hi! if its no trouble, I'd love to request a alucard x reader fic. im not sure if you write for nonbinary!reader, but i am still transmasc so ftm!reader is also amazing. reader is quite reserved and studious, like alucard, but that results in them ending up sometimes bottling up emotions and forgetting they actually have to talk about them.
id like to just request some good old gender affirming nonsexual intimacy, because gender dysphoria is a bitch, and i can't imagine how much harder it wouldve been to be trans back in the 15th century. I imagine alucard would be very open regarding gender (given his androgynous presentation) and would be very good at comfort surrounding that. idk. I just need to take a bath with him and be told my body doesn't define who I am.
A/N: first time doing an alucard request!! i imagined this with nocturne alucard in mind, but feel free to imagine whatever version of alucard you want. also i’m imaging a kind of togata-fire-punch-style reader where he just wants to live as a man but because of his vampiric regeneration he can’t.
you’ve known adrian for a long, long time. you’ve watched civilizations rise and fall with his hand in yours. you’ve spent countless winters with him. time has slipped through your fingers like shadows running long during the winter solstice.
but you’ve never bared yourself to him like this. skin stripped raw with a vulnerability that felt more unnatural than sharing a bed with him, pressed skin-to-skin to counteract the colder northern climate.
the tub is warm, water just hot enough to blush your skin, but not enough to scald. your arms wrap around your chest, trying to keep adrian’s eyes off the goosebump-speckled flesh.
with your back turned to him, it should be easy to pretend he’s not there at all. however, adrian’s deft fingers work into your scalp, kneading the skin and pressing into your pounding temples.
he doesn’t even flinch at the blood staining the water a muddled red.
the sight of it sickens your stomach, curdling your intestines and making bile rise to your throat. the very process disgusted you nearly to the point of illness- were you not in pain for a week every lunar phase it could have been a minor inconvenience at best. but the world is not kind; horrible nausea, cramping like being hit with rocks repeatedly in your gut leaving you bed bound for days, and bleeding enough to soak through the bedsheets.
adrian hums, grabbing your attention. you incline your head to show you’re listening. “if you think it would be helpful, i can rub your lower back to ease some of the pain. only with your permission of course.”
you nod, and the water sloshes slightly around you as his hands sink under the water and hover against your waist. tension could tight in your gut as his fingers press into the dimples of your back, touch gentle enough to be noticeable but not intrusive.
adrian sighs through his nose, clearly gathering his thoughts. “i know it might not mean much to you,” he starts, and you have to suppress the urge to turn and look at him. not now- not with your chest exposed to him, bared for all the world to see and leer at. “but your body does not define you.”
you scoff. “that is easy for you to say, my love. the amount of times you have been mistaken as a girl is more than i can count on one hand.” adrian’s androgynous appearance made you simmer with jealousy, but you would never admit that to him. his vampiric beauty lended nicely to his body and made him appear ethereal to the average person.
“i’m well aware of that fact.” adrian responds, hands raising above the water and returning to his side to reach for the cloth resting on the rim of the tub, “yet i wanted to tell you anyway. even if you may not internalize it. you have always been my husband in all but name, and nothing your body does will change that.”
tears gather in your eyes at the factual tone adrian addresses you with. he speaks the praise like it is fact, written in stone and signed in blood. your breath stutters as you fight the burning in your throat. “you don’t mean that.”
“oh, but i do. it’s truth the same way night will fade into day.” adrian says, letting a hand rest on your shoulder. you turn to face him this time, a single tear escaping your waterline. “your body doesn’t define you, my love. my husband.” he presses a kiss to your temple, gentle and reverent.
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the opulent gold of the keep’s throne room made enver’s eyes hurt. the luxury of it all made his head spin, even now- how much did the gilded walls cost? how could he ever afford such a frivolous waste of money?- yet he can’t afford to have such thoughts any longer. he’s the archduke of baldurs gate, after all; the pinnacle of high society, the figurehead of the city.
he still feels out of place, despite his best attempts at fitting in. the gold claws he adorned to appear more menacing, his cane gilded and made out of high-quality hardwood replacing his worn-out and hand-me-down cane long scuffed and half-broken. the fine clothes custom tailored to himself to hide his stiff gait. the brace hidden beneath his clothes keeping him from limping.
no matter how hard enver tries, he cannot escape the foul influence of the house of hope. it’s sulfuric air had sunken into his body, bones creaking like the large wooden doors every time he relaxes.
