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thirtysomethingloser92 · 18 days

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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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anonymous-dentist · 6 months

Text

Or: Prince Roier Hires a Faerie to Help With His Divorce (he hasn't gotten married yet)

For day two of @smallchaoscryptid's Spiderbit Week - Fae/Kiss

Once upon a time...

Roier picks his way through the foliage with a grimace. His feet hurt, twigs keep smacking into his face, bugs keep flying into his mouth. This sucks, but it'll all be worth it.

Thunder rolls above, and rain starts pouring down without a second's warning.

...It'll all be worth it.

He's due back at the castle by morning, but, honestly, he'd kinda rather die than go back. If the wolves eat him, so be it!

Grumbling, he pulls his hood up over his head, and he continues onward. If he freezes to death out here, so be it!

He's not planning on going back to the castle alive, anyway.

Legend has it that, deep in the haunted forest surrounding the Kingdom of Quesadilla, there lives a man-eating witch capable of tearing a man's soul from his body before he can so much as breathe in her general direction. Nobody knows this witch's name, but everybody knows that she's totally fucked up: if she isn't eating people, she's eating bears, and her magic is said to be as destructive as the eruption that created the universe.

Roier needs to meet her now.

So he continues trudging through the woods. The lantern in his hand is fighting to stay lit, and his boots are filled with enough water to drown a rat with, but he's fine. He's going to die miserable, but he's fine.

There's a flash of lightning bright enough to blind him, and then there's a crash of thunder loud enough to make him jump and nearly drop his lantern. When his vision returns, the tree in front of him is toppled to the side, leaving only a charred and smoking stump behind.

And then there's the cat.

Roier, frankly, stares. Because... what?

It's a cute cat, at least: brown with black stripes almost like a tiger's and blue eyes so bright that they almost seem to glow in the night. It sits on the stump with its tail curled around its paws, very polite, 10/10 cat.

Hesitantly, Roier approaches. He holds the lantern up to the cat, tilts his head, smiles.

"You're so cute," he coos, bending down to pet the cat between its little ears. "What are you doing out here, eh?"

The cat yawns, and then it huffs, "I could ask you the same question."

Roier screams and recoils and drops his lantern. It goes out, but the forest doesn't grow any dimmer because the cat is fucking glowing now, okay. Okay!

The cat rolls its eyes, tail twitching. "Okay, ouch. I'm not that scary."

"You're a talking cat," Roier breathes. "What the fuck?"

"What, you were expecting the witch?"

A pause.

Then:

"Oh, come on!"

Roier finally collects himself, brushing the water off of his cloak and adjusting his hood and picking up his lantern.

The cat stands and starts pacing the stump in a small, annoyed circle.

"The witch isn't even real," it complains. "She never was! Witches aren't real!"

Roier frowns. "Fuck you, man, my best friend is a witch."

"They aren't. Witches aren't real. Magicians are real, but witches-"

"You are literally a talking cat."

"I am a faerie," the cat corrects, sounding almost pained as it does so. "Faeries are real. Witches are fake. It's all anti-faerie propaganda created by the Federation-"

"By the what?"

The cat flicks his tail at Roier; Roier's mouth shuts, and, to his alarm, he finds that he can't open it again no matter how hard he tries.

The cat angrily swipes a leaf off of the stump. Unfortunately, it is really cute as it does so.

But then it starts complaining again, and Roier decides that this annoying fucking faerie cat isn't that cute after all.

"I haven't eaten anybody in centuries!" the cat shouts. "Fucking Cucurucho..."

Roier's eyes widen.

He waves at the cat until the cat does its magic thing again and allows him to talk.

First, Roier sucks in a deep breath through his mouth. That was uncomfortable.

Then, he says, "I know Cucurucho. I'm supposed to marry him in three days."

The cat's eyes narrow. Its shadow beneath it seems to grow; it tinges itself red like a pool of water with blood in it, wow. That's almost cool.

"That's why I'm here," Roier explains. "I need the witch to kill me so I don't have to marry him."

The cat sits.

"I see," it says. "Unfortunately, the witch isn't real."

"Suuuure, but you are." Roier sneaks closer. "Can't you just-" He opens his hands and wiggles his fingers. "-magic me dead?"

The cat stares at Roier's fingers. "Um. No. Faeries can't kill."

Roier deflates. "Ugh."

With a frustrated groan, he sits on the stump next to the cat. The cat grumbles, but it doesn't, like, magic him onto the ground, so that's kinda nice of it.

"But," the cat says, slowly as if questioning itself as it speaks, "I can get you to kill for me."

Oh. Now there's a thought. But...

Roier looks to the side at the cat. "I've tried. I'm pretty sure he's immortal, man."

"You haven't tried killing him with faerie magic. Now, come here."

The cat hops off of the stump and pads into the forest. After a moment, Roier follows.

They walk until they reach a hollowed-out tree. Then, the cat hops into the tree and mutters to itself as it looks for something.

Eventually, the cat pokes its head out of the tree with an opaque brown bottle held in its mouth.

Roier takes the bottle and turns it over in his hands.

"This," the cat says, "is extract of unicorn. Mix this in with Cucurucho's food, and he'll be dead by the end of the night."

Roier's mouth twitches. It'll happen, just like that? Just like that? Decades of oppression over just. Like. That?

"Okaaayyy," Roier drawls. He looks back up at the cat with a small smile. "Thank you."

The cat responds by clambering out of the tree and lounging on a branch hanging by Roier's face.

"No, thank you," the cat insists. "You'll be doing us both a favor if you manage to kill that asshole."

"If this kills him, you'll be a hero."

"Oh, I'm no hero. I'm just..." (The cat grins with far too many teeth in its mouth.) "...an invested party."

Well, the cat is probably evil. But that's fine. So is Cucurucho, and two wrongs make a right, right?

Well, wrong! Because Cucurucho isn't fucking dead.

Roier stomps back to the tree stump with the faerie's empty unicorn piss whatever bottle in hand. He doesn't have a lantern this time because, frankly, he really isn't intent on returning to the castle this time. If he trips over a root and dies, so be it!

The cat is nowhere to be seen. Of course, the bastard.

"Gatinho!" Roier calls. He cups both hands around his mouth and spins in a circle and continues shouting, "Gatinho! Where the fuck are you! Come here!"

No response.

Frustrated, Roier chucks the bottle to the ground and plops onto the stump. He puts his head in his hands and groans.

"I am going to fucking die," he moans. "I can't go home, I need to die, what the fuck."

A twig snaps. A presence ghosts over his shoulder, what feels like fingers grazing his tunic. But, when he snaps his head up and turns around, all he sees is the cat sitting behind him.

Roier's eyes narrow. "You."

"Me," the cat agrees. "Did it work? Is he dead? Please tell me he's dead. He's dead, right?"

"No! He isn't! He thought that unicorn shit was edible glitter! Now he wants it at the wedding!"

The cat blinks. "Huh."

"Yeah, 'huh'." Roier huffs and turns back around and hides his face again. "Fuck you, man. You said it would kill him."

"It should've. He's a demon, right?"

"How should I know? He's a fucking bear wizard thing."

"Okay, again, wizards aren't real, magicians are. But you're marrying him, right? How do you not know what species he is?"

"It's not like I'm getting a choice in the matter," Roier spits. He glares into the palms of his hands, shoulders shaking with barely-concealed rage. "Either I marry him or he destroys the kingdom."

There's a pregnant pause as the cat takes this information in. Fair, honestly. Roier hadn't exactly told him that he's a prince. Wasn't important, still isn't important. Doesn't matter if he's a prince if he's being sold off to marry a goddamn bear like he's a common animal.

It's for the good of the kingdom, Foolish had said. He and Vegetta have always liked Cucurucho despite Cucurucho being a legendary fucking creep. It's either you or Leo.

And Roier isn't the one that's meant to take the throne after his parents die.

"Can't you just kill me?" Roier asks. He waves a hand in a random direction. "Just make a tree fall on me or something. It'll be an accident, it's fine, your faerie cops won't know."

"Um, no," the cat says. "That's fucked up."

"Don't you eat people? How the fuck do you eat people without killing them?"

"Who says I killed them before eating them?"

Ah. Sounds about right.

...Kinda cool, to be honest. Imagining a tiny little kitty cat rip a grown dude apart like he's a slice of bread. Almost funny in a way.

Roier jumps as something brushes the hair out of his face.

He jerks his head upright and glares down at the cat, now sitting delicately in front of him.

"I have an idea," the cat tells him. "Follow me."

As they walk back to the hollow tree, the cat asks, "Does Cucurucho still have that freaky mechanical sword?"

Roier thinks. "Maybe? I don't know, he kinda just sits and stares at people. Sometimes he chases the servants around with a sword? Dunno if it's mechanical, though..."

"Well, any sword will work. Hold on."

The cat leaps into the tree and comes out with a new bottle, this one clear.

Roier takes the bottle and swishes it around. The liquid inside looks like oil, okay...

"This is dragon's blood," the cat explains. "It's corrosive to the touch, so be careful. Tell him that it's a special polish for his sword. It should eat his skin to the bone and kill him dead."

"Huh," Roier says, suddenly much more careful with the bottle. He gently slides it into his pocket, makes sure it's secure between a bag of coins and his headband. "Okay. Cool."

"This should work," the cat says. "But I'll try and think of something else for if it doesn't."

"Yeah, well, it'd better work," Roier huffs. "I'm getting married in two days. Then the gods only know what he's gonna do with me."

"Trust me, we'll figure it out."

"Trust you? Aren't you some kind of evil faerie cat?"

The cat looks offended. "Excuse you, I'm barely evil anymore. All I do is read these days. Do you know how many books I have at my house? More than Cucurucho, that's for sure."

"You have a house?"

The cat visibly bristles. "Of course I have a house. What, do you think I'm homeless?"

"You are a cat."

"Not all the time!"

Oh, that's interesting. Roier can almost imagine what the cat looks like in a human form, but the idea escapes him at the last second.

"Whatever," Roier sighs. "Just kill me tomorrow if this doesn't work."

Roier doesn't even bother shouting as he storms up to the stump.

He sits, pulls his cloak off, tosses it to his feet, kicks it away. What the fuck!!

He doesn't so much as blink as the cat appears by his side.

"It didn't work?" the cat cries. "Really? That should've worked!"

"Yeah, well, it didn't," Roier huffs. "He wore gloves today. And Cucurucho figured out that I've been sneaking out to see someone at night, so he told my parents that we're going to move to a different castle out in the middle of nowhere. I bet he's going to lock me up, the piece of shit."

The cat's ears lay back on its head. Its eyes narrow, and its lip curls back in a clear snarl.

"I know," Roier agrees. "Fuck this guy for real."

"Fuck him."

"Fuck him!"

Roier smiles just for a second, and he even manages a brief laugh before remembering, right. He's fucking doomed. Right.

