[She goes with him obligingly, lifting her chin for a kiss that feels like it's straight out of a fairy tale itself, and when he's done she steals a second and a third before she lets him get away.
If she weren't in her exceedingly fancy dress, and thus worried about taking good care of it, she'd be far more maneuverable at the moment. But as it is, she still manages to twist a little and situate herself so that she can get in close to his ear, which is mostly what she's after because she finds she wants, more than anything, to hear him laugh like that again.
Maybe she really is a furnace, she thinks idly. Something to warm him from the outside when he draws near to it, helping the cold spot in the room lose its chill when it has no way of accomplishing that itself.]
Your wife, your wife, your wife.
[Like a chant, like a spell, three times in all, and she presses each one against his ear, velvet and hot.]
[It has never, ever escaped Alucard's notice that for two men so scarred by fire, they've placed all of their affections with a woman who burns like a bonfire at night. Heating everything, shining through all the dark. It's the most joyful irony in life, and he'd never exchange it.
Never has he felt that thought more keenly than in this moment, between all the kisses, between Sypha so, so carefully rearranging herself (he swore that design was simple in comparison to some of the others!) She's here, and the words said are a spell. Magic is intent, after all, and what else is this entire arrangement going to be? Intention. Intention to just formalize things a little more, intention to have a tiny little sign that the world can see that there is so much more than scholar, hunter, soldier.
(Will they all just wear one ring, or two? That's a discussion to have later.)
Trevor's still absent. Maybe leaving that gift in the Hold was an error in judgement. A thought for later, because Sypha's demanded all of his attention. All the warmth in him right now is because of her, and those words only add fuel to that same warmth.]
Yes. [There's still such joy in his voice. He sighs, so soft and content.]
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[She goes with him obligingly, lifting her chin for a kiss that feels like it's straight out of a fairy tale itself, and when he's done she steals a second and a third before she lets him get away.
If she weren't in her exceedingly fancy dress, and thus worried about taking good care of it, she'd be far more maneuverable at the moment. But as it is, she still manages to twist a little and situate herself so that she can get in close to his ear, which is mostly what she's after because she finds she wants, more than anything, to hear him laugh like that again.
Maybe she really is a furnace, she thinks idly. Something to warm him from the outside when he draws near to it, helping the cold spot in the room lose its chill when it has no way of accomplishing that itself.]
Your wife, your wife, your wife.
[Like a chant, like a spell, three times in all, and she presses each one against his ear, velvet and hot.]
no subject
Never has he felt that thought more keenly than in this moment, between all the kisses, between Sypha so, so carefully rearranging herself (he swore that design was simple in comparison to some of the others!) She's here, and the words said are a spell. Magic is intent, after all, and what else is this entire arrangement going to be? Intention. Intention to just formalize things a little more, intention to have a tiny little sign that the world can see that there is so much more than scholar, hunter, soldier.
(Will they all just wear one ring, or two? That's a discussion to have later.)
Trevor's still absent. Maybe leaving that gift in the Hold was an error in judgement. A thought for later, because Sypha's demanded all of his attention. All the warmth in him right now is because of her, and those words only add fuel to that same warmth.]
Yes. [There's still such joy in his voice. He sighs, so soft and content.]
Words I don't think I shall tire of hearing.