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thirtysomethingloser92 · 9 months ago

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It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero.

Requested by my darling anon. Warnings: Smut. Assault. Tags: @anukulee

It was supposed to be a regular night—just a quick stop at the corner store after work. You hadn't thought much about the usual route; it was familiar, the kind of path you could navigate half-asleep. But tonight, the shadows felt longer, and the streetlights flickered as if struggling to stay awake. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, the chill biting more sharply than you remembered.

You heard them before you saw them: footsteps that were too close, voices that were too low and deliberate. You picked up your pace, hoping it was just your imagination, but the sound followed. Then, a hand grabbed your arm. Your breath hitched as you spun around, only to face a smirking face too close for comfort. Panic surged, adrenaline making your thoughts blur.

Your pulse quickened as you took in the scene—a group of three men, their grins twisted with cruel amusement, eyes scanning you like you were prey. The one holding your arm had a grip like iron, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises. His breath reeked of alcohol, and his eyes held a leering confidence that made your stomach turn. You tried to wrench your arm free, but his hold only tightened, pulling you closer.

"Hey now, don't be so cold," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery as his friends moved to close in on either side of you. The alley felt narrower, darker, as if the walls were closing in, trapping you. You glanced around frantically, but there was no one in sight—just rows of empty buildings, closed shops, and flickering streetlights that offered no real safety.

"Let go of me," you demanded, trying to sound firm, but your voice wavered, betraying the fear clawing at your chest. The man just laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the brick walls.

"Ain't no one comin' to save ya," another one said, stepping closer until you could smell the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. "Why don’t you play nice, huh?"

You pulled harder against the man’s grip, panic rising as you twisted your arm, but it only made him laugh louder. He pushed you backwards and you stumbled, your back hitting the cold, rough surface of the alley wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your head spinning as you tried to get your bearings. Hands were everywhere—grabbing, pushing, pinning you against the wall as your mind raced to find an escape.

"Stop—" you gasped, trying to shove one of them away, but it was like fighting against a brick wall. One of them leaned in, his hand rough as it grazed your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw in a mockery of tenderness. You jerked your head away, disgust boiling in your throat, but he just laughed, the sound sending a chill down your spine.

"Feisty, huh? I like that," he taunted, his grip shifting to your throat, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch in your chest. You clawed at his hand, desperate for air, but he just smirked, his friends watching with sick amusement.

In that moment, time seemed to stretch, every second dragging as you struggled, fear and adrenaline making your vision blur. The laughter, the taunts, the pressure at your throat—it all blended into a nightmarish haze, your senses overwhelmed by the sheer terror of being completely out of control. You wanted to scream, to call for help, but your voice was trapped, strangled by the hand at your throat and the icy grip of panic.

Then, without warning, the man was ripped away from you, his grip disappearing so suddenly that you nearly fell forward. You gasped, stumbling back, your hands flying to your throat as you coughed, desperate to fill your lungs. You looked up, disoriented, your vision still swimming, and saw the blur of movement—a figure in a dark coat, moving like a shadow through the alley.

As the grip on your throat vanished, you fell forward, coughing and gasping for air. Your vision was still blurry, your thoughts disoriented, but you saw flashes of motion—The person who saved you was already in the thick of it, moving with a deadly precision that left no room for doubt. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark coat that flowed around him like a shadow as he moved. A bandana covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—eyes that glowed with an unsettling red light that seemed to cut through the darkness.

The first man charged at him with a growl, throwing a wild punch. The vigilante sidestepped easily, his movements fluid, like water flowing around a rock. He caught the man’s arm and twisted it sharply, sending him crashing into the wall with a bone-jarring thud. The thug crumpled to the ground, clutching his arm, his face twisted in pain.

Before the others could react, The vigilante was on them, a card in his hand that suddenly glowed with an ominous purple energy. He flicked it with a casual flick of his wrist, and it sailed through the air like a razor-sharp blade. It exploded on impact, sending the second thug sprawling, his shirt singed and his expression one of dazed shock. The third guy, the leader, hesitated, his earlier bravado gone as he eyed the stranger with a mixture of anger and fear.

"You think you’re some kinda hero?" the leader spat, wiping blood from his mouth. He lunged at the vigilante with a knife, the blade gleaming under the flickering streetlights. The vigilante didn’t even flinch. He caught the leader’s wrist with one hand, and with the other, he struck—one, two, three rapid blows to the ribs, quick and brutal. The leader gasped, his knife clattering to the ground as the vigilante’s grip tightened, the glowing red in his eyes intensifying.

"Tryin’ to play tough, but y’ain’t got what it takes," He said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He twisted the man’s wrist until the thug cried out in pain, then let go, shoving him back so hard that he stumbled and fell, scrambling to get away. The alley was filled with the sound of pained groans and the scuffle of retreating footsteps as the men fled, beaten and humiliated.

The vigilante stood there, breathing heavily but otherwise unscathed, his eyes following the men until they disappeared into the night. He turned his attention to you then, his gaze softening as he approached. He crouched down in front of you, his expression concerned, his gloved hands hovering just inches from your shoulders, not touching but close enough to offer reassurance.

"Y’ hurt?" he asked, his voice gentler now, still edged with that Cajun drawl but tempered with genuine concern.

You shook your head, trying to find your voice. "I… I think I’m okay," you whispered, though you couldn’t stop shaking. Your hands were trembling as you pushed yourself up, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you. The vigilante’s hand finally settled on your arm, steadying you as you wobbled, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who had just fought off three men without breaking a sweat.

"Take it easy, chère," he murmured, scanning your face for any signs of injury. "You took a scare, but you’ll be alright."

You stared at him, taking in the masked face, the strange, otherworldly glow of his eyes that had started to dim. He looked like something out of a dream—or a nightmare—standing there with that coat that seemed to swallow the light. "Who are you?" you asked, your voice still shaking. The question hung between you like a fragile thread.

The vigilante shook his head, the bandana hiding his expression, but his eyes told you enough—this wasn’t about recognition or fame. "It doesn’t matter," he said simply, his voice calm, like he was used to not being known, used to fading into the background.

He straightened up, turning as if to leave, the brief moment of connection severed too quickly for your liking. Panic flared in your chest—he couldn’t just walk away, not after what he’d done. Not after he’d saved you from something that could’ve gone so much worse.

"Wait," you called after him, your voice stronger now, fueled by something you couldn’t quite name—maybe gratitude, maybe desperation. He paused, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, unreadable.

"Don't. Just go home," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. He gave a slight nod, a silent reassurance, before turning away once more, his coat flaring out behind him like wings.

You stood there, watching as he disappeared into the darkness, the flickering streetlights doing little to illuminate the path he took. He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving you alone in the quiet aftermath of the fight, the echoes of his warning still lingering in the air. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the chill biting at your skin again, but this time, it felt different—less oppressive, more like a reminder that you were still here, still standing.

As you made your way home, every step felt heavier, laden with thoughts of the vigilante who had stepped in when no one else had. You didn’t even know his name, but something about him had lodged itself in your mind, refusing to let go. The city was full of strangers, but none of them had ever looked at you the way he did—with that strange mix of detachment and care, like he knew what it meant to walk through the dark and come out on the other side.

Maybe it didn’t matter who he was, but as you reached your door, you couldn’t help but hope that somehow, someday, your paths would cross again. <><><><><><><> The next morning, you tried to push the events of the previous night out of your mind, telling yourself it was a one-time thing, a strange twist of fate that wouldn’t repeat. You went through the motions—coffee, shower, getting ready for work—but everything felt off-kilter, like the world had shifted just slightly out of focus. You couldn’t stop thinking about him—the vigilante who had saved you. He moved through your thoughts like smoke, impossible to grasp but impossible to ignore.

After your shower, you wrapped a towel around yourself and stepped into the living room, still dripping, when something on the TV caught your eye. You grabbed the remote, turning up the volume. The local news anchor was talking, her voice smooth and measured, recounting last night’s events.

"—another appearance of the vigilante some are calling 'The Gambit.' Reports say he stopped an assault in a downtown alley, leaving the perpetrators injured but alive. Police arrived on the scene too late to apprehend him, and there are no clear leads on his identity. Witnesses describe a man in a dark coat, with red eyes and an uncanny ability to move like the wind. Authorities are urging the public to remain cautious and not to engage if they see him. The Gambit is considered dangerous—"

You bit your lip, the news anchor’s voice fading into the background as you processed what you’d just heard. The Gambit. So he had a name—or at least, that’s what people were calling him. But the details felt all wrong; dangerous wasn’t the word you’d use. He’d saved you. And while his methods were… unorthodox, you couldn’t shake the sense that there was more to him than the headlines suggested.

You turned off the TV, your reflection in the black screen staring back at you with a mixture of determination and something else—hope, maybe. You couldn’t just let it go. He’d helped you, and you needed to know why. Needed to understand what drove him to intervene, to be out there risking his life for strangers. For you.

Before you knew it, you were dressed and grabbing your coat, your decision made in the blink of an eye. You had to find him. Maybe it was foolish—maybe even reckless—but you couldn’t ignore the pull that drew you back to the scene of the assault. You needed answers, or maybe just closure. You weren’t sure which.

The city felt different in the daylight, the familiar hustle and bustle of people moving through their routines masking the dangers that lurked in the shadows. But as you retraced your steps to the alley, a cold knot of anxiety settled in your stomach, memories of last night still fresh and raw. The street looked ordinary enough—just a stretch of pavement lined with old buildings, graffiti, and the occasional piece of litter. But you knew better now. You knew what kind of danger could hide in plain sight.

You slowed as you approached the alley, your steps tentative, scanning the walls and ground for any sign of him. There were scuff marks on the pavement where the fight had taken place, a few drops of dried blood that made your skin crawl with the memory of rough hands and mocking voices. But otherwise, it was as if nothing had happened. No sign of him. No trace that he’d ever been there.

Frustration bubbled up inside you, mixing with a bitter sense of disappointment. You’d hoped, maybe irrationally, that you’d find something—anything—that would lead you to him. But the alley was empty, the echoes of the night before lost in the daylight.

You sighed, leaning against the cold brick wall, your breath misting in the cool air. Part of you wanted to give up, to go home and try to put it behind you. But the other part—the part that had felt the weight of his gaze and heard the calm reassurance in his voice—refused to let go. You wanted to see him again. Needed to understand why he’d stepped in when no one else had.

As you stood there, lost in thought, you heard the faintest shuffle of footsteps behind you. You turned quickly, your heart leaping into your throat, but there was no one there—just the empty street and the distant hum of traffic. Still, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, a strange sense of being watched that you couldn’t quite shake.

"Lookin’ for someone?" a voice drawled from above, soft and laced with that familiar Cajun accent. Your head snapped up, and there he was—perched on the fire escape above you, half-hidden in the shadows. The Gambit, or whatever you wanted to call him, looked down at you with a wry smile, his eyes still glowing faintly in the dim light.

"How did you—" you started, but he just shook his head, swinging down from the fire escape with an ease that made it look effortless. He landed lightly in front of you, his coat settling around him like a dark shroud.

"I told y’ t’ go home," he said, his voice firm but not unkind, as if this was all just a minor inconvenience rather than the culmination of your desperate search. "Ain’t no good gonna come from you pokin’ around where you don’t belong."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his presence more overwhelming now that you weren’t in the midst of a crisis. He was intimidating up close, taller than you’d remembered, with a sense of quiet power that radiated off him like heat. But there was something else there, too—something that told you he wasn’t just a vigilante; he was a man who had seen more than his fair share of darkness.

"I had to find you," you said, meeting his gaze even though it made your pulse quicken. "You saved my life. I just—I couldn’t let it go. Not something like that.”

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment with those unnerving red eyes, and for a second, you thought he might just turn and walk away again. But then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if weighing his options.

"Y’ found me," he said simply, though there was a weariness in his tone that hadn’t been there last night. "But that don’t change nothin’. This ain’t your fight, and you don’t want it to be." He turned, starting to walk back toward the alley’s exit.

"Wait!" you called, your voice cracking with urgency. "You can’t just—why are you doing this? Who are you, really?"

He stopped, glancing back at you over his shoulder. For a moment, he looked like he might answer, like he might let you in on the secret of why he was out here risking his life for strangers in dark alleys. But then his expression hardened, and he shook his head.

"It doesn’t matter," he said, the finality in his voice like a door slamming shut. He gave you one last look—something unreadable flickering in his eyes—before turning away again.

"Go home, chère," he repeated, his tone softening slightly. "Ain’t no good can come from tryin’ to find someone like me." And with that, he disappeared into the shadows once more, leaving you standing there with more questions than answers, your heart aching with the strange, inexplicable pull of a man you barely knew but couldn’t forget. The following days became a blur of restless energy and impulsive decisions. You couldn’t get him out of your mind—the vigilante who had appeared out of nowhere to save you, only to vanish just as quickly. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the red glow of his eyes, heard the low rumble of his voice telling you to go home. But home didn’t feel safe anymore; it felt like a prison, filled with unanswered questions that buzzed around your head like angry bees.