Sighing, he slumps to the side until he's tumbling off of the stump and splayed across the ground. He buries his face in the grass and screams.

To his credit, he hardly jumps as a hand firmly settles on his back and rubs it. Small circles, firm hand, big hand, it feels like, wow.

Something- a knee?- presses against Roier's arm firmly. It's grounding in a way. Almost.

"I'm getting married tomorrow," Roier whines. "Just kill me, gatinho. I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to kill you, guapito," the cat says. (Roier blushes. Guapito...) Its voice sounds deeper, almost. Louder. More clear. "I can't."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Marry Cucurucho?"

"I won't let that happen."

"Why? Because you want to kill him? Because that hasn't exactly been working so far."

"Because it's super fucked up that he's forcing you to marry him. I don't give a shit about the kingdom, I don't live there. I want him dead, but I'm starting to think that he's unkillable."

The hand moves from Roier's back up to his head. Fingers sift through his hair. Woooow, that feels good. When's the last time Roier got touched this softly? Before Cucurucho arrived?

"I've been thinking," the cat continues. "I've been keeping an eye on Cucurucho for centuries, but he's never tried destroying the kingdom before now. Before you. I think that, if you're gone, then he might leave, too."

Roier cracks an eye open. He doesn't shift his head at all, so he can only just barely make out a hint of cloth. So the cat has clothes when he's a human, that's cool, Roier guesses. Makes him wonder where they came from.

"So... kill me," Roier tells him. "If it'll get him to leave the kingdom alone, kill me."

"I can't do that."

"I'm not next in line for the throne! It's fine! Just push me into the river, I can't swim."

"You can't swim? Really?"

"Well, I can, but I can pretend that I can't!"

"You are so... selfless," the cat says, sounding completely exasperated. "And stupid. No, come with me. I know how we can solve this without killing you."

The hand leaves Roier's head, and then a cold nose is poking at his cheek until he's sitting up and looking the cat right in its little kitty eyes.

"Do you still have cat eyes when you're in another form?" Roier can't help but ask. "That would be really cool."

The cat chuckles. "Maybe. Come on. I have one last thing we can try."

They go to the hollow tree, and Roier waits as the cat scrambles into the tree and surfaces with a necklace clutched in its teeth.

Roier takes the necklace and inspects it. It's a solid gold chain with a little charm that looks like a cat's head. Cute.

"What, is this evil faerie gold that will melt Cucurucho's skin off?" Roier asks.

"No, it's for you," the cat replies. "Wear it tomorrow. When the wedding reaches the climax, take the necklace off and break it."

Roier points at the cat accusingly. "You are going to kill me!"

The cat rolls its eyes. "I'm not. Just... trust me."

Trust the man-eating faerie cat, sure. Right.

Roier sighs, but he puts the necklace on, anyway. It's surprisingly warm around his neck.

The cat almost seems to smile. "You look lovely."

"This thing is going to explode and blow my head off."

"No, you'll see."

And, well. What choice does Roier have but to wait and see?

The final wedding preparations go by in an uncomfortable blur.

Leo comes in to hug Roier goodbye. She then punches Roier in the stomach and tells him to write to her once he's at his new house.

Jaiden comes in to help Roier finish getting ready. She's happy about the marriage because she really thinks that Cucurucho is a good person, and Roier can't help but be happy that she's happy.

Foolish comes in to walk Roierto the church. He and Vegetta each take one of Roier's arms, and they walk.

And then Cucurucho is waiting at the church in front of the altar in an all-white suit. His fur is meticulously brushed, his claws are polished, his smile is painted on, he's absolutely grotesque.

Roier hates him.

"Good morning," Cucurucho says as Roier settles in front of the altar.

"It's sunset, you fucking idiot," Roier snaps. He can say what he wants now, right? He's going to die, anyway. The cat is going to kill him.

Cucurucho laughs, and then the ceremony starts.

Roier tunes out most of the goings-on if only to keep himself from breaking down and breaking the necklace before it's time. The cat said to wait until the climax, so Roier's going to wait for the goddamn climax.

He comes back to himself as the cleric asks if anybody in the audience has any objections to the marriage.

This sounds like a fucking climax if Roier's ever heard one.

"Yes," he says. "I object!"

He tears the necklace from around his neck and throws it to the floor. Before anybody can stop him, he slams his heel into the charm.

The entire church erupts into screams as a blinding white light fills it. Magic tears at Roier's skin, biting and pulling. He squeezes his eyes shut, anticipating the end of it all.

But:

"I also object," the cat says.

Two large hands settle on Roier's upper arms, and he's pulled back and against a firm chest.

Roier tilts his head back- not too far, because the cat's human form is shorter than he is, funnily enough- and his eyes widen as he takes in the most beautiful man in the world. Long hair the same color as the cat's coat, scarred face, feathery earrings, cat eyes.

"No," Curucucho snaps. "No!"

"Yes!" the cat- well, not the cat, Roier supposes- shouts. "The prince is mine! He swore himself to me the moment he accepted that necklace, and so he will go back with me to the Faewild and become my husband. You know the rules, bear."

Leo, in the audience, cheers. So does Foolish, who always appreciates a good show.

"Gatinho," Roier hisses.

The faerie shrugs his concerns off. Roier is annoyed about this for exactly three seconds before he gets caught up in the faerie's eyes.

Could be a worse arranged marriage, that's for sure...

A long moment passes, but Cucurucho eventually says a begrudging, "Yes."

"So," the faerie continues, "you will not destroy the kingdom for this. If the prince has already been promised to somebody else, then he never rejected you."

"Yes," Cucurucho sighs.

"You're hot when you're arguing," Roier whispers.

The faerie's cheeks redden, as do the tips of his pointed ears. Cute!

Yeah, no, this arranged marriage will be way better than the last one.

"So!" The faerie turns Roier around so that they're looking at each other properly for the first time eye-to-eye. "You will be coming with me."

"Yeah, okay," Roier agrees. Hell yeah. "Take me, gatinho."

"'Take me'?" Foolish gasps. "Ooooo, this is getting spicy!"

"All you need to do is say my name," the faerie says.

He leans in close and whispers right into Roier's ear, and Roier returns the favor... with a couple of flirtatious remarks thrown in for good measure. Sue him, he's about to get married to a sexy faerie. He's going to make the most of the situation.

"Cellbit," Roier murmurs, and something tickles at his skin. Something... purple. It feels purple. Soft and purple.

"Roier," the faerie replies. He looks positively flustered, aww. He's going to be so fun to tease once they're out of the church.

As the Faewild's magic starts to pick up, Roier can't help but give the faerie a grateful kiss.

The faerie blinks away from the kiss after a moment of some very eager lip-chasing. His face is completely red, and his eyes are wide and unblinking even as the magic around them whips like the wind.

"There's more where that comes from," Roier teases. He puts his arms around the faerie and smiles. "You're marrying me, get used to it. That's just part of the deal."

Because faeries are all about deals, right? Well, Roier's the best deal this guys is ever gonna get.

The faerie swallows, an eager grin teasing at his face.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Alright."

He pulls Roier's head down for another kiss just as the Faewild swallows them whole.

(Legends say that there are monsters living in the haunted forest surrounding the Kingdom of Quesadilla. Once monster is a man-spider with glowing red eyes and fangs the length of one's sword. The other is a furry snarling beast of a thing with magic worthy of the most powerful of witches.

Ah, but don't worry, my child, for these monsters don't hunt humans.

No, they hunt bears, and isn't that a good thing for us?)

#a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#i really like this one too!! i love fairy tales!#spiderbit #guapoduo #it's cheesy but that's fine

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theostrophywife · 2 years

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az x reader where az is really drunk and very clingy and protective and hearteyed and reader is either sober or not drunk at all. az asks reader out and reader says that she'll say yes the next day if az still wants to?

delicate.

is it cool that i said all that? is it chill that you're in my head? cause i know that it's delicate.

author's note: drunk, clingy, overprotective az is my drug of choice. song inspiration: delicate by taylor swift. (basically i am just a big swiftie and will continue to be inspired by her songs)

Azriel rarely ever got drunk.

On a typical night out, the shadowsinger was often the one keeping an eye on Rhys and Cassian to make sure his brothers didn’t cause any trouble, holding the girls purses and belongings as they danced at Rita's, and being his usual godsend self with his arsenal of anti hangover powder and hydrating potions. Azriel had spent countless nights holding your hair back as you threw up in the toilet, making sure to clean you up and tuck you into bed like the great friend that he was.

But tonight would be different.

It was Azriel’s birthday and you were determined to get your best friend absolutely plastered. After his surprise dinner at the House of Wind, you’d promised him a night off from babysitting the inner circle. This was his chance to get absolutely shitfaced because you’d be right by his side to take care of him.

“I’m serious, Az.” You declared as you twined your arm around Azriel’s, your cold breath curling through your lips like smoke as the two of you sauntered through the city. “I want you to have fun for once. Let your hair down and live a little, shadowsinger.”

Azriel snorted, raising a brow. “Let my hair down?”

You chuckled and pinched his bicep in return. “You know what I mean, smartass. You’re always taking care of everyone and now it’s my turn to take care of you. I expect you to take full advantage. Dance on tables. Throw back as much tequila as you can handle. Maybe even grace us with that angelic voice of yours.”

A deep blush bloomed high upon the shadowsinger’s perfectly sculpted cheekbones as you giggled. “Don’t try to deny it, Az. I know all about your shower concerts. The walls echo at the house, you know.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re not letting me get out of this, are you?”

“Nope!” you confirmed cheerily. “I won’t stop until you’re thoroughly wasted, birthday boy.” You nodded to your friends who were waiting at the bar with a round of shots. “And they’re going to help me get you there.”

Mor passed the the tequila around your group of friends. You handed a shot to the shadowsinger, winking as you raised your glass high. “To the reigning snowball champion and the best friend anyone could ever ask for. Happy fucking birthday, Az!”

Cassian and Rhys roared, clapping their brother on the back while Feyre, Nesta, and Mor cheered along. Even Amren cracked a smile as you clinked your glasses together and toasted your friend.

Thus began the first of many shots for Azriel that night.

The shadowsinger was reluctant to relinquish control at first, but he eventually relented, knowing that you wouldn’t budge. You were quite convincing when you wanted to be and he thought it was cute how dedicated you were to making sure he was having a good time. You never let his hand be empty for long, whether it was slipping him a shot or slyly giving him sips of the fruity drinks you knew he secretly loved or keeping him hydrated with plenty of water in between, Azriel found himself actually letting loose.

It was around his ninth or tenth drink when drunk Az started to emerge. You could tell that he had crossed the threshold between sober and tipsy by his body language. He was relaxed, his wings slightly unfurled across his back and his shadows floating around him like they were swimming through honey. The constant hiccuping was also a dead giveaway that the alcohol was sinking in and the longer the night went on, the more silly and giggly Azriel got. He was laughing openly and freely, such a stark contrast from his usually reserved nature.

