#gambit fic

“Bonjour, Monsieur Thomas, vous allez bien?”

Tom, the head bartender at The Cove in Salem Center turns at the familiar Cajun lilt and greets two of his regulars as they take up their usual bar stools. Gambit has a nick on his jaw, but that usual self-assured smile that he carries everywhere. Wolverine looks just fine, large and satisfied no doubt after sparing with the younger man.

“Evening, fellas,” Tom greets them, already reaching for the short glasses. “Same old, same old?” He asks, grabbing a black label whiskey and a robust bourbon off the liquor shelf.

“Make mine a double, Tom.” Logan grumbles, scanning the inside of the bar for potential threats while Remy scan for potential company. “Those kids at Xavier’s ain’t suited for the real world,” He gripes, giving Tom a curt nod when his whiskey glass is slid across to him. “I say duck, they stop to ask why. Never seen anythin’ like it.”

“They kids, homme,” Remy says, handing Tom some folded bills with a tip of a fake hat after taking his bourbon and sipping it slowly, savoring the earthy notes. “We never listened to our professeurs, ou pas? Is what they do, ignore us old men.” He says with a shrug. “Moi, personnellement? I never have trouble with the trainees.”

“That’s cause you flirt with ‘em.” Logan smirks.

“Gambit play to his strengths.” Remy winks.

The night continues with conversation, light banter between old friends. They play a few rounds of pool, bet some petty cash for the fun of it. Logan brings up Rogue and Magneto’s ever evolving bond and Remy shrugs it off, not ready to make a decision on that just yet. Remy, in turn, brings up how Jean’s been spending a lot of time in the garage with him. Logan claims he’s just letting her vent about marriage troubles — Remy doesn’t doubt it. The more complicated qualms of life often take hold of the vibe a few drinks into the night and they find themselves in a secluded booth tucked in the back of the bar. There is a feeling of anticipation quietly simmering between the two men, an impending sense of…thrill.

“Hey!”

They look up and suddenly you’re standing there, grinning at your mentors and teammates. You joined after graduating a years back, stayed on as a TA for Ororo and trained to be part of the X-Men. Now, three years after your graduation, you’ve grown from a coltish young student to a beautiful young woman. The X-Men are all very protective of you given you’re the youngest on the team, but you’ve always felt safest with Wolverine and Gambit.

“Oh, hé petite,” Remy smiles, standing to give you a hug and Logan follows suit, pecking the top of your head and looking over his shoulder at your group of friends. “How’s your night go-”

“Who’re they?” Logan interrupts.

“Friends from college, relax, dad,” You tease, crossing your arms as you realize you’re wearing a tube top under your cropped denim jacket. You wouldn’t usually care, but you do when you’re standing in front of two of your male role models and don’t have a bra on. “You two hanging out? We just came to have a drink, but they’re heading back into town afterwards.”

“You need a ride back home?” Logan asks and you nod. “We’ll be here, go have your drink, kid.” He says and you grin, pecking his cheek and Remy hands you some folded bills.

“Drinks on me, mon ange.” He winks and you lightly shove him with your shoulder while taking the crumpled bills from his hand.

“Thanks.” You blush before returning to your group.

“You really can’t help yourself can you, Gumbo?” Logan mutters as they sit back down. He can see that Remy is still staring at you and Logan gives a low growl as a warning.

“Oh, c’mon, Wolverine,” Remy laughs softly, downing the rest of his bourbon and signaling Tom for another by raising the empty glass. “She not a kid no more, no matter how much you treat her like one.” Logan shakes his head and spares a look over his shoulder at you.

You’ve shed your denim jacket off, the perky mounds of your chest sitting up nicely in that youthful, but undeniably womanly way. Twenty-one full years of life, nine of which he has been personally present for and he’s loved each version of you. This version, however, invites temptation.

“She deserves better than either of us can give her.” Logan turns back to Remy who gives a slow, but agreeable nod.

“Oui, mais…” Remy gives a small shrug as he trails off when his dark eyes find you again, laughing softly as you unconsciously flip your hair off your shoulder. Your eyes find his glowing irises and you smile sweetly, giving him a wave while biting your lip. “If she want it, what’s the issue?”

After your friends depart with hugs and half-made plans of doing this again next weekend, you join the two X-Men in the back corner booth, sitting next to to Gambit who has an arm outstretched behind you. “That boy of yours sure had a starin’ problem, huh, petite?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” You smirk, nudging him with your shoulder and he chuckles, his hand inches closer to your shoulder. “He’s nice, but…” You pause, noticing yourself just talking to them like friends and not teachers. You like this newfound closeness, this camaraderie between teammates. “I’m not really into his type.”

“What type is he?” Logan asks, trying not to sound as curious as he is by taking a swig of his beer, holding the bottle casually by its neck.

