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The past year has been, to put it mildly, entertaining. Alucard will never fess up to a soul about how or why; this is the kind of secret he would prefer to take to his grave, if there was such a thing for people like him. Regardless, he’s grown comfortable. Ever since his master turned eighteen and officially acting owner of everything he sees, hears and touches (himself included), he’s learned to forget to fear whatever shadow not of his creation.
That is precisely why, when he is summoned into Integra’s private quarters out of turn (not for lessons, not for late-at-night confidences with him subbing for the usual young adult confidant) and on an official note, he’s not jumpy about it. Hell, he’s not even considering the remoteness of the possibility that this may not be routine.
It is only when he walks in and finds her already standing, hands clasped firmly behind her back, dressed in the finely pressed suits she usually reserves for important meetings, that whatever’s left of his cold black heart takes note of a long string of clues and plummets in his chest cavity like a bomb dropped from a plane.
“Master,” he calls as he enters.
“Servant,” she replies, and the word feels particularly sharp in her mouth this morning.
The party is not due to begin until late afternoon. Any other day, at this time, she would have been in bed, fighting off the covers, requiring him to get her up and running before Walter’s always punctual arrival. Today, however, as she’s to turn nineteen, the air has shifted and so has her—and subsequently also his—routine.
The hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, and a perverse, almost pleasurable fear has him shiver. For a moment, in his mind he chuckles at the notion. The king of vampires, Dracula himself, son of warlords, the destroyer of blood and life, shuddering to consider she might have something planned for him. A special role to play, perhaps, he thinks.
And he really has no idea.
She placidly watches him watch her, holds his gaze without fear or apparent agenda, and after a few seconds offer a smile, wider than her usual, showing just the slightest hint of teeth.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, and she motions at the foot of her bed, the smile morphing into a side-smirk.
“Why, so kind of my master,” he speaks softly, his every sound gliding out of him like music on purpose, to match her own artistic poise. “She knows I have been standing on my feet all night. Alas, I did not even wash off the stink of what I last feasted on.”
He bares her teeth at her now, his fangs out and sharp, still splotched by the spoils of the hunt, as is his attire. Red on red on red, the layers of it forming a map of the miles he traversed while she slept peacefully. He displays it for her openly, proudly, almost brazenly, and when she does not give any sign that she cares he will be getting the mess onto her covers, he demurely takes his seat on the edge of the bed and crosses his legs at the knee, like she should have been taught to but never was. No one in that house is a lady, least of all her.
“And how can I serve you, my master?” he says, his tone almost mocking. “What merits this… change of scenery?”
He has not failed to notice how pristine the room looks. Usually, she’ll leave piles of clothes and paper and books strewn all around and order Walter to keep it that way until she herself can sort it. Today nothing is out of place, which means, of course, everything is.
Integra clears her throat measuredly, and begins to pace the room slowly, her back turned to him.
“As you know,” she informs him, “today marks my nineteenth birthday.”
“A legendary feat, no doubt. Another revolution around the Sun few can achieve.”
She pauses just long enough to shoot him a glance. He smiles idiotically at her, trying to gauge a reaction, but she ignores him.
“I have had… a long year of dealing with the life my father meant for me,” she continues. “The organization currently enjoys quite the fairest reputation, the house’s affairs remain in order. And as for you… You’ve certainly proven your loyalty.”
“My choices on the matter, my master, are limited.”
“Your choices are mine,” she reminds him somberly, this time fully facing him, leaning forward just enough so her eyes will meet his, her hands still at her back as if tied. For a moment, she penetrates his gaze with her own, and he attempts to swim around in her icy blue eyes, trying to find an inkling of the girl she was but a few years ago, sweet and pink and plump, too small for the burden placed on her shoulders. She’s toughened up enough to level with him, to have extended eye-contact with him. Yet then again, eventually even she must pull away, standing straight before him. “But you have served me well, and I thank you for that.”
He frowns. “I only do as I must, you know that much.”
