gambit sometimes folds

Gazing back at Remy was the desecration of his own reflection; the gradual dismantling of whatever dignity he still possessed. Before his floor length mirror, Remy splayed his legs, heels puncturing the carpet. Alone in his room, he could bare his filthy, impetuous soul. 

He and Rogue shared their home – Xavier's mansion – though they’d always kept separate rooms. It was a subtle, defining detail of their relationship. Close, but not close enough. Even so, what scarce semblance of a functional relationship they did have would need to be pried from his lifeless clutch.

The sudden chill in the air caressed his nipples, devouring his bare skin. Nipples firm, goosebumps littering his chest and torso, Remy focused his senses on the warmth spreading through his core. In the breadth of his slick, lubricated palm, he stroked the girth of his cock. His thumb idled over his slit, occasionally flicking over the beading ejaculate. 

Clutched within his gritted teeth, he bit down on his maroon cropped shirt, saliva slowly seeping through. Remy’s gaze trained intently on the reflection of his severe spiral. He’d officially commit his soul to oblivion. His grip tightened on his member, sending a riveting shudder down his spine. Remy rocked forward, rutting into his palm. If only Anna could see him. He yearned to expose this side of himself to her. To show Rogue the depraved behaviour that scoundrels like him could be reduced to. 

A feeble groan raptured his chest. Drawing Rogue in his mind while he tugged at his cock was a dangerous combination. A sin that would easily be the death of him. A sin he’d commit again and again so long as it provided some morsel of connection. 

Slipping fingers over his ribbed flesh, he investigated his entrance. The sensation of the pads of his fingers against the quavering of his puckered hole was altogether foreign. One finger tip slicked inside to stir his entrance.

He was so warm inside, warmer than he’d expected. Remy’s quivering flesh yielded to his touch, allowing him to work his middle finger to his first knuckle. That was where he crooked his finger, pressing, massaging as his entrance became malleable and soft enough for a second finger. 

The sound that escaped him this time was closer to an indigent whimper than a groan. The cajun’s grip on his shaft loosened as he adjusted his pace. 

Either from the cold air of the room or his steadily flourishing arousal, his scrotum tightened. 

“Oh, Anna,” he uttered in a wanton drawl. “Chere.” His broken voice released in a husk. His breath, shallow and sharp. He raked his lip back under his teeth. “This is what you drive me to,” his sharp crimson gaze fell lazily on his reflection.