So, you started going out at night. It wasn’t the smartest decision, and you knew that. Your friends would’ve called you reckless, maybe even self-destructive, but you couldn’t help yourself. You wandered into sketchy neighborhoods, lingered on dimly lit streets, and loitered near places that practically screamed danger. At first, you told yourself it was just a coincidence, that you were simply taking the long way home. But deep down, you knew better—you were looking for him.

You saw him more often than not. Sometimes, it was just a fleeting shadow in your peripheral vision, a whisper of movement on a rooftop or in an alleyway. Other times, he would swoop in just as things were about to go sideways—an arm grabbing you roughly, a voice hissing threats in your ear—only for him to appear, cutting through the danger like a knife. His methods were swift, brutal, and efficient, leaving your would-be assailants sprawled on the ground, dazed and groaning.

But every time, he would say the same thing: "Go home." And every time, you would bite your tongue, frustration simmering under your skin. This wasn’t just about gratitude anymore; it was about answers. You needed to know why he was doing this, why he kept helping you but refused to let you in.

One night, you found yourself in a part of town that even seasoned cab drivers avoided—a strip of abandoned warehouses that loomed like skeletons against the night sky. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, only that the familiar prickling sensation on the back of your neck told you he was near. You pulled your jacket tighter, glancing around nervously as you walked deeper into the maze of crumbling concrete and rusted metal.

It didn’t take long for trouble to find you. A group of men emerged from the shadows, their faces half-hidden under hoods, their voices low and unfriendly. They circled you, their leering expressions making your skin crawl. You tensed, bracing yourself for the inevitable—part of you was terrified, but another part, the part that had driven you out here in the first place, was almost...expectant.

"Hey there, sweetheart," one of them sneered, stepping closer. "Lookin' for company?"

You tried to back away, your heart hammering in your chest, but the circle closed in, cutting off your escape routes. Fear spiked through you, sharp and paralyzing. For a split second, you wondered if this had been a colossal mistake, if maybe this time, he wouldn’t come. But then, as if summoned by your thoughts, he was there.

The Gambit moved like a force of nature, swift and unyielding. He dropped down from above, landing between you and the men with a grace that was almost inhuman. His coat billowed around him as he spun, disarming one thug with a quick, brutal twist of the wrist before driving an elbow into another’s gut. A charged card sailed through the air, exploding against the pavement with a blinding flash, sending the men scrambling back in panic.

The remaining thugs didn’t even bother trying to fight—they ran, stumbling over each other in their haste to get away from the red-eyed figure that seemed to glide through the darkness with ease. The Gambit stood still for a moment, watching them disappear, his shoulders heaving slightly from exertion. Then he turned to you, his expression hidden behind the bandana but his eyes blazing with an intensity that made you shiver. "This is gettin' old, chère," he said, his voice tinged with irritation as he looked you over, checking for injuries. "You know the damsel in distress look don’t suit you." You bristled at his tone, crossing your arms defensively. "Maybe I wouldn’t have to play the damsel if you’d just tell me who you are and why you’re doing this!" you shot back, your frustration finally boiling over. "You keep saving me, but you never say why. You won’t even tell me your name. You just swoop in, tell me to go home, and vanish like some kind of ghost. I’m sick of it!"

Gambit's eyes narrowed slightly, and he let out a sharp breath, clearly not amused by your words. "Cher, you call this savin' you? Lookin' like you got a death wish, more like." He took a step closer, his gaze flickering over you, searching for any sign of injury, but also sizing you up as if trying to decide how much trouble you were about to cause him. "And maybe if you stopped runnin' headfirst into danger, I wouldn’t have to keep pullin' you out."

You clenched your fists, matching his stare with equal fire. "I’m not runnin' into danger! I’m just trying to figure out what's going on, and maybe if you didn’t keep playing the mysterious vigilante, I wouldn’t have to!"

"Figure it out? By throwin' yourself into the lion's den?" Gambit shook his head, frustration clear in his voice. "You got guts, I’ll give you that, but you ain’t invincible. Next time, I might not be there to catch you."

"Maybe I don’t need you to!" you snapped, the heat of the argument making you forget your fear for a moment. "You just need to tell me who you are!"

Gambit’s jaw tightened, and for a second, his eyes flashed with something darker, a hint of something he was holding back. "Fine, then," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "but don’t come cryin' to me when you find yourself over your head. You don’t wanna be saved? Be my guest. But know this, chère—I ain’t doin' this for fun. You think I like riskin' my neck for someone who don’t wanna be helped?" He watched you for a moment, knowingly avoiding your request.

You faltered, the anger in his voice catching you off guard. "Then why do you?" you asked, quieter this time, genuinely curious. "If I’m such a pain in the ass why do you keep saving me? And why won’t you tell me who you are?"

He looked at you for a long moment, the tension between you thick enough to cut. Finally, he sighed, the fight draining out of him. "Because someone’s got to," he said softly, almost to himself. "And maybe—just maybe—I see a little too much of myself in you. Someone who don’t know when to quit, even when they should."

His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you were both silent, the night closing in around you like a shroud.

He stared at you, his eyes narrowing as he listened. For a long, tense moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair as if debating whether to answer. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, tinged with something that might have been regret. “Who are you?” You asked again, knowing you were probably pushing a boundary with your continuous bombardment. Knowing he didn’t owe you anything at all, let alone a request of his name.

"It ain’t that simple," he said, his accent thicker, like the effort of explaining was costing him. "You don’t wanna know me, chère. Trust me on that. I do what I do because someone’s gotta. And if you keep stickin' your neck out, hopin’ I’ll show up, you’re gonna end up hurt worse than any of these lowlifes can manage."

"But why you?" you insisted, stepping closer, refusing to let it go. "Out of everyone in this city, why are you the one out here doing this? What are you trying to prove?"

His eyes softened, the red glow dimming slightly as he regarded you. "Ain’t about proving nothin’. I got my reasons. Ain’t no one’s business but mine."

You shook your head, anger bubbling up again, not at him but at the sheer stubbornness of the situation. "I’m not just going to forget about this," you said, your voice wavering slightly. "I’m not going to stop looking for you, not when you keep putting yourself in harm’s way for people you don’t even know. I can’t just let it go."

He clenched his jaw, frustration flashing in his eyes, but there was something else there too—something that looked like understanding, or maybe even guilt. He took a step back, distancing himself as if trying to put a wall between you.

"Look, you ain’t gonna find what you’re lookin' for," he said, his tone firm but edged with a strange kind of gentleness. "I’m doin’ this 'cause it’s the only thing I know how to do. Ain’t no glory in it, no happy endings. Just a lotta dark nights and busted knuckles. So do us both a favor and stop lookin’. Go home, live your life. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be."

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something that might convince him to stay, to let you in, but the words caught in your throat. He was already turning away, his silhouette blending into the shadows as if he were part of them.

"Gambit wait!" you called, the name slipping out before you even realized what you’d said. He paused, just for a moment, his back still to you. But he didn’t turn around.

Without another word, he disappeared into the night, leaving you alone in the alley with nothing but the echoes of your own determination and the quiet realization that, for better or worse, this wasn’t over. You were in too deep now, and walking away wasn’t an option—not when every instinct told you that the man who called himself The Gambit needed saving just as much as you did. After that night, the tension inside you grew, a coil wound so tight it felt like it could snap at any moment. You kept replaying the scene in your mind, searching for any sign that you’d reached him, any hint that he might change his mind. But the streets stayed quiet, and the city carried on as if nothing had happened. Each time you turned on the news, your pulse quickened, hoping for some new mention of him—a sighting, a save, anything. But he was like smoke, impossible to grasp and always slipping through your fingers.

Days turned into weeks, and the frustration only mounted. You found yourself wandering the same routes, a mixture of hope and desperation driving you back to the spots where you’d seen him before. But this time, it wasn’t so easy. He was making himself scarce, like he was actively avoiding you, and it left you with a gnawing sense of loss you couldn’t shake.

You knew it was risky, reckless even, but you pushed further into the underbelly of the city. The people there were different—harder, colder, their eyes tracking you with a kind of predatory curiosity that sent shivers down your spine. You wore your bravado like a shield, striding down the alleys with your head held high, but inside, the uncertainty churned. If he didn’t come this time, if you pushed too far, you weren’t sure you’d be able to talk your way out of it. You needed to know about him, to unravel the enigma that was The Gambit. It gnawed at you, the not knowing. His presence was like a shadow that clung to the corners of your mind, refusing to let go. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when curiosity turned into something more consuming—when your fascination with the red-eyed vigilante became an obsession. But somewhere along the line, it did.

Maybe it was the way he moved, with a dangerous grace that made him seem almost untouchable, or the way his voice, laced with that Cajun drawl, could make even a warning sound like a promise. Or perhaps it was the way he kept appearing, always when you least expected it, pulling you back from the edge with a flick of his wrist and a flash of kinetic energy that seemed to light up the night. He was always just close enough to save you but never close enough to reach.

You didn’t just want answers—you needed them. Who was this man who seemed to glide through the darkness like he was born to it? Why did he keep saving you, night after night, without asking for anything in return, without ever revealing his own secrets? Each encounter left you with more questions than answers, like pieces of a puzzle scattered in the dark. And each time, it drove you a little closer to the edge of desperation, the need to understand him growing stronger, more insistent.

You tried to find him on your own, scouring the city’s underbelly, asking questions in places where shadows thrived, and danger lurked around every corner. But every lead was a dead end, every whisper just another layer of mystery. He was a ghost, a myth, slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold on.

It was maddening—the way he slipped into your thoughts at the most inconvenient times, during quiet moments when you should have been focused on anything but him. His image haunted your dreams, his red eyes piercing through the darkness, always watching, always out of reach. You would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every encounter in your mind, searching for clues in his cryptic words, trying to make sense of the way he looked at you, like he saw something you didn’t even see in yourself.

Why did he care? Why did he keep coming back? And why, despite all your frustration, could you not stop wanting to see him again, to hear his voice cutting through the night like a knife? You told yourself it was about answers, about knowing who he was, but deep down, you knew it was more than that. It was about connection, about understanding the man behind the mask—and maybe, just maybe, about finding a piece of yourself that you’d lost along the way.

It happened on a rainy Tuesday night, the sky pouring sheets of water that drenched you to the bone and blurred the streetlights into hazy orbs of yellow. You were soaked, shivering in your thin jacket, and you knew you looked out of place. The neighborhood was run-down, the kind of place where even the rats scurried with a sense of purpose. You shouldn’t have been there—every instinct screamed at you to turn back, but you kept going, every step dragging you deeper into trouble.

That’s when you heard it—a low whistle, followed by a chorus of laughs that echoed off the brick walls. Your heart lurched, but you didn’t break stride, keeping your eyes forward even as your pulse thundered in your ears. The group stepped into your path, blocking the way forward, their postures lazy but their eyes sharp. You recognized the look; you’d seen it a hundred times on the streets, that blend of boredom and malice that spelled nothing but trouble.

“Look at this, boys,” one of them drawled, a sneer curling his lips. “Out for a stroll in the rain, huh? Ain’t you just the picture of bad decisions.”

You swallowed hard, glancing over your shoulder only to see another figure stepping out of the shadows behind you. You were boxed in, and the reality of the situation slammed into you with all the subtlety of a freight train. There was no escaping this one; you were caught, and you had no one to blame but yourself.

Still, you couldn’t let them see the fear. You lifted your chin, trying to inject confidence into your voice even as it wavered. “I’m not looking for any trouble,” you said, your breath puffing out in white clouds in the cold air. “Just passing through.”

“Oh, you’ll be passin’ through, alright,” another one said, his grin wide and mean. “Through our hands, that is.”

They advanced, closing in with a deliberate slowness that made your skin crawl. You took a step back, heart racing as you scanned the dimly lit street for any sign of him. Any second now, you thought, clinging to that hope like a lifeline. He’ll come. He has to.

But the seconds dragged on, and the men were almost within arm’s reach, their laughter grating on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Panic clawed at your throat, and you wondered if this was it, if you’d finally pushed too far.

Then, like a thunderclap, he was there.

Gambit came out of the darkness with a speed and ferocity that took even the thugs by surprise. He moved like a streak of lightning, his movements a blur of kicks, punches, and charged cards that exploded in brilliant flashes of pink. He didn’t hold back this time; every strike was precise and punishing, a display of raw power that sent the men reeling. One of them lunged at him with a knife, but The Gambit disarmed him with a swift twist of the wrist, the blade clattering uselessly to the ground. He knocked the guy out cold with a single, well-aimed punch.

The rest tried to scatter, but The Gambit wasn’t having it. He grabbed the last one by the collar, slamming him against the wall with enough force to rattle the bricks. “Tell your friends,” He growled, his voice low and dangerous, “next time, they won’t be so lucky.”

The man nodded frantically, too terrified to speak, and Gambit let him go with a shove, watching as he scrambled away. The alley fell silent again, save for the steady patter of rain and your own ragged breathing. Gambit turned to you, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice.

