[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.]
[Always that scar. Division and binding. He's grown used to it in the mirror, such as it is. He's had to - it's too big and obvious to not be adjusted to. The flesh still feels, but by and large Alucard has removed the emotional associations from it. It's there. That's all it is, just as an arm or a leg simply is.
Sypha's touches sometimes rekindle the feelings he's drained from it. When she does, it's closer to a reminder of why this house is not as lonely as it could be instead of a cold reminder of fury and abandonment. It's for that first reason he sighs as if all breath has left him when her lips brush against it for the first time.
Where to hold onto her is a question that shifts with so much. For now, one hand rests in her hair, the other on her shoulders, soft as anything. He's there, he has her and she has him. There is no happier place than this, not as she trails kisses over his chest just as he did to hers minutes ago.]
You'll have to sit up, to take the shirt off entirely.
[Not that she's making it easy for him to want to, with the way she's following the ridge of his scar with her kisses, letting it take her back up toward the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It's only after she's moved away from it that she stops being so careful, letting her teeth come out to nip and indent his skin here and there while she bites him.]
[It is terrible to have to nudge Sypha upwards at all from this spot she's claimed as fully hers. There's such a soft moan as her teeth enter all of this, something quieter and more familiar from times before. But Alucard does so, just long enough to put all of the terrible annoying layers he has on his chest aside.
He'll hate himself for not folding everything come evening, but that's for Future Alucard. Present Alucard is taking the temporary permission to sit up to plant a series of kisses to the top of Sypha's head.]
Mine as well. But yours first, or you'll start looking at me and forget.
[She lets her laugh rumble against his skin before allowing him to readjust; she keeps contact with him even while his top half is occupied by sliding her foot over to nudge his calf with her toes, rubbing them lightly against it just for the sake of touching him in some way.]
[She slides her foot down the length of his calf, over his ankle; her toes come to rest lightly atop his own foot, an echo of how they'd danced at the party when her feet were atop his.]
[He had an inkling of a plan when they walked in the door. He wanted to wrap around her entirely, but it hadn't been a good plan. Easy to throw it aside.
Entwining his legs around Sypha is all he can think of as her foot slides down him. That echo, he knows it, and he's beside himself for it.]
[She steals a kiss, however, before shuffling up and hopping over his legs until she's standing at the bedside rather than lying on the mattress, watching him with more than a little amusement considering their relative state of undress and the fact that all of the windows are open enough to be streaming in sunlight.]
[Thank God his father would never truck with having neighbors near his castle.
Likewise, thank God that it takes no time at all to pull the comforter and sheets back so that they can be comfortable. Or perhaps better said, preventing any mess from getting onto the comforter.
Alucard's sitting up though. He has both of his arms open for Sypha.]
I will expect a dozen kisses, to make it up to me.
[Her face lights up with a smile of genuine exhausted pleasure, however, at the sight of his outstretched arms, and within moments she's put herself snugly inside them, curling in on him and breathing a contented little sigh of her own.]
[Beneath the covers, she runs her hand lightly down his side, following the lean lines of his torso to the curve of his hip and lingering there while she gauges his demeanor with quiet thoughtfulness. When they'd met, it was because he'd needed someone to take care of him; now, long afterward, some of that initial dynamic still remains. It's not a question of whether he's exhausted; she already knows he is. The question is how desperate is he to get to sleep, or is he more hungry for passion, and willing to push sleepiness aside awhile to satisfy that craving.
One good test, she's found, is to touch him a little, and see whether he pushes back into it, or accepts it more passively. So, as she lifts her face for more kisses, she traces idle circles against his hip, occasionally allowing her hand to slide a little lower to rest atop his thigh.]
[It's impossible for Alucard to not spend days worrying that he has put Sypha on too high a pedestal or forced her into a position of guardianship for himself that is unfair and unasked for, and all born of that inital dynamic. He works hard to make sure that all other things are prized, it shows most when there's time to research and experiment, but nights like this invite those thoughts back.
Those thoughts are why his emotions try to hide any additional need for attention. Much simpler to shower Sypha with a torrent of affection, every touch a way to make it clear how dear she is for all aspects of this relationship. Much easier to kiss her endlessly and let any additional leans into her touch be natural reactions.
