mingling with dread. “What d’you mean by that?”

Hank glances at Charles, who steps in, his voice calm but loaded with the weight of what he’s about to say. “Remy, we need to know if you can put aside how you feel about her, if it comes down to it. If her powers become a threat to all of reality, we need to know if you can do what’s necessary—even if that means sacrificing her to save everyone else.”

Remy’s face drains of color as the meaning behind Charles’s words sinks in. His heart pounds, each beat reverberating through him with a painful clarity. “So what y’ askin’ is… if things go south, if I’d be willin’ t’ kill her to save the rest?”

Charles meets his gaze steadily, the gravity of the situation reflected in his eyes. “Yes, Remy. That’s exactly what we’re asking.”

A heavy silence falls over the room, the weight of the conversation pressing down on them all. Remy’s hands curl into tight fists inside his jumper pocket, the very idea of such a choice tearing at him. The thought is unbearable, a cruel twist in an already impossible situation.

Hank’s expression remains serious, his voice softer now. “We’re gonna do everything we can to help her. But we have to be ready for anything. Her safety, and the safety of everyone else, depends on it.”

Remy’s voice, when he finally speaks, is barely above a whisper, thick with emotion. “I understand. But… I don’t know how I’d ever be able t’ make that choice.”

Charles places a reassuring hand on Remy’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity in this impossible moment. “None of us want to face that decision, Remy. But we have to be honest about the potential outcomes and our responsibilities.”

The room is filled with a heavy, suffocating silence, the reality of what they’re discussing weighing down on them all. Remy’s gaze drifts back to the door where you’d exited moments before, his heart aching with the unbearable weight of what might come.

In the stillness, the burden of that choice looms large, a dark shadow over the love and duty that pull him in opposite directions. He looks around at his teammates, each one of them showing him that they will try everything to stop you before it comes to that. Swallowing deep he nods once. And he silently hopes it never comes to that.

After the heavy conversation in Charles's office, Remy leaves, his mind still swirling with the weight of what they discussed. Each step down the corridor feels like he’s dragging a heavy chain behind him, the echoes of Charles’s words pounding in his skull. He reaches the kitchen and pauses in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame as he takes in the scene before him.

You and Jean are seated at the table, sharing a moment of light-hearted laughter over some food. The sound of your laughter, so genuine and free, fills the room with a warmth that contrasts sharply with the cold dread clinging to Remy’s heart. For a moment, he simply watches, the admiration in his eyes mingling with a deep sense of fear. He’s always seen you as strong, resilient—someone who could withstand anything. But now, knowing what he knows, he sees the fragility beneath the surface, the storm brewing just beneath your calm exterior.

As you look up and notice him standing there, your face lights up with a smile that melts away some of the darkness clouding his thoughts. It’s a simple thing, that smile, but it’s enough to ground him, to remind him of what’s real in this moment. Jean notices the way your entire demeanor brightens at his presence, her gaze flicking between the two of you with a knowing smile.

Remy steps into the kitchen, his expression softening as he approaches. “Hey, chérie,” he says, his voice carrying a warmth that contrasts with the heaviness in his chest. “Y’ doin’ alright?”

You nod, still smiling, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in your eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. Just catching up with Jean here.”

Jean gives Remy a small nod, acknowledging his arrival without intruding on the moment. Remy’s gaze lingers on you, taking in the subtle signs of recovery—the color returning to your cheeks, the way you’re engaging with Jean, the strength in your voice despite everything you’ve been through.

“Merci, for agreein’ to stay a bit longer,” Remy says, his tone sincere. There’s a lot he’s not saying, so much he’s holding back, but in this moment, he just wants to be here with you, to hold onto this piece of normalcy before the world crashes down again.

You give him a playful smirk, teasingly raising an eyebrow. “What, you think I’d skip out on all the fun?”

Remy chuckles, shaking his head. “Non, I didn’t think that for a second.” His smile fades slightly as he adds, “Just… glad t’ have you here, that’s all.”

You catch the subtle shift in his tone, sensing that there’s more beneath his words. But before you can probe further, Jean interjects, smoothly redirecting the conversation. “We were just talking about how this place gives off some serious high school vibes. I was telling her about some of our more… interesting students.”

Remy lets out a low laugh, grateful for the lighter topic. “Yeah, it’s got its moments. But ain’t no high school I’ve ever been to.”

You lean back in your chair, relaxing into the conversation as Jean continues to share stories about the school, her tone light and filled with affection for the students. Remy listens, but his eyes rarely leave you, absorbing every detail—the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, the way your hands move as you talk, the way your presence fills the room with a kind of warmth he never wants to lose.

But in the back of his mind, Charles’s words linger like a dark cloud, reminding him that the peace he feels in this moment is fragile, and the future is anything but certain. Yet, for now, he pushes those thoughts aside, choosing instead to focus on the sound of your laughter and the light in your eyes. You and Remy sit across from each other in the kitchen, the early evening light filtering through the windows, casting a warm glow on the table. The air is filled with the comforting scent of whatever Jean’s been cooking, though your plate holds something far less gourmet—just a sandwich and a few chips. Remy’s been trying to make you laugh all afternoon, his Cajun accent thick with amusement as he recounts some story you’re sure he’s embellished.

“An’ then, the poor fella realized he was dancin’ with a mop, not the lady he’d been eyein’ all night,” Remy finishes, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he leans back in his chair.

You snort, unable to help yourself. “Sure he did, Remy. And I’m supposed to believe you didn’t have anythin’ to do with that?”

He smirks, leaning forward suddenly to snatch a chip off your plate. “Who, me? You wound me, cher. What kinda man you think I am?”

“The kind who steals other people’s food,” you reply dryly, narrowing your eyes at him as he pops the chip into his mouth with a grin.

“You weren’t eatin’ it fast enough,” he teases, reaching for another. “Can’t let it go to waste, non?”

Jean, who’s been silently watching from the counter, finally chimes in with a laugh. “You two are worse than kids, you know that?”

You glance at her, catching the fond look she’s giving the both of you. There’s something warm in her gaze, like she’s watching a story unfold, one she already knows the ending to. It makes you feel…exposed, somehow.

Your gaze shifts back to Remy, who’s now making a show of eating your sandwich and talking to Jean over his shoulder. You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it—only a strange mix of affection and something deeper, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for a long time.

You’ve been through so much together, and through it all, Remy’s been a constant, his presence a steady anchor. But the more you think about it, the more you realize that anchor isn’t just holding you in place. It’s pulling you closer to him, tethering you to something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Do you love him?

The thought feels like a secret you’ve been keeping even from yourself, buried under layers of camaraderie and unspoken understanding. But now, with him sitting here, laughing at your expense, it’s harder to ignore.

Are you ready to tell him? To let those words pass your lips and change everything?

You’ve always prided yourself on being strong, on facing down any threat without flinching. But this…this feels like standing on the edge of something vast and unknown. And you’re not sure if you’re ready to take that leap.

Remy’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, his tone softer now. “You alright, cher? You got that look like you’re thinkin’ too hard ‘bout somethin’.”

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you consider telling him. Just blurting it out, letting the truth hang between you and seeing where it leads. But then, you catch Jean’s knowing smile out of the corner of your eye, and the weight of that decision feels too heavy to make in this moment.

“Just wondering when you’re gonna stop stealing my food, I’m starving.” you say instead, your tone light, though there’s an undercurrent of something else in your voice—something Remy picks up on, if the way his eyes narrow slightly is any indication.

“Any time you’re ready to share somethin’ more than your lunch,” he replies, his voice low, almost a challenge.

The two of you hold each other’s gaze for a beat too long before Jean clears her throat, breaking the tension. “Alright, break it up, you two. I’m trying to keep this kitchen in one piece.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, grabbing a chip off your plate and throwing it at him. “Fine, but you owe me a sandwich.”

“I’ll make it up to you, cher,” he promises, but there’s something in his tone that makes you wonder if he’s talking about more than just the food.