“Thanks,” you finally managed, your voice small in the cold night air.

He didn’t answer, just looked at you with a mix of exasperation and something that might have been concern. “What the hell were you thinkin’, chère?” he demanded, his accent thicker in his anger. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

You bristled at his tone, your own frustration boiling over. “Maybe if you’d stop playing the mysterious vigilante and just talk to me, I wouldn’t have to!”

He let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You think I’m doin’ this for fun? This ain’t a game. You’re gonna get yourself hurt, and I won’t always be there to pull you outta the fire. It was bad enough that I almos’ wasn’ here tonight.”

“I don’t care about that!” you snapped, stepping closer, rain dripping off your face as you looked up at him. “I care about you. I see you risking your life night after night for people who don’t even know your name, and I can’t just walk away. I won’t. Not this time.”

His expression softened, just for a moment, and you caught a glimpse of the man behind the mask—the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t know how to set it down. He reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek in a gesture that was more comforting than any words could have been. But then he pulled back, the distance returning as quickly as it had vanished.

“You care about me, huh?” he said, his voice quiet and resigned. “You don’t even know me, chère. Not really.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself. “Then let me,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “Let me see who you are when you’re not out here fighting battles you don’t have to fight.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge the truth in your words. Then he turned away, his shoulders tense under his coat. “This is all I know,” he said, and the sadness in his voice made your chest ache. “This is all I got.”

He started to walk away, and you took a step after him, your heart pounding. “Wait—”

“Go home,” he said over his shoulder, his tone final. “Go home and stay there. You’re playin’ with fire, chère, and one day you’re gonna get burned.”

And just like that, he was gone again, swallowed by the night. You stood there, the rain soaking through your clothes, feeling the sting of his words like a slap. But you also felt something else—a flicker of hope, a small, stubborn belief that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten through to him, even if only a little.

You weren’t ready to give up. Not yet. Because for the first time in a long while, you had something worth fighting for. And if it took a hundred more nights of chasing shadows and dodging danger, you’d do it. You’d find him again, and this time, you’d make him see that he wasn’t alone—that he didn’t have to be. <><><><><><><><><> The rain beat against your window like a relentless drum, a constant, soothing noise that filled the quiet of your apartment. The heating hummed softly, filling the room with warmth that contrasted sharply with the storm raging outside. You were curled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap, the TV casting flickering light across the room as it played some mindless show you weren’t really paying attention to. The day had been long, and you were grateful for the simple comfort of being home, safe from the elements.

But then, there was a sound—a clatter from the fire escape that cut through the monotony of the rain. It was faint, almost drowned out by the storm, but unmistakable. Your heart skipped a beat, your hand freezing in mid-air as you reached for another handful of popcorn. For a moment, you considered ignoring it, chalking it up to the wind or a stray branch, but something in your gut told you otherwise.

Slowly, you put the bowl aside and stood up, your eyes darting to the window. The curtains were drawn, shielding you from whatever was outside, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was there, just beyond the glass. You hesitated, nerves prickling under your skin as you approached the window. The rain pounded harder, the wind howling like a wild beast, making the walls of your apartment creak.

When you reached the window, your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers trembled as you pulled back the curtain, peering out into the darkness. The first thing you saw was the rain, a sheet of water that obscured your view, but then your eyes focused, and you saw him.

Gambit.

He was slumped against the metal railing of the fire escape, his usually confident posture replaced by one of exhaustion. His hood was pulled low over his face, but it couldn’t hide the cuts and bruises that marred his skin. Blood stained his clothes, mixing with the rainwater that dripped off him in rivulets. He looked like he’d been through hell and seeing him like that sent a jolt of fear and concern straight to your core.

You didn’t think twice. You fumbled with the window latch, yanking it open and letting the cold, wet air rush into the room. “Hey,” you called out, your voice a mix of shock and worry.

He looked up at you, his eyes dull with pain and fatigue. “Hey, chère,” he rasped, a weak smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Didn’t mean to drop in like this.”

“Get inside,” you urged, your hand reaching out to help him. He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether he should, but the next gust of wind made the decision for him. With a groan, he pushed himself up, gripping the railing for support as he stepped through the window and into your apartment.

The warmth hit him immediately, and you saw the way he shivered, his body reacting to the sudden change in temperature. He was drenched, his clothes sticking to him like a second skin, and the sight of his injuries made your stomach twist. He’d always been so strong, so invincible in your eyes, but seeing him like this made it clear—he was human, just as vulnerable as anyone else.

“You’re hurt,” you said, your voice softer now, filled with concern as you guided him toward the couch. “Sit down, let me help you.”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, though he didn’t resist as you eased him onto the cushions. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by a weariness that made your heart ache.

“Fine, my ass,” you retorted, already heading to the bathroom to grab your first-aid kit. “You’re bleeding all over my floor and it’s gross.”

When you returned, he was leaning back against the couch, his eyes closed as if the effort to stay awake was too much. You knelt beside him, opening the kit and pulling out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and anything else you could find. “You need to take off your coat,” you instructed gently, trying not to think about how close you’d come to losing him tonight.

He cracked an eye open, looking at you with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Bossy, aren’t ya?”

“Do I have to do it for you?” you shot back, not missing the way his hand trembled as he reached for the zipper.

With a sigh, he relented, shrugging out of the coat with a wince that told you just how much pain he was in. Beneath it, his shirt was torn and soaked with rain and blood, the fabric clinging to his skin. You bit your lip, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the way your heart pounded in your chest. “This might sting,” you warned as you started cleaning the cuts on his arm.

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened, the only sign of discomfort. “I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you murmured, your fingers moving quickly and efficiently as you patched him up. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the window and the occasional hiss of pain that slipped past his lips as you cleaned the cuts and bruises that marred his skin. It was a strange, intimate moment—one that felt almost out of place in the small, dimly lit space you found yourselves in.

As you worked, the air between you was thick with unspoken words, the silence pressing in like a third presence, heavy and unavoidable. You were painfully aware of how close you were to him, how the warmth of his body seemed to radiate against yours, even though you were careful to keep your distance. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood, creating a sensory imprint that you knew would linger long after this night was over.

Each time your fingers brushed against his skin, a jolt of something electric shot through you, making your heart stutter in your chest. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the task at hand, but it was impossible not to feel the weight of what was happening—the way this man, who so often seemed untouchable, was now sitting before you, vulnerable and human in a way you hadn’t seen before.

He winced as you pressed a little too hard, his sharp intake of breath breaking the silence. Your hand hesitated, hovering just above the wound, guilt flooding through you. "Sorry," you whispered, your voice softer now, almost tender. He met your gaze, and for a moment, you were caught in the intensity of his eyes—those burning red irises that had haunted your thoughts for so long. There was something in his expression, something raw and unguarded that made your breath hitch.

“It’s fine, chère,” he said quietly, his voice rough but steady. “Seen worse.”

You nodded, but the truth was, it wasn’t fine. None of this was. The sight of him hurt, bleeding because he’d taken hits meant for you, tore at something deep inside you. It wasn’t just gratitude or even guilt—it was something more complicated, a tangled mess of emotions that you hadn’t fully confronted until now.

With each bandage you applied, each wound you tended to, the reality of it all settled deeper into your bones: you cared about him. Not just because he’d saved you, not just because he was an enigma you were desperate to understand, but because somewhere along the line, you’d let him in. You’d let him become more than just the mysterious figure in the night, more than just the red-eyed vigilante who always seemed to be there when you needed him most.

You couldn’t deny the way your hands trembled slightly as you worked, the way your heart ached with every pained breath he took. You wanted to reach out, to close the distance between you, to offer something more than just the makeshift care you could provide with antiseptic and gauze. But you held back, swallowing down the urge because you didn’t know where it would lead, or if it was even what he wanted.

Still, the silence stretched, and as you finished the last of the stitches, you sat back, your hands falling to your lap as you took him in. His expression was unreadable, the bandana that usually hid his features now discarded, leaving him bare before you. His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on the concern you knew was written there, and you wondered if he could see the turmoil that roiled just beneath the surface.

When you were done, you sat back on your heels, surveying your work. “There,” you said softly. “You should be okay now.”

He looked down at the bandages, then back up at you, his expression unreadable. “Why are you doin’ this, chère?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable. “Why do you keep comin’ back?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. But then you realized the truth had been there all along, simmering beneath the surface of every encounter, every look you’d shared. “Because, weirdly enough, I care about you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know you. I know nothing about you, but I care.”

He stared at you for a long time, something flickering in his eyes—something that looked like hope, buried deep beneath layers of pain and doubt. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “You should stay far away from me.”

“Too late for that,” you replied, your hand reaching out to touch his, your fingers brushing over the rough skin of his knuckles as you picked up another swab and cleaned the dirt out of the wounds. You could feel his eyes on you, as if he was trying to figure out, to see into the depths of your soul. “Remy,” he suddenly spoke, the name falling from his lips with a careful deliberation, as if saying it out loud broke some unspoken rule between you. His voice was softer now, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the confident drawl that usually laced his words. “My name’s Remy LeBeau.”

Hearing his name, finally knowing this piece of him, felt like a tiny victory, but it also brought with it a rush of emotions that caught you off guard. You looked up at him, searching his face for answers, but his expression remained guarded, even as his eyes told a different story.

For Remy, the admission wasn’t just about giving you a name; it was about letting you in, dropping the mask he’d worn for so long. It was a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself, especially with someone he couldn’t keep at arm’s length. He’d been careful, too careful, to keep a distance from you—saving you, protecting you, but never crossing that line. Yet, here he was, stripped down to his most human form, offering you the one piece of himself he’d kept hidden.

He studied you carefully, taking in the way your eyes widened with the revelation. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, a fear of what might come next. Because Remy knew better than most that once you gave someone a piece of your truth, there was no taking it back. And with you, he wasn’t sure what that truth might cost him.

For all the walls he’d built, all the carefully crafted distance he maintained with everyone else, he couldn’t quite manage the same with you. From the first time he’d laid eyes on you, something about you had pulled at him in a way he couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just the way you stumbled into danger, though that was certainly part of it; it was the fire in your eyes, the defiance that matched his own. You were a puzzle he couldn’t solve, a question that lingered long after you’d walked away, and it frustrated him as much as it intrigued him.

But it was more than intrigue that kept him coming back. It was the way you made him feel seen—really seen—in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d spent years playing roles, hiding behind charm and bravado, always keeping people at a safe distance. But with you, those defenses faltered, the masks slipping just enough for him to remember what it felt like to be real. To be human.

He could see the concern etched on your face as you patched him up, the careful way your fingers worked, not just with skill but with care. And in those moments, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to let you in completely, to drop the charade and let you see him for who he really was. The thought terrified him.

Remy wasn’t used to letting people in—he’d learned long ago that closeness came with risks, with pain. But with you, it felt different. It felt like maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk. And as much as he tried to tell himself otherwise, he couldn’t deny the way his heart beat just a little faster whenever he was near you, the way his breath caught in his throat when you looked at him like he mattered.

So, when he finally said his name, it wasn’t just a name. It was a confession, a quiet surrender of the barriers he’d kept so carefully in place. It was his way of saying that maybe, despite everything, he wanted you to know him. To see him. And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to see where that could lead.

“Remy LeBeau,” he repeated, the weight of his name settling between you like a fragile truce. His gaze didn’t waver as he watched you, waiting, hoping that you would understand what it meant—that this wasn’t just a casual exchange. It was his way of saying that he trusted you, that he was willing to let you in, even if just a little.

Because for Remy, this wasn’t just another night, and you weren’t just another person. You were the one who made him want to be more than just the shadow in the dark, more than the vigilante who disappeared into the night. With you, he wanted to be real. And that scared him more than anything else ever had. You finished cleaning up his knuckles, your hands steady even as your heart felt anything but. The sight of him—so stubbornly trying to keep himself together, bleeding and bruised yet holding on to his composure—tugged at something deep inside you. You placed the swab on the floor, the tiny act feeling heavier than it should, as if it symbolized letting go of something more than just the makeshift bandage.

Before he could fully rise, you reached out, catching his hand in yours. Your grip was firm, almost desperate, as if you could anchor him in place with that one touch. “Remy, wait,” you pleaded, your voice carrying the weight of all the questions you’d never dared to ask. “Why did you come here?”

For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes darting anywhere but at you. They flickered to the rain-soaked window, then to the shadows pooling in the corners of the room, as if he was searching for an escape route that wasn’t there. The silence between you was thick and heavy, filled with the tension of unspoken words and the palpable sting of vulnerability. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened and relaxed, like he was fighting an internal battle you weren’t privy to.

You tightened your grip, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why?” you repeated, your voice more insistent now, laced with the hurt of being kept in the dark. “Why did you come here tonight? Out of all the places you could have gone, why did you choose to come to me?”