It was so damned endearing. Drunk Azriel was downright adorable. Those dark tousled locks sticking up in a dozen different directions, that slightly flushed tint to his golden brown skin, the glassy, dreamy haze clouding his soft hazel eyes, and the cute little dimples peeking out from each cheek every time he shot you that crooked grin you loved so much.

You were stone-cold sober, keeping true to your promise of watching over Az, but you couldn't help giggling along to whatever stupid joke Cassian was telling. Mostly because Azriel was so enraptured by his brother’s jape, letting out a hearty laugh as the Illyrian general delivered the punchline. Azriel threw his head back, swaying into you and brushing his wing against your shoulder.

With how close you were, you and Azriel were already quite touchy as it was, but putting alcohol into the mix seemed to bring the affectionate side of the shadowsinger to the forefront. Azriel was definitely a cute and cuddly drunk. Throughout the night, he was constantly leaning against you, casually bumping his hip against yours, and even resting his arm on top of your head while chuckling at how much he towered over you. Despite the roll of your eyes, you secretly loved this clingy, touchy side of him.

Especially because he seemed to follow you around like a lost little puppy, completely placing his trust in you to keep him safe, and not once complaining as you took his hand and dragged him over to the dance floor. Azriel laughed as you attempted to twirl him, his wings nearly knocking everyone around you off their feet.

Rhysand and Cassian joined in on the fun, throwing their arms over Azriel’s shoulder while they screamed along to the song pounding through the pleasure hall. You watched all of this with a smile as you danced with the girls while still keeping an eye on Az to make sure he was drinking enough water and not getting overheated in the packed crowd.

Nesta teased you about acting like a complete mother hen, but you didn’t mind one bit as long as you were sure that Azriel was enjoying himself. You were so busy watching him that you didn’t even notice the male trying to grab your attention until he stood between you and the rest of your friends. You made polite conversation, but your focus was elsewhere as you craned over the male’s shoulder. The shadowsinger wasn’t with Rhys and Cassian across the dancefloor and his absence filled you with panic.

But then a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against the shadowsinger’s solid chest and enveloping you in that familiar heavenly scent of night chilled mist and cedar.

“There you are,” Azriel said, nestling his chin in the crook of your shoulder. His only acknowledgement of the male before you was a menacing look that told him to keep moving before the shadowsinger twirled you around. “Come dance with me.”

You gladly obliged, finding it quite amusing that he was just as overprotective drunk as he was sober. As you danced, you didn’t miss the subtle glares that Azriel shot at the males who dared look your way. The shadowsinger’s wing tucked against your side like a shield, causing you to fondly roll your eyes.

“I’m a big girl, Az. I can handle myself.”

“I know,” Azriel responded with a grin. “But I’m not really in the mood to share tonight.”

If only the shadowsinger knew how ridiculous that statement was. No one in this realm could take your attention away from Azriel no matter how hard they tried.

“Getting greedy aren’t we, shadowsinger?”

Azriel pouted, looking down at you with eyes like molten gold. “I’m allowed to be greedy. It’s my birthday.”

You smoothed over his pout with a grin before leaning over to kiss his cheek. “What the birthday boy wants, the birthday boy gets.”

So you danced and joked and laughed. It was nearly dawn when you finally made it out of Rita’s. The sky was tinged with stunning shades of mauves and pinks, the stars twinkling high above you as you walked hand in hand through the quiet streets of Velaris with Azriel. He swayed slightly beside you as you winnowed back to the House of Wind.

Because of the wards placed throughout your home, Cassian and Rhys had to catch the both of you as you fell mid-air through the training pits. You thanked the High Lord who kissed your cheek goodnight before flying off to the River House.

Beside you, Cassian steadied Azriel who instantly took your hand in his once more. His shadows swirled lazily through your intertwined fingers as you led him inside.

“Are you going to be alright bringing him up?” Cas asked with a yawn.

You nodded. “I think we can manage from here.”

Azriel nodded, blinking slowly. “Mhm,” he mumbled in agreement. “Not even that drunk.”

The Illyrian general chuckled. “Sure you aren’t, brother.” Cassian ruffled your hair. “Let me know if you need any help. Though I highly doubt you’ll need it. You always take care of Az.”

“She does,” Azriel declared as he nuzzled his head on your shoulder. “Y/N is the best, isn’t she?”

Cassian shot you a knowing look. “She sure is.”

The journey to Azriel’s room was more challenging than you thought it would be. Guiding all six foot four of the Illyrian warrior up a flight of stairs was a whole workout in itself, but you weren’t complaining. Your friend has done this for you a hundred times over. This was the least you could do to repay that kindness.

You and Azriel stumbled into the room and you lit a few faelights as the shadowsinger plopped down on his large, luxurious bed. Big enough to accommodate those enormous wings of his. You chuckled as he sprawled out across the soft sheets, pulling a pillow over his face. The sight of this terrifying, lethal warrior curled up like a babe while he cuddled a pillow was highly amusing. As much as you wanted to tuck him snug and tight into those blankets, you knew he’d feel better once he brushed his teeth and changed into comfier clothing.

The shadowsinger barely shifted as you tugged at his hand. “Come on, Az. You have to get changed.”

Azriel groaned, his grumbling muffled by the feather goose pillow pressed against his cheek. “Don’t wanna.”

You poked at his side, causing him to wiggle away from you. “I promise you’ll feel so much better in your pajamas.” Azriel shook his head as you tapped his nose. “It’ll only take a minute. Then I can tuck you in so you can go to sleep.”

He tilted his head to the side, considering your words. “Can we cuddle?” Azriel asked in that soft, small voice that only ever came out when he was thoroughly exhausted. It tugged at your heartstrings. In that moment, he could’ve asked you to bring him the moon and you would’ve done it.

“Of course, babe.”

At that, Azriel finally rose from the bed and followed you into his restroom. You picked out a pair of comfortable shorts, but didn’t bother choosing a shirt since Azriel preferred to sleep without one. You stole one of his sweatshirts and changed into it before helping him place mint paste onto his toothbrush. The two of you brushed your teeth side by side with Azriel slightly swaying as he blinked sleepily.

You nudged him with your hip and he smiled, bright and beaming as he looked over at you in the mirror. These unguarded, vulnerable moments with Azriel are what you cherished the most in your friendship because you knew how hard it was for him to let people in and yet here he was, smiling at you like you hung the stars.

When you finished up, you twined your fingers in his and led Azriel back to bed to cuddle like you promised. As the shadowsinger made himself comfortable, you took the opportunity to admire him. The little crinkle of his nose as he snuggled up to your side, the warmth of his skin as he tangled his long legs with yours, the sigh of satisfaction that left his pink, pouty lips as he made himself comfortable. Azriel’s lashes kissed your jaw as he toyed with the hem of his own sweatshirt.

“I like when you wear my clothes,” Azriel murmured against your neck. “You look so tiny in them. It’s cute,” he hiccuped, causing you to chuckle.

“Yeah?” you teased while you played with his hair. After all that dancing, his locks were an unruly mess and one curl in particular kept falling over his right eye no matter how many times you smoothed it back. “You’ll regret saying that when all of your hoodies mysteriously disappear.”

“You can borrow them any time,” he offers, wrapping an arm over your midsection. Despite the chilly air, Azriel radiated warmth. “I don’t mind, especially when you leave the scent of your perfume all over them. I like the way you smell. It’s like…vanilla and spun sugar.”

That brought a smile to your face. “Are you just going to keep listing things you like about me?”

Azriel glanced up at you and grinned. “That depends. How much time do you have?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a flirty drunk, Az.”

“I’m not,” he huffed, pulling the covers up to his chin. “You just bring it out of me.”

You raised a brow. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” Azriel stated matter-of-factly. “I like you.”

You giggled, tapping his nose. “I like you too, Az.”

He turned, perching his head up on his right palm. That hazel gaze cleared, no longer muddled by the drunken cloudy fog. “I like you like you. I have for a while, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched. No matter how sincere he sounded right now, Azriel was still tipsy and you didn’t want him saying or doing anything he might regret in the morning.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Az.” You murmured softly, caressing his cheek. “But I think we should table this conversation until the morning. Sleep on it and if you still want to talk about it when you wake up, I’ll be right here.”

Azriel pouted, but nodded in understanding. He simply snuggled back into your side, placing his full weight on you as his wings sprawled across his back. Shadows spilled over the sides of the bed like smoke as Azriel grew sleepier. In the darkness, there was nothing but the combined sounds of your soft breathing and the howl of the wind whistling through the quiet house.

“Y/N?” Azriel breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Az?”

“Thank you for tonight,” he says, smiling against your skin. “For making my birthday feel so special.”

You squeezed him tight. “It’s special because you’re special, Azriel.”

That godsdamned breathtaking beautiful smile. It was a wonder to behold and it burned brighter than any star in the sky. You didn’t even have it in you to feel embarrassed as your heart raced in your chest. Honestly, who could blame you for falling for this kind, thoughtful male who placed everyone‘s needs above his own? It was impossible not to fall in love with Azriel.

Gods, you were thoroughly and utterly fucked.

You kissed his temple, trying to calm the pounding in your chest. “Goodnight, Azriel.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

The next morning you awoke to the bright sunlight streaming in through Azriel’s windows. You groaned, covering your eyes with one arm. A familiar soft chuckle sounded from your side before darkness fully enveloped you. You slowly opened your eyes to find Azriel smiling at you, his wings shielding you from the sun.

“Someone’s not a fan of mornings.”

You stuck your tongue out, burying your head underneath the covers. “How do you manage to be this cheerful after drinking your weight in tequila? I’m the one who stayed sober, but I still feel like someone dunked me in the Sidra.”

Azriel pried your fingers away from the blanket. “You wouldn’t let me go to sleep until I took an anti hangover potion and you also made me wash it down with nearly a gallon of water.”

You grinned. “Now you know how it feels like to be mother henned.”

The shadowsinger flicked your nose and you pouted in return. With a softer voice, you shyly gazed up at your friend. “Did you have fun last night?”

He nodded. “I did. All thanks to you.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Seeing you drunk was the best thing ever. You turn into clingy and cuddly Az, which is arguably the best Az.”

Azriel tugged you by the wrist, pulling you to his side. “Yeah?” he teased, throwing his leg over yours. “You like it when I’m clingy?”

“Mhm,” you murmured, greedily nuzzling into his neck. He was so warm and cozy and nothing in this world could make you get up from his bed. “It’s nice to be able to take care of you instead of the other way around.”

“I like taking care of you though,” Azriel said, stroking your hair. “I’ll always take care of you.”

You smiled. “I know, Az. I enjoyed seeing you have fun though. Even if you probably don’t remember much of last night.”

