⋆. 𐙚 ˚ gambit teaches you how to cheat at poker
Remy leans back in his chair across from you, that signature crooked grin already playing on his lips as he shuffles the deck with effortless, almost lazy precision. The low light of the dimly lit room catches the red in his eyes, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke and cologne clings to him like a second skin.
“Alright, chère,” he drawls, voice low and rough around the edges, “poker ain’t just about the cards. It’s about the people holdin’ ‘em. An’ if you’re gonna play with the big boys… sometimes you gotta know how to tip the odds a little.”
He deals the two of you in, the soft slap of cards against the table the only sound for a moment. You glance at your hand - nothing special - and look up to find him watching you with that knowing, half-lidded stare.
“First lesson,” he says, reaching across to gently turn your wrist so your cards face him. His fingers brush the inside of your arm, lingering just a second too long. “Never let ‘em see what you’re thinkin’. That pretty face of yours? It gives everything away.”
He shows you the subtle ways - how to hold the deck so the corner of a card peeks just enough for him to catch, the almost invisible flick of a finger that marks the ace, the way he can deal from the bottom without anyone noticing if their eyes aren’t trained. Every demonstration comes with a quiet explanation murmured close enough that his breath ghosts over your ear.
“See here?” He guides your hands, his larger ones covering yours as he shows you how to slide a card from the bottom of the deck. The heat of his palm seeps into your skin. “Slow. Smooth. Like you’re just adjustin’ your grip. Nobody’s lookin’ at your hands if you’re smilin’ at ‘em right.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, and that grin widens.
“An’ if they do start payin’ attention… well.” He leans in a little closer, voice dropping. “That’s when you use the other tricks. A little distraction. A soft laugh. Maybe a look that makes ‘em forget what hand they even had.”
You practice under his patient (and thoroughly amused) guidance. Every time you manage a clean bottom deal or successfully mark a card without him catching it, he hums approval low in his throat. Every time you mess up, he just chuckles and corrects your fingers again, the contact never quite necessary but never quite ending either.
Eventually the cards are forgotten on the table. Remy sits back, arms crossed loosely, studying you with something warmer than just teaching.
“You’re a quick study, chère,” he says softly. “Dangerous combination… pretty and learnin’ how to cheat.”
He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with the same careful precision he used on the cards.
“Just remember,” he adds, that familiar Cajun lilt curling around the words, “if you’re ever sittin’ across from me in a real game… I already know all your tells.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before meeting yours again, the smirk returning.
“An’ I still plan on winnin’.”
⋆˚࿔ dividers by: @pixopix
