headcanon number 6592201: amon likes to write poetry and philosophize in his spare time.
au, obviously. (sadly.)
The ink blooms and arches off of tattered paper, the swirls of black shifting into empty words. You are precise and quick; the brush moves across the paper in long watery strokes, each movement calculated, purposeful. She shifts beside you and sighs, deeply, impatiently.
You do not notice.
("It is an art," you say, simply. She laughs, harsh and low in her throat, her breath salty and cold against your lips. You close your eyes briefly - the water curls around your scars, eating away at them like harsh waves against towering cliffs, until you are gasping for air as sky melts into ocean.
You are drowning.)
"Husband." You do not look up.
"Wife. I am busy."
"Really?" she asks, bemused. She pulls you towards her, deft fingers snatching the brush from your hand. Her arms sweep wide and knock over the wells of ink on your desk carelessly (purposely) with a shrug and a smirk. Black bleeds into blue silk, crawling up the sleeves of her robes like a plague. "I didn't notice." Her nails curl into your neck, leaving trails of red stars and scattered galaxies across rough skin. You growl. She shivers.
(She smiles, vicious and fierce, like a victorious warrior over his battlefield. "I win," she states triumphantly, the chess piece dangling between tan fingers. You lean in and tilt your mask up and drag your teeth against her skin - a strangled breath escapes her lips and she huffs childishly - "Don't be a sore loser," before she pulls your face to hers. "As the lady wishes," you reply. She laughs against your ear.)
"Husband," she says. "Burn for me."
(And so you do.)
it doesn't really make sense sorry