"My wife", he says, and presses a kiss to her lips. "My beautiful, wicked wife"
A sharp smile from the blood red mouth, dark against the white of her pristine skin.
It only unnerves the humans, to his glee and amusement. The brightness of her dress, deep blue brocade straining against her fine shoulders and her chest, heavy drapes flowing in her wake, only serves to illuminate her skin, make it seem more like opals and ivory, and make her curls shine golden.
As they twirl and spin across the dance floor, gliding in perfect syncronisation on the marble tiles, Philippe dares to steal a look down his wife's corseted breasts, and a grin curls at the corner of his mouth as his eyes are greeted by lush skin, translucent silk draped over it, and down, pressed against the boning of her bodice, inked paper, secret treaties, no doubt bearing the Vatican's seal.
"Eyes up here, mon coeur," her lips twist in a wicked smile.
"Of course."
The sound of the panicked screams of guards, alerted about the presence of thieves in the city fortress, overflowing the halls as they take their leave, is music to Phillipe's ears.
A/N: yet another tiny drabble with the otp wrecking hell in the Vatican sometime during the Renaissance. i'm trash, what can i say :)