can i peel that for you?

Your knock comes—melodic raps that follow the same advertising jingle that’s been stuck in your head for who knows how long now—and he nearly knocks over one of the kitchen chairs in his haste to let you in. The dull ache in his hip is forgotten when the door opens and you greet him with that smile, wide and cheeky, making the corners of your eyes crinkle with your joy. Sakae moves to the side to let you in and his inhale gets stuck in his throat when your eyes fall when passing him. The seconds tick on and that breath remains stuck, even as you slip out of your shoes, coming to read and re-read the words of his chest, barely turning your head to do so. A fluttering builds in his chest, an uneasy exhale escaping like a slow leak from a balloon, an elaborate plan for something that should be so simple.

The conversation that usually builds from the second you enter until the second food is set before you is absent, leaving him to ask, “Everything alright? You’re quiet.”

Satisfaction flares behind his sternum when you shake yourself away from staring at him, snapping your attention to his face instead, and answer, “Yeah, no, everything’s fine. I’m just… thinking.”

“Alright. So what do you want to eat tonight? The fridge is fully stocked.”

In the space between your consideration, you look once more, opening and closing your mouth, pressing your lips together as though keeping yourself from impulsively speaking. (Each time you do this, his heart races a bit, excited and eager for the chance for the change he so desperately wishes would arrive). “How about something simple?”

“Yeah? What kind of simple?” He grins and you answer in kind, easy as it ever has been.

“I’m thinking onigiri.”

“We can do onigiri.”

It’s effortless and almost pure. You’re still quieter than usual, allowing him to lead the conversation when things are usually reversed. When you offer assistance, perfectly shaping the rice, you stand closer than he remembers, enough that he can feel your warmth. Sakae wants to poke at it, prod and find out why, open the conversation in a slight show of impatience, but he’s reluctant to shine a light on it and give you an excuse to create distance that he’s worked to eradicate.

Each time you move further from him, he feels a pull in your direction, tension loosening only when you return. When you sit, it’s comfortable, familiar, but there remains an undercurrent, charged electricity waiting for release. While his fingertips itch to reach out, you continue to watch him, lingering on the sweater and the words carefully stitched into the front when you think he isn’t looking.

“What’re you smiling about?” you ask in that way that you do when you think you’ve caught him. (You usually haven’t, but he lets you believe otherwise).

“You,” he answers simply, watching your eyes narrow and smile break past your attempts to contain it, “thinking you’re sly.”

That smile turns into a faux grimace, your nose scrunching with the renewed attempt to hide it. When that fails, he feels your leg press against his under the table before it shifts and you kick him lightly. He ducks his head with his laugh, his own smile reluctant to disappear, not that he’s particularly bothered to remove it. When he lifts his head again, you’re watching him openly, head tilted, the curve of your lips soft and inviting. Your leg presses against his again, a comfortable connection he’s more than a little pleased about.

“I’ve never seen you wear it before.” It’s a justification for your staring, not quite the segue he wanted.

The corners of his mouth lift even more, another reaction, and he shrugs. “Thought it’d be something you might enjoy.”

The scoff he receives in answer is short, meant to work with the slight rolling of your eyes distract from the way you chew the inside of your cheek. Sakae’s smile turns into a grin, his heart beating so rapidly he feels featherlight.

Clean-up is easy, as much of a routine on Wednesdays as it is any other night of the week. You stand by his side, taking the freshly washed utensils and dishware, efficient in how you dry them, loading them into the rack with care, knowing how long he’s tended his kitchen. When he passes you the hand towel after drying his own hands, you hesitate, staring at it a moment too long before taking it and folding it as you usually do.

He isn’t expecting much, certainly not the way your hand wraps around his wrist as he starts walking toward the couch, nor the tender way you twist your grip until your hand fits in his. Cheeks heating, he can’t find the words to carry him through his tease, an unusual sensation to be sure.

Electricity crackles in the minuscule space that remains between your palms, dancing through the fingers slotted between yours. You choose the show, the coin toss abandoned for the buzzing between his ears, the humming of each of his cells, the steady vibrations that keep him on edge. He likes it if only because it begets change.

