i was the one who requested hurt/comfort Brant fic. THANK YOU FOR GRANTING MY REQUEST&FEEDING MY DELULU(≧ᗜ≦) (sorry for bad english huhu T^T)
And I'm here for requesting again! Wdyt abt Brant take care over his spouse who's got very very very drunk, but his spouse who's usually calm&quiet now becomes all flirty and touchy here&there (giving him ton of kisses on his face)? And Brant's response? He's become a COMPLETELY BLUSHING MESS! Head empty bcs how clingy and affectionate she became!
But if you have another scenario let's go with yours! I just wanna see him nervous with red face honestly (sorry /j). That's all! Thank you again pookie! May your Brant&his weapon come early♡!
TOMORROW, OUR BOY WILL FINALLY HAVE HIS BANNER
I wish you and all Brant wanters, Aventurines luck. All brant wanters will be brant havers 😌🤍
_____
Drunk on Love
The fires in Fool’s Elysium burned bright, casting flickering gold across the cavern walls as the Troupe of Fools celebrated another successful performance. The air was thick with laughter, the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine swirling between the revelers, and Brant was, as usual, at the center of it all.
“And then, as the guards closed in, I told them, ‘Ah, but gentlemen, surely you wouldn’t lay hands on a humble man of the arts!’” Brant spun dramatically, arms flaring out. “And just as they hesitated—boom! Gone in a puff of smoke!”
The crowd around him erupted in laughter and cheers, toasting his theatrics. Brant grinned, preening under the attention—until something, or rather someone, latched onto him from behind.
Warm arms wrapped around his waist, a face pressed into his back, and a voice—soft but undeniably intoxicated—murmured, “Brant.”
He barely had time to react before Y/N, usually so calm and composed, turned him around and clung to him.
Brant blinked. “Oh.”
Y/N was flushed, her expression dreamily affectionate, her grip firm as she buried her face against his chest.
“…Oh,” Brant repeated, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, what do we have here?”
He tilted her chin up, gazing down at her with playful curiosity. “Darling, you look like you’ve had quite the generous helping of wine. Enjoying yourself, are we?”
She pouted. “Mmhmm. But you—” She poked his chest. “You talk too much.”
Brant gasped theatrically. “Me? Talk too much? Impossible.”
Y/N squinted at him like she was trying to solve a great mystery, then sighed dramatically. “You’re so pretty,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Not fair.”
Brant chuckled. “I can’t say I disagree—”
Before he could finish, she cupped his face and kissed his cheek.
Brant’s brain stuttered.
The surrounding Fools whistled and hooted, but Brant barely heard them. He was too busy trying to process the fact that Y/N—reserved, steady, unshakable Y/N—was pressing soft, lingering kisses along his jaw, moving dangerously close to his mouth.
He stiffened, heat rushing to his face. “Y-Y/N—”
Another kiss, this time right at the corner of his lips.
Brant squeaked.
His usual charm crumbled. He, Brant—smooth talker, silver-tongued rogue, shameless flirt—was suddenly incapable of forming a coherent sentence.
“Alright, alright, I think someone needs a little fresh air,” he managed, voice pitched slightly higher than usual.
Without waiting for her response, he swept her into his arms, ignoring the smug looks and snickers from the others as he carried her toward his quarters.
Y/N only hummed contentedly, resting her head against his shoulder. “You smell nice.”
Brant stumbled.
The journey through the winding tunnels of Fool’s Elysium had never felt so long. By the time he reached his private space—an alcove filled with scattered notes, fabrics, and an absurd number of pillows—his heart was pounding.
He set her down gently, exhaling. “Alright, darling, let’s get you settled—”
But Y/N didn’t let go.
Instead, she tugged him down with surprising strength, pulling him onto the cushions beside her.
Brant let out a very ungraceful sound as he landed, his back hitting the soft bedding, and before he could react, Y/N straddled his lap.
Brant stopped breathing.
She leaned in, her fingers tracing his collarbone before sliding lower, over the fabric of his shirt. “You’re so handsome,” she murmured.
