Thanks so much to GrimGrave for looking this over. This is part of my campaign to expand my horizons, so bear with me: this is both a foray into a new fandom and a shot at a different style of writing. Let me know what you think!
Warning: Blood up ahead. This is a fic revolving around vampires, so that shouldn't be much of a surprise. In any case, I do not own Hellsing.
-Purpose—
You're still not used to all this...
Not the massive Hellsing manor, not the dozens of people scrambling about at all hours of the day, and certainly not the dangerous, dark creatures that you were employed by your mistress to slay. Your mistress, of course, being the owner of the aforementioned estate-including the acres of land upon which it sat and the staff that kept it immaculate-Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing.
You're not used to the way piercing blue eyes seem to stare right through you or the command that rings in the domineering bark of a woman accustomed to being obeyed without question.
But, mostly, you're not used to—
The fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the shadows near your feet writhe sinisterly. From them emerges the tall, gaunt form of a pale, black-haired male dressed all in crimson. His eyes glow with the eerie intensity of hellfire and a Chesire grin spreads across his face. "Good evening, Police Girl."
—that. Somehow, you think you'll never get used to that.
Especially considering he's your sire—the vampire who turned you.
That's right, a vampire.
"Master..."
"Our master is looking for you." That chaotic swirl in his burning gaze draws you in, leaves you feeling unsettled. "It seems there will be some blue blood under her roof and she expects everything to be in perfect order."
It's merely an expression, but you draw in an anticipatory breath regardless and a sharp pang of hunger stabs at your innards like a sharpened blade.
Which brings to mind the one change that makes you wish you hadn't been brought back from the brink of death that fateful night: the lust for blood.
Try as you might, your body won't accept any substitute for the (literally) life-giving substance. Food is messily rejected by your stubborn stomach, the organ rendered unable to process the nutrients your human body had once needed. Now, the very thought of wetting your fangs with crimson heat makes your muscles tense and your stomach howl.
Speaking of which...
Your nostrils flare as you catch wind of a tantalizing scent—like a mix of every single aroma you have ever enjoyed. Only better.
You aren't aware that you are moving until you are crouched before the scent's origin: a tall, tan blonde woman with severe features. Blue eyes are wide with surprise behind rounded lenses as she looks up from the papers scattered all over the marble tiles and notices you.
"Bloody hell, Police Girl! Don't go sneaking around like that."
Breathe. You're not a monster.
"Sorry, sir. I heard you were looking for me?"
Despite your words, your gaze zeroes in on the young woman's hand: she had managed to cut herself while gathering up her fallen document and the shallow laceration is leaking droplets of—
'Blood...'
Before you can help yourself, a soft crooning sound leaves you and you wet your lips with a lingering swipe of your tongue.
You're starving.
"... Can I trust you with this task, Ms. Victoria?" Integra is asking when your brain manages to once again think rationally. For now.
"Y-yes, sir," you manage after some throat clearing and anxious fidgeting. You don't know what you just agreed to, but you do know that you need some air—and fast.
Six hours before the party...
'What you just agreed to' turns out to be more horrible than you had originally thought: in hopes of making an alliance with some powerful, wealthy new allies, the young Bureau Director is hosting a grand ball of some sort and it's your job to "Look pretty and impress those old fogeys"—Integra's words exactly.
After rooting through your belongings, she had decided that nothing you owned was good enough for the occasion... Which is why you find yourself standing before an impeccably dressed English gentleman with a rather impressive mustache, trying your best to remain very still as he takes your measurements while the blonde woman looks on with a bored expression.
"Will you be needing shoes as well?"
"No, thank you."
"Yes," Integra says at the exact same time.
What's wrong with the boots you usually wear? Judging from the other woman's expression when you voice that question, everything.
A niggling suspicion occurs to you at that moment. "Sir... What are you wearing tonight?"
The faint smirk that curves pale lips says more than words ever could. That... That wicked, wicked woman! "Just be prepared to wow our new friends, Police Girl. I'm counting on you."
Two hours before the party...
