[The car stops. There's no danger now, whether from the now-sleeping supernatural community or from the forward movement of the car, and he is here and she is here and it turns out, she can't wait five more minutes.
They're exhausted and burnt out and run ragged with perfection, and somehow still perfect is her awful red lipstick that matches his accents and it won't be for long, as she slides across the seat to him and takes his face in her hands and kisses him like she's starving.]
[The kiss shouldn't take him by surprise. It does, and the last thing Alucard manages to do is actually turn the car off because he thought this was just a temporary stop. After that, everything just becomes a floodgate.
He kisses back. Terribly and desperately and both his arms wrapping around her, clinging for dear life because that's all he wanted to do since before they even left. He is tired and exhausted and still so scared of the thing he's taken on, and Sypha is here and there's no complication and she deserves all the affection and adoration in the world.]
[She could fit a narrative to this, if she wanted. She's a Speaker; turning a string of events into a story is what she was born and raised to do. And half of good storytelling is knowing how to deftly weave in things that weren't there in practice, but that knit the retelling together — morals and themes and trends and callbacks. She could put all of that into this. She could make up a pretty thread of how they need this because home is sacred, home is just theirs, and so the poison needs to be drawn out before they enter it so as not to bring the stains in with them.
She could, but none of that has anything to do with why she's kissing him now.
The sentiment is so raw, so aching, that she (she! she, of all people) can't even fit words to it. She needs him, and he needs her, and they've needed each other all night but they couldn't, it couldn't be allowed. But now the rules are lifted, because they're safe here, and there's no one to give a damn if her fingers are slipping down the line of his jaw to his throat, to the buttons of his shirt, loosening them not because she wants to reach under it but simply because she can't stand how perfect he is right now, and wants to be the one to dishevel him.]
Adrian.
[She smothers the word against his lips, smudging her lipstick on his mouth as one kiss turns to two and to three in an ever-lengthening chain. There's the faintest hint of a copper taste in his mouth and she doesn't let herself think about it. She comes close to cutting her tongue on the tip of one of his fangs, and she doesn't let herself think about that either.]
I will kill you. If you take your hands off me.
[Not that she thinks there's any real chance of that, but it bears remarking, just the same.]
[He kisses back to show he understands. To show that he isn't thinking about how they can't be doing this in the car, there's hardly enough room in the front seat (he totally is though.) All he's focused on is how wonderful his name is on her lips, now sweet it sounds after a night of a name that might as well be a title.
He can't even bring himself to try and touch her clothes, tug at that high collar because it's ridiculous, he can only drag her closer towards him until he can't put her on his lap. Steering wheel is in the way.
So they'll just have to continue at this terrible angle, chasing the night away with every kiss. There's detailed ignored because they're not as important as this, as being here as the sun rises high, as morning unfolds in full.
Alucard doesn't know how long they sit there like this. He knows that to break all of this is a sin, but they're out of places to go.]
We'll be more comfortable for this when we're in our own bed, Sypha.
[It's only when his shirt is a mess and his mouth is smudged red with something that thankfully isn't blood and his eyes are glittering bright with life rather than the dead sarcophagus gold that they'd been at the party, only then that she slowly lets him draw away enough for her to look at him, just look at him. They're just minutes from home, she knows, and she ought to let him drive, but she doesn't — not for a little bit longer yet.
She just wants to look at him. For a little while, that's all she does, is just look at him, beautiful and flawed and weary prince that he is, shedding his perfection with the light of the dawn, as though the sunbeams crawling up from the edge of the sky are burning away all the marble rigidity in his frame.]
Yes, I know.
[She breathes in deep, filling her chest with it, and lets it out again in a sigh that makes her shoulders sag and her expression soften. It was good to kiss him, and she's sleepy-sated now — for a little while, at least. Until they can make it home, perhaps.]
[They're contrasting again, aren't they? Alucard's clung to Sypha so fiercely but there's almost nothing out of place. Her shirt's untucked, her hair is a little more mussed than it was before. That's it. Wheras she's undone so much of him already (that's something else to unpack). He knows what he must look like, all undone because the tension of the night has finally snapped.
He's breathless when she pulls away. Just looks at him, and there's not an ounce of shame in letting her witness everything that's truly happening in his head. He is tired, he is scared, he is so glad for her, for this moment, and he wants to hold onto that moment for as long as he can now.