“You know, he’s just a little too shy, always plays by the rules,” You hesitate, fiddling with the straw in your empty cocktail glass as you bite your lip and look from one awaiting facial expression to the next. “My age.” You finally add, taking a sip from Remy’s glass while he grins at you and you blush, looking over at Logan. “Hope that’s not weird to say in front of you now.”

“Nah,” Logan says, sitting back in his seat across from you, arms crossed casually over his broad chest while Remy’s hand is now softly rubbing on your bare shoulder. “You’re grown enough to know what you want.”

That’s what the Wolverine keeps repeating to himself when you’re sitting between him and Gambit in the back of his Jeep. Logan’s tongue is gliding into your mouth while Gambit kisses softly on your neck, his hand holding your jaw to keep your head steady. “Tu as un goût si sucré.” He groans, his nose brushing down your neck as he kisses your bare shoulders, his hand falling from your jaw to your perky breasts. “No bra, bèbè?” He asks teasingly making you laugh.

“Is that a complaint?” You manage to ask against Logan’s lips, who chuckles while his hand on your thigh continues rubbing slowly along the inside. The warmth of both their strong, large bodies keep you comfortable as the doorless vehicle you sit in does little to offer warmth. With Remy at your back and Logan in front of you, you’re plenty cozy.

“Non,” Gambit smirks, pulling the top’s neckline down so your tits pop out playfully. “A gratitude.”

Logan’s eyes fall into your bare chest and you bite your lip teasingly as he watches Gambit fondling your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until the pebble gardens. “Go on, Lo,” You murmur, your hand running softly through the side of his hair before guiding him down to your chest. “Taste me.”

His mouth wraps around your nipple and you shiver from the suction of his lips and tongue, from the fact that the Wolverine is sucking on your titties while Remy LeBeau is working your jeans off so he can slip a nimble hand between your warm thighs, parted by Logan’s massive torso. “Bet this lil pussy tastes like candy.” Gambit whispers into your ear, making you wet as two of his finger pads slide along your slit to collect your arousal.

“Find out.” You tease, arching into Logan as he bites teasingly on your nipple. “Fuck, please, touch me.” You beg him, your hand coming back to clasp onto Gambit’s nape as his fingers push into your aching core. “Yes!” You gasp, spreading your legs wider as Logan tugs your jeans the rest of the way down.

“Wanna taste, Wolverine?” The Cajun asks with a smirk and Logan pulls back from your breasts to take the offertory of his teammate’s pussy soaked fingers. You watch with lust as Logan tastes you off of someone else and your bite your lip when you feel his cock growing hard against your thigh.

“Tastes like plums.” Logan says with a little smirk after pulling off Remy’s digits and kissing you. You moan into his mouth, letting his tongue slip past your lips so you taste yourself as well while Gambit’s wet fingers return south to toy with your clit. “You sure you want this, darlin’?”

“Yes,” You nod eagerly, looking up at him with clear eyes and then looking up at the man behind you. “Please.”

Soon you’re lying back on top of Remy, who’s playing with your tits while letting Wolverine set the pace above you with his hands on your hips. Their cocks are squeezed together in your pussy, stretching you out more than you’ve ever been stretched during sex. Gambit is sucking and kissing on your neck, thrusting up lazily while Logan is grunting and swearing from the sight of his cock plunging into your gaping little hole, clenching his jaw when his head rubs against Gambit’s own swollen tip.

The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt — two large men sharing you like a toy, like a prize, both getting off on the same pleasure. They move in and out of you in a rhythmic pattern, taking turns bumping into your cervix so that you’re barely getting a moment to catch your breath or have a clear, coherent thought.

“Merde, ça fait du bien.” Remy groans about how good this feels while sliding one hand down your body to play with your clit again. Your eyes roll back into your head and you shudder from the pleasure, digging your manicured nails into Logan’s broad shoulders as he leans down and kisses you messily.

“You like this?” He growls low, barely lifting his mouth from yours as you nod, brows scrunched together in distress from the mix of pleasure and pain. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” You pant, your voice rough and breathless. “So much.” Their cocks keep gliding easily into you now, legs fully stretched out between their large, strong bodies as you let them take over. “‘M gonna cum!” You whine, your head tipping back against Gambit’s shoulder as he moans into your neck, your nails scratching down Logan’s firm chest.

“Fuck,” He grunts, suddenly lifting your thighs a little more to spread you wider and you squeal from the added pleasure the position gives you and them. Remy groans, his fingers pressing harder to your clit to get you over that edge as he begins to throb warningly. You writhe from the way he jiggles your sensitive bud between two fingers, making your walls contract and squeeze them inside you like a vice as your orgasm takes over your autonomy.

“Fuckfuckfuck!” You cry out, punching Logan’s hard pectoral once as Gambit lifts you slightly by your hips to hammer up into you. “D-Don’t stop!”