“Yes, I do,” she says, clearly frustrated with the interruption to what was, no doubt, a wholly rehearsed speech. Unable to restrain himself, Alucard grins; she was always lousy, even as a kid, at rehearsals, her abrasive spontaneity her biggest strength. “But do you know your place, I wonder?”
“Beside you, behind you,” he says—and this he has never rehearsed and yet feels as if he must have. “To guide you and protect you as you see fit.”
“To obey me,” she clarifies softly. “To be what I ask.”
Alucard stops hunching on the bed, places both hands on the mattress at either side of his hips and leans back just enough to have to uncross and spread his knees. “And what will you ask this time, my little Hellsing?”
That scores a blush. It has been years since he last called her that in earnest.
Yet she recovers more quickly than he could have foreseen. And no sooner is he relishing the moment, licking at his fangs with the tip of his overlong tongue, than she once again undoes him:
“Simple,” she just says. “You will please me.”
He blinks at her in brief confusion. “Pardon?”
She gives him no room for more than just that. The hands at her back unclasp, the button of her blazer is as undone as he feels.
“Undress,” she commands.
“Ah, you mistake me for a common whore,” he retorts, but his hand are busy removing his coat, leaving it nice and smooth over the duvet. Obeying, always obeying.
It is a strange nakedness, that of standing before her without the coat that characterizes him and what he does. A sudden chill goes through him, and he swallows it down the esophagus still drenched in leftover blood.
“You are a common whore,” Integra tells him. “Mine, at that.” Her chin tips up as she approaches him, her own jacket nice and neat, now hung on the back of her desk chair as she faces him. “Undress.”
“Others have made this mistake before you,” he warns softly, his voice round and full.
“Relax, Alucard,” she says, and for a moment the sweetness inherent to her surfaces from amidst the ice, warming the heart inside him, now failing to grasp at anything but that. “I just want you to show me the ropes.”
“At the ripe age of nineteen?” he tentatively teases.
She shrugs. “Better late than ever.”
“Any boys I should be worrying about?”
She actually smiles at him after that, coming into his space as if her existing this nonchalantly between his knees was routine, her hands resting on the very thin fabric of his shirt, the same papery white of his ashen skin. “Just you, I think. And you’re scarcely a boy; you’re barely even a man.”
The underlying question is there—what are you?—but neither dare or even can answer it at the moment.
“They are not pressuring you into anything, are they? I can scare them off for you if you want. A little intimidation never hurt anybody.”
“If there were any boys,” she answers patiently, not without some amusement, “I’d say my intentions toward them would be a little contrary to what you suggest, don’t you think?”
“I have often claimed to understand the reasoning behind your intentions,” he confesses quietly. “That truth has just been defied, and greatly so.”
She chuckles, and a few locks of her hair are freed from behind her ear, coming to tickle his face as they cascade down over her shoulder.
“In plain English, then, my little servant—” she says, uncouthly hovering over him, closer than a few words ago, her gloved hands snaking up from his shoulders and neck to thumb at the corner of his jaw, as smooth as the fabric keeping her skin from his touch. Then her mouth, the softness of her lips brushed against his earlobe, and he holds a breath he was never going to be able to take as she mutters, firm and confident: “Fuck me.”
Oh. Oh.
His chuckle, too, emerges grom deep beneath. It echoes and vibrates like an earthquake unearthed from the many layers of ground and rock.
“I have not done that in decades. I may very well be the wrong person to ask.”
“You’re bound to do as I say,” she tells him, climbing onto his lap. The weight of her is perfectly distributed over both legs, as if she’s practiced. And he idly considers that she may have, over a pillow, over her very chair, picturing him under her. He vaguely remembers to put his hands on either side of her, not yet touching anything… inappropriate, even if this whole thing can be considered to be. “You’re exactly the person to ask.”
“Please tell me you are not in love with me. That would just be awkward.”
“Oh, shut up. No, I am not. Are you?”
“No, I—”
“Excellent,” she concludes without letting him finish, sitting up straight enough that the sudden increase in pressure has a very significant and noticeable effect on him. She glances down even as she feels it surging against her, then back at him, expectant. “Shall we? I want to be done before Walter’s knocking at my door in—” She quickly taps at her watch. “—thirty-five minutes, give or take.”
