I Believe in a Thing Called Love - Eddie Munson x Reader
Summary: Eddie can't wait until the end of tonight's concert to ask you a very important question.
Word Count: 317
Warnings: Reader is from Minneapolis so this is probably really self-indulgent, public proposal
Song/Lyric Prompt: "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" - The Darkness / I wanna kiss you every minute, every hour, every day
Day 23 is a little homage/love letter to the city of my birth, Minneapolis MN! I've been to First Ave for concerts, it's where Prince shot some iconic scenes in Purple Rain, it's an awesome venue. Eddie Munson absolutely would've become a rock star had he lived. Anyway, enjoy and Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are always appreciated!
My June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist
June 23, 1989
The air was thick inside First Avenue and smelled of sweat and stale booze. The floor and balcony were packed with people for the Friday night Corroded Coffin show and you couldn't help the warm pride you felt swelling in your chest as they sang along with and cheered after every song.
The guys finished their current song and the crowd cheered. Eddie waved to the crowd to calm them down, approaching the mic.
"Thank you, thanks everyone! We are truly honored to play here at the world famous First Ave!" he said and the crowd cheered, "Before we play this next one I just want to invite someone very special to the stage," he said your name and you stepped out of the wings, lit by a spotlight.
Eddie took your hand and leaned into the mic again.
"Now I don't know if you know this," he said to the crowd, "but the love of my life here was born and raised in Minneapolis, so I thought what better time and place to ask her this very important question."
What?
Eddie pulled the mic from the stand and knelt down on one knee. Your breath caught in your throat and you started to tremble.
"Princess, you make me happier than I ever thought I'd be. I wouldn't be here without you and I want to spend the rest of this crazy life by your side. I wanna kiss you every minute, every hour, every day, from now until I'm worm food. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?"
The uproarious noise from the crowd drowned out your answer, so you managed a tearful nod. Eddie gathered you up in his arms and kissed you deeply, the cheers from the crowd somehow getting louder as Jeff played a wedding march on his guitar.
Summary: Jason had always been indifferent to the snow, but you loved it.
CW: none!
Day 2 of @fandomless-advent-challenge advent!! (hush I know it's the same day and it's still the third)
you can read this here or on AO3 here!
divider by @diviniyae
Gotham always had cold and snowy winters. It came with the territory, but this year the snow was late. All of November had passed without even a single flake. Not that Jason minded much. He didn’t mind the cold, it didn’t really affect his patrols besides making his suit feel slightly colder, but that didn’t mean he wanted snow.
You on the other hand were craving it. For the past three weeks all he would hear from you is how you couldn’t wait for the first snowfall. You were really into the holiday spirit. Every movie you watched on the ancient crappy TV in your apartment was Christmas related, you switched from coffee to peppermint hot chocolate, and it seemed like every outlet had a string of lights attached to it. Jason jokingly pretended like it was all too much, but he truly loved seeing you so passionate about something.
You were asleep in Jason’s arms when he saw the first snowflakes falling through the window. He definitely didn’t want you to miss this. He carefully shook you hoping it would be easy to get you up.
“Ugh…five more minutes.” You grumbled.
Jason laughed a bit.
“You sure it’s snowing out?”
You jumped up like a bolt of lightning had hit you and ran to the window.
“You should have started with that! Come on, we have to go outside!”
Jason watched from the couch as you bolted around grabbing hats and gloves like the snow would stop at the flip of a switch. He carefully stood up and grabbed his coat, checking his pocket, before putting it on. The two of you walked down the three flights of stairs and out to the small park across from your apartment. The snow had just started to collect on the ground giving everything a shimmery look.
You ran to the center of the park, right by the frozen up fountain and took a seat on the edge. You stared up as the snow fell down around you. Gotham was surprisingly quiet, you could only hear a few horns off in the distance. It was peaceful.
Jason felt his chest tightening as he looked at you. Snow had started to coat you in sparkle, your eyes were fixed up on the sky, and the lighting around you made him feel like there couldn’t be a better moment. He carefully reached into his pocket.
“Did you know that the first snowfall is said to be magic?” You said without looking away from the sky.
Silence followed. You finally look down to see Jason Todd on one knee.
“I…uh….Will you marry me?” He stuttered out.
Suddenly, you fail to remember how to speak words. All that existed in the world was you and him. Jason shifted uncomfortably and then you realized you hadn’t said anything.
“Yes! Yes Jason I will!”
He put the ring on you and pulled you into a kiss. As the snow fell, it gave you two a glittering moment.
C's corner: Hi loves, I feel like I’ve been neglecting my tumblr lately. I’ve been super stressed, adulting has been kicking my ass, but I’ve decided this is NOT how the rest of my 2026 will be. Anyway, here’s a little blurb from a side short fic I am thinking about writing. Enjoy.
John hated lying to you. Even by omission. It sat wrong in his chest, a pressure that made him restless and sharp around the edges.
But he couldn’t tell you. Not yet.
Not until it was right.
Not until he could kneel in front of you without a single doubt that the moment would be worthy of the way you had rearranged his life without even trying.
He pulled the ring box out once, finally, and opened it.
The diamond caught the light, simple and elegant, chosen because it reminded him of you. Strong without being loud. Brilliant without trying.
John swallowed hard.
“Soon,” he murmured to the empty room, like a promise he was afraid to break.
Outside the door, down the hall, you were starting to wonder why the man who used to look at you like home now looked like he was preparing for impact.
And John had no idea that his silence was already writing a very different story in your head.
You could feel it in the way people spoke softer in corridors, in the way owls arrived at stranger hours, in the way professors lingered too long at windows like they were counting something far away. It sat on the horizon like a storm that hadn’t broken—but would.
And in the middle of all of that—
There was a table by a candlelit window in Hogsmeade.
And at that table, Regulus Black was frowning.
“Evan,” Regulus said slowly, brows drawn together, fingers curled tight around the stem of his glass, “why are you acting like this is a funeral?”
Across from him, Evan Rosier sat stiff.
Rigid.
Unnaturally so.
Evan—who lounged, who slouched, who existed like the world bored him—was sitting upright like a man about to be executed.
“I’m not,” Evan said.
He absolutely was.
Regulus narrowed his eyes.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m—” Evan stopped, dragged a hand through his hair, exhaled sharply. “I’m thinking.”
Regulus leaned back slightly, watching him.
Evan did not think like this. Evan decided. Quickly. Brutally. With the certainty of someone who didn’t care if the world burned as long as he got what he wanted.
This—
This was different.
Something in Regulus’s chest twisted.
“…Evan.”
“What.”
“That sounded like the beginning of a breakup conversation.”
Evan blinked.
Once.
Slow.
“…What?”
And then, before Regulus could stop himself, before logic could catch up with fear, before the quiet dread of the looming war swallowed him whole—
Regulus said, too quickly, too sharp, “If you’re about to break up with me, you need to just say it instead of dragging it out like—”
“I’m not breaking up with you.”
Immediate.
Firm.
Almost offended.
Regulus froze.
“…Oh.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “Are you sure?”
Evan stared at him.
There was something almost pained in the look.
“Yes,” Evan said flatly. “I’m sure.”
Regulus’s shoulders dropped a fraction—but not fully.
Because something was still wrong.
And outside—
Pressed poorly against the cold glass of the restaurant window—
Pandora Rosier was clutching Barty Crouch Jr.’s sleeve hard enough to wrinkle it.
“Why does this feel like a breakup?” Pandora hissed.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Dorcas Meadowes muttered, crouched low beside them, peering through the gap in the curtains. “We’re going to witness something traumatic.”
Barty, on the other hand, was thriving.
“Oh, this is excellent,” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “This is drama. This is devastation. This is—”
There was a sudden thud behind them.
All three Slytherins screamed.
Actually screamed.
Spun around—
To find themselves face-to-face with—
“—What the fuck are you doing?!” Sirius Black hissed, crouched low, wild-eyed, with James Potter beside him, equally crouched, equally invested.
Behind them—
Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Lily Evans, Mary Macdonald, Marlene McKinnon, Alice Fortescue, Frank Longbottom, Fabian Prewett, and Gideon Prewett—
All crouched.
All staring.
All clearly mid-spy.
Pandora clutched her chest. “You nearly killed me.”
“You’re spying,” James whispered, like this was a perfectly valid defence.
“So are you!”
“We just joined in,” Sirius shot back.
Dorcas looked between them, horrified. “Why are there so many of you?”
“Shh!” Lily hissed, grabbing Sirius’s collar and dragging him lower. “They’ll hear you.”
Pandora pointed. “We think Evan’s breaking up with him.”
A collective gasp.
“NO—” Peter wheezed, immediately slapped over the mouth by Remus.
Inside—
Evan inhaled sharply.
And then—
He started talking.
And it was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
Evan, staring at the table, said, “It’s not you, it’s me. The timing and the setting aren’t what I thought they’d be.”
Outside—
“OH MY GOD—” Mary whisper-screamed.
“HE’S DOING IT—” Fabian choked.
“NO, NO, NO—” Sirius looked ready to break the window.
Inside—
Regulus went very still.
Evan continued, voice tight, “There’s probably someone better for you out there anyway. Maybe I just need some space.”
Regulus’s face fell.
Outside—
Dorcas grabbed Pandora’s arm. “I’m going to be sick.”
Barty whispered, delighted, “This is catastrophic.”
