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fettuccinealfred0 · 4 months

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Til Death Do Us Part | Part 2

Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 7.4k

(CW: general vampirism, period typical sexism, forced marriage)

Summary:

“Do you, Lord Astarion Ancunin, take this lady to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Astarion gives a dramatic ‘I do’ with a self-important little flourish of his hand. Even in the little time you’ve known him, you’ve come to realize that he is a showman above all and is incapable of turning down an opportunity to be over-the-top.

Gale turns to you, “And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you force the words out through gritted teeth because at this point, what choice do you really have?

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There’s a knock on your door the next morning, but you ignore it- too consumed by the throbbing pain in your head and the feeling of tiny knives stabbing at the back of your eyes. This is what you get for crying yourself to sleep.

At some point last night, you had managed to pull yourself off the floor and into the bed, still wearing your gown. You had barely thought to pull the pins out of your hair before you were curling in on yourself under the covers, pillow dampening under your cheek.

But there are no tears left this morning, only anger burning through your veins.

Anger felt easy, anger felt familiar. Anger masked hurt and gave it a purpose. You were hurt by Astarion because he made you feel special and you were angry at yourself because you had been too caught up in the fantasy and believed him. The two sentiments twisted and warped in your mind until you were left angry at Astarion for tricking you.

There’s another knock at the door and it infuriates you. Why couldn’t you be left alone to grieve? These people would have the entirety of your life to bother you. Did you not deserve one day to yourself? You pick up one of your shoes from the floor and hurl it at the door as you yell at the person on the other side to leave you alone.

Thankfully, your message must have been received, because for a few moments, there’s nothing but glorious silence. You let your eyes drift closed again, but your mind is too quick to turn back to last night- how easy it had been to dance with Astarion, how his arm had felt wrapped around your waist, the solid line of his body as he had pinned you to the wall and threatened you. And through all those memories is your new fiancé’s stupid, perfect, beautiful, lying face.

The way you see it, you have two ways of getting out of this wedding. Either you manage to escape or figure out how to kill Astarion.

How do you kill a vampire, though? You try to pull the stories you were told as a little girl from the recesses of your mind to see if you remember any weaknesses or weapons you can use against him. You’re supposed to drive something through their heart- a wooden stake. The elegant wooden bed posts are perhaps the most reasonable candidate, you just have to figure out how to saw through the thick wood. At this point, you’re desperate enough to start gnawing on one like a beaver. You’re studying the posts and losing hope at the feasibility of turning one into a stake when the dark haired woman from last night bursts her way into the room.

“Get out!” You practically screech at her, reaching down to pick up your remaining shoe to throw it at her. The woman simply dodges the shoe and continues wheeling in a cart of food.

“You weren’t answering the door, my lady,” she says, in a sickly sweet voice that makes you want to grab the butter knife from the cart and jam it into her throat. The way she looks at you makes you feel like you were the one inconveniencing her and not that she is complicit in your captivity.

The butter knife had you thinking again, though. It was not the best weapon by any means, but it was perhaps the best defense you would have access to. You rise from the bed and move toward the cart under the guise of investigating the food on it.

It is a lavish spread. Someone had obviously gone through great care to make sure you would find at least something on it appealing and your growling stomach is tempted by some of the sweet-looking pastries. Nevertheless, in your scheming this morning, you had already decided that one of your little acts of revenge will be to refuse food. Astarion can’t very well keep a prisoner who is dead. Or at the very least, it will be a great inconvenience for him and that thought fills you with the tiniest spark of joy.

You press your hands to the cart, continuing your fake investigation of the breakfast. The servant has her back turned to you as she remakes the bed and you take the opportunity to carefully slide the knife off the cart, concealing it in the pocket in the folds of your skirt.

“I’m not hungry,” you finally declare, as you settle at the little table in the corner of the room. You feel better, now that you’ve got your secret little knife with you- more prepared, and at least a small step further on your plot to get out of here.

“Lord Ancunin will be worried about you if you don’t eat,” the lady answers, but you can tell she is growing a bit exasperated by your antics. She prepares a plate of food anyway, setting it on the table in front of you. Passing over the food, you instead pick up the cup of tea she’d poured in an attempt to soothe your stomach.

“Astarion can worry all he’d like. I’m not going to let him fatten me up like I’m some pig he’s readying for slaughter,” you push the plate back toward her as you speak.

Astarion might have gotten what he wanted for now, but you were by no means going to make this easy for him. You were going to fight and claw and resist him in every way you knew how. A dark, vengeful part of you smirks at the idea of his pretty face marred by your claw marks.

“If he wanted you dead, you’d already be dead,” the maid says, though her face does soften a bit, full of pity. You hate her for that, for pitying you. Had you really fallen so far that you were seen as nothing more than a helpless little snack for a vampire Lord?

“At least let me help you out of that dress. You’ll feel better with a change of clothes,” she says and even though you’ve decided that this woman is your new enemy along with Astarion, she might be right that you would feel better in new clothes. You debate whether you should accept this offer of help or not, worried that if she were to help you out of your dress, she would find your precious knife tucked in the pocket.

She seems to notice your internal struggle and offers, “Or I could bring you a new dress and you could change on your own?”

You do end up agreeing to those terms, but quickly discover that you have vastly underestimated the difficulty of removing a ballgown. You weren’t used to dressing by yourself and the tiny buttons down the back of your gown seem too slippery and impossible to manage on your own. For a moment, you consider giving up entirely and just wearing this dress for the rest of your miserable life, but now that the idea of changing your clothes has gotten in your head, you want out of the stupid dress that is so full of reminders of last night.

You quickly tuck the knife underneath the pillows of the bed so that the woman cannot find it in your skirts before you swallow your pride and hesitantly knock on the inside of the door. It whips open almost immediately, the dark haired woman looking at you curiously, her long ponytail swaying behind her.

“Can you help me? I can’t get this dress off by myself,” you say, but you can feel your voice is tinged with embarrassment.

She enters the room again and undoes the slippery buttons on the back of your dress with dextrous fingers. Her speed is irritating since you had just spent the past half hour hopping around your room with your hands twisted behind your back like a fool.

“What’s your name?” you finally ask, as she’s helping to undo your corset.

“Shadowheart, my lady.”

“That’s a…” you struggle with the words, trying to be polite, “unique name.”

Shadowheart snorts out a laugh and you appreciate that she seems to have a sense of humor. “I’m not from around here.”

The dress she helps you into is soft and simple. The pale blue cotton is light and will keep you cool during the warm summer afternoon and the thin lace trim around the neckline is delicate and refined, hinting at your fiancé’s wealth. It’s the complete opposite of what you would have expected for the bride of a vampire. A part of you had even considered that Astarion might keep you dressed up in gaudy ball gowns for the rest of all time. He did seem to have a flair for the dramatic. Your initial pleasure with the dress sours when you realize this dress was just another reminder that as your husband, Astarion could completely control every aspect of your life, right down to the clothes on your back. Or the lack of clothes, though you shudder at the thought.

“We can go to a dressmaker soon and get you new clothes,” Shadowheart says, when she notices you plucking sadly at the material. “Or we can try writing a letter to your father and organize having your old clothes sent here, if you’d rather?”

Her offer makes you question if you might have been too quick to judge Shadowheart, who has been nothing but kind to you this morning, even when you have screamed and thrown things at her. Perhaps you could manage to turn her into a useful ally in your escape, after all. You couldn’t allow yourself to think that you might grow friendly with her over time. No, right now, all your mental faculties need to be dedicated to getting out of here before the wedding, before you would be legally bound to Astarion.

“The dressmaker is agreeable to me- though, it would be nice to have some of my old items sent here. Personal belongings and books and whatnot,” you answer and she gives you a small smile. Truthfully, you’d rather not have your old wardrobe sent here, especially since you planned on leaving before it would arrive. Those dresses hold memories that at this point, you’d rather forget. But, if you were to be stuck here forever, you would certainly miss your little collection of books and you also long desperately for the necklace your mother had given you before she died- it would provide a small bit of comfort in this very stressful time.

You hesitate to tell Shadhowheart that the necklace is the real purpose of your request. If your father was given any inclination how much that necklace meant to you or how much it was likely worth, it would certainly be missing if your belongings ever did show up.

“That can certainly be arranged, my lady,” she gives you another sweet smile as she guides you to sit so she can work on your hair. She looks like she’s debating whether or not to speak for a moment before she says, “Believe it or not, but everyone here really does want what’s best for you. This was just the only way for Astarion to ensure you kept his vampirism a secret.”

You scoff, immediately dismissing her words. You hadn’t missed the way that she had mistakenly called him Astarion rather than Lord Ancunin. There was a familiarity that was suggested at her use of his first name and it sat wrong with you- this idea that Astarion could be respected or, gods forbid, friendly enough with his staff that they would feel comfortable using his first name.

“But what about the woman he was drinking from last night? Why does she get to leave with her freedom?” You snap back at her, the hypocrisy of it all fanning the spark of anger within you again.

“The Lord has a longstanding agreement with several local people.” Shadowheart explains and when you let out a huff of annoyance at her answer, she continues, “There’s a level of trust and predictability there that isn’t present with you. You’re a wild card.”

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” you grumble, though you aren’t entirely sure if there was any truth to your words. You hadn’t really had time to think about what you would do after the ball since you were too focused on trying to escape Astarion. Perhaps you might have told your father on the carriage ride home, but he would have probably used it as an excuse to send you to the nuthouse and finally be rid of you. You would have still ended the night locked in a room, though admittedly one with worse interior design.

Even after Shadowheart excuses herself from the room, you sit glumly over this realization. It seems predetermined that your fate was to be imprisoned- in the asylum, in this room, in a marriage to Astarion or a marriage to that rat of a man who had been with your father last night.

The escape efforts continue in your mind, but you grow half-heartedness as the hours continue to tick by.

Shadowheart returns a few hours later with lunch, a spread of meats and cheeses with breads and dried fruits. Your fingers pass reluctantly over the dates, which were always a favorite of yours, while you reach to pour yourself a cup of tea. It’s dark and rich and you only realize after you’ve drunk the whole pot that it’s filled the room with a hint of a lovely bergamot smell. Your heart twinges when you realize that Astarion has taken this from you now, too- that bergamot has become intrinsically linked with him in your mind

You spend time staring out the window at the view of the garden, watching the servants come and go as they clean up after the ball and you can’t help but wonder if your view is by design or if this room is just the most equipped to hold a prisoner. Since your room is on the top floor, the distance to the ground makes jumping impossible. The drop could potentially kill you or at least leave you so injured you wouldn’t be able to get very far. It takes about an hour to tie together the sheets from the bed and see how long you can fasten the makeshift rope, if maybe you can climb down the side of the building before you jump. Ultimately, you don’t have enough material and the drop would still be too far. You remake the bed, disheartened at your lack of viable escape options.

When Shadowheart returns a few hours later, she lets out an annoyed sigh at your uneaten lunch, replacing it with dinner, roast duck on a bed of fragrant rice. The aroma wafts through the room, but you hold strong, letting the bowl sit untouched on the small corner table. Once again, you greedily suck down the tea, grateful that you were given an herbal blend that smells of lavender rather than bergamot.

The lack of progress you’ve made in escaping today has you feeling defeated, and you resolve yourself to the fact that your only available option is to fight your way out. After retrieving your hidden butter knife from underneath the plump pillows, you wait by the door. Strength isn’t your strong suit, so the act of surprise will have to be your weapon. You aren’t entirely sure how much damage you can do with the dull knife, but a poor weapon is better than no weapon at all. Hopefully, you can subdue the next person who comes through that door and negotiate your way out. Shadowheart would likely be back to help you prepare for bed soon and as guilty as you feel at the prospect of using her as a hostage, your own well-being was paramount.

The doorknob twists and you pounce. It’s perhaps the worst or the best possible option of who has opened the door.

“Oh, I rather like being in this position with you. Tell me, dearest, what will you do with me now that you’ve caught me?” Astarion practically purrs with his beautiful, lilting voice.

You have Astarion pinned to the wall in the perfect mirror image of last night, your arm against his chest so that the knife is pressed firmly against the column of his throat. You don’t allow yourself to look at his neck longer than it takes to position the knife, too scared you will be distracted by the way the muscles curve and dip into that delightful hollow at the base of his throat.

But you do catch the two distinct puncture wounds on his neck. The crude markings looked as if a wild animal had ripped their teeth into him carelessly. They can only be one thing. Bite marks.

The twin scars were an obvious clue to his true nature, a birthmark left from when he was reborn anew as a vampire. The high collar he had been wearing last night had covered them but the scar tissue is jagged and rough against his pale skin and they stand out unmistakably now.

Ripping your gaze from his neck, you glare into his definitely-not-distracting eyes as he regards you with a hint of amusement that just serves to irritate you further. You were supposed to be intimidating here, not amusing.