You've been groomed and manicured and, quite frankly, you feel like some sort of show poodle at this point. Integra has brought in a stylist that had somehow managed to tame your mop of blonde hair into simple elegance and is beaming as she holds up a hand mirror, insisting that you look breathtaking.
Yeah, right.
Your vision swims as your stomach clenches, a painful reminder of just how hungry you are, and you gasp, snapping your eyes shut. There's a faint growling and it takes you a moment to realize that you're the one making that threatening sound.
The stylist releases a fearful squeak and you swear you can hear the racing of her heart and the subsequent rush of sweet, sweet blood through her veins over your own hurried apologies.
This is bad. You clamp your hands over your ears, trying your best to block out the siren's call.
...
A warm hand rests on your shoulder and you start, recovering instantly from your stupor, lips drawing back over your fangs in a silent snarl—
Only to wilt, shrinking in on yourself fearfully. "S-sir?"
How long have you been sitting here, muscles locked, eyes closed? Quite some time if the hairdresser had seen it fit to retrieve her intimidating employer.
"Your eyes are red." There's an odd note to her voice, a furrow in her brow, and you realize with an odd flip-flopping sensation low in your stomach that Integra is worried. About you.
Why does that make you happy?
"Sorry..."
Her frown deepens and you very dearly wish you could erase the troubled expression. "How long has it been since you last fed?" When you don't answer right away, don't dare meet her searching gaze, her tone becomes sharp, "Seras."
Normally, you'd cringe obediently. Hunger makes you growl instead and the older woman's spine straightens to meet your unspoken challenge.
Normally, that wouldn't make your body heat and flush with hunger—this one having nothing to do with blood.
Good God, what is wrong with you?
You recover from your disbelief just in time to see Integra brandishing the ornate dagger she keeps on her person at all times; the sharp edge lays open her palm in one quick motion and, instantly, your entire being zeroes in on the scent of freshly spilt blood.
You literally cannot tear your eyes away from the droplets of red that seem to slide down pale skin in slow motion and, as the rumble low in your throat escalates, you try your best to swallow.
'Oh… Dear… God…'
"Drink," Integra commands. "I need you in top condition for tonight."
She is your mistress—the master of your master. Her word is law. Still, you hesitate, human morals warring with vampiric instincts.
The tall woman turns her palm towards the ground, spreading long fingers so that crimson runs between them. "If a single drop hits the floor, Police Girl, you will be punished accordingly."
As you watch the trickle give in to gravity, a throaty groan escapes you and you stumble forward, falling to your knees before your master and grasping her wrist, repositioning the appendage above your parted lips.
Just one bead of blood is all it takes to purge your mind of all rational thought and you moan again, actually daring to run your tongue along pale flesh to clean up warm fluid that tastes—
Your inner muscles clench wantonly and, had you been able to even process such an emotion, you probably would have been mortified that Integra was affecting you like this without even touching you.
'So good…'
You part your lips, swirling your tongue around the tip of the slender digit and mewling as the rich, exotic flavor hits the back of your throat.
A soft sound catches your attention and you open heavy-lidded eyes to see flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. Blue orbs are unfocused and, when you nip a newly-cleaned fingertip, she draws in a sharp breath, eyelashes fluttering.
"Don't… bite." Breathy, distracted. It's not really a command and it isn't as though you intend to.
There are so many other things you'd rather do.
You pull back with one more kiss to her palm, your head swimming pleasantly. The rumbling growl has dulled to a pleased purr and your gazes meet, sparks flying between them.
What is this feeling? You've always been loyal to Sir Integra, but this went far deeper than mere loyalty or even respect.
The blonde jumps, as though the reality of the situation has just caught up to her, and her expression becomes unreadable as she retracts her hand.
"I…" No, now isn't the time. "Thank you," you say simply, your heart beating too loudly in your ears. Now that you've finally fed, you feel all warm and content. Perhaps a nap is in order…
"Mm…" Integra pulls a pocket watch from the breast pocket of her suit and consults it before stowing it and pulling on a starch white glove. "It's getting late. I should go and get ready."
She turns and exits the room, leaving you to your wildly racing thoughts.
