Hey Everyone, this will be more of a serious fanfic.
R&R!
Reality
"Ah know who y'really ar'Gambit." She had not ventured to bequeath that title to him in years, the enemies that they were or not. He was 'swamp rat' or 'Cajun' or if he had luck on his side his genuine, albeit coarse name would slip past her tender, untouched lips. However, Gambit? Gambit implied a liar, Gambit implied a cheater, and Gambit implied a thief. Now she bestowed such a name as his real self and it forced his heart to twist in agony. "Y'think it goes unnoticed y'show up with a new gal ev'rywhere y'go? How y'wake up in one bed an' 'sleep' in an'ther? It doesn' Gambit, an' Ah won' be an'ther of y'r conquests either, so put that out o'y'r mahnd right now." Each time she uttered the word a fresh bullet pierced him. Rogue loomed on the top cream-colored step of the Institute, hand on exposed hip due to ripped macabre jeans and voice stern. "This team trusts each other. Tell meh whose trust y'have, Gambit." She paused to let him think even though they both knew the answer. "Y'don' have mahne and sure don' have the teams'. D'y'even have y'r own teams'?" Reading the expression on his face presented her the answer she sought, "Why don' y'go back where y'came from?"
Unable to vocalize even a whimper, Gambit pivoted on the heels of his boots to leave. As the uncouth summer breeze whipped at his broken countenance, he could perceive Rogue calling out to him. Turning back hopefully, his child-like gaze was met with a scowl on perfectly tantalizing mauve lips, "Y'forgot this." She let a crumpled napkin, stained with beer and grease descend from her gloved palm. As Remy meticulously straightened out each corner, he could distinguish the grubby digits of a woman's phone number he met a few days ago. Before he could defend himself, the scaling glass doors clamored shut and Rogue had disappeared.
Bike humming beneath him, Remy commanded his body not to let even a slight sign of sorrow show. Infuriated with himself most of all, he did the one thing he knew would make it worse: called that number. The only words spoken were a livid, "I'm comin' o'er."
Nearly battering down the woman's apartment door, he entered with no words, snatched a handful of her flaxen hair and forced her on to the dining room table as he clambered on top. She was attractive enough, after all, he had a reputation to uphold, but she was not Rogue, none of them were. He could not even remember her name, Brandi? Maybe Britney? After a while the names started to elude him as he only cared about one and began to exclaim it every time. She, whoever she was, did not mind. Answering the door in her skimpiest lingerie, which he would have described as tasteless instead of sexy if he had even bothered to look, she knew exactly why he was there.
However, this time resentment in place of desire surged through his veins. Without notice after the initial few thrusts, the woman beneath him began to squirm and whimper, as he was rougher than usual, almost violent. Remy was utterly consumed in self-hatred and self-loathing that he was deaf to his surroundings. The woman began to shriek and arch her back, not in pleasure but in an endeavor to escape his touch. Impulsively, a masculine hand draped in a cut-out glove outstretched into the feverous air and met the woman's cheek with a rigid blow in an attempt to silence her. Yet, her screams continued in vain.
Incapable of achieving release, Remy's glazed eyes languidly glanced downwards; he could scarcely distinguish the scene. Where his hand had enveloped gorgeous flaxen curls, a detached mangled lock resided. Where there was a woman's face bathed in ecstasy, tears streamed down a violet-colored cheek he could not remember striking. Where he had been inundated in strictly physical pleasure, drops of scarlet pearls trailed from scrapes of his unbuckled belt. The woman's voice still resounding in shrills was just now audible to him, "Get out! Get off me! Leave! Get out before I call the cops!" She sang out in a chorus of distress. Panicked, Remy hurtled off the woman and darted for the door as she heaved a glass vase at his head that shattered against the carved mahogany.
Terror triggering his head to reel and his mind to pound within its skull, he nearly bounded onto his bike backwards. The scene he absconded from was still a blur in his memories. 'The sex was rough and just got out of hand' he struggled to assure himself. Contemplations sent aches throughout his unabridged body as he wondered if he would be coerced to run from the police yet again, or worse be labelled as a rapist, as abusive. Jail was effortless to escape from, however labels were another matter entirely. The reality was he had assaulted that harlot of a woman for the reason that he could not face the wretched existence of himself or the rejection of Rogue because of it. A realization more formidable than the wind thrashing at his now sickly features, it compelled him to veer off the road and spew bile over the side of the expressway.
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