#he's needs a baby to cheer up

[pininghermit]

Gift of Fate

AN: if you saw this on my ao3, no you didn't. Is it weird to write platonic stuff for him? Yes, but I want to.

Genre: fluff, found family

Pairing(s): Alucard x Platonic Reader

Summary: If he had been the Alucard of legend, the rumored savior of old tales, these people might have lived. But he wasn’t that Alucard anymore.

His slow heart pounded in an erratic rhythm. He pushed aside the shards of shattered wine bottles, uncaring of the glass biting into his skin. The surrounding ruins, broken furniture, faded tapestries, blurred into nothing.

Had the rotting flesh that adorned the castle not been enough of a warning? He summoned his sword, the weight familiar in his grip. Whoever dared trespass here would not be met with the welcome they expected.

Dracula’s castle welcomed no guests anymore. It once had. When his father met his mother. When love had breathed life into its halls. The last time its doors opened, two human corpses had hung outside them, rotting in the cold air. Now, death reeked from every cranny and crevice.

Long ago, these walls had known joy. A young master, he, had run through its corridors. Love once lit its chambers, and golden sunlight poured through the windows, warming stone and soul alike. Now those same rays only served to highlight the layers of dust, the decay of a forgotten past.

Alucard halted at the castle’s main door, sword gripped tightly. He listened. A heartbeat, soft, faint, alone echoed in his sharp ears. No other sound accompanied it. He scoffed at the fool who dared step into his father’s domain. Weakness would not betray him again as it had in the past.

The scars on his body were reminders etched into his skin as eternal warnings. No amount of alcohol could numb the pain that lingered in those wounds. It burned always, like the doom of patricide that weighed on his every breath.

He had once thought his father weak. In his arrogance, he had scorned Dracula’s fall. Fate, ever cruel, had broken him too left him hollow, drowning in his own despair.

Breaking from his stupor, Alucard slammed the heavy wooden doors open. He moved through the woods like a shadow, soundless and swift. The noise had been close, so close it felt as though it echoed from the castle’s empty halls. But he knew better.

His sword cut through the air in a deadly arc, swift and final. But no cries rang out. No burst of warmth from a severed artery sprayed his blade.

And then he saw it.

His sword suddenly felt heavy in his hands as he took in the scene. Blood soaked the earth in a deep pool around his boots. Five bodies lay still. Four men and one woman. A fleeting pulse clung to one, withering with every heartbeat.

Merchants, he decided, looking at the scattered goods. Bandits had attacked, overwhelming them. The couple had tried to fight but failed. The survivors had fled quickly, gathering what they could in their stolen minutes.

If he had been faster, perhaps he could have helped. If he had been the Alucard of legend, the rumored savior of old tales, these people might have lived. But he wasn’t that Alucard anymore. He was the man who stared emptily into nothing, passing his days in the wine cellar. The blood, the stillness, it was too familiar.

He could leave. The night creatures would erase the evidence by morning. He could return to his misery, save himself the fruitless seconds of caring. Yet… death lingered here, and he knew it too well.

Then he saw movement.

A faint shift, soft as a falling leaf, caught his eye. Hidden near the woman, tucked into the bushes, you stared back at him.

Wrapped in a bundle of worn blankets, you looked at him, stormy gray eyes unblinking.

He froze. In his two decades of life, Alucard had rarely seen human children. He had been one, once, though those memories were distant and faded. Vampires did not have children, not like humans did. They were creatures of cold immortality, unchanging and barren.

Yet here you were.

Your small eyes met his, wide and curious, assessing him.

No… this had to be a mistake. He could take you to the nearest village. Humans cared for their own, didn’t they? Surely they would take in someone so small and vulnerable. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew the truth.

Food was scarce. Famine, drought, and night creatures left little for anyone. Even in his isolation, he knew how ruthless humanity had become.

And you… you were different. Your skin held a faint tan, a sign of a warmer place. A tropical town, perhaps. Merchants, he decided again. Your parents must have traveled far.

You wouldn’t find love among strangers. People would see you as an outsider, at best. At worst, a servant. A slave. That fate would be no kinder than leaving you here for the night creatures.

A tuft of dark hair peeked from beneath your cap. You sat so still, tucked deep into the bushes. Had your parents hidden you, desperate to save you? Blood spattered the earth, but not a drop touched you.

Then you cooed. A soft, fragile sound that cut through the silence like a knife.

You didn’t know. You didn’t understand. You had no idea your parents were gone, that they would never return. Your smile was ignorant of the blood around you, of the death that loomed so close.

How could you smile?

He wanted to scream. They’re gone, he wanted to tell you. Your parents are dead! He wanted to shake you, to make you understand. But he didn’t.

Instead, you reached for him, little hands stretching out through the air.

Something in him broke. Without thinking, he picked you up, cradling you in his arms. You were so light. Lighter than you should have been. You blinked up at him, eyes unwavering, curious and calm.

Your small fingers curled into his hair, tugging. “Ow,” he muttered, untangling the golden strands from your tight grip. You smiled wider and stuffed a piece of it into your mouth.

“It’s filthy,” he grumbled, pulling it back.

You giggled, toothless and unafraid.

For a moment, he simply stared at you. How could something so small survive this? How could you look at him—HIM—and smile?

The sky darkened. Staying out would be unsafe, he knew. So, he made his choice. He would take you with him.

‘She does not belong with you,’ a voice hissed in his mind. ‘A fool to trust again.’

But you didn’t hear the voices that haunted him. You simply smiled, a fragile light in the dark. When your small fingers wrapped around his, he stilled.

So small… but not weak.

“You wish to come with me?” he whispered.

You cooed in reply, soft and sweet.

Alucard...no, Adrian held you closer as he turned toward the castle.