You remain outwardly oblivious, watching whatever dances on the television, though he can’t complain given the opportunity you’ve provided that allows him to study you. He’s always admired the shape of your eyes, the way they come alive when he asks the right questions, tiny lines appearing from how often they crinkle with your smile. His eyes linger on your nose, plentiful memories arising of the way it moves when you speak, how he’s caught himself more than once thinking of pressing the barest of kisses to its tip. And then there’s your lips—how often has he marveled at the way they shape your words, at the way they’ve revealed your mood, always giving you away?

“Something interesting on my face?” they ask, each syllable carefully spoken, the slight tremor in your voice giving away your nerves. Your fingers tighten in his imperceptibly and he swears you must hear the way his heart thumps in his chest.

“Nothing new.” Sakae has been carrying this love for you with him for years now, letting it fill his cup until it’s now close to overflowing.

“Sure, that must be why you’re watching me the way you are.” A light tease that comes as you pull back, watching him with growing interest.

Sakae tests the waters by leaning forward, maintaining the same distance between you as had existed before. Time slows to a crawl as you swallow and your breath hitches, his heart hiccuping at the sound. When he continues to close the distance, you squeeze his fingers with intent, once, twice, matching the quickening beats of his heart like you know. Only once he’s close enough to feel your breath on his skin and see the dilation of your pupils does he stop and wait—for you to close the distance, for you to tell him to fuck off, for you to tell him to come closer.

And then you smile his favorite smile and inch forward until your lips barely brush against his.

“You really wanna be my dog?”

He really can’t help the lift of his cheeks, the light sucking in of breath, thankful for the gall he had in wearing this stupid sweater. Instant, a call and response, one he would never deny you.

“Yeah, I want to be your dog.”

Holding out his empty hand, he wiggled his fingers in faux impatience. You place yours inside of it, palm touching his, his thumb automatically moving to smooth over your knuckles and fingers, to remind himself that you are real and have been for all this time.

Opening his closed palm, he showed you what appeared to be, well, a ring. Gold banded, clearly Victorian in inspiration, with a marquise cut jewel in the middle of it.

“What is that?”

You knew the question was silly but couldn’t stop yourself before it bubbled out.

“It was my mom’s. Back when I couldn’t remember what happened, something told me to keep this even when times were bad enough I probably should’ve pawned it and when it all came back to me…” he trailed off slightly, dropping your hand and plucking the ring out of the palm of his own and holding it between his thumb and index finger.

The red stone of the ring glinted beneath the light, all of the memories of his mother encapsulated in one little piece of jewelry.

“You don’t have to give me that,” you immediately started, touched yet uncomfortable with the idea of being given the last piece of his mother he has.

“I want to give it to you…I’ve wanted to for a long time,” he started in defense of himself, sighing defeatedly. “But I wasn’t sure if you ever wanted to tie yourself to me in a way you couldn’t just walk away from.”

Feeling ashamed for making him doubt you even the slightest bit, you moved to wrap your hand around his forearm, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort.

“Stop it, Dante.”

For once, he didn’t chuckle or diffuse anything with a joke.

“I’m serious. It’s one thing to know somebody’s too good for you and to anticipate the day they realize it and leave. It’s another thing entirely to wonder if you’re a bad person for wanting to keep them even if you don’t deserve it.”

Emotion overwhelmed you, leading you to squeeze his arm a second time. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

He shook his head in disagreement, his usual smirk twisted into something humble, maybe even a little fearful when you really looked at him.

“I don’t know about that. What I can tell you, though, is that I’ve always wanted you to be mine for as long as possible no matter how bad it might make me,” he shrugged, not quite apologetically, reaching for your hand and once again clasping it in his own. “So what do you say, will you make it official with me?”

Sniffling, you nodded, lips trembling too hard to do much else besides it as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

You were finally going to be Dante’s wife, not just his confidante or his better half or “those two idiots” as you’ve been called on more than one occasion.

“Now that’s a proposal,” you finally joked to lighten the mood, mouth no longer trembling, tears gliding down your cheeks, aware that the fun part of it all was only beginning.

And now you stand in front of the mirror, pulling your favorite lipstick across your lower lip wearing the dress you picked out just for the occasion.

In a few hours, you will be his inarguably. No loopholes, no wiggle room.

Joy washes over you and it doubles when he enters your bedroom, the same tiny space he’s occupied for so long and will forever if today goes as planned, his large hand.

“What’s on your mind?”