“I remember all of it,” the shadowsinger whispered into your hair. “What I said last night. I meant every word.” He met your gaze and you could feel the beat of his heart against your cheek as he looked down at you. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. You know me better than anyone, so I know that some part of you already suspects what I’m about to say. But I think—no, I know, that I’ve fallen hard for you. And no part of me ever wants to get up.”

“You don’t have to,” you say with a smile, pressing a kiss on his chest right above his heart. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m falling for you too, Azriel.”

The shadowsinger couldn’t hide his smile. “Pretty sure?” he asked sarcastically.

You fondly rolled your eyes. “I’m head over heels for you, smartass.” Azriel chuckled as you flicked his nose. “Is that good enough for you, Az?”

Azriel grinned, clutching you close. “Much better.”

taglist: @viradeity @moony-thoughts @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @demirunner @swansworth @heart-defendor @momlo @mali22 @roselensage @searchingford@nessianxgwynriel@azriels-angels@brekkershadowsinger@morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @mattte-black @marina468

#THE SOFTNESS OH GOD #azriel #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel acotar #azriel fanfiction #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster

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cera-writes · 2 months

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Can I get a Fox Movies!Kurt Wagner x a Gn!reader who has a space mutation and likes singing?

Basically just an obnoxious theater kid with space powers✨💫

A/N: yeah! Love this! <3 Pairing: Kurt Wagner x gn!Reader Tags: just cute fluff, bonding, singing together, silly antics

Kurt Wagner wasn't sure what to make of you. You were new to the X-Mansion, a whirlwind of glitter, musical numbers breaking out in the hallways, and a smile that could light up the Danger Room. You constantly defied gravity, flitting around like a particularly enthusiastic hummingbird, all thanks to your mutation. You could manipulate the space around you, teleporting in short bursts and creating shimmering pockets of anti-gravity. Professor Xavier had taken you in after a brush with a particularly nasty Sentinel incident, your cheerful defiance a beacon in a dark time.

Then there was your relationship with Nightcrawler and somehow, you gravitated towards him. You’d corner him after training, bombarding him with questions about his unique abilities and demonic good looks (which, to your delight, actually made him blush).

One particularly rainy afternoon, you found him surprisingly brooding by the window. Rain lashed against the glass as he turned to look at you with a small smile. Hesitantly, you approached, a boombox clutched in your hand.

“Hey Nightcrawler,” you chirped, your voice laced with concern. “Having a crappy day?”

He sighed, a wisp of smoke and shadows emanating from around him. “Just… thinking is all.”

With a flourish, you hit play. Upbeat music filled the room, the music at odds with the gloomy atmosphere. Nightcrawler raised an eyebrow.

“What’s this?”

“Distraction therapy!” you declared, a grin splitting your face. “Come on, Kurt! Dance and sing with me!”

He watched, bemused, as you danced around the room, belting out the lyrics with gusto. Another small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Maybe, just maybe, a little bit of obnoxious cheer was exactly what he needed.

As the final notes faded, you struck a dramatic pose, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“So? How was that? Not too shabby, right?”

Nightcrawler chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “You’re… something else, Y/N.”

You beamed. “That’s what they all say! Now come on, let’s put on a real show for the others. I’ve been working on a space opera number, and I think Colossus would make a killer Darth Vader.”

Nightcrawler shook his head, but a smile lingered on his face. Maybe having you around wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn a thing or two about embracing the spotlight from the most enthusiastic theater kid in the X-Mansion.

#xmen #cera writes #nightcrawler x reader #kurt wagner x reader

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 6 months

Text

It's Who We Have | Part Eight

Summary: After escaping death together, both of them finally just want to feel alive. With each other. | Word Count: 5.6k~ | Warnings: SMUT (finally), p in v sex, oral (f receiving), escaped death sex, angst, mentions of death

General Taglist | Billy Washington Masterlist | Series Masterlist

There was only panic. The acrid taste of foreboding death on his tongue.

Billy could feel his chest caving in with despair, as if someone had plunged their fist into it, grabbed his heart in their icy fingers and torn it from between his ribs. Fingernails sunk into the hot, bloody flesh.

The image blurred at the edges, her face focussed in the centre. It was so bright and hot before. Why was it suddenly so cold and dark?

Billy fought against the police officers, clawing and belting her name from the depths of his throat in a state of desperation.

“It's always been us. It always will be.”

He had never seen someone look so petrified. Her hand stretched out, reaching for him, a soundless utterance of his name left her lips before her body was shrouded in flames and smoke.

Peeling away at her gorgeous face.

He felt the hellish heat of the fire engulfing his car, and felt nothing but a hollow emptiness, of self-loathing, when her screams from inside became swiftly quieter.

And Billy woke as he had done for the last two nights, drenched in sweat, gripping the bedsheets for some semblance of control and wide, blue eyes flitting about the room in panic.

He'd dreamt of many scenarios that could have played out that day. All of which ended with one inescapable ending, that she always perished in them.

He didn't sleep at all that first night, opting to spend it at his Mum and Dad's. Unable to face the unbearable and stark loneliness of his flat until his mind was more stable and not muddled by the threat of death.

He can still feel it. Deep in his bones.

The primal fear that gripped him.

But every now and then, like a warm, tender embrace. The memories of her would come just as easily. How she held his face. How her lips had pressed against his in relief. Her eyes, stark against the stillness of that twilight evening, as she was ushered away into her own ambulance.

It was a comfort for him to remember just why he was here. Alive.

All because of her.

He hadn't seen her since that day.

Val had offered at the first opportunity to have her over, just in case, like Billy, she didn't want to be alone on the evening her very life could have been forfeit.

But before she could even propose the idea, when she'd picked Billy up from the police station after submitting their statements, she was already gone. But the shadows of what happened to them both lingered in the bold letters of the local newspapers.

9th July. Bomb Defused in Targeted Attack on Anti-Fascist Activists Yesterday evening, a man and a woman narrowly escaped a deadly terror attack targeted at anti-fascist activists. The assailants had planted a bomb in the victims' car, intending to cause catastrophic harm. Police presence surrounding Farringdon Tube Station has been increased in response to the attack. Thanks to the swift response of the Metropolitan Police bomb squad team, the explosive device was successfully defused before it could detonate, averting what could have been a devastating loss of life. The heroic efforts of law enforcement officers ensured the safe extraction of the individuals from the scene, who were promptly transported to a nearby hospital for evaluation and treatment. As investigations into the incident continue, authorities are urging members of the public to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity to law enforcement agencies. The MET police have confirmed the arrest of an individual in connection with the targeted attack. The suspect, whose identity has not yet been disclosed, was apprehended following intensive investigations into the incident.

As he sat up in bed then, throwing the sheets off his middle and twisting to plant his feet on the cool floor, he wondered if she was suffering as he was.

The ache of her absence gnawed at him, a hollow emptiness that seemed to grow with each passing day. He wondered where she had gone, if she was safe. The uncertainty weighed heavily on his mind, casting a shadow over his every thought and action.

He rose to face the new day, with dwindling purpose, but couldn't sit idly by while she was out there, lost and alone. He had to find her, to offer her the same comfort and support that she had once given him.

There was not one spot in his childhood home Billy felt safe from the concerned gaze of his parents, and sometimes when she bothered to come around, his sister. To be fair to Lana, everytime she saw him, she threw her arms around his neck and choked out something he couldn't strain to hear.

But the tug at his heart told him it was mostly out of guilt.

With unwashed hair, he stared at the kettle as it boiled, waiting for the button to click off in what became a monotonous task to just have something to do. The rumble of the water wormed its way into his brain.

The hum of the engine.

The beep of the timer as it counted down.

“Billy, look at me-”

“Billy.”

His mum's concerned voice rang through like a bell, tugging him to the surface. And he blinked a few times before looking at her, his mum's eyebrows furrowed together, her phone held in one hand, outstretched to him.

“Mum, I don't want to talk to Beck-”

“It's Libby, duck.”

With his phone dusted across Cranstead Fields, he felt like somewhat of a child, that everyone who wanted to speak to him, had to come through his mum first.

Since the incident, and he wasn't sure how Becky found out, but she'd been ringing his Mum non-stop, asking for him. To talk to him. But what would she even say? Some half-arsed attempt at sympathy?

Billy nodded a thank you, and bought the phone to his ear, sighing with relief when his mum gave him privacy.

“Hiya Libs, listen, right now's not a good ti-”

“Billy! Sorry, but I can't get hold of her. S-she’s gone off somewhere and-”

“Woah woah, calm down, what's going on?”

“She's turned her phone off and I don't know where she is! Her fucking dad turned up at her flat-”

He dropped the teaspoon then, completely focussed. Something akin to a cold wave sweeping over him. A flurry of memories came, of conversations had in Cranstead Fields on their walks home from school.

“I don't really know him,” she'd said, “if I saw him in the street, I wouldn't recognise him.”

“Her Dad? What the fuck-Libs, slow down and explain.”

“You know her better than anyone, Billy…can you please just make sure she's okay…”

Billy's mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. He made a quick promise to Libby that he'd do something, his determination fueling his actions. If he knew her, she'd be panicking at the mere sight of her estranged father showing up at her flat. He imagined her fears, her worries about what he could possibly want after all these years of abandonment.

Perhaps her father had his own family now, another life that didn't include her. Or maybe he had heard about the events at Cranstead and was offering some feeble attempt at support. Whatever the reason, Billy knew he had to act fast.

Brushing past his mum, he pulled on his jacket and headed out into the rain-soaked streets, the calls of his dad fading into the distance. With each step, his determination grew stronger, fueled by his love for her and his unwavering promise to always be there for her.

He had always said he would do anything for her, and now, with the rain pouring down around him and the stifling heat of summer weighing heavily on his shoulders, he knew he had to keep that promise. "I have to get to her. I have to get to her," he repeated to himself, each word a mantra driving him forward through the storm.

He already let her slip away from him once.

It wasn’t going to happen again.

16th September.

The date on Billy's phone screen seemed to mock him, the reminder underneath serving as a painful reminder of what could have been. The day she would leave for university. He had set the reminder himself, filled with visions of helping her with her bags, hands intertwined until the last possible moment before the train doors closed.

But those hopeful expectations had been shattered, crushed by his own foolishness. The memory of her hurt expression on their last day of college stabbed at his heart, a constant ache he couldn't shake.

He had realised his mistake too late, watching helplessly as she walked away from him. His friends had been rightfully annoyed at him for ruining the excitement of their next life stage. She was only following her dreams, trying to live her life to the fullest.

The only person who was tolerable to be around, was Harry.

He was at least easy to talk to about idle shit. Playing whatever shitty first person shooter he had in his arsenal of XBOX games. In between games, Billy checked his phone, but found no text lining his screen, blowing smoke between his lips out Harry’s bedroom window. Even in those moments of distraction, Billy couldn't shake the nagging feeling of regret.

“Have you told her you love her yet?” Harry asked, button smashing and catching his lip between his teeth in concentration.