Just as he was about to step toward the castle, the bloody scene reminded him of its lingering presence. Gritting his teeth, he shifted you in his arms, shielding your face as best he could. You didn’t need to see what had been left behind. He would return later, he decided. Your parents...what remained of them would stay close to you.

Adrian pushed open the castle doors. They groaned under their weight, a sound like the ghosts of the past exhaling. Distantly, he noted that the corpses still hanging outside needed to be taken down. It would do no good to keep such grim reminders where a child could see.

You were eerily quiet now. Adrian glanced down, surprised to find you fast asleep, still tucked snugly in his arms. Your small face was peaceful, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted, the faint warmth of your breath a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of the castle.

You twitched in your sleep. Unnamed, your name lost to death, to bloodshed. What was your name? He wanted to ask, but what good would it do either of you now? Should he dare. Dare to give you a name and risk his heart again?

Adrian had buried that part of himself long ago. But somehow, when he looked at you, it stirred back to life. He had found Adrian again when he found you.

It was only fair he gave you a name.

“Ilvanya,” the word escaped him, soft and reverent, a name carried from a forgotten tongue, spoken only by people long gone. A name that meant gracious gift.

“Ilvanya,” he whispered again.

The child sleeping in his arms twitched but remained undisturbed, unaware of the name now given to you.

Dusty furniture and crumbling stone didn’t seem appropriate for someone so small, so fragile. After what felt like twenty minutes of struggle, Adrian managed to locate a satisfactorily clean pillow. He hesitated, reluctant to let you go, but carefully pried you from his arms and placed you on the cushion.

The loss of warmth startled him more than he cared to admit.

There were things he still needed to do. He would bury your parents for your sake, and perhaps for theirs. His mind began assembling a mental list, a torrent of tasks that hadn’t mattered in years. The castle would need cleaning. Windows repaired. Food, water, clothes. How much did human children need? A nursery, perhaps.

His life, once confined to the wine cellar in self-destruction, had suddenly erupted into movement.

His father’s libraries would hold the answers, he was sure. Everything ever recorded lay buried in those shelves. Somewhere, a book on human children existed. His mother must have had one after he was born.

Adrian looked back at you, a child small enough to fit into his arms, but somehow bright enough to cast light into the darkest corners of the castle.

The world is cold here. You don’t know how long you’ve been in it, only that it isn’t right. The ground pokes at your back through the blankets, hard and uneven.

It smells strange, sharp, like the old iron pots your mother used, but worse. It makes your nose wrinkle. You blink, and there’s dark, dark everywhere.

Then… there’s a sound. Slow. Heavy. Feet.

You don’t know what it is, but you feel it closer. You try to focus, but the edges of the world blur when you blink too long.

Something blocks the sky. It’s tall, bigger than anything you remember. It doesn’t move like other things do. Tts steps are quiet, like the cats that crept near the house.

The tall thing stops. You stare at it, and it stares back.

Golden. There’s something gold, like sunlight peeking through clouds after it rains. You blink at it...hair, though you don’t know that word yet. You like the way it shines. The face underneath doesn’t look right. Too pale. Too still. Its eyes are strange, bright and glowing, like little fires in the dark.

You’re not afraid. Should you be? You don’t know.

The tall thing tilts its head. You do too, because maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do. Your mouth makes a sound. A soft, uncertain coo. It always works. It makes people come closer.

It works now.

The man (you don’t know what that is, either, but that’s what he is) moves closer, his golden hair swaying slightly. He stops, then bends down, and everything feels bigger, his shadow, his face, his hands. He smells strange, like earth and stone and something faintly… warm. Not like your mother’s hands. Not like your father’s chest when he carried you.

He stares at you with his glowing eyes, his mouth a flat line. You wonder why he doesn’t smile. Grown-ups smile when they see you. They talk in sounds that make you giggle and touch your cheek softly.

But not him.

You reach out, your small hand finding the air between you. Your fingers curl and wave, searching. Hold me, they say, though you don’t know how to ask.

The man doesn’t move. For a moment, you think he’ll turn and leave you here, alone in the cold again.

But he doesn’t.

His arms scoop you up, and the world shifts. For a moment, you don’t like it. So high, so fast but then you’re against him. His chest feels strange: hard and steady. Not like your mother’s, but still warm enough to make you stop crying.

You look up at him, studying the lines of his face. His hair is close now, close enough to touch. It’s soft when you grab it, like the blankets at home. You tug hard, and he makes a sound low and sharp.

“Ow.”

You giggle because it sounds funny. He doesn’t smile, but his mouth moves, and he pulls the golden strands from your fingers. You try to put them in your mouth before he can, but he’s faster.

“It’s filthy,” he mutters.

You don’t know what that means, so you smile at him anyway. Your toothless grin always works. He stares at you, long and quiet, and you stare back. His face doesn’t soften, but you think maybe he’s not angry.

The man holds you closer. He smells better now, like something steady, something safe. You like him.

Your hands find his chest, small fingers curling into the black cloth that covers him. It feels thick and strange under your touch. You rest your head against him, pressing your ear to the thudding sound inside him.

Thud-thud, thud-thud.

It’s slow, not like the quick, warm beats you know. But it’s still there. It’s enough.

Your eyes grow heavy again. The dark is warm now, and the bad smells are far away. You feel the man moving, his steps steady. The world sways softly as he carries you, and for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

You don’t know where he’s taking you. You don’t care.

The thud-thud sound lulls you to sleep.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 168

So. Apparently halfas are like phoenixes or something, which Danny would’ve really liked to know. 

See, usually with ghosts if they’re forced to retreat to their cores they reform as was, but apparently, since they’re still partially living, schrodinger's people and all that, halfas have to regrow their body from scratch. At least that’s what he’s understanding from Frostbite. 