“Really, what was the plan here?” Astarion seems to grow bored at your lack of a response, lips turning up at the corner as he lets out a breath of laughter, “To stab me to death with a knife that’s not even sharp enough to cut a slice of bread?”

Your arm holding the knife up to his neck wavers and Astarion’s fingers trace a gentle path across your arms until he grasps your hand, nearly crushing it in his grip. The pain makes you involuntarily open your fist and the knife clatters to the floor with a clunk. Astarion’s quick to move his boot to step on it so you’re unable to pick it up.

With the threat of the knife removed, Astarion still lets you keep him pinned to the wall. “I see you got at least something out of the breakfast I sent for you.”

“I don’t appreciate being locked in my room,” you snarl back at him.

“Yes, well, when you start to earn some trust, I’ll let you out. But you’re not off to a strong start with the knife, darling.”

Darling.

You think of how he had called you darling last night as he swept you into his arms and danced, how it had sounded like a hymn dripping from his lips that caused a sweet warmth to pool in your belly. Now, you practically hiss at him using the words, hackles raised in defense like a wild dog.

He pokes your cheek, lips curled up in a smile, “Very scary.”

“I hate you.”

“A shame, really. We could’ve had so much fun together,” Astarion’s hand sneaks down to curl around your back and rest against your hip while he talks, pulling you closer against him. The position is so similar to how he had held you while you danced last night and for a moment, you give in, letting yourself enjoy his touch rather than immediately shaking his hands off.

His voice is deep and sultry, hand tightening where it clutches against the fabric of your dress, “If only you hadn’t ruined my plans for last night… I would have come back from my midnight snack, satiated by blood, but starving for you. I would have taken you to stroll the gardens, fed you a line about how the roses were jealous of your beauty and I would have even cut one off for you for you to remember me by.”

You’re struck by how similar his plan was to your daydream last night, as if Astarion was intimately familiar with your deepest desires.

He’s leaning closer and the soft brush of one of his white curls against your forehead is nearly divine as his words continue to hypnotize you, “I would have kissed you, over and over and over again, until you couldn’t think straight.”

“I could’ve touched you,” he emphasizes his words by dipping the hand on your waist just a fraction of an inch lower. The warm smell of bergamot is flooding your senses and his mouth is moving so, so close to yours, only a hair’s breadth away from your own as he speaks in a rich, seductive voice. Your lips part in anticipation, breath hitching in your throat at the thought.

“Have you ever been touched before?” His gaze feels like a caress as it slides down your neck to your collarbones, gentle fingers tilting your chin up to refocus your gaze on his lovely face.

“No, not a proper little girl like you. I can’t imagine how pent up you are. I would have used my mouth and my hands on you until you saw stars. Until all you could remember was my name, falling from your lips like a prayer.”

“Enough,” you shake your head, placing your hand against his chest to press yourself a step away from him. His eyes are dark and hooded as he follows your movement and you take a deep breath, trying to calm the flaming heat you feel licking at your face.

It’s cruel of Astarion to imprison you and then come in here and fill your mind with delicious fantasies. Perhaps this is his way of playing with his food- to visit you and shame you for how desperately you wanted him. It was cruel of him to demean you for your desire, not after he pretended to need you just as badly last night.

“You don’t get to mock me,” you say to him, once you’ve collected your composure.

“I’m not mocking, pet, I’m teasing.” He’s still leaned against the wall, arms casually crossed across his chest. “It’s what good lovers do to each other.”

“Lovers?” you splutter.

“I’m teasing again, dear. Gods, you make it so easy.” Astarion finally pushes himself off from the wall, leaning down to pick up the knife and tuck it in his own pocket.

You glare at him while he moves, attempting to assert your dominance over a situation that you were quickly losing control of.

“You haven’t eaten today,” Astarion breaks the silence, eyes softening a bit. He sounds genuinely concerned and his pretend sincerity has you wondering if you could be quick enough to grab the knife back out of his pocket and give him a good stab in the side. He doesn’t get to be concerned about you. Not when he is the one causing you distress.

“I wasn’t hungry.” Your stomach betrays you by choosing that moment to grumble. You know Astarion heard it. Damned vampire.

“My, my. Well, you’re either lying or you’re dying of some weird stomach condition. And as much fun as the latter would be, I’d really prefer you stay alive until our wedding.”

Refusing to respond to his taunts, you cross your arms over your chest and continue glaring.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to poison you, darling. That would be a waste of perfectly good blood.” Astarion says, rolling his eyes. You know that he catches how you stiffen at the mention of blood.

“Oh,” he draws out the word all long and self-important now that he thinks he has you figured out, “So that’s what you’re worried about, that I’m going to drink from you. Dearest, as fun as it was chasing after you last night, I prefer meals that are a bit easier to catch.”

You remain silent, still, and Astarion takes a step closer to you, his fingers brushing affectionately against your upper arm. It’s nearly impossible to hold back the shiver that threatens to run down your spine.

“Just promise me you’ll eat something,” his eyes have got that stupid soft-ness to them again that makes you want to do the opposite of what he’s saying just to spite him.

You remind yourself that you can’t believe a word he says. Astarion has proven himself as a liar and a cheat. In fact, his whole act tonight is probably a part of his masterplan to sacrifice you for your virgin blood or something.

“I won’t promise you anything!” you cry, incredulous.

Astarion moves to leave but pauses in the doorway, hand curled around the doorknob. If he would just open the door, you could try to rush out around him.

“How do you feel about a nighttime wedding?” He asks, turning to look at you over his shoulder.

“Whatever pleases you, husband.” You hiss back at him. “My opinion on our upcoming marriage hasn’t seemed to matter so far.”

“Yes, well, you do forfeit some right to make your own choices when you exhibit poor decision making capabilities and sneak around, following scary monsters in the dark,” he snarks, which sets off a fresh wave of anger within you.

Astarion closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath. You feel a bit of pride that you seem to be getting under his skin just as much as he is frustrating you.

“You like roses, right?” Astarion asks.

“Yes,” you reply. The initial pleasure that he had remembered a detail about you from last night fades as you begin to grow wary about his motives in asking.

“Good, I’ve planned for there to be plenty at the wedding tomorrow night. I’ll be the handsome devil standing at the end of the aisle,” he shoots a wink over his shoulder before the lock clicks behind him. At this point, the familiar sound nearly makes you sick to your stomach.

—---

Shadowheart comes in to see you sulking a bit later and draws a bath for you. The warm water feels wonderful, but does nothing to tamper the heat that has been rising under your skin since the moment Astarion let you pin him to the wall.

You don’t sleep very well that night, anger and something else coursing through your veins. Astarion’s words from earlier stick with you in your dreams.

I would have kissed you, over and over and over again.

I would have used my mouth and my hands on you until you saw stars. Until all you could remember was my name, falling from your lips like a prayer.

And a day ago, you would have let him, would have been driven half mad with ecstasy at the prospect. But Astarion had to ruin that. Astarion had to ruin everything. He was the subject of all of your daydreams and the architect of all your nightmares.

You do manage to sleep, eventually, but you wake up hot and sticky with sweat, the taste of Astarion’s lips still a whisper in your mind.

And yeah, okay, maybe you do snag a pastry at breakfast when Shadowheart isn’t looking. She doesn’t say anything, but you know she notices. You can only hope that she doesn’t report it back to Astarion.

In the morning, you watch the gardens as they’re prepared for the wedding, observing how the ornate flowery archway that you suppose will be your altar is constructed at a moment’s notice. You feel like you are marching to your death as the wedding crawls ever closer, your chance of escape slipping further away with every passing moment.

Shadowheart returns in the late afternoon to help you prepare for the ceremony. The dress she carries with her is far simpler than you expected, less intricate even than your dress from the ball a couple nights ago. The dark material is offset with shimmery, golden thread embroidered into the material in beautiful floral patterns. You wonder if Astarion just kept this on hand or had managed to contact a dressmaker who could make this dress so quickly.

Shadowheart pins your hair up in tasteful braided style and you do have to admit that you look beautiful when you look into the mirror. That familiar rage is burning in you again. You don’t want to look beautiful for Astarion, you don’t want to drag this out any longer or harder than it needs to be.

You dread the thought of tonight. You were not as naive to the world as your father might have thought; you had heard the whisperings of other ladies when they discussed the horrors of their marital beds, heard the talk of greedy husbands and so much pain. On a normal wedding night, even the best of men could turn into a savage and you shudder to think what it might be like with a man who is already a beast. How much worse would it be for you?

But were you not a hypocrite? Had you not dreamt of coming undone on his elegant hands just last night? You force yourself to stop before you can continue down that train of thought and get carried away with silly, romantic notions. No, it was best to prepare for the worst. Tonight would be a worse torture than your two days locked in a cage. And you had to attend a stupid party about it first.

Shadowheart seems to be able to sense your nerves, probably because you’ve spent the whole afternoon alternating between fiddling with your hands and sighing.

She kneels down in front of you, staring at you with an intensity that lets you know her next words will be very important. “You know that I am your lady’s maid. That I default to serving you over the Lord, right?”

“Deep down, he is a good man, but if anything, and I mean anything, happens tonight that makes you uncomfortable, you call me and I will drag Lord Ancunin out of here bruised and bloody. I don’t care if it’s as simple as him attempting to hold your hand when you don’t wish him to.”

Her words comfort you even though you wonder how much time that would really buy you. After all, it was part of your wifely duties to satisfy your husband, to bear his children. Although you aren’t entirely sure if it’s possible to have children with a vampire, you’re going to operate under the assumption that it’s possible until you’re told otherwise as part of your ‘prepare for the worst’ strategy.

“Thank you,” you sincerely tell her because you want to let her know that her words have comforted you even if you doubt that she would be able to fight off a vampire.

“If you really wanted to help, you could get me out of this marriage,” you offer up, partially as a joke and partially to see if maybe the solution to your problems is really that easy.

“We both know I can’t do that,” Shadowheart says, because it never is that easy. Once again, she’s got that stupid, sad smile on her face again that makes you want to knock her pretty teeth out.

“Thought I’d try, at least.”

Your feet seem to have stopped working, so Shadowheart has to practically drag you out of the room and dump you in the garden. She’s, unfortunately, much stronger than she looks. Who knows, maybe she could take down a vampire?

The floral archway you had spent all morning looking at is even more breathtaking in person. The deep, red roses are braided in against beautiful ironwork. You hate Astarion for remembering that you liked roses, hate him for feigning kindness and trying to do something that you would like.

Astarion is standing at the end of the altar, as promised, and damn it all if he doesn’t look like Lucifer incarnate- the most beautiful angel hiding an evil and twisted soul. When you get closer, you can see that his waistcoat has matching floral embroidery on it.

So, you’re matching now? That’s what the world has devolved into. It takes everything in you to not rip the stupid dress off right then. But, you refrain yourself because you’re in public and you’re a lady (and definitely not because you were humbled by the button fiasco yesterday).

You practically snarl when you meet Astarion at the altar but he ignores you, his finger reaching out to trace along the petal of rose embroidered on your dress, right next to your collarbone. If he were alive, you would be able to feel the warmth from his hand.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“You have ruined roses for me,” you spit back at him. Astarion’s brow furrows for a moment before the man standing next to the two of you is awkwardly clearing his throat. You recognize him from the ball, as the man who interrupted your and Astarion’s dance. He must be Astarion’s valet, serving him as Shadowheart does for you.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” The valet tries to sound enthusiastic but he wilts a bit when you shift your glare to him.

You can feel Shadowheart standing behind you and you know that if you try to run, she’ll simply grab you and drag you back.

“The quicker this is over with, the better.” You say and can’t resist looking at Astarion and adding, “Though, I’m sure you know a thing or two about finishing quickly, darling.”

You can tell that Astarion’s valet is holding back a laugh at your comment.

“Continue, Gale.” Astarion finally instructs after a few seconds of stunned silence.

The man, Gale, holds up a stack of papers that he begins to read from. Oh my, were all of those pages filled with words? You might be here all night.

“What is marriage? A contract, yes, but also the blessed union of two souls, sealed together in eternal love. The marriage bond is sacred and divine, but we must not mistake it as pure. No, real love is never pure. It is messy and confusing and the both of you will make many mistakes as you grow together.”

Hang on, was this guy even married? Who the fuck is he to be out here spewing nonsense about the sanctity of marriage? And when did he even have the time to write this? You’re so confused by the situation that your anger at Astarion has managed to dissipate completely.

Gale is somehow still rambling on, minutes later, as you stare at him with an open mouth, “And although, the two of you are entering this contract under… less than ideal circumstances, we can only hope that your love will grow to flourish. In fact-”

Astarion finally cuts him off. “We can do without the fanfare, I think.”

Gale gives a disappointed sigh, grumbling about how he was just trying to make this a nice moment.

“Do you, Lord Astarion Ancunin, take this lady to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Astarion gives a dramatic ‘I do’ with a self-important little flourish of his hand. Even in the short time you’ve known him, you’ve come to realize that he is a showman above all and is incapable of turning down an opportunity to be over-the-top.