One of Logan’s hands then comes down to your lower belly to press you back down fully onto Gambit, squeezing both his and his teammate’s cocks while they’re inside you. Remy grunts from the pressure and he hisses as the direct friction from Logan sends him quickly to his own release.

“Asshole,” He huffs a laugh as he spurts inside you, his cum lubricating Logan’s cock further which makes the man’s head tip back in pleasure. “C’mon, bèbè, let’s make the old man blow his load.” Remy murmurs against your damp temple — as if you could do anything at this moment where you’ve succumbed entirely to the ache of ecstasy.

“Takin’ my time, Cajun.” Logan says with a small smirk as he watches himself slide out of you coated in evidence of arousal. Gambit turns your face to look at him and he kisses you slow and sloppy, swallowing your soft whines and murmurings of how good you feel between them.

Finally, Logan thrusts into you one last time, deep and intentional, shooting his load right against your cervix while you tremble helplessly between them. Your mind is dazed and your body sated as you sink into satisfaction from the feeling of their combined fluids leaking down your thighs. Logan swears under his breath, burying his face in your neck while Remy’s kissing you slow and messy.

“Can we go again?” You ask in a breathless, but mischievous voice after a moment of silence and both men groan softly.

“Only I’ve got the stamina to keep up with you, and Gambit’s not exactly at a hundred percent.” Logan chuckles, though he’s still unbelievably hard inside you.

The Cajun tsks playfully, caressing your thighs while adjusting his position behind you. “C’mon, homme,” He winks at Logan, rolling his hips subtly beneath you, making you gasp and Logan groan. “Let’s give it to her one more time, she an X-Man now, non?”

“Yeah, Wolverine,” You tease while playfully biting your lip, your hands smoothing over the hard expanse of his chest before adding, “We’ll just call this team bonding, huh?”

And how’s Logan to argue with that?

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you laugh softly and roll your eyes as you shake your head. of course he'd stumble home drunk. you already know your evening is far from over when he's like this.

'come on.' you say. 'let's get you inside.'

remy does a spectacularly bad job at getting up. and he's heavy.

'remy.' you say, holding on to him. 'work with me here.'

you manage to get him inside and lock the door again. remy is looking at you with a smile on his face.

'I hadn't expected you back yet.' you say, walking into the kitchen.

remy follows you and grabs one of your hands with both of his.

'I missed you, chéri.' he says, pulling you close and nuzzling his face in your neck.

'we live together, remy. I saw you this afternoon.' you say.

you feel his lips press against the side of your neck. you briefly close your eyes and allow yourself to revel in the feeling. then you gently push him away.

you hear remy whine and turn to see him pout at you.

'you don't love me anymore?' he says.

'of course I do, my love.' you say. 'but you're drunk. you need to drink some water and go to bed.'

you grab a clean glass and walk over to the sink. as you're filling it up with water, you can sense remy's presence behind you. seconds later, you feel his hands on your hips and his chin on your shoulder.

you mange to turn around in his arms and hand him the glass of water.

'drink up.'

'can I get a kiss afterwards?'

you roll your eyes. you don't want to admit you think it's adorable when he's this handsy and affectionate. you would only encourage him and you really meant it: you wouldn't do anything when he's drunk. he'd do the same if the roles were reversed.

'sure, love, you can get a kiss afterwards.'

you have to hold back your laughter as remy's eyes light up and he downs the glass in one go. you smirk and blow him a kiss before he can lean in.

'hey, what the fuck! no fair!' he exclaims, frowning.

'come on.' you say, holding out your hand to him. 'let's go to bed.'

he all but stumbles over his feet in his haste to grab your hand and follow you.

'yeah, let's go to bed.' you hear remy say behind you. you can tell by the tone in his voice you two have different ideas about 'going to bed'.

'to sleep, remy.' you clarify.

he sighs so loudly you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. you smile to yourself, amused at how fast his moods change when he's drunk. and about the fact he's such a love sick puppy when he's had a few. that is, more of a love sick puppy than he normally is. god, he really loves you.

when you get to your bedroom, you motion for remy to sit down on the bed. you kneel down to untie his boots.

'loving this view, mon amour.' comes remy's voice from above you. 'you know I love it when you get on your knees for me.'

'I'm just taking off your boots.'

'sure you are.'

'I am, remy.'

'are you sure?'

'yes, I am sure.'

remy sighs dramatically and lets himself fall back onto the bed. you glance up at him and see how tight his pants are. of course he'd not only be overly affectionate, but also turned on.

you tug off his boots and socks, raising to your feet.

'stand up for me, please.' you say.

remy opens his eyes and smirks at you from his position on the bed.

'now this view, I like.'

'it's literally so late remy, come on, I want to go to bed.'

he takes a hold of the hand you offer him and lets you pull him to his feet. you reach out to undo his belt.

