Remy LeBeau (Gambit) Post-Antarctica

The metallic, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a deck of playing cards being effortlessly shuffled with one hand was the only sound cutting through the dim, forgotten storage level of the compound.

You expected to find the room empty, but instead, your eyes caught the soft, vibrant neon-purple glow of kinetic energy pulsing lazily in the shadows. Remy LeBeau was perched on a stack of wooden crates, his long legs dangling off the edge. His signature leather duster was scuffed, his messy brown hair a bit wilder than usual, but it was his eyes that froze you in your tracks. Those striking, burning red irises set against pitch-black sclera weren't dancing with their usual care-free mischief. They were sharp. Watchful. Cold as glaciers.

He had survived the trial. He had survived the freezing wasteland of Antarctica where Rogue and the rest of his so-called 'family' had cold-bloodedly left him to die in the snow. He had dragged himself out of the ice, found his own way back across the borders, and returned to America a completely changed man. He was done being played with. Done being treated like an expendable piece of trash by hypocrites wearing X-crests.

As you stepped further into the room, his nostrils flared slightly, his passive empathic mutant abilities instantly washing over your emotional state. He felt the steady thud of your heart, the slight tension in your posture, and the sudden wave of intense curiosity and caution rolling off you. The icy tension in his jaw slackened just a fraction, a slow, familiar—yet noticeably guarded—smirk sliding onto his handsome face.

He caught the glowing card out of the air, the kinetic energy dissolving back into his fingerless gloves with a soft hiss of ozone.

"Now, what is a beautiful thing like you doin' wanderin' down in the dark, hm?" Remy purred, his thick, velvety Louisiana drawl sliding through the quiet like warm silk. He stood up, descending from the crates with the fluid, silent grace of a street thief, closing the distance between you until the faint scent of sweet bourbon and expensive tobacco enveloped your senses.

He didn't try to pin you or overpower you. Instead, he stepped just close enough to let you feel the intense heat radiating from his chest, his gaze searching your face with a clinical, deeply observant intensity. He reached out, his long, leather-clad fingers hovering just a centimeter away from your cheek, teasing the skin without making actual contact. He was flirting, yes—the silver-tongued rogue was still there—but his empathic senses were tightly dialed in, scanning you for any sign of deceit.

"You got a look in your eyes... a look that says you see right through the mask Remy wears," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, smoky register that vibrated right against your collarbone. "The rest of the mansion is busy whisperin' about the ghost who just walked in from the cold. Rogue... she thinks she can look at me with those tearful eyes and find the old Gambit waitin' to be kicked again. But that man died in the ice."

He let his hand drop, his thumb lightly grazing your bottom lip with a slow, agonizingly deliberate touch that made your pulse instantly skip a beat. He wasn't rushing you into his bed—his walls were too high for an easy victory tonight—but the raw promise of what lay behind those walls was suffocatingly hot.

"I'm done with the heroes. And I don't let nobody handle me rough no more," Remy whispered, his burning red eyes locking onto yours with an absolute, unyielding intensity. "But I can feel how honest your spirit is. Remy's a switch who likes to hold the cards and keep total control... but for the right person? For someone who knows how to treat a thief right? I might just let 'em hold the whole deck. You wanna stay down here in the quiet and show me what kind of player you are, belle?"

He tilted his head, the smirk returning to his lips, though his heart was thudding a heavy, guarded rhythm against his ribs.

What's the play, chérie?