But how come he has to deal with it? It’s Dan’s fault for trying to pull such a stunt! Oh, it’s either him or Vlad? Well fuck, he might have calmed down and is going to therapy in both the living realm and the Zone, but he’s waaay not equipped to raise a child except for like, monetarily wise. 

Well dammit, how long will this core incubation thing last, he has his new job in… let him check which offer he accepted again… He has his new job in Coast City that he needs to finish packing for and then all the rest of the stuff to do. 

What do you mean it’ll take months?! He doesn’t have months?! Urgh, fine. At least being a mortician isn’t that exciting, nor dangerous. Just hand him Dan’s core and he’ll figure things out for the living side of things. He’s sure Tucker and Sam wouldn’t be against helping, if only to try and claim favorite aunt or uncle spots. 

[jojo-schmo]

My job is burning around me and I’m only seen as an expendable cog in a giant corporate machine, but at least I have Helpy to lend a brightly colored hand!!! <3

[merakiui]

Meraaaa, im habing too much brainrot over ur fics 😢

Imagine Cater puts it in for the first time and he gets you preg on the first try. He's a mess but don't worry! Transfer med student Kalim knows juuuust how to take care of you! He has a ton of siblings afterall! Kalim knows just what to 'feed' the baby to keep them healthy while they're in ur belly. Cay kun is just happy to finally settle down with his first love, unaware of the cum dripping down her legs as she leaves her makeshift appts in kalim's dorm room. Everyone knows whats going on and instead of helping out poor Cay out, they ask Kalim to be let in on it 😖

AAAAAAAAA med students and roommates Kalim and Riddle who take such good care of you when Cater's off partying, neglecting you solely because he's struggling to cope with this new, life-altering circumstance. How can he continue to be cool, collected Cay if he's got a baby on the way? So not his style! But he'll warm up to the idea eventually. He just has to get the shock out of his system first (and work up the courage to break the news to his family and, unfortunately, his sisters. Though knowing how evasive Cater can be, he'll probably stretch the truth for as long as he possibly can just to avoid confronting the matter at hand).

Kalim is always so sweet. He has lots of healthy and delicious snacks prepared for each of your visits. Riddle is very level-headed and logical; very textbook, but still cordial and kind. It doesn't take Riddle long to realize Kalim's fucking you when he starts to put context clues together. At first he thought it was wrong to do such a thing behind Cater's back, but Kalim tells him he's just helping you out. Nothing wrong with helping friends, right? Besides, you and Cater aren't even together and he's not very present, is he? Someone has to take care of poor, cute, pregnant you! Riddle tells himself he ought to be the better person here and put a stop to Kalim's mischief before it spirals out of control. But then the next time you come in for a "check-up" you're spreading your pussy for him and he's sliding in and it feels so warm and wet and good inside, and suddenly being the better person doesn't really matter.

[memento-morri-writes]

This is far from my best work, but it's 1:30am, and I needed to get this down before I slept or lost my mind. So here, take a snippet of Rook seeing Zara again for the first time in 3 years.

Trying, and failing, to keep his voice from shaking, [Rook] said “Hello, Captain.” Mouth still open in surprise, [Zara] replied “Well, hello yourself.” The reality of what she was seeing seemed to hit her as she rounded the desk. “Rook, is that really you?” He nodded. “It’s me.” Zara ran towards him, stopping just short of touching him, and said “What did she do to you?” Rook’s heart stuttered and he had to brush his fingers together to confirm Sigmar’s ring was still in place. Could she possibly see through its illusion? But then he remembered what Lanny had said. She knew where you were. His throat clenched and he choked out “Two years.” A wave of grief swept across Zara’s face as she said “I’m so, so sorry.” Rook shook his head vigorously. “It’s not your fault.” Zara ignored him. “It is my fault. I failed you. As your captain, it’s my responsibility to keep you safe, and I failed you.” Rook wanted to say something, to reassure her, but she pushed on. “She sent me letters, told me all the terrible things she was doing to you. I… I let you down.” Those words hit Rook with the force of a dozen cannonballs. Lanny had said that Zara knew Wolf had him, but knowing that Zara had been aware of what Wolf was doing to him… somehow that was more painful than any wound Wolf had ever inflicted. He barely managed to force his next words out around the lump in his throat. “Where were you?” And why didn’t you come? “She said she’d kill you if I came to get you. Or if I hired anyone to get you. You’re standing here because I stopped sailing.” 

(honorary one-time tag for @space-writes bc I remember you enjoyed my other bits about Rook and Zara.)

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

trying to lay out my interpretation of why brad and judy are simultaneously awful and really goddamn sad, beyond just having lost their baby under traumatic circumstances as already-traumatized autistic young adults with zero support system left but each other, is wild because it includes in full seriousness the word 'sheepnado'

[meownotgood]

mags im finally rewatching csm and like seeing aki in the opening had me squealing and then his whole intro scene is on rn I CANNOT BREATHE AKI AKI AKI AKI AKI! especially bc it’s winter like AHHHHHHHHHHGH winter reminds me of him sm

YESSSS AKI IN THE OP AND THEN IN EPISODE TWO GET ME PARTICULARLY CRAZY JUSSSTTTTTT...... reminding me of how many butterflies I had seeing him animated for the first time... I get those same butterflies all over again.......

and he's just so handsome too, so pretty and hearing his pretty voice hhnnnngggggg

[kirishwima]

do i need help and comfort? yes

do i desperately want to gouge my eyes out when i receive it? also very much yes

[xxlelaxx]

I don't think my husband understands that there is a big difference between the kind of sleep I've been getting and the kind of sleep he's been getting. It's starting to make me very angry

[marshmellowtea]

update from the party down agere writingverse btw: i have chosen to fully lean into the "henry was a dinosaur kid and that interest is a prevalent part of his regression too" headcanon because it keeps slipping into my writing anyway lmao

[fairytaletold]

@striigon // continued.