He thinks of a million questions to ask, a million stories to tell her, hoping to instill some sense into her. This would not be advisable. For starters, he’s old enough to have birthed her entire bloodline, and she has only had a usable year of adulthood. He’s her puppet in many more ways than one, but she’s always toed the line rather amicably. He’s taught her to dance and hold a sword, tutored her in French and German and what little Romanian and Hungarian her young mind was able to absorb at the time. Why this? Why now? Even then he was a piss-poor tutor, and this he’s even rustier at than international affairs or phonetics.
So he clears his throat and asks the one question that does not matter but did still cross his overactive mind:
“Did you lock it? Did you lock the door?”
“You’ll hear him long before he makes it up the stairs.”
“I’ll likely be distracted enough not to.”
She takes it a sign to begin with the distracting. Methodical, abrasive, she crawls on top of him to the point that she’s practically inducing him to lay back on her bed, her hands on his wrists, pinning him down. And yet her eyes glimmer, asking him if this is allowed, if this is… good.
He swallows and swallows, bile and blood and saliva, and lets her because he has no answer for her but simple, practiced compliance.
For three generations now he has let a Hellsing have their way with him. Abraham cut him into pieces, excised entire organs out of him to intently study how fast the new one would grow into replacing it. Then his curiosity spiked, and the experiments and subsequent torture methods shifted slightly. Instead of a chilly metal table to lay on and be poked at, there’d be an empty glass bottle to fill with secretion, and frequent soundings of his urethra.
At the cusp of the man’s old age, Abraham had run out of questions to ask but the most pressing one: will I die alone? His command over Alucard had impeded it, and the first Hellsing had been able to wrongly cherish a few years of companionship, with his companion being the man whose life he had made a never-ending hell in the decades prior.
After, the war had made a man out of Abraham’s son, born with a father figure but growing up without a proper father, and Arthur in his isolation had turned to the vampire again for solace and frivolous joy he had liked to extend to others by throwing extravagant, hush-hush parties where Alucard was required to service the guests in nothing but leather straps.
He had acted enough like a dog, been treated for so long like one that he’d taken its physical form after Arthur’s noble friends took to him during long, tortuous lonely nights of howling and desperation when no one heard him whimper in pain. Eventually, Arthur himself had partaken, demanded the same services he commanded Alucard to offer everyone else. Alucard had been there the very night Integra had been conceived, warming the bed, warming Arthur.
Now the fruit of his labor is demanding the same out of him. And it should be revolting.
It should be.
“What do I do now?” she asks, almost murmurs, not wanting to upset him. “Now that I have you where I want you.”
“People… usually… kiss,” he manages.
“Demonstrate.”
He does. He kisses at her as slowly as he can, as tranquilly. It’s sickening how he’s worse at it than she is. She is shameless, she is unafraid. Her saliva taints the corner of his mouth, the slant of his chin, yet she continues, hungry and hungering. She opens her mouth for him so easily, so readily. And why would she be ashamed? He’s hers. He cannot even laugh if she orders him silent.
She grows fierce, frenzied, her hips pressing down just slightly against him. the grind awakens him. If before he was idle, now he bites back, takes her as she comes. Hands on her breasts, careful not to dig his fingers in too hard, then at her back, guiding her to meet him chest to chest. There is no hint at disrobing further, despite her initial command, so he refrains from snaking his hands in under her shirt or pants.
It is her who worms her hand over the front of his pants, rendering his brain as useless as can be. And this time he cannot hide under the pretense that it was unexpected.
“How can this happen?” she asks to the very tip of his lips, round and slightly swollen from kissing him, as her hands warms up to the pallid shape of him. “You’re dead…”
“Not everywhere at once,” he notes in half a whisper.
“I admit at first I thought you might just have to use your hands on me…” she says. “Just your hands.”
“I can do that…”
“I didn’t ask you for that, now, did I?” She presses her forehead to his, hair framing their faces as one. “What did I ask?”