He flinched, your words cutting through the defenses he’d so carefully maintained. For a second, you thought he might pull away again, retreat behind that impenetrable wall of indifference that he wielded so skillfully. But then, you saw it—a flicker of something in his eyes, a crack in the armor that had always seemed so unbreakable.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and in that gaze, you saw the vulnerability he’d been hiding, the part of him that he kept so carefully guarded. His eyes, usually so full of mischief or shrouded in mystery, were now dark and stormy with emotions you couldn’t quite name. His jaw clenched and unclenched as if he were wrestling with the words, his throat working like he was choking on something that refused to be said. Finally, he let out a breath, shaky and uneven, his shoulders slumping under the invisible weight he carried.

“Because,” he said, his voice rough and raw, as if it hurt to get the words out, “despite everything, I trust you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and bare. It was more than just a statement—it was an offering, a piece of himself laid out in the open, unprotected. You’d seen him face down danger without a second thought, dive headfirst into fights that should have scared him away, but this was different. This was him, unmasked, standing in front of you without the armor, without the bravado, admitting something that cost him far more than any physical wound.

You swallowed, your throat tight with the weight of his words. Trust. It was such a simple word, yet it felt monumental coming from him, like he was handing you a key to a part of himself he’d never shown anyone. In that moment, you realized just how much it meant—that despite all the walls he’d built, all the times he’d pushed you away, he’d chosen to be here. With you. Because you were the one person he felt he could trust when everything else seemed uncertain.

Your hand, still holding his, squeezed just a little tighter, as if you could convey all the things you wanted to say through that simple touch. “Remy…” you began, your voice catching on the rawness of it all. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond to something so honest and vulnerable. But you didn’t have to, because the way you held his gaze, the way you didn’t let go, spoke louder than any words could.

His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of relief in his expression. Maybe it wasn’t much, maybe it wasn’t everything, but it was a start. A small crack in the walls he’d built so high, and for now, that was enough. He nodded slightly, as if to acknowledge the silent understanding that had passed between you.

You felt your heart skip, the realization sinking in. He didn’t just trust you in the way someone might trust a friend or a passing acquaintance. He trusted you with the parts of himself that he kept hidden, the scars that ran deeper than skin and the fears that chased him through every dark alley. It was a trust born not from necessity, but from choice—a choice that he made to let you in, even when it went against every instinct he had.

“You can fall down my fire escape any time,” You joked as you let go of his hand, allowing him to stand to his full height, “You can stay here if you need to. There’s a couch, I mean it’s not the Hilton but it’s okay.”

He shook his head again, but this time it wasn’t in defiance—it was in resignation, a slow acknowledgment of a truth he couldn’t ignore any longer. “Ain’t that easy, chère,” he muttered, his accent thickening as the weight of his emotions slipped through. “I got too many people after me, too many things I done that I can’t take back. You don’t deserve to be dragged into that.” You watched as he moved towards the window without another word and opened it, stepping through it and closing it behind you. The silence which filled the room made you wonder if he had been here at all.

Over the next few weeks, a peculiar routine began to form between you and Remy. It started with the sound of a gentle knock on your window late at night, a rhythm that became as familiar as the patter of rain against the glass. Each time, you would find yourself startled awake by the soft, rhythmic knock, your heart racing as you made your way to the window. There he would be, standing in the shadows with his usual air of mystery and just a hint of something else—a weariness that seemed to grow with each passing night.

You’d open the window, letting him in with a mix of relief and apprehension, and he’d step inside with a tired nod, his wounds ranging from fresh cuts to bruises that needed tending. There was an unspoken agreement between you: you’d patch him up, and he’d leave before the first light of dawn.

Each night, you followed the same routine. You’d lead him to the small area you’d set up as a makeshift first-aid station—an old, comfortable armchair covered with clean bandages, antiseptic, and gauze. As you cleaned and dressed his wounds, the silence between you grew more comfortable, though it was always punctuated by the occasional hiss of pain from him. The process became almost ritualistic; you knew exactly how much pressure to apply, how to wrap the bandages just right to avoid further discomfort.

And every night, after you finished, he’d nod his thanks, pull his coat tightly around him, and slip out into the night before you had a chance to ask him anything more. He never stayed long, never lingered, always disappearing into the darkness as if he were a phantom who could only exist in the shadows.

But the nights turned into weeks, and despite the seemingly routine nature of these encounters, there was a growing sense of familiarity and intimacy between you. Each time he showed up, you could sense that he was carrying more than just physical wounds—there was an emotional toll, an unspoken sadness that seemed to deepen with each passing night.

One night, as you finished tending to a particularly nasty gash on his arm, you felt a shift in the atmosphere. There was something different in the way he moved, a heaviness in his posture that seemed out of place. For the first time, he didn’t immediately head for the window when you were done. Instead, he lingered for a moment, his gaze wandering around the room as if he were weighing whether to say something he’d been holding back.

You watched him with a mix of curiosity and concern, the silence stretching between you, thick with the weight of unspoken words. You knew this wasn’t just about physical injuries anymore; there was something deeper, something that went beyond the nightly visits and the ritual of bandages and antiseptic.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and hesitant. “Chère,” he began, the usual confidence in his tone replaced by a vulnerable edge, “there’s somethin’ I’ve been meaning to tell ya.”

You turned to face him fully, your heart skipping a beat at the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” you asked softly, your hands still lingering with the bandages as if they could offer comfort beyond their intended use.

He looked down, his gaze falling to the floor as if the words were too heavy to hold. “I… I know I ain’t been the most open person,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “But there’s a reason why I keep comin’ back here. A reason I haven’t been able to tell ya until now.”

You nodded, waiting, sensing that this was something important, something that might finally shed light on the enigma that had been haunting your nights.

He took a deep breath, the sound almost like a shudder, and began to speak. “My wife, Anna… she was killed a just over a year ago.” His voice cracked on the name, the weight of it hanging heavy in the air. “It was a random act of violence—nothing more than a bad stroke of luck. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The words felt like a punch to the gut, the shock of them making your breath catch. You knew there was pain behind his eyes, but hearing it spoken out loud, the loss and the grief laid bare, made it all the more real. You could see the deep sadness etched into his features, the way his shoulders slumped with the weight of the confession.

“It broke me,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been tryin’ to deal with it, to keep goin’, but every time I look in the mirror, all I see is the man who couldn’t protect her. It’s like I’m stuck in this endless cycle of fightin’, tryin’ to find some way to make sense of it all.”

He paused, swallowing hard, and you could see the raw, unfiltered pain in his eyes. “When I started comin’ to you… it wasn’t just about savin’ ya from trouble. It was about findin’ somethin’ real, somethin’ that reminded me of who I used to be before all this happened. I trust you, chère, because you’re one of the few things that feels like it matters, like it’s worth fightin’ for.”

The admission left you breathless, the enormity of his words sinking in. You could see the vulnerability in him, the way he was reaching out in the only way he knew how. It wasn’t just about the physical wounds he carried; it was about the emotional scars, the grief that had become a part of him. After his admission, you had offered him the couch—an unspoken invitation to stay, to rest, to find some semblance of peace for the night. He hesitated at first, his gaze flickering between you and the couch as if he were unsure whether to accept the offer. But the exhaustion etched into his features and the heavy weight of his grief made the decision for him.

“Are ya sure?” he asked, his voice still rough but carrying a hint of relief.

You nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “Of course. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”

He accepted with a nod, his usual nonchalance replaced by a quiet weariness. You watched him as he settled onto the couch, the familiar sound of its creaking beneath him a reminder of the comfort it could offer. He removed his coat, carefully placing it over the back of the couch, and then lay down, stretching out with a sigh that seemed to release some of the tension from his body.

You turned off the lights, leaving only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner to cast a warm light over the room. The silence that followed was comfortable, almost soothing, as you moved about quietly, tidying up the area where he had been. You found yourself stealing glances at him, noting the way his features softened as he finally began to drift off.

It was the first night in the weeks you’ve known him that Remy wasn’t slipping out into the darkness after you’d finished tending his wounds. The sight of him lying there, vulnerable and at ease, was both comforting and poignant. You could see the exhaustion in his relaxed posture, the way his chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of sleep.

As you started to settle in for the night, you couldn’t help but reflect on the changes that had occurred between you. The nights of routine visits, the shared moments of silent understanding, and the recent revelation had all woven a new thread into the fabric of your connection. The couch had become more than just a piece of furniture; it was now a symbol of trust, of the fragile but growing bond between you.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, you found yourself unable to sleep. The weight of Remy’s story and the raw emotion of the night played on your mind. You quietly moved to where he was sleeping, careful not to disturb him, and sat down on the edge. The room was quiet except for the gentle sounds of his breathing and the steady patter of rain.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the edge of his hand, which was resting loosely on the arm of the couch. Even in sleep, he seemed to carry the burden of his grief, but there was also a sense of peace that came with the simple act of resting in a safe place. You wondered what it must have felt like for him to finally let down his guard, to find a moment of solace in the midst of so much pain.

As you sat there, your thoughts drifted to the future—what it might hold for you both. You knew there were still many unanswered questions, many layers to peel back. But for now, you were content to simply be there, to offer a place where he could find some respite from his struggles.

The dawn began to break, casting a soft light across the room. Remy stirred, his eyes fluttering open as the first rays of sunlight touched his face. He blinked groggily, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings and the presence of someone walking around. When he saw you, a tired but genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still rough but softer than it had been the night before.

“Morning,” you replied, returning his smile with one of your own. “How’d you sleep?”

He stretched slightly, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles. “Better than I have in a long time,” he admitted, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and something else—an emotion you couldn’t quite place but that felt comforting all the same.

You stood up, offering him a hand to help him sit up fully. “I’m glad to hear that,” you said. “Do you want some coffee or something to eat?”

He accepted the offer with a nod, and you moved to the small kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast. As you worked, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. This moment—this small act of care—was something more than you’d expected when you first met him. It was a reminder that even in the midst of grief and uncertainty, there were moments of connection and understanding that made everything feel a little bit more bearable.

As you shared the quiet morning, the bond between you felt stronger, forged in the vulnerability and trust that had developed over the past weeks. It wasn’t a solution to the pain or the grief that Remy carried, but it was a beginning—an acknowledgment that sometimes, even the smallest acts of kindness could make a difference. As the weeks turned into months, the routine of Remy’s late-night visits became a natural part of your life. Each night, he would arrive with new bruises and wounds, and each morning you would tend to them with a mix of professional care and personal concern. The process had become a ritual, a time where you both found a rare moment of respite from the chaos of his nightly escapades and the emotional weight of his grief.

With each passing night, the space between you began to fill with unspoken understanding and a growing intimacy. The conversations during these quiet moments evolved from simple exchanges about the day’s events to deeper discussions about life, loss, and the future. You found yourself looking forward to his arrival, the brief yet meaningful conversations and the comfort of his presence becoming a source of solace for you as well.

Remy, too, seemed to find more than just physical healing in these nights. The conversations grew more personal, his stories more revealing. He spoke about his past, his memories of Anna, and the struggles he faced with his grief. The more he shared, the more you saw beyond the hardened exterior, glimpsing the man who had once been filled with hope and love. And with each story, each shared silence, the connection between you deepened.

There were moments when the air between you crackled with something that went beyond friendship. It was subtle at first—a lingering look, a gentle touch that lasted just a bit longer than necessary, or a smile that spoke volumes. It was in the way he would sit closer to you on the couch, or the way his eyes would soften when he looked at you. It was in the moments of shared laughter, the quiet comfort of each other’s company, and the unspoken understanding that seemed to build with each passing day.

One evening, after you had finished tending to a particularly nasty gash on his side, the atmosphere felt different. Remy was moving to stand up, already moving to where his jacket was. He needed to go, before this got to far. He was an idiot to let it get this far but with you he felt safe, he felt content and for the first time since Anna, he felt happy. You stood up after him, watching him with curious eyes as his face became more anguished.

The silence was heavy, laden with the weight of unspoken feelings and unresolved emotions. Remy’s gaze was suddenly locked on yours, his eyes dark and intense, betraying a storm of inner conflict. His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin as he struggled to articulate the thoughts that had been tangled up inside him.

You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm, the touch a grounding force amidst the turmoil. The warmth of your hand seemed to anchor him, and he turned his gaze fully toward you, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your heart pound.

“You’re going to go again aren’t you?”

As you spoke, your voice was soft but firm, your words carrying the sincerity of your emotions. Remy’s eyes never wavered from yours, his expression a mixture of longing and apprehension. You could see the internal struggle, the battle between his desire to open up and his fear of being hurt or rejected.

It was as if a dam had burst, releasing a torrent of emotions that had been pent up for too long. The barriers he had so carefully maintained began to crumble, and the rawness of his feelings became apparent. He took a step closer, his hand moving to capture yours, his fingers tightening around yours as if he were afraid you might disappear.

You didn’t move away. You couldn’t. Not when you saw the profound need in his eyes, the desperate plea for understanding and acceptance that seemed to radiate from him. The depth of his longing was almost palpable, a tangible force that drew you closer.

Without thinking, you reached up, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin and the rapid thud of his pulse beneath your touch. The intimacy of the gesture was electric, the connection between you both intense and undeniable.

