"The Sweetest Irony" Chapter 2 [NSFW]

Helloooo there!

I'm not sure how many (or if any) of you are aware or remember this Castlevania fic I posted a while back inspired by several prompts from some of you who wanted more domestic TrePhaCard content

BUT

if you do (in any case, you do know :P), allow me to FINALLY confirm chapter 2 is coming, hopefully this weekend, after I wrap up the chapter and proofread the whole thing. 

In the meantime, here's a sizable preview of what's coming. Enjoy!

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Trevor’s way back is hindered by endless distractions. The surroundings of the dark, looming castle are bustling with activity even as the sun begins to descend behind the trees. The people of Danesti are always hard at work, from dawn till dusk; there’s still heads that need a roof, mouths that need feeding. As it often happens, Trevor can’t get through without being called upon for a little help here and there, carrying construction material or sustaining an uncooperative crossbeam. He is not one to turn down those in need of help - especially if offered an ale in return for his troubles. These are the people he welcomed onto his ancestral land; though he bears no lordly claim on them for it, he harbors a sense of responsibility.

He runs late, as always. He comes back to find Sypha already huddled up in their bed, hogging the covers, fast asleep. She’s undisturbed, the bustling sounds of the dying day don’t reach here.

The room is dark and eerily still, the ceilings unnaturally high. Dracula’s walls are thick and strong, built to keep the outside world - the light, the colors, the noises of it - strictly outside.

It was Alucard’s idea that they should occupy one of the rooms in the castle, instead of one of the hastily built huts and tents the people of Danesti had already started inhabiting. Trevor wouldn’t have agreed to such disparity if it hadn’t been for Sypha’s state. After all, Alucard has extended his hospitality to women and children and anyone in need that would take it - still, few truly dared to accept or overstay their welcome. Trevor is just a willing exception; no one thus far has raised any objection to where he sleeps, despite the glaring lack of a ring at his finger. Thankfully, the people of Danesti, if they do indeed harbor ill judgment, are sensible enough to keep it for themselves.

Nevertheless, despite the comfort it offers, that room had taken Trevor quite some getting used too. After a lifetime of sleeping under the stars or a stable’s roof, lulled to sleep by the sounds of barn mice trotting up and down into the night, that silence feels unnatural.

Clothes discarded at the foot of the bed, Trevor wastes no time in crawling under the covers. Sypha’s breathing is slow and regular, the warm wash of it loud in the stillness of that room. Their alcove is as unnecessarily spacious as their bed is - a ridiculous extravagance, really. He has to think Alucard has implied something by granting them a bed that size. A thought to save for another time.

Sypha doesn’t react to his arrival, it’s safe to assume it hasn’t awaked her. The Speaker has been a sound sleeper since before the pregnancy started draining her strength faster and faster every day. She grows slower and heavier with the precious burden she bears, and all the lovelier for it.

Trevor follows the tide of her breathing in the dark. He shifts closer and closer, careful not to jostle the mattress too much, until soft, fragrant curls tickle his chin. The familiar warmth of her listless body wafts from the sheets. They have a faint scent to them. They smell like sex; they smell like them. Trevor selfishly hopes the time to change them won’t come too soon as he settles next to the smaller body. He breathes her in and instantly feels himself relax, finding soothing ease in her closeness.

His hand moves - he can’t help it - around her waist and stops to rest on her stomach. It’s like an itching in his fingers finally subsides when he rests his hand where he’s taken to lay it nearly every night since they have been reunited.  There, under his palm, through the sheer threads of her nightgown, he feels the bump that is their unborn child. The shape of it comforts him. Sypha’s belly has just begun to finally show through her robes, protruding over her hip bones like the growing shape of the moon, round and bright. And it’s perfect - to the touch, to the sight, to the heart. He wishes he had Sypha’s powers or Alucard’s senses, but he lacks both, so all he has to reassure himself that it isn’t a dream is this, his hand on the waxing curve of her womb.