“For me to fuck you.” He swallows her breath into his esophagus as he gulps down his own saliva, where blood was recently diluted, now carrying her own drool as a mark of pride. “But you did not specify how. Pick a hole.”
The words just spoken should not feel so heavy. They do, oh how they do…
Routine, paperwork, signatures. That’s her future, his present as he approaches this by distancing himself from the emotion behind his agreement to it. Sign the consent form, and he can proceed. He’s putting it forward in his mind, he’s the one having it written. The vampire, the monster, the man. Too dead, too insane, too old. He will wreck her innocence and purity with trembling limbs, still thinking himself perpetrator of a violence she never asked for. If it’s work, if it’s orders, there’s no thinking, there’s just action and climax.
“That simple?” she asks. “No begging to be exempted from this? No snark remarks?”
“You call, I come. You ask for my dignity, I am stripped of it.”
“Sexual extortion should not be any different, should it?” she mocks, ceasing the straddle to kneel herself between his legs, easing herself down all the way until she can comfortably sit down on the edge of the bed and step out of her pants.
They slip out of her body like silk, and she never bothers bending over to pick them up and fold them neatly. Then, she stands just enough to bare her lower back to him as she pulls down simple cotton underwear to her ankles.
She circles the bed, watches him like a hawk over her prey, her expression unreadable save for the abundance of flush and shameless want.
When she sits by his side, only ever touching her naked thigh to his, he flinches and she blushes but chuckles regardless, reaching for his hat with untrembling hands to remove it, darting it across the room to rest on the floor as well. She ruffles his hair and on pull out she lingers, thumb skirting over his cheekbone, his jaw. His eyes close, and his breathing is suddenly altered.
“Pick a hole,” she tells him, removing herself from him to rest on her back, coy and seemingly demure, the bend of her right leg concealing her sex for a moment.
She traces the lines of her mons pubis with the tips of her fingers, expectant. Even as he repositions himself, abandoning the safety of his allotted corner of the bed, the sight of her almost touching herself but never quite haunts him to his core.
“That’s not how it works,” he tells her. “You cheat even at this.”
“I cheated once at a game of chess. You cheated first,” she says, relocating to the heart of the bed, where she is more easily accessible. The bed covers rustle under their combined movement. He kneels by her feet, taunted by what she not only offers but demands he take of her. “By leaving for the bathroom, of all places.”
“It was a test,” he says. “Is this a test, master? Are you toying with me? Am I being punished for my lenience?”
“Yes,” Integra just says, her toes digging onto his lower thigh, the square nail pressing hard onto the fabric. “Just do your job and quit worrying.”
The angel on the bed speaks in the fashion of an employer, but the carnal body she pretends wails with longing, with curiosity. In the split moment between heartbeats and decisions, he reminds himself she is aware he can smell it on her, pounding between her legs.
Yet his lack of a quick reaction only spurns her, and she lowers herself just so in order to bring her knees up to his hips and arch her eyebrow.
“The consequences ail me,” he murmurs, hands coming to rest on the bed at either side of her as he leans forward just enough to speak it against her mouth. Like an unfed animal, traipsing carefully before lounging for its next meal, digging his claws in, his teeth, smearing blood all over himself.
Except he already has. The blood of the hunt is being smeared onto her warm skin and immaculate shirt now.
“Mine or yours?” she remembers to hum as a response, eyes closed, as he kisses down her mouth and chin all the way to her sternum, his back bent awkwardly, almost painfully. But he is a creature of shadow and blood, and the distortion becomes him.
Her hands fumble for the front of his pants, steady and intentional when they undo the button keeping them on and pull down the zipper, revealing what she’s already palmed at, what she’s required to fill her.
Wasting not a second, her fingers grip him for the first time in his still-enlarging length and girth, and she feels the tension in his arms, shaking to keep him up.