'wow, chéri, buy me dinner first.' remy mumbles above you. you can tell by his quiet voice he's ready to go to sleep but fighting to stay awake. you wonder how much of this he'll remember tomorrow.

after undoing his belt and helping him out of his pants, you tell him to put his arms up so you can pull his shirt over his head. he does what you ask and doesn't even make a flirty comment about it. that tells you his tiredness is really kicking in.

you briefly step away to get a pair of sweatpants and a shirt out of the closet. as you hand them to him, you allow remy to rest his hand on your shoulder as he puts on the pants you've given him. you let your eyes linger on his muscular chest as he puts on the shirt. you really did get lucky with him, even if he can't keep his hands off of you when he's drunk.

you gently guide him to the bed and help him lay down. you get into the bed next to him and feel how remy pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck.

'you will kiss me tomorrow, right?' he mumbles against your skin.

you run your hands lazily through his hair. 'if you aren't hungover as fuck, which I think you will be, then yes, I'll kiss you, my love.' you say.

'oh fuck yes.' he says, making you chuckle softly.

'goodnight, remy.' you say.

'sweet dreams, mon amour.' he says.

just as you expected, remy falls asleep within seconds. you lay there for a while, absently running your fingers through his hair and thinking about how much you love him, before you eventually fall asleep as well.

when you wake up in the morning, your chest feels heavy. you open your eyes to see remy has somehow put his entire body on yours during the night.

you stay like that for a while, until you can no longer deny you really want breakfast.

with some effort, you push remy off of you so you can get up. he's still asleep as you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.

as you make breakfast, you're softly humming to yourself while you're in the kitchen.

your morning is quiet. you decide to let remy sleep for as long as he wants, maybe it would make his hangover less extreme.

just as you're making your lunch, you hear remy coming down the stairs. he stumbles into the kitchen, grumbling something in thick accented cajun you can't understand.

then he all but leans his entire body weight on you as he's standing behind you.

'why does the world hate me?' he says.

you laugh. 'good afternoon to you too, my love.'

'morning.' he mumbles. 'your voice is so loud, chéri.'

'this is the thanks I get for taking care of your drunk ass last night?'

'sorry. was I being an asshole?'

'no, just the usual. you couldn't keep your hands off of me.'

'you're used to that.'

'I am.'

you turn around. remy wraps his arms around you and drops his forehead to your shoulder.

'is this what dying feels like?' he mumbles.

'no, my love, this is what being extremely hungover feels like.' you say. 'you want coffee?'

'dear god no, the thought of it makes me want to throw up. I'll just lay on the couch.'

'you're so dramatic.' you say, gently taking a hold of his face and holding it in front of you.

remy closes his eyes and leans into your touch. 'this is making me feel better already.'

you lean in and press a kiss to the tip of his nose. when you pull back, he opens his eyes and smiles briefly at you. then he sways a bit on his feet and sucks in a sharp breath.

'still want to kiss me like you said yesterday?'

'oh, mon amour, I think if I stand really still and you don't move, the world stops spinning.'

you laugh at him as he groans, pressing one hand to his forehead. you decide to take it easy for the rest of the day. the two of you alternate between taking naps and you reading your book out loud to him. as the day passes, you can't help but to think that maybe a hungover remy isn't so bad. you secretly love how he refuses to leave your side when he's hungover.

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.

All I’m thinking about is how giving Gambit is. He’s a tease, a taunt, a dirty line not so much as even whispered when others are around. One look, and you can know what he’s thinking—or some sinful iteration of it. A curving smirk says a thousand words. Some you’ve heard, others he’s yet to let you be privy to. But there’s a certainty in that expression that comes with touches to your side, waist, back, hands. Light grazes against your arms, thighs, neck. He’ll curl his fingers beneath your chin to make sure you’re looking at him when you’re side-by-side speaking. Could be of the highest importance, or it could merely be about what you two were cooking that evening for dinner. Those eyes of red and black are more captivating than hypnosis, and he knows it’s more than just kryptonite. He knows if you pull the same, he’ll be on his knees. You don’t even have to pull the same—Remy’s already on his knees for you.

“Mon cher,” slips from his lips rather frequently regardless of where you two are with each other. Although, this particular case sends a warm shiver along your spine.

It’s just always such a sight to see him beneath you, bare, head back, eyes fluttering shut, the words dancing from him in a desperate sigh. His lips curve into that smirk—that sweet, sinful, teasing smirk that always means so many things. The muscles across his stomach tense under the creeping moonlight, the shadows making mesmerizing divots between them. The blankets are soft where they dare to continue to cover, but the rest of what you’re feeling? It’s all Remy. The tensing of his thighs, the wide spread of his hands, calloused even beneath his gloves, rough with their grip as he takes hold of your thighs, hips, waist.