He doesn’t mean to disturb her but the force of habit has disrupted his good intentions. Sypha stirs under his palm. Trevor can’t make things out well in darkness, but he can clearly see with his mind’s eye the slight crease of reproach furrowing her brow, an unconvincingly menacing attempt at a glare as she turns her head to him, sleepy-eyed and pouty-lipped.

“Were you waiting for me?” he asks hopefully.

“I was,” Sypha half mumbles. Her meaning is eloquent enough, though, and Trevor counts himself lucky that she loves him too much - just enough, rather - not to burn his fingers to a crisp for disturbing her sleep.

“And then decided to go to sleep without me?” Trevor teases.

“You were late again,” Sypha says, her tone less of an accusation this time, still not quite apologetic. “I tire of waiting that long.” Her voice is roughened by sleep, it has that raspy, languaid quality to it that Trevor finds in equal parts endearing and arousing. As fierce and fiery she is in a fight, it’s her softness that draws him in the strongest.

“Sorry,” he whispers, depositing an apologetic kiss on her shoulder for good measure. And because her nightgown slipped off and bared her skin when she moved. Maddengly, it fits her a bit too comfortably to stay on; he’s pretty sure Alucard has given her one of his own to sleep in when she started showing. There’s something to be said there - definitely something about all those frills - about how Sypha looks in it. And what the idea of it being Alucard’s does to Trevor.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he adds.

“Now that’s an interesting thought,” Sypha sighs out, half-turning to him. “How do you intend to make it up to me?”

His lips move higher along the fragrant curve of her shoulder. “I have some ideas,” he enunciates between kisses.

“Mmh, I like it when you use your head,” Sypha says, neck elongating to make room for his mouth. “Hopefully it won’t be all you’ll be using.” Her body pushes back against his as she says that.

He feels her search for his mouth and gladly yields it to her. Her lips are soft and smooth against his, even smoother when they part, baring the wetness inside. He leans into it, drawn in by the perfect feeling of her mouth against his. The mingling of their breaths tickles his cheeks. She beckons him to stay, to linger longer at the silken shores of her body. Her fingertips brush against his knuckles over the curve of her belly; the touch alone is like magic, sending tingling sparks along the length of Trevor’s arm. Shivers multiply when her hand reaches higher, stroking his wrist, his forearm, smoothing over coarse hair and old scars. Trevor can tell she knows exactly what it does to him. Sypha’s lips bloom like spring petals under his own, prying his kiss open, disclosing his mouth for her to taste in turn. There’s a quick, teasing flicker of teeth at his bottom lip. Then, for a hot, wonderful moment her tongue engulfs all his senses. She kisses him, deep and slow, until Trevor’s body thrums calmly with thick, building heat. He pulls away.

“Fuck,” he chuckles, breathless.

“That was the idea,” Sypha breathes out in turn, fingers interlocking with his own over the warm curve of her womb. Trevor feels his cock stir.

Fuck.

“Tomorrow,” he promises her, depositing a chaste peck on her kiss-swollen lips. “There will be time tomorrow. You need your rest.”

She breathes in, sighing deeply. “Tease.”

“I will make it up to you for this too,” he assures her, settling back on the mattress.

Sypha rests her head against the pillow again without further protest, fingers comfortably entwined in Trevor’s lax hold. She isn’t awake for much longer after that. Trevor takes a while to come down, blood still running hot from her kiss. He keeps his mind from it - a hard feat, when she feels so warm and wonderful in his arms. He relaxes his fingers against her belly and it feels right, everything fitting perfectly together, like he’s meant to be there beside her - beside them - and death hasn’t turned its eyes on them. Not yet.

He falls asleep to the sound of her breathing.

***

Morning breaks, bleak and frigid. What little light filters inside is enough to rip Trevor from his slumber. He finds Sypha how he left her, nestled in the curve of his body, her strong, compact back pressed against his front. Only her hand has slipped away from his. Gingerly, Trevor removes it from her stomach. She doesn’t flinch, not even when he moves away and rearranges the covers to keep the chills of the morning from seeping in the warmth their bodies imbued in the covers. He would love nothing more than to luxuriate in it for as long as duty would allow him. Unfortunately, his bladder is a much stricter mistress.

