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For Alexander Anderson, even closing his eyes is an act of faith.
He locks the door. Dims the lights. Leaves his glasses on the bedside table and the Bible open on his chest. It should be enough to sleep.
It isn’t.
Because when his eyes finally close, she’s already there.
Integra Hellsing.
Not lurking in the shadows. Not creeping up behind him. On top of him.
Her weight presses down, real enough to steal his breath. Bare thighs straddle his hips, warm where they bracket his shivering form. Long hair spills over her shoulders, framing rich brown skin that glows even in the dark.
Wrong. So wrong. And yet—
He tries to speak, but she silences him with a finger resting against his lips.
“No,” she whispers as if she knows the shape of his objections before they even form. “It doesn’t count if it’s a dream.”
He’s already hard beneath her — has been since the moment he recognized her. His hands twitch at his sides, torn between pushing her away and dragging her closer.
“You want to save yourself,” she muses, leaning in until her breath ghosts over his mouth. “But you’ve already imagined how I sound when I come, haven’t you?”
A shudder wracks through him. God help him — he has.
Her thumb drags across his lower lip, pressing just beneath the soft flesh and forcing his mouth to part lightly. Her nail scrapes sharp enough to sting as it splits the skin.
A little blood wells in the wake of her touch. She watches a bead bloom with heavy-lidded fascination, blue eyes flickering between the wound and his widening pupils.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she leans in and licks the blood away — her tongue hot and wet against his abused flesh. The kiss that follows is deep enough to choke on. She doesn’t just take his mouth — she consumes it, teeth nipping at his lips between breaths.
When she pulls back, his lips are slick, swollen, and already missing her.
He doesn’t resist when she moves to his throat — kissing first, then biting, teeth sinking in just enough to bruise. Pain lances through him, electric, mingling with the thrill of her body rocking against his matching painful hardness.
Her hips roll down in slow circles, the thin fabric of his sleeping pants doing nothing to conceal how desperately he’s straining against her. One of his hands snaps to her waist, fingers digging into her soft skin. She laughs, seizing his wrist and pinning it to the mattress beside his head.
Her free hand trails down his chest, nails raking over cotton and flesh alike. She breathes against his skin:
“It’s not a sin if I’m the one making you do it.”
His hips buck helplessly when her fingers dip beneath his waistband, touch feather-light but devastating. Her eyes never leave his as she takes him in hand — watching his jaw clenches and his breath hitch when her thumb swipes over the head.
“You can pray for forgiveness tomorrow, Father. But for now—” Her grip tightening just shy of pain, “You beg me.”
He comes in a violent, shuddering release with her name on his tongue — a prayer and a curse that leaves him gasping like a drowning man breaking the surface.
The Bible slides off his chest and falls to the floor.
As he wakes, the phantom heat of her thighs still burns against his hips. The sheets are tangled around his trembling limbs. His hand is curled between his own legs, sticky with evidence of his unwilling confession.
Anderson sits up slowly, running shaking fingers through sweat-damp hair. Moonlight filters through the curtains, casting pale stripes across the empty space beside him.
He reaches for his glasses, and the frames are cool against his flushed skin. His throat stings where her teeth had marked him. He touches the spot gingerly, half-expecting to find broken skin — but of course there’s nothing.
The clock ticks loudly in the silence: 3:17 AM. The witching hour.
The door is still locked. The hallway beyond it is dark and still, but for one impossible moment he could swear there is a shadow against the wall.
He blinks twice, and the shadow is gone.
The priest swings his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the floorboard with enough force that it creaks. The Bible lies face-down where it fell, pages crumpled.
Familiar scents of smoke and gunpowder linger in the air.
Anderson retrieves the holy book from the floor, clutching it in both hands like a shield, and opens it to where it fell. A rust-colored stain marks the margin beside Matthew 26:41:
The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.