with your palm my altar

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.