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thirtysomethingloser92 · 3 months ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, like a thunderclap, he was there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gambit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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