Across the years you’ve spent at his side, Dante has asked you this question in many formats but this time it feels heavier, like he’s still waiting for that other shoe to drop.

Being a runaway bride is far from your style yet it’s like he can’t believe it either, like this is a dream or a fantasy or some wicked spell he’s under that’s going to end if he blinks or breathes.

You’re real, though, he’s smoothing the wrinkles over your rear out of the back of your dress, while you’re attempting to look at him surreptitiously in the mirror. Legend says it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before they exchange their vows, which very well may be true although you’re both willing to risk it if it means getting to see one another at all.

He’s as handsome as can be in a black tuxedo, his hair brushed over his eyes alluringly.

“Oh, you know, just mulling over the entire history of us as one does,” is all you can manage to say, mouth a bit dry from both disuse while you’ve been focused on getting ready and getting a glimpse at the man who is about to be your husband.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Dante asks, standing at your side as he always has, wrapping his arm around your hip.

“No and you’re crazy for even saying that,” you tut, turning away from the mirror that reflected your primping back at you to face him, shifting your body gradually until you’re standing as close as you can possibly get in the small quarters.

“I’m having kind of a hard time believing that this day has finally come…” you trail off, struggling to find words succinct enough to describe the feelings rushing through your mind.

It would be easier to simply tell him the truth.

“You could’ve died at any time, Dante. Or just disappeared because you were fond of that for a while or I don’t know, met someone else, or even decided you didn’t want to be with me. I’m thrilled this is finally happening but you can’t get to this spot without waking past all of the other ones we’ve been in too, you know?”

It’s not the best time in the world to breathe life into your worst fears and insecurities but if you can’t voice them to your husband, who else is there? Thankfully his uncanny ability to ease you kicks in, almost supernaturally, and he lowers his voice to speak to the deepest and most fearful parts of you.

“Okay, I’ll own the disappearing but the dying? The leaving? Why would I do any of that?” He asks, reaching behind you to pick one of the small flowers off of your vanity to place in between strands of your perfectly coiffed hair.

“Because people change their minds and you aren’t exactly living a danger-free life,” you mutter softly, subconsciously leaning into his touch even after all this time.

The fear that has run through you wildly begins to dissipate, leaving little but that familiar feeling, the same one you had the first day you met him behind.

Today begins that forever you always wanted. You tilt your head downward slightly to hide the smile crossing your lips. Dante reaches to lift your chin with his thumb, chuckling slightly at his blushing bride.

“Don’t make me upset, it’s my wedding day,” he jokes. His tone is light as air, soft words drawing an exhaled giggle out of you.

There’s his girl, his life, his purpose, his, well, everything.

Dropping your chin, he plucks another flower off the vanity and oh-so-gently places it, tilting his head to make sure it looks good from all angles.

Nodding, he’s satisfied that you look perfect by your own standards, despite always being perfect by his.

Who else would love him the way that you do? The day he met you, he knew you were special. Different from other people, more giving and kindhearted than you’d ever let people comfortably say about you without a slight argument leaving your lips.

You have shown him that love can change a person’s life and even more than that, it can make you see your own as valuable once again.

The two of you should’ve done this years ago but there’s no changing the past so he only smiles down at you, bow tie hanging loosely around his neck.

“You’ve never changed your mind about me even if you probably should have many times,” he carries on in that low, honeyed voice that warms you from the inside out. His hands find their home on each of your arms, pulling you into his chest. You blink up at him, eyes clear and kind and beautiful as always, and for a moment he’s overcome with the emotion he tries so desperately to bury beneath all of his layers.

My god, he loves you more than anything. You’re the only one, human or demon or anything in between, who has ever allowed him to be just Dante. A lump forms in his throat and he attempts to clear it by swallowing though his voice still strains when he speaks.

“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

That sums everything he feels up pretty nicely. Shaking your head, you reach to cup his stubbly cheek, pushing his hair off of his face in a fluid, familiar motion.

“I’m the lucky one and always have been,” you argue lightheartedly, being exactly who he’s known you to be since that day that sealed both of your fates.

“Just accept the compliment, sweetheart. You aren’t going to outdo me today, not while you look like that.”

“Have you looked at yourself lately?”

“Hey,” he warns, even if it lacks bite. “Let me tell my wife how beautiful she is without any pushback, alright? Maybe how sweet and kind and how good she smells too. Is that allowed?”