“So this is what all the fuss is about…” she half-mutters, thumb catching on the tip of his dick almost absent-mindedly. And he wonders if she’s read anything up to this point, if she just wants it quick and dirty to cross it off her list or she’s actually been as diligent about it as she used to be about homework. Her left hand hooks to his side and pulls him closer, angling him to herself already, even at a distance as chasmic as the inches separating them. “It’s the warmest part of you.”
The only part untouched by the frenzy of bloodlust. Both blood and lust have touched him there on occasion, yet never the ill of his condition.
If any part of him can still be said to remain human, it’s the part that used to want like one, unencumbered by politics or duty or sense.
She brings his dick to the warm, wet entrance of her and he grunts, biting his tongue to muffle the noise he already fears he might make.
“Not there,” he grumbles. “Your chastity means something to you.”
“My chastity is of no concern to you, vampire.”
“Not there,” he insists, belaying her tone.
“Where?” she asks.
He rubs himself gently all over the length of her, letting it dip a little onto the wetness flowing from her pussy, then… almost in slow motion, he touches the tip of his dick to the opening of her asshole.
“Oh,” she realizes—and immediately he pulls back, knelt again somewhere soft, somewhere warm.
“Allow me,” he says, and it is hard for him, then, to hide the shaking that has struck him down just now like lightning, like the wrath of a god he’s denied ever since he first felt it in his very flesh.
It hits him as he moves in her vicinity, in her bed, until he is lying on his side beside her, coupling himself to the curve of her body, rib and flank hip, and pressing his right hand to her lower stomach. He slides it downward unhurriedly but firmly, not wanting to play coy with this. She knows now where he is headed and to do what. And a voice inside his head echoes: Do you?
Once upon a time, under the boot of his previous master, he’d been forced to do this very thing under spotlights too blind for his sensitive eyes. Every member of the British aristocracy had been tasted by him, serviced by him. And his master had watched from a distance, libidinous, knowing that when the curtain fell and the parties ended, his vampire would have no choice but to come pleasure him.
His daughter is in Alucard’s hands now, and the memories tangle in his mind like cords around his neck. What has changed? He’s still the whore of the Hellsings.
Everything, bellows the voice amidst the cacophony of wails and pleas. Everything has changed, you fool! The voice that he carries so deeply ingrained inside him he sometimes has a hard time recognizing as his own, as himself at his freest, at his realest. This time you serve out of more than just contract, or do you not? And isn’t it sweet that this scares you so.
“Your glove,” she says, then, unearthing him from the pit of his own desperate thoughts. “You wish to… remove it, is that right?”
“A dangerous spiel, master,” he offers meekly. “A beast freed halfway is twice as beastly, the chains that bind me might not hold.”
Out of nowhere, she viciously writhes herself out of her lying position and comes to face him, an arm darting forward so she can wrap her hand tight around his neck, his Adam’s apple tucked right between her thumb and forefinger.
“You are mine,” she establishes, gritting her teeth at him. “Magic or no magic, blood or no blood. You’re mine. Get it into your head and remove both gloves at once; I want to feel the real touch of your skin, not be contaminated by whatever creature’s ooze you failed to wipe off of you upon your return.”
“As you command…” he mutters, but he is not even allowed the dignity of removal. She herself bites at the tip of his index finger and yanks the right glove off, losing it, then, in the chaos of her bed.
Silently, she hurdles up to him again, her gaze ever as penetrating. “Proceed,” she says. “And don’t hold back.”
“I must!”
“I don’t require you to.”
“I’ll break you,” he warns.
She shrugs. “So break me.”
“Integra—”
“I’m tired of playing games with you. Yank your own chain, I’ll yank it harder. You’ll heel for me, I assure you.”
He already is.
“It brings me relief, master, and pride,” he says, his breath heavy as it pours out of him onto her—they’re so close, face to face, body to body, “that you seem to so very well know what you want…”
She nods, and he resumes his pace. This time, his bare right hand does not attempt to tease her. He immediately goes for the prize, dips his two first fingers right into the entrance of her vagina, circling it softly to smear it further onto his skin—oh, and how utterly rotten and forbidden that feels, he’s so very quite literally tainting, corrupting her innocence—, and then in a downward motion he brings her own moisture to her asshole.