As you watch him return to his usual teasing self, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you’re getting closer to being ready. Jean’s light footsteps fade as she busies herself with something else near the stove, leaving you and Remy in a bubble of your own, the sounds of the mansion outside seeming distant and muted.

Remy’s still playfully teasing you, but you notice the way his eyes linger on you a little longer, the way his fingers brush against yours when he reaches for the plate. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a tension that crackles in the air between you like electricity waiting for a spark.

You find yourself studying him more closely, your usual banter slowing as your thoughts take over. He’s always been handsome—there’s no denying that—with his sharp features and that ever-present smirk that dances between mischief and sincerity. But tonight, there’s something different about the way you look at him, something that makes your chest tighten with an emotion you’re not quite ready to name.

“Hey,” Remy says softly, his voice pulling you back to the present. He’s closer now, his chair pushed just a little too near to yours, his knee brushing against yours under the table. “You still with me, cher?”

The concern in his voice is genuine, and it makes your heart ache in a way that’s almost uncomfortable. You’ve faced down enemies, stared death in the face, and yet this—this simple question from him—feels like it’s unravelling you.

“I’m here,” you say, your voice a little more strained than you intended. You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Instead, he just watches you, those sharp red-on-black eyes softened with something you’ve only seen in him a handful of times—when he’s been vulnerable, when he’s let his guard down completely. It’s a look that makes you feel like he’s seeing through all your defenses, right to the core of you.

You’re not sure if that terrifies you or comforts you. Maybe both.

“You know you can tell me anythin’, right?” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. There’s no teasing now, no smirk—just Remy, raw and honest, offering you a piece of himself that he doesn’t give to many.

Your throat tightens, the words you’ve been holding back suddenly too close to the surface. You could say it now. You could just let it all out—tell him how much he means to you, how much you care, how scared you are of what that might mean for both of you.

But you’re not sure if you’re ready for what comes after.

Instead, you turn your shoulder, nudging him slightly, “I know,” you say, your voice steady, though your heart is anything but, “I think I’ve just overdone it today”.

He looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the questions in his eyes—the ones he’s too patient to ask outright, the ones he’s waiting for you to answer in your own time.

There’s a moment where you think he might say something more, might push just a little, but then he just smiles, squeezing your hand before letting go. “Good,” he says, his tone lighter now, though there’s still a lingering weight in the air. “Now, how ‘bout I go finish that sandwich you said I owe you?”

You chuckle, the tension easing just enough for you to breathe again. “I’m holding you to that,” you reply, trying to shake off the heavy thoughts with a grin.

He stands, heading to the fridge with an exaggerated sigh. “Y’ high maintenance, y’ know that?”

“You love me for it,” you shoot back, the words slipping out before you can think.

He freezes for just a second, his hand hovering over the fridge handle. The air between you thickens again, but this time it’s charged with something new, something undeniable.

He turns slowly, his eyes locking onto yours. There’s no mistaking the meaning behind the look he gives you—no teasing, no jokes, just the raw truth of how he feels, laid bare for you to see. Yeah, I do.

You swallow hard, the realization hitting you all at once. You’re not just playing around anymore. This isn’t just banter, or friendship, or even the familiar comfort of someone who knows you better than anyone else. This is something deeper, something you can’t take back once it’s said.

And you’re standing on the edge of it, teetering between fear and the overwhelming urge to just leap.

But you’re not ready. Not yet.

So you smile, soft and genuine, hoping it’s enough to convey what you can’t say out loud. “I’ll take turkey,” you say, your voice steady, though your heart is pounding in your chest.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, then nods, turning back to the fridge. “Turkey it is,” he murmurs, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips, one that tells you he knows. He knows, and he’s willing to wait.

As he busies himself with the sandwich, you lean back in your chair, the weight of your unspoken words still heavy on your shoulders. But there’s something else there, too—hope. A hope that, when the time comes, you’ll be ready to tell him everything. And maybe, just maybe, that moment is closer than you think. Remy is in the middle of adding the last slice of turkey to your sandwich when he suddenly glances over your shoulder, his eyes narrowing slightly. You follow his gaze but see nothing but the empty hallway beyond the kitchen door.

“Be right back,” he says, his voice a touch lower than before. He leaves the sandwich half-made on the counter, giving you a reassuring smile before slipping out of the kitchen.

You watch him go, a faint unease settling in the pit of your stomach, but you push it aside as Jean finishes the sandwich and picks it up pick up. She had been standing at the stove, quietly observing the whole exchange, before coming over and sitting across from you at the table, her expression warm and inquisitive before handing you the plate with the sandwich on it.

“How are you settling in?” she asks, her tone gentle, as though she’s aware of the storm brewing inside you.

You take a bite of the sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as you consider your answer. “It’s… an adjustment,” you admit, the words feeling like an understatement. The school, the people, everything here—it’s a world so different from what you’ve known. And yet, Remy is the one constant that makes the transition bearable. Even with all the uncertainty, his presence has been a lifeline.

Jean nods, her eyes understanding. “It’s not easy, finding your place here. But the good thing is we’ve all had our struggles, our doubts.” She pauses, studying you for a moment. “You and Remy… you’re close.”

There’s something in the way she says it, a hint of curiosity that makes you hesitate. “Yeah,” you reply slowly, choosing your words carefully. “He’s been a pain in my ass for a while now,” You joke, “In fact apparently he owes me household repair funds”.

She smiles softly, but there’s a knowing look in her eyes that makes you feel exposed. “It’s good to have someone who understands.”

You nod, feeling the weight of her words. There’s a truth there that you can’t deny, no matter how much you might want to. But before you can dwell on it further, you push back your chair and stand, needing to escape the intensity of the conversation. “I think I need a proper shower,” you say, offering her a small smile to ease the abruptness of your departure.

Jean’s smile doesn’t falter. “Of course. Take your time.”

You nod in thanks, turning to leave the kitchen. The hallway feels cooler than the kitchen, the silence wrapping around you as you walk. But as you near the corner leading to the stairs, you hear the low murmur of voices—familiar voices.

You pause, your footsteps slowing as you peer around the corner. There, tucked away in the shadows, you see Remy and Anna standing close together. They’re talking quietly, their heads bent close, the intimacy of the moment palpable.

Your heart sinks as you see the way Anna looks at him, her expression soft and earnest, as if she’s trying to reach him in a way only she can. And then you see it—the way Remy shakes his head at something she says, his brow furrowed as he replies. Whatever he says seems to weigh heavily on Anna, because the next moment, she’s reaching up, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

Remy doesn’t hesitate. He hugs her back just as tightly, his hands gripping her shoulders as if to anchor them both. Then, as if to offer some kind of reassurance, she presses a deep kiss to his cheek.

The sight sends a sharp pang through your chest, a surge of jealousy that you weren’t prepared for. It’s a bitter, ugly feeling that coils in your stomach, making you feel both vulnerable and foolish. Who are you to feel this way? Remy’s his own person—he has his own life, his own relationships. And yet, the sight of him so close to Anna makes you feel like the ground beneath you is slipping away.

You nod to yourself, swallowing down the hurt and the anger, trying to keep your emotions in check. Without another glance, you turn on your heel and walk the other way, your footsteps quick and determined as you head to your room. You need to get away, to put some distance between yourself and the scene you just witnessed.

Once in your room, you strip off your clothes and step into the shower, the water scalding hot against your skin. But even the heat doesn’t wash away the turmoil inside you. You’re angry—angry at yourself for feeling jealous, for letting your emotions get the better of you. It’s not fair, you tell yourself. You have no right to feel this way.

But despite your attempts to rationalize it, the jealousy lingers, gnawing at you. It’s a reminder of everything you’ve been avoiding, everything you’re not ready to confront.

And as you stand there, letting the water cascade over you, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever be ready to face it all. <><><><><><> Remy ran to catch up to Anna, calling her name gently. She gave him a smile as she stopped, looking him up and down, “That button up looks good on you,” She comments lightly as she nods to the dark blue shirt on his chest. A soft smile crosses his face as he recalls you and Vanessa shopping online for him when he first came out of the Void. Explaining that he can’t go walking around NYC looking like that, and he can’t keep going around wearing the clothes that are left laying around.