Remy’s eyes fluttered closed, a shuddering breath escaping him as he leaned into your touch. You could feel the tension in his body, the coiled energy and the weight of his hidden fears and unspoken burdens. In that moment, you understood the enormity of what he was offering—a chance to be a source of solace, to be the one who could calm his storm. He wanted to run, every instinct in his body told him to run; but instead he was rooted to the spot. His heart pounding in his chest as he felt the warmth of your hand, he could almost feel the pulse in your hand, the rapid thumping telling him that you needed this just as much as he did.

You knew then that you had to be there for him, to offer him the comfort and peace that he so desperately needed. You leaned in slowly, your lips brushing against his with a tenderness that was both gentle and reassuring. The initial contact was soft, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters of this newfound closeness.

But as Remy’s response met your touch, the kiss deepened. His mouth was warm and insistent, a fierce hunger and a desperate need evident in every movement. The passion in his kiss was consuming, a reflection of the longing that had been building between you. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you close, his fingers gripping you as if he feared losing you.

You melted into him, your body responding instinctively to the intensity of his touch. The kiss was no longer just about comfort or solace—it was a powerful exchange of raw emotion and deep connection. The desperation, the longing, and the yearning all coalesced into a singular, electrifying moment.

As you pulled away slightly, your breath mingling with his, you looked into his eyes, seeing the same fervor mirrored there. The space between you was charged with an intensity that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was a moment of profound intimacy, one that signified a new chapter in your relationship—a chapter marked by shared vulnerability, unspoken

He watched you for a moment, the internal conflict making his stomach churn and his heart ache. Instead of listening to his head, which told him to run. To keep you safe in a way he couldn’t keep Anna safe, he went against every voice and kissed you again. This time harder, more needful. As the kiss went on, the world around you melted away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the vortex of your desire. You forgot about the danger, the secrets, the lies. All that mattered was this moment, this connection, this trust.

You broke away, gasping for air, your lips swollen, your heart racing. Remy's eyes snapped open, his gaze burning with a fire that left you breathless.

"Chère," he whispered, his voice husky, his accent thick. "I need you."

You nodded, your throat dry, your body trembling with anticipation. You knew what he needed, what he wanted. And you were more than willing to give it to him.

You pulled him back in, your lips crashing against his, the kiss growing more frenzied, more desperate. You could feel the weight of his emotions, the depth of his need, and you responded in kind. Your hands roamed his body, tracing the contours of his muscles, the curve of his spine. His skin was hot to the touch, his pulse racing beneath your fingers.

Remy's hands were equally busy, stripping away your clothes with a haste that bordered on desperation. You didn't care; you were too caught up in the moment, too lost in the fire that burned between you. The world around you melted away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the vortex of your desire.

As the last of your clothes fell away, Remy's gaze raked over your body, his eyes burning with a hunger that left you breathless. You felt your skin prickle with anticipation, your heart racing with excitement. You knew what was coming, and you were more than ready.

Without a word, Remy swept you up in his arms, carrying you to the kitchen bench. You didn't care where you were, only that you were with him, that you were together. The moment he laid you down, you reached for him, pulling him into a kiss that was both fierce and tender.

He begins to trail featherlight kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbone, causing your skin to tingle with each gentle touch. Your breath quickens as his lips graze over your chest, his tongue teasing your nipples, eliciting soft moans that escape your lips.

Remy's lips trailed kisses along your neck, his breath hot and heavy, while his fingers skillfully undid the fastenings of your underwear. The fabric slipped away, revealing your curves to his eyes. His admiring gaze intensified the heat within you, and you felt yourself melting under his scorching stare.

He slowly lowered his mouth to yours, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, as his hands ventured downward, caressing your thighs and the delicate skin of your hips. Then, with expert precision, he parted your legs, and with a gentle whisper in your ear, he crouched down and kissed the inside of your thighs before the world narrowed to the sensation of his tongue on your most intimate place.

You felt the wetness of his kisses, the gentle suction that had you arching off the bench in response. Your hands gripped the edge, fingers curling as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. Remy's name escaped your lips in desperate moans, the intensity building to a crescendo.

Meanwhile, Remy's own desire grew more apparent, the strain in his muscles and the heavy breathing marking his passion. The sight of your body, glistening in front of him and the sweet tastes of your desire seemed to overwhelm him. He stood back up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on your lips before he lifted you slightly, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist, as he stood, supporting your weight.

With a smoldering look, he gently guided himself into you, and the bench echoed with the rhythmic creaking of wood as he set a steady pace. The heat and friction intensified with each thrust, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh as the pleasure peaked.

The kitchen bench became a sanctuary of sensations, where moans mingled the soft hiss of each breath. The moments slipped by in a blur of pleasure, and the world outside ceased to exist. You were lost in Remy's eyes, in the feel of his skin against yours, and the raw desire that fueled your every touch. The pleasure built to an inevitable climax, and you rode the waves of ecstasy together, your bodies a harmonious symphony of sweat and passion.

After the intensity of the moment, the kitchen was bathed in a quiet stillness, the echoes of your shared passion lingering in the air. The cool, hard surface of the kitchen bench was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bodies, now entwined in the aftermath of your intimate connection.

You sat there, your breathing gradually returning to normal, Remy’s forehead resting in the crook of your neck, your bodies still pressed close together. You could see the moonlight flicker through the window, casting shadows on the walls.

Remy’s fingers were still lightly tracing patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and soothing. His gaze was soft, a mixture of tenderness and wonder in his eyes as he looked at you. There was a vulnerability in his expression that mirrored the openness and trust you had both shared.

You shifted slightly, your movements slow and deliberate as you tried to regain your bearings. The cool air against your exposed skin was a stark contrast to the warmth that had enveloped you just moments before. You glanced at Remy, your heart swelling with a mix of affection and relief. The connection between you felt deeper and more meaningful than ever.

He let out a soft sigh, his breath warm against your neck as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your skin. “I never expected this,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Not in a million years.”

You turned your head to look at him, your fingers gently caressing his cheek. “Neither did I,” you admitted, a soft smile playing on your lips. “But I’m glad it happened.”

Remy’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future seemed to fade away. It was just the two of you in that moment, finding solace and connection in each other’s presence.

As the minutes ticked by, you both began to shift, Remy moving over and handing you the clothes that were now scattered across the kitchen floor. The awkwardness of the situation was tempered by the ease that had developed between you over the past weeks. You both knew that this was a new beginning, a step toward something more profound and lasting.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your voice laced with genuine concern. The intensity of your shared experience had left you both emotionally raw, and you wanted to make sure he was feeling alright.

Remy looked at you, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, his tone reassuring. “I’m more than okay.”

You returned his smile, feeling a sense of contentment and peace settle over you. The connection between you was undeniable, and while the future was uncertain, you both knew that you had taken a significant step forward together.

He watched you intently, his expression a mixture of contemplation and uncertainty. The intimacy you had shared had been profound, but it had also left him grappling with a swirl of conflicting emotions. The bond between you was undeniably strong, but he was acutely aware of the dangers and complications that came with his life.

“You know,” he said, his voice breaking the silence as he glanced at you, “you might need to get a new kitchen bench after this.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, a stark contrast to the tension that lingered beneath the surface. “I think I can manage,” you replied, a playful smile on your lips. “But if this is gonna keep happening, I might need to invest in a few more cleaning supplies.”

Remy’s laughter was short-lived, fading into a contemplative silence. His gaze remained fixed on you, and he could see the playful glint in your eyes slowly giving way to a more serious expression. The laughter in his own eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of concern and introspection.

“Is this what you want?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying a note of vulnerability. “To keep this goin’?”

You paused, the question hanging in the air between you. You looked out at the window, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the rain-soaked city beyond. Your thoughts were a tangle of emotions—hope, fear, and a deepening affection for Remy. You turned back to him, your gaze steady as you met his eyes.

“Remy,” you said softly, “is that what you want? Is this what you’re looking for?”

He took a deep breath, his expression conflicted. He knew the risks of his life, the dangers that lurked in the shadows of his world. His past with Anna weighed heavily on him, a constant reminder of his failures and regrets. The thought of opening himself up to another person, of letting someone into his turbulent life, was both alluring and terrifying.

“My life’s dangerous,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “There’s no denyin’ that. I can’t promise you a life without risk, without danger. But… I can promise that I’ll always protect you. With everything I’ve got.”

His eyes were filled with a sincerity that cut through the uncertainty. The words were heavy with meaning, an unspoken promise of commitment and care. It was his way of offering reassurance, of letting you know that despite the chaos and danger that surrounded him, he was willing to make you a part of his world.

You reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. The gesture was simple but spoke volumes. “I’m not afraid of the danger as you know,” you said softly. “I’m more afraid of losing you—of not knowing what we could be together.”

Remy’s gaze softened, his features relaxing as he looked at you. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he took a step closer, closing the distance between you. “I never wanted to drag you into this mess,” he said quietly. “But now that you’re here… I don’t wanna let go. I don’t wanna lose what we have.”

The sincerity in his words was palpable, and you could see the internal struggle that had been weighing on him. The fear of repeating past mistakes and the desire to protect you from his dangerous world were at odds, but his commitment to you was clear.

“Then yeah, I think I’ll need to get some more cleaning supplies,” You smirked, watching the look of relief cross his face. Remy nodded, a sense of relief washing over him. The fear and uncertainty that had clouded his thoughts began to recede, replaced by a newfound sense of hope and determination. He reached out, pulling you into a tender embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a protective warmth.

In that embrace, you both found a moment of peace, a shared understanding that despite the dangers and the uncertainties, you were willing to face it all together. The promise of a future, uncertain and fraught with challenges but filled with potential, was now a shared dream—a dream that you both were ready to pursue.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the first light of day began to filter through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room. It was a new beginning, one that would be marked by the strength of your connection and the commitment you had made to each other. And as the sun rose, you both knew that whatever lay ahead, you would face it together, finding solace and strength in the bond you had forged.

#Marvel #Fanfiction #Reader Insert #Remy Lebeau x Reader #Gambit x Reader #Anti-Hero #Vigilante!Gambit #Remy Lebeau #Gambit #Xmen #Assault #Smut #Ao3 #deadpool & wolverine #Deadpool 3 #Ask Answered

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smolvenger · 1 year ago

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The Little Princess (Henry V x fem! Reader Oneshot)

Summary: As queen of the nation and wife to Henry the Fifth, all rejoice to discover you are pregnant with your first child with your beloved husband. Only to discover, the child is not the long awaited son, but a girl...

Word Count: 5K

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @jijilaufeyson

@anukulee @herdetectivetheorist (from your request!)

A/N: hehehehe uploading this while listening to "The Man" by Taylor Swift

Warnings: Pregnancy and childbirth in the beginning, which I try to portray as realistically as I can. I changed up what would have happened in history per the request I was given for this. No way is it accurate. But also this is fanfic world and irl Henry V wouldn't have had the luscious curls and ass of Tom Hiddleston. Mentions of sex but no smut. Baby stuff. Some angst, but lots of fluff. Grammar and spelling mistakes that missed my radar.

“Her Majesty, the Queen of England, is with child, Your Highness,” the messenger announced.

Henry had slouched, relaxed on his wooden throne. He then shot up straight. The dominant grace he held cracked for a second. His blue eyes blinked, doing his best not to stagger in his posture.

“She…she is?” he asked, almost incredulously.

The messenger nodded his head.

“Yes. The physician just examined her. He asked me to inform you of these happy tidings. And we shall pray you shall soon be blessed with an heir apparent,” he reported with a smile.

Henry found a small half laugh escape him. He smiled so wide it showed his teeth. He lowered his head, feeling a little dizzy for a second. But he knew how to regain himself quickly after his time as the ruler of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales.

“Tell the physician we thank him for his swift and happy news,” he replied.

The messenger bowed his head and exited through the wooden doors.

Henry did his best to remain focused throughout the meetings today. But he found his head swam. You- his precious wife, beloved consort-was going to have a child- have his child. He was going to be a father, and you were going to be a mother. His entire world had changed in just a minute and he was supposed to act as normal.

Once they were declared finished, he shot up.

“I would like to visit her Majesty at once,” he declared.

“She is in her chambers, my lord,” one servant confirmed.

He hurried to where you were, the attendants right behind him. The hallways nearly spun as he walked with such a quick bounce. Not caring even if his crown was knocked out of his head.

Meanwhile, you were sitting down. Your stomach was already churning- for you had become more aware of it since this morning. You could only sit and embroider with your ladies in waiting- it was only a matter of time until-

“His majesty, the king,” a male attendant announced at the door.

You shot up and curtsied as Henry the Fifth of Lancaster bounded in. The other ladies followed suit.

“My lord, and husband,” you replied dutifully, raising back up to face him.

Henry looked flushed, scattered even. He walked up to you and held both of your hands in his.

“My lady, do you confirm that what I heard was true? Are you…are you with child?” he asked softly. As if you were in private and not with a dozen eyes on you.

You nodded, smiling. You leaned in closer, your voice matching his quiet tone.