He yawns as he relieves himself in the chamber pot, confident he’s moved it far enough from the bed not to wake Sypha up. As he does, he casually moves the heavy curtains to the side, gazing at the grounds below.

A mist has descended over the world during the night, unfurling its milky coils between the trees; the warmth of the dawning sun has yet to dissipate it. The horizon is hidden in a tinted blur. Everything is calm and still; life in the huts below has not yet begun, it seems. Just as Trevor thinks he could look forward to crawling back under the covers, his attention is drawn at the entrance of the Belmont hold. Movement catches his eyes. Little scuttling figures are gathering at the door, left open. Surely Alucard’s doing, he’s the only one besides Sypha and himself that has the knowledge and the means of opening the magic doors. He must have spent the night there, reading.

One by one, the small, dark figures slink down the stairway. Trevor curses under his breath. There goes his morning plans.

“Troublesome brats, always clutching his coattails,” he murmurs, as he gathers his clothes and soundlessly steals away from the room. The Hold is no place for children. As much as he trusts Alucard to know better than to let the brats wander there, it’s so vast and treacherous he doubts even a vampire can keep track of all the curious orphans, scuttling around between bookshelves like mice.

He gets to the entrance, still rubbing the sleep from his face. He’s just in time to stop the last, hesitating stragglers from descending into the dark stairwell. The boy jumps when Trevor’s hand descends upon his shoulder. He can tell by the kid’s look he recognised him.

“You won’t be in trouble if you wait here, while I retrieve your friends,” Trevor assures them, a bit sternly.

“It’s not our fault,” the boy stammers. “Crina dared us to go in!”

Ah, a little daredevil!

“I’ll tell Crina to stick to rabbits and leave my family’s heirlooms alone. And the same goes for all of you little troublemakers, understood?”

The children exchange a meaningful look. They book it down the stairwell before Trevor could impart any more wisdom. “Catch us if you can!”

With a sigh, he descends into the Hold.

***

“Aha! Got you,” Trevor grunts, hoisting a child out of the old -mercifully empty- chest he’d just attempted to hide into. The boy struggles to get free, kicking and squirming.

“Not fair! You haven’t finished counting!” he protests.

“I did, you brats need to get better at counting. Or hiding,” Trevor huffs. “Now scram. The Hold is no place for children.”

“We’re not children,” another voice talks back.

Trevor yanks an old, moldy drape to the side, revealing another dusty, dirty kid. “You won’t grow into adults if you linger around here for much longer,” he says, gravely. “Now go. You know the rules. I caught you, now you have to leave.”

The boys go on their way with less protests than the last couple he caught.  He locates the next couple rascals by the rumble of their hungry bellies; the twinge of hunger in his own gut tells him it must be morning outside. He sends them on his way with a long sigh and resumes following the sound of scurrying footsteps and childish giggles echoing in the Hold.

He still can’t believe he actually let himself be needled into a game of hide and seek in order to get those brats to listen to him. It’s probably for the best that asshole Alucard is nowhere to be found; Trevor would rather not have him know what little authority he holds over the children. Or see the way he stalks along the shelves and jumps out to catch them unawares. Or how many times he does it only to find absolutely a scurrying rat.

He scratches his head, counting on his fingers how many he’s sent off already. Hunger is fogging his memory. He’s sure he hasn’t seen Crina yet, though, so he keeps searching, distantly wondering if the brats have just gotten bored and left to forsake the game altogether.

There’s a noise at his right. His ears prick up. Light on his feet he slinks behind a particularly burdened shelf where the light of the lanterns doesn’t reach. It’s one of the less frequented areas that clutter the Hold, a testament to its ruin. There’s old, hanging drapes at the walls and broken planks, with books still spilled over the floor, catching mold and dust. He didn’t take the little troublemakers to be that bold to hide in such a shadowy spot. He hears a soft rasping sound from behind the corner. He draws closer to the end of the shelf. He can see the wall turn inward to make a dead end on the other side. He hears the thud of a book against the floor. He jumps out to find…

Himself face to face with crafty, blue eyes and messy, coppery hair.

