This girl is a gun, before you know it, it's done
And you'll be wishing that you crossed your fingers

low hum, akin to the purring of a contented feline, rumbles from Marceline's throat as Asmodeus brushes his lips tenderly across her forehead. it is a simple touch, but paired with the words that drip from his honeyed tongue, it all but turns her to clay, waiting to be molded beneath his gentle ministrations. Of the many lovers she has taken into her bed, few have made her her feel so satisfied with just a simple touch. She knows better than to let herself be effected so by another, lest history repeat itself, but there is something inexplicable about it. Something she dare not look closely at.

"Oh, I know she will have all the Peak mares marching in line for her by the time I get back." And she would be relishing every second she had them wrapped around her tiny hoof, of that Marceline was sure. "She has all the makings of a future Prime Minster. Come visit us sometime and you can see for yourself." Would he actually? she wondered. Was there space in his life for such... domesticity, amidst his endeavors? It was one thing to simply be a king, it was another thing entirely to seek to unite an entire island. No doubt he was busier than the typical leader. It had never been in Marceline's nature to worry about whether a man had time for her, but... she would be a liar if she said she didn't care what Asmodeus thought of her.

'I've been busy thinking of you,' he remarks then, his delivery so uncanny in its timing Marceline wonders if she has somehow, without realizing, voiced her previous thoughts aloud. No, maybe she had just become far too readable. she blinks, schooling the surprised look that has flitted across her face into something more akin to amusement. "Flatterer," she accuses him with little heat behind her words, feeling far too pleased. His smirk is matched by her own saccharine smile, pale lashes fluttering in faux innocence, "I find myself thinking of the same things, from time to time." It is only part of a larger undisclosed confession, one that remains tightly leashed behind her lips. She would not yet give him the satisfaction of knowing that some part of her, however small, wished she had said yes that day.

The pair walk shoulder-to-shoulder towards the oasis - if Marceline happens to drift close enough for their shoulders to brush, she would blame her swaying path on the ache in her leg. Honest, an uneven gait was just to be expected.

Marceline offers a sympathetic hum, disappointed to hear about his slow progress in uniting the island. Salem was a wild beast who would not come to heel easily, but Asmodeus did not strike her as the type to give up on something he so deeply desired. "Mm, Salem-dwellers can be quite stubborn. It just means you'll have to be twice as stubborn." She looks to him sidelong, her playful smile adopting a roguish edge. "And remember that persuasion comes in many forms." He is clever enough, she thinks, that he will glean the meaning behind her words. In each of them lies a weakness waiting to be exploited, if only he is willing to look - to take advantage.

At last they come to a synchronous halt at the edge of the oasis. Marceline is quick to bow her head and drink her fill, the cool water soothing her swim-parched throat. When she lifts her head droplets cling to her skin, catching in the sun like so many tiny jewels. "I spend most of my time much in the same way I did when I led the Hills - making rounds, battling would-be thieves, ensuring my sisters are safe." Marceline's shoulder moves in an approximation of a shrug. "It's nothing exciting to speak of, quite frankly. Not as exciting as trying to form a monarchy."

She almost dreads having to return to the Peak when this is all over, when her time with Asmodeus comes to its inevitable conclusion. The Peak is a perfectly lovely place, but it is not home, not truly. Home is a windswept desert, a scorching sun beating down upon her back and a dry breeze in her face. it is the smell of warm sand and cool water, of wildflowers and sweet grass. She knows she will never truly feel content in the Peak, but clings stubbornly to the belief that if she can just make something there change, she will finally find some modicum of fulfillment. But it was growing ever harder to keep her spine from snapping under the weight of her perceived shortcomings, her lack of progress in the Peak gnawing at her resolve like a fox on a bone.

Settling back at his side Marceline asked, with no small measure of curiosity in her voice, "Have you made the acquaintance of my son yet? I'm oh so interested to see how the Hills are faring under his rule." Not that she had any intention of visiting him - yet - but she could not pass up the chance to gain even the smallest insight into the state of her former home.