he’s broken, despite every crack he seals with gold and expensive furnishings of his body. it clings to his skin, that brokenness, declaring him weak and an outsider, not to be trusted. thank goodness for the tadpoles, he muses, he’d stick out like a sore thumb if he hadn’t forced the nobles to think otherwise.
it’s enough to make him grip the handle of his cane so hard the wood creaks under his hand.
worthless girl, can't even fight, all bite no bark. who are you if not caustic violence?
ciri presses her knees to her chest, wailing. each cry tears through her throat, loud and unrestrained. she hates it. she hates the helplessness the anger the betrayal the burden. she hates the spotlight and the fear-shadowed smiles and the eyes.
warnings: hurt / comfort, child abuse, short n sad
enver was used to the opulence of the hells. sauve reds and deep purples that mingled and mixed into a blurry tequila of color, onyx draperies and crimson daily-ware that varied little in their gaudy frivolity.
he was used to gold-gilded everything, to fine silver and tableware that he was never allowed to use, to plates that cost more than what he was bought for. he was used to servants that didn’t make eye contact, the same ‘don’t speak unless spoken to’ attitude he had yet to fully bury.
he wasn’t used to deep blue and cerulean skies. to carpet he could feel under his hands without any worry of retribution. to baths not set so high as to literally boil his skin.
he isn’t used to kindness.
even through his bitter exterior, a soft inner-coating of humanity was enver’s crux. he smiles when he walks through parks and sees children running and playing, but the bitter feeling of anger always seeps through. anger at being sold for less than a nights dinner. anger at the loss of his childhood under the servitude of a devil.
anger at his parents. at the world. at how wrong everything is beneath the surface.
even if it will cost him everything, enver is going to rebuild this piece of shit city. so kids like him can have a chance.
geralt raises his head, propping up an eyebrow at the young student standing in front of his desk. a teenager with short-cropped hair, bright eyes, and just short of average looks eagerly at the white-haired man.
"hm?" geralt responds, gently closing the copy of a midsummer night's dream he'd been revisiting. the book was assigned to one of his older students, and geralt was trying to make an effort to be more helpful with english coursework. he generally leans towards history; the battles and blood of it all.
"my chromebook.. um, it stopped working. i don't really have the money to replace it.." the student mutters sheepishly, down-turning their head. geralt smiles softly, gesturing for the device held in the students hands. they eagerly hand it off, letting geralt inspect the machine with squinted eyes.
geralt generally isn't very fond of technology and its place in learning. call him old fashioned, but the feel of pen-on-paper made for a much more focused learning environment. he tries to push his students towards handwriting if he can- coupled with the small budget the majority of students have, and the fact that the schools the majority of his students come from refuse to supply replacements; its an easy decision to stick to handwriting.
yet he understands that handwriting is not for every student. some, like the child in front of him, simply do not have the dexterity and muscle stamina to do such a thing. turning the device over in his hands, geralt sighs, propping it back on his desk and meeting the nervous student's eyes.
"it doesn't seem like a lost cause. I'll take it to the IT technician and have it checked out by them."
the student visibly brightens, smiling thankfully at geralt and nodding profusely. "shit, thank you so much Mr. Rivia! i really appreciate it."
geralt simply hums, indicating his head to the door. the student hurries away, yelling one last "thank you!" as the door closes behind them.
as soon as geralt hears the door click, he leans back in his chair, resting his head in his hands. he really doesn't want to contact the IT manager; the organization he works for goes through them like candy and it was never the same face each time. but he promised his student, and geralt never goes back on his promises.
the call comes late afternoon. your work ringtone blares against your ears, headache already forming as you move to pick up the phone. rubbing your face with your hands and groaning, you slide to answer the call, pressing the cracked screen to your cheek.
"IT," you speak, voice drained. the voice on the other end is low, husky in a way that makes your stomach turn with heat. not now, you scold your own arousal, listening to the man on the other end of the call as closely as you can.
"this is geralt from khear moren education," the man introduces himself, and you can't help but hear the tiredness in his voice that you're sure matches your own, "need to ask about a broken chromebook."
"you've come to the right place," replying quickly, you open the calender on your work laptop and flip to the next day you have free. "if you need in-person service, i have as early as tomorrow open."
"..mhm," geralt hums affirminlgy after a moment. you can't help but exhale in relief. at least you'll get paid a few more hours, if nothing else. "works for me."
"good, I'll pen you in for tomorrow at four in the afternoon, then." you respond, noting it down in your calender. "anything else I can do for you while I'm here?"
the line goes silent for a moment, the man seemingly paused in thought. "do you have the time to checkout my work laptop? it's been.. acting funny," he asks, and you detect a tiny hint of shyness that makes your stomach flutter embarrasingly.