[There is a benign way to parse that sentence and a scandalous one, and either one could apply here. Perhaps they both could. Perhaps that's exactly the point.
She rakes her hand through his hair, rumpling the strands, petting him loose.]
Which is where we should hurry to be. Home, and to bed, and not to get up again for at least half the day.
[It's entirely dependent on exhaustion levels in the next five minutes.
He starts the car again. There's never been any kind of magic modification done to it, but it roars to life in an instant. It allows for just enough time to steal another kiss. To make sure Sypha's aware how much everything has meant tonight. He worries about so much, panics about making her the guardian of his emotional well being in many ways. That the need is sometimes too much of a demand.]
I'll be there until moonrise, I expect.
[At least. To be in the arms of sleep is a thing to be wishes. So he drives them both home. Just five minutes. Five minutes to get home, pass through the gates, put the car in the garage. To slide out and then refuse Sypha even a moment to get out under her own steam.
She's in his arms. Where she ought to have been all night.]
[She wraps around him unhesitatingly when he lifts her, thankful that her suit comes with crisp-pleated trousers instead of a narrow skirt because it means she can wind her legs around him that much more easily and cling. He'll complain about the risk of dropping her if she's too mischievous while he's carrying her, she knows, and while she knows full well that he would never allow such a thing in reality, she's benevolent tonight and only tips her head to suck a series of open-lipped kisses along the line of his jaw.]
You look a mess.
[Something she'd remarked on before, in the car, but now that they're back in the house, it's a comment that brings their night full-circle. He'd left perfect, and now he's returned a mess, and it's because he would've been perfect getting through the door but for her, almost gleefully terrorizing him in her relentless attempt to ruin the image he's been wearing all night.]
But everyone seemed impressed with you. It was a good night, from what I overheard. You've certainly secured respect.
[Having her latched on like this, well. Walk or float. He decides to walk, because to float would drain energy that Alucard doesn't feel he has. Not really. They'd just crash on the stairs and this morning would end on a truly sour note indeed. So he makes sure to hold onto Sypha tightly, soft noises following every kiss.]
The exterior matches the interior then.
[There's no hiding that, there's only naming it for what it is as they go up the stairs. (The house has a lot of those, and hidden compartments, and it's far too easy to get lost if you don't live there.)]
So long as it endures until a return.
[Which is what this is, in the end. An endurance run.
His room. Their room. The one with more windows than any other bedroom in the house, bookshelf featuring his personal collections, too small dresser that he ought to just get rid of, bed that was never quite meant for two that has become one now. Sypha's placed down on it gently.]
Yes. But now the foundation is laid. The next one will be easier — reinforcing what is already there. Not something that needs to be built anew each time.
[He sets her down, and she reaches forward to catch hold of his arms, wrapping her fingers around his wrists to keep him from retreating further than arm's length away, or from really doing anything except paying attention to her.]
And speaking of time, it's time for you to let me take care of you now. But what that means — I need you to tell me. What do you need from me? Tell me, so I can give it to you.
[She's said it best already. Alucard communicates much better through actions than words. So that means that when Sypha latches onto his wrists, he can only crouch down so they're at eye level. Lean in and try to explain with another kiss.
How he manages both aggression and tenderness in the same moment is a question to be pondered later. All that's clear as lips meet lips, move beyond those down Sypha's neck and then back again, is that what's needed is affection. There's apology threaded in there somewhere too, the horrible weight of knowing that this thing will not leave them unchanged, and coupled with it is gratitude. That she's willing to do this in spite of everything.
His arms leave her wrists. One hand is desperate to get rid of all that red, because it's not her color. Shouldn't become her color either.]
[He speaks through actions, and she answers in words, but even her words are a fitting complement to the way he expresses his needs, because all of her answers are really given in the implications, not in what she says outright. It's rare that she uses his given name, but not unheard-of; tonight, it's a deliberate choice she's made twice now, in part because it will startle him to hear it — and thus, keep him from sinking into his own head — and part because it's not Alucard, heir and regent to Dracula, son of the king of vampires, noble lord now in his own right. It makes him someone else, someone hidden-away. It makes him only hers, for a little while now, and that's what she wants him to hear when she says it.]
Just rip the shirt. It's horrible anyway.
