First Hellsing fic I've ever written.
Alucard indulges in pleasure as he watches his master sleep. One-shot. Somewhat AU...maybe.
I own nothing.
You wouldn't know it, but sometimes when you sleep I lie down next to you and masturbate.
You are a deep sleeper. You don't move - your eyes don't even flutter - as I push the blankets aside and lie down, usually at your left. I will my trousers to unzip themselves and slowly reach my gloved hand into my briefs as I watch you inhale and exhale and inhale and exhale out of necessity, not out of habit.
Your body heat radiates off of your honeyed skin and I scoot in closer, absorbing your warmth and taking in your scent. Most women smell like lavender and mint. You smell like cigars and gunsmoke, with a hint of almond. I run my thumb across my slit, smearing pre-cum on the head of my dick.
Every time I leave on a mission, I take one of your cigars to sniff while I am away from you. Sometimes I smoke it myself. It's an unusual experiment. I wonder if you've ever noticed any of them missing.
I absorb my other glove into my skin so that I may stroke your hair with my bare hand. It feels as it always does - silky, smooth.
Once, when you were still a child, on the first Christmas of our union you lay in my lap while I sat on a rocking chair facing the window. It's cold outside; snowy, and yet you grip my icy undead body as if it were your only source of comfort. Your tiny, tanned hand was playing with my hair. "Velvet," you murmured, and then you fell asleep.
I firmly grip the base of my cock.
You don't really celebrate Christmas. Even when everyone else in the manor is frolicking around and spreading cheer, or when the Knights discuss their winter plans, you sit at your throne and stare into nothing, contemplating work even though you never have much of it during the season.
Why? Is it painful? Does your loneliness plague you the most during this merry season?
Your breasts are full and firm. I want so badly to grip them in my hands. Instead, my hand grasps my sac tightly, strategically. I don't want you to feel lonely, Master. I know I could help rectify that situation. I could make you feel like a queen, if only you'd let me.
I imagine hanging mistletoe on the ceiling above your desk. You don't notice it immediately, but when you do you blush and call me an idiot, telling me - but not ordering me - to remove it. But a rule is a rule and I bring your body to mine. I brush the hair from your face and kiss you fully. Passionately. Forcefully.
I grunt as my grip tightens and movements quicken.
I glance at the blankets covering your body and pull them down slowly. You're wearing a nightgown to bed. A short one. I love it when you do - I just wish you'd wear something like that out in public.
I pump my cock harder. I am taking in the sight of your gorgeous, tight and untouched body. I'm getting close.
Maybe you and I can take a trip somewhere one day. We can ride the train through a scenic route and stay at a bed and breakfast, cuddling close together and watching television while you take tiny bites out of powdered, strawberry waffles. Or we could go out to dinner, and you could wear a gown, one that I picked out for you. Skin-tight and long, with a slit riding up the side. Sleeveless, to show off your hard shoulders. Deep, dark blue in color, darker than your bright eyes, with white opera gloves. I wonder if you'd wear something that glitters when the light touching it, attracting the attention of dozens of men that will never be able to touch you. I think you wore sparkly dresses when you were a child. I don't know, my memory is a little foggy at the moment.
After dinner, we'd go out for a dance. My hand would be flat against the small of your back. In all the years we've been together, we've never danced. It remains to this day my single greatest fantasy - feeling your body pressed tight against mine, with your hair held up and out of your face and neck. One hand entwined with my, and the other on my chest. Your hand creeps up higher, fingertips grazing strands of my hair. "Velvet," you'd whisper.
The silk nightgown you're wearing is pressed against every curve of your body. Your firm hip bones protrude from your pelvis. You're not eating well. My eyes are everywhere - tracing the valley of your breasts, the hem of your nightgown - barely an inch below your taut, perky bottom. That, too, I'd like to grasp in my hands. Your firm thighs and your knobby knees. The dip of your foot.
The curve of your throat.
I always drink before I visit you. Traces of the cold swill of medical blood from whatever hapless human lingers on my tongue. It's not the same as yours, no - but it is still blood. If I think hard enough, it almost acts as a substitute to yours. I can pretend, while I hump my fist like a dog, that the hint of metallic in my mouth is your blood, and the hand around my cock is really your tight pussy, and my teeth are firmly snug in your throat while I suck and suck and suck your sweet, warm essence into my mouth and it drips from the corners of my lips and when I part to look into your blue, blue eyes you run your tongue along my chin and jaw, sampling it yourself.
My eyes lock onto your jugular vein. My hips jerk. My breath hitches. I suppress a loud groan. I come in my clenched fist.
I'm panting now, lightly. Your stir somewhat but you don't wake up. I examine you once more - light, light hair fanned below your body like an extra sheet. Blond eyelashes resting above your high cheeks. I stare at the sticky cum in my hand and briefly think about smearing it across your olive chest, or in your blond hair.
Instead, I leave my filth dripping from my own hand. I stuff my flaccid cock back into my briefs. I will my trousers to zip themselves back up while pulling the blankets back onto your warm body. My eyes linger on your throat again as I rise. My tongue swells in my mouth.
This part is painful for me - it always is. Your bed is so large and your body is so small, it practically begs for me to lay down beside it, spooning you. I imagine your body warming mine and your head presses back onto my shoulder. My large arms wrap around your small frame and you hold my wrist in your hand, grazing the bone with your thumb. After all, it's only proper that a count guards his countess as she sleeps, and I know that I am the only one who can do that for you.
But I am aware that you are able to protect yourself now, and I also know that my own self is what I need to protect you against the most.
I wash my hands in your bathroom sink.