"course, I can do both during that appointment if that works for you."
he hums reassuringly, pausing to tell you the address of his workplace. you note it down, entering the date on your calendar.
"great! I'll be there tomorrow at four PM."
"..see you tomorrow."
the day passes in a monotonous haze, assignments and clients blurring together in your mind. all you can focus on is the appointment scheduled for the following day with geralt; his rich voice and low cadence making your heart flutter. he carried an air of suave mystery about him, never letting go of too much information and brusque in his words.
you perk your head up when the door opens and jaskier enters, his usual cheeky smile on his face and an unexpectedly cheerful step, a coy expression hinting at some tomfoolery afoot. "i've heard tell of a date between my favorite technician and the history tutor."
you groan into your hands, placing your elbows on your knees and sinking into the chair. jaskier sneaks his way beside you, pressing his hands onto your shoulders and pinning you in place to prevent any attempts at escape. "do tell me how that came into place."
"it's not a date, first of all," you correct, swatting at jaskier's pawing hands to no avail. "i'm helping him- geralt, that is- with one of his student's chromebooks. nothing romantic." jaskier frowns at your explanation, disbelieving.
"you should put yourself out there, yknow," he chides, moving behind you and extending his arms dramatically in front of him, "single in your thirties, isn't that a little sad?" you swat at him again, and he dodges easily. "besides, geralt is a perfectly fine man. dense and blunt, maybe, but you're also.." he trails, leaving you to fill in the gaps.
you scoff, offended. "i'm not dense. blunt, definitely, but dense is too far." internally, however, you silently agree with his assessment. you wouldn't know romance if it hit you in the face with a bowling ball. "also, aren't you also single?"
"and that's enough from you!" jaskier yelps, spinning you in your chair until you face him. he leans over you, hands steadying himself on your chairs armrests. he looks determined, a hint of something deeper in his expression. concern, maybe, or pity. "this'll be good for you, i promise. the two of you are so similar, eralt is practically your other half."
he leans back before you can swat him away again, a triumphant smile on his face as you really consider his proposal. a date, you think, with a man your stomach was in knots for juat hours earlier. maybe he's got a point- or a freak sixth sense for romance.
"i'll let it play out, jaskier. no promises." you compromise, and jaskier nearly jumps for joy. his movements quicken, leaning down to press a friendly kiss to your cheek, causing you to blush slightly from the gesture.
he hums, patting your shoulder before turning to leave. "i promise you won't regret it!"
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profession: horse trainer, part-time tutor at a school for lower-income students (ciri’s recommendation)
background: grew up orphaned under vesemir’s care at his farm after being abandoned by his mother there when he was an infant. learned to ride and knew it was what he wanted to do. competed until a freak accident which caused him to go partially blind. adopted ciri after being told by vesemir to go out into the world. legally his daughter after adopting her from the foster system.
cirilla riannon-rivian (ciri)
age: 17
pronouns: she/her
profession: student
background: orphaned after her mother pavetta and father duny passed in a car crash. fostered by geralt and eventually adopted to become his legal daughter. wants to become a teacher like her dad. unaware of her grandparents existence.
julian pankratz (jaskier / jules or papa by ciri)
age: 28
pronouns: he/they
profession: musician, music teacher (volunter) at geralt and reader's workplace
background: born in a small town to two mothers, clarisse and carmilla. homeschooled until high school, where he joined the theatre club and decided to become a playwright. his mothers were extremely supportive, even when playwright-ing didn’t work out, they encouraged him to foster his musical talent. played a gig at his local queer club and was an instant hit; now has his songs played on the radio and settled him and his mothers in the city.
yennefer vengenborough (yen by triss)
age: 32
pronouns: she/her
profession: artist
background: grew up poor and in a large family until she was taken by CPS because of poor home environment. taken in by trissaia and met triss there. put herself through college and makes a living selling her artwork; dark paintings of the horrors of womanhood and her struggles with infertility. married to triss and adopted a son named dara. met geralt through jaskier and is close friends with both, although partial to geralt as jaskier annoys her.
triss merigold-vengenborough
age: 30
profession: nurse at a children’s hospital
background: grew up in the foster system and aged out at 18. lived in the shelter run by trissaia until she was able to get her nursing degree. married to yen.
calanthe riannon
age: early 60’s
profession: calanthe is retired due to chronic pain (was a surgeon, developed severe arthritis)
background: ciri’s biological grandmother. was told ciri passed in the car crash that killed her parents and thus does not have contact with her until her. lived in the same town as jaskier’s parents and is friends with his mothers. married to eist.