Inside—
Evan dragged a hand down his face. “No, I should just come out and say. I wanna get this right, baby.”
Regulus blinked.
“…What?”
Outside—
“…What?” James echoed.
Inside—
Evan looked up, suddenly intense, words spilling too fast now, tripping over themselves, “I wanna thrill you in the way you deserve. I wanna blow your mind, darling.”
Regulus stared at him.
Outside—
“…What is happening,” Remus whispered.
Inside—
Evan continued, voice strained, “I’m just having trouble getting up the nerve. I wanna give you what you want.”
Regulus’s confusion deepened.
Evan leaned forward slightly. “I wanna be the man you choose. I wanna sweep you off your feet.”
Outside—
Pandora whispered, “Is this still a breakup?”
“I don’t know,” Lily said, completely lost.
Inside—
Evan muttered, “Without puking on your shoes. Maybe I’ll do better in the candlelight.”
Regulus blinked.
“…Evan.”
Evan suddenly jolted upright. “I gotta get this right. No, no, no, stay right where you are.”
He stood abruptly.
Regulus startled. “Are you okay?”
Outside—
“HE’S LEAVING—” Peter muffled.
Inside—
Evan waved his hands frantically. “I’ll put out the fire, my love. I wanna make you swoon, baby. I wanna rock you with my righteous romance. I wanna set a mood, darling—”
He stopped.
Horrified.
“…But I’m sweating through the seat of these pants.”
Silence.
Regulus stared at him.
“…Are you okay?”
Outside—
Barty lost it, shaking silently with laughter.
Inside—
Evan pressed his hands to his face. “I had planned to read a poem. I thought I’d play a little lute.”
Regulus made a soft, helpless noise.
Evan froze. “Ooh, here’s a thing, I’ve got a ring—”
He patted his pockets.
Stopped.
“…I didn’t bring? Oh, shoot.”
Outside—
Every single person went dead silent.
Inside—
Evan nodded to himself, defeated. “So, this went very well, goodnight. I didn’t get this right.”
He turned.
Actually turned.
To leave.
“Evan, it’s okay! Come back!” Regulus blurted, half-standing, panic flaring bright and sharp.
Outside—
“WAIT—” Sirius whisper-yelled.
Inside—
Evan stopped.
Shoulders tight.
Then—
Slowly—
He turned back.
“I’ve never been in love before,” Evan said, voice quieter now, rougher. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Regulus stilled.
Evan swallowed. “I’ve never been too worldly in the ways of man-wooing. I’m freezing up, I’m blowing it—not what I meant to do.”
He stepped closer.
Regulus didn’t move.
“I know how crazy lucky I am to love you,” Evan said, softer now, gaze locked on him. “Gorgeous, funny, brave, and brilliant. Beautiful, won’t give up on anyone. You, oh!”
Regulus’s face crumpled slightly, soft and overwhelmed.
“…Aw.”
Outside—
Pandora clutched Dorcas. “I’m going to cry.”
Inside—
Evan took a shaky breath. “I wanna get this right, baby. I wanna love you in the best way I can. I wanna make you cry—in a good way—by proving I could be your perfect man.”
Regulus shook his head faintly, already teary. “Evan—”
Evan rushed on, voice breaking slightly, “I meant to write it in the sky. I meant to get down on one knee. I planned to really try to be the opposite of me.”
He paused.
Then, softer—
“But Regulus, I will love you with all my might.”
The room felt smaller.
Quieter.
“I promise you, in here,” Evan pressed a hand to his chest, “I’ve got that part right.”
Regulus’s breath hitched.
Outside—
No one was breathing.
Evan hesitated.
“…Well, maybe we should do this on some other night—wait!”
And then—
Finally—
He dropped to one knee.
“Lord Heir Regulus Black,” Evan said, voice steady now despite everything, “will you marry me…?”
Outside—
Absolute chaos.
James fell over.
Sirius choked.
Pandora screamed silently into Dorcas’s shoulder.
Barty looked like he might ascend.
Inside—
Regulus stared at him.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Love.
All tangled together.
“…Yes.”
Evan blinked.
“…Yes?”
“Yes!”
Relief crashed through him like a wave.
He laughed—actually laughed—and surged up, grabbing Regulus.
“Baby, I’m gonna thrill you in the way you deserve. We’re gonna get this right, darling. As long as we’re together, we won’t lose our nerve. I’m gonna be the man you want.”
Regulus laughed, breathless, a little teary, hands fisting in Evan’s sleeves as if he might vanish otherwise. “Guess what? You already are.”
Outside—
“OH MY GOD—” Mary clamped both hands over her mouth too late.
“HE SAID YES—” Fabian whispered at a volume that was absolutely not a whisper.
“SHUT UP—” Lily hissed, elbowing both of them down as Sirius grabbed James by the collar to stop him from launching through the window.
Inside—
Evan pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes bright in a way Regulus had only ever seen in fragments—quick flashes, stolen moments, never this open, never this full.
“I wanna make your life so good,” Evan said, softer now, almost like a promise whispered into the space between them.
Regulus huffed out a shaky laugh. “You’re doing pretty good so far.”
Evan smiled—small, crooked, real. “We got the hard part over with.”
Regulus shook his head, stepping forward, closing the distance completely, pressing into him like gravity had decided he belonged there. “Now hold me tight.”
Evan didn’t hesitate.
His arms wrapped around Regulus, firm, certain, grounding.
“We’re gonna get this right.”
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
The war didn’t exist.
The future didn’t loom.
There was only this.
Only them.
Only the quiet, flickering candlelight and the steady beat of two hearts that had, somehow, chosen each other.
—
Outside—
All hell broke loose.
“WE HAVE TO GO IN—” Sirius whisper-yelled, already halfway standing.
“No—no, no, no—” Remus grabbed his arm, dragging him back down. “If you ruin this, I will personally end you.”
“I AM HIS BROTHER—”
“YOU ARE ALSO LOUD—”
“I WANT TO HUG HIM—”
“You will SCARE him—”
“I do not scare—”
“You absolutely do—”
Behind them—
Pandora was fully crying into Dorcas’s shoulder. “He panicked and still did it—he panicked and still did it—”
Dorcas, for once, looked a little undone, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t think he had that in him.”
“Oh, he didn’t,” Barty said gleefully. “That was a complete system failure.”
“Shut up,” Pandora snapped, swatting him weakly.
“I’m serious,” Barty grinned. “He short-circuited, attempted a breakup, forgot the ring, nearly fled the scene—”
“And still got engaged,” Dorcas cut in, dry.
Barty tilted his head. “…Iconic, actually.”
Inside—
Regulus was still holding him.
Not tightly—Evan didn’t hold tightly—but securely. Like he wasn’t letting go. Like he’d decided something and that was that.
Regulus pulled back just enough to look at him again.
“…You thought I was going to say no?”
Evan frowned slightly. “No.”
“You just… panicked anyway?”
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
Evan stared at him like the answer was obvious. “Because it matters.”
Regulus blinked.
And then something soft broke open in his expression.
“Oh.”
Evan exhaled slowly, shoulders finally dropping, tension bleeding out of him in quiet increments. “Also because I didn’t bring the ring.”
Regulus snorted.
“You what?”
“I had it earlier,” Evan said, deeply unimpressed with himself. “Then I took it out of my pocket so I wouldn’t accidentally drop it, and then I put it somewhere safe.”
“…Where.”
“…I don’t know.”
Regulus laughed—a real one, bright and sharp and alive—and leaned forward, pressing his forehead briefly to Evan’s shoulder.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“You nearly broke up with me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You opened with ‘it’s not you, it’s me’.”
“That was misdirection.”
“That was trauma.”
Outside—
“HE’S CALLING IT TRAUMA—” Marlene wheezed.
“IT WAS TRAUMA—” Pandora shot back.
Inside—
Evan huffed. “I corrected it.”
“You said someone else would be better for me.”
“That was also incorrect.”
“Evan.”
“What.”
“That was very incorrect.”
Evan paused.
“…Yes.”
Regulus tilted his head, studying him. “You really didn’t think this through.”
“I thought about it a lot.”
“Not successfully.”
“…No.”
Regulus smiled—soft, fond, a little bit exasperated.
God.
Evan loved him.
It hit him again, sudden and overwhelming and sharp.
Regulus shifted closer again, quieter now. “You know you don’t have to be anything other than… you, right?”
Evan frowned. “I’m trying to be better.”
“You are better,” Regulus said simply.
Evan looked at him.
Something in his chest ached.
“…I want to keep you,” Evan said, blunt, unfiltered, honest in a way he rarely let himself be. “No matter what happens.”
Regulus didn’t laugh this time.
Didn’t tease.
He understood exactly what Evan meant.
The war.
The uncertainty.
The fear they didn’t talk about.
“…You already have me,” Regulus said quietly.
Outside—
The entire group went silent again.
Because that—
That was different.
That wasn’t chaos or jokes or screaming or spying—
That was real.
Inside—
Evan nodded once, sharp, decisive.
“Good.”
Regulus huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m going to marry you.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t even have the ring.”
“I will find it.”
“You’d better.”
“I will.”
A pause.
Then—
“…Do you want dessert?” Evan asked.
Regulus stared at him.
“…You just proposed.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re asking about dessert.”
“Yes.”
“…What is wrong with you?”