Gale turns to you, “And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you force the words out through gritted teeth because at this point, what choice do you really have?

You slide the rings on each other’s fingers and Astarion’s cool skin against your hand feels wonderful amidst the balmy summer night.

There’s no after-party, no fanfare. You simply say the words and sign the paperwork and leave immediately, content to go wallow by yourself in your room as you wait for Astarion to consummate your marriage.

You’ve half sent yourself into a panic as you pace, even if Shadowheart’s promise from earlier rings comfortably in your ears. You wish you hadn’t already wasted your knife yesterday. It would at least provide some false sense of comfort for when Astarion came for you.

You sit and you wait. And you wait. And you wait. Astarion doesn’t come.

You feel your eyes struggling to stay open and only when you catch your chin falling down to your chest do you snap yourself awake. This isn’t like you, to just take something lying down. The only solution left is to confront him. You jump to your feet, crossing the room with the most determination you’ve been able to muster all day.

For the first time, the door to your room is unlocked when you turn the handle. Surprised, you poke your head out, scanning left and right down the hallway to check that there’s not some sort of booby trap. That seems like something Astarion would do- offer you hope of escape and then callously snatch it away at the last moment.

Candlelight flickers in the doorway a few rooms away. When you peek into the room, Astarion is reading something, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped up on the desk looking like the arrogant asshole you know he is. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all, just turns the page of his book.

“The door was unlocked,” you say, because you aren’t really sure of how else to greet him. Hello felt far too simple after you had spent the past two nights pinning each other to walls and playing mind games with one another.

Astarion hums in affirmation, eyes still focused on the book in his lap. “Yes, I only had it locked in order to keep you here long enough for us to get married. Do what you’d like now. You are the new lady of the manor.”

It seems unreal, that the past two days of torture were ultimately going to amount to… nothing? Perhaps this was just another one of his tricks to catch you unawares? If you stopped thinking of him like a threat, stopped expecting the worst in him, or gods forbid, if you lowered your guard, it would be that much easier for him to trap you.

“So, I’m free to leave?” You try asking cautiously, expecting his red eyes to snap up and for him to hiss out an angry no, for him to laugh at you and snatch away your freedom right after he had teased you with the unlocked door.

“I’d suggest you wait until the morning, but yes, feel free to leave and continue on with your life however you please. Or stay. I really don’t care.” He says instead, turning the page of his book again. Was he even bothering to listen to you?

“Then why did you force me to marry you?” You cry out because nothing these past two days has made any sense to you. Nothing has made sense to you since you saw Astarion standing in front of you like a holy angel who had been blessed with all of heaven’s beauty, when all you knew was that this man had been made to ruin you.

And now, everything about Astarion is a contradiction. You hate him and yet you crave him. He offers you hope while crudely stabbing through your back with a knife. He imprisons you and shackles you to him by law and offers to let you go free. Even now, as you stare at how the candlelight sends shadows dancing across his pale skin that make his jawline somehow appear even sharper, you aren’t sure whether you want to kiss him or kill him.

“Well, I doubt anyone would believe a new bride when she says her husband is a vampire. They’d chalk it up to a newlywed squabble or perhaps think that you just don’t understand the sensuality of a good bite. And if you do choose to leave, the longer we aren’t together, the more people will assume you’re spreading nasty rumors because we’re estranged.”

That… actually makes a lot of sense. You had been too caught up in your panic and your anger to look at this situation with any real rationality.

But now, faced with the choice, where would you go? If all the freedom in the world was yours, what would you do with it? Certainly, you wouldn’t go to your old home, with your angry father and unsympathetic brothers.

You would want a garden, you think, perhaps one to rival the Ancunin’s. You would want to fill your days with reading and gardening and walking. For the first time, you wonder if perhaps the life you’ve always wished for has been offered up to you on a silver platter. Your mind had been so tainted with your hatred for Astarion that you didn’t even imagine that perhaps you could be happy here. That perhaps you could be happier than you even were before.

“I don’t… I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” your shoulders drop in realization, fingertips nervously running along the pretty embroidery of your dress. It feels like an admission of defeat as you stand in front of him, as if you’ve been eviscerated and are trying desperately to keep your insides from falling out on the floor in front of him.

“Stay here then,” Astarion answers and he looks so bored with the conversation that the familiar fire of anger is burning in your veins. How dare he callously act like his actions have had no consequence on your life? How dare he act like he didn’t have the legal authority to control you as your husband if he wanted to? How dare he act like he hadn’t flipped your world upside down the moment he first swept you into his arms?

You force yourself to take a deep breath, to soothe the anger that sits deep in your chest and you finally decide to bring up the issue that’s plagued your mind all day. “You didn’t come to my room tonight.”

“Do you want me to?” He looks genuinely shocked and finally closes the book and drops his feet from the desk. He takes a moment to collect himself before leaning forward, looking up at you from under his eyelashes. “I know I’m irresistible. There is still plenty of time tonight for me to ravish you, if that’s what you’d like.”

You know it’s an act, know he’s probably teasing to get a rise out of you. But you can help the panic that bubbles in you and you immediately shout a refusal to his offer.

Astarion leans back in his chair, hands coming to rest under his chin. His fingers are long and slender and oh, so elegant as they press together as if in prayer. This man, who could destroy faiths and desecrate holy ground with just the flick of his pretty wrist.

It dawns on you that the gold wedding ring you had slipped onto his finger hours ago has already mysteriously disappeared from his hands. And though it might be hypocritical of you, who removed your ring almost immediately, you can’t help but be a little hurt that he apparently wasted no time in casting you aside, either. Have you already been so cruelly disregarded?

“I don’t go where I’m unwelcome, darling.” He curls his lips up at the corner in a devilish smile, “I’d much rather wait until you’re so desperate that you beg me to have you.”

You’re determined not to give Astarion the shocked, embarrassed reaction you know he’s itching for.

“And what if I want you to be the one to beg?” you ask him instead. His eyes flash with a wicked gleam, so red you can’t help but remember the blood running down his chin in the moonlight.

“Well, that can certainly be arranged, darling.” Astarion keeps you locked in his fiery gaze for another moment or two before he sighs and breaks the tension. “But that’s not going to happen tonight, so I suggest you go to bed. Get some beauty sleep, not that you need it.”

And yeah, maybe you do have to hold back a laugh at that stupid line.

“Goodnight,” you say, turning to go back to your room.

“Sweet dreams, little flower,” Astarion calls after you.

And for the second night in a row, you dream of crimson eyes and elegant hands that have you waking restless and unfulfilled.

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

Notes:

For the record, I absolutely love Gale, but lets not pretend that he wouldn't go SO over the top if he was allowed to officiate a wedding.

As always, thanks to AliensNSuch on ao3 for beta-reading! ETA for the third chapter is next Sunday, 12/31.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #reader insert #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #til death do us part

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princessbrunette · 3 months

Note

can you do jj spitting in the reader’s mouth after making her call him dad

basing this around the episode where jj dressed up as a paramedic because that was one of his sexiest looks n people moved on from that too fast !!!!!!!!!

𐙚🐈‍⬛⋆.˚❆

jj was not the responsible one in the group. jj, was the fun one! the trouble maker, the reckless loose canon, mr ‘stupid things have good outcomes all the time’. he was not responsible, let alone strict.

that was until he met you.

he couldn’t believe half the things that came out of his mouth. like, ‘do your jacket up, now.’ who even says that? he couldn’t stand the thought of you in trouble, couldn’t bear for you to do any of the dumb things that he’d normally do, and he would never ever in his power let anything or anyone pierce through your skin and hurt you. not a chance, you’d have to get through him first.

thinking that this change of his went unnoticed is a laughable offence. he was consistently ridiculed with ‘wow, who are you and what did you do to our best friend?’ — and that he could take, usually laughing it off with a petty tongue in his cheek— wondering the same damn thing. but you, well — you had taken it upon yourself to don him a brand new nickname.

‘dad’

it made him huff, nostrils flaring and nose tip twitching upwards like it physically made him itch everytime it slipped from your mouth. “thanks, dad.” you’d giggle when he’d stop you in your tracks to tie your shoe before you went tumbling over yourself. “sorry dad!” you’d whisper in amusement when he would send you a tight lipped look that meant shut up and listen. “please, dad?” you’d emphasise deviously when he’d deny you the permission to do something reckless.

the worst part is, it made his dick hurt. no not throb, not stiffen— hurt. the sentiment made him wanna fuck into you in a way that strays from his usual pipe game. no cheeky quips with a thumb on your clit having eased his length in inch by inch, no— none of that. he means a headlock, or full nelson or something ridiculous and a deep hard fucking that makes you cry.

you’d been a pain in the ass on this little mission of his that he didn’t want to let you on in the first place. it involved a failed jail break, a stolen ambulance and paramedic uniforms. well, he wore the white all-in-one paramedic suit and the navy cap with the logo on it, and you — you sat pretty in the passenger side wearing a polo top with the hospital logo and a black mini skirt. he said if the two of you get caught, it’s on you and your ‘sex shop costume adjacent’ get up.

in hindsight, it was clear you were feeling him in the uniform from the start, looking at him all unfocused and doe eyed whilst he rambles about the plan on the drive there, sucking on that juicy bottom lip and all.

“dude— are you listening? john b’s livelihood is on the line here. we gotta take action.” he barely glances at you as he steers the ambulance, which only makes you want it more.

“yes, dad.”

it’s dad this, dad that— all the way up until you’re panting in the back of kie’s car— having escaped a police chase with no john b in tow. jj was frustrated, full of adrenaline, and turned the fuck on— which is why your panties were around your ankles as soon as he got you back to your empty home.

infact, the pink lace underwear was still binding your ankles when he had your knees pressed to your chest, his all-in-one uniform pulled down off his body just enough to have his dick out, fucking into you mercilessly with a hand around your neck. you’re totally fucked our already, moaning and squealing uncontrollably— and the cap still resides on jj’s head as he grits his teeth, talking down to you.

“nah, call me what you wanna call me— go ‘head, you know i’ve been waitin’ on it to slip out. who am i, babydoll? fuckin’ tell me.” his voice grits and his cheeks are all pink, still cute despite everything.

“d—ugh!” you can’t get it out, because he’s hammering into the spot now, and you’re nearly there. also, you chickened out. you both knew you were into it, this whole ‘dad’ thing— but there’s pride involved. embarrassment. the self awareness that you’d be a wet dream for a freud-following-psychology-student.

“come on,” he chuckles but it’s angry. “say that shit. loud n’clear baby i’m listening.”

“dad, please! wanna cum, dad!” you cry, and it’s this big burst of emotion, because you’re somewhat humiliated— feeling exposed over your kink that had been thinly veiled as a joke until this very moment. his jaw drops for a second after you say it, like he can’t contain the pleasure flooding out of him— but he gains control again in a second, authority seeping into him. his hand loosens from your neck, instead choosing to thumb at your bottom lip.

“yeah, yeah that’s right. that’s what i thought. so you do know how to be a good girl, got it. now open up.”

you don’t, so he tugs your jaw open with his thumb and leans in, spitting a big wet glob of spit into your mouth, smearing what didn’t go in around your swollen lips and laughing at you. sick, sick man. “you like that shit, huh?” and you really did.

he stops getting so antsy and irritated in the future when you drop the nickname on him in public after that point. now he knows what it really means.

𐙚🐈‍⬛⋆.˚❆

#anon #jj maybank prompt

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foreverinadais · 2 years

Text

drunk: m.k

summary: after an argument with your boyfriend’s, you all engage in a silent treatment. well, until you get drunk and need jake to pick you up, as well as the others to look after you in your drunken state.

warnings: alcohol use, reader is drunk and in the mood to be a nuisance, sick/vomit, swearing, light angst, fluff!! moon boys taking care of reader, it really goes through the 5 stages of grief in this one

word count: 3.2k :)

a/n: thank you thank you thank you for 400 followers!!!! it’s insane how much support you’ve all shown and i cannot express how much i appreciate it :)

It was around 2 o’clock in the morning when the familiar buzz of a phone echoed around the walls of the flat. It was Jake who awoke to it, cursing under his breath as his eyes refused to open from their interrupted sleep. The buzzing stopped, momentarily offering an ounce of peace which Jake gladly took- until it resumed, a growing insistence in it’s tone which eventually prompted Jake to open his eyes.

The first thing he did was check his watch. Seeing how late, or early, it was suddenly inserted a sense of urgency in him, as he clambered to turn on the lamp beside the bed and roll his body out. The buzzing was still prevalent as Jake finally reached the phone he shared with his alters.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when your face shone on the screen.

You hadn’t called in a couple of days now, neither had he, likely due to a rather explosive, extremely stupid, argument you had gotten in with all of them. It was rather rare to be in an argument with all 3 of your boyfriend’s. But after another squabble about schedules and missions, it was bound to blow up, leading to you leaving and giving the silent treatment. Not that any of them tried to stop you, just as in need of the space and reflection time.