Billy furrowed his brow, “Who? Becky?”

It was rare Harry paused a game if he didn’t have to. But his reaction was immediate, his expression filled with disappointment. It was then Billy felt the hot whips of panic and embarrassment at the back of his neck. Harry scoffed and turned back to his game, tight with some form of resentment.

He thought about fobbing off Harry, weaving through the tight alleyways of the local estate, running as fast as his long legs would carry him, to make it to the train station before she left him forever.

But when he checked his phone, the reminder was gone, and he felt the hole where she had occupied space inside him, cold.

Every corner of her home held the memory of her mother's voice.

“Where the fuck have you been all night? Ungrateful cow!”

“You're just like your bloody father! Useless!”

And one of her more colourful insults.

“You're about as useful as tits on a bull.”

It would almost be funny. Almost.

Her former home was caked with dust, formed thick in the weeks her mum had been in rehab. There were still dirty mugs in the sink, and an inch of milk in the fridge. But it smelled as it always had, musty and oppressive.

Her hair was frizzy from walking in the rain, and when she'd tripped past the pile of letters at the front door, it felt like she was a ghost in her own home.

One she never thought she'd set foot in again.

But she had to get away from him.

Just turning up, after years of pretending she didn't exist, without so much of a ‘sorry, I never bothered to give a shit about you’.

No.

So she ran. Socks and shoes completely sodden from running. That day at Cranstead Fields felt like a lifetime ago and not at the same time. The humid, blazing days had given way finally to raging thunder. Rumbling aggressively.

Her old bedroom didn't offer much of a haven.

As she entered her old bedroom, seeking solace in the familiarity of its walls, she couldn't help but feel a sense of despair wash over her. This was no longer her sanctuary, but a prison of her own making, a reminder of the pain and suffering she had endured at the hands of those who were supposed to love her.

Any sunlight that filtered through the thick cloud started to fade, sat on her childhood bed that felt too small now.

And she jumped when she heard the front door open, as if expecting the shriek of her mother, the slam of doors, the rise of an open hand-

“Hey..”

Billy's voice tore her away. He looked comical stood in the doorway, nearly filling all available space. His eyebrows furrowed beautifully, with little drips falling from the darkened sandy locks of hair over his eyes.

She'd not seen him since Cranstead.

And she felt her heart squeeze at the sight of him now. Looking just as worried we the day she first met him.

His clothes were soaked through, jeans a dark blue at the thigh where he'd been running through the rain. And if she hadn't felt so hollow, like her legs would break if she leapt forwards, she would have hugged him. And not let go.

Eventually finding her own voice was difficult.

“Mum's dead, Billy.”

Billy's lips parted, his expression unreadable as he processed her words. There was a sadness in his eyes, but also a sense of resignation, as if he had been expecting this news all along.

For a moment, he simply stood there, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air between them. And then, without a word, Billy crossed the room and pulled her into his arms, holding her close as she let out a shaky breath.

Billy exhaled, warm against her shoulder as he held her, “I'm sorry, baby,” he whispered. His words only made her arms tighten around him. He was her only anchor. Had always been.

11th July. Woman found deceased in local canal. A woman's body was discovered in the waters of the local canal early morning, 9th July. Sources close to the investigation suggest that the woman may have been under the influence of alcohol at the time of her untimely demise. According to preliminary reports from law enforcement officials, the woman, whose identity remains unknown at this time, had checked herself out of a rehabilitation facility mere hours before her tragic accident occurred. It is believed that she may have been attempting to navigate the area on foot when she accidentally fell into the canal. In the wake of this tragic event, local authorities are urging members of the public to exercise caution when venturing near bodies of water, particularly in the aftermath of heavy rainfall. The family of the deceased have chosen not to comment and request privacy during this difficult time.

Billy sat with her for a while, rubbing her back tenderly as she leaned into him, and both watched the river of rain slide down the road outside, the concrete shimmering.

“I've never been up here,” Billy commented, earning a mirthless laugh from her.

“You're not missing much, trust me.”

His hand found its way around her waist, and he pressed his lips to her hair, a silent gesture of comfort. “Is that what your Dad came over to tell you? About your mum?” he inquired gently.

She nodded simply.

Billy felt her tension, her inner turmoil palpable in the air around them. “I can’t do it,” she whispered, her voice strained with emotion. “Pretending nothing’s wrong…”

He shook his head, his heart aching for her. “Nobody’s asking you to,” he assured her.

“Yeah, but that's not what people want, is it? Stiff upper lip. Move on,” she lamented, her bitterness seeping into her words. "I just... I don't know how to feel," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's like... I should be sad, but all I feel is... relief.”

Billy's brows furrowed in concern, but he didn't interrupt her. He knew she needed to voice her thoughts, to untangle the complex web of emotions swirling inside her. He understands that feeling. That you should be sad, but you're not as sad as you think you ought to be.

"It's not like I wanted her to die," she continued, her tone tinged with bitterness. "But...now she's gone, and I don't know what to do with all this... emptiness.”

Billy squeezed her gently, offering silent support. "You don't have to figure it all out right now," he reassured her. "Just take it one step at a time."

She leaned into him, grateful for his steady presence. "I just... I don't want to see him. My Dad." She confessed, her voice trembling with uncertainty. "Shows up out of nowhere, expecting me to... what? Forgive him? Act like nothing ever happened?"

Billy's jaw tightened with anger, but he kept his tone calm. "You don't owe him anything," he said firmly. "You're allowed to set boundaries, to protect yourself from anyone who brings you pain."

I should know, he thinks.

She nodded. "Yeah," she agreed, her voice stronger now. "I'm not sure he's someone I want to figure things out with.”

Billy felt a pang of sadness at her words, the weight of her pain heavy on his heart. “Only you get it,” she added softly, her voice filled with longing. “Sometimes I think it’s only you who does.”

He smiled against her hair, his laughter a bittersweet melody in the quiet room. “Lucky you,” he teased, earning a breathy laugh from her that felt half-hearted, but a laugh nonetheless.

In the quiet intimacy of the room, he found himself lost in the warmth of her presence, grateful for the silent understanding that passed between them. They had weathered storms together before, and he knew they would weather this one too. He brushed a gentle kiss against her temple, his lips lingering there for a moment before he spoke.

After a beat, Billy squeezed her waist affectionately, “Come on, let’s get you back to mine. Get you dried up, yeah?”

It was clear the moment she walked through the door that his parents had been round to tidy up at some point after Cranstead.

The floor was visible. His kitchen, mostly spotless. And all the clothes had been put away. A stark contrast to how it appeared when she and Billy had been here last. It was night and day, compared to the chaos that had consumed their lives before everything unravelled.

On the walk home, Billy had confessed that Becky had texted him - probably feeling in some way, that he owed her an explanation about his ex. Not that she needed one.

When she asked if he texted back, he'd said no, reasoning that he had no desire to see or even speak to her again after the behaviour she'd exhibited when they had been together. Yet, there was no trace of jealousy within her. She knew, deep down, that she had Billy all to herself now, without any looming threats of loss.

By the time they'd made it back to his, the sun was starting to set over the rooftops, casting a rainbow through the shimmering rain that continued to fall. The walk back to his flat had drenched them once again, but neither felt the hurry to rush about and get dry.

“How's Lana?” She asked, watching from the kitchen doorway as Billy poured boiling water into two mugs.

He raised his eyebrows as if the question caught him off guard, “uh, yeah fine really…just being her usual bossy self mostly.”

Her throat tightened as she observed the movement of his hands, an unexpected pang of desire igniting within her. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing the dormant feelings that had long been suppressed. In the quiet of the kitchen, she found herself drawn to him, her gaze lingering on his features as if memorising every contour. The air crackled with unspoken words, the weight of their shared history hanging between them.

“Good.” she added quietly, suddenly finding herself needing to do something with her hands.

With his sodden jacket now hanging over the door, her gaze lingered on the sight of his bare skin, his barely sun-kissed arms at his side. The memory of their kiss, passionate and electrifying, flooded her mind, sending a shiver down her spine.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume her. She couldn't afford to lose herself in him, not now, not like this, not after the trauma of what had happened. She had to maintain control, to resist the pull of her desires and stop acting like a lovesick little teenager.

As Billy turned to face her, his pupils widened with longing, and she felt her resolve weaken. In that moment, the palpable chemistry between them was undeniable, sparking like electricity in the air, pulling them together with an irresistible force.

Suddenly, she became acutely aware of her appearance to him. Her clothes clung to her damp skin, the scent of rain clinging to her hair, a tangible reminder of the storm they had walked through together.

But despite her dishevelled state, there was something in Billy's gaze that made her heart race. It was a hunger, a desire that mirrored her own, igniting a fire within her that she struggled to contain. Yet, there was something else there, something deeper, a glimmer of disbelief mingled with relief as if he couldn't quite believe she was standing here, alive and whole, in front of him. It added a layer of complexity to the intensity of their connection, amplifying the magnetic pull that drew them closer together.

And then, without a word, Billy stepped forward, closing the distance between them in one decisive move. His hands cupped her cheeks tenderly, his touch both gentle and possessive as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

It was a bold move, one that took her by surprise, but there was a sense of determination in Billy's actions that spoke volumes. For too long, he had taken a back seat in his own life, allowing others to dictate his choices and define his path.

But this, kissing her, was a decision he could make, a choice born out of his own desires and needs.

It was only when they parted and Billy pressed his tacky forehead to hers that he spoke, “I'm so fucking sorry…”

Between soft inhales, her voice came out weakened, “what for?”

She couldn't tell if the breath he let out was more of a choked sob rather than speaking. “For being such a twat before you left for uni, for fucking putting you in danger - I could never live with myself if you-”

Her head turned, capturing his lips once more to silence the words that had barely come out. She couldn't allow him to think like that, the what ifs. They were here. Alive.

Driven by an undeniable longing, they stumbled backward, their bodies moving in sync as they navigated the path to Billy's bedroom. His hands slid down to clamp around her waist, guiding her with a sense of purpose as they moved with a newfound urgency, barely giving space for breath as he surrendered himself to her.

Billy tasted faintly of cigarettes, and while her fingers slid up the nape of his neck, twisting themselves in his dark, blonde hair, she found herself thinking that there was nothing more addictive at this moment than kissing Billy Washington.

And wanted to kick herself for waiting so long to do it.

Lost in the heat of the moment, she found herself craving more of Billy's touch, a hunger that consumed her from the inside out. His hands roamed her body with a feverish intensity, tracing every curve and contour as if committing them to memory.

“So beautiful…”

Her knees went a little weak, and thank god that she didn't have to stand in front of him much longer. The back of her knees met the bedframe and as she stumbled with her back on the worn mattress, Billy was quick to follow, his knee parting her legs with quiet intensity.

There was no need for words, the depth of this bond had been communicated long ago.

