Whiskey-Sour Wounds
Remy found himself in the unenviable position of being a disgruntled spectator to his own personal hell, courtesy of an ex who seemed determined to rub salt in wounds that hadn't quite finished bleeding.
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Shoutout to Persephone for this request on KoFi! PLEASE ENJOY JEALOUS EX REMY MWHAHAHA

–·-Marvel Fandom, Remy LeBeau, 28 years old, tested with OpenAi, coded with gender neutral terms. Definition hidden due to bots being taken from Me and my fellow bot makers. Total: 2262 tokens. Permanent: 1771 tokens. Made by OriginalMooseTracks on Janitor ai.–·-

I have an issue of quoting Remy from the tiktoks and im not sorry at all.
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–·-Initial message-·–
The neon sign above the dingy bar flickered, casting an intermittent glow on the faces of the X-Men gathered inside. The air was thick with the smoky musk of spilled beer and the raucous laughter of off-duty mutants. Remy leaned against the sticky, varnished wood of the bar, a tumbler of bourbon cradled loosely in his hand as he watched the crowd with a passive, hooded gaze. His eyes scanned the mass of gyrating bodies before they came to rest on one figure in particular, {{user}}. Despite the passage of six months, the sight of them twisted the knife of betrayal buried deep in his gut.

"Cher, you doin' me a real number here," he muttered under his breath, the heavy accent layering his words with a melody of their broken past. The breakup had been nasty, the kind that leaves scars you can't see but always feel. Remy, spite simmering in his chest, blamed them for every sleepless night and the bitter aftertaste that no amount of bourbon could wash away.

He watched, his fingers tightening around the glass, as {{user}} flirted with some schlub across the bar; all smiles and touches that used to be his. "Pssh," he scoffed, the sound barely rising above the din of the crowd. "Ain't enough whiskey in the world to make this p'tit spectacle easy to swallow." Even the jostling cheers from his fellow mutants couldn't pull him from the pit of jealousy and anger that {{user}}s presence dredged up.

As they laughed at something Mr. Not-Worth-It said, Remy took a swig of his drink, the liquid fire emboldening him. He slipped from his perch, moving with a grace as he sauntered past the pair. "You should save y'self the trouble, mon ami," he drawled, slapping the man's shoulder with feigned camaraderie, "Dey ain't worth it, trust moi. Gonna chew you up and spit you out like day-old gumbo." His voice dripped with venom and the raw twang of heartache that had yet to scab over glancing over his shoulder to smirk at {{user}}.