All of you were renowned for your pettiness. Which is why it took Jake a moment to answer the phone. But then, worry settled in as he remembered the time, realised you wouldn’t be calling unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn’t make a move to talk first, figuring you would do that. He was right.

He could hear the muffled booming of music behind you, tacky club sounds that were only tolerable when pissed. Surrounding that, the obnoxious chatter of people Jake could only assume were drunk, all of it moulding into a loud hum in his ears. He cringed in his barely awake state, holding the phone away from his ear briefly before deciding to make his presence known.

“Yeah?”

“Jakeee?” Oh shit. He could automatically tell by your disorientated tone that you were drunk. “ ‘s that you? Jakey?” He felt annoyance rise in him at your nonchalance to the situation, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“Yep. Why you calling?” He was being short with you. In your delirious state, you couldn’t tell.

“I need- hiccup – to be p-picked up because ‘m hungry and tireddd and my friend, she left with this girl and I- hello, doggo, your so cute!- need you.” Jake cussed, muttering a few profanities in Spanish before finding words to reply.

“Mierda, fine. Where are you?”

“Ummm I don’t knowww, wait, excuse me? I love your outfit, wait, sorry, where am I? Can you please message it to my boyfriend- wait can I call him that? We’re- hiccup- angry at each other.” Your voice was slurred, desperate, and Jake suddenly felt a sense of worry at your vulnerability.

“Go wait inside, hmm?” Jake said through the phone, putting on some shoes and grabbing his cap and jacket. It was then his phone pinged, and he realised the strangers you had accounted yourself with had sent your location. You were still mumbling to them about the argument, about your flat, about how painful your feet were due to the dancing and stupid shoes you’d decided to wear.

Jake left you on the phone as he got in his cab, not wasting anytime as he started the engine and all but sped to where you were. It didn’t take him long to arrive, the roads empty but streets alive with people looking for a good time on a Saturday night. He spotted you instantly. You were sat on the sidewalk, a woman and her partner next to you. Your head was in your hands as your, now bare, feet gently kicked the gravel. He swore again, partly at the state you were clearly in, but also at the remnants of annoyance he felt from the not forgotten vendetta.

Jake pulled over quickly, cap secured on his head as he exited his cab and made his way over to you. The people who were sat with you clocked him, one of them meeting the distance, explaining how they stayed with you until he got there, and that you were in a ‘pretty bad state.’ Jake thanked them, making the short way over to where you were sat, still not aware of his presence.

“Y/N,” he said simply, now stood in front of you, but you didn’t notice, too lost in the song you were humming under your breath. He sighed, kneeling in front of you, hand reaching out to touch your forearm. “Hey, c’mon, let’s go.” Your head snapped up; eyes droopy as if you had been sleeping.

“Jakeee you’re here!” You exclaimed, practically falling into his kneeling frame, catching him off guard. “Thought you wouldn’t come because you h-hate me now.” His face twisted in confusion.

“What? Your drunk, let’s get you home, c’mon. Look, I’ll help you up, on three.” You sniffled; arms wrapped around his broad shoulders as he helped manoeuvre you both up. You didn’t let go when you were standing, deciding you couldn’t stand. He was reluctant to wrap an arm around your waist, still slightly angry, but more worried it would offend you. But it was clear it was what you needed as you tumbled, shakily attempting to walk to his car- or, rather, a complete stranger’s car. “Fuck, taking too long, just, walk faster.” You did as he said, maybe too literally, as your arms began to get suffocating, as he gripped your waist, helping you both walk to his cab.

You giggled as his hands unknowingly tickled your side when he helped you get into the passengers seat. “Smells funny in here.” You chuckled, taking an exaggerated sniff of the air. Jake knew it was his cigars he snuck, but chose to ignore you, going to shut the door. “WAIT WHERE ARE YOU- DON’T LEAVE ME!!” your sudden rise in volume made him jump, and he came back as soon as he left.

“I’m getting in the car, ay.” Before turning back and saying, “Seatbelt.”

“Nonono I can’t do it, won’t get in the… thingy.” Jake had the sudden urge to kick something, forgetting how frustrating drunk you can be, especially when sober. He exhaled deeply through his nose before muttering a ‘fine.’ You gasped as he leant over you, face awfully close to you own, so much so he could smell the alcohol on your breath. You couldn’t help but chuckle again as his gloved hand came down by your side, fumbling for the seatbelt and eventually getting it in the buckle.

It was then you thought of the most hilarious idea ever. As he went to get back up, you wrapped your arms round his shoulder and pulled him, so he nearly collapsed back down onto your lap. You let out a belly laugh, tears squeezing your eyes as he shouted, “QUE MIERDA!” He got out, shutting the door slightly louder than usual as he strode to his seat in the front. “Always playing, I swear, estúpido when drinking,”

The car was filled with your chuckles, as if Jake had told a joke, but he was deadly silent. What could he say? You were intoxicated. He couldn’t be mad at you right now, not when you wouldn’t remember it. But he didn’t want to be nice to you, still angry, still not ready to put it behind him completely. He was looking forward to get back to the flat where it would become his alters problem.

And truthfully, the smell of your perfume was beginning to intoxicate his senses.

When the flat finally came into view, Jake breathed a sigh of relief. This, however, diminished when he heard your soft snores filling the small space of the cab. He internally cussed at himself, having previously wondered why you had gone suddenly quiet, realising he would not only have to wake you up, but get you inside.

Jake turned the key in the ignition, engine shutting off with a slight groan. He pinched the bridge of his nose lightly, dreading the moments from now until later. “Why has the road stopped moving?” The voice your voice, broke him from his worries, and when he turned to face you, your eyes were already desperately on his.

“Hasn’t, we have. Gotta get out now.”

“W-Wait, your leaving me again? Please don’t leave me here!” Jake felt something in his chest pang with sadness, but he pushed it away, remembering you were drunk and had little control over your heartfelt pleas.

“ ‘m not leaving you, look, we’re getting out the car together, yeah?” He demonstrated opening the door, motioning for you to do the same, and with a small smile of relief, you did. “There ya go.” He praised lightly as you copied his actions. “Now wait there, I’ll come an’ get you.”

“M’kay, Jakey, I’ll wait.” Fuck. The feeling was back in his chest, harder to push away this time. He did, however, ignore it, long enough to reach where you were sat obediently awaiting him. “Your back!” You quipped excitedly, hands reaching for him in a childlike manner. He didn’t answer, instead helped you up, felt goosebumps arise with every touch of your skin, felt his neck burn as your warm breezed over it.

The journey to the flat wasn’t as hard as he had envisioned. Once you got the hang of walking again, you were off, with his support, of course. You had made it to the door, Jake feeling instant relief wash over him as one of his alters promised it would be their turn. “Marc’s turn now, ‘kay? He’s gonna help- hey, listen, did’ya hear me?”

“Yes, Jake.” You try to say but it comes out as a laugh. “Stay safe.” His voice is stern, but the concern is there, hidden amongst the small façade he always has up. And then his eyes are rolling back, and Jake Lockley is gone for the night- instead, Marc’s there, eyes even harder than his alters. He says nothing as he unlocked the door to the flat, pushing it open with his foot as his arm comes around your waist. You hardly react to the contact, allowing him to guide you through the familiar haze of the apartment, the place that so often felt like home, even when all your senses were torn to shreds.

“Marc…” You suddenly let out, and he notices the buzz on your face has diminished, the way it always does by the end of the night.

“What?” He doesn’t mean to be short with you, really. But a part of him, much like Jake, still held a sort of bitterness- as he always has after an argument.

“Feel sick.” His own stomach drops as he springs into action, cussing loudly as he all but rushes you to the bathroom. Your cheeks are dramatically puffed with air as you gag, Marc barely getting you to the toilet in time before your spilling the remnants of the night into the basin. He sighed, one hand on firmly on your shoulder, helping hold you up, and the other rubbing soft circles on your back.

“C’mon, there you go, get it all out.” You do, until your insides are aching, and head is pounding. Finally, the sick ends. You practically fall backward, Marc barely catching you as he guides you to lean against the wall, figuring that would be an easier task than standing you back up.

“Hurts.” You whisper, burying your face in your hands, knees to your chest. “Your head?” Marc asks, but he already knows that’s the answer.

“My heart.” Oh. He turned to look at you, properly, for the first time since you came into the flat; you look terrible. Your top is hanging off your body, the action of leaning over the basin making it scramble to stay on right. Your mascara is smudged from tears. Your eyes are struggling to stay open, drooping further by the minute, and your hair has become a mess on top of your head.

Yet, Marc can’t help but think you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

No matter what situation you all found yourselves in, he would always think that. Always.

When he next spoke, the edge to his voice was gone, replaced with a layer of sympathy and compassion- not that you noticed, nor particularly cared. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He helped you stand up on your feet, trying to ignore your soft sniffles as you came down form the high of a night out. He couldn’t help but swipe a tear away from your cheek, leaving his thumb for a second longer than he knew he should, just to revel in your skin.

He started by wiping off as much of your make-up as he could, using one of the wipes you had stocked in his cupboard. When he turned on the tap, you groaned. “Hey, it’s okay, look, it’ll help your headache.”

“Noo, ‘s cold.”

“It’ll feel nice.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Pinkie promise?” Marc rolled his eyes as you held up your pinkie finger but didn’t refuse it. Instead, he interlocked his own with yours, grateful to see a least the hint of a smile tugging at the end of your lips. The water did ,in fact, offer some comfort from the heat and sweat on your skin, and you thanked Marc for keeping his promise. “Good job. Wanna brush your teeth?”

“You still have my toothbrush.” It was the first coherent sentence you had said in a while. He followed to where you were pointing, your toothbrush stood proudly with the boys. “Course, we do. It’s only been a few days.” “Thought you’d throw it away by now.”

“What d’you mean?”

“That you don’t love me anymore.” Marc swore his heart broke a little. His thoughts became jumbled, swirling around each other as he took in your words.

“What… are you, are you serious?”

“Can you do it for me?”

“Huh?” It took a moment for him to register what you were asking until you grabbed your toothbrush and held it out for him.

“Please?” Perhaps it was your pleading, or your eyes whilst saying it, but Marc couldn’t resist, taking the toothbrush and getting it ready. It was silly, really silly, especially since your mouth was already open as wide as it could be, teeth on display. Marc cleared his throat, debating on whether this was a task he wanted to do, before deciding the sooner he did, the sooner you could go to sleep. And so, he did.

You didn’t react at first, not even when Marc talked you through the first step. But suddenly, you found the situation rather amusing, a giggle leaving your lips as Marc brushed your back teeth. “What?” You didn’t respond at first, just laughed, and he found himself laughing too.

“’s weird.” You whispered, a hiccup escaping your mouth as Marc agreed.

“Certainly didn’t think I’d be doing this tonight, that’s for sure.”

“Sorry that I ruined your plans.”

“Yeah, well, your lucky I love you.” It came out so naturally, without question, that even in your drunken state, you knew he meant it. It was silent for the rest of the minute. When you were done, Marc told you to spit, which you did immediately. Marc suddenly realised what you were wearing. “Oh shit, wait here, lemme get you some clothes.”

“But I’m wearing clothes.”

“Clothes to sleep in.”

“…oh.” You said suggestively, and Marc raised an eyebrow.

“Stop messin’ around, need to get you changed.”

“Okay, Marc.”

“You gonna wait here?”

“Whatever you say, Marc.” His heart dropped every time you said his name, as if it were given a different meaning every time it left your lips. He was back quickly with one of the tops from the draw you had in their flat, the one he knew was your favourite.

“Arms up, baby.” The name slipped out, but you didn’t notice- it might’ve well as been your name from him. You obliged, silent now. He was grateful that the task didn’t take long, and soon enough, you were dressed comfortably. “All done.” He muttered, mostly to himself, but you smiled, reaching for his hand.

“Thank you, Marc.” He let his thumb rub over the skin of your palm, let his eyes lock with yours, pupils dilated. And then it wasn’t his eyes you were staring at anymore. “Hello, Steven.” You whispered, smiling.

“Hiya, lovie. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” He had already helped you up, hand still holding yours as he directed you the short distance to the bed.

“Why, Mr Grant, are you trying to get me into bed?”

“Very funny. C’mon, your very tired, practically fallin’ asleep walking, eh? Besides, your much too drunk to do anything expect from sleep peacefully. Look, I’ll tuck you in so you can do just that.” Steven pulled the duvet back for you to climb into the bed, and you instantly found comfort in their smell, the sheets that moulded against your body so well. It was familiar, it was home.

Steven kept his promise, pulling the duvet tightly over your body so that it was hugging you. He even went as far as lifting your head up with one hand plumping the pillow behind it, before gently placing it back down. “All better.” He muttered, proud at his work of making you a human cocoon.