Anna’s voice brought him back to the moment. “Remy,” she said softly, her Southern drawl pulling him out of his thoughts.

He turned to face her fully, seeing the concern in her eyes. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

Anna offered him a small smile, the kind that was meant to comfort but only deepened the ache in his chest. “How you holdin’ up?” she asked, her tone gentle. “I know it ain’t easy, what Charles and Hank asked you to do.”

Remy let out a breath, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. “I keep lookin’ at her, Anna,” he admitted, his voice strained. “Every time I see her look at me, I think about what they want me to do… and it kills me inside. But I’ll do what I have to do.”

Anna studied him for a moment, her expression softening with empathy. She stepped closer, her hand resting on his arm. “Okay, so we know Gambit’s answer to all this, but what about Remy LeBeau’s answer?”

Her question hit him harder than he expected. Remy’s eyes dropped to the floor, his thoughts swirling as the weight of everything settled on his shoulders. He swallowed hard, trying to find the words to express the turmoil inside him. Finally, he shook his head again, his voice barely above a whisper. “How am I meant to kill the person I love?”

Anna’s breath caught in her throat at his confession. Without hesitation, she pulled him into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around him as if to shield him from the world. Remy’s arms came around her, his grip almost desperate as he held onto her like she was his lifeline.

“You won’t have to,” Anna whispered against his ear, her voice filled with determination. “We’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that. I promise, Remy.”

Remy buried his face in her shoulder, the anguish he’d been holding back finally breaking free. Anna could feel the tension in his body, the way he clung to her as if he feared letting go would mean losing everything.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, a gesture of comfort and reassurance. “You ain’t alone in this, Remy. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Remy nodded, but the fear and doubt remained etched in his expression as he slowly pulled away from the embrace. “Merci, Anna,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Anna smiled sadly, her hand lingering on his arm for a moment longer before she stepped back. “We’re in this together, sugar,” she said softly. “Always. She’s our family now too. And we always protect family,”

Remy watched as she turned to leave, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. He knew he had to be strong, had to keep his resolve for the sake of everyone involved. But the thought of what he might have to do—the thought of losing you—was a burden that threatened to break him.

As he stood there in the quiet hallway, Remy closed his eyes, trying to gather his strength. But the image of you—your smile, your laugh, the way you looked at him—haunted him. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the choices he’d have to make would change everything forever. <><><><><> The classroom had a certain charm, despite its age and the thin layer of dust that clung to the shelves. The room was filled with rows of leather-bound books, their spines cracked and worn from years of use, each holding untold stories and lessons within their pages. The large, arched windows framed the room, allowing narrow beams of light to filter through, casting a warm, golden hue across the wooden desks and creating shadows that danced along the walls. It felt as if the room itself held memories, echoes of past lessons, and whispers of long-forgotten conversations.

You were absorbed in the book in your hands, its familiar weight and the scent of aged paper offering a sense of comfort in this quiet sanctuary. The world outside seemed far away, the stillness of the room wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. But the moment was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, a sound that pulled you back to reality.

Hank entered the room, his presence filling the space with a quiet authority. He moved with a calm confidence, the kind that came from years of experience, and as he settled into the chair across from you, he adjusted his glasses, a habitual gesture that betrayed a mix of professional focus and personal concern.

"You’re deep in thought," he observed, his voice carrying a gentle note of curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that was both comforting and disconcerting. "We’ve been reviewing the data from your initial scans and the interactions we’ve had so far. Your abilities... they’re unlike anything we've encountered before." There was a palpable weight to his words, a gravity that seemed to settle in the room like a dense fog. The once warm and comforting air grew heavy, laden with unspoken fears and the intensity of the moment. You could feel the shift, as if the walls themselves were leaning in, listening to every word. Hank’s eyes reflected a depth of concern that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just choosing his words carefully—he was trying to shield you from the full force of the truth, like someone holding back a storm behind a fragile barrier.

“So what do we need to do?” you asked, your voice steadying despite the uncertainty churning inside you. You placed your hand in the middle of the book you had been reading, the soft rustle of pages as you closed it sounding louder than it should have, a finality to the motion that mirrored the seriousness of the conversation.

Hank shifted slightly in his seat, the subtle movement betraying the weight of what he was about to say. He took a breath, as if preparing himself, then met your gaze with a steady resolve. “We have the ability to conduct some testing,” he began, his tone measured but tinged with the gravity of the situation. “These tests are designed to help us understand the intricacies of your abilities—the triggers, the limits, the potential dangers. It's a controlled environment, where we can observe and analyze without the immediate risk of harm.”

His words hung in the air between you, the implications sinking in slowly. There was something in the way he spoke, a carefulness that hinted at the stakes involved. Testing wasn’t just about understanding your powers; it was about containment, about preventing something catastrophic from happening. You tried to grasp the specifics, but Hank's words lingered in your mind, heavy and unsettling. The enormity of what he had just shared made it hard to focus. "And you think these tests will help?" you asked, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Hank nodded, his expression steady but laced with concern. "Yes. By identifying the exact conditions that trigger your abilities, we can develop strategies for controlling them. It’s a methodical approach, but it’s the most effective way to ensure that we handle this safely."

The room seemed to shrink around you as the implications of what he was saying took hold. The air grew thicker, each breath a little harder to draw. "What kind of exercises are we talking about?" you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

"We’ve developed audio stimulations that are designed to bring forth specific memories," Hank explained, his tone professional yet empathetic. "We used a similar technique with Ororo a few years ago, and it was quite successful. I believe that by triggering some of your more emotional memories, we might be able to stimulate your abilities in a controlled environment, much like what happened in the professor’s office."

You leaned forward, curiosity mingling with a growing sense of wariness. "And if things go wrong during these simulations? What happens then?"

Hank’s demeanor shifted, his expression becoming more serious. "We’ve implemented multiple safety measures. If the simulation becomes too intense, we can deactivate it immediately. We’ve also set up containment fields and emergency protocols to prevent any physical harm. However, with something as unpredictable as your powers, there’s always a risk."

The thought of failing these tests, of losing control and causing harm, gnawed at you. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "And if, despite all the precautions, I still can’t control it and something happens? What’s the plan then?"

Hank’s eyes darkened with a gravity that sent a chill down your spine. "We have protocols for extreme situations," he said quietly. "If you were to lose control, we would implement a containment strategy. This involves isolating the affected area and, if necessary, using force to neutralize the threat. I want to stress that this is a last resort, something we would only consider after exhausting every other option."

His words weighed heavily on you, the reality of the situation pressing down like a physical burden. You looked down at your hands, now clenched into fists, and tried to stop them from trembling. "I need to know what I’m up against," you said, your voice firm despite the turmoil inside. "If there’s a chance I could cause something catastrophic, I want to face it head-on. I need to."

Hank nodded, a mix of determination and compassion in his gaze. "I admire your courage. We’ll proceed with caution and care. The goal is to understand and master these abilities—not just for your safety, but for the safety of everyone around you."

A brief silence settled between you, broken only by the faint rustling of pages from the book you’d set aside. Hank reached out, resting a hand on your shoulder, a steadying presence amidst your chaotic thoughts.

"We’ll start with the preliminary tests tomorrow," he continued, his voice calm and reassuring. "These initial tests will be straightforward, designed to ease you into the process. You’ll have complete control over stopping the tests at any point if you feel uncomfortable."

You met his gaze, a blend of apprehension and resolve in your eyes. "I appreciate that. I want to do this. I need to learn how to control these powers so that I don’t become a threat."

Hank’s lips curved into a gentle smile, his respect for you clear. "You’re not alone in this. We’ll be with you every step of the way, and we’ll ensure you have all the support you need."

You nodded, feeling a little more centered, a little more prepared for what lay ahead. "Okay, let’s get started then. The sooner I understand this, the sooner I can start working towards controlling it."

Hank’s expression softened further, a look of encouragement and admiration in his eyes. "I’ll prepare everything for tomorrow. For now, if you need anything—whether it’s a break or just someone to talk to—I’m here."