“Spare Gambit this torture,” he murmurs, that crooked smile still there. The glint in his eyes battles that of the moon itself. His hair’s a mess as you reach down. The faintest blush climbs across his cheeks as you push it out of his eyes. The soft strands curl so, so easily around your fingers. You give them a soft tug. “Mon cher.”

You learned ages ago just how much he enjoys when you play with it. When you pull it.

You roll your hips for the hundredth time that evening, your own eyes threatening to shut as his cock twitches inside you. It’s felt like a fucking eternity since you’ve had even a moment to do this. To have each other, to be with each other, bodies bare, sweaty, trembling. You press up more than you have in the last thirty minutes, lifting yourself up and feeling the thick drag of his cock through every sensitive bit inside you. It feels like you’re on fire in all the best possible ways. The kind that makes your thighs twitch and a section low in your belly contort in pleasure. The way that only Gambit can do.

You sink back down just as you get to the tip, and Remy shudders out a low breath. That smile’s still there. He loves his own torment. Doesn’t matter if he’s been on the verge of climaxing for ages; he’s been holding it back for you. Cause of you. He loves nothing more than following your every whim, desire, word. Tonight’s your night. And as long as he gets to hear you whine and whimper and scream because of him, he’ll be more than satisfied. Even if you pried yourself from his tightening grip, even if you slowed your increasing pace down until you were sitting still on his cock again—so long as you were coaxed over that edge, clenching around him, tugging on his hair, whimpering his name, he’d die a happy man.

But you aren’t slowing. It’d been a whole week of teasing. Innocuous touches that were innocent enough to the wandering eye. Far less innocent behind the momentary closed doors and hidden corners. Hands snaked down between legs, lips pressing against necks, hands over mouths as legs were hoisted up and held open. Hips rocked with thick costumes in between, giving just enough friction and contact to make your head spin, but never enough. Dirty words were whispered when nobody was there to listen, and the one evening you two had a chance to shower together, Remy was kissing his way to his knees, spouting every vulgar word that he could get to leave his mouth. You had one leg over his shoulder and his tongue dragging right where you were the most sensitive and needy and—

An emergency alert went off.

And your shower had been cut short.

Much of that night had been cut short.

A curse slips from his lips as your hands go to either side of his head, the bed dipping beneath your weight. The whole wooden frame creaks as his hips snap up to meet yours. Something in French follows on a grunt, but it’s broken and choppy between his ragged breaths. It’s hard to hear when you’ve got your head buried against the side of his. The wet sounds of skin against skin fill the otherwise silent room, joined in a melody of desperation that neither of you put into anything other than touches, whimpers, grunts, and moans.

Remy’s arm hooks expertly around your waist, keeping you steady as you start to shake. You know your rhythms. You hear the blankets fall from the bed as his heels dig into the mattress. Every muscle in his arm goes hard as you bring your hips back down, gasping into his neck as his cock hits your sweet spot again, and again, and so wonderfully again. There. There. There. The friction where your bodies touch between you, where his chest drags against yours, and lower. Far lower. Where sensitive skin meets the prominent v he loves to show off in low pants.

“Fuck, Remy,” leaves you in a quiet whine, framed in desperate breaths. The sheet beneath you becomes a ball in your fists, threatening to come undone from the mattress as you tug on it.

“Gambit hears you,” he answers, that smirk so evident in his voice. Other times, he might say that he wants to hear your pretty voice beg. But you’d pushed the both of you past the point of waiting. He’s at his breaking point, and you were currently moments away from you, trembling in his hold as his hips snapped up a little harder. A little faster. “Let go for me, cher.”

What else can you do when he says that? A sloppy, hungry kiss finds your jaw as what little restraint you maintained until then shatters. There’s a sweet spot that he knows you have, and not only does he find the sensitive patch of skin on your jaw, his cock hits the other just the perfect way. You clench around him, gritting your teeth as the walls can only be so thick, but nothing can hold back the pure ecstasy that shoots through you. His heart pounds beneath you, hardly felt as bolts of electricity coursed through every nerve, every vein, every inch like tantalizing teases finally made whole. All along your neck, his mouth trails lower. Leaves fiery kisses that ignite your skin even still. Even as your back bows and you wrap your arms around him to get closer. To get more. To steady yourself as the bed rocks, creaks, and shudders beneath you.

Curses slip too loudly from your lips. Then him—some broken mix of Gambit, Remy, and LeBeau. He practically beams against the base of your neck, hands splaying as both arms hold you higher. You have to put one hand on the headboard to keep you steady as he fucks you through every lingering second of your climax. Wet, sticky, and sensitive—you hang your head and clamp your eyes shut. Every thrust is addicting as you shudder and clench around him.

“Fuck—fuck. Remy. Fuck.”