Evan considered that. “…Nothing.”
Regulus laughed again, softer this time, and leaned into him, nudging their shoulders together.
Unraveling Plan Meet Immeasurable Insecurity (Astarion x GN!Tav)
Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav
Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here
Rating: Teen
Summary: Tav tries their damnedest to propose, only to be rebuffed by Astarion at every single turn.
Tags: Astarion POV - alternating w/Rogue!Tav, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Spawn Astarion, Post-Canon, Marriage Proposal, Mild Hurt/Comfort, insecurities
A/N: based on a request from a kind anon on Tumblr– "Would you ever consider writing a one-shot where Tav tries to propose to Astarion but keeps failing multiple times. But Tav doesn’t give up and raises the stakes higher and higher. Astarion will completely remain oblivious because he still has some self esteem issues (why would anyone want to marry him?) and is really confused why Tav is acting nervous around him."
I ended up taking it in a slightly different direction (based on the man’s self esteem issues as you pointed out, anon). Set an undetermined amount of years post BG3, post saving Karlach from Zariel, post-Lae’zel finishing the githyanki uprising so the gang's all here. I hope the kind anon still enjoys it!
Word count: ~5.6k
Astarion first has an inkling that something is the matter when you sneak away from him.
Odd, he thinks, watching your retreating back. Usually they invite me along for this sort of skulking about.
But he understands, better than most, what a bit of privacy could afford someone who hasn’t had any in so long. So he watches you leave, pretending all the while that he hasn’t noticed a thing. Best not embarrass them, of course.
He brushes off the incident as an anomaly– after all, you continue to be your usual self upon your return. Neither of you speak of your absence, and you seem rather pleased with yourself, so he is pleased for you.
The next time he notices something is off he grows a tad more worried.
This time you don’t disappear, but you do spend a concerning amount of time staring at his hands, expression pensive.
“Darling,” he starts. He quickly tucks his hands under the Elfsong table that you both sit at and leans forward. “What are you doing?”
You blanch at the question– an uncharacteristic reaction to be sure. “Oh,” you sound startled, as if you’ve been caught doing something quite naughty. “Nothing at all. Just wondering if you’d done anything new with your nails? They look… nice.”
It’s a lie, that much is clear to Astarion. But it’s not typical that you lie so poorly. And why should you lie? No matter, you look flustered and gods does he love it when you look flustered– it happens so rarely that he feels the need to truly relish it. “Don’t they?” he asks, flourishing his hands in front of you now. “How did you know? I dipped them in an essence of ooze to thoroughly moisturize them.”
“Really?” Your bewilderment almost brings a laugh out of him.
“Gods no, my dear,” he says, reaching out from under the table and for your hands. “You seem quite out of sorts. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you dismiss, staunchly avoiding eye contact with him.
Odd, he thinks again. Where is their usual daring now?
He’s forced to dismiss the thought as you flag down a waitress, ordering yourselves another bottle of wine.
Astarion becomes genuinely concerned when you return home late one night.
The two of you have grown comfortable together in your house, just on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate, in a cozy corner of Rivington. The location allows you to continue your work with the guild, gives him plentiful access to any criminals that needed exsanguinating, and your former companions are never far.
It does mean that you will sometimes stay late in the city, working well into the sunlight hours– but you also know to send him a message on the days you stay out late. Otherwise your poor, beautiful vampire will waste away in worry.
“Where in the nine hells are they?” Astarion curses aloud on this particular dawning day. He’d tried sending a message to you, only to receive nothing back. He’d sent another to Shadowheart, again to silence. He considers trying someone less responsible like Karlach, when you finally burst through the front door.
“Oh! Astarion,” you say, surprise plain on your face. As if he wouldn’t be here, in your shared home no less, waiting for your arrival. “What are you still doing up?”
He watches you silently for a moment as you tuck something behind your back, straighten out uncomfortably. Then, with all of the annoyance he can muster, he rolls his eyes at you. “It’s lovely to see you too, my dear. It’s not as if I was worrying my gorgeous head off at the thought of you dead in some rank Baldurian gutter.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, shuffling around the room in a rather suspicious manner. “I lost track of time. I figured you would go to bed without me.”
Astarion can’t remember the last time he went to bed without at least knowing where you were. Even if he could, he suspects he really would rather not. “Darling, you know I need my warm-blooded lover by my side to enter my reverie. Besides, what could have possibly taken you so long?”
You hesitate, and something tugs at Astarion’s insides. He feels a sudden sense of fear, a dread that he may regret asking you this question.
What if you’re upset at him, and this was your way to maintain space? What if you’ve finally, rationally taken a look at your situation and determined that no, you’d really rather not love a monster like himself? Or worse, what if you’d found someone else, someone who could bask in the daylight alongside you? Gods, the idea sends his undead heart plummeting.
Just as you’re about to open your mouth to answer, he rescinds his question, “Nevermind. I don’t want to know. I merely wanted to make sure you were alive. You’re looking as sprightly as ever, so I shall head to bed.”
He doesn’t wait for your response, heading to bed in a dramatic swirl and even more sensational thoughts.
He’s right, he knows it to his core. You’ve found someone else, someone who can give you the life he never could. More than anything he wishes he had the courage to confront you, especially as all of your odd behavior clicks into place.
They snuck off to find a lover.
They were staring at my hands in the hopes that they were someone else’s.
They stayed out late to relish in another’s company.
They’re aloof because they’re leaving me and it’s all a matter of time.
It’s as plain as day. How could he have been so very, very blind?
__
You had concocted a nice, simple plan.
It involved a ring, a smattering of your closest friends, and a particularly prickly vampire. Ideally, the plan ended with the vampire agreeing to marry you.
Gods. The idea thrills you as much as it scares you: you are actually going to propose to Astarion.
After years together, you and Astarion are practically already married. This is merely a formality in your mind. But of course, for a man like Astarion, it's a formality that means only the utmost effort must be put in.
But, as it always goes in your life, your nice, simple fell apart.
The problem you're finding is that, after weeks of preparation and secretive planning, the man is being oddly distant. Distant and dismissive. It's almost as if he knows something is afoot, and he's utterly determined to make sure it doesn't happen.
Five times now he has thwarted your attempts at a proposal.
"Astarion," you had started the first time. "Would you like to take a walk in the park with me tonight?”
The look he’d given you was equal parts wary and panicked. So much so that you thought maybe you’d misspoken. But his response was measured enough. “No, thank you, darling. I’m afraid I’m quite spent today.” He gave you a yawn to illustrate his point, and you dropped the subject for the night.
You had had to send a message to Shadowheart to call off the trail of poisonous flowers that your friends were laying out for your stroll.
The next time, you had tried being a bit more casual in your attempt.
“Would you enjoy a day at the spa, Astarion?”
Again, he gave you a look that confused you. Frightened face, hackles raised– his only response was, “Why, darling, do I look that ghastly to you?”
“You know that’s not what I–”
“No matter,” he’d waved you off. “I am afraid I’m busy today.”
You’d sent a message to Karlach, telling her that the reservation of Baldur’s Gate’s spa was no longer needed.
The third time, you’d called in some more magical help.
“Astarion, what do you say to a moonlit picnic atop the roof of the Elfsong? We haven’t had one in a while.”
Appalled– utterly and truly aghast is the only way to describe the face he’d made. The words that followed didn't make you feel better either. “And why would we do that again after such a long while?”
Your stomach had roiled, worry settling in at his tone. “I thought it would be a chance to reminisce together.” Your tone stayed light, your smile just as friendly.
“It’s far too cold to bother with reminiscing,” he’d said, glowering at you. Looking at the hard set of his jaw, this is when you’d begun to worry that you’d done something to upset him.
“Is everything alright?” you’d asked, reaching out for his arm.
“It’s fine,” he’d replied, curtly, retreating from your grasp. “I just don’t want to be colder than I already am.”
You’d sent a message to Gale, instructing him to call off the magical skywriting over the Elfsong.
For your fourth attempt, you knew you needed someone with a slightly more forceful personality– and to perhaps lean a little less romantic.
“Astarion,” you’d begun, inflecting your tone with just the right amount of panic. “Lae’zel’s found a flock of mephits along the beach of Wyrm’s Crossing. She needs our help.”
“Mephits?” he’d asked, looking at you cautiously. “In Wyrm’s Crossing?”
“Yes,” you’d replied, nodding hurriedly. “We need to go now.”
He’d clicked his tongue at you and shaken his head. “As if Lae’zel couldn’t crush them all with a single swing. Seems to me like she’s grown lazy after all of her heroics.”
“Astarion,” you’d chided. “You know she will incredibly cross at us if she finds out you declined to help.”
“I’ll survive,” he’d said, returning to the book on his lap, hands turning paler than usual in a tense vice grip. “Probably.”
After, you’d sent a message to Lae’zel, instructing her to do as she pleased with the stash of fireworks on the beach.
The fifth time you’d grown genuinely, truly worried that something was wrong with Astarion because, by the gods, the man had refused to commit crime with you.
After so many failed attempts, you’d figured that you needed to go back to the roots of your relationship– to a simpler time when petty theft gave you some time alone together.
“I heard a rumor through the guild,” you’d said offhandedly over dinner. “A newly minted noble in the Upper City has quite the horde of wealth and very little security. What do you say that we pay them a visit, perhaps ‘relieve’ them of some of their wealth?”
