[Her hand comes up, slowly; it shakes as she tries to raise it, still weak from disuse and injury, and her palm is open. For a second it might almost look as though she means to slap him, except that then her fingers slowly come to rest against his rough, stubbly cheek, moving his face onto an angle that's favorable enough for her to reach for him and kiss him.
She doesn't know why, really, that she needs to kiss him like that, right then. It's not born of passion or even affection. But later, perhaps, it'll occur to her that it's not so dissimilar a thing to when Alucard had claimed him with a similar kiss at the turn of the new year — instinctively possessive, equally uncompromising.]
Yes.
[It needs to be. He won't want to tell her otherwise, and so she takes the choice altogether out of his hands, and puts it onto herself.]
no subject
She doesn't know why, really, that she needs to kiss him like that, right then. It's not born of passion or even affection. But later, perhaps, it'll occur to her that it's not so dissimilar a thing to when Alucard had claimed him with a similar kiss at the turn of the new year — instinctively possessive, equally uncompromising.]
Yes.
[It needs to be. He won't want to tell her otherwise, and so she takes the choice altogether out of his hands, and puts it onto herself.]