[ The shirt finally gives up, sliding over Trevor’s side to fall to the ground at his front, defeated. He slides his hand upward, pushing Alucard’s own shirt up a little. But there’s no hurry. If there was, it isn’t as if the shirt is real, no harm would come from ripping it off. They can take their time, savour this, working in little strokes and nudges. ]

All of us. In winter, maybe. Furs and hot wine and colours in the sky.

[ His lips move back to Alucard’s, kissing perhaps a little more possessively than is really necessary. ]

Shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Right now’s perfect.