You gave him a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Hank. I really appreciate all this."

As Hank left the room, you were left with your thoughts, feeling a sense of urgency mixed with determination. The path ahead was daunting, but with Hank’s support and your own resolve, you were ready to face the challenges of mastering your powers.

The classroom fell into a contemplative silence after Hank’s departure. You sat alone, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as you wrestled with the enormity of the situation. The old wooden desks and bookshelves seemed like relics of a different time, offering a strange comfort amidst your swirling thoughts.

As you tried to focus on the implications of the upcoming tests, the door creaked open again. Jean stepped inside, her presence a welcome interruption in the midst of your turbulent thoughts. She offered a sympathetic smile as she crossed the room, her eyes reflecting genuine concern. The warmth she exuded felt like a brief reprieve from the storm that was brewing inside you.

"I saw Hank leaving,” Jean said softly, taking a seat beside you. Her voice was gentle, yet there was an undercurrent of urgency in it. "I wanted to check in and see how you're holding up."

You met her gaze, feeling a mix of gratitude and unease. It was comforting to have someone like Jean by your side, but the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on your mind. "It’s a lot to process," you admitted, trying to keep your voice steady. "Hank went over the tests and the risks, and it’s overwhelming. What if I can’t control this?”

Jean’s expression turned even more serious, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "It’s completely understandable to be concerned," she said, her tone soothing but firm. "But remember, you’re stronger than you think you are”.

You nodded, but a knot of fear tightened in your stomach, and your mind drifted back to Hank’s words. "I know, but Hank mentioned that if I lose control, the potential for destruction is...well, it’s not something I’ll really be able to come back from."

Jean’s eyes softened with empathy, and she reached out, her hand lightly brushing your arm. "Yes, it is a serious risk," she acknowledged. "But Hank and the team have extensive experience with these kinds of situations. They’ll work to mitigate the dangers as much as possible."

You leaned in, your curiosity piqued by the seriousness of her tone, but a growing sense of dread also lingered. "What if I still can’t control it? What are the exact protocols?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Hank mentioned something about containment and neutralization. This is what the TVA tried to do to me and-“ You stopped yourself, letting out a breath as your hand shook slightly.

Jean hesitated for a moment, the pause filling the room with a heavy silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet you had to strain to hear it. "Hank and Charles actually asked Remy to be the one who handles the situation if things get out of hand. They believe he’s the best equipped to—well, to neutralize you if absolutely necessary."

The words hit you like a jolt, every syllable carrying the weight of betrayal you hadn't seen coming. You stared at Jean, your mind racing to process the gravity of what she had just revealed. "Remy?" The name fell from your lips in disbelief. "They want him to be the one to stop me?"

Jean’s face showed a mixture of regret and sympathy, her eyes conveying the weight of the truth she had just delivered. "Yes. I know it’s a lot to take in. It’s not something they wanted to burden you with, but Remy has been trained for high-risk interventions. They trust his judgment and skill."

Her explanation did nothing to soften the blow. The idea that Remy, someone you trusted, someone you cared for deeply, could be the one tasked with neutralizing you if things went wrong, was overwhelming. But the real pain came from the fact that he hadn’t told you. That he had kept this monumental decision from you.

The sting of betrayal cut deep, and you stood abruptly, the sudden movement fuelled by a surge of anger and hurt. "Remy knew about this? And he didn’t tell me?" The words came out sharper than you intended, each one laced with the bitterness of betrayal.

Jean looked taken aback, her eyes widening as she met your gaze. "I—I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you should know."

But the anger in your voice was hard to contain, your emotions spiraling as the reality of the situation set in. "It’s not just about knowing, Jean," you snapped, your voice trembling with frustration. "It’s about trust. Remy should have told me himself. I have a right to know what’s going on, especially if it involves someone I care about being put in such a position."

Jean’s expression softened with understanding, though she looked genuinely regretful for how things had unfolded. "I understand you’re upset," she said, her voice gentle, trying to calm the storm brewing inside you. "Remy didn’t want to stress you out anymore than you already are. He’s really been struggling with it himself, knowing the implications."

You began pacing the room, your frustration boiling over, each step echoing the turmoil inside you. "Struggling or not, it’s not his decision to make!" you exclaimed, the hurt evident in your tone. "I should be the one to know about these things, not find out through his friend.” Jean stood up, moving closer to you with a gentle, almost cautious demeanor, her hands raised as if to soothe the tension in the room. "I’m sorry for how this came out," she said softly, her voice laced with genuine regret. "It was never my intention to create this kind of tension between you and Remy. He cares deeply about you, more than you might realize, and the last thing he would want is to hurt you or keep things from you."

You stopped pacing, turning to face her, the fire of your anger still burning but now tempered by a deep, gnawing sadness. It felt like a betrayal, a fracture in the trust that had been carefully built between you and Remy. "I get that," you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you struggled to contain the emotions swirling within you. "But it feels like he’s making decisions for me, decisions I should be a part of. That’s not okay, Jean. I need to know what’s happening, especially when it involves someone who means so much to me."

Jean nodded, her eyes filled with sincere remorse as she absorbed the weight of your words. "I’m truly sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder would break the fragile moment between you. "Remy...he isn’t coping with this as well as he lets on. He tries to act like he has it all under control, but inside, he’s struggling. The responsibility, the thought of possibly having to—" she hesitated, pain flickering across her face, "—having to hurt you, it’s tearing him apart."

Hearing this made your heart ache even more. The anger simmering beneath the surface began to mix with a profound sorrow, not just for yourself, but for Remy too. You could see him now, behind that confident mask he wore so well, hiding his fears and doubts. He wasn’t just making decisions for you—he was trying to shoulder the burden alone, believing that by doing so, he was protecting you.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. "If he’s not coping, then why didn’t he tell me?" you asked, more to yourself than to Jean. The thought of Remy suffering in silence, of him carrying this weight without confiding in you, cut you deeply. "We’re supposed to trust each other. But how can I do that when he’s keeping something this big from me?"

Jean stepped closer, her hand resting gently on your arm, a gesture of comfort. "He probably didn’t want to burden you, especially with everything else you’re dealing with," she said softly. "But you’re right. This is something you both need to talk about. You deserve to know what’s going on, and he needs to know how much this is affecting you."

Her words were a balm to your wounded heart, but they also fueled a new resolve within you. "Where is he?" you asked, your voice steadying as you made up your mind.

Jean offered a small, understanding smile. "He’s with Scott in the west wing," she said, her tone encouraging. "If you want to talk to him, now might be a good time."

You nodded, a sense of determination settling over you. "I need to hear it from him, Jean. I need to understand why he didn’t tell me”.

Jean gave your arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping back, allowing you the space to process everything. "I’ll be here if you need anything," she said, her voice filled with the warmth of genuine friendship.

As she left the room, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself for the conversation that awaited you. The hurt and anger still lingered, but now there was also a sense of purpose, a need to bridge the gap that had formed between you and Remy. You couldn’t let this fester, couldn’t let it drive a wedge between you. Whatever came next, you would face it together, but first, you needed to confront him and demand the honesty that your relationship deserved.

You sat back down, the weight of everything crashing down on you as you replayed the conversation in your mind. This wasn’t just about the tests anymore—it was about trust, about communication, about the fragile balance between protecting someone and being honest with them. And as much as it hurt, you knew you had to confront Remy, to hear his side, and to make it clear that this wasn’t something you could just brush aside.

The afternoon continued to stretch on, and you found yourself grappling with the need to confront Remy. You spent the time reflecting on your feelings and preparing for the difficult conversation that lay ahead. The path to understanding and managing your powers was intertwined with the need to address the trust issues that had emerged, and you were determined to navigate both with honesty and clarity. The halls of the school were quieter than usual, the evening drawing near as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the windows. You moved with purpose, your mind racing with the anger and betrayal that had been simmering since your conversation with Jean. The thought of Remy keeping something so important from you made your blood boil, and you weren’t going to let this go without confronting him directly.