Astarion had faltered, clearly tempted by your offer. But after nearly two weeks of avoiding going anywhere with you, he didn’t outright agree either. “And why would you need me for this particular job?”
The question had taken you aback. You’d never needed a reason to invite him along for crime of all things. It made you near certain that he knew what you were up to and that something about it was distasteful to him. Sweet hells, it made you nervous. “I, erm… well, I could use an extra pair of hands to carry it all, I suppose?”
“I could lend you my pack then,” he’d said, narrowing his eyes at you.
Why is he trying to avoid me? Have his feelings changed? you’d thought in fear. Aloud, you’d only doubled down. “Well, the company might be nice. And you know that your lockpicking is, somehow, better than mine.”
“I thought you said security was sparse,” he’d countered.
“Sparse doesn’t mean nonexistent.”
“Not much of a challenge then, is it?”
You had wanted to scream into the astral plane. Wanted to flip the table over his pretty pale face. Wanted to tell him, ‘You know what, I didn’t want to marry such a stubborn vampire anyway!’ – but you did none of those things. Because you love this man and, even when he’s being difficult, you do want to marry him.
So you had gritted your teeth and said, “Very well then. I shall borrow your pack.”
You’d sent a message to Wyll later to call off his father’s help with the upper city guards.
For your sixth attempt, you decide you first need to reconvene with your council– also known as your former companions.
When you’d first met with them at the start of this whole ordeal, you’d snuck away from Astarion. It made you feel a bit guilty, sneaking around, hiding things from him, but the entire proposal was meant to be a fun surprise– one you are starting to suspect is a misguided effort.
You profess as much aloud now that you’re meeting up with the five of them again, seated around the table in Jaheira’s kitchen. “Maybe there is no sixth attempt. Maybe I’ve overestimated the love between us.”
“Don’t say that,” Wyll says, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, squeezing softly in reassurance. “Your love is strong. And together we will find a way to make this proposal work.”
You smile up at the man, one always so willing to believe in the power of a good love story. You’re almost sorry to be disappointing him– and the smut peddlers. Really, you’re sorry to be disappointing all of your friends. Each of your companions had been eager to help you in your endeavor, in their own ways, of course.
Gale had congratulated you prematurely at first, misunderstanding your Sending spell. But when you’d clarified, asked him for his help, he’d only been incredibly enthused, arriving the very next day, offering all manner of suggestions.
Karlach, for her part, was only ever excited, practically bouncing off the walls that two of her best mates may potentially tie the knot. At the low, low price of allowing her to be your person of honor, she was entirely at your disposal.
Lae’zel had been confused initially. In her mind, you were already committed to a life together. What was the purpose of this… proposal? Of marriage? But when you’d explained to her a bit, she’d been curious– and excited at the potential of catching Astarion off guard.
Shadowheart had seemed surprised when you’d asked. You weren’t already married? Alas, she’d gotten the plot of one of the many bawdy novels about you confused with real life. No matter, she was happy to help.
And, well, Wyll– when he returned from Avernus he’d been disappointed that you weren’t at the very least engaged yet. It was no shock or awe to him when you visited him for help. In fact, he had only given you a wry smile and said, “I knew you would be the one to cave.”
As for Jaheira, well, she was allowing you to use her house as a headquarters, but had proclaimed early, “Invite me to the wedding and I shall be there, but until then– well, this is for you lot to figure out.”
And gods were you having trouble figuring it out.
“I don’t know, Wyll. I’m worried Astarion may never revert back to normal at this rate,” you say, shaking your head.
“Was he ever normal?” Shadowheart asks with a soft snort. “Besides, he can be awfully dense at times, you may just need to ask him outright.”
“There is not a single realm in which Astarion says yes to a simple proposal,” you say, brows furrowing. “You know he’d want something flashy.”
Gale raises a finger sagely before countering, “Well, my friend, sometimes what we want and what we need are two different things. I’m inclined to agree that you may just need to pop the question.”
“What if…” you trail off, your worries from the past weeks bogging down your thoughts. Somehow, despite everything you’ve been through, this seems to be your toughest challenge yet. “Do you think he knows what I’m doing and is simply too afraid to reject me?” you ask the group, turning to each of them with pleading eyes. You’re honestly not sure you can take his rejection, especially after the last five rebuffs.
“Not a chance in the hells,” Karlach answers. “I think he’s being a right idiot, actually. And if he knew what was happening, he may even say yes before you can so much as get the question out.”
“Really?” Your mood lightens a bit, her harsh words slashing through the hardened doubts that have settled over your heart.
“Is it any surprise to us that Astarion is incapable of seeing the truth before him?” Lae’zel says, rolling her eyes. “Such sharp skills, yet completely dull in the face of our efforts.”
“Again, we may just need a softer touch,” Shadowheart suggests, tilting her head at you.
You’re not sure what a softer touch might be, and, from the silence that follows, neither are any of your companions.
Your resident wizard is the first to break the silence. “I could always create a simulacra–”
“Gale,” Wyll interjects, politely. “I’m afraid I don’t think that’s much softer.”
“Right,” Gale says, leaning back in his seat.
Another long moment of silence and you’re truly starting to feel defeated. You hang your head a bit, thoughts filled with the image of a certain beautiful, pale elf’s mouth curling at you in distaste, forming a pronounced ‘no.’
“Soldier,” Karlach starts. You look up to see her smirking at you. “If he won’t willingly join you anywhere. I think we both know what you need to do.”
–
They are going to sink the final nail in the metaphorical coffin.
For nearly two weeks now, Astarion has successfully avoided his lover’s attempts to get together in a public space– likely what they saw was the best, most civil way to dispose of him. But, foolish as it is to cling to something like a withered love, Astarion doesn’t want this relationship to end.
Perhaps, if I can do this for long enough, they will change their mind, he thinks. Gods, that sounds pathetic, even for him.
Astarion was running out of excuses, and, worse yet, running out of willpower. What is the use in fighting the inevitable? he thinks, as he walks down the streets of Baldur’s Gate. It’s a moonlit night, and he’s on the prowl for a criminal to bite– he needs something, anything to distract him from his woes.
He turns the corner, on high alert.
Then again, a more selfish part of him counters. Why shouldn't you fight for your love? They were the first good thing to ever happen to you in this damned world.
That’s when he spots them– the-first-good-thing-to-ever-happen-to-him is hiding behind a bush directly before him, facing another alleyway. There are very few reasons that they would be out at this time of night, in the middle of this particular street of Baldur’s Gate. While they could be on a mission for the guild, he had last seen them at home, reading by the fire. It’s clear that they followed him, are waiting to ambush him.
Is this it? he thinks, eyes narrowing. His chest hurts, more than ought to be possible given his lack of beating heart. Is this how desperate they are to be rid of me? May as well go out with flair, I suppose…
Astarion sneaks forward, careful to remain outside of your field of view. He settles behind you in the darkness of the bush, watching you as you look out for him. Despite the ache in his heart, the clenching of his stomach, he can’t help but think of how lovely you look under the moonlight– of how lucky he has been to have had you.
If this truly is it, he thinks. I can’t wallow or cry. I shall hold my head high and consider myself fortunate to have met them. To have loved them. At least, he hopes he’s capable of such a performance. Because right now, quietly crouched next to you, he wants nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to beg you to reconsider.
But no. He refuses to look pathetic– not after the life he has lived.
So, after waiting with you for a few minutes, he leans forward into your personal space and asks, “Darling, what are you doing?”
Astarion is ready for your instincts to kick in, so when your knife is drawn in a flash and you’re lunging for him, he’s easily dodging backward, holding his hands up in peace. “Now, now darling, I thought we were past the knives at throats.”
“Astarion?” you ask, startled. “Sweet hells, you haven’t snuck up on me like that in years.”
“Yes, well,” he says, avoiding your eyes now. He’s surprised by how much gazing into them has weakened his composure already. “You also haven’t looked so utterly distracted by your own thoughts in years either.”
“What are you doing here?” you ask, ignoring his words. “I thought…”
Yes, dear, what did you think? he wants to ask, to catch you in the act with a cruel moment of revelation, to hurt you as much as you’re about to hurt him. But when he brings his eyes back to yours, he knows he can’t do that. While he’s still capable of maiming, killing, all manner of atrocities– he cannot hurt you. So he only says, “I was out hunting and I saw you hiding in a bush. What are you doing here?”
“I–” you falter, seemingly torn. Perhaps you’re having second thoughts. Perhaps this is his chance to keep you from breaking his cold, crumbling heart.
“Do you need assistance, dear?” he asks, ready and willing to show how much he would do for you. Anything, honestly, if it means you’ll stay by his side.
“Gods, I keep mucking this all up,” you mutter, head hanging in uncharacteristic defeat. “Maybe Shadowheart was right.”
What did that damned cleric do now? Is she the one you’re leaving him for? He’s about to make a reflexive, snide comment about her veritable barnyard of animals, but stops when he sees you sheath your blade. When you wipe a hand over your face in frustration.
Oh. You’re miserable. You wouldn’t look like this normally. You would never be this nervous, this stressed to see him– not unless his very presence had turned toxic. “I should go, shouldn’t I?” he asks, throat tight.
“No!” you say, reaching out a hand to keep him from leaving. Your grip is tight, painful in its panic, but he doesn’t complain. How could he when you look like this?