“Thank you, Steven.”

“Your very welcome. Do you need anything?” You shook your head, eyes already closing from the undeniable comfort of the sheets.

“Okay. Welp, if you change your mind, gimme a shout, okay? I’ll just be on the sofa.” Your eyes shot back open, realisation hitting as you felt his presence leaving your side.

“No, wait, w-where are you going? Why are you leaving me?” Your eyes were getting watery as your hand reached out to tug on Steven’s shirt.

“No-no-no, ‘m not leaving you, would never leave you… I’m just over there, look.” You didn’t glance as he tried to show you the sofa, eyes trained on his own.

“Please…can you stay with me?” His eyes widened slightly, not sure if he should, not sure if you would wake up and be mad at him for staying in the same bed after not being on speaking terms. But the pout on your lips, the gentle tug on his shirt, the tears in your eyes… he agreed, slowly getting into the bed next to you.

He was surprised when you instantly snuck out his warmth, snuggling into his side and breathing a sigh of relief. His arms sought place on your frame- one over your shoulders, the other stroking the back of your neck. He thought you were asleep when your breathing got heavier, until your voice spoke again.

“Steven?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you angry at me?” He smiled, shaking his head, though you couldn’t see.

“No, love.”

“Really?”

“Course not. It’s in the past, yeah? Let’s just focus on getting you rested and better.”

“So you’ll stay with me?”

“All night long ‘till the sun comes up.”

“Steven?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Thank you for taking care ‘f me.”

“Of course, love.” And he smiled as he heard your gentle snores, feeling on the cusp of sleep himself. “Always.”

tags: @dalia-12-3 @kotonei-molyneux @lovepeaceorelse @lokilover476 @alexxavicry @later-gators12

#Moon Knight #moon knight imagine #moon knight angst #moon knight ff #moon knight fluff #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockely x reader #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockely #steven grant fanfiction #jake lockley fanfiction #marc spector fanfiction #fluff #angst

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iconocon · 1 year

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what about me | verstappen

⚔︎ ✧ (short)

there he was.

a wet max verstappen stood in the doorframe of your apartment smelling like the mini-bar of a cheap hotel and it was not a good look on him. your eyes went from the bird's nest of a hair on his head to the dark wine-red half-smudged lipstick stain on his white collared shirt to the belt around his waist that was left on one notch too big.

"i didn't know where else to go"

"why would you come here"

"i needed you please don't make me go home"

you hated him. hated that he always knew exactly what to say to suck you in, to forgive him for the stupid shit he does but your heart was too big to kick the wet beaten-down puppy anymore so with a big sigh you stepped backward allowing him into the hallway.

"max"

you two knew each other well enough by this point that he automatically tried reaching to take off his wet black dress shoes but I'm sure the rain mixed with the cheap vodka was too much for him and he went tumbling to the wooden floor in a mess. if anything your patience with him was wearing thin and with one glance into your living you would see the big clock above your sofa laying out the time of 3:25 in the morning. so slowly getting down to his height you reached for one foot while he reached for the other, of course, you managed it way before him and even chuckled at the frustrated look on his face as he struggled with the knot he himself made which did all but distract his gaze to your face. the way he stared at you was unnerving, as if he wanted to say something so bad but didn't have the guts to do it and that probably scared you the most because if he of all people was scared to say something it was not something you wanted to hear.

"come"

before you could even say no or turn down the offer the man himself nudged your knee out from underneath you with just his foot laying you flat on ur butt/the wet footprints he made himself minutes before.

"what the fu-"

"i don't know who i am anymore" he interrupted and before you could say anything he stopped you with a hand on your knee as he stared mindlessly with glazed-over eyes into your beige wallpaper abyss of a hallway, "I'm not happy not at home, not on the track, I don't know how to make it okay again" you wanted to reach out and touch him but every time your fingers moved closer to his body he shifted around them so he was just so out of reach which at this point should have been a normal occurrence for you but it still didn't stop the pain in your chest. "i went out and i did what the guys wanted, i drank and drank, and i danced with some girl who only liked me fo-" the hiccup stopped he sentence but the lipstick mark on his collar told the story for him. "i wanted to be okay just for one night" this time you didn't allow him to push his body away from you and instead sat shoulder to shoulder with him grabbing his damp head and pulling it down into your lap. as you ran your fingers through his hair you hummed a familiar song that you both loved as children even going as far to label it as ‘your song’.

max was a tough guy. growing up in the way in which he did he wasn't allowed the luxury of being a crazy teen or a child that could talk back to his parents. he was a prodigy meant to be something greater than all the other kids on the block and you saw it in him the moment you met on track. at that time you wanted to be something too, you wanted to be bigger than all the stars, but reality set in for you too young making you realize that you weren't cut out for the same dreams as your peers however that didn't stop you from being a selfish child then adult and keeping him.

your crush on max was visible from day one, he was all chubby bright pink cheeks and fury. you want to say the first time you realized your crush was the same day he yelled at pierre gasly (one of your now both good friends) for pushing you off track after he broke late in one of the corners making you cry your eyes out because you were finally able to compete for a podium. it was dumb and it was stupid but he was your savior even as children making sure to do everything he could to make you laugh even making himself look stupid to onlookers in restaurants by putting straws up his nose one day when you were sad your mom said you couldn’t have ice cream.

when he too grew up and left it was probably the hardest thing you had to go through because to you he was your peace, your home, but as a teen, it was hard for you to realize at the time that you weren't his. racing took your best friend away, and it was bittersweet because he was so good. he was better than you thought he was, and now your drunk sad best friend was a two-time world champion who could be recognized around the world. for fucks sake he raced in countries you could only dream of on a normal person's salary and even when it felt like you grew so far apart you knew he still needed you as he did now. you were the one person in the world he knew he could come to and cry and cry and do it again until he couldn't feel any more but yet maybe he didn't understand why that hurt you. why right now as he was laying in your arms you were so focused on the way his heart skipped a beat when he snored that your own heartbeat fell in tune with him.

you loved max verstappen and even though you could never be enough for him you selfishly hoped now as you did as children that he would always need you even if that meant waiting forever but, for now, you slept dreaming of what it could be like if maybe just maybe he did too.

⌯

this is so short and probably bad but i was SAD and i might delete it idk i haven't written in so long but i have a few in the chamber anyway pls send prompts I love u!

#max verstappen imagine #f1 one shot #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #max verstappen x reader #angst #childhood best friends to lovers #max verstappen fluff

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flokali · 2 years

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post!imposter au where everyone is soooo desperate for your forgiveness. honestly, seeing so many of the genshin impact characters get on their knees and beg and cry for you had a sick and twisted sense of pleasure coursing through your veins.

so imagine telling zhongli that you would give liyue another chance if he became your disposable little sex toy. and the geo archon is already hard beyond belief, many of his fantasies coming to life as you stepped on his hard-on without a trace of shame, harshly rubbing your shoe against it. he comes a fucking lot and you have to punish him somehow once his cum stains your bare skin. he doesn't even remember why he was there in the first place, he just wants you to ride him until his balls are empty or rail him until his hole basically takes the shape of your cock. slap his face, tell him how stupid he is for not being able to recognize you as the real creator as he sobs sorries pathetically under you, coming for the nth time that night.

and imagine how whiney venti would be once he finds out about this. you should be fucking him!! not that boring old man!! please!! and he can act like he's doing it *for the sake of mondstadt* all he likes but you and morax know better. especially when he's humping your leg like a crazed, air-headed dog. he'd honestly be so desperate for you- i mean, your forgiveness, that he'd basically do anything that you ask of him.

alternative idea: everyone recognized you as the creator the moment you arrived in teyvat and months later you started a new custom in which you put hand-picked characters in a giant room and order all the characters to put on a show with each other (imagine all the ships, hehe) until you can eventually choose the best amongst them and add them to your new list of toys.

Warnings: yandere themes, sagau, gn! and dom reader, smut, mentions of cum, sub! venti and zhongli, implications of past mistreatment, jealousy, ask to tag.

Literally speechless at how big brained this concept is, like it’s genuinely god sent. This isn’t particularly long but just know I’m going to think about this everyday until I die.

18+ UTC

Zhongli is immediately intrigued when he hears about a way for you to possibly forgive Liyue and its people, his heart still ached at the memories of your past treatment. He wondered how exactly it was he could possibly make it up to you, he’d be willing to do anything – he had told you so himself – but he never expected your request to be so lewd, nor did he realize how much he would like the sound of it either.

It’s uncharacteristic how fast he replies, even when it comes to you; a contract is a contract and he prides himself in always analyzing each and every single one he, himself, partakes in. Maybe, you tease, it’s because all the blood that normally circulated around his brain flowed straight down into his dick.

He had always been a bit shameful, some habits die hard; even the ones he’s had for thousands of years, even if it includes some from his younger and more, let’s say, aggressive youth. All this to say, Zhongli had always thought of what it’d be like to have sex with his beloved creator.

He doesn’t even remember how or when his clothes were torn off, the normally pristine suit he always wore was sullied with dust as he kneels in front of you, he can’t even remember when his hard on had grown so painful; all he knew was that your feet feel too good rubbing his cock. His face begins to twist into one of unrecognizable pleasure, his normally wise and pristine personality long since crushed under the intense bliss he was feeling in the moment.

It’s funny, you realize, how even when clothed you could feel the way he pulsated with every touch, his face was turning impossibly red as he let himself be toyed with, he couldn’t help the way his breathing began coming out as pathetic pants, you wondered if maybe this was something he’d always wanted; to become someone’s toy.

You doubted the shoes you were wearing were comfortable down there but he didn’t seem to mind as the wet patch in his pants grew in size and dampness, it was pitiful how easily worked up he was. Eventually, you let him take off his pants, which he does in a manner too sloppy to have come from a man such as Zhongli, and you son come face to face with his dick, and maybe it’s the sudden release from its confinement in Zhongli’s trousers, they always did appear to be quite tight, or maybe he had been close to shooting regardless, because soon enough you find splatters of cum in your skin. The pearly liquid is thick as you scoop it out from your arm and it’s not hard to look down at the archon with a questioning look.

You chuckle as you slowly remove your underwear and clothes; “Already coming, Mr Zhongli? I’m afraid you still have an awful lot to make up for…”

The news of your sexual randevouz with the Geo Archon travels quickly through the winds to the eager, and jealous, ears of Barbatos, the deity of Anemo. It’s as such that he immediately requests your presence in his humble region under the pretense of a much needed apology.

That is, until you arrive – soon enough he’s throwing himself at your feet, tears in his eyes as he begs for your forgiveness. Oh, how was he so blind? To hurt you was the last thing he’d ever dreamt of, he can’t even live with himself for what he and his people have done!

With faux tears, and an aching cock, he asks what could he ever do to receive your blessed forgiveness before bringing up what the wind had carried.

The minute you agree he’s back on his knees, desperately humping your clothed legs, he was so grateful for how revealing his Archon outfit was because it only took a few movements until his cock was free and he could excitedly rub himself against your skin.

“I-I just can’t-t believe you’d go to that – oh, ah! Fu~ck! – that old hag first! He’s s-suchgh… a brute with no brain…!”

Venti makes sure not to cum on you nor your clothes, completely and utterly focused on not commuting the heinous crimes his fellow archon had given way to. It’s incredibly hard to part his cock from your body but he makes sure to angle his cum in a way that will ensure your precious skin is clean.

“S-see? ‘M nothing like that- hmm?” You decide to just kiss and shut him up, “Ahh~ My lord, hah, if you wanted to kiss me s-so badly… you could’ve just said so… heh.”

He lets you unrobe him, in fact, he relishes in the way you undress his form; the intimate way you tug and pull at his clothes is so enchanting to him, he’s basically panting by the end.

“Oh no,” he moans, letting you push him on the marble table, “what will you do to me? Don’t tell me you’ll defile~ No! Don’t leave, please! I was just joking, your grace, you know I want you, I want you so bad… just, use my body~ Please?”

By the end of the night, his beautiful voice is but a mere whisper, his throat long since hoarse from screaming and moaning.

“Ha-ah!” Tears swell in his pretty, round eyes, “Ye-esh! Thankyouthankyouthankyou- hghhh…!”

Now, all you have to do is see if Ei will take your offer too.

#๋࣭ offerings #๋࣭. hidden devotee #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere zhongli #yandere venti #yandere morax #yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere male #yandere #yandere au #sagau #yandere sagau #zhongli smut #venti smut #yandere harem #yandere male x reader #male yandere

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richeeduvie · 25 days

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thank you genius anon for the roman summer house ask. but also richee can you elaborate on this time that roman came out from under the table while drunk… curious to know if he did that for the reason I think he did

"That tickles. Jesus fuck-!"

"I'm not even licking anythi-"

Roman's not. He just finds the inside of your thighs quite comfortable. And your skin smells good. Like really good, it's whatever body wash you're using.