“It is a special occasion so I’ll make an exception,” you mumble, a jumbled cross between a whisper and a giggle and a girlish sigh. “Because I’m so sweet and all.”

You have foolishly spent today worried that being husband and wife would change things drastically, aware that you’re late enough to the altar that most of your like-aged friends have already been with their spouses long enough to at least vocally dislike them.

Fortunately, standing in your room, bantering effortlessly as ever you realize that nothing will change except for a pair of rings on designated fingers.

Lohen has always been beautiful, even from the distance that he’s put you at. He’s beautiful every time his lips brush your knuckles at dinners with powerful families in Mondstadt, still beautiful when he forsakes you by your lonesome for the rest of the night, leaving you to entertain yourself in other ways. He’s beautiful when you’re strolling the gardens, and you catch him sparring against other knights, and he smiles like it’s the happiest he’s ever been.

Hell, he’s beautiful now — his bangs fallen over his forehead, eyes widened in shock, his chest rising mid-inhale. He’s moved your vanity chair to the side of your bed, elbows perched on the stand right above your previously sleeping form. Lohen's lips move in response to your question, but he doesn’t answer.

You have to blink yourself awake, try to force your words to come out less groggy.

“Did I oversleep?”

He actually answers this time, his tone with the veneer of professionalism.

“No.”

“… Is there an emergency, then? Has someone passed?”

“… No.”

Your heart thuds dully in your chest, confusion swirling in your head. You shift, your head lifting up from your pillow just a little, and Lohen scrambles. The chair falls to the floor with a thud in his hurry to leave, his voice uncharacteristically wavering as he fumbles, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to come in, please have a good night—”

You prop yourself up in a panic, your hand reaches for his just barely enough to grab his wrist, and he freezes. Your mind races because Lohen hasn’t turned around to face you yet, but you grabbed for his wrist in a hurry, and you had no plan of action for this. With all your might, you tug him backwards — he yelps, forearms falling back on your sheets, his back landing on your lap.

“You are not leaving that easily.” You pant out, scowl on your lips, “What the hell, Lohen?”

He doesn’t respond again, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes blown wide. You watch in real time as the heavy flush at his ears spreads to his cheeks, red blossoming all over his face.

… Ah.

This is Lohen’s first time in a bed with you, you realize.

(And suddenly, your face feels warm too. You wonder if he notices.)

Slowly, you shift again — your thighs raise ever so slightly, so his head is brought closer to you, so you can sit a little more upright.

He's beautiful from this angle, too, and it only steels your resolve more. You’ve been denied the excuse to touch your husband for two years; you might as well take advantage of the opportunity while you have it.

Cautiously, your hand creeps towards him. A part of you is worried he’ll lunge — bite at you like a dog, or run away — but he stays frozen in your lap.

Your palm ghosts the cusp of his chin, tilting his jaw to face you. His skin is so much softer than you imagined, warm and getting warmer — he feels human underneath you.

Your hand travels to the side of his jaw, thumb on his cheek, tracing the deeper red on the apples of his cheek.

Lohen flinches, like your attention on him burns.

He should leave. He should lift himself from your lap, excuse himself to sleep in his cold chambers for the rest of the night so he can think about your touch without going rabid. He should cook you your favorite breakfast tomorrow, apologize profusely with a brilliant excuse for what he was doing in your room the night before.

Lohen knows himself enough to know that he should go. You're the one that stepped into the lion's den — a mouse keeping such a beast under it's paw is unheard of, and it's up to him to be strong enough to retreat back into the shadows, but he's never been strong when it comes to you.

So he stays there, drinking in the sight of you above him with half-lidded eyes, gazing at your lips as they move.

“Were you … watching me in my sleep?”

If only you knew.

He exhales. “Yeah.”

Warmth floods your chest, and your lips move before you can even process your next question. “Do you watch me often?”

Lohen feels like he might die, out of the pure ecstasy his heart can’t take being held by you, or the utter embarrassment of being caught.

“Almost every night.” He spits out, “Whenever I get the chance.”

“… Do you watch me when I'm not sleeping?”

Almost every day, whenever he gets the chance.

He's seen you in every state you've been in — it's not difficult to shrink his duties as the Vice Captain, and it's so easy when he already knows your daily schedule.