More than anything, he wants this worry that lines your face to fade, the jittery movement of your hands to abate. So maybe it’s up to him to spark the beginning of the end… “Did you… have something you wanted to tell me?” he asks, swallowing down the fear that threatens to overwhelm him.
“I…” you gulp, bringing your second hand to join the first, loosening your grip. You raise your head, and he sees the tumult in your gaze. At the very least, you must care about him somewhat to stress yourself this much. “Astarion, please don’t be upset.”
How could he not? But, somehow, he manages a sad smile at you anyway. “As if I could ever be upset with you, my love.”
Then you drop to a knee in front of him.
–
“Astarion,” you say, voice shaking a bit with nerves. “I had wanted this to be something lovely. Something meaningful. But… I guess you love ruining plans, don’t you?”
“What,” he breathes out, confusion plain on his face. His red eyes dart between yours, as if trying to process a sudden, large shift. You suppose it would be a shift in your relationship, even if you were practically married already. If he even decided to say yes.
You release his arm with one hand, reaching into your side pouch for the small square box that’s waiting for you. Fingers less dexterous than usual, you fumble over clutching it, opening it single handedly. You’re not used to looking this foolish, and you can feel a heat over your cheeks, an anxious shake to your movements.
But before too long the box is open, a shining platinum band resting inside.
It looks like everything you’d hoped for in the moment– its inlaid red rubies catch the moonlight just beautifully. You’d spent weeks agonizing, wondering if you had picked the right one, imagining what it might look like were it to be placed on his perfect pale finger. Here and now, with this man standing before you, you know it would look exquisite.
“Astarion,” you start again, courage returning to you with that knowledge, some of the words you’d prepared coming back to your mind. “These past years together have been the best years of my life. You’re my best friend, my dual blade, and I love you more than I can even say. I don’t know what our future holds, but I would consider myself lucky to walk towards it with you at my side. So…” You pull the ring from the box, holding it up to the man you love with a smile. “Would you, Astarion Ancunín, do me the honor of marrying me?”
Astarion Ancunín, despite years of quick quips and sultry words, seems to be frozen in place, unable to speak.
You’re used to these moments, when he needs to process, but you’re not used to them when you’re on one knee, waiting for a response. “Astarion?” you hazard.
“You’re…” he says, face slack, mouth barely moving. “You’re proposing to me?”
It’s not a no, but it’s certainly not the reaction you’d be hoping for. “Erm, yes. Is that… distasteful to you?” You can feel your hand recoil somewhat, your smile slip.
His expression remains blank, lips slightly agape as he continues to take in the scene before him. “You– you don’t have a new lover? You’re not planning to leave me?”
“What?” Now it’s your turn to be flabbergasted. “Astarion, what are you talking about?”
The sigh that leaves him then could collapse a small house. “Sweet hells,” he says, face and body relaxing. “I thought… I thought that you were acting odd, like– like–”
“Like I was trying to surprise you with the magnificent proposal you deserve?” you respond, suddenly understanding his behavior and growing a smidge annoyed. “Like I didn’t want to propose to you behind some damned bushes?”
Astarion looks around, as if just now realizing where you are, what is happening. “Yes, now that you mention it, like that.”
You want to be upset, but then the man above you laughs. It’s light, breathy, and utterly relieved. “You were really worried, weren’t you?”
“Oh my sweet love, I was about ready to jump into an Oubliette,” he says, shaking his head ruefully.
“You thought I would leave you, just like that?” you ask, brows furrowing in concern. Maybe you should have just proposed in your living room.
“I wouldn’t blame you,” he says, looking down at you with a tinge of sadness in his smile. “I doubt that this was the life you were looking for, darling. As a matter of fact, are you… sure about this?” He eyes the ring in your hand, all but forgotten in his confusion.
You proffer it again, raising your hand a bit higher this time. “The only life I’m looking for is the one with you in it, Astarion. I am quite sure.”
His scarlet eyes dart between yours questioningly, and you merely stare back, staunch in your words and intent. “Even if I’m a fool that forced your hand– left you kneeling in the dirt?”
“We’ve done worse things on dirt, Astarion,” you say, smiling widening at the memory of the first time he’d told you he loved you. “If you’d like me to get out of the dirt though, you could answer my question: Would you marry me?”
__
Once more, he looks between your eyes, this time his are wide, open– daring to believe that his darkest fears are just that. Fears. Ones that you would vanquish without a second thought. How could he have been so blind to that. Moisture pools at the corner of his eyes at the realization.
So he drops to his knees, reaching for your face with his hands. In a single movement, he’s pulled you toward him, captured your lips with his with an undeniable longing. A longing to hold you in his hands for as long as he is able. A longing to taste your lips on his, each and every day. A longing to never be without you, to be yours until death do you part.
You respond to his kiss in kind, lips pressing against him with your own pent up longing. He distantly hears the ring’s box fall to the floor, feels your hand brush past his ear to clutch his hair. You kiss him like he’s the answer to every question you’ve ever had and he feels a small tear run down his face as his eyes squeeze tightly shut.
Gods he would never tire of kissing you.
I ought to respond, he thinks in the back of his head, as he moves his lips against yours.
Is this not response enough? he argues, not wanting to break apart from you, for even a moment.
No, it wouldn’t do to have any confusion, not after the past two weeks.
So, before he can forget himself, he pulls back from you, far enough to look into your eyes. “That was a ‘yes’ in case that wasn’t evident.”
You laugh, short and breathless. “Oh good,” you say, leaning back further and bringing up the ring between you. “Then may I?”
Astarion removes his left hand from your face, holds it out to you with a large, gleeful smile. “You may.”
You slip the ring onto his finger. It fits well, matches his eyes, looks positively sumptuous– as always, you know him too well. “It’s stunning,” he says, angling it one way then another.
“I’m glad you like it,” you say, smiling at the sight. “And that you didn’t catch me when I tried to sneak it past you.”
The vampire laughs, shaking his head free of his own silly thoughts. “I smashed your plans into tiny little pieces, didn’t I?”
You don’t say yes, but the look on your face is evidence enough. “I’ll tell you all about what you missed out on later. For now, we should, erm, go get our friends.”
“Go get our friends?” he asks, wondering what in the hells they have to do with all of this.
“Yes,” you say, planting a kiss on his hand before moving to get up. “They’re all in place for another one of these ill fated plans.”
“Ah,” he says, following you up. Then, realizing what you’ve said, he looks at you with concern. “Just what were you in this bush for?”
To your credit, you look abashed. But your words do nothing to lessen his concern. “Seeing as you were refusing to come with me, well, anywhere, we had to pivot our strategy.”
“Darling,” he starts, his tone a deceptive sweetness. “Whatever does that mean?”
“It was Karlach’s plan,” you say, as a means of explanation.
“Oh good. I’m sure whatever it was was perfectly sane then.”
Scratching at the back of your neck, you finally admit the plan, “I was going to give them a signal when you passed. Gale was going to make an illusory double of me getting kidnapped by the rest of them in disguise, then hopefully you would take chase to go save me, they would lose you just as you got to the Elfsong where I would be waiting…”
Astarion looks at you sharply, his mouth a disapproving line. “Really?”
“In retrospect, I can see the flaws in the plan,” you say, palms open. “But in my defense, I was getting desperate. Either way, we ought to go get them. Karlach seemed just about ready to explode from hiding that long.”
“Fine,” he says reluctantly. “This is what we get for having such imbeciles for friends.”
“Funny,” you start, holding out a hand to him. “They said the same about you.”
He takes your hand with an exaggerated eye roll, but can’t help the smile that comes over his face at the feeling of your fingers twining with his. “It’s a shame you had to resort to them for help.”
“I really needed it. You know, I have killed more people than I can count, but you have been my most challenging mark by far,” you say, dramatically as you begin to walk down the alleyway.
“Worse than the giant, world-ending brain?”
“Oh yes.”
The two of you walk in silence for a few steps before Astarion feels compelled to say one last thing before reaching your friends. “Darling, I truly am sorry I ruined all of your plans, but I must ask: Please don’t try to surprise me like this again.”
The expression on your face deflates a little, and you say, “I thought you would like something grand?”
He brings your hand up to his lips for a soft, reassuring peck. “Normally, yes. But, I love you so very much. I’m afraid it clouds my usually impeccable judgment.”
You don’t comment on his judgment, instead focusing on his proclamation of love. “I love you too. So, hopefully, there isn’t a second proposal.”
“One can only hope,” Astarion says with a laugh. “And, if there is, perhaps it’s my turn to do the proposing?”
“Love, if you surprise me, I may kill you,” you say, plainly.
“A risk I’ve always been willing to take, my dear,” the man replies, pulling on your hand. “Now, come. I think I can spot Wyll’s peeking eye from here.”
Hand-in-hand, the two of you walk toward your waiting friends, ready to tell them the good news.
It wasn’t the grand proposal you had envisioned. Nor was it even a particularly romantic one. But, somehow, it was still perfect, still loving, still the beautiful new beginning to the rest of your lives together.
A little Riff Raff x reader proposal fic I wrote and decided to post here!! Reader is gender neutral. It's so much tooth rotting fluff lol. Columbia and Eddie are a couple here too btw
Characters that appear: Reader, Riff Raff, Columbia, Eddie, Magenta, Frank n Furter.
Black... purple... red...
Black... purple... red...
Black... purple... red...