Sometimes, it doesn't feel that taboo to want to peel bits of you off. If he could put you back together without any pain, he would.

"Someone's coming. Just shh."

He rolls his eyes, but his heart feels like the way his mouth purses when he hears it's Kendall.

Roman understands his jealousy. Not very fucking well, but he knows that it's just not right whenever you talk to people. It doesn't even have to be other boys that Roman's sure they want you naked and nippled and for them, it's just...anyone. It's Kendall, but Kendall's a fucking freak. It's Shiv and every adult adult who takes time away from him. It's school and it's movies that distract you.

Maybe it's fucking pathetic? Roman doesn't it. It's not right because it makes him feel sick and small.

And Kendall just keeps yapping. You're too nice to everyone, like it's your job. It's especially peevy when you make it so Kendall's comfortable.

You won't admit it - Kendall won't even admit it, but the brotherly fucker wants you so badly. It's gross. And you should pretty much have the understanding that you don't do well with other people. Just him, even when he's mean. Sorry.

"So, I was just thinking about...you ever hear of go-karting?"

"Jesus fuck."

Roman cringes and lazily comes up from your legs. Not air, cause that would mean he wouldn't be taking in your mouth whole.

"...Roman-"

"You taste like cake. Yum. Hi, Ken." He furrows his brows, looking down. "Close your legs, you don't want to look slutty in front of my brother."

And Roman tries not to wear a stupid-born smile when Kendall just stares, all the confidence and shitty banter gone now that he's here. And his mouth was just on your crotch. That doesn't need to be said between the three of you.

"Do you - do you guys do that al-all the time? What the fuck? That's not cool, dude."

"Why are you pushing this on me? What if she wanted me down in the trenches."

"...Are you-" You hiccup. Roman fixes your hair. "Is my vagina the trench?"

"It's like - take it as a fucking compliment. Wet, narrow....I'm the only one up in there, right?"

"Don't fucking...Roman. Both of you, what if Dad saw?"

"He wouldn't have?"

Roman scratches behind his ear. He can see a purposeful, slight shake of his brother's body.

"What? Cause you wouldn't have made the fucking effort to come up?"

"Why does it bother you so much? It would've only bothered Dad cause it's just more proof that I am his disappointment baby. A vat of unprofessionalism."

Roman knows why Kendall looks so strangled by the way he came up from under the table, why he still looks tense as he throws his legs over you. You look heated. It makes Roman smile.

He knows why even if Kendall never admits it. Maybe he'll get over you like a normal fucking person. But Roman's selfish as much as he is someone that loves his brother. He deserves a bit of tense nerves, his own amount of jealousy because he's not even suppose to be jealous in the first place.

Roman burps and presses a thumb into your hand.

"Go away, Kendall. You have Stewy cock to make you feel better. About what? I don't think either of us have a clue."

He drags out the word clue and stares into your skin, a low head looking down.

Don't give her that fucking look, bitch.

He looks at your guilted face like you've vomited on his shoe.

"Don't tell me you actually feel embarrassed and bad about it."

"You should've waited."

"Oowee, let's spare Ken's feelings. What feelings am I sparing by making the effort to not remind him that I'm inside you at all times?"

When you don't respond, the casual and sickly humor turns red in Roman. He stares.

"What feelings?"

But he's weak, it never takes much and it takes nothing when he's drank a lot. Like a softy, touchy little hand holding his.

"Wanna pick a movie?"

"...It's gonna be a super dirty movie. The most visible pussy and dick you've ever witnessed."

"You had a panic attack watching the first fifteen minutes of boogie nights and we had to put on the beauty and the bea-"

Roman's heart picks up. Why would you ever bring that up?

"You didn't make that moment feel like something you were gonna fucking laugh at me for."

"I'm not laughing, I'm just saying...do you think you'd get like that if you watched us on camera?"

He blinks.

"Have you been fucking recording us?"

"No! I was just wondering."

"You're not good at that. Fucking Jesus."

"Where are you going?"

Back down. Where it's easier to breathe.

#inbox #hc's #drabble #dog and bone!au #roman roy x reader #succession fanfiction

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rockingrobin69 · 9 months

Text

Colour-full

It was the hottest Saturday in July and Teddy had been climbing the actual walls before Harry broke and said, “Okay, okay, to the park then.”

(The wall thing was new. Ron said it was quite ‘Spider-Lad’ of him; Hermione laughed so hard she kinked her neck. Teddy’s magic, still so new and boundaryless, often manifested in ways that were either literal, or just plain wild).

And so to the park they went. To ride the stupid ‘pirate ship’ (“just one more time!”) and chase after dogs (“Teddy, no, it’s their ball!”) and get ice cream (“Please please please Uncle Harry”). Harry was, at his core, a big softie, and for Teddy all the more; so, yes, he located the nearest stand, and marched to take his place in the queue with all the resolve of a godfather on a mission.

Waited a veritable ever with Teddy’s order on repeat in his mind (chocolate with strawberry syrup, chocolate with strawberry syrup) until he was face to face with the ice cream display and—oh no, he felt faint.

Draco Malfoy should not be allowed to wear magenta.

Not because he looked bad, per-se (he looked ridiculous, like, fuck-me, ridiculous. With the hat, magenta, and the uniform, magenta, with his hair and his nose ring and a thick black choker). Mostly because the effect was a bit much, and Harry lost his ability to form speech when grey eyes finally deigned to grace him with a look.

“What can I get you, Sir?”

Blinked and blinked and sweated and blinked. “Malfoy,” Harry tried. “It’s me.”

“Indeed. So, ice cream, or…?”

Like a kick to the shin. “What? It’s—what are you even—it’s me. Harry Potter. Your, er, I mean, what are you doing selling ice cream in my park?”

One pierced eyebrow hitched. “My apologies. I wasn’t aware they’d made it your park.” With an overly-dramatic huff: “am I still allowed to work here, Mr. Potter?”

“What?” was really all he could give.

“Tell you what. Why don’t you order your ice cream, I’ll get it for you, and even refrain from spitting in it, as a personal favour. Then off you go on your merry little way and maybe get a new shirt because, sorry to say, but this one is painful on the eyes.”

“This shirt is painful on the eyes?” Harry growled, pointing at the magenta uniform, the magenta hat, the magenta backdrop of the cart.

“You’re right. Probably not the shirt. The face attached to it seems to be the problem. Now, Potter, there are people behind you, and it’s hot as fuck, so. Ice cream or sod off?”

For the longest moment he considered sodding off, but Teddy was sitting on that bench and looking very hopeful, and—charming little bubbles in rainbow colours all around him? Shit. “Erm, chocolate with raspberry syrup. Please.”

“Always were a man of high tastes,” Malfoy smirked, but he gave Harry a couple of scoops and a generous dousing of syrup, then charged him something exorbitant, then winked. Harry—had no time to deal with this.

Running back to Teddy (“hey, buddy, so, those bubbles, are you making them on purpose or…?”) with an already-dripping ice cream cone and a strange, swooping feeling in his belly (not hunger). By the time he’d spelled Ted’s hands clean, he already forgot about Malfoy and the whole thing.

Only remembered that night after bedtime. The back of his eyes when he shut them shone oddly magenta.

Went to the park the following week without Teddy (spending some time with Remus’s cousin). On his own, in a fairly-nice shirt and smart shoes. Not because, erm, just, he had to make sure. Right? Had to make sure.

The cart wasn’t where Harry’d seen it last week. Possibly he imagined the whole thing? He was overheated and terribly sleep-deprived. But on his way back to the car park, a different ice cream stand, where the staff seemed to be dressed in neon-green, and one of them was flipping Harry off.

Oh. It felt just like that in his chest: an oh. There he was.

Marched over with wholesome indignation, fist ready for the shaking. But Malfoy stepped out of the cart, leaning in its shadow. “Back for another go? We’ve got a new apple-kiwi flavour.”

“What happened to the,” big hand gesture, “magenta place?”

“Hmm? It’s still there. I just think green’s more my colour,” head titled back, long throat bare. “What do you want, Potter? Don’t tell me you came here for ice cream.”

“What if I did?” asked Harry, who didn’t.

Malfoy sighed. His eyes opened, large and startling. “Then I’d recommend you get in the queue and leave me the fuck alone.”

“And—” hand reaching out to stop him, no, Malfoy can’t leave, that’s not how this worked, “and what if it wasn’t ice cream I came for?”

“Then you need to make a decision. If it’s a brawl you want, you’d have to wait till after my shift. If it’s—something else,” suddenly he was very close, huffing warm breath on Harry’s face, “then you should really get here earlier.”

“What? Why?” paralysed by the proximity, buzzing on Malfoy’s sharp smell, apple and citrus and—kiwi?

“Potter, this is the ice-cream world. First come, first serve.” And he was off, back to the cart with his choker and his arse, for which such tight trousers should be made fucking illegal. Put his arm around his coworker, winked again. Harry didn’t like it, didn’t know what to do with the whole thing, with any of it. Took himself back home and sulked at the walls until too late at night.

Decided. It was even fairly easy. Fell asleep and dreamed of a forest, of the sea.

Continue reading on Ao3 - or below the cut

“Brawl,” he announced when he finally found Malfoy, now wearing all yellow. “I want a brawl. You need to be punched, and I could take a few kicks, I reckon. Let’s brawl.”

“Hurray,” Malfoy smiled. “I finish at six. Meet me behind the pirate ship. And, Potter, you should probably wear something a little less nice if fisticuffs is what you’re going for.”

Not grinning (Malfoy thinks his shirt is nice?) Harry went back home, made lunch for Teddy, dreamed a little with his eyes open. Cleaned the debris of the cabinet Ted’s magic accidentally exploded, releasing candy flying everywhere, changed into joggers and a tee.

“Where are you going, again?” asked Ron, who came by to babysit. He settled down in the living room with a hand on the remote and the other around a huge bowl of popcorn.

“Nowhere special. Just a little walk in the park or something. Going to watch the new Spider-Lad?”

“Paw Patrol!” Teddy exclaimed, his whole face a toothless grin.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Paw Patrol? Again? Teddy, there’s a whole world of cinematic goodness for us to discover, and Auntie Hermione still thinks I’m full of it but there are whole films about animals who can talk!”

“Full of it,” Harry said.

“Shut up, mate, I’m serious! What do you say, Ted? A lion that can sing, or those pup detectives again?”

“Paw Patrol!”

“Okay. Paw Patrol it is.” A desolate, commiserating look to Harry: “Honestly, what is it tonight? You can’t stop smiling.”

“Nothing, nothing, I promise.” Nearly ran to the park, was there well before half-five, antsy and giddy and nervous. Walked around and around in circles, oblivious to the kids and families and shouts from the pirate ship. To anything that wasn’t—

Malfoy appeared, still in yellow, making him look slightly sallow and lanky. Coming closer. Harry’s heart was rioting in his chest, was going to deafen him.

“You came,” Malfoy said. He looked pleased. It was shaded behind the ride, a grassy area empty of trees. Malfoy dropped his backpack to the ground, pulled something out of it. Still crouched: “Do you want to count us down, or…?”

“Erm. Sure.” Harry’s never really done it like this before. Scheduled like a play-date or something. Malfoy was still on his knees near the bag. “Three… two… one?”

What attacked him was too soft and too cold to be hands—oh, Malfoy just dumped ice cream on his head, quickly melting into his hair, sticky down his throat, under his shirt. Tongue darting out to taste it: yuck, lemon.

“Bastard!” Harry cried, half-blinded with the soft substance, lunging at him with his eyes closed: “come here, you fucking, arsehole, let me,” found Malfoy’s hair and pulled. “You think this is funny?”

“Ow, ah, ha ha,” fucker, he really did, folded nearly in two in Harry’s arms, “it, gods, just too much—”

“Yeah? How would you like it if I,” scooping a dollop out of his hair and shoving it in the general area of Malfoy’s face, hopefully where the choking sounds were coming out of.

“Potter, stop, stop, I can’t,” laughing like a maniac, not even trying to kick Harry off. “Potter!”

Harry somehow managed to shove them both to the grass, where they’d started rolling, sticky and covered in horrible melting cream, both of them swimming in it, both of them laughing. “You’re such a git,” smearing as much as he could on Malfoy’s face, on his uniform, on his neck. Climbed atop him and pinned him down, laughing, laughing.

“You,” Malfoy sputtered, “P-otter, ha, I can’t, ow, ah—”

“Am I hurting you?” asked Harry, who only earlier today planned on punching him. Slid on top of Malfoy’s slimy clothes until he had one sticky cheek in his hand. “Malfoy, are you okay?”

He was still laughing. “Is this,” his chest heaving, “is this what you, ha, wanted?”

“No,” empathetically, laughing too. “You’re a lunatic. It’s—grand.”

“Honestly, when you came and, haha, brawl, I couldn’t—” wiping his eyes, it must sting, all this melted ice cream where it really shouldn’t be. “Ow, this was a terrible idea.”