[And because a shirt can be mended, in theory, or replaced if not. She'd tasted the aggression in the movement of his mouth on hers and instantly, effortlessly, offers him up an outlet for it.
Even as she says it, she's helping him, working her arms free of her jacket and unfastening the buttons of the vest, because that much she actually likes and wants to save, so she needs to get it out of the firing line.]
[It's good to just hear his name said. As it should be in this house, with just them. Far sweeter after all that's come before, even if the request is going to get ignored because he still paid good money for that. Even if the color is wrong for her. Even if the whole look feels against all Sypha is. They'll need it one day.
Which means that even as her neck is covered in kisses, long and slow, quick and red hot, he's unbuttoning it. Making sure it's off her shoulders making sure it's gone to a part of the room where they're not going to see it when they're lying in bed after all of this. He's cling to her then, he already knows it.
This angle, however, is getting uncomfortable, and for that he nudges her gently.]
[The fact that they've even managed to get her halfway undressed is nothing short of a miracle, with all the potential distractions around to intervene. Her hands are all over; sometimes she's helping him as best she can, but sometimes she's running her fingers up his arms to his shoulders, playing with his hair, brushing against his neck and down to the hollow at the base of his throat. And he's distracting, too, with the way he goes after her neck; it's evidently a course of action she approves of, with the way little noises start to spill from her mouth with every touch of his lips on her skin.]
Do it yourself.
[She's baiting him again, and carefully this time. But he's spent the entire night acting according to a script, and not his own wishes; it's not stubbornness or reluctance that makes her do it, but encouragement to act, in whatever way he sees fit.
This is how he speaks to her, all of the things he can't bear to say. So she makes this liaison between them the canvas, and puts the pen in his hand; he'll show her what he needs, what he's thinking, where his fears lie. She only has to give him the opportunities he needs to do it.]
You carried me all the way upstairs from the car. You can move me two feet more.
[It isn't exactly an elegant movement. It's also a delayed one because Alucard pauses just long enough to slide his shoes off. (Small detail but important.) Elegance right now is overrated, he's undone. Been undone the minute Sypha told him to pull the car over and everything else is just an elaboration upon that point.
They're on their sides together. Far more comfortable a place to be, far warmer for the bed coverings underneath. It lets him press against Sypha immediately, the attention to her neck moving to her chest instead because that's where there is more bare skin and that is where he wants to be. One arm is just above him, reaching up towards nothing, the other is low around Sypha's waist, teasing at grabbing her behind but not quite there.
Never mind that he's still dressed. There's a sigh on his lips that chases away exhaustion, the vibration of it pressed to a breast, coupled with a single utterance of her name. It's drenched with adoration.]
[It's a good position, in a number of ways. One is that there's no need to fuss with a great lot of bending and leaning; they're easily within reach of each other, and can slide around as they please with the mattress to support them, freeing up limbs for exploring that otherwise would've been necessary for simple support. It means she can get her hands in his hair more easily, and encourage him with all the attention to his hair and the back of his head that he likes best.
There's something almost picturesque about it, the way they're positioned, the manner in which he's clasped to her breast. He's shown her Renaissance paintings before, and she half thinks that they must look like one, or would at least give a reimagining of one a run for its money.]
You make my name sound wonderful when you say it like that.
[He tilts his head up to ask the question. Her face is beautiful right now. Radiant, but then, when isn't it? The hands in his hair are warm and comforting and wonderful, they're hands he's trusted in so many times over in the past few months.
He breathes out. Tries to put a fraction of his head in order, enough of him registering that it's unfair for her top to be bear when his isn't. But that requires stirring from how they are, and he'll have none of that.]
[She has to stifle a giggle when the caress of his breath washes over her skin and tickles, but for the most part she manages to keep a lid on her mirth and maintains a sense of cool composure.]
Do you know how I feel right now? Very seductive. Like some sort of exotic courtesan, entertaining a patron of my cabaret.
[It's silly, intentionally so. It's also just a little bit scandalous, and she likes that too.]
Look at you. Too taken with me to even bother to take off much more than your shoes.
Shush. If it were someone else saying it about me, then I would agree, and probably slap them. But for me to say it about myself is different. Nonsense or not, I am allowed to feel as I please, and describe it however I want.