The party…
Heels are the bane of your existence—you realize that now.
You're trying your best to smile and respond to the endless questions of the curious mortals that are gathered around you like a flock of buzzards around a kill, but your temples are starting to throb and a few are getting too… handsy for your liking.
"Ah, there you are." Your master is your knight in shining armor. You turn towards her voice, a grateful smile spreading across your face, only to gape slightly when you realize that the tall blonde woman is wearing a long black evening gown that leaves slim shoulders bare. Her hair is pinned up in a bun from which flaxen strands have escaped to frame her pretty face and there's a string of pearls around her throat. "If you'll excuse us, gentlemen, I need to borrow my dear Draculina."
Her arms wraps around your shoulders, guiding you away with gentle pressure, and you make sure you give the men an apologetic look before you're out of sight.
They're eating you right up, but there's only one person whose opinion matters to you.
"You're doing well," Integra says in your ear, stopping one of her servants in order to liberate a flute of champagne from the tray he's carrying. "How are you feeling?"
Your feet hurt, there's a huge knot forming between your shoulders, and you desperately want to retreat to the quiet dark of your coffin. You don't say any of that, however, because a little thrill of pleasure runs down your spine at the almost possessive contact.
"Fine."
She gives you a look—as if she knows you're being less than honest—but doesn't comment. "I'll introduce you to a few more people and then you're free to slip away."
Somehow, you don't mind the thought of staying right here, by her side.
…
"A toast—to new alliances!"
"Here, here!"
"Indeed!"
"I'll drink to that!"
You shift, your legs brushing against Integra's beneath the table. Before you can mumble an apology, an unfamiliar scent reaches your nostrils and you go stock-still, sniffing like a hound on the trail.
"It seems your pet has caught wind of something, Sir Integra," a portly gentleman chortles, sneering lewdly across the table at you.
Your skin crawls and you shrink back into your seat, but Integra remains deadly calm beside you. "Seras is a Draculina, not an animal, and therefore not a 'pet' as you so quaintly put it, Sir Edwards. The only animal seated at this table is you."
The laughter is uproarious, driving the furious man from the room, but it's muted in comparison to the loud thump of your heart in your ears.
By the time the guests have all shown themselves out, the sun is kissing the horizon with the smallest sliver of pink.
You're prowling the labyrinth of deserted halls with the intention of hiding away in your room for some well-deserved rest when an all-too familiar scent catches your nose.
'Master…'
Your feet carry you towards the blonde's room one reluctant step at a time and, the closer you get, the harder it is to breathe.
What is that wonderful aroma?
"Walter!" She sounds incredibly displeased… Which is odd considering how well the night had gone. Your curiosity gets the best of you and you hook a sharp right, knocking politely on your Integra's door before letting yourself in. "Oh, good. I need—" She trails off once she sees that it's you, not her personal butler. "You…"
She's wearing a baggy shirt and not much else and, when you eye long, pale legs appreciatively, her cheeks go red.
You're instantly hit by the almost overwhelming sweetness of—
Wait, blood? Concern momentarily clears the murky haze from your mind.
"You're bleeding…"
"How did you—?" She shakes her head fiercely. "No, never mind. Have you seen Walter?"
"Are you okay?" You're suddenly starving.
You take a step forward and she takes a step back, blue eyes going wide behind rounded lenses.
"I-I don't think you should be near me at this very moment, Police Girl."
What is she hiding from you? You don't see any physical indication that she's been wounded, but that scent is unmistakable.
Not to mention delicious.
Another step has the blonde averting her gaze and fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "Don't…"
You've never heard that tone—pleading, almost desperate—from the Bureau Director, nor had you ever thought you would.
"Sir…" You have to swallow because your throat is incredibly dry. "I'm sorry… Do I scare you?"
"No." You should have known that that would be the independent young woman's answer. "It's the effect you have on me that scares me."
Okay, that you weren't expecting.
Another step. "And what effect is that?"
She's retreated all the way into the bathroom and now she's trapped between the marble counter and yourself. She crosses her arms over her chest defensively, perfectly arched eyebrows drawing together. "Stop this at once, Police Girl."