“Looking for something?” Sypha greets him.

Trevor’s trained reflexes barely contain his body from flinching. “God fucking dammit,” he over enunciates on the exhale. “What are you doing down here?”

“Oh, did I scare you, Belmont?” Sypha taunts him, jovially patting him on the back. “The big, scary monster hunter is getting old.”

Between Alucard and her both managing to sneak up on him in the span of two days he’s starting to believe he might just be; of course, he doesn’t tell her that. Instead he tells her: “shouldn’t you be in bed waiting for breakfast to magically walk all the way up Dracula’s endless flights of stairs to your princely bed?”

“Indeed I should,” she says, slightly pursing her lips at him. She knows how Trevor feels about her doing that. “And yet I woke up to no breakfast.”

“I do apologize for that. I ran late hunting you some.”

“Children for breakfast? Are you calling me a witch, Belmont?”

“Is that not where that one came from?” he teases her, pointing at her pregnant belly.

She swats at him, the glaring endearment behind her amicable show of exasperation doesn’t elude him. Neither does the way her fingers instantly find the straps of his doublet once they insinuate under his cape.

“You ditched me like that without saying good morning?” she says, her voice softening. Not to a whine, however.

“Some might call it not disturbing your sleep,” Trevor retorts, voice lowering in turn to match hers.

“So you decided to go play hide and seek instead, huh…” Her fingers are doing something idle but purposeful with the harness encircling his chest. She pulls herself closer to him. In the crisp air of the Hold the warmth of her body glows like a coal fire where it grazes against his front.

“Mh. It might be good practice,” he muses, distractedly. Her fingers feel cold through his shirt when she rakes aimlessly them across his chest. The way Trevor shivers he might have as well been wearing nothing.

“Oh, Belmont... You’re softening up,” she says, mockingly. “But I can help with that.” Trevor jumps when he feels her hand firmly pressed against the crotch of his pants.

“Sypha-!” he chuckles, breathily, hands coming up to hold her, instinctively. Not to hold her back, however. “I might have missed a kid or two, you know,” he warns her, shooting a cautious look around the dusty, rotting shelves.

“Mmh. How judicious of you. Good thing I lured you in the deepest, darkest corner, away from prying eyes.” As she says that, she shakes her coppery curls away from her face, looking up at him with a look of smug satisfaction on her face. “You’re all mine now.”

“We should take this upstairs,” he hurriedly suggests. He’s not sure for how much longer he will be in any condition to walk around in public if Sypha keeps giving him that look.

“If they see you upstairs you won’t find your way into my bed before nightfall. I know you’re a busy man,” she replies, mouth pursed in an affected pout that doesn’t reach her eyes. She pushes him, her hands on him, to take a step back. He ends up with his back against the wall and Sypha’s hand palming him through his pants. “You forget you had promises to keep, handsome.”

Oh, he’s fucked.

“So you’d rather have a grown man for breakfast?” he says, feeling himself stir at the compliment as much as he does under her touch. His eyes glance downwards where Sypha’s hands are busy unbuckling his belt. “And you’re trying to tell me you aren’t a witch.”

“You call yourself a hunter but you fall all too easily for my thrall, Belmont,” she says and does that hair flip again. The way she cranes her head to look at him does things to him; everything she’s doing does. “Besides,” she continues, letting Trevor’s belt fall open over the outline of his cock. “I’m not hearing you trying to stop me.”

“I would do something very gruesome to myself if I even dreamt of doing that now,” he says, wetting his bottom lip reflexively. He leans down and she meets his mouth halfway, readily. Willing heat blooms against his tongue. Trevor lets his hands indulgently stroke down the curve of her back.

[To be continued]

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