[She moves one hand from his hair, though, sliding it down to catch his chin instead, and tilt his face up.]
Now come here. If you want us to be equals, then you have some clothing to lose.
[But the way he melts into the hand that has his chin, presses into it, that means he understands and won't argue the point any further. It will rankle, of course it will, but Sypha's views of herself are more important than his stupid fears.
He leans just enough to brush his lips against Sypha's wrist.]
[She hums pleasantly as his lips touch her wrist, pausing in her deliberation of where to begin with him to close her eyes and simply enjoy the feeling.]
You are wrinkling your pants, and this evening when we wake up you are going to be absolutely crabby about it.
[A finger comes up to lightly touch his mouth, a movement similar to hushing him but not quite, and when her fingertip touches against his lip it's cooler than it ought to be — the barest suggestion of ice.]
But for now I will try to make you forget all about such things entirely.
[It's...easy, when it's like this. Because listening to Sypha is a foundation of this. He had to, because she was the doctor in charge and he saw what happened to his mother's patients when they didn't listen to those instructions. (There's also a whole lot to unpack there, but those are thoughts for another time.)
He stills at that gesture. Just leans against that finger long enough to make it clear that he's listening. Whatever she wants.]
[It's a little gawky, to try to scoot down the mattress a few inches on her side to better take hold of his shirt, but soon her slender fingers are working the buttons free one by one, and when she gets them open she pushes her hands inside the loose folds to stroke over his chest, pushing the fabric back almost carelessly.
His scar is still there, of course. It always will be. And though she avoids touching it with the sweep of her fingertips, she carefully leans into him and brings her lips to touch against it, up near where it approaches his collarbones.]
You are beautiful.
[She moves down a little further, this time laying her kiss over the scar where it cuts across his pecs, in the narrow valley between them.]
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They're exhausted and burnt out and run ragged with perfection, and somehow still perfect is her awful red lipstick that matches his accents and it won't be for long, as she slides across the seat to him and takes his face in her hands and kisses him like she's starving.]
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He kisses back. Terribly and desperately and both his arms wrapping around her, clinging for dear life because that's all he wanted to do since before they even left. He is tired and exhausted and still so scared of the thing he's taken on, and Sypha is here and there's no complication and she deserves all the affection and adoration in the world.]
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She could, but none of that has anything to do with why she's kissing him now.
The sentiment is so raw, so aching, that she (she! she, of all people) can't even fit words to it. She needs him, and he needs her, and they've needed each other all night but they couldn't, it couldn't be allowed. But now the rules are lifted, because they're safe here, and there's no one to give a damn if her fingers are slipping down the line of his jaw to his throat, to the buttons of his shirt, loosening them not because she wants to reach under it but simply because she can't stand how perfect he is right now, and wants to be the one to dishevel him.]
Adrian.
[She smothers the word against his lips, smudging her lipstick on his mouth as one kiss turns to two and to three in an ever-lengthening chain. There's the faintest hint of a copper taste in his mouth and she doesn't let herself think about it. She comes close to cutting her tongue on the tip of one of his fangs, and she doesn't let herself think about that either.]
I will kill you. If you take your hands off me.
[Not that she thinks there's any real chance of that, but it bears remarking, just the same.]
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He can't even bring himself to try and touch her clothes, tug at that high collar because it's ridiculous, he can only drag her closer towards him until he can't put her on his lap. Steering wheel is in the way.
So they'll just have to continue at this terrible angle, chasing the night away with every kiss. There's detailed ignored because they're not as important as this, as being here as the sun rises high, as morning unfolds in full.
Alucard doesn't know how long they sit there like this. He knows that to break all of this is a sin, but they're out of places to go.]
We'll be more comfortable for this when we're in our own bed, Sypha.
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She just wants to look at him. For a little while, that's all she does, is just look at him, beautiful and flawed and weary prince that he is, shedding his perfection with the light of the dawn, as though the sunbeams crawling up from the edge of the sky are burning away all the marble rigidity in his frame.]
Yes, I know.
[She breathes in deep, filling her chest with it, and lets it out again in a sigh that makes her shoulders sag and her expression soften. It was good to kiss him, and she's sleepy-sated now — for a little while, at least. Until they can make it home, perhaps.]
You look better like this.