As you rounded a corner, you spotted Remy standing with Scott in front of a group of students. They were discussing something, the students’ attention rapt on the two X-Men. But your anger didn’t care about the setting or the audience. You stormed towards them, your footsteps echoing in the corridor.

"What the fuck?" you called out, your voice cutting through the low murmur of the group as you marched toward Remy.

The students all turned to you in surprise, their eyes wide as they looked between you and Remy. Scott raised an eyebrow, his posture shifting to one of concern. "Maybe you could watch the language in front of the kids?" he suggested cautiously.

Without hesitation, you shot back, "Fuck off, Scott."

The shock on Scott's face was palpable, but you didn’t care. Your focus was solely on Remy, who looked taken aback by your sudden outburst. Before you could say anything more, Remy grabbed your arm, his grip firm as he pulled you away from the group and into a more secluded part of the hallway.

"What the hell are you doing?" he scolded, his voice low but sharp. "You can’t talk like that in front of the kids!"

You yanked your arm out of his grasp, glaring at him with all the frustration and hurt you’d been holding back. "Were you ever going to tell me?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain.

Remy blinked, his expression shifting to one of confusion. "Tell you what?"

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. "Don’t play dumb with me, LeBeau. About you being the one who has to ‘neutralize’ me if I can’t control my abilities tomorrow."

Remy’s eyes widened slightly. "Tomorrow?"

Your patience snapped, and you pointed at him, your voice dangerously low. "Don’t play fucking dumb with me, LeBeau."

The tension between you was palpable, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Remy looked at you, his usual easy going demeanor gone, replaced by a seriousness that matched your own. He let out a slow breath, his gaze not leaving yours.

"Alright," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Yes, I was asked to step in if things go south tomorrow. But I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. I just didn’t know how to tell you."

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. The confirmation of what you already knew didn’t make the sting any less painful. "You didn’t know how to tell me? Remy, this is my life we’re talking about. My safety. You should have told me the moment they asked you."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I thought maybe… maybe I could protect you from worrying about it, just for a little longer."

Your anger flared again, but beneath it was a deeper hurt. "I don’t need protection from the truth, Remy. I need honesty. I need to be able to trust you, especially with something like this."

Remy’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, his voice filled with regret. "You’re right. I should have told you. I just… I didn’t want to hurt you or make you scared of what might happen." “You don’t get to make that choice for me. I thought you knew me better then to try and hide something like this from me. I know you did it because you thought you were doing the right thing, but again this is my life. Literally,” You shook your head and turned, walking away from the other man. As you stormed away from Remy, your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of anger, hurt, and confusion swirling inside you. You couldn’t bear to look back, knowing that if you did, you might lose the resolve that was keeping you moving forward.

Just as you rounded the corner, Wade and Logan appeared in your path, their conversation halting as they noticed your distressed expression. They exchanged a brief, knowing glance before turning their attention back toward the direction you had come from.

Wade, always quick with a quip, raised an eyebrow as he watched you walk away. "Hey, did I just witness a lover's spat?" he called out, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Remy, who was still standing in the hallway, ran a hand through his hair in frustration, clearly upset by the exchange that had just taken place. He looked up to see Wade and Logan approaching, the usual teasing gleam in Wade’s eyes unmistakable.

But instead of engaging, Remy shook his head, his expression serious and filled with a mixture of regret and turmoil. "Not now, Wade," he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual playful tone. There was a raw edge to his words that made even Wade pause, realizing that something deeper was going on.

Logan, who had remained silent, watched Remy closely, his keen senses picking up on the tension in the air. He gave a small nod of understanding, deciding not to press the matter further. "C’mon, Wade," Logan muttered, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Let’s give him some space."

Wade, for once, didn’t argue. He took a step back, glancing once more at Remy before nodding in agreement. "Alright, alright. But you know where to find us if you wanna talk or, you know, not talk." His tone was surprisingly gentle, a rare moment of seriousness from him.

As they walked away, Logan shot a brief look back at Remy, who was still standing there, lost in thought. "Take care of it, Cajun," Logan said quietly, his voice carrying just enough to reach Remy’s ears.

Remy nodded slowly, his mind already racing with thoughts of how to fix the mess he had just made. Watching you disappear around the corner had left him with a gnawing sense of guilt, knowing that the pain you were feeling was something he had caused. He couldn’t just let this go—he needed to make things right, to find you and explain everything, no matter how difficult it might be.

[whatever-the-fucky-i-reads]

i hear you call my name (and it feels like home)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 6.4k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. this is the end! thank you all for the lovely words of support, it means so much that you all loved this duo as much as i do. i have ideas of oneshots for the future, but for now, i leave you all with this!

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

Your ears are ringing.

Awareness floods you in slow, uneven strokes. You can hear the roar of battle buzzing through the fog in your mind, guttural screams of pain cutting through in sharp starbursts. There’s a staff in your right hand, and you spasm your grip on it, testing its weight.

It is Remy’s.

Once, that staff had been too heavy for you to properly swing around. He had watched you practice with a pained grimace for a week before he surprised you with your own to train with. The two of you were nothing more than colleagues at that point, simply two mismatched X-Men crossing paths by sheer fate. Until he had handed you your own staff, its weight balanced with delicate perfection in the palm of your hand, and showed you how to use it.

You had never told him that you only used the staff because you could see it in every timeline, a slow conversion of your fighting style across lifetimes. Not every life you lived shared Remy, but his influence still lingered at the edges, seeping in like ink. Fighting with a staff, learning to pick locks, using sleight of hand to swap items from timelines with ease. It was all an extension of your life with Remy. Just echoes, over and over, spreading out in rippling waves.

Echoes, which could never replace the thrill that sparks your attention when a blazing playing card whizzes past your ear. There’s a muffled explosion as the card makes contact with the enemy swinging for your head, and you gracefully sidestep the half-dead man that staggers into a collapsed pile at your feet.

“Watch where you goin’, mon coeur,” Gambit calls. Another whistling hum of kinetic energy, another flash of blazing purple as he throws another card and cuts down another blank faced enemy. The base that Nova commands has a strangely illusive layout, and the war-starved bodies seem like an endless, writhing thing to overcome.

Time is a limited resource, after all. You can taste it just as surely as the blood in the back of your mouth.

“Maybe I’m too distracted watching something else,” you call back. You don’t take the time to see the expression on his face, but you hear his delighted laugh before he starts slinging explosives again. It’s easy to fall into battle. Even easier while you’re wearing your old suit, and the fabric is soft and well-worn just as you remember it. The clothes you wore in the Void were fine for travel, but you felt strangely out of place last night watching Remy adjusting his coat for the upcoming battle.

You are one of the X-Men, technically. It’s been more than a lifetime since you felt like one, but you know their colors and their mission. The suit always did feel more like a formality. There is nothing that could prevent you from fighting for people who cannot protect themselves. Everyone else only has one life, and you have an infinity of them. The gold and blue of your suit is meant to inspire hope for the people you are defending, not to boast about your position, and yet Remy had stuttered mid-sentence when he turned to see you suddenly dressed in your original suit, prepared for battle.

Been a’while since Gambit seen you wit’ those colors. Though, Gambit t’inks you look better out of ‘em, too...

“Pot callin’ the kettle black,” Gambit says. He’s closer, now, as if magnetized to the orbit of your battleground. You smash the skull of a man trying to catch a cheapshot to Gambit’s ribs, and Gambit slips an explosive card into the pocket of the man’s coat for good measure. Briefly, his hand catches the curve of your elbow, brushing his fingers over the pulse-point. Even through the sleeve of your suit, you can almost feel the heat of his skin, searing bone-deep.

“Just calling it as I see it, Cajun,” you say. It doesn’t sound as breathless as you feel. Gambit still has that infuriatingly pleased look on his face, though, so you give him a half-hearted shove with a raised brow. “Save the world, remember?”

“Mais la, all bluff no play,” he complains. “S’il vous plait, mon coeur —”

Time slips.

One moment, you take the chance to catch your breath, falling all-too-easy to the lure of sparring with Remy. The next moment, you’re on the ground. There’s blood beneath you, pooling under your head, dripping from your nose and down to the hard-packed soil.