His smirk only falters the slightest when you meet his next thrust, and his breaking point comes true. Another string of curses leaves his mouth in a grunting whisper, although he has little care to truly quiet himself. His hands find the harsh grip he takes with his staff against your hips, and his own rut up desperate and hungry. His cheeks always get flushed when he cums, his eyes shutting hard and teeth gritting. His body stills as he clings to you, the bed creaking beneath the hard press of himself up into you. Everything becomes sensations and noises; him spilling inside you, the trembling of his tensed muscles, the way his mouth forms the sweetly sinful curses that always make your cheeks burn hotter than the sun. How close he holds you, how hard he does; the hunger in his touch even as he moans your name and gradually relaxes. The desire that could send any to their knees when his eyes open and that smirk comes right on back.

You’ve had each other bound, bare, and begging before. Had each other sobbing with need, with release, with desperate desire. Had each other angry, annoyed, after arguments that should’ve gone elsewhere. And it’s always that same damn look.

His hand’s gentle against your cheek as his thumb swipes away what you’re fairly certain must’ve been a shed tear.

“Come now, Gambit didn’t hurt you, did he?” he murmurs, already knowing the answer.

And just like always, you shake your head.

It’s the same song and dance you never get tired of. Especially when his hand comes around to the back of your head and guides you down. Even when you’re both panting and exhausted, he still manages to kiss you like you’ve just found each other after weeks apart. And god, if you don’t do the same.

When he’s looking at you like that, touching you like that, kissing you like that? You don’t mind the hopelessness that comes with it. The good kind. The kind that makes your heart flutter when you feel his smile against your lips.

“Fuck you,” you mutter against his lips.

He answers exactly how you expect him to. As if you’ve been gifted the power of prophecy. You can practically mouth the words along with him.

“Give Gambit a second, and we can go at it again.”

Fine, you think. You give him another slower, hungrier kiss.

With only two days to go until Christmas, you were rather excited yourself. All the teachers had put their names in for Secret Santa. The students would get each get one gift. Charles put some back from each tuition to cover a gift of decent size. And each year, the children were asked to give a Christmas list. From that list, the teachers picked one gift.

This way, it ensured everyone got something under the tree, and it was usually a pretty magical time. This year, you’d pulled Scott’s name for Secret Santa. All you had to do was ask Jean to tell you what he really wanted. It was a piece of cake. He wanted a new bike helmet.

As for your secret Santa, you had no idea who was getting your gift. That was the whole point, but typically, every year, you had a hunch. This year, not so much. Which was absolutely okay.

It was getting a little late, around 10:00 pm. You could hear the kids screaming and running in the halls. Charles usually wouldn’t allow this behavior, but classes were out for the holidays, and it was only two days to Christmas, so he let the kids do as they please so long as no one got hurt. As for you, you were in pajamas in your bed, reading. In fact, you were about to go to sleep shortly, until a knock came at your door, then it cracked open.

“Y/N? You awake?” The drawl was unmistakable.

“Yeah, what’s up?” you asked, sitting up in the bed. You tried your best to look extra presentable for the charming Cajun. To say you had a soft spot for Remy would be putting it lightly. Being a southern belle yourself, you had instantly fallen for Mr. LeBeau, his accent, his charm, his mutation, and his ultimate compassion.

Remy was an instructor, but he didn’t teach classes. He was almost like a tutor. He was more there as a stand in for kids needing to understand their power or working on how to control it. He didn’t lecture, or teach History or English or Literature. He didn’t have a study plan. He was just a hands on instructor, who wanted to help the kids when they needed it. He was available before classes, during lunch, and after classes. His ability and extent of patience had made you swoon long ago.

“Saw your light was still on. Didn’t know if you might be up for gettin’ hot chocolate downstairs or maybe goin’ down to watch a Christmas movie with me and the kids?”

Just as you were about to contemplate the offers, the lights suddenly went out. Shrieks and cries went all throughout the mansion. Suddenly, Charles voice invaded everyone’s mind.

“Everyone remain calm, the storm must’ve knocked the power out. Please stay in the room you are in right now while Hank and I look at the fuse box.”

Remy and you peered at each other for a moment. “Well, you heard the man,” he stated as he stepped into your room, a cheeky grin on his face before he shut the door.

“And just what gives you the right to look yourself inside a lady’s bedroom at night?” you demanded jokingly.

“Professor said so. He does not want us out roamin’ the halls.” With that, he grabbed the chair from your desk and pulled it to sit at the end of your bed. “So who did you get for secret santa?”

“I am not tellin’ you that,” you chastised.

“Why? Is it moi?” he asked, teasing you. “That’s the only reason you wouldn’t tell me.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but no, it isn’t. The word ‘secret’ is in the name, Remy. I’m not gonna tell you who I got.”

