November Entry: Insanity and Bliss

Title: Voyeuse
Author: northsider
Fandom: Hellsing
Rating: PG-13 for implied violence and sexual situations.
Genre: Psychological drama
Pairing: AxI
Word Count: 1,230
Type of Feedback: You name it.
Summary: She likes to watch...but what is it that turns her on?
Notes: Thanks to dreadnot for telling me about this site, and for all her support and encouragement.



VOYEUSE

Disclaimer: Kohta Hirano is the creator and owner of these characters. I’m just a writer who finds them a whole lot of fun to play with.

* * * * * *

A quick, quiet scrape. A match flares to life.

She raises the flame, and pauses.

Her dark blue eyes narrow. She holds the slender cigar firmly between her teeth. The corners of her mouth turn up almost imperceptibly.

Soft light from the television screen bathes her features.

Her lips close around the cigar. She touches the small flame to its end. Drawing her tongue back slowly, she pulls the fire into the cigar until the tobacco glows bright orange. She takes the cigar from her mouth and blows the match out with a smoky breath. The tiny stick of charred wood falls into the ashtray with a delicate clink.

She returns the cigar to her lips. The end brightens again as she draws the smoke into her mouth. She savors its flavor and looks at the television through heavy-lidded eyes.

The light from the screen reflects cool blue in the lenses of her glasses. The images, however, blaze orange and yellow like the end of her cigar. They flow red like the blood moving faster and faster through her veins, driven by her accelerating heartbeat.

She takes the cigar from her mouth. She sits back, crosses her legs, and props her elbow on the armrest of the maroon leather chair. Smoke wafts languidly from between her parted lips.

She can almost feel him there with her, his gloved hands smoothing her hair, massaging her shoulders, removing her tie and loosening her collar for her like the good servant he is. She can hear his whispered words in her ear, in her mind, in the darkness of her heart.

Watch me. Watch me, my master...

Like her cigar, she smolders. She watches--and enjoys.


* * *


Her butler stands back in the shadows, his eyes on the broadcast as well. Images from Brazil. Images from hell. War. Violence. Destruction. Death.

His gaze moves to her as she sits with her eyes fixed upon the screen. The sight is strangely mesmerizing, and deeply disturbing.

It shouldn’t surprise him to see her like this, he knows. After all, she’s not a child anymore.


* * *


Somewhere in the dark, rambling edifice a stately clock chimes the hour. Three AM.

She closes her eyes. A yawn overtakes her.

She looks down at the book lying open on her desk--a ponderous volume on some of the more obscure attributes of alchemy. The nearly 200-year-old pages are yellowed with time.

She wonders if she’s finally tired enough to sleep.

It’s not that she hasn’t been able to sleep until now. She simply didn’t want to sleep. She could have, if she’d so chosen.

She was awake, that was all. It must have been the tea. Walter must have brewed it stronger than usual tonight. But that was all right. She’d used the time well and accomplished much.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that she feared turning out the lights that night, being alone in the dark with herself. It wasn’t as though she feared facing herself in the mirror in the sun’s early light.

The broadcast earlier that night had nothing to do with it. She was simply awake. That’s all.


* * *


She lies down and turns the switch on her bedside lamp. The room goes dark--and the images spring to life.

Gunshots. Explosions. Smoke. Fire. Blood.

Impalement.

She sits bolt upright in bed. Her eyes are wide open. Her pulse is pounding in her ears. She’s nearly panting.

She tells herself she’s horrified.


* * *


He knows she was watching. Despite the miles separating them, he could feel it. He still can.

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. He grins deliriously.


* * *


She stands on her balcony and looks out over the nighttime courtyard without seeing it. She folds her fingers together and leans her forearms upon the ledge. The sounds of the city are muted and distant.

She raises her eyes to the stars. It occurs to her that he’s so far away that the stars he sees in his sky are not the ones in hers. Her mood darkens.

She turns away and goes back into the expansive chamber to bed. She lies down and closes her eyes.

The images appear once more, but this time she does not fight them.

Watch, Integra. Watch me, my master. Watch what I can do...for you.

She exhales in a long sigh.

The conflagrations blaze. The screams of the dying are heard above the gunfire. Battle cries resound, explosions thunder.

She mutters something, and moves her head from side to side.

Weapons of war slash through the crowds. The hotel in which Millennium launched its offensive against the Hellsing Organization is obscured by a forest of impaled soldiers.

Her heart pounds. A film of perspiration forms on her brow.

The suave, handsome Brazilian vampire is no match for her weapon. He is shattered, defeated, immolated, destroyed. In the end, he is no more than a memory, consumed by the very shadows of the one left standing tall as ever over the battlefield.

"Alucard," she breathes.

She doesn’t need to touch him to feel him. She doesn’t need to smile to share his glee. She doesn’t need to be near him to be with him. She doesn’t need to give him orders to know her power.

She grips the bed linens in her fists.

She doesn’t need to fire the gun to kill with it.

She grimaces, and grunts roughly through clenched teeth.

She doesn’t need to hold him to make love with him.


* * *


"Tea, Sir Integral?"

"Thank you, Walter."

Walter observed her for a moment before proceeding. She didn’t look up. Her eyes remained fixed upon the report on her desk, sheet of paper in one hand, pen in the other, normal stance, typical pose.

She had passed the test of this latest battle, and was moving on. He was pleased. He picked up the teapot and began to fill her cup.

The sharp treble of the phone made her jump. Her precipitous move startled him in turn, and he nearly spilled the tea.

Integra barked her answer into the receiver. Her mood visibly deteriorated as she listened. "Then take it up with the bloody captain when he returns!" she shouted into the phone. "I’m busy!" She slammed the receiver down hard enough to leave an echo resounding through her cavernous office. Her head jerked up. "Well?" she snapped at Walter, her blue eyes flashing anger.

He realized he was staring at her. "Forgive me, my lady," he apologized with a small bow. "Can I be of any further assistance to you?"

Integra suddenly felt every bit of the weariness of her lost night of sleep. She put her pen down. Yes, you can, she responded silently as she pushed her glasses up with her fingertips and rubbed the bridge of her nose. You can make me stop doubting myself. You can make me feel better about myself. You can make me stop despising what I am. You can make me stop feeling this hunger, this craving, this brutal need. You can make the truth go away.

The telephone sounded again--her private line this time.

She didn’t need to hear his voice to know what he would say.


---The End---