From across the room, he watches fingers twitch in desperation, heartbeat racing in that chest. His father is asleep, of course — had been for some time, leaving Vasile to wander off and collect rocks and climb trees and carry on as any small boy would like. He'd gotten his hands dirty and shoes scuffed and wound his way back home once more, clutching a particularly shimmery rock within the safety of one small hand.

The drumming beneath his ear has slowed. He peeks up, a studious sweep of his father's expression, pleased to see how his mouth curls up. There are times when the sadness on him is so strong that it's almost a scent stinging his nose, sharp and brackish; he tries to intervene on those moments and chase away the dark clouds that look above his father's form, and today is no different. Vasile lifts a hand. Opens his fist to display the stone set against his palm. It's lifted, offered, the hint of a smile ( it was so rare for happiness to light his face ). ❛ ...found this. ❜ For you, he leaves unspoken.

[voidrantss]

UUUUUGH so I just finished Chaos; Child today, {my first play through, so common route END} and I have thoughts…

AAAA IM SO FRIKING DEPRESSED!! Like, I CANT 😭😭😭😭😭I knew the game would have some kind of cathartic ending but I am so depressed, the journey was incredible and I far too related to Takuru!!! I JUST….I just can’t I am so depressed and thoughtful, and the game had some incredible insight and understanding of weaknesses and the desire to be seen by others.

the game is absolutely a cathartic one, and I didn’t realize how emotionally invested I was till I finished the game today. { When I finished Chaos; Child, all the memories came rushing to me of my experience throughout the game. I remembered how I had screamed at the game, felt like I was going to throw up, and of course teared up, as well as stared anxiously at my TV. When I finished the game, I felt all these things. Wow} Honestly am so tired and full of so many emotions, I felt the highs and lows of the game all too well! {I am so emotionally drained, what an incredible game} I cannot tell you guys how insane all the feelings I feel because of it.

I DEEPLY felt for TAKURU, and so many slivers of his personality I resonated with. It honeslty touched me in a way I never expected. I honeslty realized just how many flaws I share with him, and introspected a lot because of him. He absolutely my favorite character AUNDISNSISNIS. And the fact I relate to him means a lot in its self. It also was really just incredible to watch Takuru progress throughout the game. Not only for the better or for the worst, but for him to know the truth, and all the pain that came with it. It hurt so bad.

I loved all, the characters by the 14 hour mark, each of them had such incredibly well written flaws and battles that were so heart wrenching. Each character was so deeply affected by the events of the game, I wish they could just all get a hug.

Stupidly didn’t realize Chaos; Child actually a sequel to Choas; Head, but meh, I’ll catch up with Chaos; Head another time. You can play Chaos; Child without playing the prequel because it works as a stand alone game. Chaos; Child makes brief references to it. Chaos; Head does give a basis and more context to the world.

SO, all this to say, I think I want to 100% the game! Right after I finished it I googled some guides, and honeslty hope I can get all the endings to unlock the true ending, {wish me luck.}

After playing Chaos; Child, I felt just so down/ just a bunch of emotions, I had to play some silly fighting games and not think about it, and feel better now. When I’m recharged I’ll get to the other endings hopefully!

[assiraphales]

two things. I think america needs to retire the “killing baby hitler” debate for good bc it turns out a lot of them would vote for & cheer for adult hitler as he strips away their rights and plans world domination

but on the topic of voting…….. can someone investigate into this quote from donald trump?? “He [elon] knows those computers better than anybody. All those computers. Those vote-counting computers. And we ended up winning Pennsylvania like in a landslide”

united nations? nato? abraham lincolns ghost???? literally ANYONE????

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 3 | masterlist

-

It’s not unusual for someone to mistake you for the baby’s mama.

How could someone not, at least for a moment? When you take the baby to the grocery store, older people gush over him babbling in his stroller, eager to shower him with compliments in baby-talk or tell you how much you resemble the little tyke. After hearing the same comment for the umpteenth time, you tire of correcting people by saying you’re the babysitter only to watch their face fall, somewhat mortified and feeling as though their comment should’ve been directed to the baby’s actual mother. Which isn’t you. 

It’s less typical for someone to mistake you for John’s wife, though that does happen from time to time.

You’ve become a fixture around the neighbourhood since John hired you at the beginning of the summer, and over the weeks, the other nannies and the stay-at-home moms have started to gradually warm up to you. Before long, you’re being invited on coffee runs and playdates with some of the other women, always careful to ask for John’s permission before bringing his baby into a stranger’s house.

“Just text me the address and their names,” he requests while you stand awkwardly in front of him, John sitting on the bed to finish buttoning up his shirt and fixing his watch around his wrist. You would’ve been fine standing on the other side of the door while he finished changing, but he insisted on inviting you in.

“I will,” you promise, nodding along with his words.

“And call me if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll come get the two of you right away if you need me.”

You swallow. Nod again.

The first time you take the baby for a playdate with a couple of the moms from the park, one catches you in the act of texting John the address of the house as he requested. “Hubby wants to know where you are, huh?”

“Oh,” you choke out, face heating up. “He’s not—”

“Not a control freak, I know. They’re all like that.” Her smile is ebullient, rolling her eyes like you’re in on a joke together when you most assuredly are not. “Why don’t you share your location with him? Mine’s the same way. Here—I’ll show you how.”

She takes your phone and tap-taps something and suddenly you see it in the notifications of your conversation with John. If you bite your lip instead of correcting her assumption about the nature of your and John’s relationship, that’s for you and you alone to know. Your rationale is that any explanation will just make things tense; it’s not like you haven’t seen it happen before. 

It’s far more concerning when John doesn’t correct those assumptions. Particularly when you’re standing right next to him. 

Like at the local water park on a particularly hot weekend, wading in the kiddy pool with the baby nestled tight against your chest in his little swim trunks and floppy hat only for an employee to ask John if his wife would like something to drink. 

