@fortunaies 💌 the weekend unfurls like spun sugar, and you are both greedy children drunk on cream.
morning light drizzles across the sheets where he has laid you out—his own confection, his trembling parfait—and phainon’s mouth maps the valleys and peaks along your skin that leave you gasping and liquified and ruined utterly sweet. more, you plead, and he obliges, but you are not without your vengeances. when you press him back against the pillows, taste the salt of his throat, feel those elegant calloused hands of his clutch and falter, you understand the game. who dissolves first?
the hours drip past, you take turns devouring. your lips, his fingers, the arch of your spine, the hitch of his breath—each offering richer than the previous. by noon you are both wrecked and gleaming, tangled in rumpled cotton and the sticky evidence of devotion.
again? he murmurs against your bare shoulder, already reaching, already with a returning ache stirring his loins.
(your answer is yes, always yes.)
