Le Diable Blanc

Welcome to my indie Gambit / Remy LeBeau sideblog. My name is Riss, and my main blog is @himbohotel​, so I will be following you from there! Also on that note, I'm not mutuals-only, but mutuals do tend to get priority.

INDIE  |   OPEN TO MOST INTERACTIONS  |  SHIP-SELECTIVE  | 18+

Looking forward to continuing all the shenanigans here!

Note on my Gambit portrayal: I do type out his accent. Being Cajun is something very important to Remy, which means recreating the accent as authentically as I can while being still legible and adding Louisiana French. If that’s not something up your alley, I suggest finding a different Gambit rper.

𝐏𝐎𝐃𝐍𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄

@rohgue, @mutatiio, @auroradicit, @snkts

𝓛𝓪𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝔃 𝓛𝓮𝓼 𝓑𝓸𝓷𝓼 𝓣𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓼 𝓡𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓻!

CODE | DOSSIER | MEMES

Taking hot showers for hours because somehow the heat he generates naturally isn't enough to keep him warm

Having to use more lotion because his skin's becoming too tight and weirdly calloused

Blaming sunburn for his skin peeling off

Having no explanation for the keratin bumps that appears after he peels off the skin of his shoulders

Scales

Developing scales

Dealing with an aching back and shoulder blades that feel like actual blades on fire

Cutting his bottom lip multiple times on his too-pointy eyeteeth

He hides his filthy smirk in the still-quivering flesh of her belly, more smug than the cat that got the damn canary. Or, well, cream seems better in this case. Gingerly, he removes his fingers and wipes them on the driest part of their soaked bed. She's still riding out the aftershocks and it's the single most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life. His wife, unabashed in her pleasure and still reeling from it--god damn, ain't nothing better than this.

Even the burn of his own arousal takes a backseat to seeing her finally tumble over the cliff of ecstasy, body bowing in rictus as she fell apart, blush traveling down to the tops of her freckled breasts as she realized just what her body could do with enough stimulation. Not that Remy allowed her to feel shame about that--non, not at all. She felt good, and he made her feel that good; shame does not exist in their bed. Especially not now.

Those sheets need to get to the washer. The mattress might be a lost cause. He huffs out a sigh, sweaty-sweet in the late night, and she pushes at his head with a groan, overstimulated and sticky in the syrupy heat of a Louisianian summer. He goes up on his elbows willingly, staring down at his beautiful wife bathed in the full moon's glow. God damn. Whatever hell he went through was worth it for these quiet moments between them two. That he swears.

She looks up at him, the green of her eyes blown out to a mere ring, curls slicked to the glistening column of her neck, a brave bead of sweat traveling down low, low, low 'til it disappears into her cleavage, and laughs, almost incredulously, at what the hell had transpired between them this time. Punch-drunk. Sensitive. Happy. Carefree in a way that he knows will not last the night; a fragile way that he cherishes with his long, long memory.

He leans in to brush a kiss against a peach-warmed cheek.

Send “ah, fuck it” to shove my muse up against a wall for a surprise kiss 👀

These days, Gambit's not really into the party scene. He's got no reason to be. Far from the desperation of his twenties, where he cut his teeth on anything and everything that stood still enough for him to fall into: booze, drugs, women...men, sometimes, when the times were lean and he couldn't afford to be choosy--it doesn't hold the same appeal as he's quickly approaching the back-end of his thirties.

But he enjoys the night out for what it is--a damn break. Jubes out there, soaking up the lights and the music as she should. She's young, been through too much for a girl her age, too much responsibility crammed in such short years. He sits back and enjoys her freedom from afar.

The watered-down drinks can only hold his interest for so long and he trusts Jubes to take down any creep with her own dazzling personality. So with a grunt, he leaves a few bills on the bar and makes his way through the swarm of sweaty bodies towards one of the marked exits. Fresh air. He needs fresh air.