“Iced coffee, love?” John asks, taking your stupefied silence as a yes. “Nothing for me, mate. Cheers.” 

Your head spins like a top on that thought until a good while later. The server hands you a glass of iced coffee with condensation already dripping down the sides and John thanks him for you, taking the baby from you and pulling you to his side. You drink your coffee quietly with your thigh flush with his under the water, gripping the glass harder when his free hand squeezes around your waist, laughing at something another parent said to him.

It’s so over for you. There’s no coming back from this. 

The sight of someone of John’s size, a bulky, military man with arms of pure steel dusted with dark hairs, cradling a tiny, chubby baby with a thatch of similar dark hair on his head and big cheeks and roly poly arms unlocks something primal in you. An old, buried need. 

In the family changing room, you stand under an ice cold shower until it breaks the fever slowly consuming you. All you can do is hope it takes. 

In the evening, you sit out on the porch with John at the back of the house until the crickets swell with song, the moon a half-crescent in the sky. A cool breeze makes your shoulders lift a little, huddling into your body to keep warm. 

It’s hard to keep your eyes on the view in front of you and off the man sitting beside you when they want so badly to be running over him. He’s changed out of his work clothes into a soft pair of sweatpants and an old threadbare shirt, the sage green fabric faded after years of being run through the washing machine. It clings to his biceps and the soft pudge of his stomach, a layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath. 

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, thick wrist perched on the arm of the adirondack chair. Every so often he lifts it to his lips for a puff, always breathing out in the opposite direction from you. Considerate of your health, at least, if not his own. 

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks before ashing his cigarette, and your bottom lip purses when you turn your head to look at him because you thought you were doing a good job suppressing your shivers. 

You stare at him, confused. He cocks an eyebrow at your questioning stare and deliberately glances down, waiting until you notice the way your nipples are protruding through your white tank top. You forgot that you’d taken your bra off earlier for a bit of relief and hadn’t yet had a chance to put it back on. 

“Oh my god,” you squeak, crossing your arms to hide as much as possible, humiliation flooding through you. “I’m so sorry—that’s so—I-I’m so sorry.”

John makes a rough sound when he rises to his feet, knees cracking as he does. “S’alright, hun. Lemme get you something to put on.”

The screen door creaks when he goes back inside briefly to fetch something only to come back a few seconds later with a big, cotton sweater that reeks of him. It looks well loved, some remnant of his younger years, and even from a distance, you can smell the distinct smoky aroma clinging to the fabric. 

When he kneels in front of you, you nearly go cross-eyed at the realisation that even on his knees, he’s as tall as you. The bulk of his waist forces your legs to spread around him. 

“C’mon, arms up,” John commands, barely waiting until you’ve raised your arms above your head before helping guide your head and arms into the right holes. 

Dragging the sweater down the way he does forces it to rub over your nipples, sending a shock through you. If you had any less self-control, your teeth might actually chatter together. 

“There we go,” he says, fluffing out the sweater around your waist before resting his hands on the tops of your thighs, the gesture coming so naturally to him that you doubt he’s even noticed the placement of his hands. “Much better. That’ll warm you up.”

He isn't wrong. You’ve already worked up a sweat. 

Late night rain.

It comes down in buckets, a dark slate rapping hard against the window pane. A bolt of lightning flickers across the horizon off in the distance. White striations across an otherwise dark sky. About thirty seconds later, thunder rumbles. 

You peek from between the blinds, chewing your lip nervously. You’ve never driven in rain this bad, but with supper done and the dishes washed, there’s no excuse for you to stay any longer. Still, the rain comes down so heavily that despite your timidity, you briefly contemplate asking John if you can stay a little longer. At least until it lets up a bit; until your headlights won’t blind you reflecting off the puddles on the drive home. 

Someone else pulls the blinds further apart.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going out in that,” John says from behind you, practically growling his words. Daring you to contradict him. 

You glance over your shoulder to find him right there at your back, staring out the window. He’s so close that you can smell the red sauce on his flannel from dinner and make out the flecks of grey in his beard that are almost masked by the darker hairs. 

“It’s not…that bad…”

“Sweetheart, don’t piss me off,” he warns.

The blinds shuttle back together with a clatter when you finally let go of them. 

“I could—I could take the couch,” you offer. 

“Sweetheart,” John sighs, looking down at you meaningfully.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not gonna take the big, comfy bed and leave you with the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t hear it.”

There’s not much you can say to dissuade him after that. The furrow of his brow lets you know he’s made up his mind; no ifs, ands, or buts. Besides, there’s a not-so-secret part of you that’s relieved that you don’t have to drive home in this weather. You’re an average driver on a good day. You don’t need your last moments before shuffling off this mortal coil to involve hydroplaning on the highway before ramming into the guardrail. 

John gives you a shirt of his to change into for after your shower, which you spend far too long in, scrubbing your body with his shower gel and quivering under the warm water. When you pull it on, you bring the collar up to your nose to smell. The same patent smoky scent, musky like ambergris and leather. Intoxicating. It makes the blood rush through your ear like a conch shell, the ocean swirling behind your eardrum. 

You hadn’t asked for underwear, content at first to keep on the same pair, but after your shower, you cringe at the thought of putting your day-old panties back on. Besides, his shirt is long enough to cover anything indecent. 

He sits on the edge of the bed when you come out, the concern on his brow melting away at the sight of you. 

“Practically a dress on you, isn’t it?” John says, voice a little wondrous. His eyes drag over you, tip to toe. 

You fiddle with the ends of it. “…Are you sure you want me to take the bed?” 

“Wouldn’t be fair. It’s yours for the night.” His lips quirk up at the corners when you frown. “Don’t worry about me—I’ve slept in worse places before.”

“Like where?” you ask dubiously.