Harry didn’t know if he agreed. Sticking his pinkie finger in the welling of liquid gathered under Malfoy’s collarbone, bringing it to his lips: “It’s actually not that bad.”

“Hmm?” looking up at Harry, those bright eyes. “Yes?”

“Here, have some.” It was half surprising, how gentle his finger was, tracing Malfoy’s bottom lip till it opened. How carefully he fed Malfoy his own ice cream. Half a surprise and half… not.

Malfoy licked his lips, made Harry’s whole body shiver. “Mm. Not the best. Come back tomorrow and I’d give you something really nice.”

“Can it maybe come in a cone?” this hopeful thing igniting in his belly. “You know, like normal ice cream?”

Malfoy was still laughing. Harry could feel it between his knees, where Malfoy’s ribs were shaking. “Sure. In a cone. You chicken.”

“I’m the—” incensed, Harry leaned down to swipe a big lick from Malfoy’s neckline all the way to his jaw. It tasted awful and slightly electrifying. Forgetting all about the rebuke, Harry did it again.

“Po—Potter,” a moan, when Harry sucked the salty-sweet skin. “Potter!”

“Sweet,” Harry said nonsensically. “You—it’s sweet.”

His smile, when it stretched in yucky, sticky lines on his face. Made Harry’s chest sort of spark. “I can be sweet, too. Just you wait.”

When he kissed him, he tasted like lemons.

The next day Teddy accidentally grew a tail and two ears while arguing another rewatch of Paw Patrol. The nice witch from Mungo’s said it was no issue, that they would probably spell off in a day or two. Gave them a very odd-looking hat and advised them to go out and enjoy this brilliant, sunny day.

What else could they do, then, but go to the park?

Walked around and around, rode the pirate ship three times, searched in every ice cream stand until, by total accident: “Potter,” with a tilt of his head. All in blue, a truly unfair sight. “And his little monkey, too.”

“I’m a pup!” Teddy shouted, running towards him. “Paw Patrol!”

“Indeed,” Malfoy agreed with a strange smile. “It’s good to meet you, Edward. I’m—”

“Draco Malfoy!” Teddy already knew? Somehow? “Uncle Harry talks about you all the—”

“Ha ha,” covering the whole little face with his hand, “he’s joking, of course. No, I, erm, probably told him a thing or two about the—ice cream, or something. Teddy, do you want some ice cream?”

“Mm-hmm!” from behind Harry’s hand. Pointing at a flavour that didn’t look much like anything, a blue blurb.

Malfoy nodded, considering. “Excellent choice, young pup sir. Blueberry bubble-gum, coming right up. And for the gentleman?”

Teddy pointed at something that looked even less like it should be edible. Malfoy’s devilish grin told him he was correct in that assessment. “Hmm. Naturally, naturally. In fact, and if I might add—sprinkles?”

Ted started jumping up and down. His hat shifted slightly, showing what now were—

“Oh my,” Malfoy covered his own mouth, and what turned out to be laughter, “blue ears, Edward? That’s not something you see every day.”

Teddy came forward to watch how Malfoy scooped up the ice cream with the big spoon, eyes round. “Can I do that?” he turned to Harry. “Please, please, can I—”

“Why not? Hop in. I’ll show you how to do it so even your Uncle Harry is impressed.” And he guided Teddy’s hand to scoop up Harry’s ice cream, in what had to be at least twenty different health-code violations. “Do you want to do the sprinkles too?”

Was how they all ended up covered in sprinkles, and Malfoy closed off the stand (“smoking break, something, whatever,”) and they took a walk around the park till they found a slightly shaded area.

It really was a brilliant day. Teddy was happy enough even with the weird, itchy hat, and Malfoy was—bright blue. This thing melting in Harry’s chest felt uncomfortably close to ice cream.

On his lunch break the next day, Malfoy was wearing orange. He wondered if it was his ice-cream business, and he’s the one who changed colour every day; or if there truly were so many rivalling stands, each with their own theme. It didn’t matter. None of it did, besides for Malfoy’s lips, which stretched into a smile, and his eyes, crinkling with it too, and his hands, reaching out for Harry.

“So?” he asked when Harry was close enough to take one. “Did I pass. The test. The—dogged deliberation.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry laughed, pulled him closer.

“Teddy, of course! You brought him as your expert judge, I expect. What did he say? Am I allowed to do this?” brought Harry’s hand to his mouth, kissed it. “And, this?” pinched his side painfully.

“Ow! Bastard! I didn’t—Teddy was just off because of the whole, ear thing. I didn’t bring him to judge you or whatever.”

“So why did you come here?” eyebrow rising, rising. With that piercing that made Harry want to lick it. “I mean, there are many other things you could do on a day off, but you keep coming—here.”

“This is my park,” Harry reminded him gently. Malfoy scoffed, turned his face away. “Hey—”

“No, no, you’re right. Your park. I suppose that makes me your employee? Kinky shit, Sir.”

“Malfoy.” Tugged his chin up, made him look. “I keep coming here because I like you. Because you’re deranged and I don’t get you half the time and I like you. Is that enough, or do you want the whole song and dance?”

This half-smile he kept chewing on springing loose. “Ooh, there’s a dance?”

Harry kissed him, helpless with it. “You’re such an arsehole,” into his neck, and today Malfoy smelled like orange blossom and like mango, something addictive and crushing, unbearable. “How do you even,” inhaling deep, deep, “do this?”

“Magic, of course,” Malfoy laughed, and kissed him back.

The problem was it was magic. The problem was Harry couldn’t get enough. The main problem was, he couldn’t remember why that was a problem.

The next day he couldn’t go to the park again (something about staying an hour past his lunch break? Something about barely showing up to work in a week. Something about being an adult and having responsibilities, something silly). Harry texted the number Malfoy gave him, which might have been a joke, or a hoax, didn’t hope for much.

Got a reply a little too quickly. A photo of an ice cream stand, all in pink. Then an emoji with the tongue sticking out. Harry thought: this man is mad, and I might be head over heels for him. Smiled into his coffee cup and thought about what to cook for Teddy tonight. Maybe he’d invite Malfoy over? Maybe it could be a thing. God, could he make it a thing, could he build something out of it, this colourful whirlwind of a spark?

Closed his eyes: everything was pink, like a mouth puckered for a kiss, like cartoon hearts. Decided, and it was even fairly easy.

“You have to try the lavender.”

“Yes, Uncle Harry, try it, try it!”

Harry rolled his eyes, prayed for mercy. “Awfully suspicious, the two of you are being.”

“What! Teddington, I think your uncle just insulted us. Show him how we feel about that.” Teddy tried to pout, but he was smiling too much. “Very good. Now, come on, Harry, we made it especially for you!”

It was purple. The whole cart, the whole world, behind his eyelids and the silly suit Malfoy was wearing. Harry opened his mouth and let them stick a spoon in. Swallowed: lavender. Oddly nice, just a little sweet, just the way he liked it.

“You both are,” Harry tried, couldn’t find the word. Mad and brilliant and purple. “Ach, come here.” Wrapping his arms around all the sticky limbs he could find, this rumbling in his chest still, to this day, close to toppling him over.

It was very colourful, being alive.

In the distance Ted’s bubbles were distinctly purple, too.

For the brilliant @purplehotmess who gave me such a sweet prompt!

#drarry fic #3k #SWEET FLUFF WARNING #Harry raises Teddy #Draco is an ice-cream maker #accidental magic #rockingrobin69

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crumbingmask · 7 months

Text

Honey & Glass (Yullen, Rated T)

Chapter 2; I don't think you owe me much at all.

AO3

The days bleed into each other down here. Central sends in someone new everyday but they all ask the same things.

Where is Kanda Yu?

Allen will never tell them, he’s hidden them far out of the Order reach. It’s all he can do for them now, and it’s a secret that will die with him.

What did you do with Alma Karma?

Freed them; hopefully.

—

Allen has seen the tortured souls of the Akuma for six years now. He had sworn his life to fight them, to serve the Order.

The Black Order dedicated to stopping the Earl and eradicating the Akuma.

Kanda isn’t an Akuma but his creation was so much like one. A tragedy, a soul forcefully given new life.

—

It’s dark and musty in the cell he’s placed in. He hadn't even known the Order had jail cells.

With his sense of direction and the size of the new Headquarters maybe he would’ve found them under different circumstances.

His arms ache, bound together for days now with the seals from the Crows. He leans heavily against Timcanpy’s large form. Allen remembers when he was younger and slept against Tim like this all the time.

He’s glad that with the golem here, he isn’t alone.

Especially since Tim has tried to bite anyone attempting to move the golem out.

—

They bring in meals. His stomach aches and howls loudly for food, but Allen still refuses to eat.

He doesn’t trust what measures they’ll take to get him to talk.

Where is Kanda Yu?

He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know.

—

Sometimes when Allen dreams, when Mana isn’t cheerfully tugging him along a long narrow road, calling him by a name he can never remember. Though Allen is certain it is not his own.

He doesn’t like those dreams.

No, sometimes he sees Alma and a woman whose name he doesn’t know.

They sit in a pond, the calm water spanning with of infinite reach. He stands at the edge of water. Lotus blooms swaying as they call for him to join them while they wait, their beckoning is so welcoming.

Whenever he wakes, he always wants to cry. He doesn’t understand.

Where is Kanda Yu?

He’s gone. I’m so sorry. —

He never stays in one place long, Allen can't risk getting detected. Not by the Akuma or The Order.

Inhale.

He’s so fucking exhausted, his feet have been numb for an hour. He wonders if it’s sweat in his shoes or blood this time.

Exhale.

Too many innocent people will get hurt if they get too close to him, Apocryphos will do anything to get to him.

He has to keep walking. —

The moment Allen’s eyes landed on Kanda, several thoughts and confusing emotions occurred simultaneously.

First, the disbelief. The heart-stopping shock, paralyzing him.

Which is then followed by one of the most intensely nauseating floods of butterflies that begin fluttering in his stomach.

Because Kanda was right there! He was okay, as surly and beautiful as always.

Then following quickly behind that was anger.

Why the fuck is Kanda wearing that uniform? He’d survived, and went back?! Is he stupid?

Scratch that, Allen knows Kanda is stupid. He’d just thought he would’ve at least had more sense than this.

He had been free, he had the love of his lives returned to him. Yet, there he stood just mere feet away. It made no sense at all.

And fuck, he definitely can’t let Kanda know it’s him if he’s with the Order. He is a “fucking Noah” now, as Kanda had so eloquently stated during their last battle.

—

“What did I just say about being too rough!!” Johnny shouts at him and Walker yelps in discomfort, Kanda just tunes them out as he forcefully scrubs away the chalky white face paint. He doesn’t want to dare to hope. That it’s really Allen and not the imposter daring to wear his skin.

Until Walker swings his leg up, cracking Kanda in the back of the head with it. The impact of it is strong, but he remains above the brat, and keeps him pinned against the cobblestone.

“Are you trying to rub my face off, Kanda, you jerk!!” Stupid beansprout’s stupid fucking flexible legs. Pain spider-webs out from where Allen’s knee connected against his skull. It exacerbates that hangover that is slowly chipping away his brain.

Kanda stares down at Allen. His eyes are a brilliant silver, and so clearly irritated. Smeared paint covering his face. His mouth is stained red.

And all Kanda can think is. It’s you. It’s really you.

—

When Allen wakes up next the moon is high in the sky, the room he’s in is dark and quiet. The only sound is the slow sleeping breath of his two unexpected companions.

Johnny is in the bed across from his own, he has fallen asleep with his glasses on just like Allen used to see him do when he’d stop by the science division sometimes. He snores every once and while.

Kanda is on the couch, his elbow propped on the armrest, his head resting against his hand. Mugen is placed across his lap, like he’s in a position to be alert quickly.

He’s happy Kanda’s alive, but looking at him..hurts. Allen is used to looking at Kanda and feeling conflicted to say the least, but now seeing him here is extra bittersweet.

Because Kanda is fragile now. Allen knows he can die, realizes that fact and feels it in a visceral way.

So, Allen takes this moment to look at Kanda. Like really look at him while he’s got the opportunity.

Kanda’s hair has been returned to its original inky black, now neatly tied back into a low ponytail.

There’s no trace of the cracks that once made him look like a dilapidated statue.

Allen has always held a begrudging respect, even admiration for him. Though he’d never admit that to the bastard’s face. Kanda has always been a person Allen has seen as not needing his protection, he was more than capable of taking care of himself.

Allen remembers when Kanda had been teaching him to sword fight, after he’d first learned to summon the ark. Kanda had seemed so untouchable to him back then.

He always sneered in the face of danger, absolutely fearless and always came out on top. Strong and prideful, ready for a fight at any moment.

But those parts of Kanda no longer seem like a strength that he feels he should aspire towards.

Not when he knows exactly how Kanda even came to be the person he is now. When he knows intimately the pain and countless guilty, blood stained hands that made up Kanda Yu's very existence.