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He's breathless when she pulls away. Just looks at him, and there's not an ounce of shame in letting her witness everything that's truly happening in his head. He is tired, he is scared, he is so glad for her, for this moment, and he wants to hold onto that moment for as long as he can now.
At her judgement, there's a breathless laugh.]
You're the expert on when I look my best.
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[There is a benign way to parse that sentence and a scandalous one, and either one could apply here. Perhaps they both could. Perhaps that's exactly the point.
She rakes her hand through his hair, rumpling the strands, petting him loose.]
Which is where we should hurry to be. Home, and to bed, and not to get up again for at least half the day.
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He starts the car again. There's never been any kind of magic modification done to it, but it roars to life in an instant. It allows for just enough time to steal another kiss. To make sure Sypha's aware how much everything has meant tonight. He worries about so much, panics about making her the guardian of his emotional well being in many ways. That the need is sometimes too much of a demand.]
I'll be there until moonrise, I expect.
[At least. To be in the arms of sleep is a thing to be wishes. So he drives them both home. Just five minutes. Five minutes to get home, pass through the gates, put the car in the garage. To slide out and then refuse Sypha even a moment to get out under her own steam.
She's in his arms. Where she ought to have been all night.]
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You look a mess.
[Something she'd remarked on before, in the car, but now that they're back in the house, it's a comment that brings their night full-circle. He'd left perfect, and now he's returned a mess, and it's because he would've been perfect getting through the door but for her, almost gleefully terrorizing him in her relentless attempt to ruin the image he's been wearing all night.]
But everyone seemed impressed with you. It was a good night, from what I overheard. You've certainly secured respect.
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The exterior matches the interior then.
[There's no hiding that, there's only naming it for what it is as they go up the stairs. (The house has a lot of those, and hidden compartments, and it's far too easy to get lost if you don't live there.)]
So long as it endures until a return.
[Which is what this is, in the end. An endurance run.
His room. Their room. The one with more windows than any other bedroom in the house, bookshelf featuring his personal collections, too small dresser that he ought to just get rid of, bed that was never quite meant for two that has become one now. Sypha's placed down on it gently.]
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[He sets her down, and she reaches forward to catch hold of his arms, wrapping her fingers around his wrists to keep him from retreating further than arm's length away, or from really doing anything except paying attention to her.]
And speaking of time, it's time for you to let me take care of you now. But what that means — I need you to tell me. What do you need from me? Tell me, so I can give it to you.
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How he manages both aggression and tenderness in the same moment is a question to be pondered later. All that's clear as lips meet lips, move beyond those down Sypha's neck and then back again, is that what's needed is affection. There's apology threaded in there somewhere too, the horrible weight of knowing that this thing will not leave them unchanged, and coupled with it is gratitude. That she's willing to do this in spite of everything.
His arms leave her wrists. One hand is desperate to get rid of all that red, because it's not her color. Shouldn't become her color either.]
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[He speaks through actions, and she answers in words, but even her words are a fitting complement to the way he expresses his needs, because all of her answers are really given in the implications, not in what she says outright. It's rare that she uses his given name, but not unheard-of; tonight, it's a deliberate choice she's made twice now, in part because it will startle him to hear it — and thus, keep him from sinking into his own head — and part because it's not Alucard, heir and regent to Dracula, son of the king of vampires, noble lord now in his own right. It makes him someone else, someone hidden-away. It makes him only hers, for a little while now, and that's what she wants him to hear when she says it.]
Just rip the shirt. It's horrible anyway.
[And because a shirt can be mended, in theory, or replaced if not. She'd tasted the aggression in the movement of his mouth on hers and instantly, effortlessly, offers him up an outlet for it.
Even as she says it, she's helping him, working her arms free of her jacket and unfastening the buttons of the vest, because that much she actually likes and wants to save, so she needs to get it out of the firing line.]
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Which means that even as her neck is covered in kisses, long and slow, quick and red hot, he's unbuttoning it. Making sure it's off her shoulders making sure it's gone to a part of the room where they're not going to see it when they're lying in bed after all of this. He's cling to her then, he already knows it.
This angle, however, is getting uncomfortable, and for that he nudges her gently.]
Further in, I want to be beside you properly.
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Do it yourself.