If she paid too much attention to the way his large hands pawed at her breasts and slipped beneath the hem of her shirt to glide along her skin, her mind would spin. It felt so natural, chest to chest, tangled in bliss they had ignored for too long.

She tugged at his shirt, the burning desire building so quickly inside her, there was no way of stopping. He propped himself up slightly to grab his shirt at his back and pulled it off himself in one smooth movement, forgotten to the floor in an instant.

His lips trailed down her neck, collarbone, savouring every bit, before continuing south, softly kissing the skin that had become exposed at her torso as she assisted in guiding her jeans off her legs, struggling at the way the fabric clung to her skin from the rain.

“Fucking hell…” Billy whispered, her hips in his bruising grip, his lips brushing against the inside of her bare thighs. She felt his tongue tease that crease where her leg met her hip and the heat that rose to her face from it.

“Billy, oh-” her eyes slipped completely shut, stomach doing backflips when he laid an open-mouthed kiss to her centre, teasing the growing wetness with his tongue as if he couldn't wait to taste. Even through the thin fabric of her underwear, with his sheer determination to bury himself as far between her legs as possible, his nose brushed against her little bundle of nerves, stroking a long burning fire that brewed within her.

She could do nothing but thread her fingers through his hair, hips gently grinding on his face to search for that delicious friction she craved so much. Billy didn't mind the gentle tug on his roots, and simply slid down the underwear that was in his way and flattened his tongue with vigour against her, a broad stripe from her folds to focus his unwavering attention to her bud, if only to watch the way her thighs trembled in response.

The coil wound tight in her gut, and when she chanced a glance to see Billy's bright blue eyes looking back at her from between her legs, groaning, she nearly lost it entirely. The pleasant sting of his grip on her thighs where Billy was holding them apart, could not even be described.

Her fingers curled tighter, breath hot in her chest the feeling began to flood into her limbs, subconsciously grinding against his face as she rode out the high that shook her.

“-fuck! Billy-” is all she was able to whisper through hurried breaths, feeling that Billy was not about to falter until he had taken as much from her as he wanted, lapping up anything she gave him with a final flick of his tongue against her bud.

He laid one last kiss to the inside of her thigh before struggling to his feet with his fingers prying the buttons his jeans apart with difficulty. Merely watching him, she felt the dull buzz through her body still, and the rapid beating of her heart against her ribs.

Neither said a thing, too focussed on seeing each other like this for the first novel time. Her eyes followed the trail of dark blonde hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his black boxers before they came off as well.

She'd never given much thought to how he looked without his clothes on, that would mean opening a door she'd long locked away. But once she saw him as she did now, chest moving with barely-contained desire, his large palm running up and down his shaft that stood tight against his abdomen - she felt herself clench around nothing. And suddenly, his body was all she was able to think about as she pressed her thighs together.

As quickly as she closed her legs, Billy was forcing them open again, and her cheeks went all hot as he knelt before her on the bed, his eyes zero’d in on what lay between her supple thighs.

His hands drifted over her hips to her waist appreciatively, before taking his length in his hand and running the fat head of his cock over her glistening centre, “God, you're so fucking good-”

She was oversensitive, barely recovered from her first orgasm of the evening, and the sensation had her mouth go dry, but more so the lewd sound of her wetness.

Billy looked as if he didn't know what to do with himself when she pushed him back slightly with a hand on his chest, a puzzled look replaced quickly by intrigue as she manoeuvred her way on top of him, with boyish blue eyes staring up at her where she now straddled him.

She'd never felt so daring in her life. Removing her shirt purely on instinct, and the bra quickly joining it, she couldn't help but tease herself on Billy's length, glazing him with her wetness, if not but for the way that line between his eyebrows furrowed together and his hips twitched with need, jutting up to meet her.

His fingers bruised her skin, “stop-” he groaned loudly, feeling as if he were embarrassingly close but still without the sensation of being inside her.

Her hand trailed down his chest, over his stomach, “I love you-” she took him and slowly sank onto him, the stretch stealing the air from her lungs for a brief moment, expelled in a choked moan. “Love you…”

For a moment, she stayed there, savouring his tortured expression before she moved herself on him, the soft sound of her buttocks against his thighs accompanied with Billy's hurried pants were like music.

“Fuck - don't stop-”

And as if she would, when he spoke to her like that. His eyes cracked open and locked on the way her breasts moved, his hands around her waist guiding her pace on him. When he looked at her so reverently, like a longing gaze, combined with the way his curved length teased her g-spot when she ground on him in this position, she was powerless to stop that growing peak rousing up inside her.

Billy groaned aloud, feeling her tighten and greedily suck him further inside her, “Oh my god-”

“Billy-” she'd be embarrassed if she could see herself, all drunk on sex with Billy like this. He leaned up, thrusting up into her at a faster and needier pace, while his lips took her right nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it slightly.

She whined, her hand finding its way into his hair, meeting his hips halfway. With Billy guiding the speed instead it felt exciting, with each thrust the air felt knocked from her chest, amplified as Billy let her nipple fall from his mouth and trail up to her neck.

“I love you-” he murmured, one hand drifting up her spine to her nape, gently but insistently pulling at her hair to crush her lips to his.

She wanted to sob with joy. How long had she wanted to hear that? To feel loved? And now she was being loved by none other than Billy Washington. And she held onto him tight, not wanting to let go, and instead let out a sob of pure pleasure as his thrusts became deeper and more insistent the closer he was edging to his own end.

It was quickly driving her to her own.

“Please, Billy-”

She squeaked when he was the one this time to pull her by her waist and rut into her aggressively. His breath was hurried and hot against her neck, but he felt he could barely suck in air at all, putting all his energy into fucking her until she could scarcely think of anything else.

“always…” he breathed out loud, as if he had not realised. He echoed her words spoken in haste, in fear, just a few days before when she held his face and reassured him.

Beneath her hands, his shoulders tensed, and she could tell he was close. And when Billy's hand stole between them, his thumb gathering her wetness where he was still pounding into her, he began tight circles against her bud, propelling her over the edge with another choked cry of his name.

White hot pleasure bathed Billy as he held her tightly, too tightly, but she didn't protest, and he trembled as he felt himself come deep inside her, her walls too quivering around him, seeking to greedily tease as much from him as she could.

With chests pressed together, she held him close, sucking in air as Billy was doing. Her fingers loosened in his hair, the desperate hold turning more so to a gentle embrace, with Billy's length tucked inside her and softening rapidly.

In the aftermath, with the room hot with sex, Billy pulled away from her neck only to flutter his gorgeous blonde eyelashes up at her, blue eyes peeking from beneath them, and his lips curling up into a boyish smile. He remained inside her, and wanted to for as long as he could. Where she sank in his arms, he tightened his.

The thin layer of sweat on their skin made them both shiver slightly, and she could find no words for him, only the ones she had uttered in a state of unadulterated bliss moments before.

“I love you…”

And Billy echoed the ones he had too spoken. This time with no quiver to his voice. “Always.”

The soft glow of morning crept through the curtains, casting warm hues across the room. She had been awake for some time, watching as Billy slept soundly beside her, his tousled hair a golden halo against the pillow. With each gentle rise and fall of his chest, she felt a sense of calm wash over her, soothing the lingering echoes of the night before. She shivered at the rush of air on her bare arms, pulling the bedsheets to her chest, but also felt the warmth around her heart, like a balm for her soul.

When her phone buzzed, having been silenced since she escaped her flat yesterday afternoon, she smiled at the message from Libs.

She bit back a smile, and replied with a sneaky photo of Billy, slept on his front, but revealing nothing more than his boyishly charming sleeping face.

With her heart feeling whole, mind clear, and that dull ache in her chest somewhat healed, her eyes glanced up at him, appreciating him, she thought.

Yes, finally.

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theerurishipper · 1 year

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Zuko Did Not Abuse Azula in the Comics.

I'm gonna do it. After a lifetime of never posting any of my own posts in the ATLA fandom, I am gonna talk about this. "This" is the arguments sprung forth that Zuko abused Azula in the comics, more specifically The Search. Now, I don't think the comics are well-written, but what they don't do in any capacity is paint a picture of Zuko abusing Azula. And despite this, I've seen several claims about how Zuko did in fact, treat Azula cruelly and horribly and let the Gaang abuse her happily. And I might not like the comics, but that's just flat out wrong. So, I'm writing a rebuttal to all the arguments I've seen on the topic, at least, as many as I can remember. What I'll do is quote an argument and use evidence from the comic to rebut it, and hopefully people will stop claiming that the abuse victim treated his abusive sister the way she treated him all their lives. So yeah.

To be clear, I'm not making this post to hate on Azula's character or something. I'm not making this to start a fight, or to make people angry. I mostly made this to express my own frustrations about some things I've seen.

And it's probably a bit too late for this, but if you think Zuko did abuse Azula or whatever, you're entitled to your opinion, but please don't interact with this post. I've tagged the anti tags and placed my text under a read more, so y'all don't have to read it.

This gets long, so under the cut it is. Let's go.

Argument: "Azula is protesting being treated cruelly and Ty Lee chi-blocks her for no reason at all! And Zuko doesn't protest this cruel treatment of his sister! He's abusing her!"

Ty Lee chi-blocked Azula after Azula attacked Zuko and displayed violent behavior. On top of being Zuko's bodyguard and therefor responsible for protecting him, Ty Lee also has a great fear of Azula because of how Azula treated her in their past. Zuko tries to be kind to his sister by bringing her tea and she attacks him. Furthermore, Zuko also protests her being chi-blocked even after she does so. He tries to treat her with dignity and be kind to her but Azula herself is the one to sneer at his efforts.

Argument: "Zuko is awful for leaving Azula alone with her abuser! He doesn't care about her well-being!"

I agree that Azula shouldn't be allowed to talk to Ozai. Ozai abused Azula as well, and contact with him would only cause her more problems. However, Zuko doesn't know this. He himself is an abuse victim, and all he's seen his whole life is that Ozai favored Azula over him. And Azula used this to place herself in a position of power over him. She's always tried to drive it into his head that their father liked her better than him and that he was worthless in Ozai's eyes. Naturally, Zuko assumes (incorrectly) that Azula has some kind of special relationship with Ozai that he doesn't. He knows Azula has not had a perfect and healthy life, but he is not privy to the details. He doesn't know what's going on in her head. This is because he is not a mind reader, and she refuses to let herself be vulnerable in front of him because she believes she is better than him and that vulnerability is a weakness.