“Tents. Abandoned buildings. Shacks. In the back of a moving van a few times. You wouldn’t believe half the places we used to make camp. Definitely no place for pretty girls like you.”

His condescending tone vaguely annoys you, but it’s hard to dig into your irritation when he thumbs the edge of the shirt you’re wearing and you realise that he’s just a few raised inches away from noticing that you don’t have any panties on. You should’ve just put your old ones back on, but it’s far too late now. 

You clear your throat instead. “We could…um…we could share.” 

You don’t know what possesses you to offer to share the bed, but the words are already gone, out of your mouth and in the air. John cocks an eyebrow.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you amend. 

“Don’t know about that, sweetheart,” he rasps. “…I snore like a bear.”

“That’s okay. I’m a pretty deep sleeper.”

John scrutinises you a bit longer, looking for any sign of hesitancy. You know he’d squash your offer in a second if he found any wariness in your gaze. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes, letting go of your shirt and slapping his thighs. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up and can’t fall back asleep because of my snoring.”

After his shower, during which you lie on your side facing away from the bathroom door, stomach fraught with nerves as you consider the fact that he’s naked in the ensuite, you hear him come out and rummage around in the dresser for a change of clothes. You lie beside him with your stomach twisted in knots, your hands shoved under the pillow and staring resolutely at the wall. 

The appropriateness of sleeping in the same bed beside your boss isn't lost on you, but you're too far into this now.

The bed dips when he settles onto the other side, and the sudden absence of light when he switches the bedside lamp off nearly makes you cheep. 

He breathes heavily, you notice, particularly when he finally falls asleep. It’s a deep, rumbling sound—not entirely unlike a bear, though you can’t really confirm that for certain seeing as how you’ve never slept beside a bear before. 

Those are the thoughts that would signal the approach of sleep if you weren’t soon to be engulfed by it. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to a rough hand stroking your back leisurely. There’s a hard chest under you, your cheek propped up on a pillowy pec that rises and falls with his breaths. Sleep bobs around in you like a toulouse decanter. You struggle to keep an eye open, certain that there’s something you need to tend to, but then his hand slides down your back again to curve over your rump and sleep drags you back down. 

You wake up again to your breath wafting back into your mouth, your face shoved into the crook of a man’s neck. Humid, hot. You’re lipping at the skin of his neck, little tongue darting out to lap up a bead of sweat, salty on your tongue. 

Your cunt pulses against his leg, toes curling when John drags his hand up your thigh and hitches it higher up around his waist. 

“Baby?” he groans, his voice still rusty from sleep. The sound is a rough burr up your spine. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Couldn’ get comfy.”

“You hot?” he asks.

The denial on the tip of your tongue slips back down your throat when he plants his foot on the bed and draws his leg up, pressing the meat of his thigh into your throbbing sex. 

“Here, lemme help you—” he groans, reaching down to ruck up your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts and helping manoeuvre your arms out of the holes. It gets tossed off the bed onto the floor. 

Now your breasts are flat on his chest, smushed against his ribcage. It registers somewhere in the back of your head as inappropriate, but sleep pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the discomfort of moving around when you just want to settle back down and go back to bed. 

It must be the heat making you act this way. 

“Shit—sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, shifting under you. “M’hot too.”

He plants a hand on your ass and heaves you up his chest, giving him enough room to wiggle out of his boxers. It pushes your breasts right into his face, your nipples mere inches from his mouth. When his tongue pokes out to wet his upper lip, it nicks your pebbled nipple. 

A hard length presses against your butt when you’re slid back down, the tip wet when it catches against your skin. 

“Jus’ ignore it, sweetie,” John mumbles, petting a hand down your back. 

You lie like that for a while, splayed over his body. Want simmering just under your skin. Flustered and exhausted all at once, sleep-drained; not a drop of strength in your muscles. 

The heat is just—

Scorching. Dizzying. You feel featherbrained, slipping in and out of sleep, biting off the whimpers that threaten to crawl up your throat when John tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs to wrench them apart, spreading them around his hips again. 

Distantly, you remember that the man under you is at least twenty years your senior. Your employer at that. A man now palming your butt, sinking his fingers into the flesh and rumbling low in his throat. 

It’s wrong—flagrantly wrong. You know that you should say something, that you should get up and tell him that you’re going to sleep on the couch instead. But your tongue is too thick for your mouth. And your thoughts are a sticky paste. The pulse between your thighs empties out all the common sense from your head. 

His palms are slick on your skin. 

Your breathing grows shallow when a hard length suddenly pushes between your thighs as well. 

When the mushroomed head nudges at your opening, you flinch, heart thumping ferociously against your chest. 

“John—John—” you breathe, panicked. As if to warn him. As if he weren’t planting both feet on the bed and lifting his hips. 

As if it wasn’t his hands, warm on your waist, dragging you down onto the shaft spearing into you. 

Your blood is molten hot in your veins. Sticky hands and sticky fingers curl into his chest hair. Your head thumps against his pecs, too weak to hold it up, lipping at the damp skin of his chest. 

“It hurts—” you bleat, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. 

“I know, baby, I know,” John pants. He draws his hips back just to press forward again, deeper this time. Filling you up more than before. “I’m sorry, baby—I can’t, it’s just…too good. Shit.”

Resolve in tatters. Shattered like his willpower, like his determination not to fuck the girl twenty years his junior sleeping beside him in his bed. 

His hips pump up into yours, bouncing you in his lap. Each thrust plunging his cock deeper into your pussy. It’d be painful if you weren’t so wet, but you’re dripping, arousal making you leak around his shaft and slickening his way. 

Sleep still rattles around in your brain, but not even the fog of sleep can shake the ever intensifying realisation that you’re fucking your boss. No two ways around it—breasts naked against his hirsute chest; pussy wet and stuffed to the hilt with a big dick. Knocked senseless by it. 