“Yes. Yes, I am. I know it in my heart, Harry. I’ve had no courses for months. The physician’s tests confirmed my suspicions….” you replied.

You took his hand and moved it to your stomach. Even if it appeared normal, even if the baby was now small- it seemed even the king himself sensed the presence inside.

“Our first child is inside me now,” you said finally.

He picked you up and spun you around and kissed you. Bursting into laughter, you clutched him. He held your face and kissed you again. You, his wife, his queen, his beloved, now about to be mother to his child. Who cared if these people saw this intimacy from their lord? He was the maker of what was formal, not they.

“We’ve prayed so long for this, my lord. You know how long we have asked God to bless us someday… and someday has arrived!!” you replied.

He held your face again, his eyes shining.

“I’ve never loved you more than this moment, Y/N,” he confessed.

“I love you too, Harry,” you responded.

As the pregnancy passed, you dealt with each symptom with as much grace as you could. For you knew once you had a son, all would see you as more than just Henry’s pretty accessory and broodmare. You would be the mother to the next king. All would respect you and revere you far more. That brought you through the mornings of nausea and sudden, intense cravings for certain foods.

What was best was the nighttime before sleep. Henry defied court tradition and insisted he wanted to join you in your chambers. Even though there was the advice that he avoid his marital duties until after the baby arrived, to risk any lustful acts harming the child inside you. To have a misteress to pleasure him as you carried the child was out of the question for Harry of England. He would prefer to fall on his sword instead.

The truth was, you didn’t need to perform any act of lust with your husband to be with him. You both could sit in silence. Read books and play chess or little games. Discuss anything and everything. Even to lay in bed and to hold each other. And how your heart burst with love as you felt his hand on his stomach and heard him talk to the child. Even placing little kisses on there. When the baby first kicked, you put his hand there to feel. You both grinned and kissed each other. That was as intimate as anything with your bodies entwining. Whispering names and hopes for the little child. Said little prayers for a safe delivery for you. For the baby in your stomach to survive past infancy. To survive to an adult. One that would always know how much their mother and father wanted and loved them.

When the time came for confinement, the time when you would stay only in your private chambers in the ninth month away from the court, including Henry, to help guarantee a safe delivery. Your heart beat fast. Your stomach was so large that you could only waddle rather than walk. Henry only kissed you, gently tracing your face. Promising that only if there was a crisis would he break down the doors and run to your side.

For days you sat in your rooms. It became stuffy and dark as they closed the curtains, the priests carrying incense throughout and blessing what was going to be the birthing bed. You sat there, sweating, and feeling both the immense fear of your death and the fear of the pain.

At last, one early morning, your water broke. Hyperventilating and crying, you awoke a lady in waiting to run to get the midwife. You were shaking, pain scorching as the baby was starting to get ready to emerge. You knew what would happen, and yet when it began, you felt thrown into the unknown. You were so frightened, you let out screams as the contractions began. They fetched the birthingThere was the delivery, you cried your way through the pain.

“Harry- where is Harry? Where is my husband? I’m so frightened! Please! Where is he!?” you cried, your vision blurry with tears.

“This is not the place for your husband to be, your Majesty. The Lords thought it best he be kept away for now. But how proud he would be of you now- you’re doing well- the baby’s coming out fine!” the midwife encouraged you. “Keep pushing, my lady! I see the head!”

You were sweaty and disgusting and at your most primal, far from the elegant and regal woman they all saw in public. Blood and fluids, including some embarrassing ones, had come out during the labor which was all being cleaned up after it was spilled.

The hours dragged on in torture. The midwife yelling encouragements through your hot face full of tears. You felt sick, even faint, as you pushed the child out from between your legs. Sitting on the stool with the midwife over, every lady in waiting dabbed your burning forehead and squeezed your hand through each push.

Then, finally, a cry came out. But not from your voice. A baby’s cry. You let out a shaky breath of relief.

Alive. The child was alive. As were you.

You caught your breath, panting hard. One lady in waiting grinned at you-

“Well done, Your Majesty!” she praised.

You let out a gasp as the afterbirth crawled out. But it was easy and painless compared to a child and slipped easily into the below pot placed for it. A maid grimaced but took it away. You heard the click of a knife as the cord on the child was cut. Another warm cloth went over the tiny, wrinkled newborn as it wailed and wailed. You felt dizzy, the red curtains of your chambers swimming around. Then you came to.

The heir. The heir apparent. Henry’s heir- Henry’s heir was here. The one purpose for which you were made wife to the king was now fulfilled-

“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced.

The child was in the midwife’s arms. your eyes noticed the lower half of the baby’s body. She was correct.

For a second, your heart stopped. The world stopped.

There was a slight silence in the room. It wasn’t like the eruptious joy that would have followed had it been the opposite.

The baby still cried heartily. They swaddled her- not the long-awaited him, her. For that was what the baby that was your constant companion inside you for months was. Not the long-awaited male heir for the Lancaster line. No- a daughter. And what is a daughter, but a disappointment?

In those seconds, your mind reeled. Your belly was empty now for the first time in over a year. You had disappointed the nation- there would be no heir to the Lancaster throne. Not yet. You had let down the court. Mothering a son brought special respect and privilege.

And, most of all, worst of all, you let down Henry. The one person you loved most of all. And that hurt the worst.

The baby wailed. A high, piercing, harsh cry. Ladies in waiting gathered around and fussed. The midwife cleared out the mucus and fluids covering the newborn. Still, the crying rang through the room like harsh bells.

You wondered briefly if it would have been better if you didn’t recover and died from this than face the humiliation.

Wrapping some swaddling over the crying newborn, they handed her over to you.

“Here, hold her, your majesty. She seems a healthy, beautiful little girl,” the midwife announced.

The tiny, wrinkled babe at first didn’t seem beautiful.

Then the bundle was placed in your arms and the baby stopped crying at once.

You looked down at her.

Something inside you broke.

She was….small. So small for your great pain. Her tiny face, the tiniest little hands, and hte tiniest head. She was fragile. Could you remember when you were brought to court to marry the king? You were just as fragile, as naive, as alone without protection- who knows what would have happened if Henry had been so gentle and patient with you, if you hadn’t grown to fall in love with him and he with you.

She nestled to you, her crying ceasing. Clinging to you. She didn’t know so many things…but she knew you were her mother.

And she trusted you to protect her.

A new feeling burst on you. You were not afraid of facing humiliation from the men of court…you were afraid of failing her. She reached a hand and began to coo. Making tiny little noises like that of a mouse. You held up your hand and she held onto your finger- settling close to you.

“Hello, my dear…hello…” you murmured. The pain seemed even more distant.

Tears came down you again and you felt yourself smile. You loved her. This tiny, beautiful, and unwanted girl.

One lady in waiting reached for you and you barked at them.

“Get away from her! Don’t touch her!” you yelled out, the tears running down your face, your breasts heavy with milk that was not going to be used, and the hotness in your body flushing to anger. You held the bundle closer to yourself.

You understood the instincts of bears, how they would rip men into pieces if they dared tread near the den of their cubs. If anyone- anyone- haughty courtiers that were so stuck in their ways that they had nothing better to do with their time other than harm an innocent child- incapable of fighting, of proper speech, of defending herself- you would have murdered them. And you would have enjoyed it.

She cried only a little, startled by your voice. You rocked her and shushed her, kissing her forehead.

“Hello, hello- I’m your mother, don’t be frightened, my dear, I’ve waited a while to meet you, shhhh. Mother is here, you’ll be safe. I’m sorry I surprised you, shhh,” you whispered.

The midwife approached you cautiously.

“Your majesty…the baby must be cleaned further. Do not worry- she will be safe…” she assured you. And your good sense one- for the midwife had delivered hundreds of babes and you knew the girl was in good hands.

You looked down again at your baby, still somewhat patched and bloody. For that, you handed her over.

Henry was tending to his stallion in the stables. The white one was his personal favorite. He often enjoyed being the one to hand the horse hay and feel it nibble form his hand. His attendants just beside him to see to anything, wanting to do anything to distract their lord and sovereign as he anxiously awaited news of his beloved wife.

A lady in waiting arrived inside and their heads turned like deer. She took a few steps forward and curtsied low. Henry gestured for her to rise.

“How is the queen? It was early morn when the birthing began. Tell me- Does she live?” he asked anxiously.

“Her majesty lives. She is delivered of a…a princess,” reported the lady.

There was a slight silence. A greyness washed over the faces of the lords. Frowns remained on their faces, but their eyes were kept on Henry.

Henry took a moment. He was still, his face unreadable. He then replied.

“The babe is fine?”

“Yes, the babe is fine, born healthy,” she answered.

He broke into a relieved half laugh and smile.

“May- may I see my them?” he asked.

The lady nodded. “Yes, the midwife said you may.”

Henry gave the lady a nod.

“We most heartily accept these joyous tidings, sweet lady. I shall see her anon,” he said.

At once, he broke into a jaunty walk. He burst from the stables, and up the stone steps, through the hallways into his wife’s chambers. He was far faster than some of the stuffier, older lords could keep up with They had a hand on their heads for their hats and puffed as their legs attempted to keep up with their lord.

Confinement seemed like his sweet angel was torn from him to another world and not another part of the castle. But he bounced up the steps. The sweet temptation to burst through those doors for weeks was finally relieved.

He at once raised a knuckle and knocked on the doors. There were feminine gasps and murmurs on the other side.

And another sound, something light, a little voice- that of a baby. And his heart picked up.

There were no servants or lords, so he announced.

“It is his majesty, the king of England.”

One lady opened and they all bowed low. Even the few ladies in the corner trying to get rid of sheets full of blood discreetly. But Henry was a man who had seen battles and once killed the famed Hotspur himself- what was more blood to him?

You laid in your bed, holding the little babe. Your heart racing hard, fighting not to break and cry and yet you found yourself smiling at him. His curls swept back from the wind of his rush and his blue eyes wide as he saw you.

He came forward and knelt next to the bed in a few short strides. He took your hand in his and kissed it.

“How is my lady?” he asked.

“I’m…I’m fine,” you replied in a choking voice. Glad to see him again, glad you were alive to experience all this.

You looked down at the swaddled child.

“Here is…here is your daughter, my lord…” you presented.

You waited for the stormy look on his face, hoping your smile would relieve it. But Henry the Fifth merely loosened his shoulders. His jaw dropped then broke into a smile as he saw her.

“May I hold her?” he asked.

You brought her into his arms. She seemed ot know her father, for she settled easily. He rocked her, and kissed her forehead. Happiness beaming everywhere on his face.

“Mary…that is what we agreed, my lady, if it was a girl…would you still like that to be her name?” he said sofly.

You nodded.

He looked around the crowd. The lord and attendants finally arrived inside, staring with wide eyes.

“Today is a special day- for we celebrate the birth of the Princess Mary. Named in memory of my mother. And we are all going to celebrate. I would like there to be a joust and a feast as well when she is christened, all for the safe arrival of Her Highness, the Princess of Wales- And please note, I want a portrait of the joust commissioned-”

Henry looked back at you sitting up on the bed.

“I want my queen in the center, on a seat- beautiful as she is and shining bright, as a testament of my love for her…”

Folding your hands, you smiled back up at him. Exhaustion and love warming your insides. Joy seeping through to where you thought you would float.

“And I ask for a second portrait be of all of us- for we are now the royal family,” Henry finished.

The courtiers nodded solemnly with plenty of “yes, my lord” repeating from their lips. For none would dare cross the king.

They departed, leaving you both alone for the first time in weeks. Mary wiggled a little in her father’s arms. He sat on the bed and smiled at you. You laid a hand on his arm.

“Harry, all of this fuss! Should you save such grand celebrations for when we have a son?” you asked.

“No, sweetling. Our child is born alive and healthy- and with her in my arms, I’m too overjoyed, that her sex does not matter right now,” he responded.

“But…your heir!” you cried.

He smiled and his eyes lowered to his baby.

“ I have three brothers. There’s more than enough heirs. There’s no need to panic…”

He leaned close.

“And with my lovely wife naked in my bed again… once she is better…how can I resist a night where we can create another beautiful child? Wouldn’t our little Mary be happy having a brother to play with and tease and scold over?”

You playfully shook your head with laughter and swatted his arm lightly.

“My lord, you are unappeasable!” you teased.

“And I have missed you too, my lady,” he replied.

Both of you kissed as May began to cry again.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

How incredible a nursery they had built for her. The rockers- two people set up to stay awake all night to rock the baby to sleep- curtsied low. It seemed that despite the disappointment, they were charmed with the sweet little baby. Her little noises that cackled about. Her adorable squeaks that made won people over. How you loved to call her “my little mouse!” when you visited to hold and rock her. For Mary would always nestle and wish to be held. She had no thoughts of being a great Princess of the Sacred Isle yet. She was an infant who only wanted to be cared for and loved.

The joust came and went. The artists got right to work for their commissions. The christening was a holiday throughout the nation. Bells rang as the Bishop blessed Mary in the church with all the nation watching.