Even in the comic, she expresses no hatred or fear of her father, and doesn't indicate to Zuko that she does not want to be alone with him. She shouldn't have contact with him, of course, but she refuses to admit that her father is responsible for how she is now and that he has hurt her. She blames her mother, she blames Zuko and his friends, she blames Mai and Ty Lee, but she refuses to blame herself and most importantly, she refuses to blame Ozai. She's still behaving the way he wants, attacking Zuko and, if I may bring up Smoke and Shadow even if it pains me, she's trying to get Zuko to be like Ozai. She herself expresses the desire to speak with Ozai in the panels above, so if she herself hasn't acknowledged the way Ozai has hurt her or how he has abused her, and if she is still under the belief that he loves her, how is Zuko supposed to know any better? He's not doing anything he thinks might hurt her because she hasn't expressed that it hurts her, because she herself doesn't believe it does. And yes, it does hurt her, but it's not Zuko's fault for not being able to magically comprehend that, especially since she has spent her life driving the opposite message into his head, that Ozai favors her and not him.

Argument: "Zuko threw his little sister in an institution! He didn't care for her or for what became of her! He just left her in there to rot!"

What should he have done then? How should he have dealt with her? Azula may be traumatized and in need of help, but Zuko isn't the one to give that to her. He doesn't owe that to her after everything she's done to him, and he doesn't have the capability to help her himself. Azula has always expressed hatred for her brother and has been very clear about the fact that she considers him weak. He tries to help her and she rebuffs him continuously, choosing to attack him instead. She still wants him dead, and she has still not expressed any opposition to the things she learnt from Ozai. She still considers her brother a failure, she still hasn't mentioned that she thinks genocide is wrong, and she certainly doesn't think she's to blame for anything.

Given free reign, she attacks Zuko and manipulates him, and she is obviously too dangerous to let loose. The most Zuko can do is get her the help she needs, which is what he tried to do. I find the whole way these comics deal with mental health distasteful, especially with regard to Azula, but that's a flaw in the writing, not the characters. Zuko could have thrown her in prison like Ozai, since she was complicit in his war efforts. But he recognized that she needed help and tried to provide it for her. I wonder what anyone who criticizes Zuko for this would suggest he should do instead. Keep in mind that Azula is an imperialist and staunch supporter of Ozai's quest to take over the world. She also attempted to kill Zuko multiple times and has expressed no remorse for it.

And also, there is the argument that the institution is abusive and that Azula was mistreated in there. And where is the evidence of that? No, seriously, I went and looked through the comics, and I didn't see any evidence that Azula was abused in there. It seems to be a headcanon. Of course Azula resents being put in an institution, especially when she believes nothing is wrong with her and since she so adamantly refuses to let anyone help her. But nowhere does she mention that she hates it because the people there hurt her or something. And where else could she get help for her problems? Should Zuko take on a second job as her therapist? Should Iroh leave his life in Ba Sing Se behind to come and help a niece who has only ever hated him and wanted him dead? People say that the straitjacket is proof of her being abused, and I don't really like it either, but considering that she is eagerly awaiting the opportunity to attack Zuko, the straitjacket is probably a precaution to make sure she doesn't hurt anyone. Not that it stops her.

And when Zuko does try to help her some other way by offering for her to stay in the palace instead to make her more comfortable, she attacks him. So.

Also, these comics totally forgot how lightning-bending works.

Argument: "Zuko violently coerced his mentally ill sister to come with him on a mission to find his mother!"

She's also Azula's mother, actually. And he didn't coerce her. She blackmailed him and forced herself onto the trip. It was entirely her own decision to come with them and it was not Zuko who forced her to do anything.

Argument: "The Gaang attack Azula for no reason! They're threatening her violently!"

I mean, considering everything she's done to them and still hasn't given up on wanting to do, it's expected that they would be wary of her and perceive her as a threat. Remember when the Gaang pulled their weapons on Zuko, and only didn't attack him because he tried talking to them? Azula here is still antagonizing them and is still calling them derogatory terms like "peasant," so she still hasn't given up her beliefs of superiority. Which obviously doesn't give them a very positive impression.

Argument: "Iroh always expresses ill will and hatred towards Azula and thinks she's a lost cause! He encourages Zuko to hurt her because he thinks she's irredeemable!"

Iroh expresses the wish for Azula to find peace the way he believes Zuko will.

Argument: "The Gaang treated Azula cruelly and threatened her for no reason! They started abusing her the moment they got the chance to, when Azula was defenseless and unable to protect herself at all!"

Here we have exhibit A, where Aang cruelly laughs in Azula's face and greets her mockingly, while Azula is respectful of the people she has hurt many times over.

Oh wait. He greets her cheerfully and kindly, and she starts ordering the Gaang around like they're her servants.

Argument: "Sokka threatened Azula violently for no reason and Azula was just defending herself!"

Sokka didn't even do anything to her. He waves his boomerang near her and tells her not to try anything. And yet the way some people will use this scene is to suggest that he was outright attacking her when she was vulnerable or something. And yet she is well off enough to shoot lightning at him unprovoked. Considering all of Azula's actions, they are well within their rights to keep her in control. Would you say Katara was unjustified for threatening Zuko with death right after he joined them? Was she abusing Zuko then? The answer is no.

Azula has been well known for committing many acts of violence against them, including but not limited to pursuing them relentlessly, attacking them, taking over Ba Sing Se, trying to kill them, actually killing Aang, almost killing Zuko, and she is complicit in the crimes of the Fire Nation. She has done nothing to prove that she's changed her ways and that she is now not interested in killing them, and we later learn that she still does want to attack them. Sokka is well within his rights to threaten her since she has inflicted so much harm on his friends and might still do so. But Azula has no such right. The only reason she has so much free reign is because of Zuko's compassion. The Gaang are right to be suspicious and wary of her after everything she's done and she has no right to be disdainful about that. Do you think if Zuko showed up to join the Gaang and shot sparks at them when he got irritated, that they would not be in the right for perceiving it as a threat? Would you say that Zuko should be allowed to act violently with the Gaang in that situation?

She is here because she manipulated her brother and the fact that she is being allowed on this trip unbound is much more than what she realistically deserves. And she proves Sokka right by attacking him. Sokka merely waved a boomerang in her face (he wasn't even that close to her, actually, and he certainly wasn't in her face) and warned her not to try anything, and she tried something instantly. Just before this when Zuko was with her, she attacked him. No matter her mental state or her age, Azula is dangerous and deadly, and she has not changed. They have no reason to trust her. They have the right to be distrustful of her and to warn her not to step out of line. I know people like to ignore the fact that Azula is still an Ozai sympathizer and an imperialist who partook gleefully in the war efforts and like to only see her as a mentally ill 14-year-old girl, but that's not what the show says, and neither do the comics, so.

I'm guessing it's wrong of the Gaang to react when someone who has previously proved to be more than ready to hurt them and kill them tries to hurt one of their friends. Sure, Azula wasn't going to hurt him severely, but she sure did hurt him enough for him to yell out and fall down. And considering everything else, the Gaang are right to try to protect themselves from someone they perceive as a threat. Sokka wasn't even close to her, damn it. Azula has no right at all to be making demands of the Gaang, and they don't have an obligation to treat her the way she wants to be, like they are her servants and like they are inferior to her.

Argument: "Zuko threatens Azula for no reason and abuses her!"

Azula is someone who has proven to be a threat time and again, and here she is yelling strange things and inching closer with an angry look in her eye. For people like Zuko, it is understandable that this looks like a threatening situation. We know what Azula is talking about, but all they can see is her behaving in a way that could be threatening.

She yells accusatory things and looks angry, and she is moving closer to the rest of the Gaang, almost like she is ready to attack them for something. And so Zuko tells her that that's enough. And he releases some... steam, I guess? He doesn't even bend a flame. And yet he's abusing her somehow. And then she makes it sound like he's overreacting. If someone you knew was dangerous started coming closer to you while yelling with a strange look in their eyes, would you try to wonder why exactly they're behaving like this and if they're alright, or would you prepare to defend yourself?

And here we also see Azula blaming the Gaang for ruining her life and not, you know, her abuser Ozai. So sure, of course she'd accept Zuko's help when she thinks he's to blame for her misfortune and not her own actions and Ozai's abuse.

I too wish Toph was here.

Argument: "The Gaang abused a defenseless Azula, Part 2."

Defenseless Azula breaks the deal she forced Zuko to make with her and jumps off Appa when they're too high.

Aang saves her and she blasts him.

Now, we know in this scene that Azula is having visions of her mother and that she's hearing things. We know that she's not exactly of sound mind when she goes on rampages. But the Gaang doesn't know that. Zuko doesn't know that, and he has no way of knowing because she won't tell him. Even when he asks her who she is talking to, she just yells at him and rebuffs him.

Look at Zuko, saying that he doesn't want to fight Azula with a sad expression. How abusive!

Azula throws the first blow here. She isn't seeing things when she attacks Zuko, she just used him to get here and now she wants to get rid of him. And Zuko is doing what he said he'd do, keeping her in line. And don't say he should have just let Azula go. He wouldn't be a very good Fire Lord if he let the lightning bending imperialist go off on her own.

And then the Gaang takes her down after she attacked them first. So if that's abuse, then I don't know what to say.

Argument: "Zuko abusing his sister, Part 3."

Very abusive, yes.

Oh, and he finds a secret she's been keeping from him! That's so abusive!

Argument: "Zuko abusing his mentally ill sister, Part 4."

She attacks him first. You could make the argument that it's because she's having visions of her mother, and yeah, she is. But Zuko doesn't know all this because she won't tell him. And also, as it should be obvious to everyone, that's not an excuse.

Then there's a fight scene.

Argument: "Zuko cruelly held Azula off a cliff to threaten her and hurt her! He's abusing her while she is clearly not well!"

Ah, this infamous scene. Where Zuko holds his weak and defenseless sister off a cliff and laughs maniacally at her suffering while she pleads with him to spare her- oh wait.

Obviously, he dragged her to a cliff just so he could hold her off it. It's not like they were fighting in that environment. It's not like she just fell near the cliff's edge and he picked her up.

I honestly don't see anything wrong with what he did. He's clearly defending himself from her, and holds her over the cliff so that she won't attack him again, and so that he can make her listen to him after she has acted out again and again in a violent and dangerous way. She was attacking him, and this was the only way he could get her to listen to him. If you think he was considering dropping her, you don't know Zuko at all.

Anyway, this is actually one of the few scenes from any of these comics that actually made me feel something. It's an expression of the tragedy of their relationship from Zuko, and also him standing up to another abuser in his life. Yes, Azula abused Zuko, that much is not up for debate. Here, Zuko is finally confronting Azula on the horrible was she's treated him their whole life. I don't begrudge him that. And him saying "since the day you were born," is obviously not literal. Like, I can't believe I have to say this unironically. If people say "I must have walked a thousand miles," do we take it literally or do we understand that it is an exaggerated way of expressing that someone has walked a long way? It's the same thing here. Just because Zuko exaggerates his speech does not mean that the sentiment he is expressing is untrue. This is such a stupid line to get hung up over, but gotta take every inch you get when the whole text is against you, I guess.

Argument: "The Gaang abusing Azula, Part 5."