“Remy,” you choke out. Your ears are ringing with echoes of voices, though you assume it’s across timelines based on the range of emotions. You can hear crying as soul-wrenching as fresh grief, and laughing as bright as bells. It’s like picking up a landline and hearing a conversation you’re only privy to as a passing voyeur.

You blink away some of the dirt and sweat stinging your eyes. You’re still on the ground. Something weighty and warm is settled over your back, tucked into the curve of your sides. The scent of smoke and cologne curls around you as familiar as the back of your hand.

Remy draped his coat over you. You spit a wad of bloodied saliva onto the ground, grimacing at the dark thickness. How long have you been out? You don’t remember charging up to leave the timeline.

Even worse, you don’t remember going anywhere. Time may change around you, but your mind keeps itself sharp with a constant awareness. Even when you would travel time in your sleep, you knew you were moving based on the pressure changing in the air. There had been no pressure change, this time. Only standing with Gambit, teasing him in the way that blazed adrenaline through your veins. Then, it is you laying on the ground, curled up underneath his coat, tasting blood.

You blink again. You think you’re shivering, or maybe you’re trembling, because you aren’t cold. That hazy, all-consuming fever pulses across your skin in waves, burning across your every nerve. It takes effort to turn your head just a fraction, searching the scattered battlefield. You’re still in Nova’s compound. You can see Blade and Elektra distracting any enemy seeking the weaker prey, luring them away from where you lay.

It had taken two more days before you and Gambit had met back up with the resistance. Initially, you had been wary of the strange collection of mutants, reflecting their own suspicion of you back like a mirror image. Yet they had seemed relieved that Gambit was back unharmed.

Now, far past the initial skepticism of your arrival, they treat you with the same consideration they give Gambit.

Though Gambit is… the same, and yet he’s more. The way he fights is far different than the way he did during the days when you both worked with the X-Men. He doesn’t linger near the boundaries of the fight anymore. You used to breathe easier knowing he had been prowling the edges of a fight with his cards at the ready, always protecting your back.

Now, when he fights in the Void, he storms the battlefield as a raging violet-blaze tempest. You find him easily through the crowded clusters of skirmishes, his staff humming with kinetic charge. He wields a handful of cards with careful scarcity, and you know it’s because you have his coat draped over you, holding all of his extra ammo.

He is going to get himself killed.

That thought propels you into motion. Your arms tremble as you push yourself to sit up, the back of your mouth filling with blood and nauseating saliva. It hurts to breathe. It feels like there is a shard of glass lodged in your ribs, cutting up your insides. The only blood you can sense is the slow drip from your lips, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage you can’t see yet. Something in your being is dismantling in slow, even strokes, cast adrift from the timelines and stranded in the Void.

One of Nova’s henchmen gets too close to Remy and sideswipes him. The soft-muted grunt of pain from Remy sends a chilling lance of fear through your gut, though before you can move, Remy is already turning and taking down the enemy with a swift twirl of his staff.

They are going to kill him if you don’t get him out. You know it, and it hurts so much to move, but you push yourself to your feet with a strangled whine of frustration. Of all the times for your body to fail you, it has to be now, when Remy is exposed to an entire base of people trying to kill him.

His coat is a familiar weight over your shoulders, but that doesn’t quell the violent shiver that runs through you. Neither does it stop the sudden rush of dizzying pain, or the way you have to hunch over and spit out blood onto the dirt. No time. You don’t have any time.

“Remy,” you call out. You fumble to wipe away the blood dripping down your chin just as he turns at the sound of your voice, his face bright with relief. He doesn’t notice the blood. He moves quickly through the battlefield nonetheless, wrapping an arm over the shuddering arch of your shoulders.

“ Mon coeur,” he says, and he must see something in your face that makes him hesitate. “Enjoy your nap, chér ?”

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s always ‘chér ’ when he doesn’t know which version you are.

“Still with you, LeBeau,” you tell him. Your hand reaches up to cradle the curve of his jaw. He’s buzzing with energy beneath your touch, but it’s the simmering fire in his eyes as he gazes back at you that makes you feel set alight.

“Wanna play?” He says softly. One arm is still slung protectively over your back, but he uses his free hand to fasten his coat tighter over your shoulders, his hand lingering at the vulnerable curve of your throat. “I deal you in, mon coeur.”

You’re reluctant to let him go, so you pull him in and press a chaste kiss to his mouth. You don’t let him go deeper than that so he doesn’t taste the blood, even if there’s a savage wanting in your gut to sink deep into his embrace and never resurface. It’s not fair, you think, that you finally found him only to lose him all over again.

“Deal me in, Cajun,” you whisper to him. His fingers drop from the hollow of your collarbone to the seam of his coat sleeve, drawing a card. He flickers it between his fingers to show you his dealt hand — the ace of hearts — before it disappears into the nothingness of time. You let Remy press another kiss to your mouth, and you have to close your eyes to fight back the burn of tears. Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the hoarseness in his voice when he pulls back.

"You an' me, chér, couple'a aces, non?" 

You have to turn your head to hide a sad smile. "A matched pair."

Like that, the two of you separate. He goes into the fray of battle, the air whirring violently with charged energy, and you step back into the shadow, pulling your ace of hearts from the timeline. You have caught nothing but glimpses of Nova since you arrived, but you can feel her presence at the edges of your mind, probing for weakness. 

So you look weak. It’s easy to slouch against the wall, your breathing coming in labored pants, the sleeve of your X-Men suit streaked red with the blood you keep wiping from your chin. Hurt prey is weaker, after all. You know what she must see when she sees you so far from Remy’s orbit: an injured fawn ripened for the kill.

“Don’ ya leave now, the fun just startin’,” Remy laughs. He sweeps his staff in a wide arc, warding off the enemies crowding closer to his position, but he only has eyes for you. He’s watching you, and you know the moment she arrives by the way his eyes harden with venomous hatred.

“Indeed,” Nova says. Her presence is a sudden, harsh strike to your mind. You have to grit your teeth to muffle your shocked gasp. Her hand is lax around your throat, but you are all too aware of the hand gently caressing the back of your skull. You can hear the smile in her voice when she whispers in your ear, “I’ve never seen something like you.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you say. The air whirs in quiet contention around you,  but you’re more focused on the card still clutched in your hand. Come on, come on...

“You’re a little wanderer, aren’t you,” she muses. She runs her fingers through the locks of your hair with gentle fingertips, and it takes all of your self control not to spasm and jolt out of her touch. You clench your empty hands tightly, instead, and try not to stare at Remy when he suddenly tucks his hand into a tight fist, purple light buzzing ravenously through the tight clench of his fingers.

“What are you doing running with the swamp rats, hm?” Nova strokes your head again. “You don’t seem like one of their merry band of misfits.”

Remy makes an indignant sound at that, and just as Nova looks to him, the light in his hand dies to nothingness.

“His name is Gambit,” you say. The playing card in your hand whirs with pitched fervor. Almost there. “Make sure you remember that.”

Time condenses to your will, and you’re looking right at Remy when the ace of hearts detonates, rippling a shockwave through you and Nova. Kinetic energy consumes you in a wildfire, burning through the flesh of your body with fervent hunger. You see the ache of distraught cross his face, and then there is only the movement of timelines shifting in place, carrying you through lifetimes, blurring the world around you into a wash of muddled watercolors.

When you blink, the world rights itself.

When you breathe in, settling back into a body escaped unharmed, you see Remy fall.

“No!” You shout. Or perhaps it is a whisper. Or perhaps it is spread across every timeline, every particle of your being spread thin and calling out in pained fury. You aren’t sure of anything except the way Remy twists, losing grip of his staff, and collapsing to the ground.

A wordless scream of rage tears through you. You can hear its echo filling the air as you yank time into a heel, drawing yourself across the expanse of the field in moments. You aren’t sure where the others are, or if Nova truly perished in the kinetic explosion as you intended. All you can see is Remy, lying in motionless rigor, and the man that took the shot that put him down.