He used to chalk it up to keeping you safe. As his partner, you'd automatically be put in more danger than you normally would be, so he'd watch to keep an eye out for any attacks. The only attacks that he'd find out, however, were flirts and eyes from other men.

He wouldn't know what the feeling was when it happened — the something ugly that broiled in his chest, made his bloodlust that much more potent. He'd think about ending them all if he could for a moment — carve out their eyes for looking at you, flay their lips so they couldn't speak, butcher their hands for touching you.

But then you'd laugh. You'd wave your hand to show off the ring on your finger, speak of him, your husband, and all those thoughts would disappear. Because you were his, and he was yours.

Lohen would later find out (through rants with Varka of all people) that the fleeting emotion that overtook him was jealousy, and the emotion he felt towards you was love.

Something sick, tainted and unsure — but love nonetheless.

Lohen feels a rare bout of disgust towards himself. The bear trap he's placed himself in has finally clamped down on his crus, and like any wounded animal, he scrambles for absolution.

A gasp escapes your lips as his head rams into the fat of your stomach, his nose buried into your thigh, arms awkwardly wrapped around your waist. This is certainly the closest he's been to you — he can smell your bodywash through your silk top, just enough to send his panicking mind into overdrive.

“Please don't—” He chokes out, “Please don't leave me — I can be better, I can change, so please don't—”

You can only watch in shock as Lohen babbles on, manic pleas flying from his lips faster than you can process them. His arms squeeze around you, twisting the fabric bunched at your skin, pressing further closer to you. He'd reach past your skin if he could — have his teeth tear into your flesh, burrow into your bones, sink into the fibers of your muscle — he's happy to be a parasite if it means he can be with you—

“Lohen, stop.”

His teeth clamp down on his tongue at your command, just enough to draw blood.

It's embarrassing. The Vice Captain of the Knights of Favonius’ Fifth Company, trembling in his partner's lap, cowering like a child. He can't help it; he can't think properly with you so close to him. Any normal man would knuckle under your warmth, lurch on their axis at your touch, and he is all but just a man—

Your hands cup his cheeks, forcing his face to yours, your noses just inches apart.

It pisses you off — how absolutely angelic he looks, knowing he has so much to apologize for. Tears lace the corners of his eyes like poison on a sharp knife, arched right to your heart. There's a waver of his lips, small knit in his brows, pink in his eyes, the color of love, that makes him that much more pitiful.

“You're acting insane.” Your eye twitches, “I've never met anyone like you.”

“’M sorry,” he mumbles glumly, “I didn't mean for it to go this far.”

(You've never seen a man look more desperate in his life.

And now your heart feels soft again.)

For a moment, there's just silence. Pregnant and heavy, fallen over the two of you. There's not even a rustle on his side, like he's terrified that if he moves, time will go forward again.

“Can I ask why?”

What other reason would there be?

For the first time since being caught, his eyes meet yours wholly. Like you're the only person in the whole world, and his answer is the only truth.

His breath feels tepid on your skin, the shaky inhale and exhale as you await the answer.

“I just like being around you.” He breathes, “… Even when you're unaware of it, I just like you.”

And then his head dips, his cheek nuzzling into the palm of your hand. Like a dog at the heel of its owner, he bathes in the attention you've given him while still begging for more.

“I like you,” he confesses again — it’s not any easier to say it, even now that it's already out in the open. You feel his lips on your skin, not daring to enunciate more than needed, shielding your bare palm from his teeth. “And I’ve been holding back all this time, so please forgive me.”

There's something scrappy in his tone of voice — raw on his tongue, with something frenzied that you can't quite place.

So this is the real Lohen.

Normal? No. Well-adjusted? Certainly not. Like a wolf starving for a meal, he’s gotten himself through with instinct and madness alone. Polite greetings can't quell such a fire, and kisses out of duty will only ignite it further, so he's been staving it off by watching you — but that can't simulate what he truly desires either. He's just as obsessed as you are, to the point where it's debilitating.

Something stirs in your heart.

(Is it bad that this only makes you want him more?)

So you adjust your grip — you sit both of you up straighter on the bed, resting his chin between your propped-up knees.

“I forgive you.” You murmur, finger absentmindedly circling around his cheek, brushing his bangs back. You're impossibly close to him now —enough to see the flutter of his blue eyelashes, the faint freckles that dot his nose.