“You take things too seriously,” he accused with a grin.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you don’t take things seriously enough.”

“Now that’s just mean,” he feigned, putting his hand over his chest.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and letting out a laugh. “Oh please, I couldn’t insult you if I tried. Your ego is impenetrable.”

With that, he smiled and straightened in his chair. “Why, thank you for noticin’. I work on it a lot.”

“Speaking of egos,” you began, “how is Reggie?”

Reggie was a young mutant, fifteen, who had a peculiar mutation that was a little hard to get ahold of. Rather close to that of Storm’s, Remy’s, or even Scott or Alex’s powers. Yet, for the last five years he kept assuring his parents he had it under control -- that was, until he took out a neighbor’s house one day. Thankfully, the neighbors weren’t home and no one was hurt. Reggie’s parents were loving, supportive, and concerned about they ordeal. They didn’t get mad, but they did put their foot down about him coming to the school. They trusted Reggie with his powers until this summer when they came by with him. They said they wanted him to learn how to properly handle them, because they were worried he might hurt himself or someone else and not mean it.

Remy, was his tutor. He saw him twice a week after his daily classes. Being a teenager, and rebellious, he hated the idea of needing any special attention.

“Ah, he’s still a little spitfire, but I think I’m gettin’ through to him. When I started to show him that having the ultimate, precision and control over his powers was pretty cool, he started to receive my message better. How’s your classes goin’?”  he wondered, putting his boot on the foot of your bed, his hands behind his head, and leaning back.

“Rather splendid,” you commented. You did have a study plan though, one that Jean and Charles oversaw. They reviewed your itinerary every week and it had to be approved, and it always was. Your area lied in defense against mutation attacks and computer information systems. It was two separate classes, but you taught every day of the week. “Yeah, yeah. Julie has finally picked up a lot better combat. Aaron helped Jason fix a hard drive this week, so I was very proud of them.”

“That’s great to hear,” he complimented genuinely. “How come you didn’t go home for the holidays?”

“The kids need me here… Well, Charles and Hank need me here,” you corrected with a smile and slight laugh. “My family understands that this is important to me, and encouraged me to be here for the kids, and Charles.”

“Very kind of you, and your family.”

“What about you, cajun? Why aren’t you down South?” you wondered.

He huffed out some air. “Oh, same as you, I s’pose. Thought the staff might need a little help with some of the youngins stickin’ around.”

“Always a noble cause, eh, Remy?” you slightly teased with a coy smile. You peered at him with a sad smile. “You never have found your parents, have you?”

He shook his head, a pensive, but sorrow filled smile on his face. You could tell he was trying to hide the pain, disguise it as charm and wit, but not all that deep down you knew Remy was missing a family. He knew some thieves and friends down in New Orleans, certainly someone he could spend a holiday with. Somehow, you felt, that he’d found a new family though, here, and maybe that’s why he stayed during the holidays.

“Nah, but I figure maybe it’s all for the best. They don’t want me... Been too long, and I am… me.”

You frowned. “Remy, how could they not want you? You’re spectacular.”

“I grew up with thieves and cheats, Y/N,” he retorted with disdain. “I’m not exactly a model citizen.”

“You can’t help what the LeBeau clan did to you…”

“No, but I got these eyes.. That’s why they abandon me, mon cher,” he informed with a slight sadness in his voice.

“Then they are the most stupid people in this world,” you stated with confidence. “Anyone willing to give you up has to be the biggest fool I’ve ever met.”

A gentle smile tugged at his handsome lips before he let himself fall from leaning back in the chair. “It’s gettin’ cold as hell out here. Move over, I’m comin’ in,” he said before he stood up and took his boots off.

It was clear he was changing the subject, but for the past thirty minutes, the temperature had dropped to icy due to the lack of power and heat. You scooted over to the left on your bed and before you knew it, Remy had burrowed himself in the blankets beside you. This, wasn’t unusual. He was your closest friend at the mansion and sometimes you two wound up sleeping on the couch together, or snuggling up to watch a movie in your room on Sunday afternoons, usually slipping into a nap.

“Better?” you inquired once you settled down beside him.

“At least I ain’t g’ttn frostbite,” he retorted, putting his hands on his face and rubbing them backwards. “When is the damn power g’n be back on?”

Shaking your head, you answered, “No idea.”

The two of you lied in comfortable silence for a few minutes before he spoke again, curiosity in his voice. “Did ah eva tell you that I was engaged once b’fore?”

You frowned, turning just your head to face him. “What? No? When? How?” You couldn’t help the little green eyed monster that creeped up inside you.

He kept his face aimed at your high, dark ceiling, sighing. “Long… long ago. It was to a girl named Bella Donna. It was actually an arranged marriage.”

“Wow. Really? What was the gain?”

“Settlin’ a feud between two of the bands of criminals.” He let out a huff of air. “But her brother was against it, and he challenged me to a duel.”