Where the Gaang verbally abuse Azula who is clearly hurt by their cruel words- hold on.

Ah, yes. Call the people who are somehow still putting up with you "louts," Azula. I am sure that is a very good and proper way to treat people who have every right to throw you back in jail and be on their way. They don't even say anything back to her. The Gaang has the patience of saints, honestly.

Thank you Sokka for being the one with common sense. I suppose he's also a villain now for saying "she's tried to kill us twelve times" when that's not true, it was only about two times. Which clearly makes it better.

Argument: "Zuko abusing Azula, Part 6."

Azula antagonizes a child, Zuko tells her to knock it off.

He's being so cruel to her.

Argument: "The Gaang abusing Azula, Part 7."

She attacked them. They defended themselves. It doesn't matter if she saw her mother in a vision. That's not an excuse and it's not the Gaang's problem. It's not Zuko's obligation to help his abuser, especially since she doesn't want his help anyway.

Gee, all these arguments are starting to sound awfully similar. It's almost like Azula always instigates fights and the Gaang defend themselves. Hmm.

Argument: "Zuko abusing Azula, Part 8."

She attacked first. Again.

This time she even attacked two actually defenseless people.

Argument: "Zuko gave the Gaang permission to attack Azula for no reason at all! The used their position to abuse her!"

No, he gave them permission to take her down because she went too far and attacked innocent people who did nothing to her.

Honestly, Zuko should have done this a lot sooner. She's tried to kill them four times already. She hasn't listened to them when they tell her not to do something and she's endangered all of them many times. She's being granted more than she deserves by the Gaang, and yet she goes on to do things they explicitly tell her not to do because it might hurt the forest or other people. She's proven that she is not concerned about who she hurts as long as she gets what she wants, and it took until she attacked people who weren't the Gaang for Zuko to suggest taking her down. The fact that he didn't give the okay for this the first time she tried to kill them is honestly a testament to his character.

Azula had this coming. No amount of the excuse of mental illness is enough to justify her actions. Even if she has a mental illness, it doesn't give her the right to attack others. And Zuko has all the right to defend himself and realize that working with Azula is impossible. He doesn't look happy to be doing this. He looks quite sad, in fact. I joked around a little in this post but seriously, anyone who says Zuko is the one abusing Azula is interpreting the text in very bad faith. I know people like it when Azula is a victim so that they can justify her hurting others, but Zuko and the Gaang had every right to retaliate throughout this comic whenever Azula attacked them or hurt someone else. These two siblings aren't even the last non-Gaang people Azula hurts in this comic.

Argument: "Zuko abusing Azula, Part 9."

Wherein Azula attacks her mother who doesn't remember her and her defenseless family with the intent to kill.

Now I'm not heartless. I feel for Azula here, I really do. That panel of her with tears in her eyes truly makes me feel sad. She definitely didn't deserve what happened to her throughout her life at Ozai's hands. She didn't deserve to feel unloved and feel like her mother thought she was a monster. She didn't deserve to be abused by Ozai. Azula deserves to heal, she deserves to be loved, she deserves to be treated well and she deserves better.

None of this gives her the right to hurt other people. Innocent people. She may feel her mother has wronged her, but it's not true. And she doesn't get to attack her mother, who doesn't even remember her, out of hatred and anger. She doesn't get to kill this innocent woman and attack her family. And Zuko is not in the wrong for stopping her. Zuko is not the wrong for protecting his mother and her family. Zuko is not abusive for defending other people and himself from Azula. Because even if Azula is hurt, she is taking it out on other people who have done nothing to deserve it.

Zuko redirecting her lightning back at her doesn't kill her, and I'm sure Zuko knows that it wouldn't. He doesn't want her dead. He doesn't want to hurt her. He wouldn't have thrown her over the cliff for that very reason. Despite everything, Zuko loves Azula. He cares about her. He wants to have a good relationship with her. He's very affected by the knowledge that their relationship is so bad. He truly wants to help her. But it is Azula who is resistant to that help. It is Azula who thinks her brother is weak and deserves to be hurt. It is Azula who despite wanting love, chooses to push people away and hurt them over and over again.

He's saddened at her running away, he chases her and pleads with her to let him help. But it is Azula who refuses him, who rebuffs him and attacks him at every turn. It is Azula who is always the aggressor, it is Azula who is at fault in their relationship, all because she believes that everyone is to blame for her mistakes but herself. And the only way she can heal is if she realizes who the blame truly lies with, Ozai, and rejects everything he's taught her, that love is weakness and to rule with fear. She needs help, but Zuko is not obligated to provide it to her. And yet he does, out of the kindness and compassion in his heart, and the love he has for his sister.

Argument: "He abused her in the show, then! Since this post only talks about the comics!"

That's because it should be obvious to anyone watching that Zuko didn't abuse Azula. If anyone thinks Zuko abused Azula, I invite them to watch a show called Avatar: The Last Airbender. It's really quite good.

So I feel like I've covered most arguments I've seen. But I do want to talk some more about why exactly I wrote all this, why I wasted two hours of my life on this.

Anyone who goes through the ATLA tag on my blog will probably reach the correct conclusion that Zuko is my favorite character, and that he and his arc mean a lot to me. And so, it's honestly not great to see people undermine all of the suffering Zuko has gone through in his life, all to justify Azula's abusive behaviors. It's not wrong to like Azula and love her character. She's a complex character that many find relatable, and that's not wrong. But to accuse another character, her actual victim in the series and one whom many can relate to as well, of being her abuser and denying her abuse of him... it's not a great look. It reeks of victim blaming and abuse apologism. And it's not true. Azula is an example of how victims of abuse can become abusers themselves. This is what she represents in the show. And it is not wrong for people to call out Azula and not Zuko, because Zuko got called out in universe, called himself out and he changed. Zuko redeemed himself and became a good person.

Azula has not done that. She hasn't changed, she hasn't acknowledged that she is wrong, and therefore people are allowed to criticize her and dislike her, and they are allowed to call out her abuse and her other actions. People call out Zuko for his bad actions as well, but the fact of the matter is that he changed, and people don't feel the need to call him out anymore because he's done it himself. Zuko doesn't need the same criticism Azula does because he grew and she didn't, that's it. So all the talking points about how people don't call out Zuko as much as Azula or that they don't criticize his bad actions are moot because of his very widely acknowledged and celebrated redemption arc. Because he realized his mistakes and worked hard to fix them. So, there is really no point in criticizing him anymore the way there is for Azula, since she hasn't changed. And it is not "hate" for people to understand that despite Azula's abuse at Ozai's hands, she dealt the same thing to her brother for years. And it is not wrong for people to criticize her for it.

All this talk about how Azula is always being hurt and betrayed by everyone, and all this talk about how Zuko is weak unlike Azula is the exact same reasoning Azula uses that enables her to abuse others within the story, the reasoning that Ozai instilled in her. It is quite literally the parroting of Ozai's beliefs, that Zuko is weak and soft, and that Azula is strong and powerful and yet she's a victim of everybody. She believes that others deserve to be hurt because they are too weak or because they are responsible for her suffering, and not her or Ozai. In the end, it wasn't Zuko who drove away her friends Mai and Ty Lee, and Mai and Ty Lee did not "betray" her. It was Azula's cruel treatment of them because she controlled them through fear that drove them away from her, and when push came to shove they stood up for the people the loved and for themselves. It wasn't Zuko who drove away their mother, it was Ozai. It wasn't Iroh who hated Azula and wanted her dead, it was Azula who hated Iroh and wanted him dead, and these are all things she learnt from Ozai. She can only ever grow if she realizes her mistakes and accepts the blame for her own actions, and if she stops blaming her victims for her suffering and starts blaming her abuser.

Blaming Zuko for defending himself from her and calling that abuse is victim blaming. Whether you like it or not, Azula did abuse Zuko. She had power over him, she targeted his insecurities constantly, she lied to him multiple times and made him doubt his own perceptions, she manipulated and gaslit him and made him feel unsafe in his home. She supported Ozai's abuse of Zuko and participated in it and took pleasure in it. Zuko never did anything of the sort to her. He reacted to her abuse in a way he never did with Ozai until the end, but that does not mean he wasn't affected by it or that it didn't happen, because it did, and even though he fought back with her, he was often defeated and Azula always managed to manipulate and terrify him. For fuck's sake, he literally had a chant, "Azula always lies," so that he could comfort himself after she terrorized him, something that he's been saying to himself for years according to Zuko Alone. People will point to Zuko challenging Azula as him abusing her back, but what defines abuse is the power dynamics. There is no such thing as mutual abuse. Abuse is all about one party having power over the other, and in Azula and Zuko's relationship, she had all the power over him because she was the favored child. Of course, this was also damaging for her, very much so, but it means that she had power over him, and he didn't.

Azula is a tragic character and her life is a sad one. But that doesn't make her any less of a bad person, and it doesn't mean she is not a toxic individual. Her actions have hurt other in many ways, and she does not feel remorse. She finds pleasure in the pain of others, especially her brother, at whom she smiled in glee when he was being maimed by their father. She took over a city and killed someone and did it with a smile on her face. She tried to kill her brother and laughed about it. She gleefully suggested genocide, and wanted to take part in it. And she hasn't changed, so people are allowed to dislike her and call her out for it. Personally, I believe that Azula has the capacity to change and to redeem herself. I don't think she's too far gone or is irredeemable. She is not as bad as Ozai, and it's not too late for her.

No one deserves a redemption. It has to be something you actively work for, something you do and it is something that you have to work for. Azula can change if she truly wants to. She has people who are willing to help her if she so chooses, like Zuko for better or worse for him. But that means admitting to her mistakes, acknowledging that she is wrong and has hurt people, and making the effort to change, which so far she has not done. And Zuko is not obligated to forgive her or help her in any way, and neither are the Gaang or Iroh.

You can like a villainous character. You can like a character who is a bad person. It's not wrong. What is wrong is to paint another character in a bad light, in a false light, to justify your love for another character. And especially in this case since Azula is Zuko's abuser, turning the tables and calling him her abuser for defending himself against her all because you want to excuse Azula's actions and want her to be a victim is really not great. Accusing Iroh and Ursa of being responsible for her downfall is not great. All this is directing blame away from the real abuser, Ozai. And it veers into victim blaming and abuse apologism, like I said.

Being a fan of Azula doesn't mean you can handwave away her less than savory traits or cherry-pick the ones you like. She is a victim, but she's also an abuser. And it is not "bashing" or misogyny for people to call her out. Calling out Zuko is also okay and allowed, but it is honestly less productive since he changed himself already. I understand that people don't like when their favorite characters are criticized or hated, but that doesn't mean characters who do bad things are exempt from being called out. And it doesn't give anyone the excuse to start misrepresenting other characters and hating on them to prop up their fave. Fans of characters who are villainous should understand that. And in this case, anyone who is a fan of Azula should understand that.

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