Time scrambles in your mind, but you reach your destination faster than the man can draw his weapon at you. Your hands take his head in a vice grip, the tips of your gloved fingers digging harshly into his dirt-streaked skin.

“How dare you,” you snarl. If you had the chance, you would tear him through time until he disintegrated. You break his neck instead, the sickening crack of his bone fading from your attention the moment you feel his body slip from your grasp. You don’t manipulate time to fall to your knees by Remy’s side, but the space between movements is a blur you don’t care to investigate.

“Remy,” you half-sob. You reach out and grasp his shoulder, turning him over onto his back, and nearly sob again in relief when you see him squinting back at you with dazed annoyance.

“Lucky strike,” he mutters. Your hand flutters down to brush against his side, your heart seizing at the grimace on his face. The warmth of blood against your fingers spreads a numbness through your gut. You only press your hand firmly to the wound, gritting your teeth against the roaring fury building in your throat.

“What happened to ‘the house always wins’?” You snap at him instead. The blood is sticky and warm, and it won’t be staunched by the pressure of your hand alone. He’s going to bleed out.

“Raising the bet,” Remy grunts. There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow, but it’s the ashen pallor of his skin that makes your chest tighten with panic. God, you’re going to lose him.

“I hate you,” you whisper. You hate the Void. You hate Nova, and her violent-driven henchmen. You hate yourself, most of all, for doing this to him. For not being able to do more.

“Tha’ sounds more like love than hate, mon coeur.”

“Just playing the odds,” you bite out. He blinks at you, sluggish, and you realize exactly what you have to do. It’s the only thing you can do for him. You draw your hand back from his side and try not to gag on the smell of it permeating the air. There’s a steady puddle beneath him, soaking the knees of your suit, but you hardly feel it. You can’t feel anything at all, in fact.

Just that whirring buzz of time, and the slowly approaching footsteps of Cassandra Nova coming up behind you.

“Go ahead, Remy,” you breathe. The timeline whirs to life beneath your palms, a composed symphony to the crackling buzz of kinetic energy. You cup his face, thumbs smoothing away the dust beneath his blackened eyes, and you will him to live.

He reaches up to try and catch your wrists. There’s that furrow in his brow, again, like he’s preparing to curse you out for this. He’s a pulsing livewire of humming energy in your hands, simmering with an explosive potential. If he stays here, he will be nothing more than a husk. Dying like a goddamn hero, slaughtered like a martyr upon the altar, just to give you the chance to take down Nova.

So you imagine him at your apartment, in your bed, instead. Tucked under the blankets, his hair mussed from sleep. Figaro curled up on his chest, purring his strange rattling hum, the other two boys stretched out beside him. The world is quiet, and safe. Nothing is there to hurt him.

The timeline sings in your hands. You want to kiss him, but you don’t. Kissing him will feel like goodbye, and you don’t think you could bear the thought of it, not right now. Not before you finish taking down Nova.

Your gaze locks with his. You can see the moment he realizes that you aren’t going with him. The annoyance at being forced to take the retreat cracks out of his expression with sharp, desperate panic. His hands nearly catch you at the wrist, his fingertips brushing against the sleeve of your coat, but then he’s gone. You stare down at the dirt where he once was, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s safe.

At least, you tell yourself, one of you made it home.

Yet it still feels like a gaping wound in your side. You betrayed him to save him.

“Touching,” Nova remarks. You can’t bring yourself to move. You’re still kneeling in the remains of Remy’s blood when she strikes you.

The world flickers in and out of focus, spinning in rampant circles. Distantly, you’re aware of your legs kicking weakly in the air, your hands scrabbling desperately at your throat to ease the choking grip she has you in. Except she isn’t touching you, not with her hands.

No, she’s standing just out of arm's reach, smiling like a sphynx.

“I have seen so many variants,” she says idly. You’re choking on nothing, fighting the headache rending through your temples. “There’s been some Jean Grays, a few Rogues. More than a few Gambits. Many, many Deadpools.”

“And yet,” she continues. “I have never found more than one of you.”

The release of the grip she has on your throat makes you gasp out a cry, sucking in air with deep, hoarse wheezing. You hardly feel the impact of your body collapsing to the ground, too relieved in the taste of air. You rub at your throat with shaking fingers, trying to erase the feeling of her grip crushing your windpipe.

“That isn’t the strangest part, however.”

You know where this is going. You close your eyes.

“I could feel you,” she shifts closer to you, but you don’t have the energy to flinch and create distance between the two of you. “In your mind, you are nothing but fragments.”

“Wayfarer,” you whisper. It comes out in a croak, but you are far beyond caring. “I am everywhere and everything.”

“Broken,” she agrees. You open your eyes at that. She looks vindicated, as if admitting your ability has only made you weaker. You suppose, hunched over and wheezing, you don’t look as threatening as you used to during your X-Men days. You must look like nothing but bleeding prey.

Good, you think. You smile at her with bloodied teeth. “Broken things are meant to hurt, you know.”

Like shuffling a deck of cards, you let time flutter through your hands, staggering into a timeline version of yourself where you can breathe without choking. Your body follows the commands of your mind with elegant obedience.

Your hands meet their mark, and latch onto Nova tight enough to turn your knuckles pale. The pair of playing cards pressed against each of your palms sizzle with hunger where they make contact with her body.

Pain lances through your skull, exploding into brilliant light behind your eyes. You think your hands are still clutching onto Nova, but you cannot feel them. The world is bright violet, time shuffling with a charged whir. The kinetic energy ripples down your hands in great, staggering waves, a faint prickle of pain among the agony of time rendering itself apart around you.

Nova is screaming. Distantly, you feel her hands pulling at you, yanking at the lapels of Remy’s coat, hitting your face. She must be trying to delve into your mind. She cannot catch you, though. You are plummeting through every timeline, shuffling from one version of yourself to the next, then the next, then the next. Over and over. Over, and over, and over.

Shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think you let go of her.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

No, it’s not your hands that have let go. Your arms are shuddering through time, but your hands keep locked onto her, holding her steady, burning violet. You haven’t let her go, but your body is being torn into pieces.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Nova isn’t screaming anymore.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You are.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You can’t hear it over the roaring of time rushing through you, but you can feel your throat blazing, screaming through every timeline, every version of yourself. This must be what dying feels like. It is infinite across all time. There is no other way out.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Her body dissolves with slow tendrils of violet light creeping beneath the exposed flesh, tracing whirls with the lines of her veins and arteries. It consumes her from the inside, spreading out with a meticulous, parasitic intensity.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Remy’s power consumes you, too. You see the light creep up your wrists, then your arms, then your shoulders. You can feel its warmth down to your bones. It almost feels, strangely, like it’s him hugging you. It feels like it did last night, tangled in his arms beneath the sheets, your ear pressed to his chest to listen to the rhythm of his heart.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You wonder, distantly, if his power is trying to keep your body together. The charge of kinetic energy is concentrated in your hands, but you can still feel the heat of it pooling in the pit of your stomach and scorching the back of your mouth. Remy had been dismissive when you asked him what it felt like to charge something, though you figure he had been exasperated by your own explanation of your ability. You doubt he would have known what it felt like to be torn asunder with only the kinetic lightning crackling through him.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think about Remy, for a moment. You think about the apartment that you both signed the lease on, furnished with a thief’s eye of luxury, cluttered with the little bits of memorabilia and creature comforts you curated over the years. You think about the cats that Remy dotes on, your own cats by marriage, all curled up in their favorite spots around the two of you. You think about the couch that you had teased Remy about for the price, only for him to turn around and gloat about the amount of naps you took on it. You think about the movie nights with you two intertwined on that couch, the cats pressed into your sides, the room dim-lit and safe.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

You think about how you would like to do that, again. To be able to sit on the couch with your husband and watch a movie. To be with Remy, and not be caught in this web of unraveling agony.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull — 

Like a loose thread, you unravel.

Shuffle.

It starts in your hands, with your fingertips, and it spreads from there.

Draw.

Your eyesight goes last.

Pull.