A gasped escaped without your permission. The thought of Remy doing something so… dangerous, made your heart still in your chest.

“Well, so what happened?” you urged when he didn’t continue, your face turned back towards the ceiling.

“After the wedding…when Julien had challenged me, I agreed. Bein’ raised as ah was, it wasn’t taken lightly. So I agreed to his terms. Only when we got there, the bastard was such a terrible shot…” He stopped, trying to collect his thoughts, you supposed. “His shot breezed past my shoulder and by pure reflex, I shot back, hit him square in the chest.”

You frowned. You knew Gambit had a terribly sad upbringing, another thing that had made you fall easily in love with him. Someone born from so much sorrow brought so much joy into the world. He was so… good, and pure, his dark past was in no way a reflection of him now.

“That’s so sad… How… how did your wife take it?”

“Uh, actually, I didn’t really know. They banished me from N’awlins for a long time. Til Bella Donna needed my help with somethin’. Professor let me take the X-Men back down to help her, but when we all got to an astral plane… I don’ know, somethan happened and Bella Donna died... “

A full second passed before you grabbed his hand under the blankets. All you wanted to do with the action was comfort him, show your support.

“I’m so sorry that happened. Do you miss her?”

“I did. But it turns out she’s alive, livin’ down in N’awlins.”

This took you aback. Gambit had a wife, but he didn’t… miss her? Sure it was arranged but…

“So… you don’t miss her?”

He let out a breath. “Well… I did, at first. We sort of grew up together. She was my first love. But after her family banished me, and I sort of got out on my own, well, there wasn’t much to miss. Then when I found out she was alive, I just wanted her to be happy. I got no desire to be with her.”

“Are you still married to her?”

“No, no. We took care of that years ago. Cut ties. Now, we don’t talk, but it’s alright. She’s got her life, I got mine.”

A blip of silence fell over you two. “I’m so sorry all of that happened to you, Remy,” you suddenly offered, your voice sad, laced with sincerity. You wanted nothing more than to hug him and make any pain or guilt go away.

“Did you really mean what you said, about the… uh... about my parents not wantin’ me?” he asked, not seeming to want to address his past directly.

You turned your head to face him, keeping your head settled on the pillow. “Of course. Remy, I think you’re wonderful. It’s a privilege to know you.”

“You’re not just sayin’ that, are you?”

“No, no. There’s a reason you’re my best friend. I like you. You’re a good person. In fact, I’m rather jealous of this Bella Donna lady. Anyone who gets to be your wife is one hell of a lucky woman.”

Now, it was his turn to face you.

“You really mean that? You think… you think it’s lucky to be my betrothed?”

“I think she hit the jackpot if she got you. Arranged or otherwise.”

He stared at you for just a few moments more, making your cheeks heat to a million degrees.

“Uh, Remy, what’re you staring at?” you wondered.

“Does it bother you?”

“Only because I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinkin’ you are the sweetest, most kind, most compassionate, most powerful, person I’ve ever met. I’m thinkin’ you make me laugh when I don’t wanna. You never let my past represent me. You look past all my flaws. I’m thinkin’ you’re just about damned perfect, Y/N and I’d like nothin’ more than to kiss you right now.”

“Then what are you waitin’ for?” you asked in a soft voice and before you could blink, he let go of your hand to wrap you in a tight embrace. Fingers danced through your hair with skill, making you shiver from his touch. His face slowly got closer to yours, as you helped close the gap from your side as well. Before you knew it, you two finally connected, igniting your body like a Christmas tree. His lips were surprisingly softer than you expected, but firm and plump. Surprising you, his hand slid down your side, around your waist, where he pulled you closer to him, pressing you against his body. The sensation made you yearn to run your hands into his long hair, hold him close, stay in his arms forever.

Suddenly, the power came back on, lights flooded your room, your bedside clock turned on, your TV regained power, and the mystique that had bewitched the room, was now slowly receding.

The two of you broke apart and stared at each other, unsure what to say. His arm was still around your waist, and your arm was still on his back, but neither of you spoke.

“Wow… That was…” You breathed, slightly laughing.

“Yeah… That… uh… was….” he agreed.

The next thing was Charles back in everyone’s head. “Alright everyone, it’s late. Go to bed. You’re free to leave the rooms you’re in.”

The two of you came back out of the informative thought, peering at one another.

“Do… you wanna leave?” you tentatively asked him, wondering where you two stood now.

“Not at all, unless you want me to go?” he questioned, slightly worried about another rejection.

You brought your hand up, your fingertips stroking his face. “I never want you to go anywhere, Remy. I want you right here, in my arms. So long as you’ll have me.”

An adoring smile touched his face as he pulled you closer again. “I’ll never want anything, or anyone but you, Y/F/N.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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