kinkfest | Before Home (D.Gray-Man, Road/Allen)

Title: Up Before Home
Author/Artist:

nekokoban
Rating: R
Prompt: D.Gray-man, Road/Allen: special privileges - “The Millennium Earl is searching, searching for his heart”
Word count: 885
Summary: Afterwards, they'll be a family again.

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She weighs so little: like a shadow, like a dream, smooth skin and subtle curves that are nearly boyish in the way the lines of her body come together. A strong breeze could blow her away; he could tumble her off his hips just by moving. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds, shuddering when she cups his face with her tiny hands and kisses him, first on the forehead, then both cheeks, and then finally upon his mouth like a blessing.

Against his lips, hers move in the shape of a name that is not his and yet rocks him straight to his core, pulling a pained noise from somewhere deep in his chest. Immediately she makes soothing noises, stroking across his cheeks with her thumbs. Against his hips she sinks and rises, and another low sound rises from him at the pattern. Once more he thinks about knocking her off, of rising and leaving, but he keeps his eyes shut, unmoving when she moves to undo his belt with clever little fingers.

He moans once when she frees his cock and doesn't protest when she takes his hands with hers, guiding them to rest upon her hips. The skin there is soft as silk--softer, perhaps, though he doesn't have the words for it--and she fits his hands perfectly as if made for them. When she sinks down upon him in a single easy smooth motion, he can't help how his fingers tighten hard on her; a normal woman would bruise, he knows, or very possibly even break. She makes no protest, though, resting her own hands on his chest to brace her weight.

Everything feels strange and slow and hot; his limbs feel heavy and sluggish, though his body moves in time with hers, meeting and matching the rhythm she sets. Red patterns move across his closed eyelids, things that very nearly have shape and definition that he recognizes. She makes no outright noise, but he can hear her breathing, just slightly roughened and sharpening each time he rolls his hips up against hers. There should be awkwardness, he thinks--unpleasantness and discomfort and worse with the way they move together, with what they are even doing here and now, but instead they are perfectly synchronized: two parts of a whole.

Allen Walker opens his eyes. His tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth, too awkward to form proper words, but he still forces himself to speak--to give her shape and form by naming her: "... Road."

And Road Kamelot smiles at him, never stopping her steady rocking motion. She wears a simple white shift, hiked up over her hips, one strap sliding loosely down her shoulder. There is something in her eyes that is old and strange and deeply, painfully familiar all at once. Looking at her face makes something tighten in his chest like grief or regret, so he closes his eyes again, biting his lip as he rocks his hips up harder, faster, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her firmly against himself. Her fingers curl and uncurl against his chest, almost kneading, one palm pressed directly over his heart.

In the moment before he comes, when time has slowed for a single heartbeat and his breath is strangled in his lungs and it's too late to stop himself, she leans down and finally brushes her lips against his, soft as a whisper.

"It's all right," she tells him, the words breathed into his open mouth--and then the moment shatters and he cries out, sobbing a little as he comes. It feels a little like losing something--it feels a little like regaining something. For a moment he doesn't know exactly who he is--Allen Walker or Red or someone else entirely--but he knows that she is still a small warm weight on his hips, that she has taken both of his hands in hers so that their fingers are laced together, that she is promising him things in that one sentence that he isn't picking up on. He tries to say her name again, but all that escapes him is a groan that is nearly a whine and he squeezes her hands until his own fingers ache.

"It's all right," Road says again, nearly gentle. "We're still looking. We're getting closer--every day, we're closer. And when we do, it'll be all right. You can come home." She reaches to touch his cheek like mother and lover both, running her fingertips over the curve of his cheek. "I miss you."

He covers her hand with his own and opens his eyes to his empty room. His body feels light and loose--better than he has in years, if he's honest--but his chest aches worse than the time his heart was physically destroyed. For a moment he presses a fist there, but even finding unbroken skin there doesn't allow him to relax. The memory of his dream shreds itself the longer he's awake, even though he clutches for it--he remembers warmth and he remembers being loved in a way he's certain he's never been before.

Allen Walker rubs his face with both hands and forces himself to breathe until the urge to cry passes.