The hand that is atop his thigh is soon met with his own. Holding on gently, not daring it to move down, not yet. His other hand slides down Sypha's back slowly, tracing over her spine wit the lightest touch.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Sypha's touches sometimes rekindle the feelings he's drained from it. When she does, it's closer to a reminder of why this house is not as lonely as it could be instead of a cold reminder of fury and abandonment. It's for that first reason he sighs as if all breath has left him when her lips brush against it for the first time.
Where to hold onto her is a question that shifts with so much. For now, one hand rests in her hair, the other on her shoulders, soft as anything. He's there, he has her and she has him. There is no happier place than this, not as she trails kisses over his chest just as he did to hers minutes ago.]
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[Not that she's making it easy for him to want to, with the way she's following the ridge of his scar with her kisses, letting it take her back up toward the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It's only after she's moved away from it that she stops being so careful, letting her teeth come out to nip and indent his skin here and there while she bites him.]
Only then will we work on the trousers.
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He'll hate himself for not folding everything come evening, but that's for Future Alucard. Present Alucard is taking the temporary permission to sit up to plant a series of kisses to the top of Sypha's head.]
Yours as well?
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[She lets her laugh rumble against his skin before allowing him to readjust; she keeps contact with him even while his top half is occupied by sliding her foot over to nudge his calf with her toes, rubbing them lightly against it just for the sake of touching him in some way.]
You know you would.
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[He is terribly predictable, isn't he? Just as Sypha's laugh and where he feels it is.]
Where would you have me?
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[She slides her foot down the length of his calf, over his ankle; her toes come to rest lightly atop his own foot, an echo of how they'd danced at the party when her feet were atop his.]
And under the covers. You need to relax.
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Entwining his legs around Sypha is all he can think of as her foot slides down him. That echo, he knows it, and he's beside himself for it.]
Stand up then. Only for a moment.
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[She steals a kiss, however, before shuffling up and hopping over his legs until she's standing at the bedside rather than lying on the mattress, watching him with more than a little amusement considering their relative state of undress and the fact that all of the windows are open enough to be streaming in sunlight.]
But I suppose, just for a moment.
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Likewise, thank God that it takes no time at all to pull the comforter and sheets back so that they can be comfortable. Or perhaps better said, preventing any mess from getting onto the comforter.
Alucard's sitting up though. He has both of his arms open for Sypha.]
Your work is done, and I apologize for all of it.
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[Her face lights up with a smile of genuine exhausted pleasure, however, at the sight of his outstretched arms, and within moments she's put herself snugly inside them, curling in on him and breathing a contented little sigh of her own.]
Or hold me like this, forever. That will also do.
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The kisses he showers on her lips are more than twelve. They're long and lingering and loving and they're so damned happy to just have this moment.]
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[Beneath the covers, she runs her hand lightly down his side, following the lean lines of his torso to the curve of his hip and lingering there while she gauges his demeanor with quiet thoughtfulness. When they'd met, it was because he'd needed someone to take care of him; now, long afterward, some of that initial dynamic still remains. It's not a question of whether he's exhausted; she already knows he is. The question is how desperate is he to get to sleep, or is he more hungry for passion, and willing to push sleepiness aside awhile to satisfy that craving.
One good test, she's found, is to touch him a little, and see whether he pushes back into it, or accepts it more passively. So, as she lifts her face for more kisses, she traces idle circles against his hip, occasionally allowing her hand to slide a little lower to rest atop his thigh.]
That's better for you, too, isn't it?
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Those thoughts are why his emotions try to hide any additional need for attention. Much simpler to shower Sypha with a torrent of affection, every touch a way to make it clear how dear she is for all aspects of this relationship. Much easier to kiss her endlessly and let any additional leans into her touch be natural reactions.
The hand that is atop his thigh is soon met with his own. Holding on gently, not daring it to move down, not yet. His other hand slides down Sypha's back slowly, tracing over her spine wit the lightest touch.]
We fit best like this, I think.
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[She catches his mouth in a kiss, more fleeting than the others, but no less satisfying for it.]
And right where you want me.
[She rolls her shoulders back a little, arching beneath the touch of his fingertips on her spine.]
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