You see Remy in every lifetime, looking at you, his outline glimmering with that kinetic violet light. His mouth is moving. It almost looks like your name.

Shuffle…

Nothing comes to your mind. Everything comes into pitch black.

Shuffle…

Your hands are empty.

Shuffle…

Time is empty, now absent when it once was vast. You had been infinite, once. Like time, you had been endless.

Shuffle…

You had been lost before you knew what it felt like to be seen. You could never be sure what timeline was originally yours before you switched them. Even the smallest of details could escape your attention if you weren’t looking for it. At a certain point, you realized you had to choose a life to claim as yours and stop wandering. Even a Wayfarer needed an anchor to call home for when it was time to rest.

Draw.

You had wandered for a long time. Years, perhaps, though your physical bodies changed shape and form in ways you couldn’t predict. The face in the mirror had never been home, anyway. There were too many genetic variables to each timeline to preserve the way you looked. Your body was merely a temporary housing for your time-stepping mind. A body was not an anchor. It was simply a tool to be used and discarded.

Pull.

An anchor needs to be constant. It needs to be something that will not retreat when time grows teeth and begins to hurt. It needs to be loyal to the cause. It needs to be kind, deep down, even if the surface is skin-deep careless. It needs to make you feel safe.

It’s… warm. Soft.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow with a long, blissful sigh. You will never regret insisting that you splurge and spend the extra money on a memory foam mattress. It feels like floating in the clouds.

A soft, questioning mmrph rumbles next to your ear. It’s your only warning before a small, wet nose presses to your temple. You know it’s Oliver by the way he starts to knead at the pillow next to your head, purring a roaring chorus. There’s another weight on your legs, pinning them down, and a third is nestled into your side. Remy must be up, already, if they’re all stuck to you for warmth.

“Did your father abandon us again, boys?” You mumble sleepily. Oliver purrs louder at the sound of your voice. You can feel the weight on your legs shift, no doubt being that it’s Lucifer standing up to stretch before he starts to walk up the length of your body. He’s purring, too, though he resettles on the spot between your shoulder blades, the hum of his purr radiating across your back. Figaro doesn’t grace you with an acknowledgement, but neither does he unfurl himself from his spot next to your side.

Warm, soft, and safely nestled amongst your cats. It’s nearly heaven. You end up half-dozing back off, lulled to sleep by the purring next to your ear. You feel like you haven’t slept in a lifetime.

You don’t hear the door open, though you know something is wrong by the way Figaro leaps to attention and Oliver’s purr stutters to a stop.

When you open your eyes, it’s half-lit by the morning sun. It must be closer to noon than the time that you usually wake to train. Any trace of lingering sleep drifts away when the bedroom door creeps open with its usual squall of hinges.

You smile and twist to look over your shoulder, dislodging Lucifer despite his soft sound of discontent, and yawn, “Morning. I think.”

Remy is posed in the doorway. Your next words die in your throat as you see the look on his face, the staff still gripped tightly in his hand. He’s dressed in his usual armor, not his civilian clothing like you expected. His hair is longer, tied back carelessly from his face, flyaway strands curling around his temples. His eyes are near-black, both through his irises and the dark shadows collecting beneath them.

He looks like he has spent years surviving an apocalypse.

“Jesus, Remy,” you breathe. You’re sitting up in an instant, one hand out reaching towards him. His armor is dust-streaked and worn from battle. “Are you hurt?”

“Where’d you go, chér?” He rasps. His face is still utterly, terrifyingly still. You have never seen him at the brink of collapse like this, before. He looks like he wants to step further in the room, his hand twitching with a nervous tic of adrenaline, but he stays stock-still. Waiting for you.

“Nowhere,” you say softly. “I’ve been in bed with the boys, love.”

You have to resist the urge to spring out of bed and run your hands along his body to look for any sign of injury. You aren’t entirely sure what’s gotten into him, but if he’s hallucinating or delirious, you should probably reach out to the other X-Men. Maybe the professor would know why Remy’s in full gear and looking battle-worn at this hour. Why would he go without waking you first?

Remy wavers. He looks heartsick. “Don’ lie t’me, chér.”

“Never,” you agree. You offer the spot next to you in bed with a half-pleading, half-alluring gesture. “Come here. You look like hell, Remy.”

“You…” he starts, then stops. Abruptly, he drops his staff with a rattling thud. Within three strides, he’s in your arms, melting into your embrace. You clutch at him just as fiercely, burying your nose into the crown of his hair. He smells like smoke and dust, but there’s no indication of blood and pain. He simply sags in your grip, his breathing quick and unsteady against your collarbone. His fingers curl weakly into the back of your nightshirt, as if that’s all the strength he can muster.

He’s mumbling, even with his face pressed tightly to the curve of your throat, but you can’t make out much more than your name, over and over.

“Shh, Remy, I’m right here with you,” you whisper against his crown. With a free hand, you reach up to pull out the elastic band holding up his hair, letting it fall in uneven waves. When was the last time he took care of himself? Your Remy loved to indulge in fine-smelling soaps and lavish hair routines, surrounding himself in a luxury he earned himself. His appearance was just as much armor as his coat was. You had never been fooled by his demeanor: his weapon of charm was just as sharply honed as his weapon of playing cards.

Yet it’s the length of his hair that sours the back of your throat with nausea. You run your fingers through it, slowly massaging his scalp in the way that makes him pliant and sleepy. It’s not that you haven’t seen Remy with long hair before; it’s simply the fact that you haven’t seen him with long hair in years. Just last night, his hair had been just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. You had run your fingers through it and mentioned a haircut, and he had been a deadweight in your lap, humming sleepily in acknowledgement.

You swallow thickly. Either this is not the same Remy you went to sleep next to the night before… or you are missing time.

“You should take a bath, love,” you murmur, gently scratching his scalp. You can feel smudged wetness on the collar of your nightshirt from tears, though he hasn’t made a sound other than a few deep, unsteady breaths. Back when you first got together during missions, the shower was the first place you two could unwind and start to sort through your fading adrenaline rush.

He pulls back from your embrace, just a little, and every word of encouragement dies in your throat at the look on his face. Rage. Betrayal.

Heartbreak.

“You been gon’ awhile, chér,” he says. It’s not an accusation, but there’s a simmering anger beneath that matter-of-fact tone. It’s always ‘chér’ when he doesn’t know which version you are. His eyes burn through you, intent on stripping you raw. You wonder what answers he could possibly expect from you. If it’s answers he wants at all, or rather an apology.

You have to offer him something.

“I —”

“Gambit go lookin’ for you,” he laughs, mirthless. “Got him spending two years lookin’ and you jus’ show up in bed. Like nothin’ happen.”

Two years. There’s a small itch in the back of your mind, like the whisper of a memory raking its claws down your back. There had been an unraveling. Utter destruction. Then it had been you here, you waking up in bed as if nothing had happened.

You blink back at him, struck speechless. You don’t have to offer a word, though, because there’s true anger in his eyes, now.

“I go to de Void,” he says. “I t’ink that’s what it was. Nothin’ left there. Dere’s no life around, hein? Mais, non, not even my wife, only the dead. Ev’rybody dead.”

 His eyes close as if he can ward away the images tormenting his memories. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your face crumples at that. He went back for you. He had survived the wound, and he found a way back to come for you.

And he had found nothing but death.

“You’re such an idiot,” you choke out. His eyes snap open at that, but you merely cup his face in your hands and draw him in to bump your forehead against his, sucking in a shuddering breath. He is warm and alive under your touch. You didn’t think you could touch him like this again when Nova had been standing above you, prepared to tear you in shreds. “I sent you ahead, but I was coming with you.”

“We stay together,” he tells you. There’s a strain in his voice just as painful as yours, but the way he reaches up to swipe away a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb is careful. As if he’s marveling that he has the chance to touch you at all. “Mais la, don’ tell Gambit he wrote up those vows for nothin’, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Matched pair,” you whisper back.

“Couple’a aces,” he agrees, and he kisses you just as gently as he wiped away your tears, as if you have all the time in the world.