Integra shivers so very slightly, bites her lip, never, not once, looking away from the man about to rip her open.
“Is this…” he murmurs, his fingers just a tad more insistent, less soft and demure against her, if still exerting no pressure. “…what you want?”
In place of an answer, her bodily response all he was after, she wraps tight boney fingers around his right elbow, her pussy grinding so very slightly against his forearm as he works her ass.
His rusty performance matches her inexperience, and he loathes that it is so. If his master has asked for this, even at the expense of his own sanity, he should deliver it just as she demanded it. But he can’t, he can’t… The memories, the know-how, he lost it to the years half-dead in a dungeon, waiting for her, trying to taste anything but air. Trying to bait her into his dominions so she’d save him, so that the innocence plastered to the walls Arthur and his father drenched in his blood would meet her end at the tip of his fangs, his tongue. He can’t serve her as he served them, he has entirely forgotten how, his body unresponsive to threat and command. All he knows how to do is fight her. Fight her to keep her. Wag his tail at her, bend his ears, heel to her boot so she’ll think him good and servient enough to keep.
“Is this what you want from me, master?” he asks now—he pleads it, eyes watering.
She’s coming alive under him, all breath and muffled moan, blossoming open for him, under his touch. The soft wet tissue beckons him in, as do her little cries for more, and he forces himself to inhale sharply before he works the tip of his middle finger in.
Her gasp is wetter than her labia, and she tries to guide him deeper in, but he refuses. She has not answered his question.
“Do you wish me to ruin you thus?” he asks again.
She lets a short, heavy breath out, flooding his nose with it, and her voice reverberates in his head like an old, giant bell calling him forth from the shadows he’s made into a temporary home: “I am ruined.”
They become an orchestra of sound not very much after, when he is able to insert one finger, then two, then three until he is sure, until the space is ample and quivering for more. He becomes it, the definition of more. He grips it almost timidly, his drenched hand hidden from her as he works his shaft a few times, just enough to get himself wet and ready for her.
“On your back, if you please…” he tells her, mouth to mouth, and she acquiesces without a snarky response now. She’s long past that, just aching for him to fill her. He wonders briefly if she always wanted this, if she always wanted it with him, or if he was just conveniently there. “I will have you now.”
Even in the throes of such an awaited passion, her face flushed, her skin goosebumpy, she finds it in her to laugh at him. “What a gentleman!” she says.
But it haunts her from there on. As he climbs atop her, between her spread knees, resting his pubis to hers, then pierces the barriers of her body in a smooth, gliding motion, shaken by the vibrations of her as Integra moans from the deepest part of her, clenching around him.
He collapses somewhat atop her, one hand holding him up, the other folding her leg , ripening her more, further, flowing deeper inside her, biting her next moan out of her.
They’re one. Joined at their most primal, their most human. Two isolated wombs finally connected by the cord of life. The hand of man and the hand of god stretched to the limit of body and religion just for a single touch, a single solitary communion to teach them both about loneliness and satis.
And it haunts her, how gentle he is, how careful, how thoughtful.
Quivering with a desire she cannot deny him, he disobeys and holds back, showing her, giving her his tenderest side as he fucks her sweetly, moving at a pace that will shatter her soon from the intensity, never from the velocity.
It’s more than gentle, more than tender. It’s out-of-your-mind slow. Like from their union something otherworldly will molt if they let it, and they might.
“Integra,” he growls softly at her, his words as hot as his breath.
She never knew, until this day, that vampires could sweat. That she would lick it off his forehead, his cheekbones… as readily as she might drink, parched, from a brown puddle out in the forest.
He’s already spent, a trembling mess above her, his hips moving at paces that could build worlds out of lava and tectonics. And he falls onto her, letting her receive him wholly. Every inch of his dick inside her ass, the tip reaching past the bend of her intestines, and the weight of his body held up by her own—Integra Hellsing, her vampire’s own wretched, personal resting place.