You fall into a soothing rhythm, carefully placing fondant flowers atop each cupcake, murmuring the order under your breath to ensure consistency. Each of your sweet creations is adorned with the same three blossoms, evenly spaced and perfectly placed.
You’ve decided that, as a gift to everyone, you're going to make a dessert for the end of dinner tonight. Everyone is accounted for, each cupcake a different flavour to match their personal tastes: birthday cake for Columbia, lemon for Magenta, red velvet for Frank, cookies and cream for Eddie, vanilla for Rocky, almond for Brad, and strawberry for Janet.
But the ones before you now are your personal favourite: dark chocolate – for Riff Raff. And you’ll admit, you’ve made a few extra just for him. Frank might raise an eyebrow at the lack of surplus in his name, but you don’t care. Only the best for Riff Raff.
Picking up another black fondant flower, you gently squish it into the sweet icing, carefully securing it in place with the practiced touch of someone who’s done this many times before.
The taste of dark chocolate icing still lingers on your tongue – bitter and sweet all at once. You’ve tasted each icing to make sure they’re perfect, but the richness of the dark chocolate overpowers the taste of the others in your memory.
As you reach for a purple flower to place on the cupcake, you hear the soft click of a familiar pair of heeled boots echoing down the corridor. You keep your back turned, waiting. You know it’s your boyfriend. Maybe he’ll enter the room or maybe just linger in the doorway, as he often does. You pick up the piping bag in your other hand and listen to the noise of his quiet footsteps. He moves with deliberate quiet – but not quiet enough to go unnoticed by you.
Sure enough, the footsteps come to a halt just behind you, right in the doorframe.
Pretending not to notice him, you begin to softly hum to yourself. It’s a tune you know he finds endearing, something delicate to fill the silence between you.
It stays like this for a while – you, busy with decorating the cupcakes, and him, silently watching from afar.
After a moment, you place the final flower on top of the cake, a small red rose, and turn to face him. The sight that greets you leaves you breathless.
Riff Raff stands before you, his face the same shade as the flower you’ve just placed, blue eyes firmly locked on the floor. But it isn’t his face that makes your heart lurch.
It’s the small, velvet box clutched between his trembling hands.
A black ring box.
Your eyes widen. You quickly set the piping bag down on the counter behind you, your hands suddenly unsteady. The two of you stand in silence, an electric stillness stretching between you, until finally, Riff Raff shifts nervously, clears his throat, and looks up at you.
"I wasn’t sure when… or how," he murmurs, voice hushed and uneven. "But this felt right."
A tightness grips your chest and your eyes well with tears, your face warming into a soft pink. You can practically hear your heartbeat in your ears, fast and loud and all-consuming. You’re barely breathing.
He doesn’t get down on one knee, probably for the sake of his bad joints, but it doesn't matter. To you, this is perfect.
His face is unreadable, as it usually is. To anyone else, he might seem detached, indifferent. But not to you. You can read him like an open book. Every small shift, every tiny breath, every twitch of his fingers is a letter in a language only you understand. And how you love to decode him.
Though his face gives little away, his eyes tell you everything you need to know.
God, it’s all in his eyes.
He looks at you in a way he never looks at anyone else. There’s a softness there, a vulnerability. His pupils are blown wide, and in the low light of the kitchen, they seem to shimmer.
He takes a shaky breath and opens his mouth once more.
"Y/N… Will you marry m—Ah!"
Before he can even finish the question, you fling yourself at him, nearly knocking him off balance. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. His hands find their way around your waist, still holding the box, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You feel the furrow of his brow press against your skin, and soon, the damp warmth of tears follows. He’s crying, quietly, trying not to let it show. But you feel it.
You stay embraced for a while, letting him quietly sob into your shoulder.
When you finally pull away, he’s smiling – truly smiling, wide and radiant. It’s rare, and it undoes you.
His slender fingers fumble with the ring box. When he opens it, your heart swells all over again. The ring is gorgeous: a dark titanium band encrusted with tiny black pearls that shimmer iridescent in the light. The star jewel, however, is a single heart-cut black diamond – impossibly clear and beautifully bold.
You pluck the ring out of the box to examine it further. As you turn it toward the light, the diamond catches the glow of the kitchen bulbs and flashes a bright, brilliant purple. You turn it the other way, and it gleams a deep, illustrious red.
"...It’s perfect." You whisper, awestruck. You see Riff Raff relax at your words, as if he was worried that you wouldn't like it. He had no need to be worried. You would say yes even if your ring was made out of old string and tinfoil.
He takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before taking the ring from you and slipping it onto your finger. It's a perfect fit. Secure, but not tight. It feels like it belongs there.
He takes his own matching ring out of the box and puts it on his own finger. It suits him beautifully, dark against his pale complexion.
Your hand finds his, and your fingers intertwine.
"You’re shaking," you whisper.
He nods, lips parting, searching for something to say. "I... didn’t think I’d be this afraid," he admits, voice frayed and raw. "Or this happy. It's... disorienting."
His other hand reaches up and cups the side of your face. His hands are warm, unusually so for him. Your lips lock together in a passionate, yet tender, kiss and your eyes flutter shut. You feel the corners of his mouth tug upwards as he smiles into it.
Riff Raff breaks away first, a puzzled look on his face. He swipes his thumb over his bottom lip before speaking.
"…Is that dark chocolate?"
You laugh softly, reaching for one of the cupcakes.
"You tell me," you say, handing it to him.
He lets out a satisfied hum and takes a bite.
"Hmm. Those are delightful." He says, mouth half full. "I like the flowers."
"I thought you would." You reply, happy with your craftsmanship. "Made extra for you."
He holds the cupcake out for you to take a bite too, but just as you're about to sink your teeth in, a loud CRASH sounds out from the corridor, followed by a "Columbia! Wait up!" In Eddie's usual sing-song voice.
You both turn toward the sound, hearts leaping. You’d left the kitchen door ajar.
Columbia skids into the room on socked feet and slams face-first into the wall, her ruby hair a wild mess.
"It smells amazing in here! Whatcha bakin'?"
Eddie enters next, running past you and towards Columbia. He grabs her waist and hoists her into the air, causing her to squeal. They both burst out laughing, the kind of full, uncontrollable laughter that fills every corner of the room.
"Ha! Told you I’d catch you!"
Eddie finally notices you and Riff Raff standing together on the other side of the kitchen, acknowledging the both of you with a small "Oh! Hey, guys!"
You don't have his attention for long before his eyes drift towards the counter, and he suddenly shouts, "WOAHHH! CUPCAKES!" loud enough to rattle the windows.
Magenta walks in after, eyebrows drawn into a scowl. She speaks through clenched teeth, her voice low and sharp. "What have I told you about chasing each other through the castle?! Frank is going to flip when he sees that broken vase!"
Magenta pauses when she sees you and Riff Raff standing shoulder to shoulder, faces calm, matching rings glinting subtly in the kitchen light. The small ring box still sits on the counter.
She raises a brow.
Columbia notices next, eyes narrowing as she glances between the small box and the cupcakes.
"Wait a damn minute. YOU'RE ENGAGED!?"
"TO EACH OTHER!?" Eddie blurts out afterwards, dropping Columbia in his shock.
She bends her knees to absorb the fall, landing with practiced grace. Without missing a beat, she prances over to you, grabbing you by the arms and frantically shaking you like a rag doll.
"Do you have any idea what this means?!?!" She questions, voice tinged with dramatic dread.
You reply, brows furrowed and slightly dizzy from the shaking. "Uhh... what does it mean?"
"I owe Magenta twenty bucks!"
"You bet on our engagement?" Riff Raff asks flatly, a note of disbelief in his voice.
"No," Columbia says, eyes sparkling. "We bet on whether you were emotionally functional enough to pull it off!"
"Rude." Riff Raff comments, sarcastically rolling his eyes.
"And I won." Magenta interrupts, her expression proud and sly. She gives her brother a playful punch on the shoulder as a silent way of saying I knew you could do it.
"Ahem"
Every head turns toward the doorframe. Behind Magenta stands a very displeased Frank-N-Furter, cape billowing theatrically despite the lack of wind in the castle. Knowing Frank, he's definitely turned on a fan to make sure his cape looks good.
You can immediately tell something is wrong because his lipstick doesn't match his heels. He crosses his arms, casually inspecting his nails as he speaks.
"You mean to tell me you two are getting engaged without my explicit and quite possibly choreographed consent? Informing me beforehand was the absolute least you could’ve done!"
Magenta steps forward, a glint of annoyance in her eyes. "And why is that?"
"So I can prepare! My outfit must stun. The lighting must flatter. I need time to plan my dramatic entrance! And the food must be protein-rich so Rocky can maintain those delicious muscles of his—"
"Speakin' of Rocky", Columbia cuts in, "where is he?"
Beginning to gently herd everyone out of the room, you reply, "We can tell Rocky, Brad, and Janet over dinner. Why don’t you guys go set the table?"
"OK!!" Columbia and Eddie yell in unison before tearing off back down the hallway toward the dining room.
Frank exits dramatically, turning the fan up to maximum as he passes. He immediately starts practicing his grand entrance in the hallway mirror, utterly unaware of the broken vase crunching under his heels.
Magenta decides to linger in the kitchen a little longer. She glances at the cupcake tray, then at you and Riff Raff.