Your head tilts to the side, moving closer. “And…”

Lohen's breath hitches.

“I'm sorry you felt that you couldn't be yourself around me.”

A peck on his cheek, before you pull back. Far too brief, he'd think he imagined it if you weren't holding him right here.

“I wish you would've told me instead of going to such lengths, y'know.”

Another on his forehead. His neurons feel frayed, sent to death by overstimulation at your touch, his self-control tumbling further and further away, straight to the bear trap shut tightly around his heart.

“It's funny, isn't it?” Your laugh sounds like music to his ears — the crystalflies’ hum that floats around the grapevine at night, the songbirds that wake him up in the morning. “I guess anyone else would be worried about the logistics — how long you've been watching me, what you think about when you watch me, but…”

Your thumb brushes against his eyebags, faint and discolored. And your heart aches for him, because you know the countless hours and dedication he puts into his work, and you know what he puts his body through to keep you safe.

“I'm here worrying if you’re getting enough sleep like this. So now I’m wondering if we were made for eachother.”

He flinches as you kiss him right under his eye, right at the mole — your teeth scrape at his eyebags just lightly, and he shivers. You don’t separate from him completely this time — no, your head tilts until your forehead presses up against his, your noses bumping against the other, your breath on his lips.

You're brighter than the moon outside could ever be, and he can't help but stare with ricochet wonder.

“I just want you as you are. So please don't hide from me.”

Lohen used to imagine what it'd be like to kiss you. Hell, he was thinking about what it'd be like when he was watching you a few minutes ago — for you, he'd be a respectable man, the best he could be.

The second your lips actually touch his, though, the last thread of self-restraint snaps.

His fingers tighten at your shoulders as his face presses against yours, until the back of your skull hits the headboard and he's crawled up over you, caging you between the bed and his body.

It's a foreign feeling — his tongue licking the inside of your lips, teeth bumping awkwardly at how messy it all is — and he tries to keep his thoughts into reign again, tries not to think about how he'd unhinge his jaw to swallow you whole if he could, how he doesn't need another sip of wine ever again if it means getting drunk off of you for the rest of his life.

His partner, his precious partner, mewling vibrations against his lips, thunder in his heart and clouds in his head. Lohen could die happily here, he thinks — you could stab him in the back right now, and he'd have the pleasure of bleeding out in your arms. What an honor it would be to seep into the crevices of your skin, so that no amount of soap or water could ever rid you of him.

You're too sweet, though. Too good for him, so he'll have to stand to sticking his tongue down your throat instead, peeling you open from inside out until the nonsensical sounds you make with your lips learn to form his name instead.

Something carnal bubbles in your chest, like animal to animal alike, saliva in your mouth, melted iron on your tongue.

It's something in the way he laps up your attention, kisses you with a reverence only a devil could, like there's nothing else he'd rather do.

Lohen’s lips separate from yours far earlier than he'd like — his hands weaker on your wrists, chest heaving as he pants.

He's not nearly good enough at this yet, but he wants to be. He wants to be better for you in general, if you'd let him.

And it seems like you want to, with the way you lay your forehead on his shoulder, slowly gathering yourself the same way he is, letting him feel your uneven breaths on his collarbone. Your cheek feels warm on his skin as you turn, a contrast to the nip in the night air.

“So,” you look at him with all the unlocked adoration he used to dream about, “Was that everything you've ever wanted, my dear husband?”

He nods.

If he's being honest, he's still half-expecting you to throw him out now that you've had your fill of him at this point, to let him rot in the dungeons below you where he belongs — but you just laugh, and his heart skips a beat again.

Your lips curve into a teasing smile.

“… Stalker.”

Lohen flushes.

“I didn't—” His protest is cut off short by another kiss on his lips. Softer, this time. Sweeter.

Enough for him to want to go back in and capture yours properly again, but then you sigh contentedly, flopping back down on your mattress.

“You'll stay the night, won't you?” You ask innocently, running your hand up his thigh, “Unless you're content to just watch me until the sun rises.”

(As if on cue, one of the straps to your tank top slips off your shoulder, revealing your bare skin.

Lohen thinks that maybe he's been the one walking into the lion's den this entire time.)