At the feast afterward, many gathered around to glimpse at their new princess, cloaks and hats and long skirts crowding around the official cradle made for state events. It was decorated with the arms of the Lancaster house. Plush red fabrics draped the inside- the colors considered traditional for her father. It measured seven and a half feet long and two and a half feet wide. The guests invited could look at the infant from a safe distance. You couldn’t help but awe at the creation- all for one tiny baby inside! How small she looked compared to the great size of the thing! They must have thought her a giant child, not a human one!

There was no better, no more doting father than Henry the Fifth. It seemed that the only concern about a male heir came from his courtiers. And their protests and reminders fell deaf on his majesty’s ears. Even in public events where she was placed in the state cradle, Henry would stay to stand guard near it. He was not too much of a man that he was beneath wishing to hold her. He would bend up and use one arm to hold her crimson swaddling.

“I am the Father of the Nation. Of my subjects, as much as she.” he would declare, one hand up to gently touch his little daughter.

How often you stayed in that nursery, amazed at her. The nursemaids tell you everything about what a baby did and why they did it. For even if she was not yours to raise, your curiosity would get to you- and how much every day she would grow and change! Just a month later and she was big enough you wondered how she got out of you!

One night later at dinner, Henry wished to have her cradle nearby so you could eat with her. Little Mary let out a hearty cry out of nowhere.

You jumped- for it was loud and sharp. She did not wail often in her father’s presence. But Henry merely tilted his head.

“Now, what is the matter, lambkin?” he asked the baby.

She continued to cry. He picked her up. A hand over her head and her bum, placing her on his arm.

“What troubles you so, Fair little chuck-hm? Would you like a kiss from your father? Would it cheer you?”

He gave her a kiss on her warm cheek. She calmed down a little. Then she began to cry again. Your husband shot up his eyebrows in confusion. But you listened carefully to the quality of the sound of her wailing- this one was low-pitched, repeating its rhythms.

“My lord, the nurses tell me that kind of cry means she is hungry.”

With a smile on your face, you asked a servant to send for the wet nurse. Henry only widened his eyes in awe.

“Well, my lady, tell me…what have you learned from them about the crying of babes?” he asked in curiosity.

One day- after certain parliament sessions, you returned to the nursery. You heard her crying again- the sort she did when fussing. For you only wished to…to be with her, see her- for her childhood to be as good a one as you could afford for her.

Once inside, you saw one maid trying to ring her rattle. The other maid held her up to see it. But it was doing no good for little Mary who kept crying.

You walked inside and the little girl paused. She began to smile and kick her feet, her crying ceasing. She was even reaching two chubby arms towards you.

How could you have hated that she wasn’t a son when she was born? What were you even thinking with such joy and such love this little girl had for you?

Reaching over, you brought her up.

“Hello, my lovely girl, how are you?” you asked. You brought her up to yourself.

Smelling how well they bathed her. How she was indeed a sweet girl who only wished to be held and loved! You kissed her forehead.

The maids smiled.

“She does that when she misses you,” one reported.

But you never forgot the day you heard her laugh for the first time. It was the fourth month after the birth. Returning inside after strolling the gardens with the ladies, his majesty not being present. You assumed he was discussing something with the Prussian ambassador or shooting his arrows. You passed by the hallway with the nursery. You heard a small sound. Like the tinkling of bells-

It was Mary- her first laugh- you felt a gasp. And another followed- a masculine one right after- a certain laugh you knew like your hand.

Could it be… was it…?

Curiosity overcame you and you opened the door, Henry was sitting on the floor, holding her up above him and she was laughing, clapping her chubby hands. He laughed too.

You burst with love and put a hand over your mouth. The servants watching were flabbergasted. Seeing the sovereign himself playing with her, lifting her in the air and moving her about as she wriggled. You walked in and Henry still held her and leaned up.

“I believe you are enjoying yourself, my lord?” you asked.

“Mary loves it when her father makes her fly like a bird, I discovered,” he said. “You should have seen her with the ambassador's son. So used is she to men with beards, that when the shaven youth stepped forward, she stared at him like a wonder of the world!” he recalled. “Oh, and the little dear is rolling over. She can roll over to one side, but cannot roll back. And when she does, she can only cry in frustration!” he reported excitedly.

You grinned and kissed his cheek. Both of you admiring the new gown on the princess. When there was money left over in the budget, Henry would find ways to spoil her with toys and dresses.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Months passed. You and Henry waited until the time was right, when you were ready for his bed, for acts that would put his seed inside you... But…you were having trouble conceiving again.

You took advice from the physician, recalling every embarrassing martial act out loud to the old man. You devoured certain herbs prescribed to you like a rabbit. Even mixing them into drinks when you could.

Yet…your courses returned as normal.

But you began to wonder…perhaps Mary was the only child you would have. And part of you mourned. Wishing for the large, happy family you both whispered to each other at night early on in your marriage. Secretly envious of women who boasted of their broods so easily conceived.

One evening, you sat by the fire with your husband and child after dinner. Mary was asleep in the cradle in your private room. You rocked it gently, hoping she would stay asleep when the servants would come to fetch her to her nursery. Already she was big and big, more fussy from the teeth she grew.

Henry walked by you and placed an arm around you.

“What ails you, darling?” he asked.

You looked up at him.

“I am just worried, Harry… if…what if…what if she is the only one I will have…” you mourned.

Henry looked into it and said. “I think it would be wise if Mary was made my heir.”

You blinked, your jaw dropped.

“What- but husband-I have not a problem with it, but others will! But the parliament, the lords…they will refuse. They will hate her…even hurt her!” you replied.

He remained still, resolute. But his voice was soft.

“I am their king. My word is law and final. The lords, no matter what they think, must follow as I say…and if she is the one of my line, she is the one of my line…Mary will be queen. A good queen. A queen who will lead England to prosperity.”

The fire cracked more. Both of you looked at the peaceful, sleeping baby. So lovingly tucked into her soft nightdress and snuggled into blankets.

“She can barely talk yet.”

He smiled.

“She has your blood. And if that is the case, then there is no one I trust more than her…”

There was a grand announcement. Shock ran like a storm through the country. Though yes, the lords all complained and bemoaned a female heir, Henry made sure the ceremony was grand. It didn’t matter if they liked it or not, England had its heir.

There was a grand ceremony. The stony throne room decorated with grand emblems. A crowd gathered as you and Henry dressed in red velvets. Though she was getting a little heavier, you still held her high. Your face raised as every icon of another Mary with Her Child, and just as dignified, perhaps as important.

“I now announce her grace, The Princess Mary of Wales, is the heir to the throne. She shall succeed me- and all of you must honor my wife, Her Majesty, as the mother to your next ruler and honor her highness as the queen to follow,” Henry announced, his beard neatly trimmed and his golden crown beaming on his head.

“Her majesty-Princess Mary. And one day, Queen Mary of England. Long live the queen!” he declared.

“Long live the queen.” the crowd repeated.

It was the day the artist said he would show the works he painted. The small, dark-haired, bearded man went up to the first one, covered in a cloth. He pulled it off with a flourish as all took it in.

The first in the joust showed you sitting on your throne as Henry rode his white stallion to defeat his opponent. You seemed to be glowing. In bright colors that shone when light caught it. Placed in the center where all would see, decorated and beautiful.

The artist went to a second painting covered in a cloth. He removed it.

There stood the three of you standing in the church in bright, The child in your arms and Henry by your side. The three of you appeared just as grand, even Immortal.

You had not failed your husband. You had not failed the nation. You had provided an heir after all. And all would be well.

You looked over little Mary, leaning close to press a kiss to her temple and whisper to her.

“Long may you reign, my little dove.”

#henry v #the hollow crown #henry v fanfic #hollow crown henry v #henry v x reader #william shakespere #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #henry v x you #henry v x fem! reader #henry v x y/n #henry v x fem! y/n

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persephone1700 · 3 months ago

Text

The boy is mine- Michael Gavey x Reader

Hello! This is the finale of the 3 part story of Michael Gavey x Reader.

I'm sorry it took so long for me to publish this. I had a couple of rough months last year and when 2025 started I made it to my purposes to write more, learn to do it better and publish more things I have in mind.

Special Mention to: @anukulee

Please enjoy!

Remember English is not my first language so be kind:)

Warning Tags: +18 ONLY , Smut, explicit content, Oral Sex (male receiving), Oral Sex (reader receiving), sex, swearing.

Part 1 Part 2

Michael’s POV:

By Saturday evening, Michael was seriously considering whether he was losing his mind or not. He had spent half the weekend recused in his dorm, staring at a math problem that didn’t make sense.

When did math become difficult for him?

Oh yes, around the same time he’d been foolish enough to start daydreaming about a spoiled brat who clearly wasn’t wasting a single thought on him.

The problem wasn’t just math, gods knew it was the easiest assignment he had this semester, but the constant stream of memories about her… The what ifs clouded his mind and derailed every attempt to focus.

Sighing, he made his way down to the nearest pub on campus. Soon enough, Michael found himself nursing his third pint, a petty attempt to drown his shame and stop thinking about her.

As he took a sip, he noticed you and Felix at a table in the background, drinking and laughing with your friends.

The sight made his blood boil.

God, what’s next? Were they going to appear on his morning cereal too?!

His frustration bubbled over and he knew he needed to do something, anything, to get his mind back under control.

The memory of your touch, your laughter, was too fresh… too intoxicating to let go.

A spark of boldness flickered within him, likely fueled by the pints he'd nursed earlier so he gathered up every ounce of courage to approach your table. He expected to be ignored, or worse, laughed at. But when he reached the table, his words stuck in his throat.

Farleigh spotted him first. “Go away, you little perv.”

Your gaze met his, and Michael’s jaw clenched.

“Knock it off, Farleigh,” you snapped, then turned to him with a smile. “Hey, Michael. How are you?”

“Oh, is this the creepy math genius Ollie’s been talking about?” Felix chimed in, his curiosity piqued.

Michael’s eyes zeroed in on Felix’s arm draped over your shoulders. The sight struck him like a gut punch, heat rising from his chest to his neck. His fists clenched at his sides as his focus narrowed on how Felix leaned in closer to you, laughing in that effortless, casual way that grated on Michael’s nerves.

All logic abandoned him, replaced by a smoldering jealousy that twisted in his stomach. Seeing someone else so comfortably close to you…it was driving him mad.

And it was Felix, of all people. The wanker would tire of you eventually, discard you when he pleased. You deserved better. Someone like him.

Before you could step in, Michael’s words broke through. “Yeah, that’s me. And you’re the plonker failing every class and paying off teachers for grades.”

The words left his mouth easily, bitter and satisfying, and though it wasn’t the greatest insult, he knew Felix would hate the truth in it. For a fraction of a second, Felix’s brows furrowed before his grin widened, clearly entertained by Michael’s bluntness.

“Well, aren’t you charming?” he chuckled. “What can I say? I’m all about enjoying life.”

Farleigh snorted. “ Oh Felix but our little perv right here wouldn’t know about that, he is the one who needs to loosen up and stop watching us from the dark corners. "

You shifted in your seat, preparing to stand and pull Michael away from the situation.

Felix raised an eyebrow, catching the movement, and added, “Tell you what, Miguel… that's your name, right mate? Why don’t you come to the party at the student hall tonight?” He left cash on the table, flashing Michael a smug smile, the mispronunciation of his name landing with a deliberate sting.

Michael rolled his eyes, his suspicion flaring. He’d expected hostility or indifference from Felix, not this casual invitation.

Was it a setup?

Another ploy to humiliate him?

Farleigh’s laughter faded, replaced by a scowl. “What? Are you serious?”

A silence fell over the group, everyone waiting for Felix to reveal the joke, but it never came.

Farleigh snorted again. “What is this, a freak show?”

Annabel got up with a huff, walking over to Felix. “Come on, Felix, you can’t be serious… haven’t you already befriended the other one?”

“Besides, that one is a scholarship kid!” she sneered. “It’s pathetic! People will think anyone can just join us, and they can't!”

You cut in, your tone sweetened with fake kindness. “Oh dear Annabel but I thought you hooked up with that ‘scholarship kid,’ the night Felix dumped you?.”

Annabel’s mouth opened, but she had no comeback. She sighed, grabbing India’s arm, and stalked off with Farleigh trailing behind.

----

Michaels head was working hard as he tried to come up with an answer that may as well determine his future.

Did he really wish to hang out with Felix and his stuck-up friends? No, obviously.

He wasn’t Oliver.

But he cared about getting closer to you, even if it meant stepping out of his comfort zone for a night.

Does he have anything better to do? Certainly not.

He would just be in his room, eating scrunchies and staring at that stupid problem due for Monday.

It was a choice: drown in his loneliness for the rest of the weekend, or take a chance and figure out what the hell was going on with you. He needed to know where he standed.

So he agreed to go.

To his first party. Ever.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Felix's POV:

Of course Felix's intentions were not innocent at all. Normally, he would never have invited a tosser like Michael to a party, but what Ollie had told him about the "weird math genius" was hard to ignore.

You’d taken a peculiar interest in Michael, and it was driving Felix mad with curiosity and suspicion.