"When you get married, I guess that’ll make me your sister-in-law," she says with a rare softness, patting you on the shoulder. "You two make a lovely couple."
"Thank you, Magenta," you reply warmly.
She wraps Riff Raff in a bear hug before finally heading out the door, closing it behind her with a click.
"I better be the maid of honour!!" she shouts from down the hallway.
"Nuisances. The lot of them." Riff Raff mutters, though there’s a flicker of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
You embrace him once more, tracing small circles across his back. "You don't mean that."
He takes your hand and raises it, slipping effortlessly into a waltz position, and the two of you begin to gently sway. He smoothly turns the kitchen radio on, and it begins to softly play, buzzing every so often.
"I don't. But all the noise they make is quite irritating when I want to be alone with you."
"Well, you have me alone now."
"I do." He says calmly, slotting his head in between your shoulder and neck again.
The scent of sugar and chocolate still lingers in the air, comforting and warm.
You break the silence one last time.
"...Should we make everyone wear black at the wedding?"
He replies. "Of course. Anything else would be indecent."
"And Frank?"
Riff Raff lets out a deep sigh. "He can design the napkins. That should get it out of his system."
You giggle, giving his hand a playful squeeze.
The radio in the corner crackles as a new song begins to play – something old, crooning and sweet. He hums along to it under his breath, the notes just barely audible over the soft static.
And for the first time in a long time, everything feels beautifully, perfectly right.
HIIII GUYSSS i had so much fun writing this so please tell me what you think!! Incase it isn't already obvious enough riff is my favourite character and I loved writing him here ♡♡
Dividers are from @huraxy from this post :)
@sosoribro thank you for being so sweet and encouraging ♡♡♡ now you can reblog cause I didn't post it early like an idiot this time
With Chrismas around the corner (not really but basically), i would love an Arthur x GN!reader where Arthur proposes to reader for Chrismas and they obviously say yes because, well, it's Arthur, who wouldn't?
Anon did you read my mind. I was just thinking about proposal fics when you sent this ask because I have yet to stumble on one somehow... I'm sorry this took forever btw T-T
Shoutout to my platonic boyfriend for helping me with ideas because I got writer's block <3
Words: 3k oh my good lord
Tags: canon divergence (it's just people leaving the gang a chapter early), Arthur does not have tuberculosis, INSTANT spoilers for character death, cheesy shit
It's been too long, you're realizing, since holidays like Christmas felt like special things. There is a double-edged feel to this one — it is the first since Hosea's death, since leaving the gang — but it is the first, in a very long time, that you've spent in the so-called right way: in a warm house with four solid walls and someone you love, how those fanciful books Mary-Beth used to talk your ear off about always wrote.
The house is warm enough, anyways.
There's work that needs done on the cabin. Some of the wood is rotting out and chipped at the corners, forming into sharp splinters that you've brushed against one too many times, but it is a house. You haven't had this pleasure since before joining the gang.
Sometimes, with how content Arthur seems at baseline, you wonder if he's had this pleasure since early childhood. On quieter evenings, ones less reserved for happiness than this one, there has been clipped discussion about how Arthur has never had domesticity like this. Silently, it was an admission of how good it is to share this freshness with you.
During a ride into town, he'd admitted that he had never picked up painting because it was the sort of thing only steady folks got to enjoy. You'd gotten him a set of oil paints when no one was looking — he's worth much more than a few measly dollars, but that means little if you haven't got them to begin with. Some habits die hard; he was happy you remembered what he'd said only a few hours before.
Come the new year, Arthur plans to find work that will pay. New things are a luxury neither of you care much to indulge in, but the repairs will take lumber and maybe a few extra hands. Ones with more expertise, at least, because Arthur's houses usually have not had foundations.
You could simply move now that time has passed, yes. You could find somewhere much farther away, maybe even New York, and pack yourselves in alongside the other sardines bustling about a city, undetectable in uniformity. Shave beards, got jobs, change clothes, cut hair and color it, too, if paranoia strikes— but keeping low to the ground has worked itself out so far, and there is no more of that deathlike stagnation in the air of this place.
Sentimentally, you think this Christmas will seal off whatever makes this cabin yours. Shadows linger, there's been a few odd creaks that've spooked the horses, and maybe it's going to shit a lot quicker than either of you want to admit, but it's your shit-house and the shared stubbornness between you has always brought you nothing but closer to one another.
Arthur is tired of running, and so are you. Last week, he talked about writing to Mary-Beth and Simon, maybe checking if Kieran — the utterance of the man's proper name was a confirmation of the last of that stockholmlike regret having worked out of his system — had broken and followed his little girlfriend. It wasn't said with malice, just some amusement.
"Why do you think he would?" You'd asked.
"Dutch only saves people who don't ask for it," he'd said, and that wistful look in his eyes vanished before you could ask what it meant.
Maybe it's the hard work that makes it feel like a real, true holiday. Pearson and Grimshaw stopped working everyone harder in the winter over the years, once the familial glamour faded with each new addition to the gang. It was no longer a tight-knit group, but a posse, more or less, of runaways and strays all against a big, evil thing like the rest of the world, or whatever it was that Dutch grew to fear.
Since November, Arthur has been saving the best catches to be salted and stored for Christmas dinner. Each addition is cleaner skinned and cut than the last, and the newfound worst of them ended up being ate upon his return from hunting. You've both been saving back herbs since summer, dried and ready to be crumbled into the heated up pot come time for a real feast. Cornbread was made by hand for the first time since you settled down here, drizzled with honey from the general store a ways out.
The latter was Arthur's only specific request for a fancy dinner. If you hadn't gotten him a single gift save for making it, he'd still be happy as a clam.
He's been putting that goddamned honey on everything. You're glad he seems to be enjoying things again, not as tightstrung as he was before you'd made off with him. That's how it feels, anyways, after the long and struggling conversations that were had before the decision was made. Family or life? It's a hard question for someone who has such little concept of either.
Now, the grey hair in his beard is catching the light from the fireplace where he's sat himself on a chair before it. They'd sprouted through the sun-bleached blond atop his head has been looking lighter and lighter in recent months, grey finally catching up to the discoloration and giving him some malcolored sort of tabby look. It's a good one on him, as much as he complains about looking old as dirt and that it's all formed by stress.
For all the lacking color, it adds a ruddy warmth to his face. Daydreams of growing old together find you when you focus on it, or on his wheezing laugh that's gotten worse with the cold weather. Despite the woolen vest he's been sporting, his fingers are as chilled as yours whenever they've brushed. Idly, you wonder if he's gotten whatever Hosea grew into, then remember they were never by blood.
Arthur hadn't wanted you to get him any gifts. When you asked if he would get you something, he'd flushed and changed his mind, apparently already having done it.
Whatever it is, it's good-sized, wrapped in one of the dustcloths you'd gotten him alongside the paints. He's been spending more time painting, lately, tucked in the treeline and looking over the cabin or deeper into the woods, studying something plein air the way those professionals do. He'd propped it against the wall this morning, and once you've settled on the floor before the fireplace — too cold outside not to crowd close to it — after dinner, he looks between you and the cloth like he isn't sure what to do.
"D'you wanna do the honors?" He asks, and grins although the twitch of his eye tells you he's covering timidity with faux cockiness.
"You go ahead," you say, half because he's closer. Tormenting him in small ways must be part of any good gift.
The painting is an image you recognize. A photo that one of the girls took for you months before things went down the hole, using the camera Arthur was loaned by some feller in town who wanted photos taken for a book. He never returned it, and it more or less became something he tucked beneath his cot and let the elements beat around. You can't remember, now, who it was or where he went to get it developed.
The little inkling of pride you felt knowing he kept putting off getting the negatives developed — not enough money, not enough time — yet was gone the next morning to have yours developed returns, now.
It's a much nicer rendition of it, your clothes not dirty and his arm around your waist, the other holding his hat to his chest. It's clear he preferred to give your portrait more detail, his own lagging somewhere behind in clarity and looking closer to the photo. You suppose it's easier to look at someone besides himself, but there's a clearer enjoyment in the lines of you, more care taken in the color mixes.
Ignoring the dense joy of the implications of that, of how obvious it is, proves difficult. Your cheeks twinge some from the wide smile before you realize you're even reacting.
"You'll be a big name someday," you say, and he may as well shrink in on himself beneath the praise, although he's heard it plenty of times before.
"Naw," he waves a hand. "Quit that."
"Really, Arthur." Scooting closer, laying your hands over his knee. He's moving his jaw when your eyes meet his, lays a hand over one of yours, heavy and warm. "It's beautiful. I love it."
"Good," he says. His jaw clicks. "I— uh, I love you."
The hunting knife you got for him seems small, though relatively equal. Arthur looks as pleased as ever studying it, half-mumbling appraisals of yeah, nice and sharp, sturdy to himself that likely would've stayed inside his head, if it weren't for wanting to show you he liked it.
A bone handle, which he feels over with his fingers before noticing it's engraved, fits easy in his palm. You were afraid you push your luck with maintaining its quality too far adding the tiny, vague bear shape next to the deeper cut of his name. Already impressive was the fact that you hadn't ruined it with the letters, being one of your first expeditions into anything of the sort.
"I would've gotten you one of those folding knives," you explain. "But they don't hold up as well, and I know you have one."
The army knife was Hosea's.
