A/N: One-shot, written quickly and for no reason at all other than I was depressed and needed to write anything for distraction. So please no harsh critiques as it's just a quickie and not intended to be anything more than the vague whatever it turned out to be. Thanks.

Nothing is perfect. Not those rules of ownership put in place a century ago, not her will to enforce them, and especially not his desire to obey them. All is flawed in one aspect or another and will give ground however rarely. This is the only way she can truly reason these nights. Perhaps only a handful in the decade's length of their partnership together, but each one irrevocably marked upon her mind regardless.

The first time he'd come she had known no better, only startled and confused as she'd lied to Walter the morning after. Even in her youth she'd known better than to admit a brief slip of power. She had not been the one to order Alucard to her that night, nor had she given him permission to continue what he'd done. In that way she had not truly been the master, and in that way she had said the blood on the sheets was that of the hellhound's. That he'd been disobedient and she'd struck him too hard on the muzzle, nothing more. But for his own part, the Nosferatu had not even smirked knowingly at such deceptions. In fact, he hadn't reacted at all once in private with her again. As if that night truly was the way she'd said...sometimes it'd made her wonder if she'd only dreamed the rest.

By the second time though, she'd known it real and had forced herself to ask. "Why is it you do this?" But he hadn't answered. His eyes didn't even look at her in fact, as if she wasn't there at all before he'd began to rub his body against hers again. Beneath the blankets with her, his hands had only kept to either side of her shoulders as he'd propped himself above her. Just as before, no part of them had ever touched, save for where his hips had rocked slowly. Her nightgown had bunched uncomfortably around her thighs, but she had never dared to move it back downward. She'd never moved at all save for the bravery that let her keep her eyes upon him. Something had told her not to move. Not to shift until she felt the cool dampness that meant he was done. Not until he was gone again. She'd known to throw away the nightgown hidden in other refuse, and to change the sheets before morning came again that time.

By the third visitation, things had begun to change even further. They'd both kept their silence as the front of his pants moved roughly against hers. She'd no longer worn nightgowns by that age. The pajama bottoms didn't bunch, only providing heavier fabric to rub against her as he'd pressed harder than the prior times. Like before though, she'd listened to his breathing change. From customary non-existence to a reflexive pant which had only raised her anxiety. But that time was the first she'd begun to breath with him. The first time she'd also moved. Daring only to greater part her legs before the blood stain had finally grown between his again. Once more seeping between them to slightly marr her clothes and the sheets she lay upon, marking her in crimson.

By now though, by this time she was no longer counting. He still never spoke, and she still knew he wouldn't acknowledge the event anytime after. Some possible explanations had come to her mind though. As she felt his weight slip into her bed from the darkness, she could suggest to herself that he was too ashamed to be anything but mute. That it was their understanding that neither would mention this brief release of tension after the sun had again risen. Perhaps it was either the seals or his own twisted honor which kept him from fully taking her in this manner, but the desire to do so which drove him to find some relief regardless. She could theorize many things, but the only reason that kept coming back to encompass all options was again the realization of their own imperfection.

As a servant he was imperfect. Rules were bent every time he thrust the clothed arousal back between her legs. Every time he bruised her, he was ignoring the blood sworn obligation to her protection. When she pressed back, she was no better. Every harsh breath she'd given showed her as a fallible master. As her thighs spread, the intensity of the weakness would only worsen. Another night to bare all their flaws plainly, to show the truth to each other and lie all the better to anyone after. When his essence came again with one last tensing of their bodies, hers would join it. Stains and scents remaining as the only proof this had even been, before their facades rose in feigned perfection to again face the world tomorrow.

-End

P.S. Just for clarification, I was assuming here that vampires have blood ejaculate in case anyone didn't understand why there was blood every time. No actual sex, just lots of dry humping...yes, random I know. Sexual frustration ftw. But if you read it I thank you for letting me steal a couple minutes of your life anyway.