And yet… his strength waning, he fucks her, steady and gentle, he goes on fucking her like his life depended on it, and it does—because she asked, and without her orders he’s just an old dog with a cold, trying to die in the very same rain that first got him sick.
He’s the ghost inside her, taking over her, riding her like she’s a puppet and she called him in, summoned him to. But he’s so gentle. Where’s the ferocity, the fury of a ghost scorned and abandoned, tortured and raped?
“Shhhh…” she tells him then, left hand coming up to cup his face. The tears he sheds stain her knuckles, and she does not dare ask if they are from weariness or helplessness or both. “Come for me,” she tells him. “Give me this and you’re dismissed for tonight. You’ll sup on the freshest blood, I will pour mine for you, I’ll—”
Abruptly, and in an absolutely uncharacteristically tender gesture, her vampire buries his face in the crook of her neck, and he slowly pulls out of her, yet never entirely. He rests outside her for a moment, too overcome by the sensations of her around him, her voice a ghost of his own haunting his narrative.
Integra reaches for his mouth, kisses him with the temerity of a master and the tenderness of the servant she now soothes.
“I’ll bleed on your tongue for you, Alucard,” she promises, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your reward, what you could never beg of me. Please…”
And as he slowly sinks back into her, he’s fucking whimpering. Like a dog.
The man known for his depravity, his decaying sense of justice and bloodiness, whimpering onto her mouth like a wounded animal, shedding bloody tears on her.
She freezes, stops following the thrusts he has not ceased to gift her with, and just looks at him.
Her eyes fail to convey what she wishes she had the heart to tell him aloud. Did I go too far, my darling? Did I, in my hubris, break you?
But she takes him in, she caresses his face, watches for the slightest sign in his face that the man she knows and commands is gone. Yet he’s still there, still trying to penetrate her because she asked and she never once stopped asking.
Maybe she should.
“Alucard?” she speaks his name softly. “Did I lose you?”
“No,” he grumbles gently a few seconds after, locks of his sweaty hair brushing against her clavicles. Every new push of his dick into her innards rocks her to her core. “No, my master. I was just thinking.”
“You can stop now,” she offers tentatively, sweetly. “It’s alright.”
And for the first time in the past half an hour, he is fully, wholly inside her, yet unmoving. They are still one. Master and servant, owner and dog, a man and his only, lonely god.
And for the first time in the past seven years, Integra does not know what to do with him. Not as his commander, not as his owner, not as his lover. She is but a nineteen year old trying to comfort, trying to understand a creature others would tremble to face, let alone touch. Yet they would have failed to consider this—he’s her creature and no one else’s. He’s not of her womb, not of her inheritance, yet undeniably hers. Hers in the only way that matters, a way she is yet too young to comprehend or even contemplate.
So for now she’s just … there, letting whatever has been washing over him fully take him from her, and before she knows it… she’s awkwardly wrapping her arms around his torso, pulling him closer, kissing and lightly sucking at his neck for comfort, for company, and then tilting her head just so to nuzzle his nose and lips, her left thumb still wiping away his tears.
“Is this the price I am to pay?” she murmurs. “You are mine, but this is the cost?”
“I am yours,” he repeats. “There is no price.”
“I did this to you. I… turned you into a creature I do not fear to behold, to hold in my arms. You’re the world’s most depraved vampire, and yet to me, as we speak, you’re not more than a soldier. It should disgust me…”
“Does it not?” he manages, the slightest hint of a stutter to his question.
“I behold your vulnerability most gladly,” she tells him from the heart. “And I ask to. Even if it is not what I had previously asked.”
And with this, he rouses as if awakened from his great slumber, and begins moving inside her again, slightly frenzied by her words having eased the ball of indignity, anxiety, and insecurity threatening to choke him faster than she ever could.
“I behold your desire most ardently, my master,” he tells her. “I behold it and I praise it. But I do not deserve it.”
“And yet…” she says, “you earned it.”
So enjoy it, her body seems to add as she arches for him, allows him to fill her, paint her insides wide and her brain the color of fireworks.
And this, after all, is an order he cannot—will not—belay.