"Needed me a new huntin' knife," Arthur says. You know, because he's complained about his current one being close to snapping with all the skinning he does anymore. He squints at the handle, turns it over in the light from the fire. "Did you engrave the handle?"
"Yessir."
He smiles. "It's real nice," he says, pats his palm with the blade softly. It makes a dull noise, sturdy metal on skin. "Why a bear?"
"They remind me of you," you admit. Really, you'd spent a long time considering what else to add, because only his name seemed so plain; although he wouldn't be opposed to flowers or vines, they are a little more intricate than a simplified bear head. "Big and strong. Hairy, too. I'd like to hug one."
He snorts a laugh, but it seems thin. His eyes are fond enough on you that it couldn't be any rejection of your words, and so you brush it off. "You wanna hug a bear?" He asks.
"In a perfect world," you amend. "Don't they look warm?"
"You'd better stick to me," he says, smooths a palm over the thigh of his jeans. The nicest pair he owns, he promised you, because he feels ridiculous in slacks and seems to think you care what he wears.
Beyond thinking everything looks well on him, at least. You often find yourself concerned with that thought.
"I got you somethin' else," Arthur starts, running a finger over the bunched inseam at his own knee. "Well, uh— it's f'both of us, really."
Isn't that intriguing, you think, but your silent, undivided attention seems to make him outright nervous, so you say: "Oh?"
Some conflict happens over his face as he pulls his vest collar away and reaches into the inner pocket, takes out a stack of thin papers that he glances over before apparently relenting to something. Confusion finds you, until he takes a deep breath and holds them towards you.
"Read these," is all he says, and he sounds like it's almost painful.
He's written much, much more than that. Your stomach turns, once or twice, realizing they are pages from his journal. Uncertain why, until the first entries which are skittering on affectionate fade into ones much more flowery. They are all about you, days you'd spent together or times you hadn't, the things you've given him over the years and the things he wished he could've given you.
Each page makes your chest feel tight with a panicked joy, as if his hands were not fiddling with the new knife to occupy — distract? — himself but clenching hard at your heart.
One, near the beginning, says he thought of pickin' a pretty lil' flower, God bless it, I feel ridiculous; on the back of the next is pressed a variegated tulip, crumbling with age but holding firm to whatever adhesive glues it to the paper. Again, that creeping smile, like thyme. Another entry is entirely about your hair, because it had brushed his arm. Only a few sentences made up that page, below the cursive a choppy sketch of your horse.
Certainly, Arthur stays busy in his head. You've always known as much, but never figured any of it was about you. Not like this, anyways, though the dates spread from the week before Blackwater and you can only wonder what laid in that journal he lost before.
"Oh, Arthur," you start, looking up from a third-way through, feeling giddy but not wanting him to watch you so intently while you finish them. No wonder he was shy. It's his heart. "You're so sweet."
"Finish readin' 'em," Arthur says, doesn't meet your eyes at first. When he does, they're gentle. "They get sweeter, y'know, better finish 'em. 'Cause of that."
He is nervous. Hardly moving, besides the tongue running over his teeth beneath his lips, and the rambling every time he opens his mouth. You don't mind, never have. He's endearing like this.
Outings you'd went on infrequently, the dates of his favorites underlined, you're noticing, based on the tone of his words in them; his worries and fears about courting you, and some of what you mean to him though, with its succinctness, you have a feeling he wouldn't dare put all of his genuine love to findable paper; things he likes about you, and one page where he admits that he cannot keep himself from documenting you in every other entry, which tells you this small collection is hardly everything. The previous entries turn over in your mind again, and you are struck on a random page for a moment as their meanings take hold, realizing they were especially sliced from his journal to show you.
The entries leading to the last are what set your mind and pulse ablaze. From the first appearance of the word marriage, you swallowed your idea of what may be coming — Arthur's breathing changing beside you doesn't help any, and it certainly does not help that he leans down once you've reached the last page, plucking it from your hands. Before he does, you notice quite a few crossed out lines, scribbles as if he were frustrated with not being able to find the right words.
"Think I've got the balls on me to read this one aloud, at the very least," he says, voice laced with a chuckle. Breath comes uneasy, but you collect yourself enough to gather the pages back into a neat, ordered stack in your lap. "Unless you'd rather spare me," he adds, nudges your knee with the toe of his shoe.
"No." Your voice sounds strange, even to you. "Do me the honors."
Arthur bites his cheek, nods and lets it fall as he smiles. Still, his hand finds the back of his neck, the page held between two fingers that remain surprisingly steady. The knife lingers in his hand beneath it, and isn't it just like him to propose holding a weapon.
Propose. It takes its first toll on you, rolls over your back in shards of tingling.
"December twenty-fifth, eighteen ninety-nine," he starts, eyes flicking to your face every other word until the intensity of your gaze must make him too anxious. "It's a nice little life, livin' with the one I love," — rubbing his mouth, sighing some — "Jesus, I always gotta be sappy." You laugh, though it comes out more forceful than you intended, and relax some until he continues. "The thought of another day where anythin' could happen 'n' we ain't bound is somethin' I hate."
Arthur pauses, stands up and places the journal entry on his chair. You take his hands when he holds them out to where you sit, grunting when he hauls you off the ground with more force than you expected, feet shuffling into place to stick all-too-close to his. His hands are burning, skin feverish when you grab his wrists, as if you'd ever want to stop him as he eases onto a knee before you.
And his eyes throw you off balance, too, catching the light just enough that you can tell they are stinging. So are your own, now that you think about it, but intelligent thoughts go out the window once you sense him about to speak.
"I wanna be 'til death do us part," Arthur confesses, fumbles to catch both of your hands in his in an awkward, squeezing hug of a hold.
The way your bones catch on one another, well— it's not a sensation you'll forget, like the first time he kissed you and you felt it still a week later, warm pressure on your mouth if you got too lost in the memory. He looks as good, looks so nice, and you know your fingers would be shaking if he weren't crowding them together, steady.
When he says your name, the blood is rushing through your ears too loud to hear it clearly; you almost want to ask him to do it again. "Will you marry me?"
Nodding, face slack before it spreads in a grin. "Yes," you say. "Of course I will."
His is hidden by how he lets go of your hands, catching them before they fall in stupid, limp joy back to your sides. He lays kisses along the knuckles, all three rows of them. It's so awfully saccharine and yet you could never tell him to quit being sweet— not now, not as he stumbles to his feet after you pull him up and shake off his hold to grab his face, tugging him into a kiss.
Arms come around your waist, squeeze tight enough to hurt, or to hold in place. Arthur runs a hand over your back, breaks the kiss to slide a hand into your hair and press your face to his chest, caging you in his arms. He smells warm, like good cologne, and you know he's been planning this.
A little Kingdon blurb from the fic I’m writing - enjoy!
Thought I’d post a little piece of my upcoming fic from my forever is a feeling series - read part one here!
”Oh! I was borrowing that from Trinity, she recommended that artist about a month ago! Put on the b-side, I like that one more.”
Frank obliged, lifting the cover of their turntable and gently taking out the record and setting it down. Before he moved the needle, he turned the cover and traced his finger gently over the song title. “Best Guess.”
Mel nodded. “It’s a good song. Slow and quiet, but still manages to be interesting.”
”Okay then,” he nodded, and moved the needle over the record and dropped it gently. He listened as the music faded in, and a warm female voice started singing. He made a few short paces over to Mel, and held out his hand. “Dance with me?”
”You don’t even know if the song is danceable," Mel huffed. Frank rolled his eyes dramatically, gesturing her forward with his fingers.
”Any song is danceable,” he replied as she laid her hand in his and stood. “Anything is with you.”
Mel waved off his comment, but he could see a blush forming at the tips of her ears. He pulled her in gently by the arm until they were touching foreheads, her arms resting on his shoulders as he placed his hands on her waist. ”Hi,” he said.
”Hey,” she responded, eyes fluttering shut as they swayed to the music. “I’ve missed you.”
”I missed you too,” he confided, pulling away for a moment to plant a kiss on her temple. “Our shifts never line up anymore.”
“I’m excited to spend the morning with you,” she said. “We can do this all day, if you wanted to.”
“Not all day, you have dinner plans,” he reminded her, moving away to raise an arm so Mel could twirl around before meeting him back in his arms. It was always his favorite part of their dancing, watching her spin around in whatever she was wearing at the time. It was so simple, and yet something was so domestic about it that Frank struggled to not go into his room and grab the little black box hidden in his drawer and sink down onto his knee right there. Still, he thought of the plans he had worked so hard for the very next day and continued swaying with her, one hand traveling up to her hair as he started gently smoothing it out.
Mel sighed, content, and as the song ended, Frank met her halfway to gently press his lips against hers. There was nothing heated, nothing burning or forceful in the kiss, just a soft, gentle vow of his love to her. When they pulled away, Mel began to yawn softly as Frank gently put the record away. “You tired?” Frank asked, and when she replied by nodding slowly, he smiled softly at her. “Get some sleep, then. I’ll be right in, just gonna clean up in here a bit so we don’t have to tomorrow.”
”Are you sure?” Mel replied softly. “I feel bad making you clean up by yourself.”
”You aren’t making me do anything, Mel,” Frank sighed, coming over to where she was standing and placing a hand against her cheek. “I want to spend time with you tomorrow, so I’m doing this now while you sleep. Go get some rest, okay?”