eist tuirseach-riannon
age: early 60’s
profession: big-name lawyer.
background: ciri’s nonbiological grandfather. married to calanthe months before ciri’s parents passed.
roach
geralt’s old lady cat. maine coone. hates jaskier. loves ciri and only sleeps on her bed.
reader
age: 30
pronouns: he/him
profession: IT technician at geralts school, volunteer at his local cat rescue
background: wanted to be a writer but decided he wouldn’t be able to financially support himself. decided to pick up IT since it was his second choice. works at the same school geralt volunteers at and was introduced to him there, helped by jaskier. wants to pursue writing and is good friends with jaskier
ichigo lays on the roof outside his window, uncaring of the hot metal underneath him. even in spirit form, the sun-warmed metal makes his skin hurt from the heat. it’s not that he’s unaware of the heat-far from it, in fact, but he just doesn’t care. actively seeking it out or not, the pain is good. grounding. scratches the itch for fighting that always lives just under his skin.
“get up, kurosaki,” the voice finally registers in his brain. oh, grimmjow. ichigo moves his head upwards, looking at the looming blue hair above him and scowling figure of grimmjow. the man clicks his tongue, immediately backing off when ichigo’s attention lands on him.
“yer gonna burn if you stay out here any longer, idiot,” grimmjow warns, and ichigo doesn’t even have the energy to fight back. maybe that’s why be came out here. he doesn’t really remember.
ichigo doesn’t remember a lot of things post-war. ywach was dead, and soul society abandoned him once again now that he’s no longer useful to their battles. many of the captains and seated members still view him as a monster, a threat, even if they don’t voice it aloud.
he’s 17 now.
his birthday is today.
what a horribly human thing.
“tch,” grimmjow finally wraps his head around the fact that ichigo is not moving. he can’t have the idiot burning himself, cause that’d put him out of commission for a while. and he can’t have that. ichigo was the only one he could spar with, would spar with, and his claws itch at the thought of being denied a good fight.
“grimmjow, what’re you-” the world goes out from under ichigo as grimmjow heaves him up and onto his shoulder. weirdly, ichigo can’t find the energy to fight back; instead falling limp against grimmjow hold.
grimmjow carries him back into his room, plopping ichigo on the bed and grabbing the water bottle next to his bed. he shoves it into ichigo’s face, to which ichigo takes it and promptly downs the entire bottle. he hadn’t been paying attention to how much he was sweating- it coats his body in a nasty sheen, sticking his shirt and binder to his skin and restricting his breathing.
ichigo hates asking for help. but he doesn’t have the energy to get the stupid thing off. the idea of baring his stomach to grimmjow, his chest, makes him nauseous; but he can’t keep the binder on any longer without wanting to peel his skin off. his voice is hoarse as he speaks, grating against his dry throat.
“grimmjow, rip my shirt and the thing under it. i need it off right now.” the instructions are precise, and ichigo cringes despite it. that’s a weird thing to ask. why would he say that? fuck, now he’s squirming, uncomfortable in his own skin, it crawls from grimmjow’s eyes-
the blue haired man simply himself in response, unsheathing his claws and pressing them close to ichigo’s sternum. ichigo can feel the cold breath of the hollow against his body, and he shivers as grimmjow’s claw makes contact with bare skin, shreds of fabric falling loosely against his shoulder.
grimmjow’s expression morphs into a frown. here it comes, ichigo winces, here’s the part that’s disgusting, fuck, don’t look at me, i know it’s vile, i know it’s a girls body, i live with it.
“you need more water.” grimmjow states, standing away from the bed and sheathing his claws. he grabs the empty water bottle, walking towards the attached bathroom and running the water. ichigo blinks. what?
his mind runs despite his breathing picking up. why didn’t he call me out on it? isn’t it disgusting to you, grimmjow? aren’t i a monster?
tell me i’m a monster, like everybody else does. then i can know what i am in your eyes.
grimmjow returns with the water bottle in hand, now full of cold water. he passes it to ichigo, who stares at it blankly for a moment before taking it. “..thank you.”
“can’t have you dying from somethin’ stupid like heatstroke,” grimmjow responds bluntly, plopping himself on the bed next to ichigo and making himself comfortable. ichigo can’t stop the fond smile on his face, and grimmjow glares. “what?”
ichigo looks away quickly, taking a sip of the water. “nothing, grimmjow. nothing at all.”