The veins of his cock drag over the viscid walls of your cunt with every thrust. He must like the involuntary noises you make because he loses his rhythm when you cry out, growling out a string of unintelligible curses. His body feels bigger like this somehow, biceps and forearms bulging where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips forcing your legs to spread wide around him, the ache sinking deep into your muscle, into your bones.  

When you look up at him, his eyes are more hooded than usual, the blue of his irises so dark that they’re almost black. 

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, big arms like steel bands around your waist, holding you tight to his chest so you have nowhere to run. “Jus’ let…jus’ let daddy come and—oh Christ, fuck, fuck��—jus’ lemme come and we’ll go back to bed, okay, sweetie?”

“I’m gonna…” you pant, trailing off when he gets a little rough, pumping harder up into you. The sound of your pussy squelching around his length makes your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open. 

“Yeah, yeah, you—you come too, baby. Jus’ need to take the edge off, both of us.”

You squeal when he reaches a hand down to dig his fingers into your butt cheek and it makes you tense up, walls tightening around his dick. One well-placed swat hard enough to make the flesh of your ass jiggle and you come, clenching up so tight that his next few thrusts are slowed by your spasming walls, forcing him to really cram his cock into your hole. 

“Christ, that’s cute,” John growls, his pupils blown out. 

It hurts to come that hard; makes your belly cramp up and everything. Whatever gibberish spills from your mouth gets lost in the aftermath. 

That’s when the temperature goes from hot to blistering. The muscles of his thighs tense, straining with his impending release. Even his grip around your waist gets tighter, his self-control steamrolled under his approaching climax, oblivious to the way you squeal and squirm when it threads the delicate needle of being too much. 

“Sorry, baby,” he apologises, voice treading gravel. “M’gonna mess your pussy up a bit—”

“Wait—wait—” you gasp, trying fruitlessly to lift yourself up, his arms keeping you pinned tight to his chest. “You’re gonna—John, you’re gonna come inside me—”

His hips thrust up hard at your words, one last rough pump that has him digging his heels into the mattress and clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck protruding. You feel it flood inside you, hot spurts of cum right up against your womb. He curses when he comes, eyelids sliding shut, lost in the sensation of emptying himself into you. 

A few last, punishing thrusts that make your teeth clack together. More heat spurting into you. A murmured oh fuck before his legs slide back down the bed, spreading out over the mattress. 

The blanket is somewhere at the foot of the bed, all scrunched up and nearly dangling off the edge. You only start to shiver when the sweat on your back finally begins to cool. 

When he pulls you off his cock, you whimper, a hot flash snaking through you. Oh Christ did he plug you up good. Stringy, viscous cum leaks from your hole, leaving a little puddle on his thigh when you slide off his chest and to the side a bit. 

“Oh baby,” he tuts softly, reaching between your legs to feel where you’re wet and a little swollen. “Sorry, sweetheart…wanna get cleaned up?”

“No…” you rasp, so dazed that you can’t even lift your cheek off his chest. 

Exhaustion has never ridden you this hard before, but considering the circumstances…—perhaps you’re lucky to be conscious at all, is all you mean. There’s not a chance of you having enough energy to do anything as rigorous as showering though. 

“Okay, baby. Little kiss?” John asks in a murmur, lifting your head up by your chin and swooping down for a kiss. Not even giving you enough time to process his words before his mouth is on yours. 

His lips glide slick against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth like he needs a good, deep kiss to ground him. A wet twisting of tongues; a thick finger stroking up your neck. He can’t stop touching you. Running a hand up your spine and curving it back down over your ass. Featherlight touches meant to calm you down. His kisses grow sticky, lingering; each one almost the last until he pulls you in for another. 

“Go back to sleep, okay?” John says, still speaking low enough to push you back under. He smooths his hand down your back again. 

You fall back asleep with a load in your belly and your head in a tizzy. The you of tomorrow is going to have a lot to contend with from the you of tonight.

[pucksandpower]

Drunk in Love

Max Verstappen x fiancée!Reader

Summary: in which Max gets drunk, forgets that the two of you are literally engaged, confesses his love for you, and then gets reminded that his ring is on your finger … in that order

Based on this request

The lights from Jimmy’z spill out onto the sidewalk, a dizzying kaleidoscope of reds, purples, and blues. You stand just outside, arms crossed, as your phone buzzes for the third time in five minutes. It’s Daniel this time.

“Hey,” he says, voice just slightly too cheerful to be innocent. “So, uh, Max is-”

“I’m already here.”

“Oh, perfect. He’s …” Daniel hesitates, and you can practically see him scratching the back of his neck. “He’s just a little … spirited tonight.”

Spirited. That’s one way to put it.

You hang up before he can add anything else and glance toward the club entrance. Max stumbles out a few seconds later, propped up by Lando, who looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Max’s head lolls to the side, and when he spots you, his entire face lights up like you’ve just walked out of a movie.

“Hey!” He yells, voice loud enough to make a couple passing tourists glance over. “It’s you!”

You sigh, stepping forward to take him off Lando’s hands. “Thanks,” you mutter to the younger driver, who just grins.

“Good luck,” Lando says, clapping you on the shoulder before disappearing back into the club.

Max leans heavily on you, his arm slung over your shoulders. “You came for me,” he says, slurring slightly. “You’re like an angel. My angel.”

“Uh-huh,” you deadpan, guiding him toward the car. “Let’s get you home, Max.”

He stops abruptly, digging his heels into the pavement. “No, wait.”

You look up at him, exasperated. “What?”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Can it wait until we’re in the car?”

“No!” He insists, voice rising. “It’s important.”

You glance around, feeling the curious stares of a few people lingering nearby. “Okay, fine. What is it?”

Max wobbles slightly, gripping your arm like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes are glassy but serious as he looks at you. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats, louder this time. Then, almost conspiratorially, he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Like, really love you. You’re … you’re perfect.”