Brant’s brain was gone. Utterly, completely gone.
“Y-Y/N—darling, you—you’re very drunk right now,” he stammered. “I think you should rest—”
She ignored him, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. His breath hitched as she pushed the fabric aside, exposing the faint, intricate glow of his Tacet mark against his skin.
Y/N’s eyes widened in wonder. Gently, reverently, she traced the mark with her fingertips.
Brant whimpered.
No one ever touched his Tacet mark. It was sacred, sensitive, and yet here she was, mapping every line and swirl with delicate fingers. His entire body tensed, his skin burning under her touch.
Brant let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Oh, you are never going to let me live this down, are you?”
She beamed at him, and gods, she was beautiful.
Then she kissed his forehead.
His breath caught.
Then his nose.
His heartbeat thundered.
Then both his cheeks, her lips soft and warm, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.
Brant shattered.
“Alright, that’s enough, you dangerous woman,” he rasped, his voice uneven. With a dramatic flourish (that was only slightly desperate), he flipped them over, pinning her beneath him.
Y/N gasped, blinking up at him with wide, hazy eyes. “Brant?”
He smirked, though his face was still bright red. “My turn.”
He leaned down—slowly, deliberately—and pressed a single, lingering kiss to her forehead.
Her breath hitched.
Then, with exaggerated care, he kissed her nose.
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
Then, finally, finally, he brushed his lips against her cheek, just barely, before pulling back with a triumphant grin.
“How’s that for theatrics, darling?” he teased.
Y/N’s face was scarlet.
Brant chuckled, pleased with himself—until she pulled him down again, burying her face against his chest with a sleepy sigh.
“Warm…” she mumbled. “Stay.”
Brant softened.
He sighed dramatically but wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head. “You are going to be the death of me,” he murmured, but there was no heat behind the words.
Y/N hummed in contentment. Within moments, her breathing slowed, her body relaxed against his, and she drifted into sleep.
Brant lay there for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
“…I am so in love with you,” he muttered to himself, utterly doomed.
And for once, the ever-charming Brant had no idea what to do about it.
Brant had been in many thrilling, perilous situations in his life—performing daring acts on stage, conning pompous nobles, escaping armed guards, even staring down the Dragon of Dirge. But nothing, nothing, had ever left him as utterly helpless as this.
Y/N was clinging to him in her sleep.
Not just loosely holding onto him—oh no—she had wrapped herself around him, arms tucked beneath his coat, face pressed against his chest, and legs tangled with his own. She was warm, impossibly warm, her breath tickling his skin as she sighed contentedly in her slumber.
Brant was losing his mind.
His face was burning, his heart hammering against his ribs like a drumbeat in a grand performance. He had tried—tried—to gently pry her off when he had first realized the situation, but the second he moved, she had whined softly and only held on tighter.
He was doomed.
With an exaggerated sigh, he flopped back onto the cot, staring at the ceiling of his little cavern home. "This is my life now," he murmured to himself, though the complaint held no real weight.
He glanced down at her, a fond smile tugging at his lips despite his still-racing heart. Her expression was so peaceful, so utterly at ease. It made something deep in his chest ache.
Carefully—so carefully—he let his hand move, brushing along her back in slow, comforting strokes. She sighed again, nuzzling closer. Brant bit his lip, trying to suppress the giddy, ridiculous smile threatening to spread across his face.
"Oh, you’re dangerous," he whispered, shaking his head in amused defeat. "Too dangerous."
But as much as he should be trying to escape, he… didn’t want to.
For all his theatrics, for all his flair and bravado, Brant was a man who had gone years without a true place to belong. He had always been the fool, the outcast, the man who danced on the fringes of society. Yet here she was, clinging to him like he was something precious, like he was safe.
He swallowed hard, his fingers absentmindedly tracing small circles against her back.
Maybe, just this once, he’d allow himself to believe it.
With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax.
If this was the price of taking care of her, of having her trust him enough to cling to him even in sleep…
Then he would gladly let himself be tangled in her warmth for as long as she would have him.