The command freezes you in place and it's as though weights have been chained to your limbs when you try to disobey.
A frustrated whimper leaves you and you bite your lip, drawing in a lungful of that rich fragrance. It builds up in your chest then drains downward to settle between your legs as wet, throbbing heat, and the whimper becomes a quiet moan.
Integra gasps, her hand going to her mouth. "You…"
"Hungry," you croak, your eyes dropping to pale thighs.
Something flickers in that cerulean gaze and the blonde releases a soft, almost resigned sound. "Damn you… Come here."
You cross the room in the blink of an eye, reaching out and wrapping your arms around the woman who has unwittingly been driving you mad for the past few hours. When you nuzzle into the pale column of her throat, she shivers and tilts her head back, baring it submissively.
You desperately want to bite…
But you don't. This is Integra—your master.
Before your body makes your mind aware of its intentions, you're cupping the blonde's cheek and standing on tip-toe so that you can meet her lips with your own, purring softly at the first touch of soft skin. Her lips part with a surprised gasp and you take advantage of that fact by sliding your tongue into the warm wetness of her oral cavern, luxuriating in the silken feel.
God, she tastes good.
You grip the hem of that long white shirt, lifting it up, growling impatiently when you have to break off your kiss in order to get the article up over her head. The sound catches in your throat when you're presented with a set of perfect, pale mounds from the center of which pale pink nipples stand at attention, just begging to be taken into your mouth.
You've never been very good at resisting your master's wishes.
The throaty sounds Integra releases as you suckle a pebbled peak, rolling its twin between your fingers, make your head spin deliriously and your groping becomes rougher as you place kisses around a taut areola.
Before long, you find yourself resting your hands on milky thighs, pressing them open and shuddering when the delightful aroma of blood intensifies.
"Master…" You wet your lips with a swipe of your tongue, leaning into the taller woman and nipping at the shell of her ear, mindful of your fangs. "Please?"
"Yes," she breathes, that sex-charged husk encouraging you to kiss your way down her slim form—she's a little too skinny, likely as a result of the stress of her position—and nuzzle between her thighs.
'Blood…'
You can't wait any longer. A long, lingering swipe of your tongue gathers up warm, rich menstrual fluid that tastes only slightly different from the pure, virgin blood you had sampled earlier and you moan appreciatively, your grip on Integra's thighs tightening as you drink up all she has to offer. Mixed with the unique, tangy flavor of her arousal, this new treat is almost mind-blowingly tasty. She releases a strangled sound as your tongue touches against the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of her slit and so you dedicate your attention to drawing tight circuits around the nub, drawing a long, low moan from the blonde.
"Seras… Oh God…"
Her flow had only just begun and it isn't long before you've cleaned up every bit of fluid, though you don't stop licking until the woman above you shudders and releases a muted scream; you look up to see that her eyes are rolling back in her head and she's biting down on her knuckles, her hips bucking minutely. You shove your tongue as deep as it will go and the vibrations from the satisfied sound that leaves your throat are enough to send Integra crashing over the edge, long fingers entwining in your hair and gripping on for dear life as her thighs clamp down over your ears.
You're warm and content and your eyelids flutter as you snuggle into your master's side. "Mm…"
Integra chuckles and runs her fingers through your hair, drawing you deeper into your sleepy state of satisfaction. "What is it?"
"I'm happy."
"Good." The blonde kisses your temple. "I want you to be happy."
If only she knew how happy she made you. She not only provided you with a comfortable home and a way of life, but with companionship and a purpose—a reason to go on even though everything you once knew is gone.
Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing is your world and you intend to stay by her side, to protect her for the rest of your unending life.
"Thank you…" You mean that with all your heart. There's really no other way to express the gratitude swelling powerfully beneath your breast.
Integra nods curtly, then looks thoughtful. "I'm still not sure where Walter is and I sent him out to retrieve some feminine products for me…" She smirks. "In the meantime, I suppose you'll have to assist me, Police Girl."
Ah… Purpose.
-End?-
I could probably do more with this... Maybe a loosely tied sequel or something.