“Max …” You hesitate, unsure how to respond.

“No, listen!” He says, pulling back to look at you. “You don’t understand. I’ve been in love with you for … forever. But I didn’t know how to say it, and now it’s too late, because you probably think I’m some idiot who-”

“Max,” you interrupt, placing a hand on his chest to steady him. “We’re engaged.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“We’re engaged,” you repeat, holding up your left hand where the ring glints under the streetlights.

Max stares at it like he’s never seen it before. “No way.”

“Yes, way.”

His face splits into a grin so wide it’s almost childlike. “No. Way.”

“Yes, Max. We’re literally engaged. Have been for months.”

He takes your hand in his, squinting at the ring. “Holy shit. That’s a nice ring.”

You snort despite yourself. “You picked it.”

“I did?” He looks genuinely astonished.

“Yes, you did. And you cried when I said yes, remember?”

“I cried?”

“Like a baby.”

He lets out a delighted laugh, the kind that starts in his chest and bubbles all the way up. “I’m a genius,” he declares, throwing his arms in the air. “I got you to say yes!”

“Yes, Maxie. You did.”

He pulls you into a hug, nearly knocking you off balance. “I’m so lucky,” he mumbles into your hair. “Like, stupid lucky.”

“You’re also stupid drunk,” you point out, but there’s no bite to your words.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes wide and earnest. “Do you love me?”

You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Of course I love you, you idiot.”

He beams at you, his happiness so pure it’s almost contagious. “Good. That’s good. Because I’m going to marry you.”

“Yes, Max. You are.”

“And I’m never going to mess it up.”

“Not if you keep calling me to pick you up from clubs at two in the morning.”

He looks horrified. “Wait, did I call you?”

“No,” you admit, “Daniel did.”

Max groans, burying his face in his hands. “That traitor.”

“Come on,” you say, tugging him toward the car. “Let’s get you home before you pass out on the sidewalk.”

As you help him into the passenger seat, he grabs your hand again, his grip surprisingly firm. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says, his voice softer now.

“I know,” you reply, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

He closes his eyes, a contented smile playing on his lips. “I’m going to marry the hell out of you,” he murmurs as you buckle him in.

You shake your head, climbing into the driver’s seat. “You already are.”

And as you pull away from the curb, he’s still grinning like he’s just won the championship all over again.

[hoshiros]

—✯ TRY IT, BITE IT, LICK IT, SPIT IT

cw. 18+ mdni. all chars 20+, pro-player!rin, afab!reader, oral (f!receiving), praise, petnames, established relationship, inspired by that one leaked panel of rin because what the hell

When ITOSHI RIN wins a game, your face is always the first one he wants to see.

Oftentimes, he'll search for you in the crowd with your embarrassingly noisy neon poster boards cheering him on. Other times, you'll already be waiting for him at the gates with your arms opened wide for him to run into.

For the last four weeks, though, he’s had to suffer the agony of your absence.

Rin called you incessantly while in France, reminding you of how many days separated him from being in your arms. "Wait for me. I'll be home soon," he said. "And be good," he'd add on, almost cheekily.

His promises were always sincere and lethally calculated. He wanted you to need him so badly that you'd fall apart on his tongue in minutes. Then he'd do it again, and again, and again, until he was satisfied.

When he finally came home, you barely had time to breathe before his lips were crashing into yours. You wanted to ask him if his flight was alright, if he had dinner yet, but then he licked himself into your mouth and the entire thought vanished.

And now you're being devoured by a monster.

Rin's been between your legs for so long that you're dizzy, head airy and light as he fucks into you with his tongue.

"Stay still," he warns sharply, words muffled as he stuffs his face closer into your sopping cunt. His warning is followed with his hands circling around your thighs, palms flat against the skin and leaving seas of heat along it.

You whine pathetically when he presses your hips down into the mattress, forcing you to be still for him.

"Can't—" you choke, spine curling from the bed so far that your head tilts backward. "Slow down, Rin!"

"Slow down?" He murmurs roughly. Rin furrows his brows, like he genuinely can't comprehend your request. "Actin' like it's your first time," he mocks, finishing his sentence by wrapping his lips around your clit.

You squeal, hand shooting down to shove his head back. He almost laughs when your weak attempt only pushes the bangs out of his eyes, giving him an even better view of you.

Rin pulls back enough to click his tongue, amused by your squirming but equally frustrated at your protests. He draws away from you. You feel cold as he does, the space he occupied suddenly devoid of his warmth.

"M'sorry princess," he coos, trying to coax you into relaxing. Peppering light kisses up your thigh until he gets to the spot resting on his shoulder, Rin can feel every shiver as you recover. "Too rough?"

You take a moment to catch your breath, waves of overstimulation crashing in your stomach. Finally, your gaze slowly drifts down to him, roaming over his face.

Your pussy clenches around nothing at the sight.

Sweat gleams across his forehead, stray strands of hair stuck to the skin as he also finds his breath. The entire bottom half of his face is so wet. You did that. You did.

"Hmm?" Rin hums, trying to get an answer. He looks so fucking cocky. So hungry. His tongue runs across his lips as if he can't stand not tasting you for even a second longer.

You shake your head, fingers still in his hair tugging lightly until he groans. "I can take it," you sniffle, guiding him back down closer to your heat.

"I know, baby. You're so good."

Rin dives back in as if he's starving for you, lathering your cunt in rough, long licks until you're shuddering. His hands travel down to the base of your thighs once again, pulling your body closer so that he can finish his meal.

You cry out softly, aching hole desperately trying to squeeze his tongue. He was the one who was so good to you. You dare to gaze at him again, just to admire his beautiful face.

Your breath hitches.

Rin has that same look on his face as he does on a football field—like a winner chasing a goal he knows he'll always get.