It had been a long time since the two of you were together, but somehow, Felix found himself missing you in more ways than just a friend would miss another friend. He started feeling neglected and he needed to know why.

Just that week, you had fought over something, and when he kissed you, you pulled away. It was a surprise for sure, it hit him like a bucket of cold water. Not a single one of the girls he had kissed ever pulled apart, so he realized then that you must have your eye on someone else, like a predator eyeing a small animal.

He couldn’t help but feel both curious and possessive over his best friend.

He hated that he missed you, hated how you lingered in his mind, and hated even more that his curiosity was shading into something darker, a desire to control the way you looked at him again.

Were you seriously drifting away from him?

And because of that?

He thought back to Saltburn and all the years the two of you had been close. Your families were friends and he couldn’t even remember a time when you weren’t around. His mother, Elspeth, always beamed when she saw you, gushing over how you’d grown.

Of course he’d noticed it too. How could he not?

It was hard to miss the soft curves your body had developed.

And as he grew older, that easy friendship turned into something that fed a different kind of need. Yet, no matter how many times he tried to turn it into more, you insisted on keeping it simple: you knew his reputation and you wanted to prioritize your friendship above every other feeling, no matter how amazing the sex was.

Despite the countless girls he held in the palm of his hand, he found himself missing you lately. The sting of you pulling away whenever he got too close, left him with a frustration he couldn’t shake.

He needed to know if Michael had something to do with this. As much as he hated the idea, he wanted to confirm his suspicions.

And so, here he was, extending an invitation to a guy he barely tolerated, for all he knew this Miguel guy may turned out to be a sociopath or a killer… Still he did it all for the chance to know what was really going on between you and the little bastard.

Venetia got up from the table and followed Farleigh and the others outside. Just as Farleigh passed Michael, he tossed him aside and Felix felt a little satisfaction watching him press his lips in a tight line. Then he swung his arm casually around your shoulders, and steered you towards the door.

Just for the fun of thinking how much it would get to the tosser.

“Oi! You're just gonna sulk there all night, or are you coming, Miguel?” Felix called back with a grin.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Michael’s POV:

Michael's fists clenched as he reluctantly followed. The cool night air brushed against him, and the dim street lamps cast long shadows along their path to the student hall. He could already hear the faint thump of music, getting louder as they approached, mingling with the sounds of laughter and murmurs from people smoking on the lawn. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling the sharp sting of being out of place.

Rich kids and their privileges.

He forced himself forward, but a nagging thought kept clawing at him: Why the hell did he agree to this?

Too deep in his thoughts, suddenly he looked up and realized he’d lost sight of the others. Panic clawed at his chest, and his gaze jumped from one unfamiliar face to another. Strangers laughed around him, louder than they needed to, shadows seeming to mock him.

Even Annabel’s presence would’ve been a comfort.

What if this was their plan all along, get him here, then ditch him, expecting him to disappear?

The thought dug in, but his resolve only hardened. No way would he let Felix Catton play him like that.

Just as his frustration began to simmer into anger, he spotted you near the building, pouring a drink and locked in a heated argument with Felix. Felix's scowl said it all: he was not enjoying himself. Curious, Michael moved closer, catching the tail end of the conversation.

Felix’s voice sliced through the thumping music. “Why do you care so much if we make fun of him?!”

Your answer was sharp, a tone Michael hadn’t heard from you before. “Because not everything is a joke to me, Felix! Maybe you should try taking people’s feelings seriously for once.”

Felix's bitter response came instantly. “You want to talk about feelings? What about mine, then?”

“Oh, come on, Felix! I’ve known you for years! Do you really think I can’t tell when you’re lying?” You shook your head, frustration flashing in your eyes. “You don’t feel that way about me, you’re just upset I turned you down.”

Felix’s voice dropped, his gaze hardening. “Come on, you can’t really like him… he’s a knob. Besides, when we are at Saltburn this summer you know I am the one you will be fucking!”

“Well, I do like him!” you shot back, your voice firm. “So quit the act.”

A small, twisted satisfaction curled in Michael’s chest as he watched the exchange unfold. Seeing Felix squirm was rare, and he couldn’t help but savor it. But then, as if sensing him nearby, you turned and spotted Michael.

“Come on, Michael,” you called over the music. “This party is dead boring. I’m sure we can find other ways to make our own fun.” You snatched a bottle from the table, giving Felix a pointed look, before walking over to Michael and taking his hand, pulling him toward the building.

Michael stole a glance back at Felix as he let you lead him inside. Felix stood there, fuming, looking every bit the fool he was.

Oh my my my, how the tables had turned.

The atmosphere inside was hazy, a faint scent of smoke clinging to the air, the hallways were only partially occupied, with a few students smoking, flirting, and sipping on drinks, you were barely paying attention to your surroundings as you led Michael deeper inside the hall into the dorm rooms.

When you finally reached your room, you opened the door and let Michael in. He took a look around and noticed the wooden floors, your desk beside your window along with a big bookshelf filled with books, the closet on the opposite wall, and in the middle a big bed with lavender sheets.

The room looked pristine. As he had imagined it would look like.

Not that he had ever imagined or fantasized how your room looked like. Nope.

Definitely not that.

You released his hand and popped open the Champagne bottle, sending the cork flying into a nearby couch. The fizz bubbled over, spilling onto your hand. Without hesitating, you took a deep sip straight from the bottle and held it out to Michael.

“Excuse my manners,” you said, a trace of anger lingering in your voice. “I’m not in the mood to be questioned.”

Surprised but saying nothing, Michael took the bottle and drank. Your eyes danced over him as he took a careful sip, the slight burn of the champagne catching him off-guard.

“Are you mad?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“At me? For coming here?”

You shook your head, a scoff escaping. “No, not at you. Actually, I was hoping you’d show up.” Your expression softened slightly, though a hint of irritation remained. “It’s my friends, the ones I am mad at. But you... I think we have some unfinished business, don’t we?”

Michaels cheeks turned pink and he awkwardly nodded.

“Don’t hold back on me, Michael,” you said, your gaze challenging. “I didn’t bring you to my room just so you could stand there.”

He swallowed a big gulp, flush creeping into his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he set the bottle down and took a step closer, bolder than before, drawn to you by something he couldn’t name.

The air thickened between you both suddenly aware of the thrill of the moment, the faint sound of muffled laughter outside.

Your fingers traced a line up his arm, slowly, lingeringly. “Tell me,” you whispered, voice teasing as you leaned close, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “Do you still think about… last time?”

Michael’s breath hitched, his hands twitching as if he didn’t know whether to pull you close or keep his distance. The memory of your touch, the intensity of it, filled his mind, making it harder to think clearly. He felt the darkness closing in, a dizzying pull of desire and fear all tangled together.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, barely able to meet your gaze. “I can’t… I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“Good,” you said, drawing out the word, letting him see the hunger in your eyes. You moved closer, pressing your body against his, feeling his breath catch, his hands tentatively settling at your waist.

“Then let’s not waste time,” you whispered, reaching up to tilt his chin, pulling him into a kiss, slow, searing, as if you wanted to torture him.

For Michael, it was overwhelming, intoxicating. Every sense was heightened, the soft scrape of your nails on his chin, the warmth of your breath against his skin. You moved with practiced ease, guiding him, teasing him.

You let your hand trail up Michael’s chest, feeling the nervous tremor beneath his shirt. “Do you want to pick up where we left off?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper.

Michael swallowed hard, his eager nod unmistakable. “Y-yes… yes, please,” he managed, his voice a raw edge of desperation.

You gave him a smirk, brushing a finger along his jaw. “Good boy.” Your voice softened as you gestured toward the plush bed. “Go sit down, right there.”

He obeyed, settling into the bed with a quiet intensity. The dim lights of the lamps cast long shadows over you as you slowly lifted your shirt up, revealing your breasts, then you began to undo the buttons of your skirt, letting it slide down to the floor.

Michael’s eyes followed your every movement, wide and hungry, his breath hitching with each piece of clothing you let fall to the floor. His gaze devoured you, lingering on every inch of newly exposed skin until you stood before him, wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air.

His lips parted, awe and disbelief flickering in his eyes.

"Touch me," you murmured, stepping closer, positioning yourself between his knees. His hands hovered for a moment, unsure, trembling slightly as they found your skin. His touch was light, almost reverent, until you guided him, his fingers trailing over your breasts, growing bolder under your silent whimpers.

A mischievous spark lit your eyes as you sank to your knees. Michael watched, his breath shallow, as you unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down, along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, already hard and eager for you.

You wrapped your hand around him, stroking him slowly at first, teasing him, before quickening your pace. His head fell back with a deep groan, but he lifted it again, needing to watch you, the sight of your mouth taking him in, inch by inch, making his hips twitch involuntarily.

Tears pricked your eyes from the stretch as you worked him with your mouth and hands, your gaze never leaving his. The muscles in his stomach tightened, his abs flexing, and you knew he was close. But you weren’t ready to let him finish. Not yet.

With a final, deliberate suck, you pulled off him, leaving him throbbing and desperate. His eyes snapped open, confusion and frustration flashing in them.

You rose to your feet, sliding your panties down and stepping out of them gracefully. He barely had a second to take in the sight before you climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He helped you, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside. It was that stupid burgundy shirt with the "That's how I Roll" joke written on it. You rolled your eyes, such a dork.

The moment his mouth was free, he claimed yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. His lips tasted like champagne, sweet and heady, while yours carried a saltier flavor, his own taste lingering on your tongue.

His hands wandered, gripping your ass, pulling you tighter against him. His cock pressed against your wet folds, and you moaned softly into his mouth, the friction deliciously unbearable.

When you broke the kiss to catch your breath, his lips trailed down your neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses over your collarbone and chest. Your head fell back, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked lightly around your nipple, drawing a gasp from you.

You pushed him back against the mattress, taking control once more. Grasping his cock, you lined him up, teasing him by rubbing his tip along your slick entrance before slowly sinking down.

Michael groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. His hands gripped your hips tightly as you adjusted to his size, the stretch burning in the best way.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he murmured, voice strained.

You began to move, rolling your hips, setting a slow, deliberate pace. His hips bucked beneath you, meeting your thrusts, his awkwardness melting away with each rise and fall.

Michael’s hands slid up your waist, guiding your movements, his confidence building until something darker flickered in his eyes. Without warning, he sat up, wrapping an arm around your back and flipping you beneath him.

You gasped, the sudden shift leaving you breathless. He hovered over you, his eyes locked on yours, hunger written all over them. He spread your legs wider, positioning himself between them, and thrust into you hard.

A broken moan escaped your lips as he pinned your hands above your head, his hips moving with newfound determination. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, blending with your gasps and his ragged groans.

Sweat beaded along his neck, a single droplet trailing down to his chest as he pounded into you. With a new and deeper thrust, you moaned beautifully and he knew he had found that perfect spot inside you , the one that made you see stars, and he hit it over and over again, making your body tremble beneath him.

"Right there, Michael," you begged, your voice barely a whisper.

His lips curled into a wicked smirk. He doubled down, driving into you with relentless precision, his cock dragging against that spot until you were a writhing mess beneath him.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, he pulled out, flipping you onto your stomach. He grabbed your hips, lifting you up, and landed a sharp slap on your ass. A startled moan escaped you, and he chuckled darkly.

"Such a brat," he murmured before pushing into you again from behind, filling you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out, the new angle making you feel him impossibly deeper. His hands gripped your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding your body back against him as he fucked you harder and faster, chasing both your releases.

Your body trembled, thighs shaking as you felt the coil in your belly tighten.

"I... I’m close," you gasped, voice breaking.

Michael groaned, thrusting even harder, his rhythm faltering.

Your orgasm slammed into you, walls pulsing and tightening around him. He cursed loudly, his hands digging into your hips as he followed, spilling inside you with a final, shuddering thrust.

He stilled, his breath ragged and uneven, before slowly pulling out.

"Shit... I didn’t even ask if I could cum inside," he stammered, his voice shaky and unsure.

The shy boy resurfacing.

You laughed softly, turning to meet his worried gaze. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess, and his glasses had slipped down his nose.

"It’s okay. I have an IUD," you reassured him with a smirk.

Relief washed over his face, and he smiled sheepishly.

"Wanna get cleaned up? You can stay the night" you asked, nodding toward the bathroom.

Michael’s smile shifted into something more mischievous. His hand curled around your waist, pulling you down against him.

"Who said I was done with you, spoiled girl?"

You raised a brow, smirking. "Didn’t think you had it in you, nerd."

His grin widened, eyes dark with promise.

"Oh, I’ll show you just how much I’ve got left darling," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and teasing before trailing kisses down your body.

He slid off the bed, sinking to his knees between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider. His eyes never left yours , dark, hungry, as his tongue dragged slowly along your slick, sensitive folds.

A shiver ran through your spine, your body arching into his touch, his name falling from your lips in a breathless moan.

Gods… what have I gotten myself into?

#ewan mitchell #ewan nation #saltburn #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey #smut #felix catton #jacob elordi

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