How many times has Kanda fought himself into the grave, just to piece himself back together than get up to do it all over again?

He had been curious once, just how Kanda could heal so quickly. Thinking about it now makes him feel sick. He hates knowing that a place he once thought of as home could be capable of such horrid things. Though Allen supposes that it was always the people that had felt like home, not the place.

Not like that matters anymore. It’s not like he'll be going back there. He’s not even sure he’d want to.

“It’s creepy to stare at people while they're sleeping, Walker.” Kanda says, “Shouldn’t you be asleep anyways?”

He jolts at the unexpected voice, “Motherfuc-“ Allen catches himself before he can finish the curse. Flicking his eyes over Johnny first to make sure he hadn’t woken him with his outburst.

He hears the huff of breath through Kanda’s nose, the closest approximation to amusement he ever gets to hear from him.

Then he looks back to meet Kanda’s now open eyes this time.

Allen doesn’t think he’s ever heard Kanda laugh, like actually laugh. At least, not this Kanda, he doesn’t want to count the younger Kanda he saw in Rhode’s trap. Those memories with Alma were never his to touch in the first place.

“Shut up..” Allen grumbled, embarrassed to be caught mooning over his apparently not actually sleeping companion. He flops backward onto the inn bed, but tilts his head to continue to look at Kanda sitting across from him.

“Is there a reason why you look like you were thinking so hard you were going to pop a blood vessel?” Kanda pauses for a moment, considering. “Either burst a vein or start crying like a baby.”

“I wasn’t going to cry!” Allen says affronted. Because he definitely can not tell this jerk how just looking at his stupid pretty face tore his heart up into bits.

“Well, you do have a history of being a crybaby.” Kanda says, looking unimpressed.

He feels familiar irritation flaring up at the comment. “I do not!” Allen says in a harsh whisper.

Because he’s not! Allen cries when it is reasonable! And when you deal with such tragedies as an exorcist, of course he's going to cry!

“God...I can’t believe I almost actually missed your shitty attitude.” Allen muttered. It’s the closest admission he can ever give to how much it had hurt to think he’d never see Kanda again. It would’ve been worth it, for him and Alma to have been happy together finally. That didn’t mean it hadn’t made him sad.

Kanda scoffs at him, "You're still too soft, you know.” but he isn’t scowling.

Instead when Kanda says it this time, it doesn’t feel so mean-spirited. Not like it was that first time in Mater. Now, it’s almost fond. Like when he’d said he was glad Allen had been there, when everything went to shit with Alma. It catches him off guard, and Allen tries and fails to not let that mean too much to him.

Allen Walker hasn’t ever loved anything in a way that didn’t hurt. Why should this be any different?

—

Allen is too silent, yet his misery is still an oppressive presence. He doesn’t cry. He stares forward, empty and hollowed out. At least back in Mater he’d cried over that stupid broken doll.

Kanda wishes he would react. Wants him to scream, lash out, and blame him. It’s partly his fault the golem is dust now anyways, right? Since it intervened with Apocryphos because of him.

Kanda wants to say something to comfort him, anything.

But because he’s Allen goddamn Walker, the single most infuriating and stupid fucking idiot martyr to have ever existed.

He pulls shit like this.

Walker finally looks up at him as the ark gate summons below him. Allen sounds truly apologetic when says he couldn’t tell him anything, and then he smiles, that pathetic fake smile with his sad silver eyes.

A fury flares explosive under his skin, because no fucking way Walker.

The Black Order, death and Alma had not been able to stop Kanda from following Allen Walker into hell.

You’re not weaseling away that easily, you little clown bastard.

—

Kanda doesn’t even like him. Why can’t he just make this one thing easy for Allen, and get away from him.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Allen doesn’t understand why he’s being so persistent.

If he won’t leave, then Allen will make him.

They have done this before, strike for strike, barb for barb. He may not be in the best condition to match Kanda in combat but Allen can be just as venomous as Kanda in words.

Kanda has always had a way of getting a rise out of him. Dragging out an unwilling and ugly honesty in him that he can’t stand.

And Allen is more than well versed in getting under Kanda’s skin in return.

“What’s it matter to you?! I’m just a fucking Noah, anyway right?! It’s not like you care!”

“You’re not a fucking—“ Kanda had been near shouting until he pauses and Allen is almost certain Mugen was about to make an appearance. But instead, Kanda closed his eyes briefly, breathing deep and pressed the heel of palm to his temple.

When Kanda opened his eyes again, his gaze was intense. But he didn’t seem angry at him, per say. Which was surprising, Kanda could always find a reason to be mad at him.

“You’re Allen Walker, an exorcist no matter what, that’s what you told Lenalee.” As he speaks Kanda takes a step towards him, and Allen steps back. “And you told me that you wanted to be a destroyer who could save.”

Kanda takes another step toward but before Allen can back away this time, Kanda snitches the lapel of his coat and drags him in close.

Kanda's eyes were burning as he glared hard at Allen. His breath is warm where it brushes his face. Allen glares right back, there’s nothing Kanda could do to intimidate him.

The thing about Kanda is that his eyes are the most expressive part of him.

And right now, he looks so fucking sad. Allen hates it. When people look at him like that.

“You’ve never given up on a fight before.” Kanda says, “Why should the Fourteenth be any different?” He almost sounds disappointed in him.

If Kanda hadn’t had a grip on him, Allen feels like he would’ve physically recoiled at that.

”You were the one who said—“

”I know what I fucking said, Walker! And I was wrong, okay!?” The hands that grip Allen’s lapels are shaking. “Cut the shit, sprout. I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not gonna work.” His breathing is quick, panicking. Why is Kanda looking at him like that? It hurts. “Get it through your thick goddamn skull, I’m not leaving just because you love acting like you can handle everything on your own.”

“I don’t even want you here!” Allen’s voice is strangled, the lie dying in his throat. Leaving only the faltering protest behind.

Allen doesn’t know how to let him stay, because that’s just the first step of having to watch him leave for real. Maybe not today or even next month but Kanda will leave. Either in death or once he realizes that there’s no saving Allen.

“And you expect me to believe that?” Kanda tsked, “Usually you’re a better liar, Allen.”

He is stunned silent when Kanda calls him out so blatantly. Even more surprising though, is when Kanda uses the back of his semi-gloved hand to swipe under his eyes. Wiping the tears away with a gentleness Allen hadn’t conceived that Kanda was capable of.

Or at least, capable of showing to Allen. But in retrospect of everything he’s learned he doesn’t know about Kanda, maybe he should start preparing to continue to be surprised by him.

“Wow, even Bakanda can be sweet sometimes. It’s shocking, really.” He says. Mostly because he doesn’t know how else to respond to the way Kanda is looking at him. Allen averts his eyes, unsure of this unfamiliar kindness. He feels far warmer than the weather around should allow. This is terrible.

“Who the fuck are you calling sweet, crybaby.” Kanda scoffed, still more amused than truly annoyed.

“Am not!” Allen insisted, crossing his arms. “You just gave me a motivational speech about not giving up and you’re not even going to let me enjoy it, are you?”

Kanda steps away from him, ”You not giving up will literally help stop the hostile takeover of whatever brain you’ve got left.” He says, reaching out enough to flick the star that scars Allen’s forehead.

Allen reaches up to touch the cursed mark, frowning at Kanda. “See, that’s exactly what I meant. You’re no fun.”

“Shut the fuck up, Walker.”

“Aw, c’mon! At least call me Allen again. That’s much nicer.”

“I can stab you again at any time, you know.”

“Of course, you could. But BaKanda wouldn’t that be the opposite of helping protect me? And when we find him again, I’ll tell Johnny you’ve been bullying me.”

“God, you’re so annoying.” Kanda grumbled at him. “..Might be worth it, if it means you’ll stop talking, you brat.”

“Let it be known, most people find me incredibly charming.” Then obviously, to prove his point, Allen sticks tongue out at him.

Kanda looks at him, seeming very unimpressed and raises an eyebrow at him. “Right, and that’s definitely helping your case.”

—

Alma, would it be wrong to want to stay with him just a little longer?

Allen doesn’t want to be selfish but he just doesn’t think he can take it alone any longer. Alma would understand that better than anyone, wouldn’t he? Would understand all the love Allen keeps trying to smother before it can blossom out of his tender heart.

Please, Alma. Don’t hate me for this, Allen prays.

—

The train platform is crowded. He’s terrified to look anyone in the face too long. His eye hasn’t picked up any Akuma yet. That’s just making the anticipation worse. Allen knows they’ll come. The Akuma, the Noah.

Inhale. It hurts to breathe. Exhale. Is he blacking out? Oh fuck. He’s so overwhelmed with everything that’s happened.

Apocryphos, The Order, The Earl...Mana. Not to forget the demon clawing its way out from inside.

And then, someone grabs his hand. “Allen. Look at me.”

Inhale. It hurts.

Allen feels like he’s going to be sick.

Exhale. Allen looks at him.

“Take another breath, sprout.” Kanda says, squeezing tightly once. "You're going to pass out like that.”

Everything closing in to snuff Allen Walker out. Yet, Kanda Yu has remained.

This is the closest extended contact he’s had with someone that wasn’t trying to kill him lately. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms. He remembers when Kanda refused to shake hands with a cursed person like him.

Should he move away? He should let his hand go.

Inhale.

“Just breathe like me.” Another squeeze.

Allen is touched and also continuously confused by this softer side Kanda keeps showing to him. Before Alma, Allen wouldn’t have thought Kanda was capable of such things but now...it’s something.

Exhale.

He can’t say it to his face but he does need Kanda to know how much this means to him. Allen rests his forehead on Kanda's shoulder. Kanda tenses for a moment, his posture rigid and Allen is almost certain he was going to move away. But he relaxes instead, allowing Allen to cling to him.

His hair is soft against his cheek, and it smells clean. Maybe a little like flowers. He feels his heart beat a little harder in his chest.

“I’m really glad that you’re here.” Allen mutters from his hiding place against Kanda’s chest.

—

He sometimes wishes Timcanpy or Johnny were here too, then at least he could’ve pretended that this was just another mission. Missions with Kanda had been normal, not...whatever this is.

Running away together to..save him?

Allen’s eyes trace over the black lines down Kanda's arm from his own curse mark. He had removed the Order's coat once they’d settled on the train. Does he know that Allen despises seeing him in that uniform?

Kanda isn’t turned toward him, his gaze is following the scenery flying past. Kanda is still gently holding his clawed hand.

Exhausted, he finally shuts his eyes. Kanda will take care of him.

—

Awareness comes back to him slowly, creeping in gradually like the morning sun.

He’s so warm. It’s nice, after all the time he’d spent sleeping in alleyways dodging Apocryphos.

He hadn’t dreamt at all. Allen doesn’t even recall the last time that happened because even in his sleep he’s pursued by the Fourteenth’s fractured memories.

It really feels like the first time he’s truly slept in years.

Beside him, Kanda is still asleep. He has one arm propped on the train seat arm, like he had at the inn the other night. Which feels like a lifetime ago now.

His other arm is tucked behind Allen’s back. Kanda’s hand rests upon the place he had stabbed Allen in his rampage to fight Alma. The heat of his palm soothes the sharp ache of the healing wound on his hip.

Allen is somewhat surprised that he’s awake before Kanda. But then again, in between Allen’s consciousness being..inconsistent and Johnny definitely hadn’t been a fighter. It had been Kanda’s job alone to be on the defensive. He’d probably been just as exhausted as Allen himself.

Kanda’s face is relaxed in a way it never is when he’s awake. His breathing is slow and rhythmic, reminiscent of how he breathes when he’s meditating. Or guiding Allen though another panic attack.

Allen reaches up to brush the hair away from Kanda’s face, tucking the stray hair behind his ear.

Kanda catches Allen’s cursed hand before he can pull it away pressing it to his cheek, and when Allen looks up to meet his gaze, Kanda’s eyes seem unfocused like he’s still half asleep. Still dreaming.

“You’re still Allen..that’s good.” His voice is rough from disuse, but gentle in tone nonetheless.

“Y-yeah, I’m..still me.” Allen can feel his face heating up fast against his will, he will not blush just because of Kanda using his name like a person should. Absolutely not.

The grip on his hand slackens after that, and the heat that sweetly hums under Allen’s skin fills him with the urge to run, run away right now. Away from Kanda and whatever trouble this feeling is bound to get them into.

He’s already tried that though, and thus far has failed to shake Kanda off. Devoted as Kanda seems to be to making sure Allen is always in his line of sight these days.

Allen knows exactly how that feels. He's not exactly eager to let Kanda go again either. So instead, Allen tightens his grasp in return.

Running away together to save each other, maybe.

That’s how Allen likes to think of it anyway.

#cross posted on ao3 #my fics #d.gray man #yullen #arekan #kanda x allen #updated; ao3 version to be fixed up later.

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