[She's baiting him again, and carefully this time. But he's spent the entire night acting according to a script, and not his own wishes; it's not stubbornness or reluctance that makes her do it, but encouragement to act, in whatever way he sees fit.
This is how he speaks to her, all of the things he can't bear to say. So she makes this liaison between them the canvas, and puts the pen in his hand; he'll show her what he needs, what he's thinking, where his fears lie. She only has to give him the opportunities he needs to do it.]
You carried me all the way upstairs from the car. You can move me two feet more.
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They're on their sides together. Far more comfortable a place to be, far warmer for the bed coverings underneath. It lets him press against Sypha immediately, the attention to her neck moving to her chest instead because that's where there is more bare skin and that is where he wants to be. One arm is just above him, reaching up towards nothing, the other is low around Sypha's waist, teasing at grabbing her behind but not quite there.
Never mind that he's still dressed. There's a sigh on his lips that chases away exhaustion, the vibration of it pressed to a breast, coupled with a single utterance of her name. It's drenched with adoration.]
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[It's a good position, in a number of ways. One is that there's no need to fuss with a great lot of bending and leaning; they're easily within reach of each other, and can slide around as they please with the mattress to support them, freeing up limbs for exploring that otherwise would've been necessary for simple support. It means she can get her hands in his hair more easily, and encourage him with all the attention to his hair and the back of his head that he likes best.
There's something almost picturesque about it, the way they're positioned, the manner in which he's clasped to her breast. He's shown her Renaissance paintings before, and she half thinks that they must look like one, or would at least give a reimagining of one a run for its money.]
You make my name sound wonderful when you say it like that.
[A sighed Sypha. Poetic, almost.]
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[He tilts his head up to ask the question. Her face is beautiful right now. Radiant, but then, when isn't it? The hands in his hair are warm and comforting and wonderful, they're hands he's trusted in so many times over in the past few months.
He breathes out. Tries to put a fraction of his head in order, enough of him registering that it's unfair for her top to be bear when his isn't. But that requires stirring from how they are, and he'll have none of that.]
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[She has to stifle a giggle when the caress of his breath washes over her skin and tickles, but for the most part she manages to keep a lid on her mirth and maintains a sense of cool composure.]
Do you know how I feel right now? Very seductive. Like some sort of exotic courtesan, entertaining a patron of my cabaret.
[It's silly, intentionally so. It's also just a little bit scandalous, and she likes that too.]
Look at you. Too taken with me to even bother to take off much more than your shoes.
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[It grates. And there's a softer and more worried look about those word choices than there should be. (She's still right about the clothes though.)]
I never want you to be anything less than equal. Or cast yourself as other or exotic or...that nonsense.
[The world will do it for her, after all. He'll hiss and threaten and disapprove, but this is the only thing he has a power to comment on.]
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[She moves one hand from his hair, though, sliding it down to catch his chin instead, and tilt his face up.]
Now come here. If you want us to be equals, then you have some clothing to lose.
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[But the way he melts into the hand that has his chin, presses into it, that means he understands and won't argue the point any further. It will rankle, of course it will, but Sypha's views of herself are more important than his stupid fears.
He leans just enough to brush his lips against Sypha's wrist.]
Do you wish to take care of that problem?
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[She hums pleasantly as his lips touch her wrist, pausing in her deliberation of where to begin with him to close her eyes and simply enjoy the feeling.]
You are wrinkling your pants, and this evening when we wake up you are going to be absolutely crabby about it.
[A finger comes up to lightly touch his mouth, a movement similar to hushing him but not quite, and when her fingertip touches against his lip it's cooler than it ought to be — the barest suggestion of ice.]
But for now I will try to make you forget all about such things entirely.
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He stills at that gesture. Just leans against that finger long enough to make it clear that he's listening. Whatever she wants.]
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[It's a little gawky, to try to scoot down the mattress a few inches on her side to better take hold of his shirt, but soon her slender fingers are working the buttons free one by one, and when she gets them open she pushes her hands inside the loose folds to stroke over his chest, pushing the fabric back almost carelessly.
His scar is still there, of course. It always will be. And though she avoids touching it with the sweep of her fingertips, she carefully leans into him and brings her lips to touch against it, up near where it approaches his collarbones.]
You are beautiful.
[She moves down a little further, this time laying her kiss over the scar where it cuts across his pecs, in the narrow valley between them.]
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