“I…”

“Perfect!” Your hands promptly grab his forearm, pulling him down to you.

This is twice that you've thrown him to the mattress, he thinks, another three or four times more that you've manhandled him just this night alone. Is this what he should expect from married life from now on? Should he invest in a new mattress?

He scarcely has time to think before you're by his side again, arms wrapped around his waist, your lips pressing kisses to his clavicle.

“Y'know … we never consummated the marriage, Lohen,” you murmur, unable to hide the mischievous tone in your voice, “Shall we make it official tonight?”

You're going to be the death of him, but he doesn't mind.

lowkeyyyy hate the way this ended but couldnt think of anything else so . idk i just wanted to make out with him

He glances down. The little earrings—meant for his wing, apparently—gleam in the light. They're delicate in their intricacy, petal-edged, softer than his usual rapier points. The metal shines like the stars. It rates as gold, he knows, but the yellow of it is peculiar, a quirk of the planet it comes from. There is nothing else in the universe like it.

"I do not doubt their origin."

"Mhm," you say. "You should."

"Because of your assessment from—" he considers the distance between the two of you "—over 10 feet away?"

"Yup."

Sunday raises an eyebrow. He should go. His schedule is never-ending, always brimming with the duties that weigh down the curves of his slim shoulders. He has little spare time, and even littler to spend with someone like you. But—

"And you are an expert in the subject matter, I presume," he says dryly.

You smile. "Something like that."

His eyes dart back to the earrings. They gleam. There's nothing to even suggest that they're anything less than what the honey-mouthed diplomat had claimed. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

You laugh. "They said you were polite," you say. "But you do have teeth, don't you?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I suppose," you say. "Give them here. I'll test them."

He arches his brow again.

"They're not worth stealing, if that's what you're worried about."

"Hardly."

"Then give them here."

Sunday does. He steps closer and presses the box into your open palm, the velvet of it soft against your glittering palm. Gems, he thinks, inlaid in your skin like a jeweled glove. He follows their path up your forearm, your bicep, until they disappear under your gossamer sleeve, barely visible save the faint sheen of them flickering through the thin fabric like fireflies each time you move. Something rings in the back of his mind, a memory just out of reach.

You push yourself up from your indolent sprawl, and those same gems spill out across your neck, your collarbone, into the soft curve of your breast.

Perhaps you are an expert.

"Wow," you say, laughter curling in the corners of your lips again. "I didn't think you would."

Sunday didn't think he would either. It's unnerving.

You pop the small earrings out of their case, rolling them against your palm. They clack against your bejeweled palm, teeth against teeth.

"They're close, I'll give you that," you say. "Good fakes, expertly-made, really."

"There's no purpose in gifting me fakes," Sunday says. "And this hardly proves anything other than your commitment to your assumption."

You smile again. "There's always a purpose," you say.

You bring the earrings up to your face, holding one between your fingers. Sunday watches you, waits. You meet his gaze, something knowing in your eyes, and then—

You slip the earring between your lips.

Sunday starts. A surprised noise—an undignified one, likely—almost leaves him, but he bites it down with his iron control. He should—he should scold you, he supposes, or demand you spit it out, but there's laughter sparkling in your eyes. It feels like a challenge; a dare he can't afford to lose.

There's also the matter of your tongue.

He can see it pressing against the inside of your cheeks, your lips, as you roll the earring in your mouth. Sometimes, there's a flicker of the pink of it peeking out from between your lips.

Before he can gather himself enough to protest, the earring clicks against your teeth. You press it against your lips until they part, the metal gleaming wetly before it drops into your hand with a soft chime. There's a thin string of saliva connected to it. It's vulgar; it's mesmerizing.

The string snaps.

Sunday refocuses just in time to hear the end of the list of metals you're listing off. All of them are far from the prized yellow-gold of the planet the earrings purportedly came from.

"You can—" he starts, before catching himself.

"Taste it," you finish.

The echo of memory from earlier solidifies; a species from a distant planet that rarely leave their home, the way they can taste precious stones and metal alike, can break them down to their core. One of the diplomats had boasted of coaxing one off-world.

If that is you—and it must be you—you are an expert indeed.

As if sensing his thoughts, you smile again. You press the earring into his hand; your gemstones are cold, but Sunday can't help but focus on the wet, still warm earring against his palm.